CHAPTER 23 - THE FIRST TIME SHE SPOKE
Time inside the palace does not pass the way it does anywhere else.
Outside the castle walls, people measure time by the sun, by harvests, by seasons and festivals. Inside the palace, time is measured by routine by the repetition of the same movements over and over again until days blur together into something shapeless and endless.
Morning. Court. Evening. Night.
Then it begins again.
At first, every moment feels like standing at the edge of a cliff.
Every word spoken in court feels like a blade thrown into the air, and I spend most of my energy trying to predict where it might land.
The throne room itself is enormous high vaulted ceilings painted with ancient victories, marble columns rising like pale trees toward the roof, banners hanging in rows like silent witnesses to every decision ever made within these walls.
And at the very end of the room sits Achilles.
The tyrant king.
His throne rises above everyone else, carved from dark stone that looks almost black in certain light. The chair's arms are shaped like wolves, their open jaws forming the ends of the armrests. Even the throne seems to glare at people.
The seat placed beside his is smaller.
Lower.
Still elegant, still carved with careful artistry, but it is unmistakably meant to remind everyone that only one person in this room truly holds power.
I sit there.
Quiet.
Watching.
Listening.
I speak when spoken to.
And even then, my answers are short and careful, shaped by the constant awareness that every noble in the room is waiting to see me fail.
Achilles rarely acknowledges my presence during court.
Sometimes he glances at me briefly, but most of the time his attention is fixed on the endless line of petitions brought before him.
Land disputes.
Trade negotiations.
Military reports.
Taxes.
Punishments.
Requests for mercy.
Sometimes he grants it.
Most of the time he does not.
When people speak to him, they speak carefully.
Very carefully.
Because the stories about him are not exaggerations.
I have seen nobles dragged from the room screaming.
I have seen guards pin a man against a column while Achilles calmly explained the exact laws he had broken before deciding his fate with the same tone someone might use to order wine.
He never raises his voice.
He never needs to.
The silence he creates around himself is far more terrifying than shouting.
So I sit beside him, still as possible, trying to become invisible.
Trying to follow his advice.
Be like a tree.
Do not flinch.
Do not bend too much.
Do not fall.
For the first few days, I barely slept.
Every sound wakes me. Every movement in the palace corridors makes my body tense. But slowly, something strange begins to happen.
I grew used to it.
Not comfortable.
Never comfortable.
But familiar.
I learn when arguments are harmless.
I learn which nobles are dangerous. I learn how Achilles tilts his head slightly when someone lies. I learn that when he leans forward in his throne, someone in the room is about to regret speaking.
And most importantly...
I learn how to hide my fear.
My hands stay folded calmly in my lap.
My breathing stays steady.
My face remains neutral.
Inside, my heart often feels like it might burst from my chest.
But no one sees it.
Not even him.
Until the physician arrives.
It begins like any other petition.
The man steps forward with the confidence of someone who believes his work will be praised. He wears the long dark robes of the royal infirmary, the sleeves embroidered with small silver threads that mark his position among the court's medical scholars.
He bows deeply.
"Your Majesty."
Achilles gestures lazily with one hand.
"Speak."
The physician begins describing a medicinal compound requested by several infirmaries across the eastern territories. His voice is steady, well-rehearsed. He speaks of plants, of harvest cycles, of drying methods, and oils used in preparation.
"This compound has proven effective for treating chronic pain," he explains.
Achilles glances down at the document.
My eyes follow the list of ingredients.
At first, I assume I must be mistaken.
But as the physician continues speaking, something twists uncomfortably in my chest.
The formula is wrong.
Not completely wrong.
Just... inefficient.
I stare harder.
Yes.
There it is.
Three plants listed near the bottom of the chart.
They do not belong there.
Or rather...
They do not need to be there.
The physician continues speaking.
Achilles reaches for the parchment.
My heart begins pounding.
I should remain quiet.
I should stay seated.
This is not my place.
This is not my responsibility.
But the more I look at the formula, the more obvious the problem becomes. And suddenly, I cannot stay seated anymore.
I stand.
The movement alone sends a ripple through the room.
Because I have never stood in court before.
Not once.
Dozens of heads turn toward me.
The physician pauses mid-sentence.
Achilles looks up slowly.
I walk down the small staircase from the throne.
Every step echoes across the marble floor.
My heart beats louder with each one.
The physician hesitates when I approach.
I reach forward and gently take the parchment from his hand before he can pass it to the king.
He looks startled.
I begin reading.
The room grows painfully quiet.
I hear the faint scrape of armor as guards shift their weight.
I feel Achilles watching me.
I read the formula again.
Then I look up.
"Why are you using these plants?"
My voice sounds calmer than I feel.
The physician blinks in confusion.
"They increase the effectiveness of the mixture."
I tilt my head slightly.
"No."
The word leaves my mouth softly.
"They add color."
A murmur ripples through the court.
The physician frowns.
"They enhance the—"
"They make the medicine red," I explain gently.
"They do not increase its potency." He shifts uneasily. I glance toward the throne. Achilles has leaned forward slightly. His elbows rest on his knees. His eyes are fixed on me. He does not stop me.
So I continue.
"You are also using far too much of them," I say quietly.
The physician stiffens.
"That quantity ensures the compound is properly—"
"A pinch would produce the same color." I lift the parchment slightly.
"This much weakens the medicine." Silence spreads through the room. The physician's confidence begins to crumble.
"I must have miscalculated."
"In medicine," I say softly, "miscalculations can kill people." My words hang heavily in the air.
He swallows hard.
"That was not my intention."
"Intentions are irrelevant." I turn the parchment.
"If someone takes this dosage as written, the medicine will relieve pain."
His shoulders straighten slightly.
"Yes."
"But only briefly."
The physician hesitates.
"That is the nature of—"
"It will last approximately twelve hours."
The court remains silent.
"After that," I continue gently, "the pain returns."
"They will need more." The physician looks uncomfortable now.
"That is typical treatment."
"No," I reply softly.
"That is dependency." Another ripple moves through the court. I place the parchment in his hand.
"You diluted the stronger ingredients."
His voice tightens.
"That was not intentional."
"You calculated it very carefully," I say quietly.
His eyes narrow.
"You misunderstand the formula."
I turn toward one of the guards.
"Could someone bring the medical reference volume from the archives?"
Moments later, a thick book is placed before me.
I flip several pages.
Then turn it toward him.
"This formula," I explain, "produces a compound strong enough to last three days."
"It uses fewer plants."
"It is cheaper to produce."
"And far more effective."
The physician's face pales.
"But—"
"You chose the weaker one." His voice grows sharper.
"You are not a physician." A faint smugness enters his tone.
"You cannot possibly understand the complexities of medicinal chemistry."
I begin listing the compounds.
Their properties.
Their reactions.
The exact ratios required for adult and child dosages.
The smug expression vanishes from his face.
"This formula," I continue calmly, "is safe for children."
"But you labeled it as adult dosage."
He stares at the chart.
"If adults take this medicine," I say softly, "they will feel relief."
"But only temporarily."
"They will return for more."
"Again."
"And again."
My eyes meet his.
"They will depend on it."
The realization spreads across the room.
"You would create patients who must constantly return to you."
The guards move.
Two of them seize the physician's arms.
He panics instantly.
"No! Your Majesty!" They drag him toward the doors.
"It was a mistake!" His voice rises into desperate shouting.
"I swear it was an honest mistake!"
I freeze.
Horror fills my chest.
I turn slowly toward Achilles.
Did I just condemn him?
Achilles remains seated.
Still leaning forward.
Watching me.
His expression was unreadable. The physician's screams echo down the hallway as the doors slam shut.
Silence falls.
My hands tremble slightly.
I place the book on the table and explain the formula again.
Step by step.
Ingredient by ingredient.
Guards bring additional reference texts.
I show the court the correct mixture.
The proper dosage.
The safer alternative.
My voice remains calm.
But every few moments...
My eyes drift back to Achilles.
Searching.
Wondering if I have gone too far. Wondering if I have just made the biggest mistake of my life.
But he never stops me.
He only watches.
And the longer he watches...
The more terrifying his silence becomes.
The walk back to the royal chambers feels longer than the walk to court.
No one speaks.
Not Achilles.
Not the guards trailing behind us.
Not even the servants who flatten themselves against the walls the moment they see him approaching.
The palace corridors are wide and bright this time of day, sunlight spilling through tall windows that stretch from floor to ceiling. The light reflects off the polished marble floors in pale golden sheets, making the entire hallway look warmer than it actually is.
But the warmth is an illusion.
Because the man walking ahead of me feels like winter.
Achilles moves quickly, his long strides echoing against the stone walls with sharp, impatient rhythm. His boots strike the marble with a sound that seems louder than usual, harder, like each step is punctuating a thought he hasn't spoken aloud.
The guards follow several steps behind us.
Even they seem tense.
The silence around Achilles feels different than usual.
He is always quiet.
Always controlled.
But now there is something else inside that silence.
Something sharper.
I keep my eyes on the floor as I walk, careful not to fall too far behind him. My mind replays the scene in court over and over.
The physician's face.
The moment the guards grabbed him.
The terror in his voice when he realized what was happening.
My stomach twists painfully. Did I just kill someone?
I didn't mean to.
I was thinking about the patients. The people who would suffer because of that formula. But the way the guards dragged him out... The way the doors slammed shut behind him...The memory sends a chill crawling up my spine. Achilles doesn't look back at me once during the walk.
When we reach the doors to the royal wing, the guards pull them open immediately.
He steps inside.
I follow.
The doors close behind us with a heavy thud.
For a moment, the room is completely silent.
Achilles does not sit.
He doesn't remove his sword.
He simply stands there in the center of the chamber like a storm cloud gathering over the room.
Then slowly...
He turns.
His eyes land on me.
My heart stumbles inside my chest. His expression is different from the cold indifference he usually wears in court. His jaw is tighter.
His gaze is sharper.
Something about him feels... irritated.
Dangerously irritated.
"Was everything you said about the medicine true?"
The question slices through the silence.
I swallow.
My throat suddenly feels dry.
But I nod.
"Yes."
The word comes out quieter than I meant it to.
Achilles takes a slow step toward me.
"Every word."
It isn't a question.
It's a demand.
"Yes."
My hands tighten slightly in front of me.
But I do not look away.
I know I am not wrong.
He studies my face carefully.
Searching.
Judging.
Then he asks another question.
"Do you know how to make it?" The question makes my pulse quicken.
But I nod again.
"Yes."
His head tilts slightly.
"You're certain."
"I've made it before."
Silence stretches between us.
Achilles takes another slow step closer.
"How long does it take?"
"A few hours."
I hesitate briefly before continuing.
"The preparation itself is simple."
"The difficult part is obtaining the ingredients."
"Most of them are rare or seasonal. Collecting them usually takes weeks."
His eyes narrow slightly.
"If I brought you the ingredients..."
His voice lowers.
"...how long would it take you to produce the medicine?"
My heart beats faster.
"About two hours."The answer leaves my mouth before I can stop it. Achilles stares at me for several seconds.
Then suddenly he turns.
Without another word.
He strides toward the door and pulls it open.
Then disappears into the hallway.
The door slams behind him.
The sound echoes through the room.
I stand there alone.
Frozen.
My stomach sinks.
I may have made a terrible mistake. Maybe he realized I interfered with court proceedings. Maybe he realized I had publicly challenged one of his physicians.
Maybe—
The door bursts open again.
Achilles storms back into the room.
Several maids rush in behind him, struggling under the weight of wooden crates stacked in their arms.
They set the boxes down on the large central table with hurried, nervous movements. The moment the last crate touches the surface, the maids scatter like frightened birds and disappear from the room.
Achilles gestures toward the table.
"You have the ingredients."
I blink.
Confused.
Slowly, I walk closer to the boxes.
The scent reaches me immediately.
Dried herbs.
Crushed bark.
Medicinal oils.
My fingers lift the lid of the first crate.
Inside are bundles of carefully preserved plants.
Exactly the ones I described.
My heart stutters.
Achilles watches me from across the table.
His arms fold across his chest.
"Well?"
His voice is cold.
"You said you could make it." He nods toward the crates.
"Make it."
I hesitate.
Just for a moment.
But that moment is enough.
Achilles notices instantly.
His eyes narrow slightly.
"Were you lying in court?" The question snaps my hesitation apart.
"No." My voice comes out sharper than before. I straighten slightly.
"I was not."
For the first time since entering the room, I move with purpose.
I begin sorting through the crates.
The herbs are fresh.
Perfect.
Whoever gathered them moved quickly.
And knew exactly what to collect.
My hands move automatically as I begin laying the ingredients out across the table.
Mortar.
Pestle.
Glass bowls.
A small burner left behind by the maids.
Achilles pulls a chair closer to the table.
Then sits.
He does not speak.
He simply watches.
The weight of his gaze presses against the back of my neck as I begin working.
At first, my hands tremble slightly.
The room feels too quiet.
Too still.
But the moment I begin grinding the first bundle of bark beneath the pestle, something familiar settles over me.
Medicine is... safe.
Predictable.
Precise.
The smell of crushed willow bark fills the air as the powder forms beneath the stone.
I measure carefully.
Not too much.
Not too little.
I add dried leaves.
Then lavender oil.
Water begins heating slowly over the small burner.
Steam rises in soft curls.
Achilles hasn't moved.
He sits with his elbows resting on his knees now, leaning forward slightly. Watching every movement I make. His expression remains unreadable. But there is something new in his eyes.
Curiosity.
It unsettles me more than anger would have.
Because I do not know what it means.
Time passes slowly.
Minutes stretch into an hour. The mixture darkens as the ingredients blend together. The smell becomes stronger.
Sharper.
I filter the liquid carefully through fine cloth.
The deep red color forms exactly as expected.
Finally, I add the final extract.
Then allow the mixture to cool.
When it is ready, I pour the finished liquid into a small glass vial.
The red liquid glows darkly beneath the candlelight.
I wipe my hands carefully on a cloth.
Then turn toward Achilles.
"It's finished."
He stands.
Slowly.
The chair scrapes quietly against the floor as he pushes it back.
Then he walks toward the table.
His shadow stretches across the surface as he leans down to examine the vial.
His scarred face catches the light.
His eyes study the liquid carefully.
Then they shift.
Meeting mine.
"You enjoy this."
The statement catches me off guard.
I hesitate.
But then I nod.
"Yes."
My voice is soft.
Achilles stares at me for a long moment.
Then his gaze drops back to the vial.
The silence between us grows heavy again.
But this time...
It feels different.
Because for the first time since arriving in this palace...
The tyrant king looks genuinely interested in something I have done.