She groaned again, louder this time. “Because it happened! I asked if I should lean back while I’m doing it, and she said, ‘Not unless you want to look like you’re struggling through a bowel movement.’”
I laughed harder than I meant to, wine sloshing in my cup. Anysa had a way of dragging laughter out of me, even with the first Trial still looming. It wasn’t relief exactly … but it was something. A breath in the middle of drowning.
Across the room, a disdainful look sliced our way.
Chloé’s cup hovered inches from her lips, but she didn’t drink. Just watched us, her eyes glittering with contempt.
She was from one of the favored villages—Kynosoura. Her father oversaw horse breeding for the king, and rumor had it her mother once served in the High Temple. She carried herself like someone who believed the crown already belonged to her.
Now, her amber-ringed eyes narrowed as if our joy was something vulgar. She hadn’t said much in the last two days, but her silences were pointed. Polished. Dangerous in their own right.
Anysa leaned closer and whispered, “She looks like she wants to pickle us in brine and serve us with olives.”
My mouth twitched. “With that demonic spoon.”
Chloé didn’t blink.
Neither did I.
Her gaze burned from across the room, chin tilted just enough to suggest superiority, like she was measuring me and finding me wanting. I let my face settle into stillness as I swirled what little wine was left in my cup.
Chloe held it for a moment … then her mouth twitched. A quick, forced blink followed, her gaze darting away for just a second.
Victory.
She masked it fast, turning to the girl beside her with a flippant laugh that came a little too late, and rang a little too false.
Anysa nudged my arm with a grin. “Well, well. That was very queenly of you. Cold and majestic. I feel like I should curtsy.”
I rolled my eyes but grinned.
Anysa leaned in. “So,” she whispered, eyes flicking toward the corridor as if the Trials might be lurking just out of sight, “you think they’re actually going to start tomorrow? Or is this all just some elaborate etiquette-based torture ritual?”
My grin faltered.
Every day they didn’t begin, the waiting burrowed deeper beneath my skin. The silence felt intentional now … like a game to see how long we could endure the uncertainty before one of us cracked.
“I don’t know,” I murmured, tightening my fingers around my cup. “But I’m starting to think the waiting is part of it.”
Anysa made a face. “Cruel. Brilliant. Quintessential Sparta.”
I opened my mouth to reply, but the mood shifted, visibly, tangibly, as the air behind us stirred.
A shadow passed over the entryway as Achilles stepped through.
He was sweat-slick and flushed, chest rising steadily beneath his open leather vest. Dirt smudged thepterugesat his waist, and a shallow cut curved just below his jaw—fresh, but already drying. His arms, corded with muscle, flexed as he adjusted the short blade at his hip, and more than one girl sat up a little straighter.
He looked like he’d just come from a sparring ring. Or a battlefield.
I tore my gaze away.
Through whispered gossip and too-loud speculation, I’d pieced together that Achilles hadn’t just been appointed captain of the king’s guard. He’d been entrusted with overseeing the security of the chosen during the Trials. Our security.
So why did it feel likehewas the danger every time we were in the same room?
His eyes swept the chamber. Assessing. Measuring. Then … pausing.
Anysa leaned close again. “That mandoes notlook like etiquette is part of his training.”
