I Don’t Need the Crown Anymore

Althea fought her way back to Argos for Lysandros and helped him reclaim the throne, only to find herself trapped in the enemy kingdom of Thrace, wearing a slave's collar for three full years. Through three years of mortal danger, being dragged behind chariots, and bone-chilling winters, Althea survived on a single conviction: her betrothed, Lysandros, would come to rescue her. But when she finally set foot in the royal city again, what awaited her was not an embrace. It was a heavy golden laurel crown pressed against her brow, the Sacred Flame seal clutched in another woman's hand, and a royal heir growing in that woman's womb. She clung to one last hope: perhaps they had cast her aside only because they believed her dead. Then a chance encounter drove home every word of the truth. The opening that had lured her headlong into the rebel encirclement had been left there deliberately by Lysandros and her foster father. From the very beginning, they had never intended for her to come back alive. Everyone assumed that she, left with nothing, would forgive the king and surrender everything her mother had left behind to the royal court. Althea burned the old covenant and pressed a blood-soaked thunderbolt pattern into a wax tablet. On the night of the Festival of Dionysus, the long-sealed old watergate would open. This time, she would not wait for the king, nor for the gods. She would carve out her own path forward. Chapter 1 Three months ago, Thrace returned a group of prisoners at the border in exchange for a ceasefire. Althea was sent back to Argos as spoils of war. Three years earlier, she had been Lysandros's acknowledged betrothed and Philocles's adopted daughter. Philocles, commander of the Northern Frontier, was also Ianthe's birth father, which made the two young women sisters in name only. In that war, Althea had led troops to help Lysandros reclaim the throne, only to end up in a Thracian cage. Now that she had finally returned, not a trace remained of the fierce general's daughter who had once charged alone into rebel lines. Whenever someone nearby suddenly raised their voice, her shoulders would tense and the color would drain from her face in an instant. Her gaze would drift off into nothing, as though she had been dragged back into those sunless years of captivity. At the coronation ceremony for the golden laurel crown, a wine servant accidentally stepped on the hem of her robe, and a bronze goblet crashed heavily against the white stone floor. The aged priest of the Temple of Hera barked, "Watch yourself, you worthless slave!" At the sound of that rebuke, Althea's legs buckled. She dropped straight to her knees. The entire court fell silent. Her palms pressed flat against the cold stone tiles. Beneath her gown, the thunderbolt mark on her chest burned like a red-hot brand against her skin, and her breathing came in rapid, shallow gasps. Below the dais, murmurs rippled through the crowd. "This is the woman the court claims Lysandros waited three years for? The future queen?" "She has the golden laurel crown in name, but Ianthe is the one who holds the Sacred Flame seal and wields real power. After Althea disappeared, Ianthe entered into a political temple marriage with the king as a priestess of Hera. She is his royal consort and the mother of the royal heir, yet she has never accepted the golden laurel crown." "A king may have a royal consort, but Argos can have only one queen. If the Sacred Flame seal is never returned, Althea's title as queen is nothing but an empty name." A snicker cut through the air. Althea's fingertips trembled faintly, and she knocked over the golden goblet beside her. Wine trickled down the steps in a slow stream. Everyone expected her long-suppressed fury to finally erupt. The Althea of the past had never known restraint. When young noblemen mocked her for lacking a legitimate bloodline, she would haul them off their chariots and stamp them underfoot. When temple attendants deliberately presented the flower crown to Lysandros first, she would hurl it into the sacrificial fire in front of everyone. But now, she merely raised her head slowly, her face ashen. "Forgive me." Her voice was thin and flat. "I disrupted the ceremony." Lysandros's brow drew tight. He stepped down from the throne and helped her up himself, one hand beneath her elbow. The instant their skin touched, Althea went rigid, her entire arm trembling beyond her control. Lysandros paused mid-motion. "No one is blaming you. Stand up." She did as she was told and straightened. Three priests carried forward the golden laurel crown together. Its leaves were hammered from thin gold, and the inner band was engraved with the names of every Queen of Argos throughout the ages. Lysandros placed the crown on her head himself and declared before the Council and the temple, "From this day forward, Althea is Queen of Argos. She shall rule alongside me from the throne." Applause thundered through the hall. But when the priests brought out the Sacred Flame seal, the ultimate emblem of the queen's authority, Lysandros did not place it in her hands. He turned his gaze toward Ianthe, who sat beneath the statue of Hera. Clad in a white priestess robe, her swollen belly clearly visible, Ianthe rose with a slightly awkward motion, one hand resting protectively on the child inside her, and reached out to receive the Sacred Flame seal. The elder priest spoke up to explain, "Before the royal heir is born, the keeper of the Sacred Flame may not be changed. Priestess Ianthe must continue to preside over all royal ceremonies." No one in the audience raised an objection. Althea, too, held her silence. The golden laurel crown pressed heavily against her forehead, its weight like a set of shackles. After the ceremony ended, Lysandros followed her into a side hall. The moment the doors closed, he seized her wrist. "Why did you kneel back there?" Althea gazed at him quietly. Three years ago, he had not yet been king. When the rebels sealed the Lion Gate, it was she who had led thirty riders in a charge through the chaos and shoved his wounded body onto the last warhorse. He had turned on that horse and shouted her name. At the time, she had believed it was only a brief, forced separation. Now he wore a royal robe embroidered with golden lions, and his words held nothing but barely concealed impatience. "It was just a scare, that's all." Lysandros stared hard at her pale face. "Althea, are you still holding this against me? The temple marriage with Ianthe?" "No." "You never used to brush me off like this. Or be so... compliant." "People change." Irritation flickered in his eyes. "When I first reclaimed the throne, the Temple of Hera refused to recognize my rule, and the Northern Legion was under Philocles's control. Ianthe was both a temple priestess and Philocles's own daughter. I had to make promises to both sides." He paused, his tone calculated, as if tallying up a transaction. "I entered into the temple marriage with her and allowed her to remain in the palace as royal consort solely to keep the temple and the Northern Frontier in check. She does not have the golden laurel crown. She is not the queen. Once the child is born, the Sacred Flame seal will be returned to you. The only one who will ever share my throne and carry on the divine bloodline will be you." Althea's gaze dropped to his belt. The royal seal, the key to the Lion Gate, the covenant tablet engraved with the waves of the River Styx. Everything was in its place. He had planned everything meticulously, down to the children she was expected to bear and who would inherit the throne. "Are you unhappy?" he asked. "I understand Your Majesty's difficulties." Her excessive compliance only darkened Lysandros's expression further. He was about to press on when hurried footsteps sounded outside the door. One of Ianthe's handmaids dropped to her knees at the threshold. "Your Majesty, the priestess has been struck by sudden pain. The sacred flame flickered twice. The physicians beg you to come at once." Lysandros released her wrist almost instantly. At the doorway, his steps faltered. "I'll come see you later." Althea did not respond. That night, she returned alone to the queen's bedchamber. A servant brought her a freshly engraved covenant tablet, said to have been written in the king's own hand. A few sparse lines covered the surface: I have never forgotten the old vow. After Ianthe's child is born, the Sacred Flame seal shall be returned to you. The throne of Argos is ours to share, and the divine royal bloodline shall be continued by you alone. Althea finished reading and tossed the tablet into the fire. Flames licked at the beeswax seal. The royal imprint melted away to ash, bit by bit. The handmaid dropped to her knees in terror. Althea simply picked up the bronze tongs and stirred the coals with detached calm. Three days earlier, she had still believed there was a chance to start over. That evening, hearing that Lysandros was meeting in a sealed chamber behind the Lion Gate, she had asked the kitchen to prepare the thyme lamb broth he used to love. But as she carried the clay bowl to the chamber door, Philocles's voice drifted out with unmistakable clarity. "Your Majesty need not feel guilty. Three years ago, during the siege, we left that gap open for her on purpose." Althea's hands froze around the bowl. Philocles continued, "With her reckless nature, the moment she saw you trapped in the encirclement, she was certain to charge in without a second thought. Once she fell into Thracian hands, Ianthe could step into the palace as a matter of course, and the Temple of Hera would fully recognize your claim to the throne." A brief silence fell inside the chamber. Then Lysandros's low voice broke it. "What happened then... I do owe her for that." In the fire, the covenant tablet let out a faint crack and split down the middle. Althea stared at the fracture, and the full truth finally became clear. Three years ago, she had not been defeated in battle and unable to return. They had never planned to let her come back. Chapter 2 The conversation inside the chamber continued. Althea stood motionless outside the door, the clay bowl in her hands growing cold. Lysandros spoke again. "The eagle feather token. You're certain there won't be any complications?" Philocles answered without hesitation. "There won't be. I placed that half of the bronze eagle feather in Ianthe's hands myself. When you were found at the lightning-struck oak grove, the only thing left beside you was that token. As long as the two halves match perfectly, everyone will believe the person who saved your life was her." Althea slowly closed her eyes. The memory of that oak grove surfaced in her mind. That year, Lysandros was fourteen. Althea was a year older. While traveling to Dodona with the late king to make an offering, he was caught in a violent thunderstorm. His horse bolted in panic, and he tumbled into a ravine, pinned beneath a fallen tree trunk. It was Althea who hacked through the branches with an axe and dragged him into a cave to wait out the storm. He burned with fever for two days. When he woke, he clutched her hand and asked her name. She did not reveal her bloodline as a daughter of Zeus. Instead, before leaving, she broke a bronze eagle feather in half. Years later, the two of them were reunited in Argos. Lysandros recognized her by the other half of the feather and the old scar on her hand. Her mother, Myrrhine, had warned her time and again: no member of any royal house must ever learn that she was a daughter of Zeus. Before they had parted, she had snapped the bronze eagle feather at her waist in two, pressing one half into his palm and keeping the other. Later, Philocles had asked her about the token's origin, and she had told him the truth. On the eve of the campaign against Thrace, her foster father had asked to hold her half for safekeeping and taken it from her. It turned out that even then, he had already been weaving a different version of the truth for his own daughter. Inside the chamber, Lysandros spoke again. "At first, I always believed the one who saved me was Althea. That's why I shielded her, indulged her, promised to make her my queen. But once I learned the truth belonged to Ianthe, I couldn't keep wronging the person who had truly saved my life." "Yet everyone had already accepted Althea as the future queen," Philocles said. "If you had simply torn up the betrothal, she would have taken the matter straight to the Council, and Ianthe could never have endured that humiliation." Lysandros let out a quiet sigh. "She's too headstrong. Letting her spend one winter in Thrace, letting the edges be ground down a little, might not be the worst thing. I've already sent word to Drakon not to let any real harm come to her." Philocles chuckled softly. "Once the throne is fully secured, Your Majesty can bring her back. She always listened to you above all others. A bit of reassurance, and the whole thing will blow over." Althea did not push open the door to confront them. She carried the bowl of now-cold broth back to her chambers, step by measured step, in silence. In their telling, they had merely detained her for a single winter. But she had endured three full years in Thrace. On the day she arrived, Drakon fastened a bronze collar around her neck. Engraved inside was a single cold line: Spoils of Argos. At the festival of the war god, they forced her to stand in the center of the javelin field with a clay pot balanced on her head. The first spear grazed her ear and drove deep into the post behind her. The second shattered the pot, and wine streamed down her hair, soaking her from head to foot. Thracian nobles lounged on the stands and roared with laughter, joking that the future Queen of Argos was making her offering to Ares. Later, they tied her to the back of a chariot and dragged her around the entire camp. Gravel shredded her knees, and blood dripped steadily down her shins. In the coldest stretch of winter, she was chained to a ritual pillar. Mountain winds drove ice and snow against her like blades, slicing through clothes already soaked with freezing water. On countless nights, she told herself, over and over, that Lysandros would come. He had just reclaimed the throne and could not break away. He was being held back by the temple and the legion. He could not possibly know what she was enduring. Only now did she understand. He knew she had been set up and sent to Thrace. He knew she was alive. He did not know the Thracians had turned one winter of detention into three years of slavery. But after that one winter passed, he had never checked on her himself. Althea sat alone in the darkness, the thunderbolt mark on her chest radiating a dull heat. She had once thought of calling out to Zeus for protection. But on her deathbed, Myrrhine had gripped her hand and told her a secret: "A god's claim on you is not always salvation. Mount Olympus could just as easily become another cage." Myrrhine had forced Zeus to swear an oath upon the River Styx: until Althea made her own choice of her own free will, he was forbidden to publicly claim her as his daughter, forbidden to use divine power to shape her fate, and forbidden to bring her to Mount Olympus. For three long years, Althea had never once called upon her divine father. She feared that escaping the chains of Thrace would only lead to the gods sealing her behind heaven's gates forever. Hushed gossip drifted from the handmaids outside her window. "The king is spending another night at Hera's side hall." "The sacred flame barely flickered, and he went running. In three months since the queen returned, has he ever shown that kind of concern for her?" "What good is having the golden laurel crown? The Sacred Flame seal, the royal heir, the temple's power... Ianthe holds it all." Althea listened for a moment, then rose and shut the wooden shutter. She drew from beneath her garments a palm-sized bronze seal of ancient make. One side bore an oak tree split open by lightning. The other was ringed with fine, archaic script in the language of the River Styx. As a child, she had been unable to read the words. Tonight, every letter was vivid beneath her fingertips. Only when she calls may I answer. It was not that Zeus refused to come. She had simply never made the choice. Althea placed the seal on a ceremonial wax tablet and held it near the candle flame to soften the surface. She pricked her fingertip with a fine needle. A drop of blood fell onto the wax, and faint thunderbolt patterns flared along the seal's edge. Following the method her mother had taught her, she pressed the pattern firmly into the tablet. This script belonged to no city-state. Only the Sacred Oak Guard of Dodona could decipher it. After Myrrhine's death, Philocles had told Althea that the old Sacred Oak Guard had long since scattered. She could not be sure anyone would answer the call, but this was the only path left that was beyond the reach of Lysandros, Philocles, and the Temple of Hera. Before dawn broke, she summoned the old servant who tended the temple pigeons. "Deliver this wax tablet to Dodona." The old servant caught sight of the blood-red thunderbolt pattern on the seal. His expression shifted, but he asked nothing more. The pigeon took flight over the Lion Gate and vanished into the thin morning mist. Althea watched it disappear. Before, she had always waited passively for someone else to save her. This time, she would carve out her own path. Chapter 3 Over the days that followed, Lysandros came to visit nearly every day. On the first day, he had a jar of Cretan mead delivered. "This was always your favorite." He poured a cup himself and offered it to her. The scent of the mead reached her nose, and Althea's fingertips went cold. On the Thracian javelin field, the same cloying sweetness of wine had always hung in the air. She did not reach for the cup. Lysandros studied her for a long moment, took her refusal as a lingering grudge, and silently set the cup back on the table. On the second day, he brought a small wooden chariot model. A craftsman had replicated the chariot they had ridden together during their first campaign. "Do you remember? You insisted on snatching the reins from me." Althea did remember. But the memory that surged up with it was the searing pain of being dragged across stone, her elbows and knees scraped raw. She did not touch the model. On the third day, he placed an old spear beside her. Its shaft still bore the marks the two of them had carved as teenagers. Lysandros was about to speak when one of Ianthe's handmaids hurried in again. "Your Majesty, the priestess is in distress. The physicians say the child is moving violently today. They beg you to come." He rose instinctively, took two steps toward the door, then turned back. "Althea, Ianthe is carrying a child. I can't ignore that." "As Your Majesty wishes." Her tone was flat, devoid of any emotion. Lysandros frowned. "I'll be back soon." The doors closed. Althea pushed the spear back into its wooden case. "I'll be back soon." He had said those words countless times. She had once waited an entire night chained to a ritual pillar in Thrace, through an entire winter, until three full years had been consumed. By now, those words carried no weight at all. A sudden flutter of wings sounded outside the window. A gray-white pigeon landed on the sill, carrying no message tube on its leg, only a strip of oak bark. Althea untied the bark. On the inside, two thin lines had been carved. Damaris lives. On the night of the Festival of Dionysus, the old watergate will open. At the end, a single number: ten. Ten days remained until the appointed night. She fed the bark to the oil lamp. The flame consumed every mark. Two days later, a Thracian delegation arrived in Argos. The court was carpeted in deep purple. The Flame of Hestia blazed on the high platform. Ianthe sat beside the Sacred Flame seal while Lysandros and Althea took their seats side by side on the throne. The moment Drakon strode into the great hall, Althea's spine went rigid. He still wore the black-and-red cloak that marked him as a priest of the Thracian war god, a curved blade at his hip and a gold ring in his left ear. Three years ago, it was this man who had ordered the chariot to drag her faster. Althea's fingers dug into the armrest until her nails nearly split the wood. Drakon bowed to the king and presented warhorses, iron goods, and a bronze tray draped in black cloth. "Thrace extends its respects to Argos." The cloth was pulled away. A bronze collar lay quietly on the tray. The outer rim was heavily worn. The inscription inside remained perfectly clear: Althea: Spoils of Argos. The thunderbolt mark on her chest flared with sudden heat. The rasp of chains dragging over stone seemed to fill her ears again. Drakon lifted his gaze to her, a thin smile playing on his lips. "This item has been in Thrace's keeping for three years. Now that your honored guest has returned to her homeland, it is only proper that we return it to its rightful owner." He knew that Lysandros had once paid gold to keep her alive for one winter. He also knew the king would not dare call him to account in front of everyone. Low murmurs stirred through the court. Drakon continued. "A collar is not easily fitted so close to the neck. Only the man who fastened it would know how to leave no gap at all." Silence swallowed the hall. This was no ordinary war trophy. That single phrase, "fastened it on her," was enough to plant the foulest speculations in every mind. Ianthe's expression shifted slightly. She spoke in a gentle voice. "The queen has only just returned from Thrace. How can the general make sport of her suffering in open court?" It looked like she was defending Althea, yet the words "Thracian captivity" and "suffering" were laid bare for all to see. The rumors spun at once in the ugliest possible direction. Drakon spread his hands. "I merely returned a dead woman's effects. How Argos chooses to interpret it is none of my concern." Lysandros's face was dark as a storm. He did not lash out then and there, but ordered a servant to remove the collar. The banquet continued. Only his goblet kept being refilled, and emptied, again and again. When the feast ended and darkness enveloped the Lion Gate, Lysandros escorted Althea back to her chambers himself. They walked in silence the entire way. As they passed through the colonnade, he seized her arm and pulled her into the shadows. Althea's back slammed against a stone pillar. A dull ache bloomed across her chest. "What did Drakon mean by that?" "The collar speaks for itself." "That's not what I'm asking." Lysandros stared at her, his breath heavy with wine. "You were a prisoner in Thrace for three years. How exactly did you survive?" Althea looked at him steadily. There had been countless times she had wanted to pour it all out, to tell him about the javelins, the chariot, the endless winter of agony, and the scars layered upon scars across her skin. But now she saw clearly. He had never cared how she had endured the suffering. All he wanted to know was whether she had tarnished his claim to her while staying alive. "There's nothing to say." She turned her face away from his gaze. Lysandros gripped her chin. "Why have you refused my touch ever since you came back? Unless the Thracians already—" His words cut off abruptly. He could not even bring himself to finish the sentence. "You want to know if the Thracians violated me." Althea broke in calmly. "They didn't. But they put a collar on me, dragged me behind a chariot, and forced me into a javelin field. What they did was crime enough. It does not mean I owe you proof of my innocence." His gaze dropped to her chest, where the thunderbolt mark lay hidden, along with the old scar where a Thracian priest had tried to cut it open with a blade. Althea raised her hand and slowly pushed his palm away. "I am the one who suffered. The burden of proof should not fall on me." The last trace of restraint drained from Lysandros's eyes. "You are the Queen of Argos. Your reputation sustains the throne. You should be the one to provide proof." She looked at him, utterly calm. In ten days, the old watergate would open. But before that, she had to walk out of this endless interrogation. "Then let Your Majesty have me formally tried under royal law," Althea said evenly. "Bring the case before the Court of the Furies. Make Drakon stand on the oath stone and testify. Place the Thracian collar in the evidence vault. Let three priests examine it together." Lysandros said nothing. He had never wanted a fair trial. He only wanted her to bow her head and yield, to acknowledge that she still belonged to him. Althea turned and walked into her chambers. His cold command followed from behind. "Starting tomorrow, you will undergo purification at the Temple of Hera." Her steps did not falter. Eight days until the Festival of Dionysus. Chapter 4 The next morning, three priests from the Temple of Hera arrived at the queen's bedchamber. The eldest carried a bronze tray holding purification water, sea salt, and a plain gray robe without a single adornment. "The queen was detained in Thrace for three years. Upon her return, she was publicly slandered by an enemy envoy. To preserve the authority of the Argive throne, she must enter the temple and complete an eight-day purification rite." Althea did not look at the tray. Her gaze went to Lysandros, who stood by the door. "This was your decision?" "Just a standard purification," he said. "Once you're willing to explain everything, I'll come for you myself." He spoke as though he were offering her one last chance. Althea removed the golden laurel crown from her head and set it gently on the tray. Lysandros's brow darkened. "I did not order the crown taken back." "Gold jewelry is forbidden in the purification chamber," she answered calmly. "I am simply following temple rules." He studied her for a long time. In the end, he did not stop her. The western courtyard of the Temple of Hera never saw daylight. Althea was confined to a damp stone cell, guarded day and night by two priestesses outside the door. At first, clean water and healing herbs were delivered. From the third day on, the water came mixed with grit, and the herbs were replaced with moldy, withered leaves. There was no calming incense at night. The moment she closed her eyes, the phantom sound of chains dragging across stone would come crashing in. The old wound on her knee swelled repeatedly from the damp. The coarse gray robe chafed against the injury, sending needles of pain that never let up. On the fifth day, Lysandros came to visit. Stepping into the cell, he found Althea propped against the stone wall, redressing her wounds on her own. Blackened, dried herbs covered the wound, and nothing else remained to use. His gaze settled on her drawn, ashen face. "The temple servants say you've refused to eat." "The flatbread they sent was already sour and spoiled." Lysandros picked up the clay plate and brought it to his nose. His brows drew tight. "I never ordered them to mistreat you." Althea said nothing. She had heard those words too many times. He had not ordered the Thracians to torment her. He had not told the temple to withhold medicine. He simply handed her over to others, time after time, and took for granted that everyone would treat her as gently as he imagined. "I'll order the food and medicine replaced," he said. After he left, the provisions did improve. That lasted two days. On the seventh day, the Queen Mother Eurydice returned from Delphi. She did not enter the cell directly. Instead, she erupted in fury in the main hall of the temple. "Althea has only just returned from Thrace, and you dare lock her away in a place like this?" She rebuked the priests sharply, then turned a cold face toward Lysandros. "If your father were still alive and saw you treating a newly crowned queen this way, he would have taken the whip to you himself." Ianthe moved to offer an explanation. A single icy glance from Eurydice stopped her cold. "I am speaking with the king. A priestess has no standing to interrupt." The color bled from Ianthe's face. She lowered her head and retreated to the side. Althea stood at the edge of the hall, and a faint tremor stirred in her chest. After Myrrhine's death, the Queen Mother Eurydice had taken her into the palace and looked after her for half a year, teaching her how to hold a cup at formal banquets. She had once stepped in when noblewomen mocked Althea for having no mother. After those six months, Eurydice had sent her to Philocles's care on the grounds that the palace was no place to raise a fugitive priestess's daughter. Philocles had then taken her in as his foster daughter, training her to ride, wield a spear, and command troops. For as long as she could remember, Althea had believed the Queen Mother truly cared for her. Eurydice stepped forward and took her hand. "Come with me, child." In the private chamber, only the two of them remained. The Queen Mother poured warm water for her herself. Her tone softened. "Lysandros is still young. In everything he does, he puts the throne and the Council first. Don't push back so hard against him." Althea gripped the clay cup but did not drink. "I hear Myrrhine left you a Thunderbolt Seal." Eurydice arrived at her true purpose. "The seal can summon the Sacred Oak Guard, can it not?" Althea met her eyes. Eurydice offered a thin smile. "The Alliance of Ares is massing its forces in the north. Argos is in desperate need of soldiers. You are the queen now. Your mother's people should naturally pledge loyalty to the crown." "They don't belong to any city-state's army." "An armed force that answers to no city-state registry and serves only a private seal is, by the Laws of Hera, equivalent to an insurgency." The Queen Mother's tone remained gentle. "Give the seal to me. I will arrange for the Sacred Oak Guard to swear fealty to Lysandros. With this service to the crown, the Sacred Flame seal will find its way back to you sooner or later." Althea slowly drew her hand back. "It is the only thing my mother left me." The smile faded from Eurydice's face. "Myrrhine was nothing more than a fugitive priestess from Dodona. If Philocles hadn't taken you in, you would not even have an Argive name. Her token is being lawfully requisitioned by the court. You should consider that an honor." Althea watched her in silence. Every embrace, lesson, and act of protection from those early days had come at a price. Althea carried the blood of Zeus. Her mother had commanded a guard force beyond the reach of the throne. Everyone who had ever shown her kindness had long since calculated what they could extract from her. "What my mother left me, I will not surrender to any king." Eurydice was silent for a moment. Then she reached over and rang the bronze bell. Two priests hurried in. "The queen refuses to place her unregistered armed force under city-state authority. Escort her to the underground purification chamber. She may be released when she is willing to swear an oath before the River Styx." Althea was led down the stone steps. The underground purification chamber lay in the deepest part of the temple, and the sound of running water seeped endlessly through the walls behind her. Before the iron door was locked, she caught a glimpse of an old drainage channel at the base of the wall, hidden beneath moss. Only one day remained in the eight-day purification. She finally understood why Damaris had chosen the escape point beneath the Temple of Hera. Chapter 5 The underground purification chamber had no windows. After the door sealed shut, only a single oil lamp in the corner cast its light over the stone bed and a simple altar. A white stone statue of Hera stood on the altar, and at the statue's feet sat a small bronze basin. The priests ordered Althea to kneel before the basin and submerge her hands in salt water until she agreed to surrender the Thunderbolt Seal. She knelt until well past midnight. Both knees had gone completely numb. The lamp flame shivered. A faint scraping sound came from the darkness. Althea looked up. A silver-gray serpent glided out from behind the altar, its scales catching the firelight with a cold gleam. It was the sacred serpent kept by the Temple of Hera. Normally locked in a triple-layered bronze cage, it was only brought out during major ceremonies by a designated attendant. Its venom would not necessarily kill, but it would cause relentless fever, violent convulsions, and, in the delirium that followed, the victim would say whatever the priests wanted to hear. The serpent reared its head. Althea tried to stand, but her stiffened knees buckled, and she crashed against the edge of the stone bed. The serpent lunged. Its fangs sank into her wrist. The pain was not severe. An icy cold spread up her arm. Althea seized the serpent's neck with her other hand and flung it hard against the wall. The thunderbolt mark on her chest flared hot, and a thin line of fire traced along her veins, temporarily halting the venom's spread. She staggered to the door and pounded on the thick wood. "Open the door!" No answer came. She kept pounding until her hands gave out. Finally, a young priest making rounds noticed the disturbance and summoned guards to break down the cell door. By the time Althea was carried out, fever had already blurred her vision. Someone entered the chamber to investigate. Before long, a guard discovered a freshly cut seam behind the altar's base. The serpent had not been released through the main entrance. It had been sent through a hidden passage behind the temple altar into the cell. Word was sent to the main hall. Lysandros rushed in. The first thing his eyes landed on was not the blackening snakebite on her wrist, but the hidden passage behind the altar. "Where does this passage lead?" Ianthe, supported by a handmaid, stood nearby. Tears sprang to her eyes. "The serpent cage and the passage both fall under the temple's authority. The queen has been poisoned. What matters most right now is saving her. Once she has recovered, we can investigate who used the temple to harm her." She hesitated, then added in a low voice, "Only... she just channeled lightning to suppress the venom. With the child so close to being born, I'm worried that if she loses control again, the baby could be hurt." The handmaid in charge of the serpent cage knelt and gave her testimony. "Only two of the priestess's closest attendants entered the offering corridor tonight. I dare not make accusations. I only know that when I went to refill the lamp oil, the passage stone was still sealed. By the time I heard the queen's cries, someone had pushed it open from outside." Althea leaned against a pillar. The venom was darkening her vision, but she forced herself to speak. "Only the priestess and the high priest hold the keys to the passage." Lysandros turned to her. "But no one can prove who opened it." "Then check the keys. Check the corridor. Check everyone who entered the temple tonight." She struggled for breath. Philocles stood behind the Queen Mother, his expression unchanged. "Althea has been poisoned. Her mind is no longer clear. Nothing she says right now can stand as testimony on its own." "I remember exactly what happened." Eurydice cut the argument short. "Treat the poison first. Seal the passage, the keys, and the corridor. When her mind is clear, the testimony can be verified." The words sounded protective, but Althea knew better. Once the passage and keys were in the Temple of Hera's custody, Ianthe would have more than enough time to erase every trace. After Althea was taken away for treatment, she would never be able to examine the evidence herself. Lysandros's expression grew colder still. He had no proof that Althea was guilty, but neither did he want to believe, on the eve of the royal heir's birth, that there was something wrong with Ianthe's temple. Althea's testimony, the venom, and the hidden passage all lay before him. Instead of investigating, he chose to isolate her first. "Why is it that every time something happens, you always point the finger at Ianthe?" he asked, his voice low. Althea looked at him and suddenly felt that any explanation was pointless. The venom's dark tendrils had already crawled from her wrist to her elbow. The culprit was standing right in front of him, and still his first demand was that she prove she harbored no ill intent. Ianthe slowly sank to her knees. "Your Majesty, please do not send the queen to the House of Silence." Ianthe continued. "The child is due any day. The queen has just been poisoned. If she is sent to the House of Silence, the world will say I couldn't tolerate her. Let her stay in the side hall next to mine to recover. I will see to her care personally, and I will wait until the temple has finished investigating the passage." Eurydice nodded in agreement. "That is the most prudent course." After a moment of silence, Lysandros gave his order. "Althea, starting today, you will be moved to Ianthe's side hall to recover. You are not to leave without permission. Until the passage is cleared, you are forbidden from going near the Sacred Flame, any weapons, or the royal heir." He looked down at her. "If anything happens to her or the child, you will face trial." The dark venom lines on Althea's wrist had already spread to her elbow. She did not beg for the serpent cage to be re-examined. She no longer argued about the eagle feather. Only one night remained before the old watergate opened at the Festival of Dionysus. As long as she could reach the underground drainage channel, it no longer mattered what version of the truth Lysandros chose to believe. Chapter 6 On the day of the Festival of Dionysus, drums sounded without pause from dawn onward. The streets teemed with citizens wearing masks of woven grapevine. That night, the procession would pass through the Temple of Hera, and most of the guards would be pulled away to maintain order. The antidote had only partially suppressed the venom spreading across her arm. Fever still came in waves, her knee remained swollen, and every step felt like a dull blade grinding against bone. To prevent the foreign envoys from sensing unrest in the court, the priests had placed the golden laurel crown back on her head that morning. The battered gray robe, the unhealed wounds, and the gleaming crown came together like a hollow display of decorum staged for outsiders. This was Althea's only chance to escape. But from daybreak, Ianthe kept piling task after task on her, never allowing a moment's rest. "The birthing room needs clean water." "The ceremony is still short two jars of wine." "The wool swaddling for the prince needs to be re-fumigated." Althea's wrist wound had not yet gone down. Each trip hauling clay jars through the corridors left her back drenched in cold sweat. Ianthe sat comfortably in the shade while a handmaid fanned her. "Take your time, Your Majesty. If you break any ritual vessels, the temple will charge you with sacrilege." Althea set down the jar without a word. Ianthe waved away every servant except her two closest handmaids. "Are you still waiting for your people from Dodona to come for you?" Althea looked up. Ianthe drew a tarnished coin from her sleeve and turned it slowly between her fingers. One side bore a ship. The other bore Myrrhine's name. It was a ferry coin, placed with the dead so they could pay the ferryman to cross the River Styx. Althea's breath caught. "Where did you get that?" "My father had Myrrhine's burial ground dug up." Ianthe's tone was light. "Her remains have been moved out of the sacred grounds. The name on the headstone has been ground away completely." She held the coin up to the sunlight. "Without a name, without a ferry coin, she can never cross the river. She can only wander along the banks forever, until no one left alive remembers her." Althea stared at the coin, her fingers slowly curling tight. A Greek could endure poverty, exile, even defeat in war. But stripping the dead of their name and ferry coin meant a soul adrift for eternity. Ianthe knew exactly which weapon could break her. "Give the coin back to me." "A bastard who doesn't even dare name her father in the civic rolls thinks she is fit to preside over her mother's burial?" Althea stepped forward. The two handmaids moved to block her. Ianthe set the coin casually on the edge of the incense burner. "If you'll hand over the Thunderbolt Seal and swear upon the River Styx to never again contest the queen's title, I might consider giving it back." "I said, give it back." Her voice was low, but the thunderbolt mark on her chest was already burning. A flicker of excitement crossed Ianthe's eyes. This was exactly the scene she had been engineering. Althea shoved past the handmaids and seized Ianthe's wrist. Ianthe stumbled backward, toppling the bronze incense burner as she went. Sparks scattered across the hem of her white robe. She was about to scream when her face contorted. Blood began to seep through the fabric. She had only planned to stage a scene of being attacked. The child in her womb chose that moment to come early. People rushed in from outside. Lysandros was at the front. He saw Ianthe on the ground, Althea still gripping her wrist, and his voice cracked like a whip. "Let go of her!" Althea did not release her grip right away. She pried the coin from between Ianthe's fingers. In the next instant, Lysandros shoved her hard. Her back struck a stone table, and the snakebite on her wrist tore open, bleeding fresh. Ianthe clutched her belly, sobbing. "Your Majesty, the queen only wanted to take back her mother's keepsake... It was my fault. I shouldn't have brought up the burial ground..." Lysandros did not probe further. "Chain Althea to the ritual pillar outside the birthing room." He fixed her with a cold stare. "If anything at all happens to the child, you will answer to the Court of the Furies first." The guards produced cold iron chains and shackled Althea to the pillar. She wanted to explain the truth about the headstone, the remains, and the ferry coin, but Lysandros had already scooped Ianthe into his arms and rushed into the birthing room. Every word died in her throat. He never asked why the coin had been in Ianthe's hand. He had no interest in hearing why she had acted. The scene before his eyes was verdict enough. Dusk settled over the city. The drums of the Festival of Dionysus pulsed closer and closer from the streets. Inside the birthing room, people streamed in and out. Basin after basin of bloody water was carried past. Ianthe's screams went from shrill to hoarse. Althea remained alone, chained to the pillar. No one brought her water. No one spared her a second glance. She clutched the coin in her palm. Only half remained. The other half was still in the burial ground or in Philocles's possession. She bent her head, running her thumb over the broken name, wiping away the blood. When full darkness fell, a piercing cry rang out from the birthing room. "The prince is born!" The temple erupted. Priests rang the bronze bells. Handmaids crowded into the birthing room. Even the guards at the pillar were called away to collect their rewards. Lysandros's voice carried through the door. "Light the flame three times over! All prisoners in the city receive reduced sentences for the Festival. The crown gifts wine to the entire city!" No one remembered that a woman was still chained to the ritual pillar. Althea looked up at the night sky. In Thrace, she had been chained to a pillar just like this, waiting desperately for Lysandros to come. Back in the palace, she had waited for him to uncover the truth, to see her scars, to honor his old vows. She had waited far too long. This time, she was done waiting. She slipped the Thunderbolt Seal into her mouth and used its sharp edge to cut open her palm. Divine blood dripped onto the cold iron chain. At first, nothing happened. The sound of the changing guard drew nearer down the corridor. Althea clenched her teeth and pressed her bleeding hand against the base of the pillar. The seal blazed hot. A thin thunderbolt pattern lit up beneath her palm and sank through the stone into the ground. The moss on the floor parted under an invisible force, revealing an ancient groove leading to the abandoned drainage channel. The chain did not break. Instead, a rusted bronze latch sprang loose from the base of the pillar. From the grating of the drainage channel came a coded knock: three short, one long. Althea crouched. A hand reached through the iron bars, offering a slender key. A stranger's low voice answered. "Daughter of Myrrhine. The old watergate is open." The key turned in the lock. The clatter of the chains hitting the ground was lost entirely beneath the Festival drums that filled the city. Althea dropped into the narrow channel. Her guide wore a dark cloak; she was the contact Damaris had planted in the temple. They moved through the abandoned drainage system. Behind them, the guards' shouts rose quickly. "She's gone!" "Seal all underground passages!" The group reached the old watergate. The massive stone door was open only a crack. The contact threw herself against the stone, but an iron portcullis overhead jammed the door. Footsteps closed in behind them. Althea removed the golden laurel crown from her head. This crown had weighed on her since the day of the coronation. It held the promise she had longed for since girlhood, and the life Lysandros had mapped out for her. She set the crown at the entrance to the channel, then pressed her bleeding hand over the Thunderbolt Seal. "In my own name," she whispered. "Open." For the first time, true lightning erupted from her palm. The portcullis shuddered violently and sprang free. The watergate swung outward. From the direction of Dodona, far away, rolling thunder answered. No command had been given, no summons issued. Only a single voice reached her ears. "Daughter of Zeus, you choose to leave." Althea stepped through the watergate. She turned and pushed the stone door shut, sealing the palace lights behind her. In the darkness, the golden laurel crown lay where pursuers would surely find it. She did not look back.