Chapter 31
The dancers moved like river currents in front of our thrones, unpredictable, untamed, each step warping the air around them. Silk clung to their sweat-slick skin as hips rolled and ribbons flew.
A silver tray had been placed before me, piled with roasted lamb, honeyed dates, glistening pomegranate seeds, and saffron-soaked rice. Sweet. Spiced. Divine. I picked at it, careful to pace myself. It was strange having an appetite … actually enjoying my food.
I’d spent so long with a stomach knotted by worry that I’d almost forgotten what it felt like to want something.
It was easier though to enjoy food when I knew my village would be able to eat tonight.
It also helped that Achilles had disappeared, and I didn’t have to worry about heated glances every time our gazes crossed.
An aulos shrieked a high, trembling note as the tempo surged. Fingers danced over lyre strings as laughter burst from a nobleman just left of the throne. He tipped his goblet mid-chuckle, crimson wine spilling down his sleeve like blood.
The dancers spun harder.
Anklets clinked as silks snapped in time, their bare feet striking the marble in a driving rhythm. Bodies twisted and arms cut through the air, elegant and merciless all at once. Their frenzy built with the music, beauty unraveling into something wild.
Nomiki had said yesterday there would be a feast. A night meant to show the kingdom the magnificence of their queen, one who could wear a crown and smile and revel like the rest of them.
And for a fleeting moment … I let myself pretend.
Pretend that I lived in a Sparta that could afford to celebrate like this.
A male grunt cut through the music, and I turned instinctively, my eyes widening.
Pinned between two columns in the shadows was Hetairis.
Her palms were pressed flat to the marble, her body braced and her knees spread as one of Menelaus’s advisors, Damos, with his gold-trimmed robes and eagle tattoo, thrust into her, hard and careless.
His tunic was bunched at his waist, and his teeth were bared in some mockery of a smile as he gripped her hips like reins.
His hand slid up and fisted in her hair, yanking her head back so her face tilted toward the ceiling. He said something I couldn’t hear, something that made his shoulders shake with laughter.
Hetairis arched for him, lips parting on a breathy laugh of her own. Her hands braced against his thighs, guiding him deeper, her body meeting every brutal thrust with eagerness. She tossed her hair back like a performer stepping into the spotlight.
For a moment, it was almost convincing. Almost.
But then I caught the truth in her eyes, how they were flat beneath the painted glamour, reflecting torchlight instead of pleasure. Her movements were practiced, not passionate; a routine, not a hunger.
My stomach tightened.
Where was the power she’d promised me? Why wasn’t she wielding it, turning the room to her will? If this was mastery, it looked too much like survival.
Was that what waited for me … survival? No, I tried to assure myself. Being queen was far different than being a concubine.
As if sensing the shift in me, Hetairis’s gaze snapped up and our eyes locked.
She straightened, rolling her hips with exaggerated enthusiasm, baring her teeth in what might have passed for a seductive smirk to anyone else. A mocking little lift of her chin followed, as if to say, See? I choose this. I command this.
But it was all wrong.
Her smirk faltered almost as soon as it formed, slipping like a mask that no longer fit.
My throat tightened. I jerked back toward my food, not wanting to watch her shame. I forced another bite of fig past my tongue, but the honey had turned bitter. Ashy. Dead.
“A vision,” King Menelaus announced, his gaze briefly flicking over to Hetairis before focusing on me. “How can anyone else exist anymore now that I’ve found you?”
I turned, startled, and met his gaze. His eyes were dragging over me like wine down a goblet’s curve, savoring … sure.
“Even Aphrodite herself would have hid her face in shame were she to stand beside you.”
“You flatter me, Your Majesty,” I murmured, trying to sound charming since I’d scarcely spoken to the man the entire night.
He leaned in, his voice dropping to something conspiratorial. “Flatter? Hardly. That goddess was always nothing but a jealous little bitch.” His smile sharpened. “We were all better off once I cast her out.”
My eyes widened, a dozen questions leaping to my tongue—but before I could voice even one of them, a loud grunt, grotesque in its pleasure, tore through the music and shattered my spiraling thoughts.
Damos had finished, evidently.
I reached for my goblet with careful fingers, trying to ignore Hetairis’s gaze as she walked into my eyesight and leaned against the wall for a moment. A second later another noble pulled her into his chest …
“My beauty,” Menelaus murmured beside me, his voice thick with wine and pride. “Are you ready?”
My head turned toward him slowly. “Ready?” I echoed.
He smiled like my confusion was … charming. “It’s time.”
That didn’t answer anything. Time for what?
My thoughts scrambled as I flipped through Nomiki’s list from yesterday. First, I would enter the room. Then the dancing and the feast and then—
The dancers stilled mid-spin, their limbs suspended in air like they too had forgotten what came next as the High Priestess glided into the room, coming to a halt beneath a statue of Menelaus.
My pulse ticked faster. The next part. Of course.
The sacrifice.
That was the final item of the night, wasn’t it? A sacrifice meant to bless our union, a tradition, just like the wine and the dancing. I wasn’t sure why there had to be a sacrifice at all though if the only god we were allowed to pay tribute to was sitting next to me.
I swallowed hard, my gaze drifting to the gleaming altar beneath the statue’s feet.
What poor creature would meet its end tonight? A lamb, maybe. Or a goat. A milk cow, if they were feeling particularly grand. It would be a waste no matter what. Such a beast could feed half a village. And I doubted Menelaus would care either way.
Footsteps rang out in harsh rhythm, each one echoing against the marble floor. I straightened instinctively, my eyes locking on the two guards striding toward the center of the room who were dragging something between them.
At first, I couldn’t make out what it was, just a slumped form swaying limply.
A streak of red caught the torchlight, vivid and copper-bright, spilling across a bare shoulder like it had been brushed there by mistake.
My stomach dropped. I leaned forward, unblinking, every part of me suddenly ice. That wasn’t a cloth, or a banner. It wasn’t a trick of the firelight. I knew that hair.
I whirled toward Menelaus, the beginnings of a question rising in my throat, but he only sipped his wine, the corner of his mouth twitching upward like he was enjoying himself. I looked back as the girl shifted.
A tremor ran through her limbs as her head lifted, slow and dragging like it weighed more than the rest of her body combined. Wide eyes met mine.
“Anysa.” Her name slipped from my lips, hoarse and horrified, as if saying it could undo what I was seeing. My legs moved before my thoughts could catch up. I stood, swaying slightly, the paint on my skin suddenly suffocating. “What is this?” I asked, my voice too loud. “Is she to be sacrificed?”
The music faltered and a few heads turned. But the king didn’t even flinch.
Menelaus lifted his goblet in a lazy arc, lounging back like this was the most natural thing in the world. “She was the runner-up,” he said. “It is her privilege to offer herself in honor of our union. For Sparta.”
I blinked. “Privilege?”
“She volunteered,” Menelaus said casually, as if announcing the weather. “Or at least, she agreed.”
The words didn’t land at first. They floated, nonsense and noise … until they pierced.
Volunteered. Agreed.
“What?” The word rasped out of me, thick with disbelief. My thoughts pitched sideways. No. No, I’d seen her just yesterday. Laughing. Her hands had shaken when she hugged me. She’d said I saved her life. She’d thanked me.
This—this couldn’t be the same girl.
“When?” I breathed, reeling. “When did she—” I couldn’t finish.
Because there she was, being lowered to her knees in front of Menelaus’s statue, her palms pressed against the marble. She looked so small. Like a child trying to be brave.
I turned to Menelaus again. “You said she volunteered—” The words tangled. “Why would she do that? Why would Anysa choose that at all?”
Even as the question left me, the answer rose on its own and my breath hitched. “What … what did you offer her?” Because there had to have been something. Something he’d dangled before her until she saw no other path.
“She was given a choice,” he replied, his voice still frustratingly patient.
“The runner-up is always sacrificed in these trials. She could either face her death willingly, and her village be richly rewarded with enough grain and gold to last a generation. Or she could refuse, and her village be shamed.”
No one had ever explained that was the fate of the runner-up. Surely that would have been passed down somewhere along the way.
“She’s innocent—she—she didn’t lose. She wasn’t meant to—”
“It was her choice,” Menelaus interrupted gently, finally turning his head to look at me. There was no anger in his expression. No malice. Only certainty.
“She is not you. And so she will serve in the way Sparta requires.” He lifted the goblet higher, his voice ringing louder now. “As is tradition. As Sparta demands. She understands this.”