20 advanced chapters on P@treon.com/Saintbarbido.
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-Iphicles' P.O.V-
The banquet hall stretches before me, the second largest chamber in the palace, right after the throne room.
Red banners bearing my family's crest line the stone walls, and directly above the entrance hangs the portrait of my grandfather, Perseus the hero.
I can almost feel his gaze, intense and unwavering, as if he were here in person to watch over this pivotal night.
Ahead, the hall is divided into two distinct sections.
The main area is crowded with vassals seated at long tables, and at the far end, a grand stairway leads to a raised platform where the Royal table stands.
Six gilded chairs are arranged there, four of them already occupied.
My parents, the King and Queen of Mycenae, sit atop the platform, their presence radiating authority and expectation.
I search the crowd, hoping to glimpse the golden-haired princess.
Helen my betrothed.
Somewhere in the crowd, I spot the gleam of her hair, but she vanishes before I can see her face.
My chest tightens in anticipation.
She's not like other girls blinded by Heracles, Helen actually sees me for me.
'I've missed her.' I realize and press forward. Not even the gods could keep us apart tonight.
My mother's sharp gaze locks onto mine, prodding me to move faster.
I make my way down the aisle, flanked by the murmurs of music swelling around me, grand and imposing, a fitting accompaniment to my entrance.
My crimson cloak trails behind me as I walk, brushing the floor with a regal sweep.
One by one, the vassals rise and bow in respect, offering their loyalty to the prince.
Yet, the social divide here is palpable. The lower-ranking nobles sit farther from the king, while those with higher standing are clustered closer to him.
As I progress down the hall, the respectful bows begin to give way to mere nods, and the air grows thick with judgment.
These are not allies; most of them support my brother, Heracles, in his quiet claim to the throne—a claim he himself disdains.
I feel the weight of their scheming glances as if each one of them is trying to peel away the crown I've yet to earn.
Near the center of the hall, the city's High Priest of Athena holds my gaze with an unflinching stare.
At his side stands the milky eyed Oracle, shrouded and silent, a presence as enigmatic as her prophecies.
The High Priest, with his influence nearly equal to the king's, doesn't bow; he merely inclines his head, his expression unreadable.
Few in this room have as much power to challenge me as he does, a fact that hasn't escaped my notice. His insolence is a reminder of the odds stacked against me.
But I am not entirely alone.
A familiar face, Chiron, catches my eye. The old centaur, teacher and loyal friend, brings his fist to his chest in a respectful salute. I know I can count on him.
His lips move in silent words, and I frown, unsettled.
'You should have stayed away.'
What could he mean by that? Unease prickles through me, but I push it aside.
Tonight is too important to let doubts creep in.
I straighten, reminding myself to project confidence, to show them the resolve of a future king.
Finally, I reach the Mycenaean royals and see her. Helen. The sight of her slows my pace, stealing my breath.
Her beauty is otherworldly—her skin pale and luminous, her lips like red wine, and her wide, dark eyes filled with a depth that draws me in, like a secret waiting to be uncovered.
But when our eyes meet, the soft, longing gaze I anticipated is absent.
Instead, I see something else—a flash of conflicting emotions, gone almost before I can decipher it.
She turns away, and the chill that settles over me is unmistakable.
First Chiron, now Helen. There's a disquiet in the air, as though everyone knows something I don't.
Ascending the steps to the royal table, I realize Heracles isn't here.
Likely out drinking with some of the servants, indulging in his usual disregard for ceremony.
My mother's expression is taut, concern etched deeply into her brow, while my father appears locked in a silent confrontation with the King of Mycenae.
Helen's father, broad-shouldered and scarred, commands a powerful presence that's hard to ignore, even now.
I drop to one knee before them, and the music fades to silence. The hall hushes, every eye upon me.
"Greetings, Your Majesties," I say, my voice steady. "I ask for the honor to stand in your presence."
"You're late." My father's voice cuts through the quiet.
I look up to find his gaze heavy on mine, yet there's something different tonight—a weariness I rarely see in him.
"Apologies, Father. It won't happen again." I know better than to offer excuses.
"Tardiness is beneath a king," he says, a shadow of his usual authority in his voice. "Make your subjects wait for a banquet, and they will make you wait during a war."
I swallow back the sharp reply on my tongue, sensing his mood.
"By your grace, Father," I respond quietly, standing.
Just as I rise, another voice interjects.
"Is it true you slew a Stymphalian bird?" The King of Mycenae's gaze pierces me, his ruddy face flushed with wine. He wears a crown heavier than my father's, a gaudy emblem of his power.
"Apollo guided my hand, Your Highness," I reply. "It was but a fortunate strike."
"Ah! You used an arrow then?" He scoffs, his laughter booming through the hall. "Cowardly! Now, Heracles, had he been in your place, would have wrung its neck with his bare hands. Bahaha!"
I keep my composure, despite the smothering humiliation. "Indeed, Your Majesty. My brother's strength is without rival. In that respect, I will never compare to him."
"Oh, you're honest, at least. But power is what makes a king," he sneers. "My Helen has no need for an honest man, but one who can protect her."
A strange chill settles over me, and I glance at Helen. Her face is turned away, but her shoulders are tense.
"What do you mean?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper, dreading his answer.
The King meets my gaze without flinching, his words like a hammer to my chest. "I have decided to dissolve the union between you and my daughter Helen."
For a moment, I can't breathe.
All of our careful plans, the alliance between our kingdoms—it all crumbles in an instant.
I search my father's face for some sign of protest, but he doesn't meet my eyes.
The realization hits me like a blade to the heart. He knew. He allowed this to happen.
"Why?" I ask, my voice trembling, barely containing the fury rising within me.
It's not the King of Mycenae who answers. It's my father, his voice devoid of warmth.
"You are no longer the Crown Prince, Iphicles. Heracles will inherit the throne."
The words strike like a death sentence.
A thousand realizations flood through me in that single, excruciating moment.
Chiron's warning, Helen's distant gaze—they all knew. They were all complicit in this betrayal.
I have been denied my birthright. It's unforgivable.
My fingers curl into fists, the urge to draw my sword and rewrite the mistake of saving my Father's life, almost overwhelming.
But even in the depths of my anger, I need answers.
"And Helen?" I ask, my voice raw. "Who will be her new husband?"
At that moment, the door to the balcony swings open, and Heracles strides in, a self-satisfied smirk on his face.
He doesn't say a word, doesn't need to. His presence is answer enough.
"Me," he says, voice dripping with an arrogance I have never seen in him before.