I Don’t Need the Crown Anymore

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.