She accepted it without hesitation, her veiled face unreadable as she stepped down from theokhèmalike a queen descending her dais.
Grigorios turned back to me, his hand outstretched. I took it, steadying myself as I stepped down. My sandals met the stone—blinding beneath the sun—and in the same breath, I straightened my spine.
The moment I emerged, the soldiers stirred.
A tremor passed through the line of them, subtle but unmistakable: a shift in stance, a quiet scrape of sandals, the almost imperceptible lift of chins. Helmets tilted. Gazes locked.
Whispers rode the breeze, barely audible but keen enough to cut.
One of them stepped forward, broad-shouldered and clad in armor. He moved like someone used to being obeyed, but his stride faltered for half a second as his eyes met mine.
His olive-eyed gaze crept across my face like a hand. Not lecherous. Just stunned.
I knew that look. I’d seen it my whole life.
His hand clenched tighter around his spear, the tip dipping slightly before he caught himself. His chin lowered … just a fraction.
“Kállos,”he murmured.
Beauty.
The word slid over my skin. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard it. Not the hundredth. But here, in this place, on the tongue of a man wrapped in Sparta’s blood-red bronze?
It felt like rot beneath perfume.
My jaw locked, but I didn’t flinch or speak. I kept my face serene and untouched. Beneath the veil of composure though, my stomach coiled tight with revulsion.
Let them look. Let them choke on it.
Even with dust and dirt on my clothes, and my hair a mess, their gazes caught and clung. I didn’t need silk or scent to hold power.
I was power.
Beneath my cloak, the creature shifted again, the soft twitch of him against my ribs steady as breath. He’d slipped into the cloak’s inner pocket when I’d moved to get up, and now he waited there. Silent and alert, like he knew this wasn’t a friend.
“Are you here for the Trials?” the soldier asked, his eyes still fixed on my face as though he couldn’t look anywhere else.
I nodded, forcing my chin high, refusing to let it dip.
“Which one are you?”
“Helena of Amyklai—” my mother began.
“Helena the Beauty,” he cut in, his voice becoming almost enamored. His gaze lagged over me, as though he meant to measure the stories against the flesh standing in front of him.
“You’re late,” he said at last. “We were expecting you yesterday.”
“There was some trouble on the road,” my mother replied, her tone tight.
His mouth pressed thin, doubt flickering across his face. He hesitated, then gestured toward the entrance. “The ceremony begins soon. If you’re not inside, it will be counted as treason.” A faint, almost reluctant smile touched his lips. “Though I can’t imagine anyone in Sparta bold enough to condemn a face worth waiting for.”
I smiled automatically, the way I’d been taught to whenever flattery found me, but I was still inwardly panicking at the reminder that I was going into the ceremony late.
My mother moved at once, her black veil catching the light as she stepped after him—not glancing back to see if I followed.
Of course she didn’t. I wasn’t meant to be coaxed … I was meant to comply.
And I would.
