Chapter Twenty
Chloe
Chloe’s fingers hovered over the first vial, icy glass pressing against her fingertips.
Eight identical vials lay before her, lined like soldiers.
The weight of each one hung heavy not only in her hand, but in the very air around her.
Herbs and distilled liquids filled her nostrils, mingling with the lingering scent of wax from the fireplace.
She was glad they were training separately, because she was an utter embarrassment.
Markos watched silently, the only movement was his calm breathing and the slight tap of a boot against the floor.
His presence was steady, almost predatory in its patience, like a hawk waiting for the first falter.
And, gods—Chloe was faltering. Her senses should have detected the faint hum of poison, the subtle film it left in the glass.
Except nothing about this task made sense.
There was no tingle, no strange scent, nothing.
Her mind raced. Was she overthinking it?
Was there even poison in one of these, or was it all for show?
Every failed attempt gnawed at her patience.
She picked up the first vial, sniffed delicately, and tried to parse the faint odors.
Nothing. The second. Nothing. Her pulse picked up, a drumming echo against the quiet stone walls lined with towering bookshelves and glass cabinets filled with arcane instruments.
The study smelled of parchment, iron, and candle smoke, and somewhere beneath it all, the faint, almost imperceptible trace of poison yet none of it seemed to sit before her on this table.
Chloe slammed the third vial down, barely suppressing a growl. Her claws began to protrude, threatening to rake the table clean. The wolf inside her stirred restlessly, pacing along her spine, impatient and hungry.
Markos’s voice cut through her spiral. “Focus, Chloe. Sense it. Let it speak to you. Let it guide you.”
Heightened sense always guided her and yet, now—all she could think about was what would happen to her if she failed. What would happen to Farah.
She closed her eyes, drawing in a breath, letting the crisp air of the study settle into her bones. The faint hum returned, a vibration beneath the glass of the vials, almost like a heartbeat. It was subtle, teasing, but unmistakable. The poison wasn’t hiding. It was waiting.
Her hand hovered over the vials, trembling slightly.
She reached for one at random, almost daring herself, and held it beneath her nose.
Her eyes lit at the faint copper tang, not sharp at all as she expected, but present enough that it made the hairs on her arms raise. Her stomach clenched. This was it.
Snapping her eyes open, Chloe scanned the vials again. The hum persisted, clear now, like a whisper threading along the edges of her mind. She moved deliberately, slow and precise, fingers brushing across the glass until she found another that resonated.
She set it before Markos, meeting his gaze. His gaze lingered on hers, and for a moment, she saw a flicker of satisfaction. “Finally,” he said, voice low, almost approving. “Now let’s see if you can do it again.”
Her chest heaved as she exhaled, muscles relaxing for the first time in minutes. She had won this round, but her instinct and control were waning on this isle.
Before she could think any more of it, a sharp knock at the door startled her. A guard, dusted with snow from the courtyard, extended a sealed letter. “A missive, Princess. It is from your brother on Skiatha.”
Chloe’s fingers shook as she took it. Her pulse spiked. Dimitris’s letters were never trivial. The only writing he preferred were the scribbles in his ship’s logs. The seal crackled under her touch, the wax smooth against the chill in her fingers.
Markos’s brow lifted. “What is it?”
She tucked the letter under her arm, forcing casual lightness into her stance despite her shaking hands. “Nothing important, I assume,” she said, voice steady, even as her heart hammered. “Most likely a warning about Hades. Or possibly it is from a friend of mine who travels with him.”
Markos did not press, though something more dangerous flickered in the old man’s eyes. Exhaling slowly, Chloe retreated into the quiet corner of her mind where she could process the contents alone.
Her still trembling fingers flexed around the envelope. When she broke the seal, the parchment crackled and the ink shimmered faintly in the firelight, as though aware of the importance of its words. It was in code, one they used to use as children. One that the people of Hespali could never know.
She read slowly, each syllable weighing heavier on her heart.
Chloe,
I have translated a portion of the logs I found in the Skiathan archives, the ones Alexander sent me for. Relics, hidden deep beneath the labyrinth, have survived the ages. The Kiste—capable of harnessing the storm’s fury. The Calathus—precise, lethal, and attuned to the archer’s soul.
These artifacts could turn the tide in ways we cannot yet comprehend. You must locate them before Hades’ agents or anyone allied to him does. Trust no one.
—Dimi
Chloe’s breath caught. Her chest tightened as the words sank in.
She could see the labyrinth beneath Hespali, twisting corridors of stone and shadow, echoing with traps and enchantments that had survived centuries.
The thought of finding those relics, of holding weapons that could rival gods, sent a thrill of terror and resolve spiraling through her veins.
Her mind raced, each possibility playing over and over. If Hades moved first, if Avra’s army was not enough, if the Mysteries revealed dangers they had not yet imagined, what would become of them? The stakes were far higher than she had allowed herself to admit.
Markos’s voice, calm and clipped, drew her back. “Chloe?”
She folded the letter carefully, tucking it back into her cloak. Her hands trembled slightly, but she forced herself to meet his eyes. “It’s nothing urgent for the castle,” she lied, carefully masking the weight of the revelation. “Just making sure we knew of Hades’ rebirth.”
Her trainer’s expression didn’t falter, but his scrutiny lingered, sharp as a blade.
Chloe felt the tension of the room press against her ribs—the vials, the study, the letter, the firelight flickering across the polished stone floor—and she reminded herself to breathe. All she had to do was breathe.
Chloe had learned to endure, to fight, to trust the subtle guidance of her senses. She tucked the letter securely into her pack, squared her shoulders, and returned to the vials, ready for the next exercise.
She would not fail—not now. Not when the weight of history, the fate of her isle, the fate of all of Odessia, rested in her hands.