Weeks passed like falling leaves, no one realizing how fast time can pass away.
After intense discussions with the ministers, the Queen formally sent out marriage proposals across the seas and mountains—to the Kingdom of Scandovnia in the North, to the rich fields of Nubia in the south, and to the stone cities of Baltica in the East.
Surprisingly, the answers came back quicker than anyone expected, although none of them are positive.
Each one carried a polite refusal but with a strong hint of an insult to the Prince.
"We respect Athens' superiority, but Prince Alector is not a fitting match for my daughter," the King of Scandovnia had written, his words cold as northern ice.
"We apologize, but we will not wed our daughters to a drunkard and a molester," the Queen of Nubia added, sharper than a dagger.
Baltica was cruelest of all: "The heaven has already abandoned Athens, with the able prince renouncing marital affairs, leaving behind an unqualified prince that will one day bring down the Kingdom to ruins. We are not interested in establishing any such alliances by marriage with a kingdom that is bound to become extinct in the near future."
The letters were read aloud in the court by respective messengers. Each word was like a slap across Athenian pride.
The Queen sat silent afterward, her face unreadable. Then she folded the letters neatly, placed them aside, and turned to Lycandros, who was already clenching his fists. The Anger was evident on his face.
"Prepare for the campaign. Lycandros, I want them to kneel before our throne. I want all three of them as my daughters-in-law."
The court gasped.
Lycandros simply nodded, gripping his bow tightly. "That shall be done."
The first strike came in the south. Nubia's sun-scorched walls fell to Lycandros's soldiers, their shields gleaming like molten gold. The fields of grain bowed not just to the wind, but to Athens.
Then, to the north, Scandovnia, fierce with its longboats and warriors, was conquered in a storm of strategy and sleepless battles. Their king knelt in the snow, sword laid at Lycandros's feet.
Finally, Baltica to the east. Balkan's cities fell one after another, their proud towers flying the gold and blue banners of Athens.
And so, three princesses, daughters of kingdoms, now bowed to Athens, were sent to the palace.
The great hall buzzed with nervous excitement the day they arrived.
The first two princesses, from Scandovnia and Nubia, curtsied low before the Queen. Their faces were pale and solemn, but their words were clear—they would honor the arrangement and marry Prince Alector.
But the third princess stood stiff and proud, her dark hair braided with threads of green, the colors of her homeland.
"I cannot," she said firmly, her voice echoing against the marble walls of the court, taking everyone by surprise. "My heart already belongs to another—the Prince of Dacoria. I have accepted him in my soul as my husband. Your son can have my body but not my soul, Queen Callidora."
The court fell into uneasy silence for a moment as Princess Vesna's roar sounded like thunder. The Queen looked quite displeased. She is on the verge of giving an execution order.
Lycandros, standing beside the Queen's throne, studied her for a long moment. Then he stepped forward and said, before the Queen could say anything else, out of anger. "Athens will not chain the honor of a woman, Princess."
He turned to the Queen for permission to speak further. Callidora knows what her stepson was going to say. She responded with a small nod, though her eyes were heavy with disappointment that it was a pity.
"Return home," Lycandros said gently to the Balkan princess. "Marry whom your heart has chosen. You leave with our blessing."
Tears shimmered in the girl's eyes, but she smiled—a real, grateful smile—and bowed low before leaving in silence, considering herself lucky.
As she disappeared behind the doors, Callidora couldn't help but sigh. "If only the King replied to our proposal with such a fact, they wouldn't have faced a war, either. Because of that arrogance, thousands ended up as widows."
The hall stayed silent, everyone thinking the same thing that she is the one who is too arrogant for her own good, despite her humble origins.
Lycandros, on the other hand, could only sigh inwardly. His thoughts remain unclear to everyone.
—
Weeks rolled by.
The palace, once filled with tension, began to settle and fill with nothing but joy and celebrations.
Crown Prince Alector married the two princesses of Scandovnia and Nubia in a grand ceremony, gold and blue banners flying from every tower.
At first, Lycandros doubted the marriage would change anything. But the weight of responsibility did what lectures and punishments could not.
As the months passed, Alector's actions softened. He stopped chasing wine and girls and instead spent long hours in court sessions, listening, learning. He began visiting the townsfolk, handing out gold to those he had wronged in the past.
When the princesses announced they were pregnant, Alector changed even more. He became a man worth looking up to, a prince who gained the acknowledgment of his people. People were really looking forward to his coronation—the day when Athens would have a King after two decades.
Lycandros was also happy with his behavior, giving his consent for the coronation.
While the preparations for the coronation ceremony were going on in Athens, invitations were being sent to the vassal lords and the independent Kings all over the world, at the foot of Mt. Olympus, a trouble was emerging for Lycandros.
Loose stones and tangled roots caught a woman's ankles. Her green cloak was torn, her hair matted with sweat and ash. Each breath burned in her lungs.
Still, Princess Vesna climbed.
At last, she reached a clearing ringed by ancient oak trees. Here stood a low grotto carved into the rock, smoke drifting from its mouth. Inside, a single figure sat cross-legged: broad shoulders, knotted muscles, head bowed deep in meditation.
"Lord Hercules?" she whispered, voice cracking.
No answer.
She stepped closer, heart pounding. The air smelled of pine and cold stone. Her knuckles whitened on a rough boulder.
She sank to her knees, touching the earth. From beneath her cloak, she produced a length of rope and a coil of blackened wood. Hands trembling, she built a funeral pyre—small, but enough. She stacked the wood in a neat cone, her sweat and tears falling on dry wood.
"Justice," she whispered hoarsely, not finding any strength to speak further. Sparks danced in the gloom before the wood caught. Flames licked upward, hungry to swallow her.
She hesitated only a moment, then stepped onto the pyre.
"Revered Hecules," she shouted, using the remainder of her entire strength, her voice cracked in hoarseness, "You had taken the oath to help the oppressed mortals of this world. Help me! I demand you hear my pain! Hercules. Today, if you deny me justice, I shall immolate myself in your refuge, and let the world know that Hercules is the same as Gods, punish and bless mortals when they wish, turn a blind eye when they find it inconvenient."
She tossed the final embers over her feet. The fire flared. Heat roared in her ears.
And then all of a sudden, a hand closed around her wrist—iron-strong and scorching hot.
"Stop."
She jerked back, stumbling off the pyre as the flames died. The figure before her had stood, towering and furious. White hair tied back, eyes blazing gold.
"Hercules," she gasped. Her tears were falling from happiness.
He knelt beside her, tears glinting in his own eyes. "Child, what madness is this?" he asked, voice low and thunderous but carried affection that the elderly have for children. He brushed soot from her cheek.
"I… I don't know what else to do," she choked out, her tears continued to fall, but they were not filled with happiness this time. "I pleaded for justice to every King out there. No one hears me, no one helps me."
Hercules held her gaze and asked. "What happened, Child? Tell me. Who is the cause of your sadness?"
She pulled away, tears sliding through soot. "Your disciple, Lord Hercules. Lycandros is the source of my pain."
"What?" Hercules was taken aback, his eyes filled with disbelief. "That's impossible. Lycandros can never commit a sin."
"He did, Lord Hercules." Princess Vesna went on recounting her story, of how she was in love with the Prince of Dracoria, but then Lycandros, with his army, razed her kingdom to the ground and forced her father to give her away in exchange for keeping his kingdom and ending the war.
But the story hadn't ended there. After she was sent back to her home, her father refused to take her back, stating that he had already given her away to Athens. When she contacted her beloved, Prince of Dracoria, the latter also refused to take her as his wife, stating that she had been claimed as a prize of war. She is the property of Athens.
She then roamed the lands of Aachion, visiting every independent kingdom she could find, asking for justice, to wage a war against Athens, but none accepted her request.
Bursting out loud even more, Princess Vesna said. "No kingdom in this world has the strength to raise a sword against Lycandros. None wanted to risk, after hearing the tales of how Nubia, Balkan, and Scandovnia kingdoms had been defeated. He's invincible, Lord Hercules."
Hercules stood, extending his hand to help her up. "Invincible, perhaps, to mortal blows—but not to justice. I will stand with you. No oath, no magic, no king, and no relationship can silence the will of Zeus's champion. Child, if what you said is true, and Lycandros is truly at fault, then you will get your justice."
She looked up at him, hope trembling in her chest. "What will you do?" she asked softly.
He smiled, as gentle as dawn, as he patted her head. "Let's go."
She let him guide her away from the cold stones and dying embers. Her gaze fell on the horizon, her hands clenching tightly. "Lycandros, brace yourself for this…"