“It’s all right,” she repeated. “Everything will be all right.”
I nodded, though we both knew it was a lie.
Panic seeped into the air, spreading like a sickness, making the silence weigh heavier on our shoulders as we waited. After what felt like an eternity, a figure finally appeared, and those tendrils of dread twisted into great talons of fear.
As Queen Leda strode toward us, familiar memories seized me, vivid and terrible. My scars began to burn as if those tongues of fire had found me again, had come to finish what they had started, to devour me whole.
My mother squeezed my hand, tugging me back. I met her gaze, the understanding in her eyes steadying me. She knew the shapes of all my scars, even those hidden deep inside.
“As you know, there has been an issue of overcrowding in the royal kitchens,” Queen Leda announced. She did not lift her voice, forcing us to strain to hear. “There is not enough space to work and sleep or food to go around. These are not appropriate conditions.”
It should have felt reassuring, hearing this from the mouth of our queen, but the tension in the air only sharpened.
“Today, I am going to rectify this issue. Sacrifice the few to benefit the many,” Leda continued. “I ask for your cooperation. There is no need for this to become…difficult.”
I shifted closer to my mother. “She does not mean—”
“Quiet,” a guard snapped.
Silence followed, stretching dangerously thin as Queen Leda made her way down the lines. She stopped to inspect each slave, turning their face, checking their teeth, sometimes asking a question or two. After every inspection, Leda would mutter something to a guard, and he would escort that slave to stand in one of two places—either beside the carts or back toward the palace.
The word “sacrifice” turned in my mind, but I forced myself to remain calm.
The two groups began to swell as Leda progressed through the rows of slaves. Most were being directed to the group nearest the palace, while the cluster by the cart appeared far smaller; I had only counted eleven slaves by the time Leda neared us. Most were older women; a few were younger but thin and sickly looking. One was pregnant, anxiously rubbing her swollen stomach.
Leda was close now, and I had a sudden, eclipsing thought that she might remember me. But as the queen of Sparta finally turned her attention on to me, I realized her eyes were blank, devoid of any recognition. I stared up at her face, as beautiful and cold as winter sunlight. While she had permanently resided in my nightmares for the past four summers, I had not even mattered enough to be remembered.
I was nobody to her. I was nothing.
She pinched my cheeks and turned my head from side to side.
“Open,” she commanded, and I let my mouth hang open so she could assess my teeth. “Age?”
“Thirteen,” I mumbled.
Leda flicked another glance over me, then said, “Keep.”
Beside me, I felt my mother sag with relief. She squeezed my hand before letting go, and I suddenly felt horribly exposed without her palm in mine. Before I could reach for her again, a guard seized my arm and began dragging me toward the palace.
As I stumbled away, I glanced back to watch Leda perform the same routine with my mother, turning her face from side to side,checking her teeth, asking a question. My mother held her head proudly, but I could see her hands were shaking. The sight made my throat squeeze so tight I could scarcely breathe.
I was deposited with the other “keep” slaves. When I turned back, Leda had already moved on. Relief soared through me as I watched a guard thrusting my mother toward us. But then he began steering her left, toward the carts.
No.
I stepped forward, only to be met by a large arm blocking my path.
“Don’t even think about it,” a guard rumbled.
My entire body grew cold as I watched my mother being discarded. Her eyes found mine, and she smiled bravely, mouthing the words,It’s all right.
“Melantho?”
I turned to find a figure hovering nearby. My father. He was not a man I knew well—our separate duties had never permitted us that luxury—but still the sight of him helped steady my hammering heart.
My father was here. He would help.
“What’s going on?” he asked in that delicate voice of his, quiet eyes absorbing the scene before us.
