Chapter 49 - I Will Not Break
Pain is the first thing that finds me.
It does not wake me gently. It does not give me time to understand where I am or what has happened before it settles into me. It simply exists waiting, sharp and merciless and the moment my mind begins to rise from the dark, it crashes over me like a wave crashing on a shore.
It starts at the back of my head.
A deep, violent throb.
Then it spreads.
Slowly at first, like heat seeping through stone.
.. and then all at once, blooming outward in pulsing waves that make my skull feel too tight, too small, as if something inside it is trying to break free.
My breath catches, shallow and uneven, and for a long, awful moment I cannot tell if my eyes are open or closed.
I inhale too sharply.
Immediately regret it.
The ache spikes so violently that nausea curls through me, hot and sudden, and I press my lips together hard enough that I taste copper.
Do not panic.
The thought is quiet.
Fragile.
But it is mine.
Do not panic.
I force myself to breathe.
Slow.
Careful.
In.
Out.
The world begins to return to me in pieces.
Sound comes first.
Canvas shifting overhead, the soft drag of fabric moving against itself in the wind.
Rope creaking faintly, tension pulling and releasing.
Metal clinking somewhere in the distance—armor, perhaps, or tools carelessly dropped.
Voices.
Men.
Too far away to understand, their words blurring together into something meaningless, something unimportant.
They are not worried.
That much I understand.
Then smell.
And that is when everything settles into something real.
The air is wrong.
It is thick and heavy, filled with the scent of damp canvas, packed earth, sweat, horses, leather, smoke. There is something metallic beneath it all faint but present that makes my stomach tighten.
This is not the palace.
Not my room.
Not anywhere safe.
Memory returns slowly.
Jagged.
Incomplete.
The courtyard.
The stars above me.
My stepmother's voice, soft in the dark.
A step too close.
A movement I didn't see
Pain.
The ground rushing up to meet me.
Then nothing.
My eyes open.
The tent above me swims into focus, blurring at the edges before slowly sharpening.
The canvas roof sags slightly between wooden beams, sunlight pressing through the seams in thin, pale lines that stretch across the space like fractures in the world.
Shadows shift faintly with every breath of wind, moving across the ceiling in slow, restless patterns.
The light is too strong.
Too high.
Not morning.
Not early.
Midday, perhaps.
Or later.
I am on the ground.
That realization comes slowly.
Then
My wrists.
I try to move.
And feel the rope before I feel my hands.
Rough fibers bite into my skin, tight and unforgiving, holding my wrists behind me. The pressure is constant, digging into flesh already rubbed raw. My fingers tingle faintly, numb at the tips, slow to respond when I try to flex them.
My ankles are tied too.
Looser.
Less careful.
As though whoever did this believed my hands were the greater threat.
My throat is dry.
My tongue heavy.
I shift slightly.
The rope scrapes.
Pain flares along my wrists, sharp and immediate, and my head pulses harder in response, each heartbeat sending another wave of pressure through the wound at the back of my skull.
The ground beneath me is uneven hard-packed dirt scattered with bits of straw and small stones that press through the thin fabric of my dress. My body aches in places I don't fully understand yet, bruises forming beneath the surface where I must have been handled too roughly.
How long?
The question forms before I can stop it.
How long have I been here?
I turn my head.
Slowly.
Carefully.
And see Elias.
He lies only a few feet away, curled partially on his side, one arm trapped awkwardly beneath him. His body is still—too still—and for a moment the world narrows down to that single sight.
His face is bruised, swollen dark along one side.
Blood has dried at his temple, trailing down into his hair, stiff and matted.
There's more at the corner of his mouth, cracked and darkened against his skin.
His coat is torn open at the shoulder, the fabric stained, soaked through with dirt and blood.
I move before I can think.
Dragging.
Clumsy.
Desperate.
The rope around my ankles forces me into awkward, uneven movements, my body twisting as I push myself forward with my shoulder and knees. The ground bites into me with every inch I gain. Pebbles dig into my skin. My wrists burn as the rope pulls tighter with each shift.
My head throbs.
My vision blurs.
Still
I keep moving.
"El—"
My voice breaks.
Dry.
Weak.
I swallow.
"Elias..."
He doesn't move.
Fear slips in, cold and quiet.
I push forward again.
"Elías."
Nothing.
I reach him.
Press my shoulder against him.
Gently.
Then harder.
His body shifts.
Just slightly.
then
A breath.
Shallow.
Fragile.
But real.
Relief crashes through me so suddenly my eyes sting.
I lower my head for a moment, pressing my forehead briefly to the ground as something tight inside my chest loosens just enough for me to breathe.
Alive.
He's alive.
Barely.
But alive.
I lift my head again and study him more closely now that I can make myself look. His breathing is uneven, shallow. His lip is split. One cheek swollen beyond recognition. His hand curled inward as if he is still holding pain even in unconsciousness.
He fought.
Of course he did.
A small, aching regret settles in my chest.
Every lesson I complained about.
Every time I said I was too tired.
Every moment I refused to take it seriously.
I drag myself back slowly, inching away until my shoulder presses against one of the wooden support poles. The wood is warm where the sun has touched it through the canvas. My hands ache behind me. My head pulses relentlessly.
I close my eyes briefly.
Achilles knows.
He has to.
There is no world where I disappear and he does not notice. No world where Elias vanishes without consequence.
He knows and he will come.
Hold onto that.
The thought steadies me.
He knows.
I just have to endure.
The tent flap moves.
Every part of me goes still.
Light slices into the tent, sharp and blinding for a moment.
I watch as isaac carries a plate in one hand, the smell reaching me a second later greasy, heavy, overcooked. His clothes are cleaner than they should be. His posture relaxed. Comfortable.
Like this is his space.
Like I am something placed inside it for his use.
He sees me looking and smiles.
"I suppose you must be hungry."
His tone is light.
Almost amused.
I look at him.
Slowly.
Then turn my face away.
Silence stretches.
Then
"Really?"
I say nothing.
"You're not in a palace now," he continues, stepping closer. "No throne. No guards. No one to protect you."
I shift slightly.
Positioning myself between him and Elias.
It is instinct.
Quiet.
Protective.
He notices.
His expression darkens.
"You're not a queen here," he says.
No.
I do not answer.
He moves suddenly.
Too fast.
His hand grabs my jaw, fingers digging into my skin, forcing my head up sharply.
"When I speak to you," he says, voice low and harsh, "you look at me."
His grip hurts.
I smell wine on him.
Anger.
Rotting pride.
"I brought you food," he says. "I'm helping you."
Helping.
The word feels wrong.
I look at him.
Really look at him.
And then
I spit in his face.
The saliva lands across his cheek.
Slides slowly.
For a second, he freezes.
Then
He hits me.
Hard.
The force snaps my head sideways, pain exploding across my face, through my mouth, into the wound already splitting my skull apart. My lip tears further, blood flooding my mouth instantly.
I don't cry out.
I won't.
Behind me, Elias shifts faintly.
No...
Please don't wake.
Not now.
"You've gotten bold," Isaac mutters.
I turn my head back slowly.
Blood drips from my mouth.
My cheek burns.
My head throbs.
He leans closer, anger fully visible now.
"I can break you again."
Fear rises.
Cold.
Sharp.
Real.
It spreads through me quickly, tightening around my ribs, making my breath uneven.
My body wants to fold.
To disappear.
But I don't.
I lift my head.
My hands tremble behind my back, but I keep my face steady.
"You still don't understand," he says. "Everyone breaks."
Maybe.
Maybe they do.
But not for him.
Not like this.
I taste blood.
Gather it.
Then spit again.
His expression twists.
Anger.
Humiliation.
Good.
I smile.
It only makes him angrier.
He shoves me back.
My head hits the pole.
Pain flares again.
I breathe through it.
He steps away.