1500 BCE — Corinth
The first light of Helios crept over the marble walls of the palace, brushing the gardens in muted gold.
A low mist curled through the hedgerows, clutching at the dew-dripped petals like pleading hands.
Demetria shivered as she rose from her pallet.
The air was thick with the scent of myrrh and olive oil, the perfumes of a kingdom not yet awake.
The other maids still slept in tangled heaps, exhausted from the preparations for the Spring Festival.
But Demetria—ever dutiful, ever early—pulled her simple linen chiton around her shoulders and slipped through the quiet corridors.
Her bare feet whispered against the cool stone.
Her heart beat steady and small.
It was by chance—or perhaps fate—that she chose the garden path that morning.
The gardens were her favorite place in all the palace grounds, filled with sweet herbs and thorned roses, fig trees heavy with the promise of fruit, and pools so still they seemed like mirrors to another world.
She thought she would be alone.
But as she passed the eastern arch, something caught her breath in her throat.
There— seated on the low marble bench near the oldest rosebush— was a woman.
Her hair spilled down her back in rivers of black silk, catching the dawn's tender fingers and drinking them in.
She wore a royal sleeping gown, loose and embroidered with the faint shimmer of gold thread, the hem pooling around her like a halo.
She sat perfectly still, hands folded lightly in her lap, her face turned toward the horizon where the sun's first kiss bled into the earth.
Demetria froze, half-hidden behind a cypress tree.
There was something sacred about the sight.
Something that made her heart hammer wildly against her ribs.
The woman's beauty was not mortal.
It was the kind of beauty the poets warned of—the kind that toppled cities and broke the hearts of gods.
Demetria could not look away.
And then— The woman turned.
Slowly.
Her eyes, heavy with sorrow, met Demetria's. A colorless gaze, like rain falling through ash. Tears clung to her dark lashes, catching the new sunlight and making her seem a creature spun from mourning and fire.
Demetria gasped aloud, her hand flying to her mouth.
It was her. The Queen.
Rhodanthe of Corinth.
The Rose of Corinth.
The woman whispered of in the streets and markets, whose beauty was said to shame even Aphrodite herself.
Demetria stumbled backward, heart lurching in terror for having dared to look upon her without permission.
She dropped into a hasty, trembling bow, forehead pressed to the damp earth, awaiting rebuke.
But none came. Only silence.
Silence—and a single, broken sound: a breath that wanted to be a sob but had long since forgotten how.
"Please," came a voice—soft, raw, and utterly human. "Don't bow to me."
Demetria dared to lift her gaze.
The queen sat there still, framed by roses, her crownless head bowed beneath the weight of invisible chains.
Her tears fell freely now, dripping into her lap like offerings too small to matter.
"I am not a goddess," Rhodanthe whispered into the newborn day.
Her voice cracked like glass underfoot. "I am only a girl who loves watching the dawn rise, welcoming a new day."
Demetria's throat tightened painfully. She had no words, no place to offer comfort.
And yet—something rooted her there.
Something ancient.
Something inevitable.
The wind stirred the garden. Petals danced across the stones like restless spirits.
Demetria, young and powerless, simply knelt at the foot of her queen's sorrow—a silent witness to a heartbreak that would one day tear kingdoms apart and awaken the wrath of gods.
The sun climbed higher, indifferent.
The city beyond the walls stirred awake.
The world turned on, ignorant of the tragedy it would soon cradle.
And in the hidden heart of Corinth, a queen wept before the roses learned to bleed.
⚜️
The rest of the day unfolded as it always did.
Demetria swept the stone floors until her hands were raw and pink. She washed the Queen's linens in the river, scrubbing the royal perfumes from the delicate silks until her back ached. She polished the brass basins, trimmed the wicks of the oil lamps, and prepared the evening bowls of figs and honey for the palace feast she would not be allowed to attend.
The world moved on, indifferent to what had bloomed in the garden at sunrise.
But Demetria could not move on. No matter how she busied her hands, her mind returned again and again to the sight of Queen Rhodanthe.
The way the dawn's first light had tangled itself in the Queen's raven hair. The way her tear-streaked face had held more sorrow than all the temples' prayers could ever cure. The way her voice—low, broken, utterly human—had asked, "Please, don't bow to me."
Demetria's heart, so young, so pliable, twisted strangely in her chest. Each time she recalled those heavy, colorless eyes, something within her tightened and fluttered at once—like a bird too long trapped in a golden cage.
A part of her longed—achingly, irrationally—to be near the Queen.
Not out of duty.
Not out of reverence.
But something deeper. Something older.
She dared not speak of it to the other maids. They gossiped freely about the Queen's beauty, of course. How suitors from Athens to Thebes would empty their treasuries for a chance to kiss her hand. How the gods themselves might descend to steal her away.
But none of them spoke of the Queen's loneliness. None of them saw the chains that crowned her heavier than any diadem of gold.
Demetria did.
And for reasons she could not understand, it made her ache. It made her wish—foolishly, dangerously—that she could sit at Rhodanthe's feet, offer her hand, and say:
"You are not alone."
She would lay her head in the Queen's lap if allowed, would weave garlands of lavender and myrtle to place around her bowed shoulders.
She would have given anything, everything, for a single true smile from those sorrowful lips.
But Demetria was a maid. Born low, to serve and vanish into history.
And Rhodanthe— Rhodanthe was a queen destined for a crown of roses.
The day wore on, and Demetria performed her duties with the mechanical precision expected of her station.
But when night fell— and the palace dimmed under the cool gaze of a crescent moon— Demetria stood alone at the edge of the garden, where the scent of roses clung heavy to the air. She looked toward the eastern bench, half-expecting, half-hoping to see the Queen again.
It was empty.
Only the roses kept vigil now, their petals shivering in the night breeze.
Demetria pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the echo of that strange, fluttering ache.
'One day', she thought wildly, 'one day, I will stand beside you. I will not let you weep alone.'
The thought burned in her, fierce and bright.
A seed planted in the blood and marrow of her soul.
A promise that would survive even death itself.
⚜️
In the days that followed, Demetria found herself drawn to the Queen's gardens like a moth to the last dying ember of a fire.
She told herself it was coincidence. That her duties simply led her there. That the winding paths lined with myrtle and white lilies were shortcuts to the well, to the storerooms, to the kitchens.
But her heart knew better.
Each morning before the palace fully woke, Demetria would pass by the eastern bench. And more often than not, she found her there.
Rhodanthe. Seated among the roses, draped in soft white or pale gold, her hair spilling loose like a veil of midnight silk.
Always alone. Always watching the horizon as if waiting for something—someone—that would never come.
She never acknowledged Demetria's presence.
Not once. Not with a glance, not with a word.
And Demetria—obedient, lowborn, terrified—never dared approach.
She would linger at the edge of the path, just long enough to catch the way the light kissed the curve of Rhodanthe's cheek. Just long enough to feel that wild, aching pull tighten around her chest like a silken snare. And then she would move on, her heart hammering wildly, her hands trembling with something she dared not name.
Days turned to weeks.
Spring spilled into summer.
The gardens bloomed heavy and fragrant, the air thick with the promise of ripening figs and whispering dangers.
And Demetria fell.
Slowly.
Hopelessly.
Completely.
Not with the fiery passion of the princes who sent gifts and poems and golden dowries.
Not with the greedy lust that made men boast they would tear down Olympus itself for a night in the Queen's bed.
No.
Demetria's love was something softer. Something purer.
A wish to kneel beside Rhodanthe as an equal. A longing to brush away the Queen's silent tears with the tender reverence of prayer. A hunger not to possess—but to belong.
She dreamed, sometimes, wild impossible dreams— of sitting beside her Queen in the gardens, weaving flowers into crowns. Of dancing barefoot in the fields beyond Corinth, laughing without fear. Of hearing Rhodanthe speak her name not as a command—but as a confession.
But Demetria was not foolish. She knew better than to believe in dreams.
She was a maid. Dust beneath royal sandals.
And Rhodanthe— Rhodanthe was the sunrise the gods themselves envied.
Still. Still, the yearning bloomed unchecked.
Still, she watched. Still, she loved.
And all the while, dark whispers stirred through the marble halls.
The Queen's suitors grew bolder. More reckless. Drunk on their own adoration.
Blinded by the impossible beauty they thought should be theirs to claim.
The priests spoke in uneasy murmurs of omens and broken offerings.
The temple of Artemis, once a sanctuary, trembled under the weight of mortal arrogance.
Demetria heard the whispers. Felt the tension rising like the heavy scent before a thunderstorm. But she clung to her quiet devotion, believing foolishly that if she just loved enough— if she just hoped enough— the gods would spare them.
How could they not? How could such sorrow, such beauty, such fragile grace be torn apart by the cruel hands of fate?
But the gods are not kind. And hope is a fragile offering in the face of divine wrath.
One morning, as the cicadas screamed in the heavy summer heat, Demetria passed the garden as always— and found the eastern bench empty.
The roses drooped under the weight of the sun. The air hung still and heavy, as if the world itself was holding its breath.
And in her chest, Demetria felt it— a terrible, hollow cracking. The beginning of something vast and tragic. The first splintering of a grief that would one day shatter the stars.
She pressed a hand over her heart, tears burning behind her eyes, though she did not yet know why.
Somewhere, deep in the marble bones of Corinth, the gods were already weaving their cruel answer.
And Demetria—silent, unseen, devoted— could only pray that when the darkness fell, her Queen would not have to weep alone.
⚜️
The palace of Corinth pulsed with unease.
The three princes arrived at dawn.
Nicodemus of Delos—golden-haired and bold, with lips that curled in practiced charm and eyes that searched for mirrors to admire himself in.
Andreus of Ephyra—flamboyant and sharp-tongued, his words as cutting as his blade, and a taste for anything forbidden.
And Mavros of Argos—quiet, brooding, and beautiful in the way dark storms are beautiful, with a gaze that lingered too long, too hungrily.
They came draped in finery. With gifts, offerings, entourages that clogged the palace with their pomp and perfume.
Each sought the same thing: Rhodanthe's hand. Her crown. Her beauty. Her possession.
She received them not in the throne room, but in the garden.
Demetria stood at the edge of the hedgerows, half-hidden behind a column, breath held as she watched the Queen sit upon her marble bench, face composed and eyes tired beyond her years.
The princes bowed, their voices thick with honeyed flattery.
"My Queen, we beg you—choose one of us," Nicodemus said, kneeling dramatically, hand on his heart. "Your kingdom should not go without a king."
"You wound us with your distance," Andreus added with a theatrical flourish. "Three kingdoms stand at your feet, and yet you remain unmoved?"
Mavros said nothing at first. But his stare burned hotter than either of his peers' words. "I would give you peace," he murmured finally. "And power that even Olympus would envy."
Rhodanthe rose, slow and regal. She looked at them with the same gaze she gave the sea: distant, unmoved, old.
"You come here like vultures dressed in silk," she said softly, "each offering me a throne I already possess."
Nicodemus opened his mouth to speak, but she silenced him with a glance.
"I have given my answer time and time again. I will not be bought. I will not be claimed. I am not a prize to be passed between kingdoms."
Her voice rose, sharp and clear: "I am not yours."
A silence fell like a blade.
Demetria felt her breath catch, heart pounding in awe. She had never seen the Queen more radiant—more powerful—than in that moment.
But she also saw something else.
Fear.
A flicker of dread behind Rhodanthe's defiance. She had seen it before—on mothers who feared plague, on soldiers who feared prophecy.
The princes' faces hardened. Wounded pride twisted into something more dangerous.
And Rhodanthe saw it. Felt it.
She turned sharply to her guards, voice like cold steel.
"Ready the carriage. I am going to the temple of Artemis."
She looked then to the few maids standing nearby—Demetria among them.
"You. Come with me."
Demetria bowed so quickly her knees nearly gave way. Her voice trembled as she whispered, "Yes, my Queen."
She had no idea what was coming. Only that her Queen had chosen her to stand beside her.
And for that moment—just that moment—Demetria would follow her anywhere.
Even into the jaws of divine wrath.
⚜️
The chariot raced through the winding roads of Corinth, pulled by white mares with fire in their eyes.
Dust rose in golden clouds behind them as the Queen's personal guard carved a path to the sacred forest.
Rhodanthe sat tall, cloaked in a deep crimson mantle that billowed like spilled wine in the wind.
Her jaw was tight. Her hands trembled, though she did not let them show.
Demetria sat just behind her, clutching the edge of the bench, her heart pounding like a war drum.
She had never ridden this fast.
She had never ridden beside royalty.
But more than fear, it was proximity that made her lightheaded.
She was close enough to smell the Queen's perfume—jasmine and crushed rose petals.
Close enough to see the shadow of dread in her eyes.
The Temple of Artemis loomed ahead, half-woven into the mountain's bones and sacred glade.
Tall white columns reached toward the heavens, veiled by trailing ivy and the mist of a forest untouched by time.
It was a place few mortals were allowed to enter.
But Rhodanthe dismounted without pause.
"Remain behind me," she said to her guards.
"To enter the goddess's home without cause is to court ruin."
Demetria followed close behind her, feet silent over the marble as they passed through the high archway.
Inside, the temple was still.
Sunlight filtered through the treetops above, casting dappled gold over the sacred altar.
A statue of Artemis stood with bow drawn, her gaze unflinching and eternal.
Rhodanthe approached with measured grace, her shoulders squared, her voice a blend of plea and command.
"Oh Huntress of the Moon," she began, kneeling before the altar.
"Protector of maidens. Daughter of Leto.
I come not with gifts, but with burden."
Demetria stood behind her, hands clenched tight at her sides.
Rhodanthe's voice faltered, just slightly.
"My beauty is not mine.
It has become a curse.
Men call it divine, but they do not mean it. They see possession, not wonder.
They seek to claim me, defile me, wear me like a crown bought in blood."
She looked up at the face of the goddess, stone-eyed and silent.
"I have not broken your laws. I have fled from their hunger.
I seek your protection.
I offer myself into your service—if you would have me.
I would rather hunt under your moon than reign in a world that does not see me."
For a heartbeat, nothing moved.
The birds outside had gone silent.
Even the breeze dared not enter.
Demetria could barely breathe. Her heart swelled with admiration—
and something more.
But then—
A crash.
A voice.
Laughter.
"There you are!"
Nicodemus's voice echoed into the sanctuary like oil poured into holy water.
Rhodanthe's head snapped toward the doorway—
and there they stood.
The three princes.
Mavros, his black cloak flapping behind him like wings of smoke.
Andreus, his sword glinting at his hip, eyes wild.
And Nicodemus, smug and flushed, holding a laurel crown in his hand.
"We've come to make our offering too," he sneered, stepping onto sacred ground.
"Let the gods witness our devotion."
Rhodanthe's voice cut through the temple like winter wind.
"You dare step here?"
"This is our land," Mavros said quietly. "This is our temple."
Andreus chuckled. "We only follow where the goddess leads. And she led us to you."
They moved forward, laughing, each step an offense, each breath a defilement.
Nicodemus stepped over the sacred threshold.
Onto the altar steps.
He extended the laurel crown. "Come, my queen. No more running."
Demetria shouted, "No—don't—!"
But it was too late.
The air split. A sound like screaming light tore through the temple. The statue of Artemis cracked down the center, bleeding white fire.
The ground trembled. The ivy blackened. The air filled with the scent of ozone and roses turning to ash.
Rhodanthe didn't scream. She simply looked to the heavens—eyes wide, not in fear, but in quiet betrayal.
White light poured from the altar, and the wrath of Olympus answered.
Nicodemus fell first—writhing as his limbs twisted inward, his skin bubbling, reforming into a chittering creature too many-legged to be human.
Andreus tried to draw his blade but found his fingers melting into spindly talons.
Mavros wept as his mouth sealed shut, eyes blackening into pits.
They crawled from the temple like insects, their cries lost to the storm.
Demetria fell to her knees, shielding her eyes—but she saw. She saw Rhodanthe lifted by invisible hands, hair splayed like petals in a whirlwind.
She saw her queen weep, not for herself, but for the broken beauty the world could not protect.
"Please," Demetria whispered, crawling forward, reaching with every ounce of mortal strength she had, "Don't take her!"
But the light flared—
And when it faded—
Rhodanthe was gone.
In her place, rooted into the earth where the altar once stood, bloomed a massive rosebush—pure-whitw blossoms dripping tears of dew and grief.
The scent of sorrow clung to it. Heavy. Eternal.
Demetria collapsed beside it, pressing her face into the soil.
And there, beneath the cursed roots of the Queen she had loved in silence, she cried for a future that would never bloom.