Retribution

She climbed through the open window. Stiletto already in hand, she crept silently towards his bed. She glanced at the bedside table, illuminated by a single candle, and the empty glass. She’d managed to slip a sleeping draught into his drink, the same as the one he used when he wanted her pliable. 

She turned her eyes to the man on the bed; the rise and fall of his chest. The night balmy, he had pushed the satin sheet down to his waist, making her task easier. 

Goddess, she hated him. Had done ever since he’d forced her down the aisle three years previously, threatening the lives of her parents, king and queen of the neighbouring country, if she didn’t comply. How she’d wished he would die, though she’d never admitted as much to anyone. 

She stepped closer to his bed—anxious, afraid, palms slick with sweat. Could she really go through with this?

But she was a queen; not so meek and mild as her vile husband, who’d already murdered to secure this kingdom, believed. Her father had seen to that as she grew to womanhood. She couldn’t allow this tyrannical brute to rule over her people and lands.

Before she lost her nerve, she clamped one hand over his mouth, simultaneously plunging her stiletto up and under his ribs. She was slightly off mark, feeling the scrape of blade against bone judder in her wrist before entering his heart. 

His eyes flew open, confusion and pain apparent in their icy depths. She saw the question there. 

“I will never let you have my kingdom,” she spat, “I care not for myself, but I cannot allow you to destroy the will of my people.”

She watched the light in his eyes dull before slipping back out of the window and making the descent to her rooms. 

No-one would suspect her, the lowly, humble queen; especially as she was five months gone with child and had rooms two floors below which she had, apparently, not left this night. 

It was over and, for the first time in years, she smiled.