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.