Chapter 34 - The Price of Blood
The throne room feels heavier now that the shouting has settled.
Not quieter Achilles' court is rarely quiet but the sound has changed. Where there had been sharp arguments and careless voices before, there is now a tight, watchful stillness. The kind that settles over a battlefield when everyone is waiting to see who will move first.
I sit beside Achilles on the raised platform of the throne, my hands folded neatly in my lap so that no one sees the slight tremor still lingering in my fingers.
The marble beneath my feet is cold through the thin soles of my shoes. Sunlight spills through the tall stained windows along the eastern wall, painting long bands of pale gold across the black stone floor. It makes the room look almost peaceful.
It isn't.
The guards lining the walls stand like statues in polished armor. My husband's generals occupy the front rows of the hall, their eyes sharp and unreadable. The older ministers sit further back, their parchment scrolls resting untouched across their knees.
And standing in the center of it all
My family.
My stepmother breaks the silence first.
"Well," she says slowly, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness, "this is certainly a surprise." Her eyes sweep over me from head to toe.
"I must admit, Ophelia, I did not expect to see you alive."
A small pause follows.
"And looking so... well."
Her smile widens, but there is nothing warm about it.
"I suppose I should have given you more credit."
I incline my head politely.
That is all I give her. Anything more would invite a conversation I have no interest in having.
From the corner of my eye, I can feel someone staring.
I do not need to look to know who it is.
The awareness of him settles in my chest like a stone.
I keep my gaze forward, pretending my attention is focused on the far end of the hall where the banners hang unmoving from the high arches.
I had tried to delay coming here.
I took too long choosing my dress. I asked the maids to redo my hair twice, even though the first braid had been perfectly fine. I even walked the longer corridor through the western gallery instead of taking the direct route to the throne room.
I had hoped perhaps foolishly that by the time I arrived, they would already be gone.
But my family has never been good at leaving quietly.
My stepmother folds her hands in front of her as if she were attending a pleasant afternoon gathering instead of standing before the throne of a man half the world believes is a monster.
"We need assistance," she continues.
No greeting.
No apology.
No acknowledgment that she is speaking to the queen of the very court she stands in.
Achilles says nothing beside me.
But I can feel his attention sharpen slightly.
My father clears his throat.
"Our kingdom has fallen."
The words are spoken stiffly, as if admitting defeat tastes bitter on his tongue.
"The Kyrian capital has been taken," he continues. "Our forces are scattered. Loyal nobles have fled the countryside."
He glances toward Achilles.
"We require military aid."
My stepmother adds smoothly, "And funding."
Her voice carries across the room with careless confidence.
"With your husband's armies and resources, reclaiming our lands would not be difficult."
I let them speak.
The words move past me like wind.
All I want is to leave.
But my family has always had a talent for turning simple things into complicated ones. My older sister finally loses patience with my silence.
"Say something, Ophelia." Her tone carries the same sharp impatience it always did when we were children.
"This concerns you."
I tilt my head slightly.
"Does it?"
Her brows draw together.
"This is your kingdom."
My gaze drifts slowly around the hall.
"My kingdom appears quite safe."
I gesture lightly toward the marble floor beneath us.
"I see no wounded soldiers at our gates."
My eyes move to the high windows.
"No smoke rising from burning cities."
Another pause.
"No starving children begging for food."
I turn back to face them.
"My kingdom," I say gently, "is secure."
My sister's mouth tightens.
"Your kingdom?" she repeats, her voice rising.
"So now you believe yourself better than the rest of us?"
My stepmother nods approvingly.
"A crown seems to have gone to your head." My sister continues, "You should see it as an honor to help your homeland."
A faint sigh escapes me before I can stop it.
"You misunderstand," I say quietly. Their expressions sharpen.
"I have already helped my homeland." Silence spreads slowly across the throne room.
"I sacrificed my life for it." The words settle over the room like falling snow. My stepmother's eyes narrow. "I have done enough," I continue.
My voice remains soft, but steady.
"I owe you nothing."
Achilles shifts slightly beside me.
Not in irritation.
In approval.
I do not look at him, but I can feel it in the small change in his breathing.
My sister scoffs loudly.
"You've grown arrogant."
"No," I reply.
"I have learned fairness."
I sit a little straighter.
"If you want assistance from this kingdom, you must offer something in return."
My stepmother stares at me in disbelief.
"You would charge your own family?"
"I would treat you like any other kingdom that stands before these doors."
My words remain calm.
"You ask this court to send soldiers into a war that does not concern us."
I glance briefly toward the generals seated along the hall.
"You ask those men to die for your cause." My gaze returns to my family. "That sacrifice deserves compensation." The room has become so quiet that I can hear the faint crackle of the braziers burning along the walls.
"What would you demand?" my sister asks bitterly.
I shrug slightly.
"Gold."
A faint smile touches my lips.
"Though I doubt you have much left." Several nobles in the hall hide their amusement poorly. "Or land," I continue.
"Trade routes. Territory. Grain stores."
My voice remains steady.
"Whatever you offer must equal the lives you expect us to spend."
My sister stares at me as though she no longer recognizes the girl she grew up with.
"Are you serious?"
"I am trying to be fair."
My father finally speaks again.
"Ophelia."
Just my name.
For a moment, I hear something beneath it.
Concern.
But when I glance at him, his eyes quickly flick toward my stepmother before returning to me.
Always careful.
Always cautious.
I offer him a small, gentle smile.
"You may remain here as guests," I say.
My stepmother straightens immediately.
"Guests?"
"For thirty days."
Now they are paying attention.
The rule is old.
Older than the throne itself.
Guests of the crown may remain in the palace for thirty days without question.
After that
They are no longer guests.
They are visitors.
Or intruders.
"During those thirty days," I continue softly, "you will be protected by the laws of this court."
My gaze sweeps across them slowly.
"But you will also be bound by those laws."
My stepmother's smile tightens.
"And if we break them?"
I meet her gaze calmly.
"Then you will be punished under them."
The hall grows even quieter.
Because everyone here knows what the laws of Achilles' court look like when they are enforced.
I soften my tone slightly.
"I do not wish harm upon you."
That much is true.
Despite everything, a small part of me still hopes they will show the basic decency expected of guests.
"You have thirty days," I continue gently.
"Use that time to decide what you are willing to offer."
My eyes move briefly toward Isaac before returning to my stepmother.
"And please remember where you are."
My voice lowers slightly.
"This palace is generous to guests."
The words leave my mouth softly, but in the throne room, they carry farther than I intend. The high ceiling catches them, the marble floor reflects them, and suddenly, the entire court is listening again.
I draw in a small breath.
"But it is not forgiving to trespassers."
For a moment, there is silence. Not the comfortable silence of a peaceful hall. The tense silence of people waiting to see who will strike first.
I feel Achilles beside me before I look at him. His presence always feels like standing near the edge of a blade. Cold. Steady. Dangerous in a way that exists even when he is doing nothing at all.
My sister breaks the silence.
Her laugh is sharp.
Angry.
Ugly.
"So this is what you've become." Her voice rises quickly, filling the throne room with bitterness that seems almost alive. "You sit there acting like a queen now?"
She gestures at the throne with open disdain.
"As if you belong there."
My stepmother does not stop her.
She never did.
The older nobles shift slightly in their seats, but none of them interrupts. I can feel the tension building around the room like a storm gathering over open water.
"You speak to us like strangers," my sister continues, stepping forward, her eyes blazing. "Like we're nothing more than foreign nobles begging at your door."
Her voice hardens.
"You forget where you came from." I keep my hands folded in my lap.
Still.
Quiet.
My sister laughs again, louder this time.
"You think that crown makes you better than us?" Her gaze drags across me slowly. "You're still the same bastard girl we dragged out of the dirt." The word lands heavily in the room.
Bastard.
It is not the first time I've heard it.
But hearing it here
In this room.
In front of this court.
My stomach tightens.
My stepmother tilts her head slightly, watching me with thinly veiled amusement. My sister continues, encouraged by the silence.
"You think because you spread your legs for a king you suddenly have pow—"
The sound that interrupts her is quiet.
Almost delicate.
The whisper of steel leaving its sheath.
The entire room freezes.
Achilles moves so quickly, I barely see him rise—one moment he is seated beside me, his hand resting calmly on the arm of the throne.
The next moment
He is standing in front of my sister.
His sword pressed against her throat.
The blade rests lightly against her skin, but even that light pressure is enough to part it. A thin red line appears where steel meets flesh, a small bead of blood gathering at the edge of the cut.
My sister stops speaking instantly.
Her mouth is still open.
Her breath comes shallow and quick.
Achilles does not look angry.
That is the frightening part.
His face is calm.
Almost bored.
But the air around him feels suddenly colder, like winter has crept into the hall without warning.
"Finish that sentence."
His voice is quiet.
Low.
But it carries easily across the silent throne room.
My sister does not move.
She cannot.
The sword presses forward slightly, just enough to deepen the line of red across her throat.
Achilles tilts his head a fraction.
"Go on." There is no humor in his expression.
"People often find clarity when death is close."
His gaze sharpens slightly.
"I'm curious which words you believe are worth dying for."
My sister's breathing becomes shallow and frantic. Her eyes flick toward my stepmother, toward my father, toward the guards lining the walls.
None of them moves.
None of them speaks.
Achilles waits.
Finally, he exhales softly through his nose, almost disappointed.
"No?"
He withdraws the blade slightly, but he does not lower it. The sword remains inches from her throat.
"Pity."
His gaze drifts slowly across the rest of my family.
"There are very simple rules in my court," he says quietly.
His voice is calm.
Measured.
But beneath it is something darker.
Something colder.
"Rules I do not tolerate being broken."
He finally lowers the sword slightly, but he does not sheath it. Instead, he turns slowly, letting his gaze move across every member of my family.
"You will use proper titles." His tone remains almost conversational. "Just as I will extend the courtesy of referring to you as visiting sovereigns."
The word courtesy sounds strange in his mouth.
But he continues.
"No one in this court will bow to you."
His eyes flick briefly toward the rows of nobles behind us.
"They will treat you fairly."
His gaze returns to my family.
"You will dine with us."
"You will walk the same halls."
"You will be given access to most of the palace."
A pause.
Then his voice darkens.
"But there are places you will not go."
He gestures slightly with the sword.
"The Queen's sector. You will not enter it. You will not wander near it."
His gaze sharpens.
"And you will never cross the threshold of the royal bedchamber."
The room remains perfectly silent.
"You may enter my wing if summoned."
His voice drops lower.
"If you have urgent business. But you will never cross into the Queen's halls."
But his gaze remains cold.
"And you will never refer to her by name."
The words land heavily.
"She may share your blood."
His eyes flick briefly toward me.
But when they return to my family, they are colder than before.
"She is Queen. You will address her as such. Just as you respect my title."
The smile fades.
"Because disrespecting my queen..."
The pause stretches long enough that everyone in the room feels it.
"...is disrespecting me."
And everyone knows what that means.
Achilles has never tolerated disrespect.
Not from enemies.
Not from allies.
Certainly not from guests foolish enough to insult his wife in his own throne room.
His gaze shifts suddenly.
Toward the back of the hall.
Toward Isaac.
I follow his line of sight instinctively.
And immediately wish I hadn't.
Isaac is staring at me.
Not casually.
Not politely.
Staring.
The way someone watches something they once owned.
The look makes my skin crawl.
Achilles notices.
Of course he does.
He has been watching the room like a wolf watches a herd.
He sees everything.
And for the first time since rising from the throne—
Something in his expression shifts.
Not anger.
Something sharper.
Something almost territorial.
His hand moves suddenly.
Too fast for anyone to react.
A knife flashes through the air.
It spins once.
Twice.
Then slices across Isaac's cheek.
The cut is shallow.
Precise.
A thin red line appears instantly, blood beginning to gather at its edge.
Isaac stumbles back in shock, his hand flying to his face. The knife buries itself into the stone pillar behind him with a sharp crack. The entire room goes silent again.
Achilles does not even glance at the blade.
His gaze remains fixed on Isaac.
Cold.
Merciless.
"Staring at my wife," he says slowly, "is a quick way to end up dead." His voice carries through the hall like ice sliding across glass.
Isaac swallows.
Achilles takes one step forward.
"I will not miss a second time."
Achilles finally turns away from him, sheathing his sword with a slow, deliberate motion. The sound of steel sliding into place echoes through the throne room.
Then he looks across my family once more.
"Now that you understand the rules..."
His voice is quiet again.
But there is venom in it.
"...breaking them would be a creative way to ask for death."
A faint smile touches his lips.
Cold.
Cruel.
"I have no problem watering the earth with blood."
"Especially yours."
No one speaks.
No one moves.
Because every person in that room understands something very clearly now.
The stories about Achilles
The tyrant king.
The monster.
The man who leaves battlefields red enough to stain rivers
They were not exaggerations.
And standing beside him, feeling the cold edge of his presence, I realize something else too.
Even after months in this palace
Even after he has shown me kindness, no one else ever bothered to
A part of me will always be afraid of him.