Pherenike - Chapter 100

That knowledge became memory. The princess now had something to reminisce about beneath the silver poplar trees. A special moment when she learned the origin of her own name, a memory made precious simply by recalling the gentle voice that spoke it to her.

The Geda grove became a special place for the princess in the same way she came to love ugly cats and scruffy stray dogs for something unseen within them.

‘Ever since then, whenever she sees a silver poplar, she runs to it as if rolling downhill and gives it a hug. She says it’s like embracing the nymph who shares her name.’

Leuce. It was a name the king had once chosen for the princess on his own, because the queen hadn’t cared at all.

The name came from the beautiful nymph Leuce of ancient myth, once loved by Hades. Leuce, the most beautiful daughter of the river god, was mortal and thus destined to die; she could never remain forever with the immortal lord of the underworld.

So when Leuce died, the king of the dead brought her soul to the land of the blessed, the Elysian Fields, where the chosen enjoy eternal rest.

There, Hades could look upon the woman he loved, even if only as a wandering spirit in his sunless realm. Yet, perhaps out of mercy, he transformed her into a silver poplar tree on the Elysian Fields.

A nymph who became a silver poplar.

It was a tree her mother loved, and one Axiothea, who raised her, also cherished. Perhaps that’s why the princess’s name became ‘Leuce’—because there was nothing more fitting to compare her to.

Pherenike stood by the window and gazed toward the little Geda grove. In the midst of the green forest, the leaves of the silver poplars shimmered—white on one side, deep green on the other—rustling in the wind.

She imagined father and daughter passing beneath those trees: a child reaching for the breeze, and a father wishing he could place the wind itself in her hands.

One side of a silver poplar’s leaf represented life, and the other, death.

‘Your father has already gathered troops in the northeast of Lykke. It’s a quiet place, where the old followers of Vassilios—stripped of their arms—live together like peaceful farmers.’

It was the season when beasts did not sleep. For those who held land, these were the days when workers with clubs were desperately needed.

In truth, landowners and pioneers always needed many hands. Even in the off-season, a farmer had to build new fences around his wide fields, or, if he had more to lose, consider building high barricades from sturdy timber.

And, of course, slaves were far more convenient laborers than free men, who could leave at any time. Slaves, after all, could not complain about their lot in life. Even if they did, it meant nothing. Just as no one interprets the bleating of livestock.

‘Using the pretext that they need slaves to build defensive walls, they are quietly bringing in soldiers disguised as slaves from all directions.’

So, hardly anyone bothered counting slaves as people. Perhaps there were those who envied a neighbor for having more cattle or sheep, but who would ever feel threatened by such docile, helpless creatures?

Who would imagine the day livestock might rise up on two legs and wield knives against their masters?

In the eyes of the respected old veterans of Vassilios, all they wanted was to build walls to defend against wild beasts that roamed the fields and raided farmhouses. Or at the very least, that’s what others thought they wanted.

Grumbles from the surrounding towns trickled in: the old soldiers of Vassilios were still hard at work cultivating new land. The wild beasts that had long occupied those empty stretches were not yet ready to accept humans as neighbors.

For those beasts, who hadn’t yet learned the dogged persistence and sly habits of men, a cluster of humans living together was no more than a jar full of food—just waiting to be smashed open and devoured.

The justification that slaves were needed to build the defensive walls against bears and wolves was enough. Their honor was guaranteed by their loyal service to the kingdom.

Locals in neighboring towns watched the caravans of slave traders and slaves pass by without suspicion. That’s just how things were done.

When General Vassilios’s five legions were finally dismantled at the hands of his ‘son-in-law,’ Peleus carefully divided land among the long-serving soldiers, based on age, merit, and wounds received in battle.

It wasn’t the kingdom’s doing—it was land he himself had received as a royal grant long ago, now parceled out as he saw fit.

He closed the gates of the Vassilios granaries as if surrendering his own limbs, making it seem as if Lykke’s suspicion toward him was pointless trouble.

The northeast of Lykke, and the unsettled lands beyond the central sanctuary… The land granted by King Epicydes to the general and his heirs was the sort of place sure to attract royal suspicion and resentment even within a century.

It was far too close to the capital and the main sanctuary—never a good thing for a powerful military family like Vassilios. It could serve as a pretext for ruling over the king, or else become the excuse for crushing them under royal oppression.

Peleus despised the notion of wearing the sullen yoke imposed by Lykke’s logic. When senators clucked their tongues, lamenting it as “the folly of grinding gemstones into sand,” he simply responded with a blank, unbothered look.