Epilogue - The Kings Heirs
The moment I step into the corridor, I know something is wrong not because of the smoke, though I smell it almost immediately, sharp and bitter in the back of my throat but because of the silence beneath it.
It is not the ordinary quiet of a palace between duties or after a command has been given.
It is the kind of silence that follows something unexpected, something disruptive, something that has unsettled even those who are used to chaos.
It lingers in the air like a held breath, fragile and waiting to be broken.
Then I hear Elias.
He is not a quiet man under any circumstances, but there is a particular pitch to his voice now that draws me forward faster than I intended, a sharp edge of disbelief mixed with outrage that tells me whatever has happened is not small, and more importantly, not something he can control.
I turn the corner and find him pacing in front of a half-burned doorway, his hands moving in frantic gestures as he speaks to Achilles, who stands in the center of the corridor like a statue carved from something colder than stone.
"...I am telling you, You, this is not normal behavior," Elias is says, his voice strained as he points toward the damage behind him.
Achilles does not move. His posture is straight, hands clasped behind his back, his expression unreadable in the way it always is when he is deciding whether something is worth his attention or beneath it entirely. "They are children," he replies, his tone flat, unimpressed.
"They set something on fire," Elias snaps.
That makes Achilles pause.
Not dramatically, not visibly enough for most to notice, but I see it. A slight stillness, a flicker of awareness that sharpens his focus.
"...i know," he says slowly.
I step closer, my gaze shifting past them into the room, and for a moment, I simply take in the damage.
One wall is charred black, the flames having climbed higher than they should have before being extinguished.
The curtains are gone, reduced to ash that still clings faintly to the edges of the window frame.
A table lies partially collapsed, one side burned through entirely, its remains tilted awkwardly against the floor.
The air is thick with the scent of smoke and scorched wood, and beneath it, something else heat that hasn't fully left yet, as if the fire had only just been contained.
And in the center of it all, standing perfectly still as if they belong there, are my daughters.
They are untouched.
Not a mark on their skin, not a wrinkle in their dresses, not a single strand of hair out of place.
They stand side by side, their small hands clasped together, their eyes lifted toward their father with calm, deliberate attention.
There is no fear in them. No panic. No attempt to hide what they have done.
They are waiting.
Elias notices me and exhales sharply, relief flickering across his face like I have just arrived to save him from something far worse than a burned room. "Thank the gods," he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. "Someone with common sense...please talk to demons."
But Achilles does not look at me.
He is watching them.
And there is something in his gaze that is not anger.
It is sharper than that.
Disappointment, yes but beneath it, unmistakable and dangerous, there is something else.
Interest.
"...explain," he says.
His voice is quiet, controlled, but it carries through the corridor like a command that cannot be ignored.
The girls do not hesitate. One of them tilts her head slightly, her expression thoughtful rather than guilty, and answers with a calmness that would be unsettling if I were not already accustomed to it.
"We were experimenting," she says.
Elias makes a sound that suggests he is reconsidering every life choice that has led him to this moment.
Achilles exhales slowly, his gaze narrowing just slightly. "And what," he asks, his tone still even, "did you learn."
"That it spreads quickly."
"That it is difficult to control."
"That guards panic."
"That Uncle Elias is slow."
Elias throws his hands in the air. "I am not slow!"
Achilles ignores him entirely. He steps forward, each movement measured, deliberate, until he stands directly in front of them. They do not move. They do not step back. They simply look up at him, unflinching, their attention fixed entirely on him as if the rest of the world has ceased to exist.
"You burned a room in my palace," he says.
They nod.
"Yes."
"And do you understand what that means?"
They glance at each other briefly, a silent exchange passing between them, before looking back at him.
"We were only having fun."
The honesty of it is what shifts everything.
They are not defiant.
They are not cruel for the sake of cruelty.
They simply do not understand.
Achilles studies them for a long moment, then lowers himself slowly to one knee, bringing himself to their level in a movement so unexpected that even Elias falls silent behind me.
The entire corridor seems to still, as if the walls themselves are unsure how to react to the sight of a king kneeling before anyone.
His voice changes not softer, not gentle, but clearer, more deliberate, shaped in a way meant to be understood.
"You destroyed something that does not belong to you," he says. "You created a situation where someone could have been hurt. If the fire had spread, it would not have stopped at this room. It would have reached people servants, guards people who had no part in your actions."
The girls' expressions shift. It is subtle, almost imperceptible, but I see it. The understanding begins to settle, slow and heavy, replacing the calm certainty they had before.
"...we didn't mean to hurt anyone," one of them says quietly.
"That does not matter," Achilles replies. "Intent does not erase consequence."
Their fingers tighten around each other's hands. Tears begin to form, their composure cracking under the weight of something they cannot yet fully name but are beginning to feel.
"...we didn't think about that," the other whispers.
"I know."
The tears fall freely now, their small shoulders trembling as the reality of their actions settles into something real. "We're sorry," they say together, their voices soft, unsteady, perfectly in sync.
Achilles watches them for a moment longer, then reaches forward and pulls them both into him, his arms wrapping around them with a firmness that is both grounding and protective.
They cling to him immediately, burying their faces against him as they cry, their hands gripping his shirt as if he is the only thing keeping them steady.
"I am not angry because you are incapable," he murmurs, his voice low enough that it feels like it belongs only to them. "I am disappointed because you know better."
They nod against him, their tears soaking into his clothes.
"You will be punished," he continues, and though his tone remains calm, it carries the weight of something absolute.
They still, bracing themselves.
"You will spend the next week assisting the servants whose work you destroyed. You will clean. You will repair. You willfx your mistakes"
They nod immediately.
"Yes, father."
Achilles studies them, then slowly rises, bringing them with him as if they weigh nothing at all. They do not let go of him, their hands still gripping his as they look up at him, waiting for what comes next.
For a moment, his expression remains unchanged stern, unyielding but then, just slightly, it shifts.
Not into softness.
Not into gentleness.
But into something unmistakably his.
Pride.
"That being said," he says quietly, his voice lowering just enough to carry something sharp beneath it, "your execution was effective."
Elias chokes behind me.
"Do not encourage them!"
Achilles does not look at him. His gaze remains on the girls, and there is a faint, dangerous curve to his lips now a smile that is anything but kind.
"But there will not be another," he adds.
"Yes, father."
"Yes, father."
They speak together, their voices steady now, their tears already fading as they cling to his words like something to build on rather than fear.
And as I step closer, as their small hands reach for mine again, I cannot help but see it clearly.
They are his daughters.
Not just in blood.
But in mind.
In instinct.
In the quiet, dangerous way they look at the world—not as something to fear, but something to understand, to control, to reshape.
And yet, when Achilles looks at them really looks at them that cruel, unyielding king becomes something else entirely.
Not softer.
But...
Devoted.
In a way that makes even his cruelty feel like protection.
And for the first time, standing there between smoke and ash and the remnants of something they destroyed without understanding, I realize something that should terrify me.
The world should fear them.
Because one day
They will not just set fires.
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Book 2 is available.