The trumpet boomed throughout the night, and Ismena stilled, looking away from her handmaidens who were painting her nails, in the direction of the window.
The sound lingered in the air, echoing long after it should have faded.
But nobody moved.
Still.
They all stayed still.
Then the trumpets boomed again. This time, she jumped off her bed, rushed to the balcony and swiped aside the curtains with trembling hands.
In the distance, there were torches- the fire swaying to the rhythm of the wind. The chants of warriors returning from battle filled the air.
Bold. Loud. Victorious.
The strength of their boots against the ground made it tremble, the clanking of their weapons consumed the music of the wind.
Ismena gulped, her heart turning cold.
"Your Majesty, the King has returned!" A guard announced to her breathlessly as he rushed in, just as her husband's face came into view.
Tall and commanding in his iron armour, with his golden crown upon his head, and his red cloak behind him. He was seated upon the black stallion of war and held his sword, stained with blood, high into the air above him.
He had never known defeat. She wondered why she had thought that he would this time.
Then he saw her. Her breath hitched as his gaze found her, right there at that balcony, looking down at him. Every part of her went still. Her grip around the iron railings tightened so much that her hands went numb.
He pulled the reins of his horse and stopped. The warriors behind him stopped, too. Then, without looking away from her, he got off his horse and extended his hand to the side. A warrior pushed one of the captives into his grasp.
Chains clanked in the air as the slave staggered.
The king's sword came down in a single brutal motion.
Something in Ismena flinched when she saw the blood splash on the King's armour, but externally she remained stoic. From the corners of her eyes, she could see a blurry image of the slave's head tumbling to the ground while their body fell forward.
Lifeless.
The King raised his sword in the air again, the blade now dripping with blood, his gaze never leaving hers. Ismena allowed a smile to play on her lips, as she pulled her numb hands away from the railings. She reached into the basket that her handmaiden held out to her. Grabbed a handful of flowers and threw them into the air.
It was only then that he smiled, turned to his warriors and declared a victorious chant.
They chanted along with him, and their voices filled the air once again. Consumed it.
With the smile still on her lips, she turned back to her room, the happiness dwindling away from her face once the curtains were down again.
"Prepare the bath. Get me my dress. Find me my oil. My fragrance. Hurry, hurry, hurry." She dashed out orders, and her handmaidens rushed to deliver them immediately.
She stripped her clothes, and two of them led her into the washroom. Hurried bath. Quick dressing. Hasty hair styling.
There couldn't have been a faster preparation.
She tried not to cry as they got her ready to meet the King. And she did not. She had been trained to hide such emotions.
However, such training had not been applied to her thoughts, and despite herself, she found herself thinking, would she have been happier if he had never returned?
Would it have been better if he were dead?