Chapter 23
The courtyard held its breath while drums beat a rolling, grinding rhythm, like a countdown I couldn’t stop.
Midday sun bled down from a merciless sky, gilding the white stone in heat and shadow. Marble columns stood like sentinels around the space, draped in crimson banners that fluttered slackly in the breeze, each embroidered with Menelaus’s symbol of power.
High winds had hit hard after I’d returned from the common room last night. Now, the aftermath stained everything. Red dirt streaked the once-pristine flagstones beneath my feet, coating the cracks and grooves like old blood. Rose petals lay scattered and torn, their stems snapped like kindling.
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 ever waver.”
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.
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 he moved.
“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 just watched her, 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 and beautiful, 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.
“Again!” Achilles called as a third soldier, broad and scarred, lunged from the right, his sword cutting low near her waist. I saw the tip of his blade pass so close it tugged the edge of her tunic.
Still, no flinch.
My fingers curled tightly and I bit the inside of my cheek, eyes locked on her.
Just a little longer …
“Strike!” Achilles swept in on her left, blade cutting high. A lock of her hair was shorn from the braid and fell to the stone.
Anysa didn’t even tense.
The courtyard held its breath, but the bell remained silent and still. The soldiers stepped back as one. The High Priestess raised her hand, her voice ringing out across the square. “She has passed.”
Anysa was practically dancing with joy as she turned and walked back toward us. I bit down on a grin and let the breath I’d been holding finally escape.
“Chloé,” the High Priestess called.
Chloé sauntered forward like she owned the courtyard, hips swaying as she walked. Anysa snorted next to me. “Does she think this is a dance?”
I watched as the soldiers surrounded her. Achilles’s first strike was a lazy pass near Chloé’s thigh.
She didn’t move.
The second brushed past her elbow. The third skimmed just below her jaw, light and restrained … unfairly so.
The soldiers had tested her with three barely there passes.
“She has passed,” the High Priestess declared.