Red dust whipped into the crowd like thrown daggers. A few gasps and cries broke the unnatural silence as people shielded their faces, their cloaks flapping like torn sails.
My eyes caught on the base of the platform, where something massive shifted in the shadows. I followed the shape upward. Slowly. Reluctantly … to the cage.
It was a rusted mass of bars, bolted directly into the platform’s spine. Metal scabbed over with old blood and blackened prayer runes. And inside—
It.
The Aetherthorn.
My gaze crawled up its coiled form: the heave of ribs, the sick twitch of muscle fighting itself. Its gray hide flexed with every breath, puckered with old wounds, the red light slicking across it like oil on stone.
My heart stumbled and my feet almost stumbled with it as I ascended the steps of the platform.
I couldn’t look away.
The Aetherthorn didn’t look majestic—or even monstrous. It lookedbroken.
Thick limbs ended in yellowed claws that scraped the cage floor in uneven rhythm, a sound like teeth grinding on rust. Its black wings were bound tight with copper chains, completely useless. There was nothing more tragic than the way they moved, not quite limp, not quite still.
Hopeful.
As though some part of the beast still believed it might one day fly again.
Its eyes were twin orbs of milky white, each one cut through by an old gash, and they stared straight ahead, as if they were searching for a future long since torn away. Two short, wrinkled trunks coiled before its muzzle, twitching restlessly, scenting the filled square.
Sparta blinded its Aetherthorns after capture. A cruelty paraded as control. As if stealing their sight could sever their power—or make them forget what they were born to do.
Another deep, shuddering exhale rattled the bars of the cage, and I struggled not to flinch as the sound rolled outward—and with it, the silence broke. Breath rushed back into the crowd, gasps and cries spilling free as though the creature had drawn the fear from our chests and then released it again. The metal groaned, and I couldn’t tell if it was from the beast … or the weight of our collective fear.
I forced my legs to move, each step scraping through the red dust that clung to everything it touched. As I climbed the platform, the air grew heavier, thicker, until it felt like breathing through ash.
When I reached the top, I turned slightly, scanning the sea of faces below until I found Calismae. She stood near the front, her chin lifted, her expression hard. When our eyes met, she gave a single, crisp nod that was actually a silent command.Stand straight. Show them who you are.
I obeyed.
Nikandros spread his arms in theatrical grace. “Behold,” he said in a voice slick with pride. “We have been favored with a beauty that surpasses any other in Sparta. Surely through her, Amyklai will rise again.”
A murmur surged through the crowd, awe and envy and something else. Not quite hope, more like a grasping faith, a desperate belief that if I succeeded, they might be saved along with me.
I stood beside Nikandros, my hands clasped before me so tightly my knuckles whitened, every muscle in my body straining against the urge to move. To reach for him. To tear that smug, sanctimonious smile from his face and make him choke on the blood he’d spilled in the name of the gods he’d betrayed.
“The gods will return!” a voice suddenly cried, ringing through the square like a prophecy. “Tell our king their silence is not surrender!”
A shocked hush swept through the gathered bodies, a single, shivering breath drawn all at once. The Hippeus shifted, metal scraping as they searched for the source.
Nikandros’s head snapped toward the crowd. “Who said that?” he roared, the veneer gone from his tone. “Who dares insult our king?”
No one answered.
The crowd shifted uneasily, the sound of movement spreading like wind through dry grass. Faces turned away, eyes dropped to the ground. One by one, they stepped back, creating a widening circle in the sea of bodies. Each desperate to prove their innocence by distance alone.
The air thickened with fear as a woman was revealed.
My mouth dropped in surprise when I saw Thalessa, the town healer.
Her gray hair had come loose from its braid, strands catching the light as she stood, unflinching, in the center of the agora. Her hands trembled, but her chin was high. “The gods have not abandoned us,” she said in a steady voice. “It iswewho turned our backs first. It was we who helped the king push them away. They will return. And when they do, they’ll remember who cursed their name.” Her gaze went to me. “Youmust not make that mistake.”
Another ripple of gasps broke through the crowd. I felt my stomach drop, a sick, spiraling weight pulling me under.
