Law school is consuming my life.
The workload is brutal, leaving me with little time for anything else. On the rare days I'm free, I bury myself in books at home, trying to keep up.
But Esther, ever the source of palace gossip and secrets, lets something slip.
"There's a library in the palace," she mentions casually while helping me fold my laundry.
I pause mid-fold. "A library?"
She nods. "The late king's private study. Locked up since his death. No one really goes there."
My interest piques. A private library? Untouched?
I make up my mind. I need that library.
I send Cassian an SMS.
Me: I heard there's a library in the palace. Can I use it?
A minute later, my phone pings.
Cassian: My father's's study?
Me: Yes.
Cassian: If you want it, Esther should find the keys for you.
Just like that.
No argument. No hesitation.
It surprises me how easily he grants me access.
***
Esther is amazing at finding things, and this time is no exception. Within an hour, she returns, triumphant.
"I got them!" She dangles the antique brass keys before me.
We stand in front of the large wooden doors. Dust clings to the handles, the air around it thick with the weight of abandonment.
I slide the key in.
Click.
The lock releases with a groan, and the heavy doors swing open, revealing the forgotten world within.
The air is thick with the scent of aged parchment and leather-bound wisdom.
Bookshelves line the walls, stretching to the ceiling, filled with volumes that look untouched for years. A thick layer of dust coats everything, the silence in the room almost sacred.
Then, my eyes catch something.
A portrait.
A massive life-sized painting of the late king dominates the far wall. Unlike the smaller portraits scattered throughout the palace, this one is different.
I step closer.
His piercing gaze follows me.
A shiver runs down my spine.
It almost feels like he's looking at me. Like he knows I'm here. Like he's… waiting.
I swallow hard, my fingers brushing against the edge of the frame.
He's dressed in an elaborate judge's robe.
My breath catches.
The king was a judge?
No one told me that.
A Judge King. What a powerful combination.
The realization sends a thrill through me.
It makes sense now - the discipline, the unwavering control everyone speaks of. He wasn't just a ruler. He was the law.
I pull my gaze away and scan the shelves.
The books here… they aren't just history and politics.
They're law books.
Law of Equity. Labour Law. Jurisprudence. Tort. Various versions and authors.
The shelves are lined with books: Law of Equity, Labour Law, Jurisprudence, Tort, each in multiple versions and by various esteemed authors. Some are pristine, their spines barely creased, while others bear the marks of deep study; dog-eared pages, faded ink, and highlighted sections where wisdom has been carefully preserved.
Stacked beside them are thick files of cases, bound collections of court proceedings, and legal rules that govern the land. Notebooks filled with meticulously written judgments, sentences, and personal reflections on legal theories are carefully arranged, their pages whispering of long hours of study and relentless pursuit of justice.
Then, my eyes fall upon a row of notebooks, written in his peculiar, unmistakable handwriting. Something about them pulls me in. I trace my fingers along the worn edges, feeling the weight of the knowledge, the passion, the dedication within them.
It feels like uncovering a hidden treasure, one that has waited patiently to be found. Every detail in the library speaks of intellect, discipline, and an unwavering commitment to law. A legacy of thought, written in ink.
I stare at everything with reverence, realizing I am standing in the very heart of his world.
I feel a rush of excitement.
It's like I've stumbled upon a treasure trove meant just for me.
Something about this room calls to me.
Maybe it's the books. Maybe it's the portrait.
Or maybe it's the silent, unspoken message hanging in the air.
I was meant to find this place.
Within hours, the library is transformed. The once dusty, abandoned study now gleams under the soft glow of candlelight. The shelves are dust-free, the air no longer heavy with neglect. I've replaced the worn-out chair with something more comfortable, a leather armchair fit for long hours of study.
I stand back, pleased with the work Esther and I have put in. I'm just locking up when the sound of heels clicking sharply against the marble floor makes me pause.
I turn, and there she is.
The Queen.
She stands at the entrance, dressed in regal silk, eyes burning with fury. And beside her, as expected, is her shadow, Liliana.
"What are you doing here?" The Queen's voice is sharp as a blade. "Who authorized you to enter this place?"
I meet her gaze, refusing to cower. "I need this library for my studies," I say evenly. "My husband gave me permission to use it."
A dangerous silence falls. The Queen's nostrils flare, her hands clenching at her sides. For a moment, I think she's about to lash out - scream, slap, throw something. But then, she stops herself.
She glares at me, unblinking, as if trying to crush me with sheer will alone. The tension stretches, thick and suffocating.
Liliana, standing slightly behind, watches with eager anticipation. She's expecting a show; a slap, a verbal humiliation, anything. But when the Queen finally turns on her heels and strides away without a word, Liliana's expression shifts. Shock. Confusion. Disappointment.
She hesitates, clearly thrown off by the Queen's restraint, then hurries after her, her expensive perfume trailing behind.
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
Esther and I exchange glances. Then, we smile.
She didn't win today.
But I know this isn't over.
The Queen just walked away, but why?
And more importantly, what is she planning next?