Page 3 of Queen to the Sunless Court (Brides of Myth #2)

To Heal A Life

Theron

“Theron?” Gaiane’s voice came from above.

He blinked up at his court keeper from his confusingly uncomfortable position: sitting on the floor with his back pressed against the wall. It ached.

Sunlight flooded the marble corridor, filtering through azure curtains at an angle that puzzled him. More than two hours past midday? Cannot be. “Is it about Kalias?” he asked, fear striking his chest like a fist.

“He’s fine. I spent the morning with him to make sure, otherwise I’d have been here a long time ago.” Gaiane thrust a cheese pastry in front of his face. “Eat.”

His cramped muscles protested as he rose to take it from her, inhaling the scent of Gaiane’s freshly-baked specialty. It was unlike him to lose track of time—and yet all those hours must have slipped away while he stared at the wall: not praying and not thinking. Blank. Waiting.

Now he blinked away the haze of numbness and looked down at Gaiane: calm, immaculate and commanding as ever. He’d struggle to imagine her any other way. “You’re a goddess, Gaiane.”

She lifted her brow. “A goddess of your favorite cheese pastry, that’s for sure. Don’t you try to distract me. Eat .”

He devoured it in a few bites and sighed. “It’s wasted on me. I can’t taste anything.”

“I’ll bring you something more substantial.”

“No.”

“Depriving yourself of food won’t ensure a favorable outcome, Theron.”

“I don’t feel like eating.”

The corners of Gaiane’s eyes creased as she patted his hand, her gaze serious, unwavering. “She’ll live.”

His breath caught. “How do you know?”

“The moment I saw her, I knew she was here to change everything, and she hasn’t finished yet.

” The wrinkles around her eyes deepened into a familiar pattern as she smiled, glancing at the fiercely blue curtains rippling in the window, framing the sparkling sea.

“And she’s not one to abandon her post.”

Theron stared at her, afraid to hope and drinking up her words all the same.

“Last night, when you both came into Kalias’ room,” Gaiane lowered her voice, “I saw the light in your face when you looked at her: the same light you’ve had in your eyes since bringing her here, only much brighter.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“ That kind of look ? Absolutely, especially in you. But it was clear to me since you’ve introduced her to me, boy. The way you spoke her name then told me everything .”

“And look where we are,” he murmured. “She’s fighting for her life, and in the grand scheme, this doesn't even have a future.”

“That remains to be seen, Theron.”

He stared at the small woman he’d known forever, tough as nails, with wisdom matching her strength. “Don’t. I don’t want to fool myself with hope.”

Gaiane chuckled. “Theron, I encourage you to go beyond mere hope.” Her dark eyes gleamed. “You both have wasted too much time denying what’s clear. Fight for her. Don’t let her slip away and vanish from your life. You need her, Theron. And she…”

He held his breath.

“She needs you, even if she doesn’t realize it yet. You’re made for each other. This is also very, very obvious.”

Theron stared at her for a moment, then lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it, his throat too tight for words.

The sound of steps shuffling behind Calliste’s door made him snap around.

Finally, it swung open, revealing two disciples in identical white robes with green borders, their expressions solemn as they carried boxes with balled-up, bloodied dressings and utensils.

“Majesty.” They both bowed and walked away, leaving the door open for him.

“Let’s go,” Gaiane said calmly.

Theron rushed inside, his pulse spiking.

The room smelled of thyme, rosemary and a faint, metallic scent of blood, and beneath it all, the hazy hint of vanilla and bergamot—the scent of her skin.

She lay on the bed, covered to her collarbones with a thin blanket.

Fear punched him in the stomach as he approached her, expecting the worst as he took her hand.

It was warm.

His knees suddenly felt far too weak to support him and he collapsed beside her, the tension of the last hours finally cracking, leaving him drained. She was worryingly still, pale as her sheets, her pendant colorless…

But she was alive.

And then he caught himself, remembering that Panakeios was there as well, and froze his features into neutrality.

But Panakeios wasn’t looking at him.

The Head of the School of Asklepios was washing his hands in a bowl of water on the table.

He had taken off his ornate tunic—a practical move, to avoid staining it with blood.

Stripped of all insignia, in a simple linen robe, he seemed more approachable.

His shadow-ringed eyes lingered on Calliste’s statuettes of Epione and Asklepios for a moment, then he splashed water on his face, rubbing hard, dried his hands, and dragged himself to the armchair beside the bed, a deep breath scraping out of his throat as he dropped in it.

“She made it. This wound was… astonishingly vicious, and in a tricky place: right over her heart.”

Theron’s stomach churned.

“But we managed. We cleaned and disinfected it, then sewed it up.” Panakeios rubbed his face again, leaning back and letting his head fall against the backrest. “Pardon me.” His voice was hoarse. “I finished delivering a very difficult birth at dawn, right before you sent for me.”

“Let me get you something to eat,” Gaiane offered softly.

“No.”

Theron frowned at the physician’s harsh refusal.

After a moment’s silence, Panakeios said, “I’ll tend to my needs soon enough, and right now, food is the last thing on my mind. I am… relieved that I didn’t fail to save someone you cherish again , Majesty.”

Theron stilled, not only because of Panakeios’ shrewdness, but also because his head physician had never acknowledged losing Amatheia: never said a word or apologized. He’d simply examined then-newborn Kalias with a stony face, walked out and never mentioned it again.

The memory of that day lingered between them, and Theron wrestled with his guilt over not confronting him to demand an explanation as to why Amatheia had passed—one he truly never wanted to hear. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I want to set it straight.” Panakeios’ eyes glowed like embers in his ashen face.

“I didn’t save this priestess out of fear of any consequences.

I’m a trained physician under Asklepios’ patronage, Majesty.

This is my calling, what I chose, and where I apply my skills.

For all this, I sacrificed everything… even my personal happiness.

” He straightened up, continuing in a voice rough with fatigue.

“Yet I couldn’t save a life so important to you.

I regret that, but I also firmly believe that the queen’s life couldn’t be saved. ” He closed his eyes for a moment.

Theron stared at him, recalling Calliste clinging to him and sobbing as they’d left Petrakelis Passage. Despite all her efforts, she hadn’t been able to save a life that day, and he’d felt her defeat as if it were his own. “I never held you responsible for that.”

“Majesty,” Panakeios replied, his eyes closed. “You didn’t have to. It remains one of my greatest failures. I’ll never forget returning to my home that day, knowing that I couldn’t save a mother for her child or a queen for her king. Your face that day will haunt me until I die.”

His throat dry, Theron rose, staring at his physician. In that moment, he and Calliste seemed alike: both unable to change what destiny had written, and both struggling to accept it.

Lykos entered the room, his gaze shooting to Calliste. Then he glanced at Theron.

Theron gave his friend a reassuring nod.

“I need to go.” Bracing himself against the armrest, Panakeios rose with effort.

He lifted his ornamental robe from the backrest and donned it, meticulously smoothing the creases until his appearance was immaculate.

“Her wound will need re-dressing tomorrow, so I’d like to return to do it.

Unless I’m still banished from your court. ”

“You know well why I banished you. She eased the persistent pain in your wrist, yet you accused her of witchcraft. Inexcusable.”

Panakeios glanced at his wrist. “Ironically, my painless joint greatly improved my ability to perform the procedure on her chest this morning.” He heaved a sigh.

“But I’ve had time to reflect on, well, everything, and…

perhaps it’s time to acknowledge that I was wrong, not only about her, but also about her order. ”

Theron narrowed his eyes at him. “What I couldn’t understand is that you knew that I’d returned from Mount Hellecon. I saw their temple and their goddess. I spoke to Leontia, their Head Priestess.”

Panakeios’ face became perfectly still. “Your point, Majesty?”

“If I thought they were witches, or they served dark gods, I’d never bring one of them over here to help my son. So what were you really afraid of?” He asked it in a softer tone, and yet Panakeios shuddered, as if struck.

“What was I afraid of?” he echoed. “A good question, and it pains me to know the answer. But it’s no lie when I say I was afraid to acknowledge that there could be more than one way of healing, perhaps equally valid as mine, yet inaccessible for me to learn.

” He cleared his throat. “To the matters at hand, Majesty—I don’t know how she sustained that wound, but it was ragged, as if made by claws. ”

Theron focused. “Claws?”

“I’ve seen people attacked by wild beasts. This looked like a wound sustained in such a manner.”

Theron glanced at Lykos.

His polemarchos shook his head.

Panakeios narrowed his eyes. “I understand this is something you cannot explain yourself, either.” When Theron didn’t deny it, he grabbed his medicinal bag. “But it’s worth knowing. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I truly need to rest.” He shuffled to the door.

Theron watched him leave: a hunched man in his ornamental robes, trying to look dignified despite his fatigue. “If you could return tomorrow to change her dressings, I’d appreciate it,” he called after him.

Panakeios paused in the doorway, half-turned, and shot him a quick glance. Then he gave a slight bow. “I shall.”

Lykos followed him out.

Gaiane glanced at Calliste, her brow furrowing, then marched to the table and tidied up, taking the bowl with dirty water. “I’ll leave you alone.” She left, closing the door behind her.

Theron strode to the window and drew the curtains—like he did for her every morning—and the familiarity of this action made him exhale in relief, because it was as if some of the normality was restored when the contours of the room softened as beige shadows filled the space.

He returned to Calliste’s side, watching her still form—not unlike every morning when he carried her here and rested her on the bed.

But today, he wouldn’t abandon her for his kingdom, but stay to guard her, listen to her breath and heartbeat to reassure himself that she was alive.

Claws.

His jaw tightened at the memory of her wound, fury and incredulity coursing through him again. Fury, because he hadn’t been there to protect her. Incredulity, because of the mysterious voice he’d heard, urging him to wake her up.

The voice of an immortal.

“What is your secret, Calliste?” he murmured. “What were you doing at night? Whatever you kept from me nearly killed you. No more secrets when you wake up.”

Her face was so pale against the dark-cinnamon hair spilling over the pillow, reminding him of the previous night when he’d run his fingers through it, tousling it and making her moan.

His breath caught as he remembered how she’d leaned into his touch, and that breathless moment when he’d teetered on the edge of self-control as he helped her re-adjust her knife on her—however he looked at it, silky and shapely—thigh.

He reached for her knife, which was tucked into his belt, and pulled it out, still wondering why she hadn’t used it, despite the wound she’d sustained.

But this question would have to wait. He set it down on the table next to her statuettes so she would see it when she woke up.

Then he walked to the other side of the bed to snuggle close to her; close enough to count each beat of her heart and luxuriate in her presence, much like a cat seeking a patch of sunshine.

This is what you are to me, Calliste. Sunlight. And only a fool would let you go and drown in darkness again.