Chapter 12
The High Priestess had finally noticed she’d lost him.
Her voice still carried through the hall, but she’d faltered for a moment, her gaze slipping past the line of veiled women … to me. I’d obviously had a veil on when she’d rejected me but it was easy to recognize a woman who’d shown up to the palace looking like she’d lost a battle with a jergin.
Her lips curled in something close to a snarl. With a sweep of ivory and gold, she strode forward until she was standing next to Menelaus’s throne.
“My king,” she said, her voice rising, cutting through the hush. “Behold your chosen.”
That finally drew his gaze.
Menelaus blinked once, as though waking, his head turning reluctantly toward her. Then, at last, his eyes moved to the line of veiled women.
“These women,” she said, gesturing to the silent row before her, “have not been chosen by the whims of man, but by the divine will of your power. Each bears the mark of the sacred. Each is a thread in the tapestry we are weaving for our kingdom. And from among them, one shall rise to stand beside you.”
One of the veiled women suddenly swayed. Her shoulders dipped, head tilting as if the floor had shifted beneath her. Her foot slid. Then her knees gave out, and she collapsed—hard—her body folding inward as she crumpled to the marble.
The other women jolted, their veils fluttering as gasps shivered down the line. Some shrank back, fists bunching in white cloth, as if her weakness might be contagious.
My eyes were wide as I stared, joining in with the people leaning forward and whispering to each other.
The High Priestess froze. Her composure shifted, the perfect mask slipping at the edges. Then she turned swiftly, the embroidered hem of her robes catching against her ankles as she dropped to her knees beside the fallen woman.
One hand pressed to the woman’s temple, the other hovering above her chest, trembling ever so slightly. Her amber beads clicked together with the motion, sudden and hurried.
“She merely fainted,” she said quickly, her voice thin and strained and a poor attempt at calm. “It’s the heat in the room, nothing more.”
She flicked her fingers at the attendants, trying to wave them over without looking like she was frantically summoning help.
A faint smile touched Menelaus’s mouth as he looked down at the woman collapsed before him, and he didn’t seem surprised at all. It was like he was seeing a plan unfold exactly as he’d intended.
I tilted my head, watching as he rose from his throne. His eyes lingered on the woman only a moment longer before they lifted to the crowd.
“Sparta’s queen cannot be frail,” he said, and his voice rolled over the gathering. “She must stand as my equal, not cower before my throne. If I am god made flesh, then she must be worthy to stand beside divinity itself.” His expression settled into certainty. “Dismiss her.”
The hush that followed was absolute.
The High Priestess lifted her gaze, a strain tightening the corners of her mouth.
“My king,” she began carefully, her voice pleading, “the woman’s fall may yet hold purpose—one revealed by your will, not ours.
Surely she would not have stood before your throne at all if your power had not drawn her here. ”
“Who am I?” Menelaus’s voice cracked through the hall, a sound that made the marble seem to tremble.
My throat went dry as the High Priestess lowered her gaze.
Around me, the court froze, every shoulder locked, every breath held.
A few hands twitched toward the hems of robes, the instinctive gesture of prayer to gods no longer welcome here.
One of the veiled girls shifted too quickly, and the soft rustle of her silk sounded deafening in the silence.
“Have you forgotten?” Menelaus demanded, stepping down from the throne with the steady prowl of a predator claiming its kill. “There are no gods above me. I have broken their temples, shattered their altars, and silenced their names.”
The lion’s pelt slid against his shoulder as he moved, regal and menacing, a mantle of conquest. “I am the god who remains,” he declared, his voice rising, filling every corner of the chamber. “The slayer of Olympus. The heir to its ruin. The fire that swallowed their thrones and forged my own.”
He stopped at the foot of the dais, the firelight catching his eyes until they burned like molten gold. “We are Sparta,” he roared, “not blessed, but made. Our strength is our worship. Our blood is our offering. When I speak, heaven listens—because I took its crown.”
Eyes glittering, he raised one arm and pointed.
At me.
“She will take her place.”
His words fell like a verdict carved in stone.
The hall erupted, heads snapping toward me as jewels clattered and shock surged through the crowd. Whispers flared through the air like fire catching oil, spreading wild and unstoppable.
“That one?”
“That’s Helena the Beauty!”
“But she’s already been dismissed.”
The noise swelled around me, a living thing of disbelief and envy. I didn’t shrink from it, lifting my chin and straightening my spine as their shock slid off me like sunlight breaking through cloud. Let them seethe.
Joy rose in my chest, filling every place that fear had hewn. My pulse raced with it. I had done it.
Against every sacred belief Sparta clung to, every tradition meant to keep me small, I had turned rejection into ascension. And it felt glorious.
Menelaus’s gaze remained locked on me, burning with something between fascination and hunger. I held it, unflinching, a knowing smile beaming across my lips.
The High Priestess leapt off the floor, her eyes wide and panicked. “My king,” she said, her hands lifting beseechingly, “that girl was not among the chosen. She was not marked—she—”
“Enough.”
Menelaus didn’t bellow. He didn’t need to. The single word struck the room, silencing her mid-sentence. “You’ve had your turn to speak for me. And clearly you were unable to hear properly today. I will not have another word from you.”
The High Priestess’s lips parted, then closed again, like a woman gasping for air that wasn’t there. Her spine remained straight, but something in her stature caved inward. She looked small, suddenly. Frail, despite her power and posture.
“I saw her,” Menelaus said, moving forward, his gaze fixed on me. “And I knew. A god does not need omens or flame. When I will something into being, it stands before me—and I take it.
“Step forward,” he commanded me. He didn’t glance at the girl who had fainted. Servants were already lifting her by the elbows, her veil askew, her limbs limp. One sandal dangled from her foot. She was hauled off like overturned furniture, unseen and unimportant.
“She cannot—” the High Priestess tried again, her voice rising like a final wave before the break.
Menelaus turned back to her, disdain flickering in his eyes. “You forget yourself,” he said viciously. “You serve me. I am your god.”
His head turned again toward me.
“She will compete.”
The room bowed to his proclamation.
And I rose with it.