CHAPTER 16 - THE ROOM OF THE TYRANT
By the time we reach the king's chambers, my heart has been beating so hard for so long that it feels like it belongs to someone else.
The palace has grown quieter the deeper we walk into it.
The loud halls of court and council have long since faded behind us.
Here the corridors are darker, lit only by torches spaced far apart along the stone walls.
Their flames burn low and steady, casting long shadows that stretch across the floor like reaching fingers.
His footsteps echo with certainty.
Mine echo with hesitation.
I follow him like someone following their executioner, trying not to imagine what waits behind the next door.
Every rumor I have ever heard about Achilles crowds my mind.
The tyrant king.
The butcher of cities.
The man who conquered three kingdoms before turning twenty.
The man who smiles when men beg.
I try not to imagine what a man like that expects from his wife on their first night.
My hands tremble slightly in the folds of my wedding skirt.
I hide them quickly.
When he finally stops, it is so sudden that I nearly walk into him.
A tall set of double doors stands before us. Dark wood reinforced with iron bands, carved with sharp patterns that look less like decoration and more like a warning.
His chambers.
My breath catches.
He pushes the door open without ceremony and walks inside as if this moment is nothing.
I follow because there is no other choice.
The room beyond is enormous.
For a moment I simply stand there, trying to take it all in.
The first thing I notice is the bed.
It dominates the room like a throne of its own.
Massive, dark wood carved with intricate patterns along the frame, its four tall posts draped in heavy fabric that falls toward the floor in dark folds.
The mattress looks thick enough to swallow a person whole.
Blankets layered over blankets. Pillows stacked high.
It does not look like a place meant for rest.
It looks like a place meant for possession.
The fire in the hearth burns low, sending flickers of amber light across the stone floor. The walls are lined with bookshelves filled nearly to the ceiling. Thick volumes of leather and parchment. Maps rolled and tied with ribbons. Papers stacked neatly on a wide desk near the far wall.
The room smells faintly of smoke, ink, and something metallic beneath it all.
Steel.
My gaze drifts to the weapons mounted beside the fireplace.
Swords.
Daggers.
A spear.
This is not just a bedroom.
It is the room of a man who expects war to follow him home.
Before I can even fully process the space, servants appear.
I do not see them enter. They simply seem to materialize around us the moment the door closes. They bow deeply to the king before turning their attention toward me.
One of the women approaches with careful steps.
"Your Majesty," she says softly. "If you will allow us."
Her voice is respectful but distant, like someone speaking to an object of importance rather than a person.
I glance instinctively toward Achilles.
He has already moved away from me.
Toward the desk.
He pulls the chair back and sits down with the ease of someone settling into routine. Papers are already waiting for him there, stacked neatly beside a candle. He picks one up and begins reading immediately, his expression hardening into that same cold focus I saw earlier in the throne room.
It is as if I have ceased to exist.
My attention returns to the servants.
They begin removing my wedding gown.
It takes several minutes.
The dress had been designed for ceremony, not practicality. Layer upon layer of ivory silk and embroidery had been wrapped around my body like armor meant to impress a court. Now those layers are loosened and peeled away piece by piece.
The weight of it disappears slowly.
With every layer removed, I feel strangely exposed.
As though the protection of the ceremony is being stripped away along with the fabric.
One of the servants leads me behind a carved wooden screen where warm water has been prepared in a deep basin.
Steam rises softly into the air.
The warmth feels almost shocking against my skin after such a long day.
The servants wash away the dust of the palace floors, the faint gray marks left by marble halls and nervous footsteps. They scrub away the lingering perfume from the wedding ceremony, the powder from my hair, the sweat from my palms.
I stand there quietly while they work, my thoughts drifting constantly back to the man sitting only a few steps away.
The tyrant king.
My husband.
Even from behind the door, I can hear the faint scratching sound of charcoal moving across parchment.
Writing.
He writes a lot.
I noticed it earlier.
In the dining hall.
Now here.
The sound is steady.
Controlled.
Focused.
Eventually, the servants wrap me in soft cloth and help me into a nightgown.
The fabric is thin and light compared to the heavy wedding dress. It falls loosely around my body, soft enough that I almost forget I am wearing anything at all. When they finish, they bow and leave quietly.
The door closes.
And suddenly
It is just the two of us.
I step out from behind the door slowly. The first thing I notice is that my belongings have already been moved.
Several small trunks sit along the wall beside the bed. My books have been stacked carefully on a nearby table. Even the small jewelry box my younger sister insisted I bring now rests beside them.
This is not a guest room.
This is where I live now.
My attention shifts toward the desk.
Achilles sits with his back to me, shoulders broad beneath the dark fabric of his shirt. The candlelight throws shadows across his scarred profile as he leans slightly over the desk, writing something with slow, deliberate strokes.
He does not acknowledge me.
Not even slightly.
For several moments I simply stand there watching him.
He writes.
And writes.
And writes.
Papers move from one side of the desk to the other in neat stacks. Occasionally he pauses to read something again before adding another line.
The silence between us stretches long enough that I begin to feel strange standing there.
Then a thought slips quietly into my mind.
He reads.
The bookshelves around the room are full. History. Military records. Political treaties. Poetry. Strategy. Titles I recognize from my own childhood studies.
A strange realization settles over me.
We have something in common.
I love reading.
Books were the only place I could disappear when I lived in my father's palace. Stories filled the empty hours when the rest of the royal family pretended I did not exist.
And now
Standing in the chambers of the most feared man in the world
I find myself thinking that maybe we could talk about books.
Maybe
No.
Absolutely not.
I enjoy having my head attached to my shoulders.
That seems like a reasonable preference.
So instead I stand quietly and watch him work.
Minutes pass.
Five.
Ten.
Perhaps longer.
He has still not acknowledged me.
I begin to wonder if he has forgotten I am even here.
Then suddenly the scratching of charcoal stops. The chair scrapes softly against the floor as he pushes it back and stands. When he turns around, the sudden weight of his attention hits me like cold water.
His eyes move over me slowly.
Taking in the nightgown.
My bare feet.
The way I am standing awkwardly in the middle of the room like a misplaced piece of furniture. His gaze is sharp enough that it makes my stomach twist.
"Are you planning on going to bed?"
The question startles me so badly that I almost jump.
"I—yes. Yes."
The words stumble out of my mouth too quickly. I move toward the bed immediately, my legs suddenly eager to obey any instruction that might keep me alive.
Too eager.
My foot catches on the edge of the rug, and I stumble slightly forward before catching myself.
Humiliation burns across my face.
When I look up again, he is watching me.
One eyebrow raised.
Not angry.
Just... observing.
Like someone watching an animal trip over its own feet. He shakes his head slightly. Then he turns away.
Toward the couch.
It is only then that I notice it.
A pillow.
A blanket.
Already waiting there.
He picks them up, settles onto the couch with the calm efficiency of someone who has done this before, pulls the blanket over himself, and turns his back toward me.
I blink.
Once.
Twice.
My mind struggles to understand what just happened.
The tyrant king
The man who terrifies entire courts
Has chosen the couch.
Instead of the bed.
For several seconds, I simply stand there staring.
He does not move.
The room is silent except for the crackling fire.
Then
A low, steady sound fills the quiet.
Snoring.
My confusion grows so intense that I almost forget to breathe. Slowly, cautiously, I approach the bed. My eyes drift back toward the couch. He hasn't moved. The blanket rises and falls with each quiet breath.
Is he... actually sleeping?
"...Your Majesty?" I whisper.
No response.
"Why aren't you sleeping in the bed?"
Nothing.
The snoring continues.
Realization settles slowly.
He is not ignoring me.
He is asleep.
I stare at him for several seconds longer.
Then I look back at the enormous bed.
Then back at him.
My mind begins building explanations.
Maybe...
Maybe I misjudged him.
Maybe he is trying to make me comfortable.
Maybe
I stop myself.
No.
That is ridiculous.
The more likely explanation comes easily. He does not want to share a bed with a bastard. The thought settles heavily in my chest.
Of course.
Why would he?
I sigh quietly.
Then I climb into the bed alone. The blankets are soft.
Warm.
But the room still feels cold somehow. Across the room, the tyrant king sleeps peacefully on a couch.