Chapter 18 #2
Not the scraggly, dust-riddled plots the rest of Sparta pretended still grew, not the brittle herbs clinging to cracked stone near temple walls.
This was lush. Alive. Menelaus’s garden …
everyone had heard about it, whispered stories of flowers kept alive while children drank dust. He was the only one in Sparta who still had one, they said, fed by water better spent on mouths.
Hearing about it was one thing. Seeing it, however, was something else entirely.
I stood frozen, surrounded by … roses.
Not the wilted sketches etched in ancient books, not the embroidered symbols stitched into temple cloth, but living things, blooming in defiance of the curse that the rest of Sparta was under.
They spilled from the red soil in tangled clusters, thorned and wild, their petals the color of fresh wounds.
I stood frozen, watching them sway in the still night air.
I reached out with a trembling finger, part of me expecting them to vanish beneath my fingers. It was soft though, impossibly soft, as though the curse on the rest of Sparta had simply forgotten it.
Stunned, I exhaled and moved closer.
Thorns brushed my finger, and before I could pull away, one bit into my skin, a quick, unforgiving sting. Hissing, I yanked my hand away, staring as blood welled bright against my fingertip and spilled in small drops down to the soil below.
Red on red. A secret offering … or maybe the price of such a place.
Something flashed to my left and I turned. Moonlight had caught on metal, glinting through a break in the hedgerow. I moved toward it, pushing past a curtain of overgrown roses, thorns scraping my skirts.
The path curved for a moment before opening up and revealing wide marble columns that ringed a flat expanse of packed, dark earth. I immediately recognized it for what it was: a sparring court.
Steel sliced the air. A blade spun, fast and gleaming, and then … Achilles.
Bare-chested, his skin gleamed with sweat, every taut line of him alive with motion. He spun, lunged, turned, his blade flashing with every strike.
I couldn’t look away.
I’d heard stories of him all through my teenage years. The Fates had been at his cradle, murmuring his doom like a lullaby. Gods had touched him, cursed him, maybe even loved him a little.
And now here he was, alone in the moonlight, fighting ghosts no one else could see.
He spun, his blade a ribbon of silver cutting through the night.
I watched drops of sweat trace down his perfect abdomen.
His hair was darkened from his exercise, and it clung to his neck and jaw, wild, as if it answered to no hand but his own.
He lunged, turned, spun again, each movement brutal and beautiful.
For a moment I forgot to breathe.
No one had warned me that beauty could look like that. That a warrior’s strength could be so hypnotic, so utterly divine.
Maybe he should have been giving me lessons on seduction instead of Hetairis.
I shifted and a pebble danced off my sandal, skittering across the paved path in front of me.
He froze mid-swing, the blade suspended in air as he turned toward the sound. His eyes locked on me across the space, and heat flared in my cheeks, fierce and unrelenting. I was quite certain I’d never blushed this hard in my life.
Thank the gods he couldn’t see them under this veil.
I melted awkwardly where I stood, unsure if I was more breathless or embarrassed.
Achilles slowly lowered his blade, staring at me with a kind of quiet intensity that made the space between us buzz.
I tried to find my voice but failed.
We continued to stare at each other across the sparring ring, neither of us moving. The air between us crackled and I watched as his chest rose and fell, the only motion in a world that seemed to have gone still.
He moved.
Each step pressed the silence tighter until it felt ready to snap.
Moonlight kissed his face, catching in the shadows beneath his jaw, sliding across the dark blue of his eyes.
There was a faint scar that curved through his brow that I hadn’t noticed before.
Sweat that traced the hollows of his throat.
And his mouth, gods … had there ever been a prettier one?
You’re staring at him like he’s a piece of hotchgotten, Helena. You should probably run.
My inner voice was strong, but his gaze was apparently stronger because I still couldn’t move.
“You shouldn’t be out here, Helena,” Achilles finally said, his voice edged with something that slid along my skin.
I startled, my hand flying to my chest.
It took me far longer than it should have to answer him. “How did you know it was me?”
His gaze didn’t waver. “That’s not the question.” His tone deepened, insistent. “The question is … why are you out here?”
“Not trying to be scolded by you, obviously,” I finally replied, proud that my voice came out more than a gasp … or worse, a squeak.
His lips curled up in what could almost pass for a flicker of amusement. “Scolded?” he echoed. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”
I shrugged, feigning nonchalance even as my heart tried to punch a hole through my ribs. “What else would you call it? Unless you just enjoy lurking shirtless in gardens and startling women who’ve clearly lost their minds.”
“I wasn’t lurking,” he said, taking a single step forward. “I was training. Something Menelaus expects of me. I can assure you … he doesn’t expect this from you.”
“I wasn’t lurking either,” I lied, holding my ground. “Just … momentarily disoriented by the sweating and glistening and terrifying displays of strength.”
That flicker of a smile deepened. “Should I apologize for that too?”
“I think you should apologize for the moonlight,” I blurted out, more heat crawling up my neck. No wonder Hetairis was sure I was going to fail this Trial. I was terrible at this. It was like I hadn’t been trained at all.
I had the urge to rip off my veil but managed to control myself … barely.
He took another step toward me. “And why is that?”
I coughed. Because it’s doing you all sorts of favors, I thought to myself.
“Ah,” he said, tilting his head. “So it’s the moon’s fault you were staring?”
Gods. I’d said that out loud as well. Maybe I’d gone mad. Something had to explain why I was only capable of embarrassing myself around this man.
“Staring?” I scoffed, spinning on my heel and thanking the gods he couldn’t see the flush still creeping up my neck. “Please. I was admiring the roses.”
“Of course,” he murmured, suddenly behind me. “Though next time, you might want to admire something that doesn’t make you bleed when touched.”
So not you, then, I thought to myself as I glanced down at my finger where the blood had already begun to crust at the edge.
And then I realized … he’d noticed I was bleeding. That meant he’d been watching me right back.
“It’s a little late to be training,” I finally said, wanting to venture to a safer topic if I couldn’t drag myself away from him like I needed to.
He glanced back toward the palace, then at his blade. “I train when I can. The days are … too full of ceremony.”
I cocked my head, bile rising in my throat with the thought of how the palace danced and toasted while the rest of Sparta buried their dead.
“What, the endless parade of parties and celebrations are too much for you?” I snapped, the words bitter as ash, Calismae’s letter still burning behind my ribs.
The moment they left my mouth, I winced.
Gods, that had been disrespectful. I was sure the king had stricken others down for less, and this was his captain I was talking to.
But Achilles didn’t bark a reprimand. Didn’t scowl or stalk off or draw his blade to gut me like I half feared.
Instead, he looked at me, really looked at me, like he was seeing something new. Something he hadn’t expected.
His brows lifted slightly. Just a flicker. And then, “Something like that,” he murmured.
I glanced sideways, heart thudding. He didn’t sound upset. If anything, he sounded … surprised.
A curious reaction.
The silence stretched, long enough that the echo of my words faded into the night. He let out a breath and then sheathed his blade with a smooth motion and crossed to a nearby column, bracing one hand against it as if he suddenly needed the support. His forearm flexed, golden in the torchlight.
“You still haven’t told me why you dared Nomiki’s wrath and came out here,” he said after a moment.
My throat tightened. The words pushed up, jagged and ugly. “I received my first letter from home tonight. I found out that a child died.”
His body went still. I wasn’t sure why I was telling him this, but now that the words were out, I couldn’t stop more from coming.
“One of our neighbors. Their youngest daughter. She ate something, bad grain, maybe, and then got sick. Of course, there was nothing to do to help her, no resources to make her well.”
Achilles didn’t speak. The shadows clung to his face, unreadable.
I swallowed, hard. “You’d think I’d be used to it by now,” I whispered, more to myself than him. “Someone’s always getting sick. Someone’s always dying.”
A breeze tugged at my veil. I caught it before it slipped back, my fingers trembling as I tucked it into place.
“Sometimes,” I continued, eyes still fixed on the stone path, “it feels like I’m watching them all die from behind glass. I’ve been training for years … while everyone I’m training for disappears.”
Achilles stepped closer, the air tightening around us, his warmth pressing against my back like the edge of a flame.
“And the worst part is,” I said forlornly, “even after all that training … I think I’m failing.”
The silence that followed settled like weight in the air, dense and waiting, until—
“You’re not failing.”
I turned and scoffed. “And how would you know that? Visited the concubines’ quarters lately?” I lifted an eyebrow, a little proud of how the captain’s cheeks darkened.
He cleared his throat. “I know what I see,” he said simply. “A girl who turned Menelaus’s eye and wouldn’t accept defeat.”
“I still won’t accept it,” I said staunchly.
His gaze locked on mine even through the veil. “Then fight.”
I blinked at him, caught off guard.
“Not every battle is won with blades,” he said. “But you still need to know your weapons.”
My breath caught. “And if my weapons are failing me?”
His eyes darkened. “Helena.” My name was a hush, a thunderclap. “You are already a weapon. You just don’t know how to aim.”
Something tightened in my chest. He said it like he believed it, like he meant every word.
He turned then, staring out into the courtyard again, the tension in his body more obvious now. “This place,” he murmured, “will crush you if you let it. It doesn’t care if you’re noble or clever or kind. It only cares if you bend.”
“And you?” I asked, stepping closer. “Did you bend?”
His smile was a bitter thing. “No. But I was already broken before I got here.”
I frowned, not sure what he meant by that.
The wind stirred and the moon slid behind a cloud, casting us into brief shadow before peeking through again. He looked down at me then, something unreadable in his expression. “It’s a shift change right now, but another guard will be at your door soon. You should go.”
“I know,” I said. But I didn’t move.
Neither did he.
The silence stretched again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable anymore. It buzzed.
And then, just before I forced myself to turn away, he said softly, “I think you’ll win.”
I froze, then frowned.
His words didn’t seem like a compliment. There was no warmth in them. Just something tight, reluctant, like the truth had been pulled from his mouth against its will. His jaw flexed, eyes narrowing slightly, as if the thought tasted bitter even as he gave it voice.
I wasn’t sure what to think about that.
“Goodnight, Helena.”
I nodded once. “Goodnight.” And then I turned, the ache in my chest strangely soothed, and slipped back into the shadows.
But I could feel him watching me.
And gods help me, I wanted him to.
The tunnel seemed endless as I retraced my steps, pulse quick with the knowledge that a guard might appear at any corner. By the time I reached my door, relief hit so hard I almost sagged against the frame … no one stood there yet. I pushed inside quickly, closing it behind me with a quiet click.
Roz was still on my pillow, tail flicking. It squeaked once, pointedly, like it was trying to scold me.
“I know,” I muttered, peeling back the veil from my face. “That was reckless.”
Roz tilted its head, gaze unblinking. Judging.
“You don’t have to look at me like that,” I whispered, sinking onto the bed. “I made it back, didn’t I?”
Another squeak.
“I know what you’re thinking, but running into him wasn’t part of the plan. I didn’t even have a plan.” I had no idea why I was telling it this; it’s not like it knew I’d run into Achilles.
I was probably trying to reassure myself.
Roz blinked at me and then padded forward, settling on my lap like it had decided I’d suffered enough. I curled around it, trying not to think about the letter, and how desperate I was to win.
Or Achilles’s blue eyes staring at me in the garden.