We drag our bedraggled selves from the beach. We don’t walk for long before cries resonate from inside the temples. A salphinx echoes into the cloudless day, followed quickly by the thundering of a hundred hooves.

Their wild ride kicks up so much dirt that it nearly blocks the city from view. Or at least it would, if it weren’t for the wall that towers over a hundred feet high.

“Incredible,” Helen says, looking up at Troy. Her focus quickly switches to the horses barreling toward us. “Perhaps we should have stayed in Gythium.”

I share that thought. Would this war still loom on the horizon if Helen had merely stayed behind? Agamemnon, Menelaus, and even possibly Ares were driving for a war with Troy, no matter the cost. I could have perhaps kept my queen safer in a life on the road rather than at the hands of the men riding toward us.

Now I also don’t have Apollo at my back. His steel would have been a comfort, his gifts a chance to turn the tides of war, and his presence… Despite everything, I would have welcomed him by my side. I can at least trust him to defend my back, even if not my heart.

We don’t even pass the last temple, Hermes’s statue watching from the doorway, before men and women begin filing out and the riders skid to a halt before us.

The horses prance, fighting their bits, as heavily armed men leap from their backs. The men’s armor is a collection of iron and bronze scales, their arms and legs covered by maroon cloth. The nearest one lifts his helmet. His dark eyes land on the crown prince. “Prince Hector? We were not expecting you back so soon.”

“A great many unexpected things happened,” Hector says acidly.

The soldier’s eyes pass over all of us, lingering on my sword and Helen’s face. She takes my red cloak and pulls it up over her head. Too late, though. In his eyes, you can see the moment when all thoughts eddy out of his head. His face goes slack.

“Prince.” He gapes. “Is that the Anassa of Sparta?”

There’s a collective gasp from the crowd around us, even the sailors who ferried us across the Aegean. Lykou rests a reassuring hand on her shoulder, glaring at any man who dares to come too close.

“May Troy be more hospitable than my own kingdom,” Helen says, lifting her chin.

Three more men dismount and offer their horses up to us. Lykou leads Helen to the closest pair, but I stop short of mounting my own. A leather and cloth contraption weighs down the horses’ backs.

“What is this?” I ask, unable to keep the childish curiosity from my voice.

“Ah, yes. I forgot that Achaeans have yet to discover saddles.” Paris puts his foot in a leather hook that dangles on his horse’s side, using it to heft himself up. He waves to the contraption before pulling the reins tight. “We traded with the Eastern Continent for these. Very useful over long distances.”

I don’t point out that, to Achaeans, Troy is considered the East. I may have traveled every plain of Greece, but of the world I still have much to see and learn.

Paris claps the back of my horse. “Hop up. Your ass will thank you later.”

My ass does no such thing. I find it harder to gauge my horse’s rhythm with the contraption between me and its back, and my feet end up tangling in what the Trojan prince calls the stirrups the entire ride to the city. We ride up to the gates and my irritation gives way to awe.

The carved golden doors swing wide, revealing a marketplace larger than Sparta’s palace and gymnasion combined. Fabrics, foods, weapons I’ve never thought possible are held up for us to see as we thunder farther into the glorious city. Buildings painted red, blue, green, and gold rise above us, decorated with a hundred frescoes and separated by cerulean fountains. I’m assailed with unfamiliar scents and colors, an entire new world within these walls.

We ride deeper and deeper into the city, ascending a towering acropolis atop which a palace sits. The dusty road gives way to white stone, and we grind to a halt before the green doors of the palace. I dismount carefully, then help Helen down from her own horse.

Before we can enter the palace, the doors groan open and a royal entourage sweeps through them—led by the ancient King Priam.

His face shares the wisdom of Hector and the gilded beauty of Paris despite what must be at least eight decades of time upon his shoulders. Even from where I stand, I can see the calluses dotting his palms from the twin swords that cross his back. These are a people who will protect themselves to the very end.

I lower my chin reverentially before kneeling. Helen continues to stand.

There’s an elderly woman at his back, Queen Hecuba, as King Priam assesses Helen. His face inscrutable, he turns to his sons. “I take it that negotiations didn’t go to plan.”

“To say the least,” Paris replies, bitterness unmistakable. Servants rush forward, bearing new clothes and large bowls of scented water. Paris and his brother shed their sea-stained cloaks and dip their hands into the water, flicking the drops on the sandals of everyone around them.

Priam looks to the growing crowd, his sons, and then us three Spartans. “Come.”

At the single word, the crowd disperses with curious titters. Priam turns and strides into the palace, leaving us to follow in line. The Trojan palace is open and airy like those atop Olympus, decorated everywhere with fine art, unlike the dark halls of Sparta’s own. Splashing echoes down a far hallway from what must be the famous baths of Troy, and birdsong like I’ve never heard before trills from the small gardens that open out over the city.

Trojan soldiers, bedecked in leather and bronze armor, follow closely on our heels. Their spears, much thinner than the dory of Sparta, point at our backs. I dare not reach for the sword at my hip, the only remaining weapon on my person after tumbling down the Eurotas and across the Aegean.

We’re led to a large chamber. The floor is tiled with green and blue and gold, a map of Greece at our feet. The brown Cithaeron mountains where I faced down the Sphinx press beneath my heels when Priam holds up a fist, halting us in our tracks. He turns, emerald chiton swirling around his ankles.

“Tell me everything,” he commands.

The Trojan princes spare no detail. Priam stands at a balcony, gripping one wrist behind his back as he overlooks Troy. Night has long fallen, and the sky is dotted with glittering stars. His city below is awash with flickering oil lamps and echoes with laughter and cheering. The Trojans are celebrating the return of their princes.

If only they knew the dark tidings Hector and Paris brought with them.

When Hector gets to the part where we finally washed ashore, Priam turns. His face is angled down, considering the tiled map beneath his feet. It stretches farther than Greece, with even Mount Kazbek looming in the far corner of the room. The aged king passes Prometheus’s mountain, and stops at the mouth of the Hellespont.

His shined sandals dig into the blue tiles there. He cuts a frustrated hand through the air before hooking it again behind his back. “The gods taunt us. They aided in your sea crossing, but nearly got you killed in Sparta. The whole matter is clouded in the meddlings of the Fates.”

They are selfish bastards, I don’t say. They care only for the worship of mortals and not of blood spilled on account of the wars they stir. Except the few who stood apart, including Apollo. I can only guess what Zeus meant when he claimed to bind his son.

“We will need to call upon our allies,” Hector says. He points to the space below Troy. “Rally them behind us to make the Achaeans think twice before declaring war on us.”

“I don’t know how long the gods held you in their power, my dear lad,” Priam says, voice haggard and weary, “but the Achaeans have already declared war.”

Helen’s mouth falls open. “What are their reasons?”

Priam shakes his head. “They claim my sons stole you from the palace. That they killed the Athenian King Theseus while doing so. Menelaus says his honor is tarnished, and has called upon all the kings of Greece to serve justice.”

Apollo didn’t actually kill Ares that night, but I’m sure the god of war made it look like he did. The whole thing reeks of Hermes’s and Nyx’s trickery, and whatever other gods align themselves with them.

Hera, Athena, and Poseidon stood on the side of the Achaeans. Perhaps they also stand shoulder to shoulder with Nyx, though Zeus doesn’t know yet.

“In fact,” Priam continues, now standing in the center of the Aegean, “the Achaeans have begun their journey across the sea. A thousand ships, my spies say.”

My stomach plummets to the depths of Tartarus.

“That’s impossible,” I whisper.

“Not impossible, but indeed unlikely.” Priam glances up sharply, gaze narrowing as if noticing me for the first time. He looks me over, eyes lingering on the sword and my ruined leathers. “You’re the Spartan soldier who helped my sons escape.”

“My Shield,” Helen says, stepping forward. “She is the one who discovered my husband’s treachery.”

Priam cuts her a stern, unforgiving look. “I would stay silent, if I were you, Anassa. I have yet to decide what to do with you.” He returns his focus on me, mindful of my fingers now curling into fists at his harsh words to my queen. “But you. It would gain me nothing to return you to your anax. And my son’s mention of Peneios is concerning, but would explain why the hand of Olympus hovers over us all.”

If only he knew the depth of the truth to his words.

If only I knew.

He walks closer, sandals whispering across the fresco, until he stands toe to toe with me. He smells of spices I don’t recognize. They make me uneasy.

Before he can speak and push me further over the edge, I say, “Whatever you decide to do with Helen, you must also do with me. I am her Shield, and I will remain at her side.”

“Indeed.” King Priam clicks his tongue. “I guess the choice is now Helen’s.”

Everyone turns in the room to look at her, waiting.

A queen to possibly her end, Helen raises her chin. “I have no place left in Sparta but, if you will let me, I will stay here and try to negotiate a truce with my husband. Barter for the safety of your people.”

“Even if he demands your head?” Priam’s words stir a maelstrom in my gut.

“That is something Agamemnon might ask. Not Menelaus.” If Helen is afraid, she does not show it. “He will want to punish me slowly, painfully. Death is too quick for him.”

I would die before letting anyone harm my queen. My friend.

“Spoken like someone who understands her husband quite well,” Hecuba says, speaking for the first time. Her eyes, black in the firelight, are cold. “The anassa might be useful to our plight.”

“We are in no true danger,” Priam says. “Troy’s walls are blessed by the gods themselves, stone by golden stone imbued with their power. There will indeed be blood on all of our hands no matter what we decide to do with Helen and her Shield.” He shakes his head and walks again to the balcony. “I am not cruel, though. I did not raise Troy into the greatest city ever known by sentencing women to death because of the atrocities of their husbands. No, we will not abandon you to Menelaus’s machinations, Helen of Sparta.”

When he turns again, the aged lines of his face are deeper than before, trenches of exhaustion. “You will help us weather this storm.”

Helen, Lykou, and I are led to our suite of rooms, resplendent with gold silk curtains, multiple lit hearths, and its own pool. The Trojan soldiers shut us in without a word, locking the doors with a firm click. The sound echoes in my ears.

“Both prisoner and political ally,” Helen says, voice soft.

“At least we have a bathing chamber to ourselves,” I say, trying in vain to lighten the mood.

“Good.” Helen sniffs. “You need it.”

“You’re one to talk. You smell like a fish.”

Our laughter echoes around the chamber, but there’s a pained edge to it. Lykou doesn’t join in our forced mirth. The stubble on his jaw pulls taut, a frown furrowing his face in deep shadows. His expression pained, he walks to a balcony and stares into the growing night, his back firmly to us.

Wordlessly, Helen walks to his side and wraps an arm around his waist. She gazes out at the ocean. As if she can see past the line of a thousand ships gathering far away.

“So we are either to give ourselves to my husband and certain death”—she sucks on her teeth—“or aid in the Trojan fight against them.”

“You know that I cannot allow you to give yourself over to them.” The gods would not allow it, either.

“We cannot,” Lykou says, continuing to stare out into the night.

Helen turns, the dried seaweed still clinging to her hair. “It would be the honorable thing to do.”

“Where is the honor in that?” I stand on Lykou’s other side. “We can still fight for Sparta.”

“The Trojans would never allow it.”

“We can fight alongside both,” I press. “We can refuse to spill Spartan blood. Instead focus our help on taking down Agamemnon’s or Ajax’s armies.”

“We shall have to see what the future holds for us, Daphne.” She meets my eyes. “Know that I am grateful for you both. For saving my life. Theseus—or whoever that man parading as him was—had every intention of killing me that night.”

“Or making it look like you killed him.”

She nods. “It appears that we are nothing more than pawns in the games of the gods.”

A role I’m all too familiar with.

The darkness on the horizon taunts us. Nyx waiting in the periphery as always.

I stare it down. I have bested the goddess of night before.

And I will do so again.