Page 24 of Crown of Serpents

Her body slackened as she realised that she would never be strong enough to fight him off. She was completely and utterly powerless beneath the mass of his body, for he was a god, and she was no one.

…

A blinding light engulfed Medusa, searing pain ripping through her body. She had been huddled at the foot of Athena's statue, armoured and imposing with lance and shield—sobbing, shivering, pleading for forgiveness. Her prayers had been heard, but Athena was not known for her mercy.

A searing pain burned her from the inside out, her fingers clawing at the stone floor. Waves of fire washed through her limbs, down her back, and skull, threatening to shatter her sanity. It was unbearable.

Then, as suddenly as it began, the agony subsided. Medusa gasped, her lungs fighting for air.

When she raised her hand to touch her still-throbbing head, she flinched as something sharp had pierced her skin. In disbelief, she stared at the red blood dripping on her white gown.

Slowly, she struggled to her feet, her knees buckling beneath her. As she raised her eyes, the gleaming reflection in Athena’s shining shield, a blood-curdling scream tore from her lips.

A monster stared back at her. Her once sun-kissed skin hadturned ashen, sharp canines glinted between her lips and her fiery curls — the envy of her fellow priestesses — were gone. Instead, she wore a wreath of serpents, their emerald scales shimmering in the dim light, hissing and flicking their forked tongues. Only her eyes remained unchanged, wide with terror but still the same shade of green as the Aegean Sea.

…

Medusa woke with a jolt, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Cold sweat clung to her skin, but her face burned with a feverish heat. She groaned, leaning back against the ship's rough hull. It had been weeks since the Olympians had invaded her dreams, their cruel whispers echoing in her mind.

Her gaze fell to her leg, and a hiss escaped her lips. The wound had reopened, staining her filthy chiton with crimson. Carefully, she lifted the coarse fabric, revealing the gruesome sight beneath. Her thigh resembled a battlefield, the skin surrounding the arrow's entry point inflamed and oozing a mixture of blood and pus. Six days had passed since the attack, and the wound showed no signs of healing.

Medusa groaned. No wonder the fever had brought on such horrific visions. Her body was battling an infection, her mind a playground for the gods' cruel games.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Even though the morning sun had not yet risen above the city walls, Joppa was bustling with life. Wooden carts rattled toward the market square, and the vendors began clamouring, urging passersby to buy their goods.

Andromeda wrapped her shawl tighter around her face, keeping her head low, as she joined the morning traffic. Her simple gown and worn sandals allowed her to move unnoticed, a princess disguised in plain sight.

Her heart pounded with a fervent rhythm of both excitement and rebellion. She was on her way to the temple of Astarte, a place veiled in the morning mist, where secrets and ancient knowledge whispered on the wind. A small smile spread across Andromeda’s face as she turned onto the winding path that led to the temple. Each step brought her closer to her sanctuary, the place where she could escape the weight of her responsibilities as crown princess and heir of Cepheus, king of Joppa, where she buried her hands in the soil and her soul intertwined with theblooming life in the herb garden.

She relished the quiet mornings, working side-by-side with the priestesses and acolytes. Though brief, ending before the scorching midday sun, these moments were a precious taste of freedom for a princess who was not meant to be free. She was going to become queen — or the mother of the future king. For the sake of her kingdom, Andromeda never complained.

The scents of thyme, lavender, and rosemary mingled in the air, soothing her senses as she climbed the final steps. Inhaling deeply, she closed her eyes in anticipation. Before her lay the temple's tranquil courtyard, bathed in the gentle light of the crescent moon. Tall, ancient pillars rose like silent sentinels, guarding over the priestesses who tended to the plants that thrived under their care. A wave of belonging washed over Andromeda as she approached, her fingertips brushing the velvety leaves of a healing herb.

Astarte, the patron goddess of Joppa, had many faces, but this was Andromeda’s favourite: the goddess of healers and midwives. Her father revered Astarte as the goddess of war and the kingmaker, praying for good fortune for his reign, while her attendants beseeched her to grant them love and beauty. However, to Andromeda, there was nothing more wondrous than the gentle glow emanating from a priestess’s hands as she healed a patient with Astarte’s guidance.

“Andromeda,” a stern voice shattered the stillness.

Andromeda turned to find Headpriestess Seraphine scowling at her, yet a twinkle of amusement danced in her warm eyes. “You know that you should not be here, child. It is unseemly for a princess to dirty herself tending to herbs and the sick … even for a princess as gifted as you.”

Andromeda lowered her gaze, her cheeks flushed. “I know, Seraphine, but I cannot help myself. The garden calls to me, and I can't ignore it.”

Seraphine remained silent, her arms crossed.

Andromeda pressed on, a disarming smile gracing her lips. “Besides,” she added, “I heard some of your priestesses are still on bed rest, recovering from the cold they caught from those merchants accompanying the Egyptian envoy. I see you onlyhave two priestesses helping you with the acolytes today, so I'm sure I could be of assistance. And isn't it a princess's duty to tend to her subjects' needs?”

The elderly priestess sighed, her features softening, “Your heart is strong, my dear, and you have the touch of a true healer. Come along then … I need some new potions after using so many of them in the past weeks. Just don’t let your father find out.”

Andromeda waited for Seraphine to turn around before a triumphant grin spread across her lips. The elder priestess had yet to refuse her help. Without voicing her thoughts, the princess followed the senior woman into the depths of Astarte’s gardens.

Keeping her head lowered, a demure smile plastered across her face, Andromeda received Seraphine’s instructions and began preparing the poultices and salves that needed restocking after the recent flu outbreak. As the sun painted the horizon with hues of rose and gold, Andromeda lost herself in the dance of healing, her hands moving with practised grace as she harvested thyme and elderberry. Time slipped away, wrapped in the cocoon of tranquillity that only the herb garden could weave.

Just when she began mixing the harvested herbs with soothing honey, a gut-wrenching cry shattered her blissful serenity. Andromeda's head snapped up, her heart pounding as she followed the commotion to the temple entrance. A group of fishermen carried the lifeless body of an older man up the temple steps, their faces etched with terror and exhaustion. Behind them, a wailing woman stumbled toward the temple, her frail hand clutching the unconscious fisherman's.

Andromeda hurried after Seraphine to the courtyard to receive the group while another priestess ushered the young acolytes to the temple. She helped strap the sick man onto a stretcher, her fingers calm and steady despite her racing heart.Together, they carried him into the temple.

Andromeda inspected the patient. His skin was pasty, beads of sweat covering his face. His breath was shallow, interrupted by moans of pain. She squeezed the man’s hand in reassurance. Astarte’s priestesses were the finest healers in the land. If anyone could help this poor man, it was Seraphine.

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