Because pieces didn’t win the game by refusing the board. They won by reaching the other side.
The soldier led us toward the gaping entrance, where more guards waited in a line of silent menace, their eyes tracking me beneath their helmets. My breath caught as the shadows of the archway swallowed me whole.
Gone was the pale stone of the outer reliefs, the sun-bleached illusion of purity. Inside, the palace bled red and gold. Wool banners draped the walls in heavy folds, the sigil of Menelaus stitched again and again in silver thread. Gilded trim lined the corridors, catching torchlight like serpents coiled in luxury.
Even the floor gleamed with power—varnished crimson, so polished it looked wet beneath our feet. Columns stretched high overhead, thick as tree trunks and coated in the red of a butcher’s basin, rising into a vaulted ceiling that pulsed with the weight of history and conquest.
This was no home.
It was a mouth. And we had just stepped into its jaws.
Blinking hard, I tried to take it all in. Servants scrubbed in the corners, their cloths chasing the ever-returning dust with frantic precision. The scent of polished gold, burning wood, and incense clung to everything, heady and sweet enough to choke. My eyes watered.
The shadows seemed to writhe, following our steps. How many people did it take to keep all of this gleaming? How many backs bent each morning to chase the illusion of perfection—knowing full well the dust would return?
A statue of Menelaus loomed at the end of the corridor. The figure was massive, merciless, a thunderbolt clenched in one hand as though ready to strike. But the longer I looked, the clearer it became that it hadn’t always been his. The stance, the robes, even the curl of the beard—it had been Zeus once. The king hadn’t ordered a new god carved; he’d simply stolen the old one’s face and made it his own. Now Menelaus stared down from the marble, eyes angled to follow every step, his thunderbolt raised mid-judgment as if daring the heavens to take it back.
I stared up at him, my pulse drumming in my ears. Was this how he saw himself? All-powerful, eternal, untouchable? What was he going to be like in real life?
The soldier was suddenly beside me, closer than before, his steps quick to match mine. “It’s a new commission,” he said eagerly, seizing the chance to speak to me. “The king ordered it last moon. Said it was time Sparta remembered who holds the thunder now.” His voice carried a touch too much pride, as though he hoped my attention might stay on him for saying it.
I plastered a polite, interested smile on my face.
“We shouldn’t linger,” my mother said softly, dipping her head in a gesture of deference.
The soldier straightened at once and strode forward, his spine rigid with duty.
Squeak.
I froze, breath locking in my throat. The sound, small and sudden … and traitorous, cut through the corridor.
My mother’s steps stuttered. Her veil twitched as she snapped her head toward me, horror bleeding from her even without seeing her face.
“What was that?” she hissed, falling into step beside me, her voice low and razor-edged.
Panic climbed up my spine. I opened my mouth to lie … but I didn’t get the chance.
The little betrayer moved. I felt it shift under my cloak, then burst from the folds like a shot arrow. It hit the marble running, claws tapping in a furious rhythm that echoed off the vaulted walls like war drums.
My mother jolted back as if struck. Her foot stumbled mid-step, veil whipping as her arm flinched up to shield herself. “By the gods,” she breathed, as though she’d just witnessed a public stoning.
Before I could say anything—or lunge after it—her hand clamped around my arm.
“What are you doing?” She yanked me back, her fingers like shackles.
Her gaze darted down the corridor, searching for witnesses. The soldier leading us hadn’t seemed to notice, and the other guards stood still as statues in red-plumed helmets. No flickers of amusement. No tilts of their heads. They didn’t so much as blink. If they saw the creature, or our embarrassment, they buried it deep behind discipline and ingrained training.
My heart thundered. WhatwasI doing?
I stared at the glinting floor where it had vanished. The sound of its little feet still echoed through me. It was gone. “It’s nothing,” I said, too fast. “Just a mouse.”
My mother recoiled, a click of her tongue breaking the air, but there wasn’t time for reprimand. The soldier was already striding ahead, sandals slapping against the stone in brisk, impatient beats.
We quickened our pace to follow.
I scanned every corner as we walked, every flicker of movement in the shadows, every ripple of tapestry, hoping—no, straining—to see it again. But the corridor stayed still.
Somehow, impossibly, ithurt. Like something vital had just been cut out of my chest and carried away with it.
