[Greek Mythology] The Demons Under My Command - Chapter 48

The Northern Territories in winter were colder than usual.

In the dungeon.

The man was naked, his hands and feet shackled in iron chains. The chains, which had been burned red and then cooled, bit into his flesh. The scabs on his wounds were frozen and cracked open; the faint red blood beads that seeped out immediately condensed into tiny shards of ice.

He hung his head, his messy hair dusted with white frost. Every breath he took released shattered white mist, and the knife wound on his chest, deep enough to expose bone, was the most grotesque.

It had been inflicted three days ago by the woman with a rusty short blade. Now, the edges of the wound were turning black and blue, like a coiled dead snake.

“Cough…”

The itch in his throat became unbearable, and he coughed violently. The iron chains clanged sharply, an ear-splitting sound that pulled at the crisscrossing whip marks on his back.

The whip marks, old overlaying new, had raw, peeling flesh in some places, mixed with dry grass and dirt. They were frozen solid in the cold air, and the slightest movement tore at his very insides.

Footsteps outside the iron door grew closer, the creak of military boots on the ground.

The woman pushed open the dungeon’s iron door. Her magenta curly hair was strikingly conspicuous in the dim light. Her black, high-collared uniform was crisply ironed, and the red crossed scepter on her golden epaulets gleamed coldly.

That was the unique insignia of the Northern Territories’ Commander. The silver anchor-shaped lapel pin at her collar further emphasized her long neck.

The hem of her white linen shirt was meticulously tucked into her white breeches, the cuffs tightly bound with black gaiters, and finally tucked into her gleaming white leather boots—not even the tip of her boots was tainted by the dungeon’s filth.

Seeing the woman enter, the man struggled and spat at her. Unfortunately, it was too far, and the sputum did not touch her uniform.

It landed on the blue flagstone in front of him with a plop.

Catherin was provoked to a laugh by this challenge. It was not a gentle laugh, but a curve of the lips, a spectatorship born from the degradation of a stray dog.

She said nothing, merely raising her foot. The white leather boot, with the hard coldness of leather, kicked directly into the man’s abdomen.

The kick was powerful. The man immediately fell to his knees. The woman wiggled her fingers, and the accompanying soldiers stepped forward to unlock the man’s chains.

Freed from his restraints, the man braced himself on the ground, trying to stand up. Just as he managed to lift his body slightly, Catherin’s military boot landed heavily on his spine.

The sole’s tread ground over the whip marks on his back. The man, as if all his strength had been drained away, collapsed to the ground with a thud. His cheek pressed against the icy flagstone, his teeth chattering.

She did not stop. Instead, she used the sole of her boot to smear the clump of frozen sputum on the ground, then stepped on the man’s head, the heel grinding against his hair, rubbing it back and forth as if wiping off a stain.

“Catherin…” The man’s voice was squeezed from his throat, laced with bloody foam and hatred: “You will go to hell!”

“Hell?”

Catherin scoffed, pulling a leather whip from her waist and striking him across the face with a crack. The whip’s end tore his skin, and the man shivered in pain.

She, however, opened her mouth unhurriedly: “The people who have died by my hand are no less than eight thousand, if not ten thousand. If there truly is a hell, then line up down there, waiting for this Commander to grace you with my presence.”

“Anyone who shakes the peace of the Northern Territories.”

“Deserves to die.”

The woman put away her whip and turned to leave, leaving behind a final instruction: “Make sure he remembers the consequences of betraying the Northern Territories.”

After Catherin finished speaking and stepped out of the dungeon, her footsteps fading outside the iron door, the accompanying soldiers immediately moved forward and re-bound the man to the iron rack on the stone wall.

Then, a bucket of salt water mixed with ice shards was poured over his head. A chilling scream instantly filled the entire dungeon, penetrating the thick stone walls, yet quickly swallowed by the cold wind of the Northern Territories.

Only the increasingly strong smell of blood in the dungeon remained, and that trembling figure in the cold air.

Catherin returned to the Saint Lanfina Ducal Estate just as the sky was turning a pale, pearly white.

She stood before the copper mirror in her bedroom. The ruthlessness in her eyes gradually receded, replaced by a serene tranquility, as if the person who had been in the dungeon just moments ago was not her.

She raised her hand to smell her collar. Her fingertips detected a faint scent of blood, and she frowned slightly, then turned and called for Butler Mary, her voice gentle: “Prepare some hot water and clean clothes. I need to wash up. I still have the Cabinet meeting to attend later.”

Butler Mary answered “Yes” and turned to prepare.

Catherin took off her military uniform, exposing the crisscrossing scars on her back. Some were knife wounds, some arrow wounds, old and new interwoven, layer upon layer—every single one a mark of her fierce battles on the field.

She soaked in the hot water. Butler Mary sat beside her, gently scrubbing her back. Her fingers softened slightly when they touched the raised scars.

Butler Mary had dedicated her entire youth to the Saint Lanfina Ducal Estate. From a blooming maiden to a middle-aged woman, every drop of her blood had been shed for Saint Lanfina.

The woman caressed the scars on Catherin’s back, sniffled, and her eyes grew moist.

“Mary, don’t cry.”

Catherin noticed her emotions, her voice softening slightly: “It stopped hurting a long time ago.”

Catherin knew that this aunt, who had watched her grow up, was feeling sad and distressed for her again, she said lightly.

The woman wiped her tears, gazing at the woman before her. The little girl who used to seek comfort and cling to her lap had, unknowingly, grown into the Commander of the Northern Territories, leading three armies.

Mary wiped away her tears, looking up at Catherin’s profile—her features defined, her eyes determined, long past her youthful naivety.

She sighed softly: “Miss… has now become the pillar of the Northern Territories. Madam and the Duke, if they are watching over us, will surely be very proud.”

Catherin smiled, but said nothing, merely closing her eyes, letting the hot water envelop her.

The snow was still falling outside the window. The winter in the Northern Territories remained cold, but as long as she was here, this castle, this land, would never fall.

She had to guard everything in the Northern Territories for her parents.

Catherin’s parents had both died in battle. The Northern Territories, situated on an ice plain, was surrounded by countless jackals and tigers eager to devour their territory.

Her mother was the first female Commander of the Northern Territories:

Ruilixi Saint Lanfina.

Her father was her mother’s strongest right-hand man, Major General Kamalin. Catherin was born with her mother’s surname; she inherited the Saint Lanfina name and the Saint Lanfina Ducal Estate.

She was only sixteen when her parents fell on the Konnavil battlefield.

It was a torrential rain that day. She knelt numbly in the Holy Temple, clutching her parents’ ashes. Multiple factions oppressed and threatened her, demanding she relinquish her mother’s military power. Some wanted to seize Saint Lanfina’s territory.

The girl was stubborn and unyielding. Clenching the scepter insignia her mother left her, she pleaded with King Consort Mel to retain her mother’s military power and requested to succeed as Commander.

Mel’s scorn stung like needles. It was Princess Moise who stepped forward, overcoming all obstacles single-handedly to support her succession.

Moise was her former confidante. Her greatest concession was to yield the right of succession, allowing Mel to continue governing.

Catherin did not fail the trust placed in her. Within three years, she led her army to quell rebellions, reclaimed the three cities invaded by the Kingdom of Konnavil, established the Northern Territories’ first navy to secure the sea trade routes, ensuring that no foreign enemy dared to set foot on their territory again.

The scepter insignia in her palm was polished bright, an heirloom from her mother, and her vow.

The copper mirror reflected Catherin adjusting her cuffs. The silver-grey Cabinet uniform made her shoulder line as cold and sharp as a blade. The epaulets pinned to her collar shone with a matte finish in the morning light.

As the maidservant put away the restraints she had removed, Butler Mary’s steady footsteps sounded outside the door.

“Miss, the carriage is waiting in the courtyard.”

Mary’s voice came through the wooden door, carrying her usual thoughtfulness: “Do you need a bouquet of fresh flowers prepared, as usual, to take to the Princess?”

Catherin’s movement paused at the silver-white buckle on her waist. Her eyelashes in the mirror lowered slightly, casting a faint shadow beneath her eyes.

“Prepare it.”

She finally nodded, her voice as light as snow falling on velvet: “It’s not certain that I’ll see her. Our statuses are different now. There’s no reason or excuse for me to see her.”

The silver pocket watch on the dressing table gently tapped. Inside the watch face was a pressed half-petal of a tulip.

Moise had secretly slipped it to her during the Empress’s memorial service last year.

That day, Moise wore an inky-black long dress, the hem embroidered with dark gold mourning patterns. Her eyes, usually as bright as stars, were clouded with profound sorrow.

Catherin stood at the head of the courtier procession. Separated by twenty steps of jade stairs, their eyes met across the curling incense smoke.

Moise’s pupils contracted, like a startled fawn. The next second, she hurriedly turned her head away, her earlobes blushing crimson.

“Miss, the bouquet is ready.”

Mary came in, holding a bunch of purple tulips wrapped in silver foil. Seeing Catherin staring blankly at the pocket watch, she lightened her footsteps.

Catherin closed the pocket watch, pressing the faint lingering warmth into her palm.

Everyone knew that Moise had given up her right to the throne only to secure the decree allowing Catherin to command the Northern Territories.

But no one knew that behind it was a compromise earned by two girls under the camphor tree in the garden, exchanging three years of friendship.

She was now the Commander of the Northern Territories, holding military power. Moise was the Princess living deep within the Inner Palace—one guarding the nation’s borders from the outside, the other balancing the court from within.

Separating them was not just the palace wall, but also the group of old foxes in the Cabinet who were eyeing them both with avarice.

“Let’s go.”

Catherin took the bouquet. The sweet scent of tulips mixed with the cedar fragrance on her cuffs, weaving a fine net in the air.

She reached the door and looked back at the empty space in the dressing mirror, as if she could still see the young Moise, dressed in a warm yellow gown, sitting there.

She was pinning her first Northern Territories style hat pin for her.

The sound of the carriage wheels rumbling over the cobblestones gradually faded into the distance. Mary stood at the mansion gate, watching the figure disappear at the end of the street, her fingers unconsciously clutching the corner of her dress.

She clearly saw that when Miss got into the carriage, she carefully placed the bouquet of tulips on her lap, as if holding a fragile treasure.

Their ending should not be that of strangers.

At the Cabinet meeting, Mel had long regarded Catherin as a thorn in his side.

To stabilize the Northern Territories, Catherin had secretly eliminated half of her own subordinates, dismantling forces that Mel could potentially use. How could such decisiveness and ruthlessness not make him wary?

Now, as the Princess gradually came of age, rumors were rife in the Northern Territories.

Some said Mel deliberately held onto the throne, but Catherin and Moise knew that Mel had another scheme in mind.

He never acknowledged a woman’s right to rule. How could the monarch of the Northern Territories be a woman?

In his view, the late King’s decision to allow the Empress to succeed, despite all opposition, was fundamentally wrong. What he intended to do now was to “correct” all of this.

Mel knew Moise’s significance to Catherin. The two were like the Empress and her Lady-in-Waiting, Fran, in the past—superficially unconnected, but deeply concerned for each other.

Fran was proud and came from a noble family. She was unwilling to marry a widower and become a stepmother. When he proposed this request to Fran, the woman mercilessly refused him.

When Mel found Fran with the infant Princess still in swaddling clothes, the man pleaded: “Moise has already lost her mother. This is her child. Can you really bear for her to grow up motherless?”

Seeing the small, peacefully sleeping infant, Fran hesitated for the first time.

Yes, Moise was her child.

She would not trust this child to anyone else.

Fran married Mel, becoming the nation’s step-Queen and Moise’s stepmother. She would not allow any other woman to claim the honor of the Empress; neither would she.

After becoming the step-Queen, the Empress’s palace was still cleaned daily, and the incense during memorial services was never extinguished. She wanted all the citizens to remember that this nation once had a great Empress, and more importantly, she wanted to protect the Empress’s sole remaining bloodline.

Fran would not allow anyone to threaten Moise’s position as Crown Heir. Over the years, through her subtle interference, Moise was the only remaining direct bloodline of the Stuart Royal Family.

But in the eyes of the outside world, before the Empress’s body was even cold, her former friend Fran took her place, claimed her husband, and became Moise’s stepmother.

In all the storybooks, it seemed to be a silently accepted truth that women, being women, would inevitably harbor jealousy and resentment towards each other.

Friends are like limbs; women are like clothes.

Such rhetoric had been passed down for generations. Everyone believed that a woman’s enemy was a woman.

The title of “Wicked Stepmother” spread throughout Stuart. All the blame was placed on Fran.

Why had no new royal bloodline been born?

Because Queen Fran was barren.

Why was Princess Moise not allowed to appear in public?

Because Queen Fran was jealous of the Princess’s appearance, which inherited the beauty of the deceased Empress.

Everyone said she treated Moise harshly, that Moise lived worse than an ordinary lady-in-waiting in the palace.

Whenever she heard these rumors, Fran merely stroked the gilded comb the Empress loved most in life, a few faded strands of hair still entwined in its teeth.

She never explained, nor did she need to.

Some acts of protection simply do not need to be seen by the world.

The Cabinet meeting concluded without major incident. The old foxes did not manage to find any fault with her. Catherin had acted ruthlessly over the years, but she had never made a mistake. She excelled in everything, far surpassing those fools.

As the carriage crossed the stone bridge outside the palace, Catherin subconsciously lifted a corner of the curtain.

High up on the palace wall, a slender figure was leaning against the railing, the moon-white skirt hem gently fluttering in the wind.

It was Moise.

Their eyes met again, separated by the layers of palace walls and the crowd. This time, Moise did not dodge. She merely blinked gently, and with her fingers at her side, formed an extremely subtle gesture.

It was their secret signal from their youth, meaning: “I will wait for you.”

Catherin’s heart sharply constricted, then she slowly curved her lips, raising the bouquet of tulips slightly as a response.

She had thought she wouldn’t see her today either.

Catherin smiled. So, she hadn’t forgotten.

The carriage continued its journey. The palace walls gradually receded. Catherin clutched the bouquet of tulips, making a firm resolve.

Next time, she would deliver them to her in person.

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