Her eyes flicked between them, tracking every shift of weight, every twitch of a shoulder.
Achilles stood just left of her, his sword loose in his grip, his posture relaxed, lazy, and utterly deceptive.
Then hemoved.
“Strike!” he barked, and the sword slashed low across the air, a clean, controlled sweep that passed within a hair of her knee.
Theia somehow didn’t flinch. But she was watching Achilles now … and that was a mistake, because the soldier to her right was the next one to lunge, his sword slicing through the air with deadly precision. It veered off at the last second, aimed to miss, but it came fast.
Theia squeaked and jerked sideways, her wrist snapping up instinctively.
Chime.
The bell rang … clear, cruel, and final.
She gasped and stumbled back, mortified. The courtyard felt like it inhaled around her as Achilles lowered his sword without a word.
Two guards stepped forward and took her gently by the arms. She didn’t protest. Just followed, her eyes wide, her breath coming fast, the bell still swinging at her wrist like it was mocking her with every step.
Achilles turned back to us, blade at the ready. “Next,” he growled.
“Daphne,” the High Priestess called.
Daphne moved through the courtyard. She was the daughter of a noble from one of Menelaus’s favored villages. Taller than most of us, she was all long limbs and stunning angles, and she bowed before the soldiers.
They closed in around her, each soldier positioned at a point of the compass. None spoke. None moved. They justwatchedher, circling with their silence.
The first strike came fast.
The soldier to her left lunged forward, his blade arcing toward her shoulder before the air had time to catch up. She didn’t move.
Another soldier, older and heavier than the others, jabbed low toward her ankle, a brutal motion disguised as clean form.
Daphne held steady, no flinch or hitch in her breath.
“Strike!” Achilles moved, silent and precise, his body twisting in a full spin. The sword swept toward her side, not with force, but grace, controlled andbeautiful, slicing the edge of her tunic.
She flinched. It was a small reaction, just the barest tightening of her body, a quick pull of breath … but it was enough.
The bell on her wrist chimed, soft but damning.
The courtyard seemed to tilt around her. Her shoulders slumped, not with calm acceptance, but with the stunned disbelief of someone who had never expected to lose.
Achilles stepped back, his expression unreadable as a servant escorted her away.
“Anysa,” the High Priestess called.
Anysa straightened beside me. I leaned close, whispering, “Good luck,” just before she took a steadying breath and stepped forward.
My heart climbed into my throat as she walked toward the soldiers. Their eyes followed her as she moved, calculating and ready. She stopped at the center and lifted her chin, hands loose at her sides. The bell on her wrist swayed once, then stilled.
Please,I thought.Please pass.
A soldier struck, his blade slicing near her ankle in a sudden, precise sweep.
She didn’t move.
Another stepped in from behind her, the strike aimed for her shoulder, swift and silent. The wind stirred her veil. Anysa stayed perfectly still.
