ISLA
The halls of the palace were lively again, a stark contrast to the quiet I had grown used to over the last month. The sound of the King’s voice echoed down the corridors, accompanied by laughter—a woman’s laughter.
I had been in the kitchen since dawn, kneading dough, slicing vegetables, and seasoning meats. The rhythmic motions were soothing, predictable. They gave me purpose.
The King had returned from an expedition, her triumphant arrival accompanied by her warriors and, notably, a scholar—a woman whose reputation preceded her. Smart, poised, and undeniably charismatic, she had ridden beside the King, her presence commanding almost as much attention as the King herself.
I worked in silence, focusing on the task before me. There was no place for distraction, no time to feel. Feeling had become dangerous.
The aroma of the meal filled the air as I carried dish after dish to the grand dining table. The King sat at the head, her golden eyes gleaming with the firelight, her presence as commanding as ever. Beside her sat the scholar, her dark hair tied back neatly, her smile easy and confident.
I approached quietly, setting down the roasted meats, fresh bread, and carefully arranged platters of fruit and cheeses. The two of them didn’t notice me at first, too engrossed in their conversation.
“And then,” the scholar was saying, her voice light with amusement, “we were surrounded, entirely outnumbered. I thought it was the end for sure.”
The King smirked, her deep voice carrying a note of satisfaction. “You underestimate my warriors—and me, apparently.”
The scholar laughed. “You’re right. I do. Clearly, I’ll have to stop doing that.”
I kept my gaze lowered, placing the final dish before them—a rich stew that had taken hours to prepare. The King glanced at me briefly, her acknowledgment quick and impersonal.
“Thank you, Isla,” she said.
I nodded, my response as quiet as the whisper of my skirts as I retreated.
The sound of their laughter followed me as I left the room.
Back in the kitchen, I sat at the edge of the long wooden table, my hands folded neatly in my lap. The warmth of the stove was comforting, but it did little to chase away the chill that had settled inside me.
The King had been distant for weeks, her focus consumed by preparations for the expedition, by the needs of the kingdom, by everything except me.
I had learned to cope with her absence, to bury my emotions beneath layers of duty and study. I had spent countless hours in the library, devouring books on governance and law, immersing myself in the dry language of treaties and trade agreements.
I had become, once again, what I always was—a worker. A servant elevated by circumstance but a servant nonetheless.
And now, watching the King laugh and talk with the scholar, I realized that I had built a wall so high around my heart that even the sight of them together couldn’t pierce it.
When the meal was finished, I returned to the dining hall to clear the table. The King and the scholar were still talking, their voices animated as they recounted the details of their journey.
“…and the desert was like nothing I’ve ever seen,” the scholar was saying, her hands gesturing excitedly. “The way the sun set over the dunes—it was breathtaking.”
The King leaned back in her chair, her expression thoughtful. “You romanticize it too much. It’s harsh, unforgiving. Beautiful, yes, but deadly.”
“Perhaps,” the scholar replied, her tone playful. “But I’m a scholar, not a warrior. I have the luxury of romanticizing things.”
The King chuckled, and the sound sent an ache through my chest that I refused to acknowledge.
As I reached for an empty plate, the scholar turned to me, her dark eyes warm. “The food was extraordinary,” she said. “You must be very talented.”
I paused, unsure how to respond. “Thank you,” I said finally, my voice steady but devoid of emotion.
The King’s gaze flicked to me then, her golden eyes lingering for a moment before returning to the scholar.
“You should try her bread sometime,” the King said, her tone casual. “It’s the best in the kingdom.”
The scholar smiled. “I’d like that.”
I said nothing, collecting the rest of the dishes and retreating once more to the kitchen.
The palace felt impossibly large that night, the echoes of laughter and conversation fading into the quiet of the empty halls.
Back in my chambers, I sat by the window, staring out at the moonlit gardens below. The weight in my chest was familiar now, a constant companion.
I thought of the King and the scholar, their easy rapport, their shared adventures. I thought of the distance that had grown between us, of the way the King barely looked at me anymore.
I didn’t cry. I couldn’t.
Instead, I turned my attention to the stack of books on the desk, their spines worn from use. I picked up the top one, its pages filled with laws and decrees, and began to read.
The words blurred together, my mind unable to focus. But I forced myself to continue, to drown out the noise in my head with the cold logic of governance.
This was my life now—a life of duty, of work, of service.
And it was enough. It had to be.
The bed felt too large for just one person, but I had grown accustomed to it. Lying on my side, staring at the faint moonlight filtering through the curtains, I tried to focus on the soft hum of the palace at night. The distant sounds of guards changing shifts, the rustle of wind through the courtyard, the faint creak of wooden beams settling—it was all so familiar now.
I heard the door to the chambers open and close softly. She was back.
I didn’t move, didn’t open my eyes. I knew her routine by heart. She would set down her sword, remove her boots, and walk to the adjoining bath. I heard the faint splash of water as she submerged herself, and I squeezed my eyes shut tighter.
The room smelled faintly of lavender and warmth when she returned. The bed dipped under her weight, but I didn’t move. I tried to relax my breathing, willing myself to fall asleep, knowing the morning would bring more work, more studying, more of the same.
She shifted closer to me, her warmth radiating through the thin fabric of my nightdress. Then, her arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me gently against her.
Her lips brushed the nape of my neck, a soft, lingering kiss that made me shiver despite myself.
“Isla,” she murmured, her voice low and intimate.
I didn’t respond, keeping my gaze fixed on the darkness beyond my eyelids.
She exhaled softly, her breath warm against my skin. “Talk to me.”
There was a pause, a long silence filled only by the sound of our breathing.
“How was it?” she asked finally. “When I wasn’t here.”
I hesitated, my lips parting as I searched for words. But there was no need to search; the truth sat heavy in my chest, waiting to be spoken. “I worked,” I said simply.
“And?”
I swallowed, my voice steady but detached. “I studied. I cooked. I made sure everything was as it should be.”
Her hold on me tightened slightly. “That’s not what I meant.”
My heart ached at the softness in her tone, at the weight of her presence so close to me. But I kept my voice even, distant. “There’s nothing else to say.”
She was silent for a moment, and then she shifted, her hand on my shoulder gently urging me to turn toward her. Reluctantly, I let her guide me, my eyes finding hers in the dim light of the room.
Her golden gaze searched mine, and I saw the moment she realized. Her brows furrowed, her lips parting slightly as if she wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.
“Your eyes,” she whispered, almost to herself.
I blinked, confused. “What about them?”
“They’re... empty,” she said softly, her voice laced with something I couldn’t place—sadness, perhaps, or guilt. “What happened to you, Isla?”
Her words struck something deep within me, but I didn’t flinch. I didn’t look away. “Nothing happened,” I replied. “I did what I was supposed to do. I’ve learned my place.”
Her jaw tightened, her hand coming up to cup my cheek. “Your place?”
“Yes,” I said quietly, my voice calm, as if I were explaining something obvious. “I’m your queen, but I’m still... I’m still just a servant. I serve you, and that’s what I’ll continue to do.”
Her thumb brushed against my skin, her eyes locked on mine as if trying to pull something out of me that no longer existed. “No,” she said firmly, her voice breaking slightly. “No, Isla. That’s not—”
She stopped herself, her expression crumbling into something I had never seen before. Regret.
“I neglected you,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “I left you alone, and I shouldn’t have. I see that now.”
I blinked at her, her words washing over me like waves against a stone. I nodded once, not out of agreement, but simply because it seemed like the right thing to do.
She leaned forward, resting her forehead against mine, her arms wrapping around me in a tight embrace. I felt the tremor in her hands as she held me, as if she were afraid I might disappear if she let go.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’ll do better. I promise.”
Her words were soft, but they didn’t seem to register fully. They hovered in the air, distant and weightless.
I stayed silent, my head resting against her shoulder as she held me. Her warmth surrounded me, her presence grounding me in a way I hadn’t realized I needed.
The tension in the room shifted, the weight of her apology settling between us. She didn’t let go, and for the first time in weeks, I felt something stir within me—something fragile, something I couldn’t name.
We stayed like that for a long time, her arms around me, her heart beating steadily against mine. And though I couldn’t bring myself to say the words, a small part of me hoped she understood.
*****