Chapter 29- The Night I Thought I Would Die
The walk back to our chambers feels endless.
Every corridor stretches longer than it should, every flickering torch casting shadows that seem to crawl along the walls like silent witnesses. The castle that usually feels so large and imposing now feels suffocating. The air is heavy, thick with the quiet knowledge of what just happened.
I walk behind the king.
Always behind.
My injured wrist is clutched tightly against my chest beneath the sleeve of my dress. The joint throbs with a deep, grinding pain that pulses with every step I take. Each movement sends sharp jolts up my arm, but I force myself not to react. Not to wince. Not to cry again.
I have learned that showing weakness in this place is dangerous.
Especially around him.
Achilles walks ahead of me as if nothing has happened.
His steps are steady. Calm. Unhurried.
The same pace he had when he smashed a man's skull into a table until the noble's body stopped moving.
The memory flashes through my mind without warning.
The sound.
The dull, wet crack of bone against wood.
The way blood spread across the white cloth of the tea table like spilled wine.
The silence of the nobles who watched.
No one had dared to speak.
No one had dared to move.
Not when the tyrant king decided someone needed to die.
My stomach twists violently.
I swallow hard, forcing the bile down.
He killed the man without hesitation.
Without anger.
Without even raising his voice.
Just... decided.
That is the kind of man walking in front of me now.
And I made him look weak.
I cried in front of him.
I let someone grab me.
I embarrassed him in front of the court. My hand tightens around my injured wrist as another sharp stab of pain shoots through the joint.
The noble's grip had been too strong.
When he grabbed my arm to pull me back, the force twisted my wrist violently. I felt the familiar sickening shift inside the joint immediately.
The carpal bones had slipped again.
It's not the first time it has happened.
I know that awful grinding sensation too well.
The sharp pop.
The burning pain that follows.
The way your hand suddenly feels wrong, like it no longer belongs to your body. I had managed to keep it hidden while we were still outside.
I waited until I was alone in the garden maze to cry.
Not because I was sad.
Because it hurt.
And because if I had cried in front of the nobles they would have seen weakness. Weakness is something this kingdom devours. But when Achilles appeared in the passage, my body finally relaxed.
For one foolish moment I forgot the pain.
Until it came rushing back all at once.
Now we walk in silence.
Servants scatter when they see the king approaching.
Guards bow deeply, lowering their heads as we pass.
No one looks at me.
No one speaks.
Word will already be spreading through the palace.
A noble is dead.
The king killed him.
And the queen watched.
We reach the door to our chambers. The guards outside immediately step aside.
Achilles pushes the door open.
I follow him inside.
The heavy wood closes behind us with a dull final thud.
Warm firelight flickers across the walls, casting long shadows across the marble floor. The large bed sits untouched, its curtains drawn neatly back. The table near the hearth still holds the remains of our earlier meal.
Everything looks normal.
Peaceful.
As if someone had not just died minutes ago.
I stand in the middle of the room. My injured wrist throbs violently now that the adrenaline has begun to fade. I try not to think about it.
Try not to cry again.
Try not to breathe too loudly.
Achilles walks across the room without looking at me.
He moves toward the cabinet near the wall and pulls open a drawer. The wood slides quietly as he searches through its contents.
I watch him carefully.
Every movement.
Every shift of his shoulders.
My mind races through possibilities.
A knife.
Poison.
A rope.
Something quick.
Something slow.
Something meant to make an example.
The king closes the drawer and turns toward me.
His dark eyes settle on my face.
"Sit."
The word lands like a command carved from stone.
I move instantly.
The seat scrapes softly against the floor as I lower myself into it. My injured wrist trembles in my lap. Achilles walks toward me carrying a bottle of wine.
He places it on the table with a quiet clink.
Then he pushes it toward me.
"Drink."
I stare at the bottle.
The glass reflects the firelight in dull red streaks.
Is this my last drink?
A final kindness before he kills me? My fingers close slowly around the neck of the bottle.
The glass feels cold against my palm.
I lift it to my lips and take a small sip.
"Drink it all."
His voice is flat.
Unemotional.
A command.
I nod silently.
If I'm going to die, there's no point arguing. I tilt the bottle and drink. The wine burns as it slides down my throat.
I swallow quickly, forcing myself to keep drinking even as my stomach protests. The warmth spreads through my chest as the bottle empties faster than I expect.
When it's finished, I lower it slowly onto the table.
My head already feels light.
The alcohol moves quickly through my body, loosening the tight knot of terror that has been twisting inside me since the garden.
Achilles moves then.
Instead of looming over me like I expect, he lowers himself to the floor in front of my chair.
The movement surprises me.
Kings do not sit on floors.
Especially not in front of people they are about to execute. But Achilles has never behaved like other kings. He sits cross-legged in front of me, watching quietly.
His gaze is sharp.
Studying.
Predatory.
The silence stretches between us.
The fire crackles softly behind him.
The wine begins to dull the sharp edges of the pain in my wrist.
Finally he speaks.
"Give me your hand."
My breath catches.
Slowly, I extend my injured wrist toward him.
His fingers close around it.
The grip is firm but not painful.
He turns my wrist in the firelight, examining the swelling around the joint.
"You should close your eyes."
My chest tightens instantly.
Eight months.
I lasted eight months in this kingdom.
That's longer than I expected.
I suppose my grave could say something impressive.
Here lies Queen Ophelia.
She survived eight months.
She would have lasted a full year if she hadn't angered the king and Lord Harden.
Harden.
The man had been a problem since the moment I arrived.
Arrogant.
Cruel.
Certain that a bastard princess would never survive here. It's almost funny that he ended up being the reason I died.
I wait.
Trying to guess how Achilles will do it.
A blade would be fast.
His hands would be worse.
For several seconds nothing happens.
Then—
Pain explodes through my wrist.
A loud crack echoes through the chamber as the bone shifts violently back into place.
My eyes fly open with a startled gasp.
I yank my hand back instinctively, clutching it against my chest as the shock of pain sends tears streaming down my face again.
Achilles watches me.
"...Sorry," he says flatly.
The word sounds strange coming from him.
Like something he rarely uses.
Before I can react he reaches forward again, gently taking my wrist back.
This time he wraps it tightly with a strip of cloth, binding the joint so it won't slip out again.
"i had to put it back in place," he says calmly.
His fingers tighten the knot with practiced precision.
"You should avoid using it."
I stare at him.
My mind struggles to process what just happened.
"You'll tear the ligaments if you strain it," he continues.
"If you need to lift something heavy, ask the servants."
He pauses.
Then adds quietly—
"Or ask me."