The emissary stood straighter as whispers quaked through the chamber.
Achilles, they murmured.Sparta’s undefeated. The general of legend.
To pit him against Sidon’s warrior was to unleash a god against a mortal. And judging by the slight grin on his lips, Achilles was very aware of that.
At last, the Sidonian emissary smiled. “Very well,” he said, smoothly. “It seems our gift will be tested by the best Sparta has to offer.”
Achilles paused at the center of the hall, beneath the high vaulted ceiling and its glittering constellation of torches. He reached for the hem of his tunic and peeled the fabric over his head and cast it aside.
Light spilled across his broad shoulders, sinew drawn tight, a long scar etching pale across his ribs. Sweat gleamed along the ridges of muscle, the rise and fall of his chest measured, contained, as though he held back the violence that lived inside him with every controlled breath.
My heart jolted once, traitorous in my chest … and then the cold set in. Gods, I must be dying, for the sight of such glory should have seared me, should have set me ablaze. Instead, it hollowed me out, left me shivering beneath my silks, as though frost had taken root in my veins. The more he shone, the more I froze.
The Sidonian warrior grinned, but it seemed false.
Achilles raised his sword in salute. Not to the king. Not to the guests.
To me.
My pulse stumbled. Heat pricked at the back of my neck as I darted a glance toward Menelaus, sure he would rise, hand at his blade.
But he only grinned, eyes flicking between us with amusement, as though the gesture were nothing more than a show for his court. He lifted his goblet in return, pleased, untroubled … seemingly blind to what lay beneath.
The banquet floor was cleared in moments. Benches shoved back, goblets abandoned. The nobles surged forward for a better view, the way Spartans always did when blood was promised. The marble gleamed, wide and bare, a stage made for violence.
The Sidonian stepped into the center first, lifting his curved blade high, striking it against his palm until the rhythm echoed off the stone like a drumbeat. He bared his teeth into a jagged sneer. Achilles followed with no armor or shield, only his sword in hand. He touched it briefly to the floor, the traditional salute, then swept it upward in challenge. The crowd hummed with anticipation, the sound building, a hive alive with hunger.
“They’ll talk of this fight for years,” Menelaus murmured, leaning close, his voice affectionate again, like he had forgotten his quarrel with me. “Our lion against their dog. Watch closely, my beauty. Watch why they all fear Sparta.”
My fingers tightened against my gown.
The fighters moved as one, two blurs colliding at the heart of the hall. The Sidonian struck first, his blade whistling high, fast enough to shear hair from Achilles’s head. Achilles ducked, his counterstrike swift as lightning. Steel clanged against steel, the sound sharp enough to rattle teeth. Sparks burst, scattering across the marble like fireflies trapped.
The court gasped. Servants froze with jugs tilted mid-pour. The dancers shrank to the edges of the room, their anklets chiming nervously as they huddled together.
The Sidonian pressed hard, fighting like a wolf gone rabid—elbows cracking, knees lashing, kicks meant to cripple. But Achilles absorbed the blows, his body fluid and adaptive, answering each move with punishing precision. A slash to the thigh. A graze across the ribs. A nick along the forearm. Small, calculated wounds that slowed the beast.
They circled, their feet sliding against wine-slick stone, blades flashing in arcs of silver and gold. The torches threw their shadows wide and monstrous, as if gods themselves battled above us.
The Sidonian lunged and his blade kissed Achilles’s shoulder. The sound that left Achilles was not a shout, but a hiss … like a serpent striking. Blood welled bright against his bronze skin.
My stomach plunged. The sight of his blood unraveled something in me. I pressed a hand hard against my mouth, desperate not to cry out, to betray myself before them all.
Beside me, Menelaus chuckled darkly. “Looks like our golden boy bleeds after all,” he murmured like he was savoring the words. His fingers brushed my wrist, gripping hard. “Don’t faint now. Watch.Thisis Sparta.”
The crowd leaned forward as one, the tension thick enough to choke on. Someone shouted a cheer. Another cursed Sidon’s name. A chant began—low at first, then swelling: “Achilles. Achilles. Achilles.”
But the man at the center of the hall did not bask. He stepped back once and drew a steadying breath. His chest rose and fell calmly as if he was letting the pain sink into him like a weight anchoring him to the earth.
Then he surged.
His movements sharpened, something more than soldier, more than man. He pressed forward with relentless rhythm, strikes blurring into one another until steel sang like a lyre string plucked too fast to follow. The Sidonian staggered, forced back step by step, his smile faltering beneath the ferocity.
Achilles spun and swept behind him, and his blade carved deep across the back of the man’s knee. The Sidonian collapsed with a howl, but he wasn’t finished. From his sandal came a hidden dagger, flashing toward Achilles’s throat.
Gasps tore through the hall.
Achilles bent backward, his body arching like water poured from a jug. The dagger missed by a breath. He seized the Sidonian’s wrist, twisting hard until a wet crack split the air. Both his dagger and his sword fell as the Sidonian howled.
