Chapter 98
For people like that, it hardly mattered who wore the crown.
Whoever was king, all they had to do was bow as he passed by, and then forget him as soon as they stood up again—so long as there was no tyranny by murder, violence, or endless taxes.
In truth, that was the simple life of ordinary people.
For over two hundred years, the People’s Faction and the Nobles’ Faction had divided Lykke between them, both always eager to absorb the broad middle ground.
They believed those naive, innocent souls needed to be taught a little more about ideals and loyalty—of course, taught in whichever way benefited their own side.
The Paetusa people, who slowly seeped into Lykke over the years like poison diluted in a well, seemed to come from exactly that middle ground: trustworthy in their simplicity, with no suspicious allegiances, ignorant of ideology and guided only by their own desires.
It was no surprise that, in various roles high and low, such people gradually found themselves placed in positions of trust.
The late Epicydes inspired fear and awe in his people, but he was never a beloved king. The son he loved as his own shadow was no different. Epicydes was not the only one who regarded Actor as his living double.
The young king was often met with the same fearful stares people once gave his father. He was still young, and the dead king’s shadow still loomed long.
So Actor Nikandros was destined, like his father, to be king of the Council and the people’s party, but never to be truly loved by the people. He was less a triumphant hero and more a silent power behind the throne.
By birthright, he was always due respect, but never likely to inspire devotion.
One reason Actor’s followers were eager to praise Pherenike was precisely because she drew the people’s love and attention—the very things their king could never quite command.
Ironically, it was the king’s brother, backed by the council nobles, who truly inspired the people’s adoration.
He had, as if forgetting his noble blood, repeatedly marched under General Vassilios. As lord of harsh lands, he had lifted his people from poverty. The world saw his father’s hatred for him as if it were some heroic trial.
And so, some would say, perhaps Amphitryon hated Heracles in just the same way.
The poor man had lost his wife to Zeus, and had to spend his life enduring the fact that she bore a mundane, human son for him, Iphicles, but a great hero, Heracles, for the god.
Perhaps a god in the guise of the king had visited the queen’s chamber—maybe that was why he hated his own son so much. Maybe what’s false and godlike is more bearable than what’s true and human. Because the son he hated was better than the son he loved.
Yet anyone who ever saw the second prince—returning victorious with that same brilliant silver hair as the legendary founding king—never doubted he was truly Pelagon’s son. Still, Deucalion’s high lineage as Lord of Thasos kept him a bit too noble, a little out of reach of the people’s easy affection.
If the Paetusa loyalists, hidden inside the city, quietly manned the gates, their compatriots infiltrating from outside were slowly breaking down that very wall of noble distinction around Deucalion.
It was the middle ground—untouched by Thasos’ council or the king’s assembly—that was being won over from within.
Change comes from within, not from outside. Before their loyal comrades at the city gates could throw them open to invading troops, they were already undermining the city’s defenses from the inside—winning over the hearts of the unguarded citizens with the words of the wandering prince.
So that when the prince’s army eventually marched on Lykke’s gates, the refined people of the city would welcome a new king without resistance. So that those innocent, ideology-free citizens would never feel compelled to become meaningless sacrifices for Actor Nikandros.
If it truly doesn’t matter who sits on the throne, then it shouldn’t matter if the lord of Paetusa swallows up Evdokia in turn.
“Paetusa is ready for everything, Nike.”
“…….”
“Next time, let’s meet in Lykke.”
Deucalion gave her one last kiss and left.
The sanctuary’s cavalry escorted the queen swiftly down Lykke’s main road. As the townsfolk saw the ivory banner of the sanctuary, the silver lion’s head on the shield, and the woman on the king’s white horse, they quickly stepped aside and bowed low.
The Sybylles platinum hair glimmered above the violet tunics, their chests embroidered with ash-tree. Though Kybellaune wore the robes of the priestesses and rode in a modest procession with only a few guards, her humility only reinforced her authority in the eyes of the people.
A thin veil of dust rose over the bowed heads by the roadside. The queen’s processions which often travelled between the capital and Mount Calyce were always swift, never lingering to let crowds gather.
She crossed Lykke without delay, so people wouldn’t have a chance to swarm the roadsides for a glimpse of Kybellaune.
So, from the city gates to the palace, the journey was always a relentless gallop, giving the court no time to prepare for her arrival.
Pherenike always returned to the palace without warning.
“Your Majesty.”
“Kybellaune.”
At each gate, the guards dropped to their knees as she passed by.
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