She screamed.
The sound was fractured, shredding the silence. Her back arched violently, the chalice clattering from her grasp, spilling all over the floor as it rolled away. The liquid hissed faintly where it struck the stone, giving off an unmistakable sizzle, and then she crumpled.
Her limbs convulsed, her feet kicking against the stone as her veil slipped off, and her fingers clawed at her throat as if trying to rip the poison out. Her eyes flew wide, so wide they looked ready to split. Whites flooding over irises, foam gathering at the corners of her mouth.
Her desperate gaze found the king and held there, naked with a plea as if he might rise and save her.
But he did nothing. Menelaus only stared back, blank and unmoved.
A gurgled rasp burst from her chest, no real breath behind it. Just the final scream caught in the trap of her lungs. Blood trickled from her nostrils. Her jaw slackened and her gaze fixed blankly to the sky.
And then … she stilled, one leg bent unnaturally beneath her, one arm splayed. Her lips were already turning the gray-violet of death. A single curl had come loose from her veil, brushing against the tile like even it couldn’t believe this was real.
She wasn’t unconscious. She was gone.
The High Priestess knelt beside her, and for a moment, I thought she might pray. Instead, she reached out and gently brushed Chloé’s hair from her slack face, the gesture so soft it made my stomach turn. Her jaw was rigid, her face impossible to read … but her eyes betrayed something else entirely. Not grief or regret. Something darker. Like the weight of all the inevitability she’d accepted.
I stood frozen, horror rising up my throat like something trying to claw its way out. I hadn’t liked Chloé—gods, I’d despised her cruel tongue, her vicious smile, the way she treated every one of us like insects beneath her sandals. She’d been awful. Venomous. Unbearable.
But hatred wasn’t the same as wishing her dead.
And now she was lying there, not from a sword or a battlefield—but because she’d lifted a cup.
She’d just … drunk. And died. One wrong chalice. One wrong moment. One wrong woman.
My legs wobbled beneath me. Anysa reached out for my hand and I gripped it, no longer caring who was watching as icy terror spread through my veins and reality sank in. This wasn’t spectacle or metaphor or any of the other comforting lies I’d let myself believe. This was real. They were really going to let us die.
I looked to the king. Menelaus still wasn’t reacting. His jaw hadn’t tightened. There was no flicker of regret. He was watching it all with the same distant interest he might have given a game already decided.
Chloé had been a daughter of a favored member of the court … she’d slept with the king … and she’dstillbeen allowed to fall.
If she meant nothing in the end, thennoneof us did.
Whimpers and sobs spread through the room, building like a fire too wild to contain. Panic bled through the remaining girls as we all watched Chloé’s body hauled away like livestock.
Iris’s voice cut through the chaos, thin and reedy. “Apollo, protect us,” she whispered. Again. And again. The same line, over and over, like a charm meant to ward off death. Her fingers strangled the stem of the chalice that Phoebe had chosen for her, her whole body trembling as though she could shake herself free of the moment, free of the walls, the eyes on her, the fate closing in.
I wanted to scream at her, to shove her out of the trance, to snap her neck toward the truth.There is no one coming. The gods are gone. Menelaus has cursed us. Don’t you see?
“She told me to choose that cup. I didn’t mean for her to die,” Iris murmured brokenly as she stared at the liquid in her cup. “No—no, I won’t do this!”Suddenly, she staggered backward so fast she nearly tripped over her own feet. She dropped the chalice, liquid spilling out everywhere. “I won’t die here! Iwon’t!” Her scream cracked through the room. Her wide eyes were wet and gleaming with tears and terror. “You can’t make me! I’m not drinking that—I won’t!”
“Remove her,” Menelaus sneered, waving a dismissive hand. “And punish her village with her. Any woman foolish enough to beg Apollo for mercy deserves the ruin that follows.” His grin flashed sharp. “I chased that golden coward from Sparta. Did she really think he would answer?”
Iris’s wails grew louder at that, and I felt sick. Iris’s village had just been condemned to the life the rest of Sparta already knew far too well.
My eyes widened as a guard moved forward without hesitation, seizing Iris by the arm. She shrieked once, but didn’t resist as she was hauled from the room, her sobs trailing behind her like ribbons.
The priestess shook her head in disgust. “Phoebe, choose a chalice for Helena,” she ordered.
My name rang out like a bell tolling for the dead. I felt every gaze and all of that awful, eager anticipation shift toward me.
But my eyes … my eyes found Achilles. He was no longer still. No longer carved from indifference. He looked … terrified. His shoulders had gone rigid, discipline locking him into place as though he were bracing for a blow. His eyes locked with mine like a tether pulled taut. He shook his head once. Just once. But it was fierce and unmistakably urgent.
Don’t.The word wasn’t spoken, but I heard it anyway.Don’t do it.The world narrowed until there was nothing left but the throb of my pulse and the silent plea in his gaze.
But my limbs moved before my mind could catch up, reaching out to take the chalice from Phoebe’s fear-stricken hands.So this was what it felt like, I thought as I stared down into the cup. To look and not know if the liquid in front of me held life or death.
Iris’s goblet lay overturned nearby, its contents spread across the floor. The liquid hadn’t hissed when it fell, so whatever verdict it had held, it most likely hadn’t been poison. That had left only two chalices for Phoebe to choose from, and from the priestess’s earlier words, one of them held poison.
