She Still Exists

[AMAL POV]

Three days later, the council convened in the great hall. I wasn't present—I couldn't be. I hadn't slept since they told me. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw his face, my baby's face, the child I would never hold. My cries echoed through the palace corridors night after night, a sound so broken that even the guards outside my door shifted uncomfortably.

The servants whispered that my wails could be heard throughout the kingdom, that mothers held their own children closer when the wind carried my grief through the streets. But I couldn't stop. The emptiness in my womb was a physical agony, and the only relief was to scream until my throat was raw.

Mira found me huddled on the floor beside my bed, still in the same bloodstained nightgown I'd worn for days. My hair was matted, my face swollen from crying, my hands shaking so violently I could barely hold the cup of broth she pressed into them.

"Your Highness," she whispered, her voice thick with pity. "The council met today. About... about the succession."

"No." The word tore from my throat. "No, I don't want to hear it. Not yet. I can't—"

"You need to know," she said gently, settling beside me on the cold stone floor. "Lord Kassim spoke first. He said the kingdom needs an heir, that a prince without a son is vulnerable—"

"Stop." I was hyperventilating now, my chest tight with panic. "Please, Mira, I can't think about this. My baby just died. My baby is dead and they're already—"

"Lord Hamid agreed," she continued, her voice urgent. "He said that perhaps the Princess had proven herself unsuitable for the task of bearing heirs."

The words hit me like a physical blow. "Unsuitable?" I laughed, a sound so broken it was barely human. "Unsuitable? I carried him for eight months! I felt him move, I talked to him, I loved him and now he's dead because of me and they call me unsuitable?"

My voice rose to a shriek, and I saw Mira flinch. But I couldn't stop. The panic was consuming me, the reality of what I'd done crashing over me in waves.

"What did Idris say?" I grabbed her arm, my nails digging into her skin. "What did he say about me?"

"He didn't speak for a long time," she whispered. "Just sat there while they debated your future. Then Lord Kassim suggested a second marriage, someone with proven fertility."

The cup slipped from my hands, shattering on the floor. "A second marriage?" My voice was barely a whisper now. "They want to replace me?"

"Or set you aside entirely. There are precedents, Your Highness. Marriages that have been dissolved when the wife proves barren."

"Barren!" I screamed, pulling at my hair. "I'm not barren! I carried his child! I felt him kick and move and I sang to him and I killed him! I killed my own baby!"

I was sobbing now, great heaving sobs that made my whole body shake. "I can't fix this," I gasped. "I can't bring him back. I can't undo what I've done. They're going to replace me and I deserve it because I'm the one who—"

"Your Highness, please—"

"And the Prince's response?" I interrupted, desperation making my voice sharp. "What did he say? Did he agree? Does he want to be rid of me too?"

Mira's face was pale with worry. "He said he would consider their counsel. But there was something in his tone... something that made even Lord Kassim step back."

I could imagine it. The controlled fury, the dangerous quiet that had become his default state since the accident. But knowing that only made my panic worse. Everything was happening too fast, too soon. I needed time to grieve, to process, to figure out how to live with what I'd done. But the kingdom needed an heir, and I had failed to provide one.

"What do I do?" I whispered, rocking back and forth. "Mira, what do I do? How do I fix this?"

But even as I asked, I knew the answer. There was no fixing this. No undoing what I'd done. No bringing back the child whose death had sealed my fate.

The whispers started the next day.

I could hear them in the corridors, in the servants' quarters, in the very walls of the palace that had once felt like home. The story was spreading, mutating as it passed from mouth to mouth, becoming something far worse than the simple tragedy it had begun as.

The Princess is cursed.

She killed her own child.

She rode that horse deliberately, knowing what would happen.

She's barren now, useless.

The Prince should cast her aside.

She's brought shame to the royal house.

Each whisper was a knife, cutting away at what remained of my identity. I had been Amal, Princess of the realm, mother-to-be of the future heir. Now I was just... nothing. A cautionary tale. A woman who had failed at the most basic function of her existence.

The servants' behavior changed too. Where once they had bowed deeply, now they offered perfunctory nods. Where once they had rushed to fulfill my requests, now they moved with deliberate slowness, as if my orders carried no weight.

Even Mira, loyal Mira, seemed different. She still cared for me, still brought me food and helped me dress, but I could see the pity in her eyes. The way she looked at me like I was something broken that needed to be handled carefully.

A week after the council meeting, Idris visited me for the first time since the night of the accident.

I was curled in the corner of my chamber, knees drawn to my chest, staring at nothing. The afternoon light streaming through the latticed windows caught the dust motes dancing in the air, but I barely saw them. I hadn't bathed in days. My hair hung in greasy tangles around my face, and my nightgown was stained with tears and blood that had long since dried. When the door opened without warning—no knock, no announcement—I flinched like a beaten animal, my whole body jerking against the silk cushions.

"You look terrible," he said, his voice carrying across the room with casual indifference.

I lifted my head slowly, blinking at him through swollen eyes that had cried themselves nearly dry. He stood in the doorway for a moment, one hand still resting on the ornate door handle, taking in the sight of me with the same expression he might wear when examining a horse with a lame leg. His white robes were pristine, perfectly pressed, the gold threads catching the light as he moved. He was thinner than I remembered, his face drawn with exhaustion, but there was still that terrible emptiness in his gaze—the same look he'd worn when he'd gripped my chin and called me nothing.

He closed the door behind him with deliberate care, the soft click echoing in the silence. Then he crossed the room in measured steps, his leather slippers silent against the marble floor, and settled into the chair across from me. The chair that had once been my favorite spot for reading, where I'd spent countless mornings with poetry books and jasmine tea. Now it felt like a throne of judgment.

"I feel terrible," I whispered, my voice hoarse from days of crying and screaming into my pillows.

"I imagine you do." He leaned back, one ankle resting on the opposite knee, his fingers drumming a slow rhythm against the carved armrest. The sound was hypnotic, maddening. "Do you know what the council wants me to do?"

The question sent a spike of terror through me, and I pressed myself further into the corner where the wall met the window seat. The silk cushions that had once been comfort now felt like a trap. "Please," I whispered, shaking my head frantically. "Please don't—"

"They want me to remarry," he continued, as if I hadn't spoken. His fingers stopped their drumming, and he studied his nails with apparent interest. "Find some fertile young woman who can produce the heir you failed to deliver." He looked up then, catching my eyes with a gaze that was utterly devoid of warmth. "What do you think of that idea?"

"No," I breathed, my hands clutching at my nightgown. "No, please, I can try again. I can—"

"Can what?" His voice was sharp now, cutting through my desperation like a blade. He leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees, his dark eyes fixed on mine with predatory intensity. "Can kill another child? Can fail me again?"

I was sobbing now, great heaving sobs that made my whole body shake. The cushions beneath me were already damp with tears from previous days, and I could taste salt and bitterness on my lips. "I'm sorry," I gasped, my words barely coherent. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"Sorry doesn't bring back my son," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper that was somehow more terrifying than shouting. He tilted his head, studying me like a scholar examining a particularly interesting specimen. "Sorry doesn't give me an heir. Sorry doesn't fix what you've broken, Amal."

Each word was a knife twisting in my chest. I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to hold the pieces together, but I was falling apart. My fingernails dug into my arms hard enough to leave marks, seeking some physical pain to match the agony inside. "What do you want from me?" I cried, my voice breaking. "What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to understand what you are," he said, rising from the chair with fluid grace. The movement was controlled, deliberate, like a cat preparing to pounce. I shrank back, but there was nowhere to go—the wall was solid behind me, the window seat trapping me in place.

"Stop," I whimpered, pressing my back against the cool stone. "Please stop."

But he was already moving, crossing the space between us with slow, measured steps. His shadow fell across me, blocking out the afternoon light, and I felt small and broken under his gaze. He knelt in front of me, one knee touching the floor, the other bent, bringing his face level with mine. The scent of his cologne—sandalwood and something darker—filled my nostrils, once comforting, now suffocating.

"Do you know why I married you?" he asked, his voice low and intimate, as if we were lovers sharing secrets.

I stared at him through my tears, my heart hammering against my ribs so hard I was sure he could hear it. His face was inches from mine, close enough that I could see the gold flecks in his dark eyes, the slight lines around them that spoke of careful control rather than laughter.

"I married you because you were broken," he continued, reaching out to brush a strand of greasy hair from my face. His touch was gentle, almost tender, which made his words all the more devastating. "Because everyone's cruelty had made you desperate for approval, for safety, for someone to tell you that you were worth something. I chose you because I knew you would be grateful, compliant, easy to manage."

His fingers trailed down my cheek, catching a tear, and he examined the moisture on his fingertip with clinical interest.

"I already kn—" I started, but he pressed that same finger to my lips, silencing me.

"I studied you," he said, his eyes never leaving mine. His free hand rested on the cushion beside my hip, caging me in. "I made it my business to understand exactly what you needed to hear, what you needed to feel, to make you love me. The poetry readings, the gentle touches, the way I listened to your stories about your past—all of it calculated." A smile played at the corners of his mouth, but it never reached his eyes. "And it worked, didn't it? You fell in love with the man I presented to you.."

"Why are you telling me this again?" I sobbed, my voice barely audible.

He removed his finger from my lips and sat back on his heels, creating just enough distance to make me feel more exposed, more vulnerable. "Because," he said, his voice taking on the tone of a teacher explaining a simple concept to a slow student, "I need you to understand your situation."

He stood then, brushing invisible dust from his robes, and began to pace in the small space before me. Three steps to the left, turn, three steps to the right. The rhythm was hypnotic, maddening. "The council wants me to remarry, but I won't. Do you know why?"

I couldn't speak, couldn't breathe. The world was spinning around me, reality crumbling like sand between my fingers. I watched his feet move back and forth, back and forth, my vision blurring with tears.

He stopped directly in front of me, his robes settling around his legs like white water. "Because I have no interest in starting over," he said, exhaling deeply as if the very thought exhausted him. He ran a hand through his dark hair, mussing it slightly—the first imperfect thing about him I'd seen today. "Breaking in a new wife? Teaching her the rules, the tone, the silence? It's tedious." He looked at me. "You're already broken in," he continued, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Already shaped to fit. Why would I bother with anyone else when I can simply..." He paused, his head tilting as he considered his words. "Repurpose you?"

The word hit me like a slap. Repurpose. As if I were a broken tool that could be hammered back into shape, a vase that could be glued together and used again, never mind the cracks.

"What does that mean?" I whispered, though I was terrified of the answer.

His smile was cold, predatory, and he reached out to cup my face in his hands. His palms were warm, calloused from swordplay, and once upon a time, that touch had meant safety. Now it felt like a cage. "It means you're going to give me another child," he said, his thumbs stroking my cheekbones with mock tenderness. "And this time, you're going to do it right."

I tried to scramble away from him, my legs tangling in my nightgown, but my back was already against the wall. "Wait," I gasped, my hands pushing weakly at his chest. "No, I can't yet—the midwife said—"

"I don't care what the midwife said," he interrupted, his grip on my face tightening. Not enough to bruise, but enough to make his point. "You can. You will. Because if you don't..."

He released me, and the absence of his touch should have been relief, but instead, it felt like abandonment. He walked to the window, his back to me, and stared out at the gardens below. "If you don't," he said, his voice carrying a note of bored finality, "I'll find someone who can. And you... you'll discover what happens to broken things that can't be repaired."

The threat hung in the air between us, more terrifying than any physical violence. I knew what happened to discarded wives. I knew what happened to women who failed their husbands. They disappeared, forgotten, erased from history as if they had never existed at all.

"Please," I begged, reaching out to him with shaking hands even though he was too far away to touch. "Please don't do this to me. I'll be good, I'll be better, I'll..."

He turned from the window, his eyebrows raised in mock surprise. "You'll what?" he asked, crossing his arms over his chest. The gesture made him look younger, almost boyish, which somehow made his cruelty more disturbing. "You'll obey? You'll submit? You'll bear my child when I tell you to and keep your mouth shut when I'm done?"

I flinched at his crudeness, but I nodded frantically, my hair falling across my face. "Yes," I whispered. "Yes, all you want."

"Good, Amal." He walked back to me, reaching down to tilt my chin up with one finger. The gesture was almost gentle, but his eyes were cold as winter stone. "That's what I thought."

He held my gaze for a long moment, as if memorizing my broken expression, then dropped his hand and moved toward the door. His footsteps were unhurried, confident, the sound of a man who had gotten exactly what he wanted.

At the door, he paused, his hand on the handle. "Clean yourself up," he said without turning around. "You have three days."

The changes began immediately.

First, the guards. Two of them, stationed outside my chamber door at all times. They were polite, respectful, but their message was clear: I was not to leave these rooms without explicit permission.

Then came the restrictions. No more walks in the gardens. No more visits to the library. No more audiences with petitioners or involvement in any palace business. My world contracted to these four walls, these few pieces of furniture, this narrow slice of sky visible through the windows.

The servants who attended me were different now—older women, stern and professional, who spoke only when necessary and regarded me with the distant politeness reserved for valuable but dangerous objects. Sometimes I caught them crossing themselves when they thought I wasn't looking, as if my very presence might contaminate them with my curse.

And every night, Idris came to my bed.

There was no tenderness, no pretense of love or desire. It was a transaction, clinical and efficient. He would arrive after dark, perform his duty with the mechanical precision of a man checking items off a list, and leave without a word. But first, always first, he would inspect me—check my meals, ensure I had eaten, examine my wrists for any signs of self-harm. His concern was not for me, but for the vessel I had become. The precious cargo I might one day carry.

I learned to lie still, to stare at the ceiling and count the stones in the arch above my head. I learned to separate my mind from my body, to float somewhere above the bed while he used me for his purpose. My body remained healthy—he made sure of that—but my soul withered like a flower in darkness.

Sometimes, in the darkness after he left, I would remember the woman I had been just weeks ago. The princess who had ridden through the palace gardens with her head held high, who had believed herself loved, who had dreamed of holding her child in her arms and teaching him about the world beyond these walls.

How foolish that woman had been. How utterly, pathetically foolish.

The madness crept in slowly, like water seeping through cracks in a foundation.

At first, it was just the voices in the corridors—the whispers that followed me everywhere, the servants gossiping about my fall from grace. But gradually, I began to hear things that weren't there. Conversations in empty rooms. Footsteps in deserted hallways. The sound of a baby crying in the walls themselves.

My reflection became something monstrous. The woman staring back at me from the mirror was a specter, a revenant of the princess I had once been. My skin had taken on a waxy, translucent quality, pale as moonlight and just as cold. My eyes had sunken deep into their sockets, ringed with purple shadows that no amount of sleep could erase. My hair, once lustrous and carefully tended, now hung in limp, greasy strands around my hollow cheeks.

The servants would sometimes stop mid-sentence when they saw me, their faces draining of color as if they'd glimpsed something that belonged in a crypt rather than a royal chamber. Children who caught sight of me through doorways would burst into tears and flee to their mothers' skirts. I had become a cautionary tale made flesh, a ghost haunting her own life.

But my body—oh, my body remained perfect. Idris made sure of that. Rich foods were brought to me daily, and I was compelled to eat every morsel. Physicians examined me weekly, checking my pulse, my temperature, my monthly cycles. I was a prized mare in his stable, and he would not risk the bloodline for my feelings.