A loud crack suddenly split the air, followed by a scream that ripped through the festivities, and I startled to attention, frantically scanning for its source.
Men in drawn hoods were surging from between the pillars, their blades flashing in the sun. One broke from the rest, charging the dais, his sword raised high and aimed for the king. My cry tore loose before I could stop it, the courtyard erupting around me, benches scraping, goblets spilling, women scattering in shrieks.
The blade never struck.
An inch from Menelaus’s gut, the sword shivered and groaned …
I stared at it as if in a trance, willing it to keep going with everything inside me.
But the steel began to warp with a low, grinding groan, contorting in on itself as if the marrow had been ripped out of it. A hiss rose as molten drops spattered the marble, eating tiny pits into the stone. The hilt clattered from the assassin’s grip, and he stumbled back with wide eyes.
I shoved back against my throne, its ivory biting into my spine as my pulse drummed in my throat. Below, bronze flashed. Achilles was already moving, his blade carving a clean arc through another hooded man. Shields slammed and steelrang as bodies collided. The assassins surged forward, but the soldiers met them head-on, the clash loud enough to rattle my bones.
From the far side of the courtyard, someone moved through the frantic crowd. A figure broke free of the shadows, tall and unbowed. The skin at his wrists was darkened, chafed with the memory of iron, but no shackles bound him now. Dirt streaked his skin and his black hair was a wild tangle that caught in the sun as he moved. His tunic was torn and smeared with dust, but it clung stubbornly to his frame.
Theron’s violet eyes, luminous as amethyst in the day, calmly stared around at the chaos.
A cry split the courtyard as another assassin lunged, his blade flashing for the kill. Theron’s hand lifted and his fingers carved through the air. Strange words spilled from his mouth, and the sigils on his hands blazed, etching themselves across the air with a hiss.
Steel met light.
The blade shrieked, splintered, and dissolved, falling in gray dust that hissed against the ground. The assassin barely had time to scream before an unseen force slammed into him, flinging his body back. He struck a pillar with a sickening crack, and blood streaked down the white stone.
Chaos erupted. Nobles shrieked and clawed for escape as guards swarmed to the king’s side.
Menelaus surged to his feet. His face was mottled red as his voice thundered over the din. “What trick is this?” He jabbed a shaking hand at Theron, spit flying with each word. “Who let him out?”
Theron smirked as he walked forward, shadows clinging around his form like a cloak. Another hooded man lunged, a knife raised high. Theron didn’t so much as turn his head. His hand flicked outward, as lazily as a man brushing away a fly. The assassin screamed as the weapon in his grip warped, bursting into molten shards before it could reach flesh. His body was hurled across the courtyard to crumple in a heap in front of us.
The last assassin, the one locked in combat with Achilles, was wrenched suddenly backward. He crashed to the ground at Achilles’s feet, his limbs twitching before falling still. A growl rumbled from Achilles, his jaw tight, his grip still clenched on the sword that had been poised for the killing strike. He glared at Theron, blue eyes sparking like a storm denied its thunder.
Theron’s smirk widened, his violet eyes gleaming as he strolled past the fallen bodies without a flicker of concern, as if their deaths had been nothing more than a casual breath drawn and exhaled.
“Magic,” someone breathed nearby. Not a whisper of awe … but of terror. Most of the people present today hadn’t seen Theron before now, and his power was obviously a revelation to them.
But for the rest of us, the display was just as jarring.
The air throbbed with his magic. The ground beneath my feet seemed to buzz like it had been struck and hadn’t yet stopped ringing.
Theron stopped before the dais. The guards who had lunged in front of us lowered their spears, but their white-knuckled grips on the shafts betrayed their fear.
Menelaus stared at him, his bulk pressed deep into the throne. He tried for stillness, for the stone-faced indifference of a warrior king, but his hands betrayed him, trembling slightly where they rested in his lap. His eyes tracked Theron’s every step, pupils blown wide, like a man trying to convince himself he wasn’t already prey.
“You should be rotting in your cell,” he snarled.
Theron tilted his head, a lazy smile tugging at his mouth, that dangerous calm clinging to him. “Well, that’s not very grateful,” he drawled. “Considering I just saved your life.”
Menelaus’s growl vibrated through the courtyard, a sound meant to intimidate, though it wavered at the edges. “A god does not need saving,” he spat.
Theron studied him, his head tilted just enough to make the moment feel intimate and cutting. “And yet,” he murmured with a glinting, knowing gaze, “I melted the bars. And helped regardless.”
The crowd lurched with gasps and frantic whispers. My pulse jumped with theirs, a tingling shiver racing over my skin. Menelaus’s gaze snapped from one murmuring mouth to another, his thick fingers flexing against the arms of his throne as though he was holding himself back from reaching out and silencing them by force.
Theron only laughed softly under his breath, lifting his hands. Faint lines marred his palms, glyphs glowing steadily like embers waiting to flare. “You wanted proof of my loyalty, Your Majesty,” he announced, tilting his head. “Well … congratulations. This is it.”
His tone was casual, almost bored, yet every syllable thrummed with something I couldn’t quite read. He made it sound less like devotion and more like a joke only he was in on.
Menelaus frowned, continuing to study him like he was a puzzle he could unravel.
