Chapter 10

Lena’s POV

Back at the palace, I turned to face the royal guards from earlier..

“Why,” I demanded, my voice sharp enough to cut through the marble halls, “did no one initiate to rescue her?”

Silence.

Then the head of security stepped forward, stiff and formal. “Your Majesty… our priority was you. We could not leave your side.”

That answer snapped something in me.

“Not leave my side?” I repeated, disbelief flooding my chest. “Is that truly what you believe your duty is?”

They exchanged glances. No one spoke.

I took a step closer, my hands clenched at my sides. “Royal guards are not ornaments meant to shield a single crown,” I said, my voice rising. “You are sworn to protect this nation. And that woman—wounded, terrified, hunted—she is as much a part of this kingdom as I am.”

Still, they remained rigid, unmoving.

“You stood there,” I continued, heat burning behind my eyes, “and watched her bleed. And you chose stillness over action.”

The head of security lowered his gaze. “We acted according to protocol, Your Majesty.”

“Then your protocol is flawed,” I cut in coldly.

The words echoed.

I drew in a slow breath, forcing my fury into something sharper, heavier. “I want a full incident report on my desk by morning. Every movement. Every decision. Every moment you chose not to act.”

They stiffened.

“And in that report,” I added, my voice steady but unforgiving, “I expect reflection. Not excuses. If you cannot see what went wrong tonight, then you have no place standing behind me.”

I turned away before any of them could respond.

Because a queen may be protected by guards—but a kingdom is protected by conscience.

I dismissed them with a sharp gesture, the echo of their footsteps fading down the corridor.

Only then did I turn to Daliah, the head of the household staff, who had been waiting patiently at my side.

“Your Highness,” she said gently, lowering her voice, “the guest is still asleep. The royal doctor has finished examining her.”

I nodded once. “Thank you.”

The doors to the guest chamber opened softly as I stepped inside.

The room was dim, curtains drawn just enough to let moonlight spill across the bed. The woman lay motionless on the bed, her breathing shallow but steady. The bruising around her eyes had deepened—no longer red, but an angry shade of purple that made my chest tighten.

She looked fragile.

“Your Highness.”

I turned toward the voice.

Doctor Fahlada Valea stood near the bedside, a clipboard in her hands as she flipped through neatly written notes. She was young—too young, sometimes, to be carrying the weight of the title she bore—but her posture was composed, her expression steady.

Fahlada was a direct descendant of the Valea line, physicians who had served the Silverveins for three generations. Her family had been tending to my bloodline long before I was born.

Before the war took them from her.

Her parents had died during one of the border conflicts—collateral damage in a war history would eventually reduce to numbers and dates. She had been orphaned overnight.

Father had taken her in then. Promised her safety. Education. A future.

And in return, she had chosen to stay—not out of obligation, but resolve—continuing her family’s legacy as our personal physician.

“How is she?” I asked quietly, my gaze drifting back to the woman on the bed.

Fahlada didn’t answer right away. She exhaled, adjusting the files in her hands, and that alone made my chest tighten.

“I have a long list of things to discuss, Your Highness.”

She began with what I needed to hear first.

“She will recover her strength within a week,” Fahlada said. “The bruising may take a few weeks to fully fade, but none of it is life-threatening.”

Relief loosened something in my chest. I hadn’t realized how tightly I’d been holding my breath.

Then Fahlada’s expression shifted.

“But that isn’t all.”

I straightened instinctively.

“She has a history of injuries,” she continued, her tone careful, clinical. “Old ones. Repeated trauma over many years.”

My fingers curled into the fabric of my sleeve.

“Four ribs,” Fahlada said. “Broken within the span of ten years. Each fracture occurred at different times, clearly separate incidents.”

Four.

The number sat heavy between us.

“All of them healed improperly,” she added. “Which means she’s been living with chronic pain—flare-ups, sharp discomfort, limited movement. Likely untreated.”

I felt sick.

“And nutritionally…” Fahlada hesitated before going on. “She’s malnourished based on her BMI. It’s subtle—her figure doesn’t immediately suggest it—but once examined properly, it’s clear her body hasn’t been getting what it needs.”

I glanced toward the bed, toward the woman lying there so still.

“Her body is exhausted,” Fahlada said softly. “Healing will be difficult unless she’s given time, rest, and proper nourishment. Otherwise, she’ll keep breaking… even if no one touches her again.”

The room felt unbearably quiet.

I thought of the way she had tried to flee—bleeding, barely standing, yet still fighting, still choosing escape over safety.

“How long,” I asked, my voice tight, “has she been surviving like this?”

Fahlada didn’t answer my question.

Instead, she reached behind the clipboard and slid something free, her movements careful—almost reluctant.

“And… there’s this as well,” she said.

She handed me a small stack of photographs.

The first one barely registered.

Then I turned the next.

And the next.

My breath hitched. My hand flew to my mouth before I could stop it.

Scars.

Not fresh ones—old, pale, angry lines etched into skin that had been forced to heal again and again. They crossed her body in deliberate patterns, placed with intention. Along her ribs. Beneath her bust. The curve of her back. High on her thighs. Places easily hidden beneath sleeves, beneath fabric, beneath silence.

My fingers trembled as I flipped through them, my stomach twisting tighter with every image.

“These…” My voice came out hoarse. “These weren’t from accidents.”

“No,” Fahlada said quietly. “They were not. Those are torture scars.”

I pressed the photographs back together, as if stacking them could somehow lessen their weight.

Someone had hurt her carefully.

Someone had made sure the damage could be concealed.

I swallowed hard, anger burning hot beneath the shock, beneath the sickening ache in my chest.

“What kind of life…” I whispered, the words failing me before I could finish the thought.

The room felt colder than before.

And suddenly, I understood why she had fought to get away—why even bleeding, even half-conscious, she had chosen to run rather than be saved.

Because surviving had taught her one cruel truth:

Survival means fleeing.