Pherenike - Chapter 104

Pherenike did not cry. She simply begged her daughter’s forgiveness in silence. The little hand gently wiped her dry, empty face.

Leuce earnestly brushed her mother’s cheek, though there were no tears to be found. The princess was sensitive to the pain of others—she thought even a troubled expression was the same as tears.

“Don’t cry.”

“I’m not crying.”

Leuce’s temperament, which could not ignore even a maid’s quiet sigh of sorrow, was something uniquely her own—something she inherited from no one else.

Pherenike slowly pulled the girl into her arms. For the first time, she pressed a kiss to that soft hair and whispered a silent plea.

May the gods watch over you.

* * *

“Kybellaune.”

As Pherenike’s horse stopped, the soldiers standing guard in front of the infirmary all dropped to one knee. Just then, a centurion emerged, pushing past the soldiers to personally greet her.

He held the reins in one hand and offered his other hand for her to step down. Pherenike dismounted, stepping indifferently onto his hand and lowering herself to the ground.

His hand, hardened by a lifetime of training, easily supported the weight of a single woman in midair. The centurion respectfully took a step back, making sure not to let his body or her robe brush against one another, then bowed his head.

From within the infirmary came the muffled cries of a man in pain.

“How is he?”

“He’s past the critical stage. Lady Callianeira managed to stop the bleeding.”

“I see.”

“All thanks to Kybellaune’s grace.”

The middle-aged man, with a face as heavy and solid as forged iron, spoke in a calm voice. It was clear that his gratitude was sincere—he seemed like a man who’d never flattered anyone in his life.

Pherenike gave no response and entered.

She moved away from the endless rows of narrow cots, down a side corridor where darkness momentarily fell over the queen and centurion before lifting again.

Inside a spacious room reserved for the king’s closest retainers, the most renowned names in Lykke had gathered. They had left the capital a few days earlier to launch a large-scale campaign against bandits in the outskirts.

“Kybellaune.”

The centurions dropped to one knee, laying their swords on the ground. Several men were lying in beds, but everyone’s attention was fixed on a single figure—the one who had briefly been the prince’s mentor.

That humble man had never sought fame or fortune, content to serve as a centurion free to roam the battlefield, rather than as a great general. His humility had won him the respect of the camp.

But as the moon wanes, so do even the strongest men with age. He had already owed his life to Pherenike several times.

“Agilon.”

“Kybellaune, I am ashamed…”

The old centurion struggled for breath as he spoke. It was ever since Pherenike had reattached Agilon’s severed ankle that Actor’s men began to hold the queen in genuine awe.

For a man who had spent his whole life astride a horse with a sword in hand, to lose an ankle and become maimed was a fate worse than death. And the suffering of someone so respected quickly became the camp’s pain as well.

Pherenike had always offered her healing to all without discrimination, but suffering was never truly equal. No one mourns a forgotten man cast limbless into the fields.

In recent years, Pherenike had come to regard her Althea—the divine gift of healing—as a finite resource, not to be spent lightly. High rank was never required to be healed; mercy reserved only for the noble would move no one. Yet a certain level of honor and respect was always necessary, so that she could bear it.

“Perhaps I gave your foot back to you too easily.”

“I… I am sorry…”

He had lived a life of humility, but after having his ankle restored and his wounds mended, he’d grown used to surviving, coming to believe nothing could truly harm him anymore. After all, courage is never far from pride.

Agilon had surrendered himself to Pherenike’s power, spreading word of her miracles among Actor’s men like a zealot—but had come to take his healed body for granted.

Yet Pherenike found no fault in this; she had let them believe it, after all. By nature,faith is addictive.

Now she looked at the leg she’d reattached years ago, only to see it freshly amputated above the knee. A priestess with an ashwood branch tattooed on her wrist was struggling to hold the limb together.

“Callianeira, support.”

“Yes..”

Since her pain had become impossible to conceal, Pherenike had summoned her loyal attendant from the sanctuary to stay at the Lykke infirmary. Callianeira, though not quite her equal, was a talented healer and kept her silence.

The priestess sensed that something was amiss with the queen’s divine power, but did not ask about it and had no complaint about spending her own Althea to compensate.

Callianeira had grown up in poverty but was ambitious, and she knew Pherenike would reward her for her labor.

In return, Pherenike had recommended Callianeira for the rank of Sybylle, and soon, the priestess’s efforts would bear fruit.

Pherenike placed her hand on the old soldier’s thigh, sending her Althea directly into the depths that Callianeira could not reach.

Callianeira’s healing followed in support, protecting and binding the wound.