Behind me, Achilles stirred. A sound escaped his throat—not quite a word, not quite a groan, but enough to remind me he was still there, caught in whatever spellbound sleep Theron had wrapped him in.
Theron’s eyes flicked past me again. He regarded Achilles with the same detached curiosity he might give a chained beast. Then, slowly, his gaze slid back to me, as though the sight of the captain helpless only made our little exchange more amusing.
My pulse slammed. Achilles was too big, too unmistakable to hide. Anyone passing the tent could glance in and see him. I stepped forward quickly, placing myself in front of the flap to block Theron’s view even though it did nothing to ease the anxiousness crawling up my spine.
“Lift your spell,” I snapped. “Release him.”
Theron clucked his tongue, the sound soft and mocking. “Now why would I do that?” His eyes slid back to the tent and he tapped his chin idly. “Tell me something, Your Majesty,” he mused, almost to himself. “When you look at him, do you see the man you trust with your life?”
His tone caught me off guard. It wasn’t mocking, not entirely. There was something strange threaded beneath it. My throat tightened. I hesitated, wondering why it almost sounded like he cared about the answer.
“Yes,” I said at last, the word small but certain.
Shadows pooled in his expression as his gaze lingered on Achilles. “Ah. Trust.” He shook his head. “The deadliest gift mortals hand out so freely. Once given, it becomes the blade at your throat … and the worst part?” He glanced back at me. “You’ll call it devotion while it’s cutting you open.”
He let the words hang between us, his smile curving back into place. “Your Majesty, you should always remember. Some wounds don’t bleed until it’s far too late.”
Then he turned on his heel and strode into the night, the firelight catching on the suddenly bright glow of his sigils before the dark swallowed him whole.
I stood rooted where he’d left me, his warning gnawing like a splinter beneath my skin.
At last I turned, the canvas flap heavy in my hand, and slipped back inside. Achilles still lay where I had lowered him, his body sprawled across the furs, the rise and fall of his chest steady and deep.
I crossed to him quickly, dragging a fur up and over his torso, arranging it as best I could, as if that thin disguise might be enough to keep curious eyes from recognizing the captain of Sparta lying in my tent.
“Alcmene,” I whispered. She was there at once. Her gaze flicked to Achilles, wide with alarm, then back to me, questions crowding her eyes. “Watch the entrance. Do not let anyone inside.”
She immediately nodded and without another word, turned and planted herself at the tent’s mouth, shoulders squared, body blocking the entrance like a living barrier.
Only then did I let myself breathe.
Of course I trusted Achilles.The thought rose stubborn and fierce, a shield against the echo of Theron’s words. Whatever games the stranger played, whatever venom he poured into my ear, it could not touch this.
There were few I could trust in this world I’d found myself in.
But Achilles was one of them.
With a weary breath, I lay down on the furs beside him, close enough to feel his heat. I told myself I would not sleep, that I would keep watch, eyes open, alert to every sound beyond the canvas.
But exhaustion crept in all the same. My lids grew heavy, my thoughts blurring around Theron’s words, against the firelight still dancing behind my eyes. The last thing I felt was Achilles’s warmth at my back before sleep claimed me despite my resolve.
Chapter58
One moment I was fighting it, the next … I was dreaming again.
Of the red kingdom drowned in light.
The sky blazed white above me, blinding, endless, a wound in the heavens. But this time, the light wasn’t still. It wavered, unsteady, trembling like flame. Shadows tore across it like wings of ash.
The land below was crimson, yes, but not just with old memory or sacred dust. This time it bled. Real blood, fresh and smoking, ran in thick rivulets between cracked stones and shattered bones. It pooled in the hollows where homes had once stood. It soaked into charred linen. It steamed where it met the fire.
The city on it burned, a ruin of blackened columns and crumbling walls. Its people were gone. No, not gone.
Fallen.
Bodies lined the streets like discarded offerings to some vengeful god. And above it all, their palace burned like a pyre, its banners whipping in the night sky like dying screams.
And still, the throne waited.
