That was never the man I knew. What artist would she commission to paint such a blatant lie?
It hung directly across from the door to her receiving room, the first thing anyone would see upon entering.
I worked my jaw, anger flushing my face. He had bedded her out of duty—never shared a bed, yet still he visited her. He endured ridicule from the one person who should have supported him, and she had become just another dagger in his heart.
With a snarl, I seized a chair and dragged it across the room. I was being petty. Foolish. But I would not let it linger in the palace. Not for another instant.
I batted my skirts aside and climbed up. The frame was dark, tarnished silver, too heavy for me to lift free. Anger tightenedmy grip as I dug in with both hands. It rocked, swayed, then slammed back into the wood when I leaned too far. I braced myself, one hand on the wall, dragging my weight into it, yanking again.
Heat rushed through me as frustration mounted. With a sharp pull, I wrenched it loose, the hook scraping as it slid free of the nail. The frame crashed into the shelf below it. Something shattered. Then the painting tipped forward and struck the floor face-first.
My triumph lasted a heartbeat.
The door flew open, and Claus stormed in, dagger drawn, body coiled for violence. He froze, eyes flicking from me on the chair to the wreckage, then settling on the fallen portrait.
I stepped down, sniffing, smoothing my skirts. “Send for a servant. I want this burned. You may wait outside.”
He hesitated, studying me as though seeing me anew. The corner of his mouth twitched before he nodded, retreating without a word.
Power stirred in my chest. Foolish, perhaps, but there was something glorious about erasing Eldeiade’s imprint from the palace.
I crossed into the dressing room. Dust-coated racks of gowns sagged beneath neglect. My fingertips skimmed puffed sleeves, traced plunging necklines that dipped far too low.
Had she worn these to taunt Kallias?
My gaze lifted to the walls. As expected, her portraits crowded the space. Any queen with enough vanity would have done the same.
She was beautiful; tall, slender, with curves shaped to draw the eye like a lure. I stopped before a dimly lit canvas, studying every detail. Midnight-black hair framed pale skin untouched by sun. Crimson lips curved with knowing confidence. High cheekbonesand green eyes seemed to mock me, as though she understood the power she held.
I turned and drifted into the bedchamber, unease thrumming beneath my skin.
I didn’t want to be there, thinking about this. Yet my feet carried me forward all the same.
Some cruel, twisted fascination tugged at me, luring me deeper.
Shadows consumed the space, untouched by the receiving room’s dim light. Despair lingered, thick as smoke. My hand shook as I drew back the heavy curtain.
Blankets lay tossed aside, the mattress left bare. Dead plants cluttered the mantle and corners, brittle and dry. No rot clung to the air. Even decay felt deliberate.
The painting above the bed seized me.
My stomach turned, lips parting as horror settled in. I couldn’t look away.
It was her and Kallias. Together. In a way I never wanted to see.
Eldeiade straddled him, black hair spilling down her back, red sheets tangled at her hips, pooling to the floor. Her head tipped, mouth open in a silent, eerie laugh.
And he was—it was him.
I knew those eyes.
Hatred constricted my throat as I moved closer, fingers curling at my neck as breath came shallow.
His face angled aside, gaze blank. The artist had scarred his features, jawline rushed and rough, as though care had been an afterthought. His body lay bare beneath her, hands clenched at his sides.
How could he allow this? Leave it hanging above her bed for servants to see? For him to face each visit?
He had tried for years to sire a child. How many times did he enter this room, seeking life amid so much death? It must’ve been such a relief when Tallon was born. He wouldn’t have needed to endure this any longer.
