Chapter 53 #2
The blade trembled inches above his chest, but some unseen force held it there, rigid, no matter how I strained. It was like a hand pressed hard against mine, barring me from the kill.
My teeth ground together in helpless fury. I didn’t know if this resistance belonged to the king’s power, woven into the air itself … or Theron’s interference, deliberate and infuriating, choosing to stay my hand.
I pressed harder, muscles burning, desperate to drive the steel down. But the resistance didn’t give. The invisible grip was stronger than me, stronger than my wrath, and the king slept on, his breath rattling, his chest bare and vulnerable beneath the useless blade.
Disgust surged through me, at Menelaus, at myself. At the thought of Theron, hovering at the edge of it all, whether he was responsible or not. With a cry, I hurled the sword to the floor. The clang rang out, mocking me in its echo.
I stood there, chest heaving, staring at the king. For one long second, I let myself imagine it—the blood spilling, the silence that would follow. Then I bent, snatched up the weapon, and shoved it back where it belonged at the bedpost. My hands shook as I turned away.
I left the chamber without a glance back, every step lighter than the last despite my failure.
When I pushed open the door to my rooms, ready to let the night soak into me, Achilles was waiting.
He caught me before I could tell him what happened, his hands cupping my face, his mouth crashing against mine. All the hunger pent up in our week apart broke free at once, heat and need sparking between us. I melted against him, kissing him back.
“I missed you. Every second of every day,” he murmured, his lips brushing along my jaw as he guided us back step by step. My knees hit the mattress, and he lowered me onto the bed, his mouth still pressing desperate kisses against my skin.
Suddenly, his body sagged, dead weight pinning me beneath him.
“Achilles?” I whispered shakily.
No answer.
Achilles was heavy and boneless as I pushed him off. He slumped onto the mattress beside me, his breaths deep and steady. He was fast asleep.
I stared, disbelief flooding me, before fury roared up to swallow it whole. My hands clenched in the sheets as I realized …
Bastard.
Of course.
This was Theron. It reeked of his interference … his games.
I wanted to storm down the corridors, to find Theron and hurl my anger straight into his smirking face. To demand he undo it.
But the thought tangled.
What if he did more than unravel Achilles’s sleep? What if he stripped the spell away entirely … what if he took back the one small mercy I had been given?
The risk pinned me where I was.
I let out a shaky breath and lowered myself onto the mattress, curling against Achilles’s solid warmth.
His chest rose and fell in an even rhythm, his arm slack against the coverlet.
I pressed my face into the hollow of his shoulder, clutching the fabric of his tunic as if I could wake him by sheer desire.
But he didn’t stir.
So I shut my eyes and let exhaustion drag me under, caught between the relief that Menelaus had been silenced, if only for a night, and the bitter truth that my freedom was still bound by another man’s hand.
“You know,” Theron said, falling into step beside us with the ease of a shadow, “if I didn’t know better, I’d say Sparta was compensating for something.”
Alcmene and I had been walking the long edge of the upper courtyard, the clatter of practice blades and the roar of shouted commands filling the air around us.
Theron’s eyes swept over the yard, where soldiers hammered shields against spears, each strike louder than the last. “All these swords and swinging egos. The way they puff their chests, you’d think war was a dance and they were all desperate to be picked for it.”
My gaze flicked down toward the training yard. Achilles was there, sweat-slicked, sword flashing. He hadn’t seen us yet, but Theron’s voice wasn’t exactly subtle.
Theron leaned in closer. “Do they always grunt so loudly? Or is that some kind of strange Spartan mating ritual?”
I cut him a disdainful glance. “I would think you’d be training with them. Unless you’re eager to embarrass yourself in battle.”
Theron’s mouth tipped upward, confidence rolling off him. “Embarrass myself? I’d only embarrass them. Imagine … trained their whole lives and still outdone by the wave of my hand.”
“Big claims,” Achilles’s voice suddenly rang out, carrying easily across the courtyard.
He strode toward us, helmet tucked under one arm, sweat darkening the edges of his tunic.
His eyes locked on Theron and hatred burned in their depths.
“I wonder if your hand moves so well when steel’s coming for your throat. ”
Theron studied him. “It moves well enough,” he said. “The real question is whose hand falters first, Captain. Yours … or mine?” He let the words hang just long enough to needle before adding with a careless shrug, “Either way, I’d be faster.”
The courtyard stilled.
Achilles snarled. “Why don’t you come here and show us what clever looks like with a blade in your hand?”
Theron glanced at me, then back at Achilles. “Well, if you’re asking so sweetly …”
He walked leisurely into the ring, drawing the blade Menelaus had gifted him with a flourish that caught the sun and scattered it in all directions.
Achilles stripped off his tunic and tossed it aside. Across from him, Theron still looked maddeningly relaxed. His smile insufferable as always.
“I’ll admit,” Theron murmured, clasping his hands behind his back, the sword dangling loosely. “I’ve been curious. They whisper about you in every corner. The legendary Achilles—Sparta’s war hound. I’ve been eager to see if the stories hold up.”
Achilles’s eyes narrowed as he stepped forward, shoulders broad, every line of him tense for a fight. “Funny,” he said menacingly. “You’ve heard of me. But until you slithered into Sparta, I’d never heard of you.”
Theron’s grin was edged with amusement, like he knew a joke Achilles and the rest of us hadn’t been let in on. “I doubt that’s the case, Captain. But on the off chance it is, then I’ll just have to correct that today.”
Achilles’s eyes didn’t flicker. “You like to talk, morosoph. Let’s see if you can still run your mouth when it’s full of blood.”
Theron chuckled at his insult. “I love the enthusiasm. Though I’d hate to ruin your reputation for brooding silence and unnecessary shirtlessness.”
“Better a bare chest than a hollow threat,” Achilles muttered.
Theron spread his arms in mock surrender. “You wound me, Captain. But enough talk, I’m ready to give my queen a show.”
Achilles growled and twirled his blade once. “She’s not your queen.”
Theron looked over his shoulder and winked at me. “Try not to be too impressed, Your Majesty,” he murmured, violet eyes flashing.
I scoffed—then nearly stumbled back as he moved.
Steel flashed, too quick for thought. Achilles barely brought his blade up in time, the ring of steel shivering through the courtyard like a peal of thunder. The crowd pressed closer, the crush of bodies tightening, hungry for blood.
I edged back though, my heart pounding.
Theron flowed like water, every strike a taunt, every feint a grin come to life. He darted in low, spun out high, his movements more dance than drill, mockery woven into every cut. Achilles met him head-on, brute force against cunning, each swing heavy enough to rattle the air.
At first, I thought the outcome was certain.
Achilles’s stance never faltered, his feet rooted as though the ground itself bowed to him.
His blade carved arcs of controlled destruction, precise, merciless, the embodiment of Ares’s wrath given flesh.
Each strike promised to break not just steel—but the man daring to stand against him.
But then … something shifted.
Theron started pushing him.
And he wasn’t just deflecting, he was advancing.
Blow after blow, he moved Achilles back step by step, his smile never quite fading, but his eyes …
Gods.
His eyes were different. Cold. Focused. Like something inside him had locked into place, and the rest of him was just following orders.
The crowd grew quieter.
Achilles bared his teeth. A snarl. A challenge. “Do you really think that your tricks can make you into a warrior?” he hissed.
Theron spun under a high swing and grinned. “No, but watching you sweat does wonders for morale.”
Achilles struck harder.
Steel clashed in a blistering rhythm. Achilles roared and lunged with a flurry of brutal strikes, left, right, high, low, relentless—meant to crush, to end.
Theron ducked the final strike, slid like water under Achilles’s arm, and came up behind him. In one motion, his sword kissed Achilles’s throat.
Gasps erupted around me. I wasn’t sure if mine was one of them.
Achilles went rigid, his chest heaving as a muscle jumped in his jaw.
The edge of Theron’s blade pressed in, just enough to bite. A single drop of blood welled up.
With a grunt Achilles twisted free, shoving Theron’s blade aside. The move should not have worked. I’d seen Theron counter sharper attacks with mocking ease moments before. Yet this time, he let him slip past.
Achilles lunged again … another strike I’d already watched Theron turn aside with ease. But this time, he didn’t. He twisted just enough to take the edge off, let the blade crash past, and his own sword slipped from his hand, clattering across the stones as Achilles bore him to a knee.
The courtyard roared, a tangle of cheers and confusion, triumph muddled with disbelief about how close the fight had been. My pulse hammered as the truth struck me.
Theron had let it happen.
He knelt, unruffled, flicking grit from his sleeve as if the dust were an idle nuisance. His voice carried, languid and mocking. “Yours, Captain. I concede.”
Achilles didn’t lower his blade. He stepped back slowly, his expression carefully blank, but his eyes betrayed him. He knew. He knew Theron had thrown the fight.
Theron looked straight at him, and his expression was pure provocation.
It was the kind of smirk that promised the game had only just begun.