CHAPTER 19 - THE QUEEN'S QUIET WEEKS
Three weeks pass in a strange, quiet blur.
If someone were to ask me what my honeymoon was like, I would not know how to answer. Because this... whatever this is... does not resemble the honeymoons described in books.
In stories, honeymoons are soft things. Sweet things. Two people discovering each other slowly. Whispered laughter. Shared secrets. Hands brushing together in candlelight.
My honeymoon has been silent.
Achilles and I exist in the same room, yet our lives never truly touch.
Every morning I wake to an empty chamber.
The first few days it frightened me. I would open my eyes slowly and lie perfectly still beneath the blankets, listening for the faintest sound of movement in the room a shifting footstep, the rustle of fabric, the quiet scrape of a chair.
Sometimes the couch across the room is already empty.
The blanket folded neatly.
The pillow undisturbed.
Other times the blanket lies crumpled, the faint impression of a body still visible in the cushions, proof that he left only moments before I woke.
I never hear him leave.
He moves like something accustomed to shadows.
Once or twice I wake earlier than usual.
On those mornings I see him.
Curled on the couch beneath the dim gray light of dawn, one arm tucked beneath his head, the other resting loosely across his chest. Even in sleep there is tension in his body, like a man who expects danger even when unconscious.
The scars along his face are sharper in the morning light.
Raised.
Uneven.
Ugly in a way that makes them impossible to ignore.
He does not look peaceful.
He looks... dangerous even in sleep.
Those mornings I slip quietly out of bed before he wakes. Because I do not know what would happen if he opened his eyes and found me watching him. By the time the sun rises fully, he is always gone.
Every day.
Without fail.
The couch sits empty.
The room silent.
As if the king himself were nothing more than a rumor passing through the night. And every evening, when I return to the chamber, he arrives long after I have fallen asleep.
Sometimes the sound of the door opening wakes me.
A faint creak.
The soft thud of boots on stone. The quiet rustle of paper moving across the desk. Once or twice the low creak of the couch as he lies down.
But we never speak.
Not once.
No good morning.
No good night.
No acknowledgment that the other person exists. It is as if two ghosts share the same room.
Strangely...
I like it.
Because this is the most freedom I have ever had in my life. In my father's palace every moment belonged to someone else.
There were lessons.
Expectations.
Rules.
Invisible boundaries drawn across every room like traps waiting for me to step through.
Servants watched me.
Nobles judged me.
The queen reminded me constantly that I was a princess only by blood, not by right.
Here...
No one stops me.
No one questions where I go.
No one scolds me.
The palace servants bow when I pass, but they never interfere. They move out of my way like frightened birds scattering before a storm. Because I am queen now. And no one is foolish enough to question the queen of Achilles.
Even if that queen feels like an imposter wearing borrowed silk. Most mornings I dress slowly after the maids prepare me.The chamber feels enormous when he is gone.
Too large.
Too quiet.
His presence lingers even in absence the weapons mounted along the walls, the maps scattered across the desk, the faint scent of metal and ink that clings to everything he touches.
Once I am dressed, I leave the chamber quickly.
The palace corridors are colder in the morning. Pale sunlight spills through tall windows and stretches long shadows across the marble floors.
The first place I go each day is the library.
The palace library is larger than any room in my father's kingdom.
Shelves tower toward the ceiling, filled with books so old the leather spines crack when opened. Some are written in languages I only partly understand. Others contain diagrams so intricate I spend hours simply studying them.
Medicine fascinates me most.
I do not know when that fascination began.
Perhaps during childhood, when I watched healers tend to wounded soldiers returning from my father's wars. Perhaps during the quiet nights when books were the only companions I had.
Whatever the reason, I lose myself in those texts now.
Herbal remedies.
Ancient surgical techniques.
Treatments for pain and fever and infection.
Sometimes I copy passages into a small notebook I keep hidden among my belongings.
Not because I must.
Because I want to.
Learning has always been the one place where I feel... steady.
After several hours in the library I eat.
Late.
Usually alone.
Sometimes a servant remains nearby, standing silent beside the wall, watching with the wary patience of someone who has learned not to make sudden movements around predators.
Then I wander the palace gardens.
The gardens here are vast.
Not the neat, trimmed gardens of royal display.
These feel older.
Wilder.
Tall trees stretch toward the sky, their branches whispering when the wind moves through them. Thick vines climb along old stone walls. Flowers bloom in careless clusters where sunlight finds the earth.
Sometimes I walk for hours.
Sometimes I sit beneath a tree and read.
Sometimes I simply lie in the grass and watch the clouds drift slowly across the sky.
Once I discovered the river.
It winds along the edge of the palace grounds, hidden behind dense clusters of trees. The water bends around smooth stones before disappearing into the forest beyond the walls.
Now I go there often.
I leave my shoes in the grass and slip into the river slowly, the cold water curling around my legs before rising to my waist. The current pulls gently against my skin as sunlight warms my shoulders.
For those few moments I feel something dangerously close to happiness.
Like a bird who escaped a cage but still fears the door might close again.
Because I know this cannot last.
Three weeks.
That is how long the honeymoon period lasts in this kingdom.
Three weeks where the court pretends newly married couples should be left alone.
Three weeks where people politely avoid questions about heirs and alliances and bloodlines.
After that...
Everything changes.
Court resumes.
Nobles begin watching.
Expectations sharpen.
And I understand exactly what those expectations will be.
This time is meant for husbands and wives.
To grow close.
To laugh.
To share secrets.
To secure an heir.
Except Achilles and I have done none of those things. We barely exist in the same space. But the court will not know that. They will assume what they always assume.
And if they begin to question... That is where the real danger begins.
Because I carry a secret.
A small one.
But a deadly one.
I sit in the garden one afternoon with a medical text resting open in my lap. The words blur slowly as my thoughts drift somewhere darker.
Most princesses are raised carefully.
Protected.
Their purity guarded like treasure.
Because their value depends on it. I never lived that life. I was a princess only by name. No one expected me to marry. No one expected me to become someone's queen.
If someone had taken my virtue back then...
It would have been scandalous.
But survivable.
Because I was never meant to belong to anyone.
Now everything is different.
Now I am the wife of Achilles.
The queen of a kingdom ruled by a man whose name alone frightens entire courts. Men may do as they please. History proves that. Kings take lovers. Nobles visit brothels. Soldiers return from war with stories of women left behind in every conquered city.
But women...
Women are punished.
Sometimes quietly.
Sometimes violently.
Sometimes permanently.
I know the stories.
Queens buried for betrayal.
Wives executed for dishonor.
Entire bloodlines erased because someone whispered the wrong rumor at the wrong moment. And my body carries a truth the court must never know.
One man.
Only one.
But still—
One too many.
The thought tightens my chest.
Soon the three weeks will end.
Soon the court will return.
Soon the eyes of the kingdom will turn toward the throne.
Toward the king.
Toward me.
Waiting.
Watching.
And when that moment comes...
I will need to be ready.
Even if I still barely understand the man I married.
Even if the tyrant king remains a stranger who sleeps across the room.
Even if every time I see the scars on his face I remember how easily that dagger found my throat.
The garden wind moves softly through the leaves above me.
Three weeks of freedom.
Three weeks of quiet.
Three weeks before the world remembers that queens do not belong to themselves.
The thought lingers in my mind like a shadow that refuses to move.
I sit beneath the old apple tree in the far corner of the palace gardens, the grass cool beneath my hands and the afternoon sun warm against my shoulders. The air smells faintly of damp soil and blooming flowers. Somewhere nearby, water trickles over smooth stones from the small garden fountain.
For a moment, if I close my eyes, I could almost pretend this place is peaceful.
Almost.
Footsteps approach through the grass behind me.
Heavy.
Measured.
Familiar.
"My queen."
I do not turn around.
Instead I pluck another small white flower from the grass and add it to the handful already resting in my lap.
"I know," I sigh.
Elias stops a few paces away.
"You were expected back inside an hour ago."
"I know."
Another flower joins the collection.
Silence stretches for a moment before he exhales heavily.
"That answer does not improve the situation."
I tilt my head slightly and glance over my shoulder at him.
"Would it help if I pretended to be deeply remorseful?"
"No."
"Devastated by my behavior?"
"No."
"Utterly broken by my reckless disobedience?"
His expression does not change.
"You are not a child."
"That is disappointing," I murmur. "Children are forgiven for much worse behavior."
"You are the queen of this kingdom."
"Yes."
"And you are hiding in a garden."
"I am enjoying the garden," I correct gently.
Elias crosses his arms.
"You are avoiding the palace."
"That is also correct."
"And the king."
I smile faintly.
"Very much so." His beard shifts as his jaw tightens.
"You cannot avoid him forever."
"I can try."
"You have not even attempted to speak to him." I sit up slightly, brushing grass from my skirts.
"Elias, I considered walking directly into the throne room and saying, 'Your Majesty, here is my neck. Please remove my head quickly so we can avoid unnecessary tension.'"
He groans.
"I am serious."
"So am I." He stares down at me as if weighing whether he regrets ever agreeing to guard me.
"You cannot live your life hiding from him." I rise slowly to my feet, clutching the small bouquet of flowers in my hands. "I am not hiding," I say calmly.
"I am surviving."
"That is not the same thing."
"It is when the man in question is Achilles."
He frowns.
"The king is not—"
"Oh, Elias," I interrupt softly, "please."
He stops.
"He is not a soft cuddling teddy bear." His eyebrow lifts slightly. "He is cold," I continue quietly. "Not the kind of cold that fades with warmth. The kind that freezes everything around it."
Elias says nothing.
"And every time he looks at me," I add, lowering my voice, "I am fairly certain he is imagining different ways to kill me."
"That is absurd."
I laugh.
Not politely.
Not gently.
The sound is sharp and short.
"I am not that delusional."
"You believe every rumor."
"No," I say calmly.
"I believe the dagger he held to my throat."
That shuts him up.
For a moment.
"Besides," I add sweetly, "even you do not believe the things you are saying."
He hesitates.
And that hesitation tells me everything.
I smile faintly.
"See?"
Elias sighs deeply, rubbing a hand across his face.
"Come," he mutters. "Back to the palace."
I tuck the flowers carefully into my hands.
"Yes, Captain."
The palace library greets me like a familiar sanctuary.
The moment I step inside, the scent of old parchment and polished wood surrounds me.
It is enormous.
Three levels of towering shelves rise toward the high vaulted ceiling, each floor connected by winding staircases that spiral upward like coiled ribbons of iron and wood.
Tall windows stretch along one wall, allowing the fading afternoon light to spill across the floors in soft golden streams.
Despite its size, the room feels warm.
Almost safe.
Almost mine.
Elias lingers near the entrance as I move toward the large wooden table near the center of the room.
A small glass vase sits there.
Inside it are the flowers from last week.
They have begun to droop.
Their petals curling inward.
I remove them carefully and replace them with the fresh flowers from the garden.
This has become a habit over the past weeks.
A small, quiet ritual.
The library is the only place in the palace that truly feels like it belongs to me.
So I care for it.
Even if no one else notices.
Elias watches silently from a distance.
"You realize servants can handle that," he says eventually.
"I know."
"Yet you insist on doing it yourself."
"Yes."
"Why?" I adjust one of the flowers slightly.
"Because it makes me happy." He grunts softly.
Then wanders deeper into the library, positioning himself near the edge of the shelves where he can watch without hovering.
He understands the routine now.
I read.
He watches.
Hours pass.
The sun sinks lower.
Shadows stretch across the room.
Candles are lit by quiet servants who slip in and out like ghosts.
But tonight my mind refuses to settle.
Tomorrow the honeymoon period ends.
Tomorrow the court returns.
Tomorrow the quiet safety of these weeks disappears. I wander deeper into the shelves, searching for a particular book I once read about surgical techniques. The shelves here are too tall for me to reach the upper volumes.
Usually Elias retrieves them.
But tonight he is speaking quietly near the door with someone I cannot see.
So I drag a chair across the floor.
The wood scrapes softly against the polished surface.
Climbing onto it, I stretch upward.
My fingers brush the spine of the book.
But it remains just beyond reach.
I sigh.
"Of course."
I climb down again.
Look around.
Think.
Then climb back onto the chair.
If I just—
A hand appears beside mine.
Large.
Scarred.
The book slides effortlessly from the shelf.
My heart leaps violently in my chest.
The book is placed into my hands.
"Thank you," I say automatically.
Then I turn.
Achilles stands behind me.
My breath stops.
He says nothing.
His face is partially shadowed by the dim candlelight, but the scars across his cheek catch the light sharply.
For a moment he simply looks at me.
Not warmly.
Not kindly.
Just... looking.
Then he nods once and turns away.
He walks deeper into the library, selecting several books from another shelf as if this encounter means nothing.
I remain standing on the chair.
Frozen.
My heart pounding loudly in my ears. Eventually I glance back at the shelf. He only retrieved one volume.
Not both.
I swallow.
I should ask.
But speaking to the king feels like stepping into a trap. What if I say something wrong?
What if I irritate him?
What if—
"I can feel you staring."
His voice cuts through the library like a blade.
I nearly drop the book.
"I—"
My mind scrambles desperately.
"I... need another book."
He turns slowly.
Places his stack on a nearby table.
Then walks back toward me.
Every step echoes softly through the enormous room.
"Which one?"
My hand trembles slightly as I point.
"That one."
He nods once.
Reaches up.
Pulls the book down.
He studies the cover briefly.
Then hands it to me. But he does not stop there. His eyes scan the shelf.
Another volume slides free.
"This one as well."
I blink.
Confused.
"It contains additional material," he says calmly.
"Though the language is more difficult." I nod quickly.
"Thank you."
He extends his hand toward me.
For a moment I stare at it, unsure what he is doing.
Then I realize.
He is helping me down.
Carefully I place my hand in his.
The contact lasts only a second.
His grip is firm.
Warm.
Dangerous.
The moment my feet touch the floor, I step back quickly.
He gathers his books.
Turns.
And walks away without another word.
Across the room, Elias watches silently.
I stand there clutching the books to my chest, my pulse still racing.
Because the tyrant king...
Just helped me reach a book.
And somehow...
That frightens me more than if he had ignored me entirely.