He clawed at the stone floor, his nails tearing. “Ianthe—run!” he sobbed to shadows none of us could see. “Gods, don’t let them take her!”
My heart slammed in my chest as I watched, bile rising hot in my throat.
“What is he seeing?” Menelaus demanded, his voice sounding shaken despite himself.
Theron tilted his head, watching with the indifferent calm of a predator who already knew the outcome. “His worst memory,” he said. His tone was almost amused, a cruel flicker tugging at his mouth. “And the best part? When it ends … it starts over.”
The assassin writhed, convulsing, sobbing like a child. “No—please—don’t make me watch again. Please—” He slammed his head against the stone floor. The sound cracked through the wall, each blow spilling fresh pools of blood.
“Gods preserve us,” I breathed. Roz pawed at my knee and I picked it up, cuddling it close for comfort.
Menelaus stared, awe and revulsion warring across his face, while Achilles’s face was blank, as if none of it was actually happening.
The prisoner broke at last, his voice shredded to ribbons. “I’ll talk!” he sobbed. “Please—just stop it! I’ll tell you everything, only stop!”
Theron lowered his hand and the air snapped back into place as though some vast pressure had been released. The assassin’s entire body crumpled as he gagged on his sobs. Chains clattered as his shoulders shook.
Achilles seized him by the collar and hauled him upright, his voice a growl. “Who sent you?”
The man’s eyes rolled white, his breath hitching in panic. “Sidon,” he gasped. “A noble there—he hired us. I don’t know why, only that we were paid to see the king dead.”
“Sidon,” Menelaus repeated, his voice dripping venom. “They should be worshipping me and instead they whisper my name and send dogs to bite at my throne.”
The assassin trembled harder and his words tumbled from his lips in a rush. “He has others—scattered in your villages, waiting. That’s all I know. Gods’ truth. Please.”
Menelaus turned to Theron. “Finish it.”
“I’ll do it,” Achilles growled, stepping forward, his blade already rising. Theron shifted before he could strike, cutting across Achilles’s path. His violet eyes flicked to the sword, then to Achilles’s face, another faint grin tugging at his mouth.
“Always so eager to swing first,” he murmured. “But this one’s mine.”
Achilles went unnervingly still, his shoulders coiled with fury, but he didn’t lower his blade. Their stares locked, tension sparking between them. For a heartbeat, the chamber seemed to shrink around their silence.
Theron turned from him, dismissing the captain as though he had never spoken at all. His hand lifted and his fingers moved slowly as the glyphs pulsed.
The assassin convulsed, his body arching off the floor as an unseen force snapped him rigid. His scream tore through the stone chamber, and then cut off as his throat crushed in on itself.
I pressed myself hard against the wall, fighting the urge to turn away, to close my eyes. I made myself look. I needed to know what this stranger was capable of.
The prisoner’s legs kicked once before going slack.
Menelaus jerked, just a hair’s breadth, but it was enough to show his flash of fear.
For a moment, only the hiss of the torches filled the silence. The stink of blood and iron thickened, cloying in my throat. Theron exhaled softly, lowering his hand as though nothing had passed. His smug look lingered, his gaze drifting over the corpse before sliding back to Menelaus. “Now it’s finished,” he said lightly, as if mocking the finality of death itself.
Menelaus watched the still-warm corpse, then turned back to Theron. “What is the limit of your power?”
Theron was quiet. The glyphs faded slightly, dimming as though unsure of their welcome. “It is not limitless,” he said at last. “But enough. Enough to serve you—if you allow it.”
The words slid smooth as silk, but something in them snagged at me. They were too polished, toocareful. His voice carried the weight of truth, but my skin prickled with the certainty that it wasn’t the whole of it. He was holding something back. Lying, or something close to it.
“A wolf in sheep’s clothing,” Achilles muttered, almost to himself. The words carried though, biting through the cell.
Theron didn’t so much as twitch. But the silence thickened, heavy and expectant, as if the air itself leaned in to listen.
I watched in horror as his head suddenly tilted, and impossibly his gaze shifted, and his eyes cut past Menelaus, past Achilles, past the corpse on the floor … straight to the wall.
To me.
