There is a great war on the horizon, like none Greece has ever known. All the kingdoms from every corner of this world will take part and stake their claim.

I don’t have time to plot my revenge against Menelaus.

Each night, Nyx haunts my dreams. Each morning, the Moirai’s words echo through me like a dirge, harkening the end of Greece and a war I can only hope to stop. And each day, I dress in my shined battle leathers, hissing as they cling to my still-healing back, sharpen my blades, and don the Shield of Helen cloak. Fate may try to take my kingdom from me, but I will not let her take my queen.

Odysseus of Ithaca arrives first. His skin is dark, his hair long and curled, and his face, though only ten or so years older than mine, is immeasurably wise. It’s smooth-paned and his voice is soft.

He bows low before my king and queen. “Greetings. It has been many years since I last saw any of you. Sorry to say it, lads, but Helen is the only one who remains the same. As lovely as ever, while Agamemnon over here looks like a fig left out in the sun too long, and Menelaus a grape that has pruned.”

I fight against the smile pulling my lips. Helen’s laugh is genuine.

“Welcome, Anax of Ithaca,” she says. “I am not ashamed to admit that you’re the one person I was looking forward to arriving.”

The slight isn’t missed by anyone in the room. Odysseus’s gaze flicks to a glowering Agamemnon and back.

Odysseus sweeps an arm behind his back and bows again. “Then I will make sure that my time here is spent complimenting you while also rubbing your husband’s back so I don’t find a knife in mine.”

He leaves, his small battalion of soldiers following to his suite. Smart of him to arrive first. Pretty soon there will be no more rooms available for kings and the rest will be forced to camp out in the megaron. I purse my lips. Perhaps my father should curry favor by offering his own home to the arriving lords. I will send him a note this evening.

Achilles of Phthia arrives next, his battalion small but still powerful. He brings with him only ten men, each armed to the teeth and towering over everyone else in the room. The Myrmidons, they are called. Warriors said to bathe in the blood of their enemies and leave nothing to chance.

His bow to Menelaus is almost mocking, low and with a smirk. “Anax of Sparta. I will not take up your time with introductions. My men will make camp outside the walls. I will see you this evening for the banquet, but we will otherwise wait for all the other guests to arrive.”

They cut a quick exit from the megaron, and that evening Helen and I stay up late, perched high on the wall, to watch them train outside. The night sky is clear, the full moon illuminating the grassy plain in which the Myrmidons train. Achilles spars with three of his soldiers at once. His movements are as fluid as the sea, as assured as pouring rain. He disarms one with a neat trick, before dropping low and swiping the legs out from underneath the other two.

“They say his mother is a sea nymph,” Helen whispers, her eyes wide as she watches Achilles continue to practice. “And that she tried everything to make him immortal when he was a babe. She would anoint him with ambrosia each night, and one time tried to place him in a fire as if to burn away his mortality.”

“What?” My mouth pops open. Gently, I shift on our perch to get a better view, conscious of how my leathers tug at my tender back. It’s mostly healed, the welts no longer visible save for the one across my shoulders. “That would kill a child.”

Helen nods. “I didn’t see any burn scars on him, so I doubt it is true. They also say that she dipped him in the River Styx to make him invulnerable.”

“Ligeia, my maid, told me that rumor.” Now that I think about it, I don’t remember seeing a single scar on the man when he was in the megaron, either. If the story is true, I should have dunked myself in the Styx when I had the chance. “Perhaps the ambrosia worked.”

Ambrosia, a food of the gods. Stories say that it can bestow immortality, but the effects are unwieldy. Sometimes, it does not grant eternal life. Instead it snatches it away.

If war does indeed break out following this conclave, I might actually find out if the mighty Achilles is as immortal as the rumors profess.

Another figure catches my eye. Even in the moonlight, his copper tresses are unmistakable. “What’s my brother doing with them?”

“Pyrrhus probably fits in better with the Myrmidons than with the Spartans,” Helen muses, pursing her lips. “Have you not spoken with him?”

“When have I had the chance?”

“Fair enough.” Helen watches my brother, sparring and laughing with one of Achilles’s men. “Menelaus told me the other night that your brother is aimless and… on the brink of banishment.”

I snap toward her. “Why?”

“He misses training and refuses the paidonomos’s instructions. Sparta is only as strong as its soldiers. Any loose stone and an entire temple could fall.” Her dark brows furrow. “I’m sorry, Daphne.”

I hadn’t even realized until now that my eyes were watering. My vision fogs, and I climb down from our spot on the wall.

Pyrrhus no doubt blames me for his current predicament, and I cannot fault him for it. Not only did I snatch his victory not too long ago, but many, many more years before that I stole his mother from him as well. So much debt I have for my brother, and no matter the lengths I go to, I can never shake myself of it.

Next, with a hundred men each between the two of them, Alcimedes of Locris and Ajax of Salamis arrive a week after Achilles, with booming voices loud enough to shake the earth. Both tower above everyone else in the room, tall as horses with arms thicker than my skull. King Nestor is next to arrive with his two sons. Both of the younger men are scrawny, thin-as-reeds versions of their barrel-chested father. Nestor still bears the scars of his famed adventures with Iason of the Argonauts, and Heracles. Ligeia’s stories of this great king were always Pyrrhus’s favorites.

Many more kings and envoys arrive after that, nameless because they are lost in the seemingly endless list of guests, until the envoy of Crete strides into the megaron.

The princess of Crete, flanked by twelve guards, holds her head high and an expression of utmost wisdom that I know too well and admire. Her raven hair is piled high, just as when I first met her, held back with a diadem of pink pearls fashioned like falling rain. She carries swords on each hip, and her curved lips are painted red.

“Ariadne,” Helen cries, leaping to her feet and rushing to the princess. Shock wars across the Cretan guards’ faces as Helen envelopes their princess in a great hug. I walk slowly after her. And pray to all the gods watching from above that Ariadne does not reveal me.

I wonder if she will even recognize me, or if she considers me to be an enemy now. I killed her brother last summer, and she might even know that I’m responsible for her father’s death as well. She only spares me a cursory glance and returns Helen’s embrace.

Odysseus, who’s been standing in the shadows for the arrival of every king, steps forward with a hand over his heart. “Had I known that you would be joining us, Ariadne, I would not have been so selfish when selecting a room. You may take mine.”

“My thanks, Anax of Ithaca.” Ariadne nods and, so quick I barely notice, winks at me. So, she does recognize me, at least. “I hope you have room for a last-moment addition to our number. I have brought my cousins.”

She waves behind her and it takes every single ounce of my control to keep my jaw from dropping to the floor.

Dionysus, wearing a teal cloak and shimmering silver armor, steps forward. He cuts a hand behind his back and bows. “Dion of Phrygia.”

And then Apollo, resplendent in a red chiton trimmed in gold and an axine strapped to his back, bows next. The double-headed axe looks sharp enough to chop off a head with a single swing. “You, lovely Anassa of Sparta, may call me Apollodoris.”

So subtle. I roll my eyes. I want to bite off both of their heads.

Confusion wars on all faces in the room save Ariadne and the gods, who exchange mischievous smiles. Without thinking, I step between Apollo and Helen.

“I am going to have to ask you to leave,” I say, the firmness in my voice startling myself, “unless you remove that weapon from your back.”

Apollo’s grin is wicked. “Care to remove it yourself?”

My nostrils flare. He is playing this game in front of everyone here?

“You may use one of the adjoining rooms attached to Ariadne’s,” Menelaus says, standing at last.

Servants bearing trays of wine and grapes swerve through the crowd of kings. With an eager smile, Dionysus dives after them. Ariadne takes Apollo’s wrist and drags him away before I can question him.

“What was that about?” Helen asks out of the corner of her mouth, offering a pinched smile to Nestor as he passes.

I have no answer for her. Pressing my lips into a firm line, I trail Apollo across the room with my eyes.

Odysseus confers quietly to our right with Achilles. The Ithacan’s face is smoothed into a placating smile. Ajax interrupts them by clapping the Ithacan on the back.

“A miracle to see you off your meager island, Odysseus.” Ajax’s voice is loud enough to be heard outside the palace. “What did Menelaus have to bribe you with to come here?”

“Yes,” Achilles says, voice dark. “What did the Spartan king have to give up in order for you to join us? Last time I saw you was at your wedding, where you promised, loud and clear, that you were never going to leave your wife unless held at knifepoint.”

“I see no knife.” Ajax pretends to look Odysseus up and down. “Do you see one at his neck?”

“No, perhaps Menelaus has it pointed somewhere else. Somewhere more valuable.”

“Or maybe his wife just kicked him from the bed.”

Odysseus coughs, choking on his wine.

A red cloak moves in front of me, a voice cutting off my eavesdropping.

“It’s rude to spy.” Apollo grins crookedly.

I scoff. “You’re one to talk.”

“The Trojans will arrive at any moment.” Apollo hooks his hands behind his back. “Artemis’s dryads have been watching them ever since their ship landed in Gythium.”

My stomach drops. I immediately search for Helen. She’s disappeared into the crowd. I move to look for her, and Apollo catches my wrist.

“No need. Dionys—Dion watches her.”

I jerk my hand away with a furtive glance to the men around us. None seem to have noticed.

“I told you I didn’t need your help,” I hiss under my breath.

“You said you didn’t want it, actually.”

“And you ignored my desires. As usual.”

Apollo’s gaze strips me. “Then tell me to leave. Tell me you don’t want me here.”

“I—”

“Tell me”—he draws a circle on my palm behind our backs—“and I’ll leave.”

My cheeks are overly warm. “You’re insufferable.”

His heat—his power—fills the limited space between us, making it hard to breath.

He brushes a curl from my brow, fingers warm against my cheek. “Tell me.”

I lean away, despite every fiber of my body wanting to fold into him, and a hiss escapes me when my armor pulls at the welt that has yet to fully heal. I roll my shoulders, trying to keep the leather from tugging at my skin.

Apollo’s dark brows furrow. “What’s wrong with your back?”

Artemis heeded my wishes and didn’t tell him about Menelaus’s punishment. Explains why my king is still alive.

“Nothing,” I answer, too quickly. “I just strained it yesterday.”

“I can heal you.” He reaches out.

I should let him, but he might notice what is actually wrong with my back. I sidestep his reach.

“Whether you need or want my help, it’s all the same.” He steps forward, so close our chests touch with every rapid, furious breath. “I’ll be here.”

I open my mouth to tell Apollo where to shove his concern, but his gaze snaps toward the entrance, stealing any words I might have thrown in his face.

“They’re here,” he bites out.

“Who?”

“Started celebrating without us?” a melodic voice asks.

All heads turn to the two men standing beneath the arched entrance. Drums thunder and the strings of a lyre snap.

The Trojans.

The men stride into the room with measured, proud steps. Jolts of anxiety ricochet through me. Without a backward glance at Apollo, I dip into the crowd to where Helen’s gold diadem rises above the men.

The Trojans, from what my father has told me, control trade in the east. Their placement on the Hellespont allows them to receive everything before we do. Horses, spices, fabrics, weapons… even knowledge. The kings have no doubt drawn the Trojans into the fold this summer to discuss better trade for the Achaeans, but what do we have to leverage against one of the greatest cities in the east?

“We assumed you would be tired of revelry,” Ajax says with a sneer, voice gravelly. “Word is that Trojans spend more time drinking than thinking.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Dionysus mutters, suddenly behind me.

Agamemnon’s chest puffs out, face already flushing an angry smear of red. Something about these Trojans has him defensive, piquing my curiosity. He, like Odysseus, has said nothing about the other arrivals.

The ugly head of doubt roils inside me. I look to Apollo, and he, too, watches Agamemnon’s face with a deep frown.

“We are here to talk trade, not insults.” The younger of the two says, burnished gold hair a contrast to his deeply tanned skin.

The Sparta you know will be gone forever more on the bloody fields of Troy.

The Moirai’s prophecy tumbles through my mind. Are these men harbingers of war?

Odysseus speaks before tensions can rise further. “Priam of Troy has so many sons, and I haven’t had the chance yet to visit your fair city to meet them all. Let us hear your names.”

One Trojan with black hair and deeply tanned skin steps forward, bowing to the assembled kings. “My thanks, kings of Ithaca, Sparta, and even Mycenae, for welcoming my brother and me. Paris speaks too freely sometimes. Ephor Diodorus has already offered us rooms at his spacious home down in the city, and we have accepted his offer.” Helen and Agamemnon whip toward me, pinning me to the floor with their eyes. They turn again to the Trojans as the man speaks once more. “I am Hector, Priam’s heir. Ignore Paris’s tongue. He’s still a young pup tripping over his own ears.”

“I know exactly what you mean, Prince Hector,” Odysseus says, eyes crinkling at the corners. “My own pup, Argos, does little thinking, but a lot of barking.”

They shake hands, both men grinning. Behind Hector, his brother huffs a golden curl from his face. Where Hector is dark, Paris is blazing light; just as Artemis is the cool moon to Apollo’s raging sun. Both men are just as beautiful and thickly muscled.

Paris’s blue-green eyes, which he tries to hide behind the golden bangs that refuse to shake from his face, are all for Helen. He’s hungry, leaning forward as if yearning to reach for her. I would slap his hand away before he even tried.

Caught lovers, especially between enemy kingdoms, are an assured way to start a war.

If Helen notices, she doesn’t let it show. Ignoring Paris, she returns to the dais and calls to Ariadne, “Princess of Crete. If you’re not too weary after your journey, would you care to join me in the garden this evening?”

Before Ariadne can reply, a horn rings out through the afternoon sky, turning all our gazes toward the city’s gates. Helen throws her husband a questioning look, but neither says a word, quickly heading back to their thrones.

“Return this evening, our guests,” Menelaus says, voice a touch more high-pitched than usual. “We will have a feast to celebrate your arrival.”

Despite Menelaus’s words, nobody moves to leave the megaron. The lords and kings stand aside, all waiting and watching the arched entrance with abject interest. Even Apollo’s face is pulled into a confused frown, something that stirs a wave of anxiety deep in my stomach.

Whoever marches through Sparta’s gates managed to not only elude Sparta’s spies, but also the eyes of Olympus.

I stand akimbo, hands within reach of my weapons, and force my breathing to soften. I suck in my lips to cease their trembling and glare at the shadows seeming to grow from the entrance.

Heavy footfalls echo down the hallway toward us. To arrive so quickly after the horns, whoever it is must have ridden hard through the city, not stopping for guards or pausing to find their way. They knew exactly which road to follow to reach the Spartan palace. Either a friend or a too-knowing enemy walks toward us.

My jaw drops when he enters, long brown hair plaited down his back. The stubble of a beard grazes his pale skin and his eyes, wild and gray, find mine the moment he enters the megaron.

He strides across the amber tiles and takes a low bow before the dais. My heart thunders in my chest like a stampede of centaurs.

“Sorry for my delay, Menelaus,” Theseus of Athens says, gaze returning to mine. “But even death couldn’t keep me away.”