Servants darted around the edges of the courtyard, their arms full of soaked cloths and shattered blooms. They had been scrubbing furiously at the sculptures and benches all morning, chasing the dirt that clung like a curse. Every motion reeked of urgency, of fear … of the need to make things perfect again.
I stood barefoot in the center of it all with the other women, sweat slick on the back of my neck, a thin line of it trailing between my shoulder blades beneath the ceremonial linen shift and my veil.
The High Priestess stepped forward and raised her arms. “Today,” she called, her voice carrying over the crowd, “the Trial will test your composure. Your ability to be still under pressure.”
I lifted an eyebrow at the very familiar word.
“To rule,” the High Priestess continued, “is to not falter. A queen must not everwaver.”
Her gaze swept over us, landing on each veiled figure in turn. “One ring of the bell during your turn,” she said, “and you are dismissed. One sound … and you are unfit to rule.”
The crowd stirred, hungry.
Behind her, attendants moved down the line. Thin silk cords were tied around each of our wrists, and at the end of each one … small silver bells. Polished to gleam.
I stood still as a girl stepped forward to bind mine, the bell quivering lightly before settling against my skin. It was small and delicate, but its weight pressed against me like a consequence.
One chime, and I’d fail the trial.
Stillness, Achilles had said the night before, when the air didn’t smell like nervous sweat.Don’t flinch.His words made a lot of sense now.
At the edge of the square, King Menelaus sat sprawled beneath a crimson canopy, a goblet of wine in one hand, the other resting heavily on the arm of his wooden throne. He was draped in gold-threaded robes, sweat glinting at his throat. He looked bored.
Around him, nobles whispered behind feathered fans and lacquered goblets, some leaning forward as if they could taste our unraveling already. Their eyes glittered with a quiet, ravenous interest. Like the first Trial, this didn’t feel like a ceremony. It felt like entertainment.
At least there were no strange herbs churning through my veins this time.
The drums surged and at the far end, measured footsteps rang against the walkway. Heads turned as Achilles and four other soldiers emerged at the top of the palace steps, the red-streaked stone bright beneath their feet.
Achilles didn’t spare the crowd a glance, and their silence as they watched him approach was its own form of homage.
Bare-armed and dressed in dark training leathers, he carried a gleaming sword in one hand, casual as a thought. He was sun-dark and sweat-slick, every line of him honed to perfection. His hair was pulled back, a few golden-brown strands slipping loose to graze his brow, and his shoulders shifted with each unhurried step, lethal in their ease.
When his eyes met mine, it hit. Like the first drop before rain.
The soldiers stopped ten paces away from where we’d been told to stand.
In front of me, Anysa let out a breath that sounded far too dreamy for a trial. “If he looks at me for too long, I might just drop the bell and beg him to marry me.”
Chloé’s glare cut sideways like a thrown knife. “He doesn’t waste breath on girls who dream out loud.”
Anysa bristled. “Jealousy’s unbecoming.”
Chloé tilted her head. “So is desperation. But I suppose Achilles feels more attainable for someone like you than the king, doesn’t he?”
The bell at my wrist shook with the snap of my annoyance, the sound obvious enough that Anysa shot me a warning look, sensing the crack in my control. I drew a breath, forcing courage back into my spine and trying not to think about Achilles with any of the women around me.
Because I don’t care.
Or at least that’s what I needed to keep telling myself.
“Once you step forward for your turn, your bell must not ring,” the High Priestess instructed, yanking Chloé’s attention away from me. “All eyes forward,” she continued, each word soaked with authority. “No whispers. No movement. You will watch in silence. Every breath, every step, every slip matters. Let the Trial commence.”
This was it. No turning back now.
“Theia,” the High Priestess called.
Theia stepped forward, shoulders squared, chin lifted like she could trick her body into believing it wasn’t shaking. Her feet moved with purpose, but her steps landed just a shade too quickly, betraying her nerves. She stopped at the center of the courtyard, facing the soldiers as they moved to surround her, swords gripped tight in their hands, eyes hard beneath their helmets.
