CHAPTER 22 - BEFORE THE DOORS OPEN
Morning arrives without mercy.
For a few brief seconds after my eyes open, I do not remember where I am.
The ceiling above me glows faintly in the sunlight pouring through the tall windows, the carved wood patterns softened by warm gold light.
The bed is still, quiet, and the air smells faintly of soap and ashes from the fireplace that died sometime during the night.
It almost feels peaceful.
Then memory returns.
The wine.
The rules.
The quiet conversation that felt more like standing in front of a blade than talking to a husband.
My stomach tightens as everything from the night before rushes back into place.
I had spent nearly an hour after he told me to sleep replaying the conversation over and over in my head.
Because I wasted it.
The first real conversation I had ever had with him, and I wasted it.
I asked him three questions.
Three.
His age.
His favorite wine.
His favorite food.
Nothing useful.
Nothing meaningful.
Nothing that would help me understand the man who rules this kingdom with a reputation that makes grown men lower their voices when they speak his name.
I press my hand over my face.
I should have asked about the court.
About the nobles.
About his past wives.
About the rules of surviving this palace.
Instead I asked him what he liked to eat.
The embarrassment burns hot in my chest.
I slowly lower my hand and turn my head toward the windows.
Sunlight spills through them in wide golden sheets.
My heart drops immediately.
The sun is high.
Too high.
Panic slams into me.
I sit upright so fast the sheets tangle around my legs.
"Oh no."
The words slip out before I can stop them.
"I overslept."
My gaze snaps toward the couch.
He is there.
Of course he is.
Achilles sits exactly where he always sits in the mornings.
Fully dressed.
Boots on.
Dark coat already fastened.
One leg crossed over the other in a relaxed position that somehow still looks dangerous.
A sword lies beside him on the couch cushion within easy reach, its dark leather sheath resting against the fabric like it belongs there more than anything else in the room.
He is reading.
A stack of papers rests in his hands.
The sunlight from the window cuts across the room just enough to illuminate half his face. The scars along the right side catch the light sharply, the uneven lines of damaged skin casting small shadows against the rest of his features.
He does not look up.
My panic worsens.
"I'm sorry!"
The apology bursts out of me before I even realize I am speaking.
The blankets fall away as I scramble out of bed.
"I didn't mean to sleep so late—I won't let it happen again—"
My voice trips over itself.
I am halfway across the room before he even moves.
"If you needed to wake earlier," he says calmly without looking up, "I would have woken you."
His voice is flat.
Emotionless.
Like the weather.
I freeze.
"I didn't realize the sun had already—"
"You're fine."
The words interrupt me.
They are not gentle.
They are not comforting.
They are simply... final.
He finishes the line he is reading before setting the papers aside.
Then he stands.
The movement is sudden.
My body reacts before my mind can stop it.
I step back.
One full step.
My heel hits the side of the mattress behind me.
Achilles notices instantly.
Of course he does.
His gaze shifts slightly.
Not to my face.
To where my eyes have fallen.
The sword.
Resting on the couch where he had been sitting.
"You're staring at it," he says.
His tone remains calm.
"Do you think I keep it there for decoration?"
My throat tightens.
"No."
"I carry a sword whenever I leave this wing."
He steps past me, moving toward the door.
The weapon moves with him now, resting naturally against his hip where it belongs.
"The castle is not always the safest place."
The statement sends a chill through me.
This is his castle.
His guards.
His kingdom.
And he says it as if danger is simply another piece of furniture in the room.
He opens the door.
The hallway immediately fills with movement.
Several maids hurry inside, heads bowed so low they almost look as though they might fall forward. Each one carries something different—folded clothing, combs, brushes, trays of food.
No one speaks.
No one dares.
He gestures toward the small table near the window.
"She will eat."
The maids nod immediately.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
Two of them guide me gently toward the bathroom while another sets the tray down on the table.
Achilles returns to the couch.
He picks up his papers again.
He does not look at me.
The maids begin working quickly.
Hands move through my hair.
Fabric shifts around my shoulders as they remove my nightgown.
Warm water splashes into the basin.
They wash my face and arms in silence.
The room feels smaller suddenly.
The only sounds are water dripping, fabric rustling, and the faint scratch of Achilles turning pages across the room.
No one speaks.
Not even quietly.
The maids work with the careful precision of people who understand that drawing attention to themselves in this room would be a mistake.
Soon I am seated at the table.
Bread.
Fruit.
Tea.
The smell makes my stomach twist painfully.
I had not realized how hungry I was until now.
I begin eating quickly.
Carefully.
Trying not to look toward the couch.
I am strangely grateful that he does not look up.
I do not think I want to see his expression while I sit here half-dressed.
Behind me the maids fasten the buttons along the back of my gown.
My hair is braided.
Pins slide into place.
The silence stretches so long it begins to feel heavy.
Then Achilles speaks.
"Do not act weak."
The words cut through the room like a knife.
Every maid freezes instantly.
My hand stops halfway to my mouth.
"You are a queen," he continues calmly.
"Act like one."
No one moves.
The room feels colder.
"You don't need to become me," he says. "But you cannot jump or cower every time someone raises their voice."
My fingers tighten slightly around the cup in my hand.
"In court," he continues, "people watch everything." His voice grows colder. "They notice the smallest things." The maids slowly resume working behind me.
"The moment they sense weakness," he says, "they will show their teeth." His eyes finally lift from the papers.
"They will smile."
"They will bow."
"And the moment they believe you cannot protect yourself..." His voice lowers.
"...they will tear you apart." My throat tightens.
"And when they do," he adds quietly, "they will use you to reach me." The room falls silent again.
"Your weakness," he says, looking directly at me now, "makes me weak." The words land heavily.
"And I remove anything that makes me weak." The implication hangs in the air.
He stands.
The movement is smooth.
Controlled.
The sword shifts lightly against his hip.
"True bravery," he says, "is not the absence of fear." His gaze remains steady.
"It is acting in spite of it." The maids finish dressing me. None of them dare look at either of us.
"You may feel overwhelmed," he continues.
"But showing calm gives you time."
"Time to think."
"Time to survive." He gestures toward the door.
"When you return to this room," he says quietly, "you may cry." The bluntness of the statement startles me.
"You may scream."
"You may break." The maids slip out of the room silently.
"But outside these doors..."
He pauses.
"...you will be like a tree."
"A tree survives storms," he continues.
"It bends."
"But it does not fall."
"It stays rooted."
"It grows despite the damage."
"It stands even when the wind tries to tear it apart." His voice grows colder.
"Be that tree."
Silence fills the room again.
He watches me.
"Are you ready?"
I nod quickly.
"Yes."
"Do we need to review how you behave in public?"
"No."
His eyes narrow slightly.
"Are you certain?"
He steps closer.
"This is your last opportunity to ask questions before we leave this room."
The warning is clear.
"Mistakes," he says quietly, "are not forgiven."
My stomach twists.
But I shake my head slowly.
"I understand."
He studies my face for another long moment.
Then nods.
"Very well."
He opens the door.
I follow behind him into the hallway.
Outside the private wing several guards immediately fall into formation. Among them stands Elias.
His eyes find mine immediately.
He gives me a small nod.
A silent reassurance.
It steadies my breathing slightly.
We walk through the palace together.
Servants press themselves against the walls as Achilles passes.
No one meets his eyes.
No one speaks.
Finally we reach the final doors.
The ones that lead into the court.
Two guards stand on either side.
Achilles stops.
The guards wait.
He turns slightly toward me.
Then leans just enough that only I can hear him.
"Don't embarrass me."
The words are quiet.
Cold.
A warning.
The guards pull the doors open.
And the court waits on the other side.