Pherenike - Chapter 97

He longed for what he could never have, while she held on to something she could never give.

“I want to see her.”

“…….”

“I wonder about the child, Nike. I wonder how much she’s come to resemble you.”

Pherenike didn’t try to answer. She just leaned back against him, her hand resting on his thigh. A shimmer of light glimmered from her fingertips.

While Deucalion wasn’t looking, her face twisted in a pain she struggled to contain. She slowly wiped away every trace of that pain, knowing that it was actually a good thing she hadn’t healed him right away—his stubborn refusal had kept her from doing so all this time.

Deucalion was always attuned to her slightest expression.

A sweet, empty sigh slipped out. The resonance of her Althea meeting his Orthea felt even greater than before—he had always been strong, but distance from her had made him even stronger.

Her gaze drifted to the spear at his side, humming with power. It stank, faintly, of old iron—how much monster blood had it absorbed by now?

She wondered just how ready he truly was.

Lykke was already a poisoned well.

More and more, Pherenike found herself recognizing faces from her past, scattered throughout Lykke. Once, these were the soldiers who crossed deserts with her, the loyal officers who guarded her tents, or the men who fell to Nikandros’ arrows before her very eyes.

There were Dexikos’ nameless men, the young sons of centurions who came to the camp to learn spear and sword at their fathers’ side. Loyal men who had chosen to die fighting with Deucalion, rather than flee.

They didn’t recognize her as they once had, but she still recognized them. Every one of those men was born and bred in Paetusa—a face unknown in Lykke, of course.

Long before Deucalion inherited Paetusa as his burden and struggled to cultivate the land, these men and their families had survived, generation after generation, on that harsh soil, sharing their lives with monsters.

It was their prince, who broke the long chain of poverty and pain. The endless line of the king’s lackluster governors, who only stayed long enough to count the years, were all cast out like trash by his hand.

From the moment the prince received the insignificant land as his fief, everything changed.

For them, Deucalion was king of the world. All the safety and wealth their families now enjoyed was something they’d never known before him. They owed him everything—and so, they would defend him with all their loyalty.

Ironically, this unwavering devotion was also a gift of Epicydes. The people of Paetusa were always bound to their lord by their own will.

And beneath the monsters’ lair was a great vein of ore—cursed so that monsters would never cease to spawn on that land, making it impossible to dissolve the Paetusa army.

In his hatred, Epicydes had unwittingly armed his despised son with iron and weapons.

What did the king’s soldiers do in Paetusa, long ago? All they managed was to build flimsy barricades to keep the monsters in, and send convicts and slaves down into the Argos Gorge as sacrifices to placate the beasts.

Foolishly, they only fed the monsters, until one day, the countless eyes of Argos broke through the barriers and slaughtered the Paetusa people below.

The people of Paetusa had always been subjects of Evdokia in name, but never in spirit—they never truly served its king.

Deucalion was the first that these people, who did not know how to serve a king, had chosen for themselves.

His loyal Paetusans had blended quietly into Lykke, each spending years scattered in the city, living as if they were ordinary folk with no connection to each other—never so much as drawing a whisper of suspicion.

A soldier from a distant land, just trying to make a living; a palace servant; a young man hoping for success in the bureaucracy; a cunning favorite of the king or an old doorkeeper; court officials and council scribes; a market vendor in the agora…

Lykke had long been the heart of the Evdokia kingdom. People who couldn’t make their fortune at home often came here in search of greater opportunity, and the capital was always full of such outsiders.

Deucalion’s people mingled seamlessly, sinking roots among them.

Now, Pherenike could see them everywhere: at the gates of Lykke, on the roads, atop the royal towers, at the theater—even in the royal gardens.

There was never a hint of hostility. Nor did they stoop to obvious flattery. They simply carried themselves with quiet dignity, like any ordinary citizen more concerned with food and shelter today than with the lofty presence of their king.

A king, after all, is someone who protects his people with what he’s taken from them. Most of the time, he’s safer than the bandits beyond the walls—but now and then, he’s more dangerous than any axe-wielding murderer within them.

Long ago, people created kings mainly to avoid having their meager wheat and barley snatched by others. Better to surrender a slice of bread to one’s own lord, and purchase peace with it, than to be torn apart piece by piece from all sides.