Pherenike - Chapter 136

The queen’s mood had long since soured, and the guards had already witnessed her fits of rage firsthand—so now, they were perfectly compliant. After all, the doors were left open, and there was no real chance the queen could slip away unnoticed.

The moment she felt the weight of their constant gaze lift, Pherenike strode quickly to the wall where Actor’s bow hung and seized it. She feared that, in the instant she looked away, Atalanta might vanish from the shadows outside, so she hurried back to the window.

Earlier, as she changed clothes, she’d hidden a handful of arrows beneath the table. Now, silently, she scooped them up, holding the bow half-drawn and fixing her gaze on Atalanta—ready to loose an arrow at anyone who might try to harm her companion.

Atalanta, gazing up at the window where Pherenike stood with her bow, slowly shook her head—a clear refusal. She too knew their voices could not reach each other. Still, it seemed she was pleased that Pherenike would draw a bow for her—or perhaps pleased to see the queen still capable of such things.

The lioness crouched and spun in a slow circle, just as she had done as a small cub on Pherenike’s bed. Then, suddenly, her gaze shifted—not to Pherenike, but off toward some distant point.

Following the lioness’s eyes, Pherenike’s own gaze swept across the city.

“…”

By now, several catapults had been rolled into position within the walls. It was hidden from the lioness beneath the trees, but their giant stones would be visible as they arced across the sky.

Boulders, heavy as mountains, soared in long arcs beyond the city walls. They would not be landing merely atop the heads of the Paetusa soldiers.

Pherenike’s eyes widened. Beyond the royal citadel lay nothing but the homes of the people of Lykke.

Abandoning the breached outer walls to retreat and defend only the inner fortress until Nikandros’s army could arrive had been, on the surface, a shrewd decision. But until now, the only thing preserving balance between the two sides was the existence of a vital weakness on either side of the walls.

For Deucalion, the weakness was herself, still inside the palace. For those making decisions within the fortress, it was the city’s houses that completely surrounded the stronghold that made them vulnerable.

Unlike when Deucalion had ruthlessly forced open Lykke’s city gates, he had thus far responded to the siege with surprising restraint, as if the single vulnerability left inside the fortress outweighed all those outside.

But the queen, who was just a mere dot within the vast palace, was nothing compared to the multitude of houses encircling the stronghold. The citadel, while imposing compared to the palace, was small relative to the city’s outer walls.

Even if fire and stone rained down upon the fortress, Pherenike could survive as a single shrub survives a wildfire with luck.

If anyone held more options in this, it was the prince. Deucalion held more destructive power than those inside could muster; it was always a lopsided balance between someone capable of much but choosing restraint, and those with little choice at all.

If the besieged ever chose to destroy that balance themselves, it would all be over.

Now, among the flurry of stones from the catapults, jars filled with oil and set alight began to soar as well. Their intent was clear.

Actor’s most trusted men had not only given up on the people beyond the walls, they had resolved to destroy them with their own hands—to set fires and bring everything down. It was as if, by burning it all, the people of Paetusa would obediently allow themselves to perish in the flames.

Pherenike stared grimly at the fires arcing over the walls, clenching her jaw. Like the sun dipping below the horizon, flames vanished beyond the city walls, only to rise again.

In the distance, she seemed to hear phantom cries: the screams of collapsing homes, the roar of flames, the weeping of countless lives. Blazes, invisible from within the walls, lit up the sky with strange hues. The sun was now hidden behind clouds, and daylight itself seemed dimmed by smoke.

Again, fiery projectiles soared beyond the walls. Beneath those arcs of fire, a Paetusa lancer scaled the city rampart.

He was the first enemy to climb atop the wall. Standing against a backdrop of falling fire, his silver hair glowed crimson in the evening light.

Just as she had instantly recognized Atalanta hidden in shadow, Pherenike recognized the man from a great distance.

Deucalion.

The tip of his spear pierced the belly of the nearest archer. With a swift kick, he pulled his weapon free and battered back the soldiers around him, sending them tumbling from the wall.

Soon, more Paetusa lancers followed him up, spreading out along the ramparts. Amid the splatter of blood, Orthea’s light flickered and faded leaving a fleeting trail in the air.

Among those lights, the prince’s shone brightest: blue, vast, and strange as the eyes of the monstrous Argos.

That blue glow was proof enough that Deucalion Paetusa himself had taken the ramparts. On the far side of the wall, the cheers of the Paetusa army thundered.

Deucalion. Pherenike whispered his name out of habit. Her heart thundered in answer to his call.