The Queen Who Killed Me twice

The Queen Who Killed Me Twice (CHAPTER 3)

I had never seen the palace this quiet.

The marble corridors that once echoed with the steps of courtiers now stood silent, suffocated under a strange stillness. Even the guards—always firm, always sharp—seemed to walk slower, speak softer. Something about the way their eyes followed me reminded me I didn't belong here anymore.

Not after what she had done.

Not after what I had let happen.

I hadn't returned to this part of the palace since the funeral. The black drapes were still hung across the hall. The scent of the incense—sweet and sickening—still lingered in the air. No one dared to remove it. Her absence was too loud. Too recent.

My fingers brushed the mahogany doors of her old chamber. My mother's old chamber.

The Queen's chamber.

I wasn't supposed to be here. But something pulled me back.

I pushed the door open. Slowly. Hesitantly.

It creaked the way it used to when she'd leave it ajar during late summer nights, waiting for cool air and... waiting for him.

I stepped in, expecting emptiness.

Instead, the air was thick—almost alive—with memories. Her shawl still lay draped across the chair. A half-burned candle on the dresser, melted into itself. The cracked mirror on the vanity table still had a smear of lipstick from the night she wore blood-red.

And on the center table, neatly folded, was a letter.

Addressed to me.

"My daughter—"

I didn't sit. I didn't breathe. I just stood and read.

> "If you are reading this, I am gone. Not lost, not stolen, not defeated. Simply… gone. I lived with secrets heavier than the crown, and you—my blood, my legacy—deserve to know what they are. You will hear lies. You will see lies. But trust your silence more than the noise of others. I wronged people, yes. But not all the stories they will paint about me are true.

There is something beneath the west wing of the palace. Something buried. Something sacred. You must go alone. At midnight. And never tell a soul.

—Your Queen."

The ink had bled at the edges. Like someone had touched it with trembling fingers. Or tears.

My heart pounded in my throat. The west wing. Midnight. Buried secrets?

I folded the letter carefully and slid it into the pocket of my cloak. My mother had left many riddles behind in life, but this—this was different. She didn't write to warn. She wrote to lead.

Back in the corridor, I almost bumped into Lady Varya—my mother's advisor, now shadowing the new King.

Her smile was sweet. Too sweet.

"Couldn't sleep either?" she asked.

I nodded, hiding the letter beneath my hand.

"I understand. Grief has a way of haunting every corner."

She stepped closer, brushing an invisible thread from my shoulder. "You look too much like her. Be careful, darling. People might mistake you for a threat."

Was that a warning?

I watched her disappear into the shadowed hall, her perfume lingering behind like poison dipped in roses.

---

Midnight came like a curse.

The palace was asleep, the kind of sleep that only follows betrayal and buried guilt. I walked barefoot past the painted walls, past old portraits of queens long dead—each one with eyes that seemed to follow me.

The west wing was colder than I remembered.

The windows were shuttered. The marble cracked in places. No one came here after the fire.

It was said to be cursed. Haunted, even. But fear didn't stop me. Not tonight.

I found the old tapestry my mother used to touch while whispering to herself. I always thought it was madness. But now I saw the pattern was no accident.

The royal crest was missing a star.

I pressed on the empty spot.

Click.

The wall shifted.

A low groan echoed through the silence as a hidden door slowly opened, revealing a narrow stairway spiraling downward—into darkness.

Torch in hand, I descended.

Step after step.

Stone after stone.

Until I reached a chamber carved into the earth, smelling of soil and secrets.

And there—at the center—stood a box. Polished, ornate, and locked with a symbol I didn't recognize.

But as I approached, something moved.

A shadow.

A figure.

I turned sharply—torch raised—and froze.

"You?" I whispered.

He stepped forward. Same broad shoulders. Same eyes.

Alive.

The man we buried last year—my father.

"Hello, Raina," he said, voice low, almost… ashamed. "I was wondering how long she would wait before sending you."

---

I couldn't breathe.

"Father? But—what—how—?"

My voice fractured.

He stepped into the light. He wasn't a ghost. Not a vision. He was real.

And older. Worn. A man shaped by hiding and guilt.

"She told me she'd tell you eventually," he said. "I wasn't supposed to be king. I never wanted power. And your mother… she made choices to protect you. To protect this kingdom."

"But you died," I choked. "They showed me your—your body."

He looked away.

"A decoy. A loyal knight took my place. Your mother planned it. Faked the attack. Buried the story. All so the real enemies wouldn't know I still lived."

"But why?"

He stepped closer, his voice trembling.

"Because I knew something that would tear this kingdom apart."

He pointed at the box.

"It's all in there. Proof. Names. Betrayals. Even hers."

I hesitated.

"You loved her," I whispered.

He looked at me with eyes heavy with years of silence.

"I did. More than anyone ever should love someone who could destroy them."

And then he added:

"She loved you more than she loved the throne. But that doesn't mean she didn't commit sins."

I stood there. Torn. My mother was dead. My father was supposed to be dead. And between them, a legacy built on secrets and sacrifice.

---

"Why are you telling me this now?"

"Because soon, someone will try to take the crown from the rightful heir. You."

I laughed—broken, bitter.

"I don't want the crown."

He placed a hand on my shoulder.

"Maybe not. But you have it. Whether you like it or not."

The chamber suddenly felt colder.

"You need to decide, Raina. Whether you want to rule with truth—or run from it."

I looked down at the box.

At the past.

And at the man I once believed was lost forever.

I didn't have answers.

But I had fire in my veins now. And a voice in my head that sounded too much like my mother's, whispering,

"They'll try to silence you. Let them try."

I turned to the stairs.

"I'll come back," I said.

"You won't have time," my father replied.

And as I reached the top step, the torch flickered wildly—like wind had rushed in from nowhere.

Behind me, the door slammed shut.