013 | Thinnest of Threads.

E L E A N O R

I clutch my stomach again, the emptiness gnawing at me. Trying to make sense of how a child had been growing inside me, and yet I hadn’t noticed. The realization crashes over me like a wave, a suffocating grief that drowns my breath. I was pregnant. The only connection I had left to my husband—his flesh and blood—was gone. The one hope of remembering him through a child had vanished. And all because of the same monster who took his life.

I had done nothing to Perseus. I was barely recovering, still mourning my loss, yet he punishes me again. He takes away the ones that matter to me like the sick, twisted devil he is. His cruelty knows no bounds.

I curl up on the bed, pulling my legs to my chest and rocking myself gently back and forth, the movement trying to soothe the storm inside my mind. I’m losing my grip, slipping further into despair with every passing moment. My sanity is hanging by the thinnest of threads.

I hear voices. Dora’s voice, filled with worry. Tobias, I think. And then... a baby crying. A piercing wail that cuts through the silence, making my heart ache even more. The child I could have had, the one I’ll never get to hold.

I haven’t slept in days. The picture of my lost child haunts me, a constant presence in my mind, robbing me of the rest I so desperately need. I can’t sleep, can’t eat. The thought of food makes me feel sick, and the thought of seeing anyone, especially him, makes my skin crawl. I’ve locked the door, keeping them away, keeping him away. I can’t face them. I don't want to face him.

Marina’s attempts to get me to eat have been futile. The only progress I’ve made is drinking water—barely enough to keep me from completely withering away. I can feel my body growing weaker. My clothes are hanging off me, too big for my shrinking frame. Once, a princess would have subjected herself to days of fasting, obsessed with maintaining a perfect, slender figure. It was a life I never fully embraced. But now, this... this is something else. It’s the kind of fasting that leaves no room for health, no room for anything but loss.

The miscarriage. The child I never even knew I had, taken from me before I had the chance to hold them. A child I never got to see. My grief feels like an endless pit, and it pulls me deeper every day.

I hear the door creak open. Only Marina has the key, so I know it’s her. I bury my face in my lap, wiping away the fresh tears that have escaped my eyes. I don’t want her to see me like this, but I can’t stop the tears from coming. I can’t stop the pain from tearing through me.

But no, it’s not Marina who enters. The sound of boots against the wooden floorboards announces his arrival. The thick scent of agarmood fills the room, overwhelming my senses. I don’t need to look up to know who it is. Perseus. He must have gotten the key from Marina, probably to come and find some twisted satisfaction in watching me crumble.

“You can’t keep punishing yourself like this,” Perseus says, his voice smooth but carrying an edge of something I can’t quite place. He drops a tray of food in front of me, then sits on the edge of the bed, his presence suffocating in its own way.

Punish myself? What does he know about punishment? What does he know about pain? I shouldn’t punish myself so he can punish me instead. Perfect. But I don’t speak. I don’t even look at him. I just sit in my silence, hoping it will send the message. I want him to leave. I just want to be left alone.

He pushes the tray slightly toward me, the scent of the food mixing with the anger already brewing in my chest. There’s chicken soup, bread, porridge, poached eggs, stewed fruits, and a cup of mugwort herbal remedy, the one Marina insisted I drink every day after I manage to eat even the smallest portion of food.

I scan the meal. It’s almost too perfect, a small gesture of his twisted form of kindness. A meal for a woman who has lost everything, a woman who will never see her child again.

He clears his throat, the sound unnatural and forced. “You should eat. The healer recommended this, and I’ve done my research too,” he says, as if he’s some kind of expert on what I need. How touching.

I barely resist the urge to scoff. He’s tugging at his collar, clearly uncomfortable, probably because he’s unaccustomed to showing any kind of care. This isn’t about care. This is about control. He just wants me alive, healthy—perfect for whatever cruel game he’s playing. The perfect victim for his manipulations.

His calm demeanor only makes my blood boil. The murderer can sit there, perfectly composed, while I sit here, drowning in my grief. He looks flawless, unaffected, while I am a broken woman, hanging on by a thread.

In a burst of rage, I grab the bowl of soup, the heat of it burning my palm. My grip tightens around it, and I lock eyes with him, fury radiating from every inch of my body. Before I can think, I raise my hand and throw the soup at him, the liquid splashing across the air.

He reacts quickly, leaping to his feet, but the soup misses him and lands on the bedsheets. I grunt in frustration, grabbing the plate next, and hurling it at him with all the force I can muster. He catches it midair, but his anger flares, and in one swift motion, he throws the plate to the floor. The ceramic shatters, the pieces scattering across the floor with an explosive crash.

He stalks toward me, fury written across every inch of his face. His eyes are wild, pupils flaring, cheeks flushed, his body trembling with rage. He grabs my neck with a force that sends a jolt of fear through me, but I refuse to let him see that. I don’t gasp for air. I don’t break. Instead, I look him in the eye, unflinching.

“I knew you couldn’t keep that act up for long,” I sneer, mocking him.

“Stop pushing me to the wall,” he growls between clenched teeth. “No one has to get hurt if you just do what you’re asked to do.”

I glare at him, my voice cold and unwavering. “You just have to kill me, then. Go ahead. Do it.”

His eyes flicker with something—irritation, confusion, and yet, something deeper. I watch as his anger roils within him, but instead of snapping my neck as I expect, he releases me, his grip loosening. He stares at me, his chest heaving, his face twisted with conflicting emotions.

Without a word, he storms out of the room, leaving me alone once more. Alone with my grief. Alone with the memory of what I’ve lost.