CHAPTER 14 - A Meal Before the Night
For three full corridors, I am completely certain I am about to lose my tongue.
I follow him in silence, my wedding skirts whispering over stone, my pulse beating so hard it feels like a second set of footsteps.
Achilles does not look back once. He does not slow.
He does not explain where we are going or what he intends to do once we get there.
He simply moves through the palace with that same terrifying certainty he seems to bring into every room, as if walls shift for him without needing to be told, as if the entire kingdom has learned to shape itself around his moods.
I keep my mouth shut.
That seems wise, considering.
People who lie to me usually lose their tongues.
He had said it so casually. Not angrily. Not dramatically. As if he were discussing weather. As if tongues were things people misplaced every day and he merely happened to be in charge of collecting them.
I had lied.
A stupid lie. A small one. A cowardly one.
He asked if I was hungry, and I said no because I thought admitting hunger might irritate him, and now I am walking behind the most feared man in kingdoms while trying not to think about knives and blood and how difficult it would be to scream without a tongue.
At least, I tell myself with the same kind of grim humor that has kept me breathing this long, at least I am still alive.
That is something.
Honestly, considering how the day began, I am doing remarkably well.
I survived the wedding.
I survived being ignored in front of an entire court.
I survived watching him threaten men with the same calm expression other people wear while sipping tea.
Perhaps I deserve some sort of award.
To the Queen, who lasted her first day without dying.
I am still congratulating myself bitterly when he pushes open a set of double doors and steps inside.
I stop short just past the threshold.
It is not an execution chamber.
It is not a punishment room.
It is not even one of the colder council halls.
It is a dining room.
The realization hits me with such force I almost laugh, though the sound never makes it out of my throat.
The room is long and shadowed but warmer than the halls outside, the stone walls softened by deep-colored tapestries and the gold tremor of torchlight.
A great table stretches through the center, dark wood polished to a high sheen.
Silver catches the light everywhere platters, goblets, serving knives, candle stands.
The air smells like roasted meat, warm bread, butter, thyme, wine.
Food.
Not the cold, careful plates I used to receive in my rooms back home. Not the modest trays sent up by servants who had already been instructed exactly what portion a bastard princess should receive.
This is abundance.
A servant appears almost immediately, as though summoned by instinct alone, and begins laying platter after platter onto the table with quick, practiced hands.
Roasted pheasant glazed dark and glossy.
Bread still warm enough to steam when torn.
Bowls of vegetables dressed in butter and herbs.
Cheese. Fruit. A thick soup fragrant with garlic and onion.
Small pastries dusted in powdered sugar. A decanter of dark wine.
For a second I only stare.
Achilles does not. He walks to the head of the table and sits like this is no more remarkable than the throne. Another servant arrives carrying a stack of parchment, which he places beside the king before retreating so quickly he almost seems to vanish.
No one speaks.
The doors close.
It is only the two of us now.
The king reaches for the wine first.
He pours without asking whether I want any, the red liquid curling into his goblet like blood in candlelight.
Then he lifts the stack of papers and begins reading with the same expression he wore in court, bored, faintly irritated, as if the entire day has been one long interruption to more important things.
I remain standing because I do not know if I am allowed to sit.
I do not know if any of this is for me.
He does not acknowledge my uncertainty. He does not gesture to the chair opposite him or issue a command. He simply turns a page, takes a slow drink of wine, and keeps reading.
It is unnerving how thoroughly he can ignore a person while still making them feel watched.
After a moment too long, I move toward the seat across from him and lower myself into it carefully, trying not to make noise.
The chair is high-backed and carved, heavy enough to feel ceremonial.
My gown spills around me in ivory folds against the dark wood.
I sit too straight, too aware of every movement.
The food remains untouched between us.
I can feel my stomach tightening at the smell of it. The ache of hunger, dulled by fear for hours, returns with humiliating intensity the moment I sit close enough to see everything clearly.
I have never sat before this much food and assumed it belonged to me.
That thought comes so suddenly it hurts.
I was a princess in my father's house, yes, but the title had limits.
There were rooms that were mine only when no one more legitimate wanted them.
Privileges I was granted only when it was politically useful to appear generous.
Even meals had rules woven around them so tightly that I did not notice them until I was old enough to understand shame.
The noble family ate together often enough. In the great dining hall. In candlelight. With conversation and wine and arguments that carried no real cruelty beneath them, only the easy familiarity of people secure in their belonging.
I was not secure enough for that.
If guests were present, I was sometimes invited because I looked enough like my father to be useful.
If it was my birthday, I was allowed to join them because refusal would have looked cruel.
But most days I ate alone in my rooms, with books for company and tutors for witnesses.
I studied while I chewed. Read while I swallowed.
Learned quickly that usefulness earned tolerance faster than charm ever would.
Most of my childhood was spent becoming useful.
Smarter. Quieter. Easier to defend if anyone ever asked why I was still there.
And now here I am, sitting across from a king who terrifies men into silence, staring at a table so full it feels almost vulgar.
I do not know if I am supposed to eat.
I do not know if this is some test.
He turns another page.
Drinks.
Writes a brief note in the margin of something and sets it aside.
He still has not looked at me.
My stomach makes a small, traitorous sound.
I freeze.
The room is quiet enough that I hear it clearly. Surely he must have too.
He gives no sign.
His expression remains fixed on the parchment in his hand.
I stare at the loaf of bread nearest me. The crust is dark and golden. Butter melts softly in a silver dish beside it.
My mouth waters.
Then I remember what he said in the throne room.
People who lie to me usually lose their tongues.
I lied when I said I wasn't hungry.
Technically, if he intends to punish me, the food hardly matters.
A ridiculous thought slips through my panic.
I might as well use my tongue while I still have it.
The absurdity of it almost steadies me.
Very slowly, as though I am stealing from my own table, I reach for the bread. My fingers shake enough that I worry he will notice. I tear off a small piece and bring it to my mouth.
It is warm.
Soft.
Real.
The first bite nearly undoes me. I hadn't realized how empty I was until something finally filled the hollow.
Achilles does not look up.
I wait another moment, then reach for more. Bread. A spoonful of soup. A piece of roasted meat. Each bite is taken cautiously at first, my eyes lifting constantly to check whether he is watching, whether there is some silent boundary I have crossed.
He never stops reading.
The more he ignores me, the harder it becomes to remain delicate. Hunger wins. My hand steadies. I eat more quickly, though still trying to be quiet, still trying not to seem ravenous.
The absurd thing is that I am ravenous.
I have been frightened for so many hours that I forgot my body existed separately from my mind.
Now every neglected ache comes roaring back at once.
Hunger. Exhaustion. The ache in my back from sitting straight beside him all afternoon.
The soreness in my feet from standing in wedding shoes that were made to look pretty, not survivable.
By the time I finally force myself to stop, I am full enough that I almost feel lightheaded.
That is when he looks up.
It happens so suddenly that I nearly choke.
His gaze lifts from the papers and lands on me with the full weight of his attention, and it is astonishing how frightening one man can become simply by deciding to notice you.
His eyes move over the table, the empty spaces where food used to be, then back to me.
"Full?"
The question is so abrupt I answer on instinct.
"Yes."
My voice sounds too quick, too small.
He studies me for one more beat, as if deciding whether I am lying again.
Then he nods once.
"Good."
That single word should calm me.
It does not.
He stacks the papers neatly, pushes them aside, and drains the rest of his wine. The movement feels final. Deliberate. Like the end of one thing and the beginning of another.
Then he says, "We're going to bed. We have another long day tomorrow."
My mind catches on only one word.
"Tomorrow?"
He looks at me with the faintest flicker of irritation.
"Yes," he says. "Tomorrow."
He pauses just long enough for me to feel stupid.
"The day after today."
If I were not so terrified, I might laugh.
Instead, two separate thoughts appear in my head at once.
The first is almost triumphant: I did not die on my first day.
The second follows right after: I still have my tongue.
In the privacy of my own mind, I decide this counts as breaking two records.
First queen not murdered before sunset.
First liar allowed to finish a meal.
I am almost foolish enough to feel relieved.
Then the meaning of his words settles fully into my body.
Bed.
Not sleep, abstract and harmless.
Bed. Shared. Immediate. Unavoidable.
My relief collapses in on itself so quickly it makes me dizzy.
We are husband and wife now. He already told Elias I would be moved to his chambers after the ceremony. There is nothing strange about a husband expecting his wife in his rooms. There is no law I can hide behind, no excuse polite enough to survive his temper.
What if he asks something of me?
What if he touches me?
What if he asks a question and I answer badly and that tiny, slivered irritation in his eyes sharpens into something worse?
I cannot say no.
The truth hits with a force that leaves me almost cold.
I have begun celebrating too early.
The day was only the beginning.
I grip the edge of my chair so tightly my fingers ache. I am suddenly aware of how quickly panic can imitate faintness. The room seems too warm. My pulse stutters unevenly. I force air into my lungs and pray it looks natural.
Do not faint.
Do not panic.
Do not do anything humiliating in front of him.
Achilles is already standing.
He does not offer me his hand. Does not ask if I am ready. Does not seem to consider that I might need a moment to compose myself.
Of course he doesn't.
He walks to the door.
I rise because the alternative does not exist.
My skirts feel heavier now, the fabric dragging at my legs. The room tilts for a second, then steadies. I follow him out into the corridor.
Torchlight lines the walls, gold and uneven.
Shadows stretch long and thin across the floor.
His footsteps echo ahead of me, unhurried, inevitable.
I focus on them because focusing on anything else means allowing my mind to run ahead into dark rooms and closed doors and the terrifying intimacy of being alone with him where no court watches, where no priest stands witness, where no one would know if I cried.
I should have enjoyed the meal less.
That thought drifts through me with ridiculous sincerity.
I should have eaten more slowly, as if eating more slowly could have delayed the night.
He turns a corner. I follow.
My heartbeat is so loud I am half certain he can hear it. If he notices, he gives no sign. He walks through his own palace as if nothing is about to happen, as if bringing a frightened bride into his chambers is no more important than returning to finish paperwork.
Maybe for him it isn't.
Maybe this, too, is administrative.
A treaty. A body. An expectation met.
That thought should make me angry.
Instead, it makes me afraid in a deeper, quieter way.
Because indifference can be worse than cruelty. Cruelty at least requires feeling. Indifference means I could disappear inside his rooms and he might still sleep soundly after.
My mouth goes dry again.
Do not panic.
Do not faint.
Do not say anything.
I follow him deeper into the palace, trying not to stumble, trying not to let the terror show too plainly in my face.
I survived the wedding.
I survived the court.
Now I have to survive the night.
And somehow, as the king leads me through the torchlit corridors toward whatever waits behind the next door, that feels like the hardest task of all.