Danaos halted, spinning back with a fierce glare. “When we first met, I prayed for your death. Back then, you were soobsessed with revenge and rescuing your brother. You cared so little for your own life that I thought…” He trailed off, a harsh chuckle escaping his lips. “But now, here you are.”
Leukos bristled at the reminder of those dark days after the massacre, when he’d thrown himself into brutal training with Nisos and Pelagios while Xanthos and Theo sought allies across Achaea. That fire still burned beneath his calm exterior, fuelling the rebellion.
“This wedding is nothing but a political alliance,” Leukos argued, fighting to keep his voice steady. “A farce?—”
“To us, perhaps,” Danaos cut in, gesturing towards the Great Hall where the celebrations awaited, “but to everyone else, you will be husband and wife. To them, she will be yours when she should have beenmine.”
He took a threatening step, tension crackling in the air between them.
“Danaos,” Nik growled from behind, warning laced in his tone.
The general registered his cousin’s presence before he backed off, his shoulders slumping. Danaos’ love for Charis was deeper than Leukos had realised. They had always been discreet when they were younger, concealing their feelings. But since Leukos’ return to Tiryns, it had been painfully obvious. Every time they were in the same room, they only had eyes for each other.
Now the raw despair etched across Danaos’ face sparked a painful recognition in Leukos. In that moment, their fates were intertwined—both shackled by duty, both forced to let go of the one they truly longed for.
“I thought of leaving,” Danaos murmured. “But if that meant never seeing Charis again, you might as well rip out my heart here and now, for nothing could be more painful.” He struck his breastplate with a clenched fist, the sound a dullthud. “So I’llstay.” His fingers spread over the ridged scales of his armour, jaw locked. “For her, I will stay. I’ll endure this torment until the day she no longer wishes me at her side.”
He jabbed a finger at Leukos. “But if I find out you’ve made her unhappy, or you’ve mistreated her in any way?—”
“I won’t,” Leukos promised, holding the general’s fierce gaze.
Charis was more than a political match. She had protected him after the massacre when he was at his lowest; she’d stood by him when no one else dared. He owed her his life. And though he could never love her as she deserved, he was resolved to be the best husband he could be.
Danaos studied him for a beat, then gave a curt nod. “She’s waiting for you in the Great Hall.”
Without another word, he turned and strode away, his cloak snapping behind him.
When Leukos glanced over his shoulder, he was met with Nik and Theo’s grim expressions. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. The look in their eyes said enough—they saw right through him.
But their concern was misplaced.
Leukos was doing what had to be done: honouring his parents’ wishes, solidifying the alliance between Tiryns and Megara, strengthening the rebellion from within palace walls.
This was strategy. Just as his brother Galen had taught him.
Now was not the time for weakness.
He’d clung to dreams of Alena for too long, letting her linger like a ghost in every unguarded moment. The servant from his chamber had been wrong. Love wasn’t a need. It was a beautiful indulgence—one he could no longer afford.
Exhaling a long breath, he forced himself towards the Great Hall and the role he was meant to play, ignoring the hollow ache blooming in his chest like frost creeping through cracks.
Duty would have to be enough.
The sun had just reachedits highest point, yet Leukos was already weary of the celebrations. The ceremonial feast preceding the wedding—an Achaean tradition meant to bless the union and display the strength of both families—dragged on in splendour. Guests lined the length of an expansive banquet table that stretched almost the entire span of the Great Hall, women seated at one end and men at the other, in strict adherence to custom. A festive melody wove through the air from flutes and lyres.
Seated at the head of the table, Leukos stared down its absurd length. At the far end, Charis sat beneath a saffron veil that shimmered in the light, cascading over her shoulders and pooling at her waist. She conversed with Despoina, though her eyes kept straying towards the nearest window—where the palace gates lay just in view beyond the courtyard.
Was she looking for Danaos?
From the men’s side of the table came another round of boisterous laughter. Nik was entertaining the nobles with exaggerated tales of his fights in Bruna’s arena, while Xanthos and Tiryns’ chief priest looked on with barely concealed distaste.
Pelagios lurched to his feet, swaying slightly, his beard damp with wine, face flushed crimson. He raised his goblet high and roared, “To Prince Leukos, soon to be King of Tiryns! May the Mother bless him with the peace of a happy marriage—and the Cyprian with the fires of passion!”
The men erupted in cheers, slamming their cups on the table. Leukos forced a smile and drained his goblet in one long swallow.
Sensing his waning patience, Theo clapped Pelagios on the back and said, “Why don’t you share a tale from King Pandion’s war? I doubt many here have heard a firsthand account of the Battle of Kendrisia.”
The men perked up, eager to hear more. Pelagios’ eyes lit, and he launched into the story. Leukos gave Theo a subtle nod of thanks, then looked to Charis once more. She was no longer listening to Despoina. Her head was bowed over her plate, face pale and drawn beneath the soft folds of her veil.
