Pherenike - Chapter 117

The resemblance between mother and daughter is only skin-deep. No one understands this better than Actor.

Pherenike thought about the end that awaited them both. She tried to imagine Actor Nikandros, a few nights from now, raising a sword against her like the man in her dreams—his teeth clenched, eyes filled with hatred, cursing her name as he brought the blade down, wanting nothing more than to kill her.

She pictured him no longer able to see Leuce in her, unable to find anything left to love.

He would hold his traitorous queen in his arms and carry her back to their bed, putting her to sleep like a child. And in his arms, Pherenike dreamed a short, fleeting dream.

In that dream, where the man had stood alive only moments before, it was now Actor Nikandros standing there. The child was gone, vanished without a trace, and Pherenike felt a wave of relief. The man looked at her once, expressionless, then lifted his sword.

She didn’t resist as the blade fell. It finally cut her flesh, spilling all her blood—a sure sign the goddess’s blessing had left her. He spat on her corpse before walking away, and Pherenike simply watched his receding back without a trace of fear or hatred.

It was, in its way, a decent dream. She woke at dawn, her face calm, and slipped from Actor’s embrace.

The underground sanctuary beneath the royal palace had not been used for a long time. There were no guards posted at its entrance anymore, yet no one dared trespass.

Long ago, there had been vigilant sentries at the gate, and clever thieves who snuck past them. But those who coveted the relics of Heliodora were swiftly cursed, and the holy objects always made their way back to where they belonged.

As with all curses, the stories grew more dreadful with each retelling. There’s nothing more foolish than dying for something you can never possess.

Pherenike conjured a small light at her fingertip as she walked through drifting dust.

Heliodora had once been called the goddess’s incarnation. This underground sanctuary had been built solely for her—a private altar beneath the palace. The old king, who spent more years known as ‘Heliodora’s husband’ than as a king in his own right, had dug a long tunnel under the palace for her sake.

Legend has it the goddess appeared in his dreams one night and said, “Build my sanctuary beneath your land.” But most agreed it was really the king’s desire to keep his wife from returning to Calyce’s caves that inspired him to recreate that place in Lykke.

Evdokia had existed for nearly a thousand years before Heliodora was born, but it was she who first divided the seasons by the moon and sun, and the years were counted from the start of Heliodora’s reign.

And so, this was the 901st year of Heliodora.

Her sons cherished anything her hands had touched as a relic, stowing away even the most ordinary items in chests within the underground sanctuary and keeping careful records to ensure nothing was lost.

Heliodora’s lyre was simply one of countless such objects.

No one ever answered when Pherenike asked what any of it was for. It had been ages since she’d heard the goddess’s voice. All she could do now was follow a daemon’s whisper, searching for the chest that held the lyre.

As the light drifted, dust swirled through her vision like smoke. She lifted the hem of her tunic, reached down to the dagger strapped at her ankle, and slid the blade beneath the string securing the chest.

With one cut, the aged, brittle sinew gave way.

And in that instant—as if a string had snapped inside her mind—Pherenike slowly fell forward.

All around was a blurry, pale darkness. It was brighter than a moonless night, but only just. The lioness walked through a murky fog, shapes barely visible.

The great lioness’s golden forepaw brushed against the uneven stone floor, the rough walls, and the long-dead torches. Each time, she would narrow her eyes, glancing around the mist as if gauging her surroundings.

Atalanta would sometimes rear up on her hind legs, pressing a paw to the wall as if in thought. She knew she was in a cave—she’d hidden from storms in caves with Seirios more than once.

Unlike other wolfhounds who loved rain and mud, Seirios hated running through mud with wet fur. He was fastidious, much like the prince he served.

Atalanta herself actually liked the rain, but she liked Seirios more. So she would always forgo her own preference to follow him instead.

When the rains came, the lioness would follow the big wolfhound into some nameless cave. He would always tell her the name of their destination, but she never quite understood his language. She remembered them only as melodies in her mind.

This cave was never quite the same as the last. But it was always with him. Lying in the cave with her chin on her paws, watching the rain outside with Seirios, wasn’t such a bad way to pass the time.

Sometimes, as they watched the falling rain, Deucalion would appear at the cave entrance, clicking his tongue at their uncanny knack for finding hiding places, like a pair of clever cats. He would sit down beside them, quietly joining in watching the rain.