Spring had spilled across the lake, painting its surface with golden glints and crystal-blue hues. Sunbeams danced on the water like serpents, casting rainbows over the pale green stone halls. The door swung open just as the morning light brushed Carya's face, as if touched by divine fingers.
— Sorry to wake you, my lady… — Damalis murmured, leaning over the bed. — But Amara has returned. She says she brings news of utmost importance.
Carya blinked away the last vestiges of sleep and brushed a stray lock from her cheek. A gentle sigh escaped her lips before she sat up.
— That's all right. Tell her to wait for me in the guest salon. I'll be there in a minute. — She paused, then added — Oh, Lis, would you fetch that jasmine tea of yours? Two cups, please.
— Of course, madam.
— And good morning! — Carya brightened.
The maid's lips curved in a knowing smile.
— Good morning, Carya!
A basin in the corner caught the sun's early light. Carya extended her arms to soak her hands in the cool water, but stopped short when she spotted a grayish stain spreading from her ring finger up to her forearm. On that finger glittered a delicate yellow-stone ring, its facets cut into lozenges. A shadow passed over her face as she stared at her reflection. Cupping water to her cheeks, she felt a shiver trace her spine.
With a light touch of her fingertips, the discoloration vanished. Her skin returned to its usual milky tone. She rose and rifled through her chest of cloaks, finally settling on her familiar long-sleeved, pearlescent blue mantle. Its folds were embroidered with golden threads that matched her gem-studded earrings and the necklace she'd just clasped around her throat. Her jasmine-braided tiara lay on the headboard, almost calling to her. As though she longed to abandon it—along with her duties—she lingered over it for a moment. But if she ever left it behind, today was not the day.
Gliding through the corridors of the Lake Palace, she toyed with the tiara between her fingers. Beneath her, the whispers of the current followed. She reached the guest salon just as her visitor emerged, her green-tinged skin shimmering as she stepped onto the glazed stone floor in the room's center. Amara wore a flowing gown that swept the ground before she claimed a granite chair beside the great window. On the small silver tray at the center table sat a ceramic teapot striped in checkerboard patterns and two steaming cups of jasmine tea.
— Amara! — Carya greeted her with a warm embrace before perching on the armchair. — It's so good to see you.
— The pleasure is mine, madam. It's been too long…
— Indeed, — Carya agreed, studying the ring on her left hand — how are things at the house? And little one?
— Growing fast, madam. Danai is already renovating a new nursery for him. — Amara exhaled, smoothing damp strands of hair. — I haven't really been able to involve myself much yet, but I hope everything turns out well.
— I'm sure it will. Please, help yourself, — Carya said, offering Amara a cup and sweetening her own with a spoonful of honey. — And thank you for coming. I know it was an awkward request, but the situation is… as you've seen, rather delicate.
Carya settled back, crossing one leg over the other, cup and saucer in hand.
— All right. Let's get to the facts — she nodded. — What did you find?
Amara's lips twisted in reluctance as she stared into the yellow-brown liquid swirling in her cup.
— A massacre, madam. Everywhere you look, the rivers run thick with corpses. Most deaths by sabotage. It's unconscionable.
Carya closed her eyes for a moment, nostrils flaring.
— I understand… Were you able to reach Thebes?
— Yes, but not without difficulty, — Amara replied. — The Spartan fleet holds those waters tightly. I had to slip past their troops to get into the city.
Carya paused mid-sip, watching Amara through the haze of steam. The air in the salon grew heavy, like the calm before a storm. She inhaled the mingled scents of jasmine and stagnant water, then opened her eyes with a fragile smile, as if stitched from sunbeams.
— I know you weren't ordered to do this, but…
— That's fine, — Carya interrupted. — Go on.
— Well, the information is scarce. The Spartan commander has been ruthless against spies. They say he's imprisoned and even executed suspected traitors.
— Wow, — Carya exhaled, raising her brows — that's unexpected.
Far from the salon, within the walls of her own mind, Carya wrestled with her thoughts. From the earlier reports, she knew the war had worsened dramatically over the past months. Yet this level of brutality was unfamiliar among Greeks—Spartans and Athenians alike prided themselves on their fierce rivalries, but seldom did they turn such savage hatred on their own. Deep down, Carya resisted believing the unsettling signs she'd sensed.
— Indeed. Some of his men are restless, — Amara continued, watching Carya's face for any flicker of reaction.
— I imagine they are. Where have they gathered? — Carya uncrossed her legs and poured herself another cup of tea, wincing as her knee throbbed.
— Most of the troops have withdrawn to the fortress at Gla, along with the generals. The commander has made the island his base.
The news sent a chill across Carya's scalp. She rose, leaning against the stained-glass window ledge, and watched a flock of herons glide over the lake as her fingertips traced the rim of her cup.
— Why not hold Thebes? The city fell, didn't it?
— Actually, my lady, Thebes opened its gates to the siege—it fell in less than a week.
— The salt-workers? — Carya shook her head in disbelief.
— Exactly. The salt pans north of Thebes were abandoned and returned to the original landowners. There's a well-woven conspiracy at work.
Carya's hands clenched on the cool stone, moss peeking from under her nails.
— And the people? How did they respond?
— Poorly. Reports of violence multiply daily. Small bands of peasants have joined the rebels, ambushing caravans and burning camps. A crude guerrilla war, but effective.
Intriguing, Carya thought. She hadn't heard of any new Greek uprisings since their armies allied with the Persians to reclaim what they deemed their rightful lands. Back then, Thebes too had thrown open its gates—but the stakes were different.
— And the Spartan reaction? I doubt their commander let this slide.
— Not at all, — Amara confirmed, pushing her empty cup aside. — I'm fine, thank you. May I? — She stood, seeking permission to leave. Carya inclined her head.
Carya turned and, for the first time, noticed her friend's fresh scar at the base of her throat—a dark red slash like a claw's mark. Without a word, she extended her hand. A single blue petal drifted from her cloak, landing on the wound like a silent salve.
— There have been hangings, raids… — Amara sighed — and worse. Most farms were abandoned—or burned by the farmers themselves—before the Spartans even began the siege. The land lies parched and fallow.
— What of supplies? — Carya moved aside to let Amara lean on the ledge. — Keeping the region under control must require a sizable force.
— Not really. — Amara produced a stolen Spartan scroll, unfurling a map. — The bulk of their strength is at Gla. You won't see Spartan soldiers patrolling Thebes's streets. The council has been bought off, of course. Up north, the salt-workers' mercenaries hold sway. That's their weak point.
Silence fell, broken only by the distant cry of a waterbird. Carya swallowed hard, twisting the scroll until ink ran in rivulets of black. She remained still, but her reflection in the central lake shivered. In those depths, she saw herself as Dione might: an elongated shadow, crowned not with flowers but with spirals of mist.
Her hands burned. She gasped as the gray stain reappeared, now creeping toward her elbow. It was advancing faster each time, she realized. With a sharp motion, she shook it off, startling Amara. Returning her cup to the center table, she rang the small bell for her maid. Damalis entered within seconds.
— Yes, madam? — the maid asked, puzzled.
— Lis, please bring a slice of lemon tart for Amara.
The maid bowed and hurried away.
— Amara, — Carya exhaled, her voice softening — would you mind waiting here? I promise I'll be right back.
— Of course, madam. What…?
— Thank you! — Carya called over her shoulder as she strode from the salon.
She sped through the corridors toward her chamber, her left arm aflame. Pushing up her sleeve, she studied the dark smudge spreading across her skin. The green stones of her ring glinted in the torchlight. Throwing open her doors, shelves rattled against the walls. She crossed to the far corner where a black tome rested on a crystal lectern. Flipping three pages at a time, she located the chapter titled "Law of Polarity." Her fingers traced the embossed words on the browned, warped parchment until she stopped at a line underlined in thick black ink: "All truths are half-truths; all paradoxes reconcilable."
That was it, she realized. She turned to the carved-rock cabinet and rummaged through drawers—one, two, three—until she found a half-burned candle. She cleared dozens of half-opened scrolls to set it on a silver stand in the room's center. Fetching the basin she'd left in the corner, she placed it on the table as well. Her left hand shook under the basin's weight. She dragged a chair close and sat before the two objects. With a touch to the wick, the candle flared to life. Her golden eyes gleamed, reflecting the tender flames. Then she dipped her palm into the water—the surface rippled around her like a film. Placing her hand on the candle's flame, the water vanished in an instant, and the flame burned with a cold, sapphire glow. The fire snaked along her fingers, up her hand and forearm like an electric thrill, then snapped out—taking the stain with it. Her skin, once again creamy and unblemished, seemed youthful, as it had before this all began.
She raced down the corridors toward her chamber in an uneven sprint. Pain lanced through her entire left arm. Pulling up the sleeve of her mantle, Carya stared at the dark gray smudge spreading across her skin. The green stones of her ring caught the torchlight. She flung open the doors with such force that the shelves rattled against the walls and strode to the far side of the room, where a heavy black tome lay atop a crystal lectern. Flipping three pages at a time, she at last found the passage under the heading "Law of Polarity." Her fingertips skimmed the warped, yellowed parchment until she halted at a line thickly underlined in jet-black ink: "All truths are half-truths; all paradoxes reconcilable."
That was it, she thought. Turning, she rummaged through the carved-rock cabinet drawers—one, two, three—until she uncovered a half-burned candle. Pushing aside a pile of half-open scrolls, she set the candle atop a silver stand in the room's center. Fetching the basin from its corner, she placed it beside the stand on the small table. Her left hand trembled under the basin's weight. She dragged a chair forward and seated herself before the two objects. A single touch to the wick and the candle flared to life, its glow dancing in her golden eyes. Then, she pressed her palm to the water's surface—the basin rippled like liquid glass enveloping her hand. Lifting her hand, she placed it onto the flame. In an instant the water vanished, and the flame burned with a cold, sapphire fire. It snaked up her fingers, across her hand and forearm like an electric thrill, then snapped out—erasing the stain completely. Her skin, once more creamy and unblemished, looked youthful, as it had before this all began.
A single tear slipped down her cheek, though her expression remained unmoved. Closing her eyes, she drew in slow, steady breaths—until she found herself in a dark corridor. On either side loomed closed doors, stretching toward a pitch-black wall that seemed an endless abyss. Carya's footsteps echoed as she walked, though no sound reached her ears. She stopped before an ancient oak door, its surface painted black and bearing a single word scrawled in blood-red letters at eye level: "Prison." She pushed the door open onto nothingness. Stepping inside, she did not fall. The door clicked shut behind her, and gradually the void took shape. Even with her eyes closed, she felt a breeze stir, its whisper weaving with the rustle of brightly colored flowers carpeted across an infinite plain. At the center stood a white wooden gazebo encircling a great mirror like a cage. A crimson cloth lay draped beside the glass. Carya approached, her reflection growing larger until she stood before it. Against her will, the reflected version of herself raised her left arm, proudly displaying the now-familiar ring. A cruel smile curved its lips, and its eyes narrowed. Carya seized the cloth and hurled it over the mirror. She heard the glass shatter—and then…
— Madam?
A voice jolted her awake. She panted for breath, sweat beading her forehead like dew. Her eyes dropped to her left hand—and, to her astonishment, it was normal. On the table before her sat the ring, lying harmlessly beside the basin as though it had always been there.
— Madam? Are you all right? — Damalis's voice sounded unnaturally loud.
— Ah… yes, I'm fine. — Carya's gaze drifted around her chamber.
She tried to rise, but her legs buckled. Damalis caught her just in time, preventing her from collapsing to her knees. The maid's eyes widened.
— Madam… what happened to you? — She reached out, but Carya grasped her hand.
— It's nothing, Lis. Help me sit up.
Each movement cost her agony. Her bones ached and her strength faltered. The featherbed refused to yield beneath her weight—and Carya felt a crushing burden lift from her spine.
— Bring Amara in, please.
Damalis backed away, wide-eyed, as Carya turned to a nightstand drawer. Inside lay a solitary iron box, locked. She pressed her hand to the lid and it swung open, revealing a small glass vial sealed with wax. Half-filled with a clear, viscous liquid, Carya uncorked it and drank deeply. A sweet, scorching warmth bloomed through her, radiating to every corner of her body, until the bed sank under her weight once more.
Amara burst into the room, breathless, with Damalis close behind, who let out a startled gasp at the sight.
— H-how? — the maid stammered.
— Thank you, Lis, — Carya replied, springing upright. — If you would give us a moment alone.
Damalis nodded, deep lines of worry still etched on her brow, then turned and hurried away.
— Are you truly all right, madam? I thought…
— I'm well, Amara. Truly, — Carya placed a hand on her friend's shoulder. — Now, shall we finish?
— Of course, madam. Where were we? — Amara asked, seating herself at the center table.
Her eyes were drawn to the ring; her ears felt plugged with silence until Carya lifted it with a scrap of cloth. Outside, the once-calm lake lashed against the palace walls. The wind whistled through the open window. Carya raised her hands but nothing happened. She walked over and closed the shutters by hand. A peculiar sensation shivered through her.
— You were speaking of the Spartan forces. It made me wonder… — Carya turned. — Where is the rest of their army?
— In Megara. That's the main front. The Athenians sent reinforcements under Demosthenes, the officer you mentioned in your letter.
— Interesting… — Carya traced the empty space on her finger where the ring had sat. — So they succeeded in Samos?
— I'm afraid so, madam. Actually… — Amara's face darkened — our sources say Demosthenes brought it—to Athens.
Carya froze. All paradoxes reconcilable… she remembered the book's words on the lectern. Bang! A fallen amphora smashed to pieces by the wind. A single purple flower petal drifted across the marble, coming to rest at her feet. Carya bent to pick it up. The petal whispered, Even the dead must rest…
— Amara, I need you to go to Lalaia, — Carya declared — and tell Dione that…
Amara winced, her fingers tightening on the armrests.
— Madam… I already went to Lalaia before coming here. Dione summoned me.
Silence stretched between them. Carya stared at the floor and inhaled deeply.
— I understand. What did she say?
— She would not see me. The councilor heard the news and dismissed me.
— What news? What did they want to know? — Carya's voice was thunder.
— They wanted information about… about the woman you dreamed of.
— Why? — Carya rose, pacing the chamber.
— I don't know, madam. He didn't say. But… on my way here, I…
— What? Speak, Amara. — Carya seized her shoulders, bringing her face inches from her friend's.
Amara pressed her lips together, reluctant.
— The serpent…
The air in the room grew heavy. Carya released her. Turning to the window, she whispered:
— She said Dione has gone to Themiscyra in pursuit of Hippolyta.
Carya's eyes narrowed. Of course—the serpent.
— I know she's untrustworthy, madam, — Amara continued — but she knew about the woman.
— And?
— And she said Dione plans to send us after her.
A chill not of water struck Carya's heart.
— Why? — Carya's voice was a hiss, a blade.
Amara hesitated.
— The oracle…
— Enough. — Carya raised her hand, ending the subject. — Thank you, Amara. I know it wasn't easy. Now, please— — She gestured to the door. — I need to think.
With a single nod, Amara rose and left. Through the great window, Carya watched her form dissolve—her body dissolving into glimmering scales before her silver tail slipped beneath the waves. Then, silently, the mermaid dove into the depths and vanished.
Carya remained motionless. Her reflection in the basin no longer showed a ruler, but a solitary figure whose hands traced invisible patterns on the water, as though trying to decipher an oracle written in droplets.
On the surface, the rebellious shells began to whisper. They would speak the truth no report dared record: that even sirens, in their most secret songs, feared the day Carya would stop balancing herself between two worlds—and choose to sink into one.