Nearly the entire city came out to mourn their deceased queen.

It was a completely different change in emotion for the city of Argos. All the festivity and good spirit created by the Feast of Hera seemed to be totally lost as they grieved for Queen Doris.

There weren’t many in the city that didn’t love her. She was the most respected leader they had, better liked than Queen Eulalia (who was viewed as standoffish and lacking warmth) as well as being more reputable than King Damian (who was still blamed for not procuring a better deal for the Spartan alliance).

As was befit her status, Doris’ body was set up on a great pyre near the base of the Aspida Hill the day following her death. At sundown, the pyre would be lit and her body would be given to the gods.

Almost as soon as her body was placed on display, the mass of citizenry came out to pay their respects. It took about an hour to even get close to her body, so long were the lines of mourning Argives.

For most of the city, her death represented a setback. They would now be left with just Damian and Eulalia at the helm.

But for Praxis, it represented much more. It was the shattering of one of the bedrocks of his life. He’d always had his mother to look out for him and now she was gone. The loss was indescribable in his mind, as well as the feeling of being truly alone in the world.

Especially in a time like this. The whole city was waiting on news from Sparta, when it was expected that their army would leave the city any day now to punish Corinth. The road to Corinth led through Argos, and there were many that believed Argos would be punished as well.

The city was gripped with not only fear but hopelessness.

If war was truly coming, what could be done to stop it?

It was into this pool of despair that Praxis found himself, not in his room wallowing in his misery but in the side courtyard of the palace. His sword was clenched tightly between his fingers as he worked the post in front of him, taking out all of his frustration on the wooden structure.

It was times like these when fighting seemed the only way to provide clarity to his world. He could take out that anger and sadness without having to worry about the consequences.

And there was a lot of it to get out today.

He worked the post for nearly forty-five minutes before taking his first break. Sweat poured from his body, making him glisten in the sunlight. It was as he plopped down in the shade to drink a cup of water that a most surprising visitor made their quiet entry into the courtyard.

Frankly, it was the last person Praxis expected.

Astara made her way through the grass as her dark hair flowed freely behind her. For a brief moment, he thought she just might be taking a shortcut into the city but she shattered that illusion when she stopped to sit next to him.

Neither of them knew what words to say to each other. Tension was still thick in the air as Astara opened her mouth first.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, her tone soft and forgiving. “I’m sorry about your mother.”

“She hasn’t been well for a long time,” he replied. “I think the feast exacerbated her condition until it was just too much for her.”

“Still, I can’t imagine losing a parent. Not like that and not so suddenly. How are you feeling?”

Praxis let out a deep breath. “I don’t know. Everyone dies sooner or later. I just never expected that she would go so quickly. I go between sorrow and anger frequently.”

“Why would you be angry though?” she asked. “There’s nothing you could have done. If it was her time, it was her time.”

“Because it’s like a defeat that I couldn’t prevent,” he admitted quietly. “It was a fight that I lost.”

Astara turned to look at him. “Not every problem is an enemy just waiting to be defeated, Praxis. Some things are much more complicated than that.”

“It’s easier when they’re not. If only every problem was a swordsman waiting for your attack. The world would be a lot easier.”

“Maybe for you,” she said before gesturing to the post. “How long have you been out here?” “Nearly an hour.”

“That’s it? That post looks like you’ve been hacking at it with an axe all morning.”

“I had a lot of anger to get out.”

Astara touched his arm. “I know that things haven’t exactly gone your way lately. At least not the way you wanted them to go. I’m sorry for that. For what it’s worth, you have my sympathy. It pains me to see you so upset.”

“It shouldn’t,” said Praxis, raising his chin. “You belong to my stepbrother now. Why would it trouble you?”

A look of pain crossed her face. “Really? That’s what you have to say to me? After everything that’s happened between us.”

“You made it clear that everything that happened between us is in the past, Astara. Your decision, not mine.”

“So what does that mean? I can’t talk to you at all? I can’t express sympathy for your dead mother?”

Praxis sighed. “Talking to you just further rubs in the fact of what happened between us.”

“I’d hoped that we could at least be friends if nothing else.”

Praxis locked eyes with her. “I can’t be friends with you, Astara. That’s not possible for me. I’m always going to want more. If you constrain me with a friendship, you’re just going to torture me slowly until there’s nothing left. I’d rather have no contact over a surface-level friendship.”

“What you’re talking about can’t happen,” hissed Astara. “You know that!”

“I do, and so do you. So we’re better off parting ways for good,” said Praxis, pushing to his feet. “You belong to Xanthos. You’re his wife now. There’s no reason for us to interact, unless you ask me to refill your cup at the dinner table. Other than that, our relationship is over. It’s finished.”

“Praxis, wait!”

He scarcely heard the words. Praxis had grabbed his sword and shield and was now marching back inside, leaving Astara to protest in his wake. His anger caused him to miss some of his surroundings on the way inside, or else he wouldn’t have missed one of the guards, one of Damian’s men, watching their interaction with a note of curiosity.

As he reached his room, Praxis slammed the door and tossed his equipment on the table. Where did Astara get off doing what she did?

Even if she was just trying to express her sympathy, she should have known better. Anyone could have seen them in the palace and made a rash judgment, let alone the fact that their relationship was over.

If they couldn’t be lovers, then they would be nothing at all.

Praxis laid back on his bed as his mind raced. His bed still smelled like Lysandra, who spent the night with him when it was too late to go home. At that moment, thoughts of both women came swimming into his head, contrasting with each other.

They were so very different and yet so very similar at the same time. Astara was the proper merchant’s daughter, the beautiful girl from the right family and with a bright future. Though her marriage to Xanthos was unwanted at the moment, she would one day be queen of Argos—a fate that no one would turn down.

On the other hand, Lysandra had much more common roots. She was simpler in terms of what she felt and how she expressed it, mostly because she had no filter. To find out what Lysandra was thinking, one only had to ask her and she would give you the blunt truth. Her struggles just to live were something that Astara had never had to deal with.

And yet, both women were eerily similar in their own way. They were loving and tender. They cared, even when they didn’t have to. At their core, they were just good women, and that was what made the loss of Astara so difficult to take.

And as much as he hated to admit it, he had love for each of them. A romantic kind of love that surprised him with Lysandra more than Astara. Astara’s affections had hit him like a hammer. Lysandra’s snuck up on him, binding him to her before he even knew what was happening.

And now he was forced into a situation where he could only have one of them. Surely one was better than none, right?

Then why was he so upset?

*****

“Is everything in place? Are we ready to go?”

“Of course we are. Spartans never fail after all. Everything has gone according to plan.”

Xanthos let out a sigh of relief. He was never in any more danger than he was right now, on the cusp of launching his plan. At least Dorrusas had kept up with his promise.

“How many men do you have in the city now? Are there any more coming?”

“I have three groups of ten men,” answered Dorrusas. “You asked for at least thirty, did you not?”

“Yes, at least thirty,” replied Xanthos. “What if we need more?”

“Let’s hope that your estimations are correct then. You’re only getting thirty.”

Xanthos let out a sigh. “Fine, but how soon will the Spartan army march north? Do we have a time frame?”

Dorrusas managed to look annoyed. “King Nikandros will march north when the omens are right, and not a day sooner. You have no idea how important it is that we have the favor of the gods before our army goes on campaign.”

Dorrusas wasn’t the only one annoyed by that answer. Xanthos resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Everyone knew the Spartans were a deeply pious people, not even so much as shitting without reading the omens first. And yet, every day their king dithered in leaving was another day when Xanthos’ plan might be found out.

“I hope he leaves shortly,” said Xanthos finally. “If my father gets word of what’s happening, or someone discovers us, thirty men are not going to capture the city.”

“Maybe not thirty ordinary men,” said Dorrusas with a sneer. “But thirty Spartans? You’ll be just fine. If need be, we can secure an exit out of Argos if it comes down to a fight.”

“I’d rather not do that,” snapped Xanthos. “This is to be a peaceful takeover, not a hostile one. If the city goes up against me, we’ll never be able to assert my rulership without creating a river of blood.”

“Sometimes a river of blood is what’s needed,” quipped Dorrusas. “Besides, you worry too much. Like I said, you have thirty Spartans to aid your takeover of Argos. For a man that just took a new queen, you’re awfully jumpy.”

“I took a new wife,” corrected Xanthos. “She’s not a queen.”

Dorrusas sneered. “I said the right thing. In a few days’ time, she’ll be the queen. And you’ll be king. And all of Argos will answer to you. And the only person you’ll answer to is King Nikandros. You’ll have secured prosperity and safety for Argos for decades to come.”

“Hopefully, it’s at a little cost,” grumbled Xanthos, reflecting on what still needed to be done to secure his reign. If this whole plan went the right way, only one person would have to die.

But it was who that person was that made Xanthos profoundly uncomfortable.

Dorrusas seemed to sense his apprehension. “Don’t worry about Damian of Argos. He ruled for nearly twenty years but his time is now over. It’s time for a new generation of leaders. You will be a greater king than he ever was.”

“Yes, I will,” mumbled Xanthos. “The greatest king that Argos has ever had.”