Pherenike - Chapter 126

It was simply the natural order for the son of Pelagon—beloved by the goddess—to ascend the throne. If only one obeyed the goddess, peace would surely follow.

“You need neither fight nor suffer plunder. Just hide quietly in your burrows and you’ll be safe.”

An old woman murmured to herself as she poured the remaining blood beneath the shrub outside her door.

In any case, for the Paetusan army, attacking or looting civilians was a strict taboo. The rumor merely gave people an escape plan for dangers that were never meant to occur. In practical terms, it was utterly unnecessary.

But at least it offered a semblance of ‘choice’. A chance to submit willingly. A chance to select the new king. A chance to save oneself and one’s family.

From birth to death, life itself was always meant to be an unquestionable right. To become a soldier, to pick up a weapon, was to swear that one’s own death was acceptable at any time, but for those not bearing arms, life was still sacred.

Yet, people are always foolishly grateful when something that was theirs to begin with is taken away, then returned as if it were a gift.

The old woman’s gaze flickered up to the moon-shrouded clouds and then back down.

[The ones who were dead before now live, and those who once lived now die.]

The voice of a daemon, coming to quench its thirst at the blood-soaked shrub, seemed to whisper through the air.

[That’s what the daemons say. Fate has changed. It truly has. Those who kill and those who are killed have switched places. Can you understand that?]

As if piecing together a shattered pot, the old woman tried to follow the daemon’s logic, then cautiously asked,

“…So, isn’t that fair?”

[Perfectly fair.]

“And what is fair… must be good, right?”

[It is good.]

“O daemon, so then…”

[Now the dead and the living alike—everyone’s a killer.]

Yes, fairness is a good thing. Now the ones who killed are dead, and those who died are now killers.

In the end, back then was just a moment, and so is now. Everyone is a killer. Everyone. The daemon hummed its song.

The old woman prayed for her grandson hiding in Lykke and for her son traveling from Paetusa, and she prayed for the ruler who had saved them all from a land of monsters.

In the distance, the sound of war horns echoed. Pherenike opened her eyes in the pitch darkness, as if someone had forced her awake. She had not truly slept at all.

It was the sound the Althea had brought her after having wandered away from her body in sleep. Everything was still and quiet, as if the world itself denied what she had heard.

No one else heard the sound. But Pherenike understood: it could have been yesterday, tomorrow, or the day after—but now it was truly today.

She raised her hand toward the empty air. The faint motes of light that had been playing by the window obediently returned to her like well-trained children. With that, she summoned her Althea, then reached under her pillow for a bracelet.

It was made of bronze, somewhat crude compared to other restraints. But beauty was never its purpose. She snapped it onto her wrist; the faint shimmering that usually hovered over her skin vanished, leaving her in complete darkness.

She let her eyes roam the pitch blackness, oddly reassured by it. The bracelet’s power to restrain her was weak compared to other shackles, but at least it hid the most conspicuous glow. Using her Althea now came with sharper, swifter pain, but it wasn’t a fatal handicap.

Pherenike twisted the limits of her magic and let a faint light appear at her fingertips. The pain hit immediately. She observed the reaction with a cold detachment, as if slicing open someone else’s body, then snuffed the light and left her bed.

She navigated the familiar darkness with ease. Memory was all she needed—her room hadn’t changed in years, not even a single ornament. Calmly, she opened a side chamber, went to a chest, and drew out an ash-grey tunic she had hidden underneath.

It looked no different from the plain clothes worn by palace servants. She shrugged off her fine robes and put it on, like shedding an old skin.

Then, she slipped quietly from her chamber into the shadowed corridor.

The darkness outside her room was easier. Here and there, faint lights wavered along the dim corridor. She moved calmly down the steep stairs and entered the half-subterranean kitchen.

Her hands moved quickly—pulling a basket from a shelf, filling it with food. It didn’t matter what the basket’s owner liked. Once it was packed full, she retraced her steps up the stairs.

She made her way to the princess’s quarters. In a small antechamber before the bedchamber, a lady-in-waiting and a maid, both dozing off while waiting for the princess, were passed by without a sound. Pherenike entered the room.

“Leuce.”

The child, deeply asleep, did not stir at her mother’s presence or her careful whisper. With a cold expression, Pherenike placed a hand on the child’s shoulder and shook her awake.

“Leuce, wake up.”

As soon as Leuce blinked open her eyes, Pherenike briskly sat her upright, not waiting for her to fully come to her senses.