Chapter 37 - The Ghosts Behind the Crown
Night settles slowly over the palace, swallowing the last traces of daylight beyond the tall windows of the royal chambers.
The sky outside has turned deep violet, the first stars beginning to appear above the distant mountains that ring the capital.
Within the room, dozens of candles flicker against the dark stone walls, their golden light reflecting softly off polished furniture and the large mirror where I sit while the last preparations for dinner are finished.
Servants move quietly around me like ghosts.
One adjusts the sleeves of my gown while another finishes fastening a delicate chain around my throat.
The dress itself is heavier than what I would normally wear, layers of deep crimson silk and embroidered gold designed not only to look beautiful but to remind anyone who sees me that I am not merely a woman I am the queen.
Even if my family has yet to understand that.
The maids step back once they finish their work, bowing politely before slipping from the room. The heavy wooden doors close behind them with a muted thud, leaving the chamber suddenly quiet.
Only two of us remain.
I glance toward the mirror.
Achilles stands across the room near the wardrobe, fastening the cuffs of his coat with slow, precise movements. He has already dressed for the evening court dinner, his dark attire immaculate, the heavy fabric tailored to fit the broad strength of his frame.
The candlelight catches against the long scar cutting across his face.
Even now, months into living under the same roof as him, that scar still pulls my attention every time I look at him.
It is not merely a mark.
It is a warning.
The world calls him a tyrant for many reasons.
But the scar makes people believe it.
He moves toward the mirror, adjusting the high collar of his coat with the same quiet confidence he brings to everything he does. Every motion is controlled. Nothing wasted. Even standing still, he gives the impression of someone dangerous, like a drawn blade waiting patiently on a table.
I watch him through the mirror.
And realize I have been wondering something for a very long time. The question has lived quietly in the back of my mind since the first week I arrived here. A question no one else in the palace would ever dare ask him. My fingers tighten slightly in my lap.
"Achilles."
He glances at my reflection in the mirror.
"Yes?"
His voice is calm. Neutral. Not warm, but not cruel either.
Just attentive.
I hesitate.
Then speak carefully. "Can I ask you something?" His eyebrow lifts slightly.
"You just did." Despite the dryness of the response, there is the faintest trace of humor beneath it.
I shift slightly on the chair.
"I mean something... personal."
The word hangs in the air between us.
Most people would never dare ask him for such a thing.
For a moment, he simply watches me.
Then he nods once.
"You may."
The answer is immediate.
Which somehow makes the question harder to ask. I glance down at my hands briefly before looking back at the mirror.
"Have you ever loved someone?" The silence that follows is brief. But not uncomfortable. When he answers, it is without hesitation.
"Yes."
The response surprises me enough that I blink.
"Oh."
He watches my reflection carefully.
"I am not heartless, Ophelia."
His voice is quiet, almost dry.
"I loved my parents. I loved my brother once."
I shake my head quickly.
"No.....that's not what I meant."
He tilts his head slightly.
I turn halfway in the chair to face him.
"I meant a woman."
Something shifts behind his eyes.
Then he nods.
"Yes."
My eyebrows rise.
"You have?"
"Yes." The answer remains calm.
Simple.
As if the subject carries no weight at all. That surprises me more than anything else. Because the stories I heard before arriving here painted a very different picture. I turn fully toward him now.
"Who?"
He doesn't hesitate.
"my second wife."
The words settle heavily in the room.
For a moment, I simply stare at him.
"The second wife?"
"Yes."
That answer... doesn't make sense. Not with the stories people tell about him. Not with the long trail of queens buried beneath his reign. "If you loved her," I say slowly, "why did you marry so many others afterward?"
He exhales quietly.
"It is complicated."
The phrase feels insufficient for something so large.
I watch him carefully.
"Did she not love you?"
His gaze meets mine again.
"Yes."
The word lands like a quiet stone dropped into still water.
Something in my chest tightens.
My thoughts move faster than my caution.
"So... you kil—"
I stop.
But he already knows what I was about to say.
"I did not kill her because she stopped loving me."
His voice remains calm.
Controlled.
"I have never been that cruel."
Something about the way he says it sends a faint chill across my skin.
Because coming from him... That statement says more about his definition of cruelty than anything else. He moves slowly toward the tall window overlooking the courtyard, clasping his hands behind his back as he stares out into the darkness.
"I loved my second wife from the day we met," he says quietly. The candlelight flickers against the scar on his cheek. "Until the moment I took her last breath."
The words settle heavily between us.
"But she stopped loving me long before that."
I keep staring at him.
He sighs softly.
Without turning around, he says,
"You will not let this go until I tell you the story."
I fold my arms slightly.
"Probably not."
A faint sound leaves him.
Almost a laugh.
"When I was nineteen, I married my first wife."
His voice carries the calm detachment of someone recounting history rather than memory.
"The marriage was political."
He pauses.
"She never loved me."
There is no bitterness in his voice.
Just a fact.
"She loved my brother."
The statement should feel shocking.
Instead, it simply sounds like another piece of his past.
"I understood," he continues. "Because I loved someone else."
I remain silent.
Listening.
"We made an agreement," he says. "When I became king, I would divorce her. She would marry my brother. I would marry the woman I loved." For a brief moment the corner of his mouth lifts. "It was a surprisingly civilized arrangement."
I imagine it for a moment.
Two young nobles quietly plan their futures as if politics and love could coexist without consequence. "We lived separate lives," he says. "But we were... friends."
Then the faint humor disappears. "When my father died, and I took the throne, I intended to honor our agreement." His voice grows colder. "But she had changed her mind."
He turns slightly toward me.
"She liked being queen." The candlelight flickers along the sharp edges of his face. "She realized she could not have both the power she loved and the man she loved."
Silence stretches between us.
"So she tried to remove the obstacle."
My breath catches slightly.
"You."
"Yes."
The word is quiet.
"More than once."
I swallow.
"I asked her to stop," he continues. "I warned her...Again....And again....And again." The tension in the room slowly tightens. "But she believed power was worth the risk." His gaze hardens.
"On her final attempt... I lost patience." The words are delivered without emotion. "I killed her in front of the court."
The statement lands like falling steel.
No apology.
No hesitation.
Just truth.
"And I placed the woman I loved on the throne...My second wife." Something soft flickers across his expression. "For a time... we were happy." The word sounds strange in his voice. Almost unfamiliar.
"But I had changed." He gestures faintly toward his face. "My transformation was... unpleasant." I understand immediately what he means.
"She fell in love with a nobleman," he says quietly. "Instead, she found herself married to a warlord." He looks at me again. "I do not blame her."
His fingers brush lightly against the scar crossing his cheek.
"She did not fall in love with this." My chest tightens slightly. "Many women found it attractive," he adds dryly.
"But the one woman that mattered did not." The silence deepens. "So she turned elsewhere."
His voice grows colder.
"My brother looked exactly like I once did."
"And he hated me."
The pieces begin to fall together.
"He welcomed her attention."
I hold my breath.
"I found them together."
He pauses.
"In my bed."
His eyes meet mine.
And for the first time since the story began... There is something dangerous there again.
"I killed them both."
The room feels colder somehow.
He turns away again.
"After that... I stopped caring."
His voice becomes distant.
"But the king will always require a queen. The kingdom requires an heir."
He shrugs slightly.
"And there are always families willing to sacrifice their daughters for power."
The bitterness in his voice is unmistakable.
"So I married again." His voice carries no emotion when he says it. No bitterness, no regret, only the steady calm of a man reciting a fact that has long since lost any meaning.
"And again."
The candlelight trembles along the carved edges of the chamber walls, shadows shifting behind him like quiet witnesses to the history he speaks so easily about.
"And again."
Each repetition lands heavier than the last, not because of the words themselves but because of the absence of feeling behind them.
His gaze drifts toward the chamber doors as though he is looking beyond them beyond the palace, beyond the years, back to the long line of women who once wore the crown beside him.
"Eventually," he says at last, his voice lowering slightly, "I stopped learning their names."
Silence settles heavily over the room.
For a moment, I cannot decide which part of that sentence unsettles me more the idea that he married so many wives that remembering their names became inconvenient... or the fact that he speaks about it as though it were nothing more than a minor inconvenience.
I study him carefully.
The candlelight paints sharp shadows across the scarred planes of his face. The long pale line cutting across his cheek glows faintly in the low light, making him look even more severe than usual.
"There's something i still don't understand."
His gaze returns to me.
The attention is immediate, heavy in a way that makes my spine straighten slightly.
"Yes?"
His tone is neutral.
Patient.
Waiting.
"The captain of the queen's guard."
He says nothing, but I can feel his focus sharpening.
"Why does he always have to die with the queen?"
The words feel heavier once they leave my mouth.
"I've heard the rule repeated in every court I've visited since I came here. Every servant whispers it. Every noble knows it. If the queen dies... The man sworn to protect her dies with her. No trial. No investigation. Just death....It seems cruel," I say quietly.
The word hangs between us like a fragile thing.
Achilles watches me for several seconds without responding.
Then he turns away slowly and walks toward the large desk at the center of the chamber.
"Cruelty," he says after a moment, "is a word used by people who prefer comfort over truth."
His voice remains calm.
Measured.
"Most people see only the consequence of a rule."
He reaches the desk and pulls open one of the drawers.
"They rarely bother to understand why the rule exists."
From the drawer, he removes something unexpected.
A wooden chessboard.
The board is polished dark walnut, its surface worn smooth by years of use. The carved pieces rest neatly in the compartment beneath it, small figures of kings and queens, knights and towers, each shaped with careful precision.
He places the board on the table between us.
The quiet thud of wood against wood echoes softly through the room.
"You play chess?" I ask before I can stop myself.
His mouth shifts faintly.
"Frequently."
He gestures toward the chair across from him.
"Sit."
The command is quiet but unmistakable.
I rise slowly from my seat near the mirror and walk toward the desk, aware of how closely his eyes follow my movement. The chair slides across the stone floor as I sit down.
He opens the box beneath the board and begins placing the pieces into their positions.
His hands move with careful precision, arranging them one by one as though each piece matters.
The candlelight gleams softly across the polished surface.
"Most people misunderstand chess," he says calmly as he places the final pawn.
"They believe the king is the most powerful piece on the board."
I nod slightly.
"Because he is the game ends when the king dies."
His eyes lift briefly.
"But that belief is wrong."
He taps the small carved king with his finger.
"The king is the weakest piece."
I blink.
"He can barely move." His voice carries a quiet certainty. "He moves one square at a time...Slow...Restricted...Vulnerable."
He slides the king forward slightly to demonstrate.
"If the king must move often..." His gaze meets mine. "...the player is already losing."
Something about the way he says it sends a faint chill down my spine. Then his hand moves across the board again.
He lifts the queen. The carved piece stands taller than the others, its crown delicately etched in the wood.
"This," he says quietly, placing it beside the king, "is the most powerful piece."
I lean forward slightly.
"The queen."
"The queen controls the board."
His finger traces the path the piece can move.
"She moves forward."
"Backward."
"Across the board."
"No limitation."
"No restriction."
"She can reach any piece."
His voice grows colder.
"And more importantly... she protects the king."
He demonstrates again, sliding the queen between the king and an imaginary attack.
"If the king stands alone, he dies quickly."
"But if the queen stands beside him..."
The move blocks the path.
"...the king becomes nearly untouchable."
He looks at me.
"Now imagine the board is an empire."
The statement settles quietly into the air.
"The king is the sword....The authority....The symbol of power."
He taps the king piece again.
"But the queen..."
His finger rests lightly on the carved crown.
"...is the stability."
"She governs while the king rides to war."
"She commands the court when he is absent."
"She calms the nobles when ambition begins to poison their loyalty."
"She carries the blood of the next ruler."
His voice drops slightly.
"She is the future of the empire."
I feel the weight of those words settle heavily in my chest.
"And so," he continues calmly, "the queen must never fall."
His hand moves again across the board.
He lifts the rook.
The carved tower.
"The queen's guard."
He places the piece beside the queen.
"The captain of the queen's guard is the most trusted man in the empire....More trusted than generals...More trusted than ministers....More trusted than anyone else...He stands outside her chamber doors while she sleeps."
"He travels beside her carriage."
"He trains beside her."
"He protects her from enemies."
His voice becomes colder.
"And from herself."
My stomach tightens.
"The captain spends more time with the queen than any other person in the kingdom, even her husband."
"Hours."
"Days."
"Years."
He slides the rook closer to the queen.
"Familiarity grows."
"Trust forms."
"And eventually..."
His gaze sharpens.
"...opportunity appears."
The word hangs in the air like a blade.
"My brother was the captain of the queen's guard."
The statement makes my breath catch.
"For both the first queen..."
"...and the second."
My eyes drift slowly down to the board.
Everything suddenly makes sense.
His voice is calm.
"No one questions the captain of the queen's guard."
"No one questions why he spends hours in the queen's chambers."
"No one questions why they speak privately."
"Or why they grow close..Because they are supposed to...Because their roles demand it."
His hand moves again.
He removes the queen piece.
Then the rook beside it.
"If the queen dies..."
His voice lowers slightly.
"The captain dies with her."
The empty space on the board looks strangely unsettling.
"That's still cruel," I say softly.
Achilles lifts his gaze to mine.
There is something darker in his eyes now.
"No."
His voice is quieter.
Harder.
"It is accountability."
The word falls like stone.
"If the most protected woman in the empire can be manipulated..."
"...betrayed..."
"...used..."
"...or harmed..."
His finger taps the board sharply.
"Then the empire is already weak." His voice grows colder with each word. "The queen is the crown's greatest treasure."
"If she can fall..."
"...then the crown can fall."
"If she can be manipulated..."
"...then the throne can be manipulated."
The logic is brutal.
But impossible to deny.
"The captain's death sends a message."
I swallow slowly.
"That failure has consequences."
He leans forward slightly, as his shadow stretches across the board.