The Heiress Carrying His Heir-Chapter 93 - 94: The Dead Girl

Elara’s POV

The scream woke me before I understood what was happening.

I was not fully awake. The sound cut through the half-darkness of early morning, high and sharp, the kind of scream that did not belong in a palace. I was out of bed before my mind caught up, my feet on the cold stone, my heart pounding in my chest.

More screams. Voices. Footsteps running.

I pulled my robe around me and went to the door.

The corridor was chaos. Servants stood in clusters, their faces pale, their hands over their mouths. Guards pushed through the crowd, trying to get to whatever had happened. Someone was crying, the sound low and broken, the kind of crying that came from somewhere deep.

I pushed through the crowd. No one stopped me. No one tried.

The door to my dressing room was open. One of my ladies was standing in the doorway, her face white, her hands shaking. She was the one who had screamed. I could see it in her eyes, the shock still fresh, the horror still settling.

"Your Majesty," she said. "You shouldn’t–"

I walked past her.

The chambermaid was on the floor.

She was young. Sixteen at most. A girl who had been in the palace less than a year, her face still soft, her hands still smooth. I had seen her in the corridors, in the dining hall, in the kitchens. I had never spoken to her. I did not know her name.

She was dead.

No blood. No wound that I could see. Just her body, crumpled on the floor of my dressing room, her eyes open, her mouth slightly parted. She looked like she was sleeping, except for the way her body was twisted, the way her arms were bent at angles that were not natural.

No sign of forced entry. No disturbance. Nothing knocked over or broken. Just the girl, on the floor, in a room she had every right to be in, in a palace that was supposed to be secure.

I stood in the doorway and looked at her.

Something cold moved through me. Not shock. Not fear. Something else. Something that lived on the other side of those things, where the emotions had been burned away and only clarity remained.

This was no longer threats. This was no longer dead rats and bloody kerchiefs and notes left on pillows. Someone had killed a child in my rooms. Someone had walked into my dressing room, past the guards, past the locks, past everything that was supposed to keep me safe, and they had killed her.

And I did not know why. I did not know who. I did not know if I was the target or if she was or if someone was simply sending a message.

I stood in the doorway and looked at the dead girl and felt the cold clarity settle into my bones.

Corvus arrived within minutes.

He took one look at the scene and his face did something I had seen only once before, the night of the rat, the night he had stood in my bathing room and realized that Lena could not have done it. That same feeling of something raw, something uncontrolled. Then it was gone, smoothed back into the careful mask he wore for moments like this.

"Clear the corridor," he said to the guards. "No one in or out without my authorization. And find out who the girl was. Her name, her family, her duties. Everything."

The guards moved. The crowd dispersed. The crying faded into the distance.

Corvus turned to me. "Your Majesty. Are you alright?"

I looked at him. At the dead girl on the floor. At the room that had been violated, the space that was supposed to be mine, the place where I dressed every morning without thinking about who might have been there before me.

"I’m fine," I said. "Find out who did this."

The investigation moved fast. Faster than before. Too fast, perhaps.

By midday, the council was assembled. Petrov was speaking, his voice loud and certain, the voice of a man who had found an answer and was not interested in looking for another.

"This is the work of The Rendered," he said. "They have proven themselves capable of accessing the palace before. They have a leader who has been openly inciting violence against the crown. The conclusion is obvious."

Other council members nodded. Murmurs of agreement rippled around the table.

I sat at the head and said nothing.

"The movement in this city has been growing unchecked," Petrov continued. "The Voice has been rallying the people, turning them against the crown, encouraging lawlessness. We have seen the grain thefts, the warehouse incident, the threats left in the queen’s own chambers. Now a girl is dead." He paused, letting the weight of it settle. "How many more have to die before we act?"

I watched him. Watched the way he moved, the way he spoke, the way the other council members leaned in when he talked. He was good at this. He had been doing it for decades. He knew exactly what to say and when to say it and how to make everyone in the room feel like he was the only one with the answers.

"The Rendered are responsible," I said. It was not a question.

"The evidence points toward them," Corvus said carefully. He was standing near the door, his arms crossed, his face unreadable. "They have the means. They have the motive. They have demonstrated the ability to access restricted areas of the palace before."

"But do we have proof?"

Corvus was quiet for a moment. "Not yet. But the investigation is ongoing."

"We don’t have time for proof," Petrov said. "We have a dead girl on the floor of the queen’s dressing room. We have a movement that has been openly challenging the crown. We have a city that is watching to see what we will do." He looked at me. "Your Majesty, we must act."

The arrests began that afternoon.

I did not stop them. Not because I believed The Rendered were responsible. I did not know what I believed. The evidence was thin, circumstantial, built on the same gaps and assumptions that had pointed at Lena. But I had no alternative answer. The council was moving faster than I could think. And somewhere underneath all of it was a dead girl on my floor who deserved justice regardless of who was responsible.

But something about the neatness of it sat badly with me.

Petrov’s certainty. The council’s swift agreement. The way the arrests targeted the same people who had been at the distribution points, the same people who had gathered to hear the Voice speak, the same people who had been asking for water and grain and medicine for months.

It was too neat. Too convenient. Too easy.

I filed the feeling away. Watched. Waited.

That evening, I sat in my chambers and thought about the dead girl.

I did not know her name. I had learned it earlier, from Corvus, written on a report that I had read and reread until the words blurred. Mira. Sixteen years old. Daughter of a cook and a stable hand. Hired nine months ago, one of the youngest servants in the palace.

She had been saving money to send to her mother, who was ill. She had been kind to the other servants, always willing to help, always smiling. She had been excited to work in the palace, to be close to the queen, to be part of something bigger than herself.

And now she was dead.

Someone had killed her. Someone had walked into my dressing room, past the guards, past the locks, and they had killed her. And I did not know why. I did not know if it was meant to be me. I did not know if she had seen something she should not have seen, heard something she should not have heard.

I did not know anything.

Lena came in with tea. She set the tray on the table, poured the cup, placed it on the desk beside me. Everything was as it should be.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

I looked at her. At her face, her hands, the way she was standing. She looked tired. More tired than she should have been. There were shadows under her eyes that had not been there before.

"A girl is dead," I said. "A child. Someone killed her in my dressing room."

Lena’s face did something. A flicker of something I could not read. Then it was gone.

"I know," she said. "I heard."

"Do you think The Rendered did it?"

She was quiet for a moment. "I don’t know. I don’t know what to think anymore."

Neither did I.

The days that followed were loud.

The arrests continued. People were taken from their homes, from the streets, from the distribution points where they had been standing in line for grain. The mood in the city shifted. What had been frustration became fear. What had been protest became silence.

The council was pleased. Petrov was pleased. They had their answer. They had their scapegoat. The Rendered were responsible, and everyone who had ever been to a meeting, ever spoken to a member, ever expressed sympathy for the cause was now suspect.

I sat in council meetings and listened and signed the papers they put in front of me. I did not stop them. Not yet. Because I had no alternative answer, and the dead girl was still on my floor every time I closed my eyes, and I did not know who had killed her or why.

But something about the neatness of it sat badly with me.

I filed it. Watched. Waited.