The Cretans were quite a help yesterday,” Hector says, pointing on a map to where Ariadne’s ships once dotted the coastline. “Even if they’re nowhere to be found now.”

We gather with King Priam’s counselors and eldest sons around a circular table in his council chamber. Beyond the room, the city rings with a howling wind. The Achaeans have abandoned their camp on the beach to wait on the banks of the Hellespont in case any ships still brave the trade thoroughfare. In vain, of course.

Priam, at the advice of his counselors, sent word ahead of time to his leading trade partners, though that means that Troy’s resources will be extremely limited.

“Minos’s daughter likely wanted to watch and see what the odds were before landing,” Penthesilea says, pressing her knuckles into the wooden table. “And she saw that sticking a dagger into the Achaeans’s backs was much more fruitful.”

“Don’t sound too impressed, Penthe. The Myrmidons didn’t fight yesterday, either.” Hippolyta crosses her arms over her chest.

I look to the battlefield sketched out before us, Hector’s commanders shifting the scene to show from a hawk’s point of view how exactly the battle went down.

Hector’s men drove through the center of the Achaean fold, spearing through and dividing the enemy army. The Amazons and I had made quick work of Ajax’s men, and then Agamemnon’s, but the Trojans incurred many casualties on the opposite flank.

I purse my lips, watching as commanders point out the reason for such losses.

The Spartans. They had driven hard and fast, Menelaus at the forefront on his chariot. Priam’s men note only a handful of casualties among the Spartans. A miracle, considering the bloodbath that had been yesterday.

“We need to do something about Menelaus,” Paris says.

“Perhaps pit my warriors against the Spartans”—a grin splits Penthesilea’s face—“and see if they like the taste of Amazon steel.”

Dread fills my stomach, threatening to make me puke. A horn echoes in the distance.

“The southern gate,” Paris says.

The Achaeans are rallying again.

“Let’s see it, then,” Hector says, standing straighter. “Amazons, take the field on the same side as Menelaus. My men will protect the gates.”

Hippolyta leads her warriors out onto the still-bloodstained fold. I follow on her heels. My leathers are cleaned of yesterday’s sand and gore, my sword sharpened and the arrows removed from the shield, but the helmet I’m handed reeks of sweat. I force it over my face, pulling my curls through the hole in the back.

Lykou marches alongside me this time. He wears Trojan armor. So unnatural on him compared to the Spartan leathers he grew up training for.

Hippolyta tugs down her own helmet, black braids swinging in a warm, southern breeze. Her own armor is threaded with a silver meander, and her belt is made of solid gold. I frown, recognizing the girdle from Foloi Forest.

“Your sister gave the girdle to you?”

Hippolyta grimaces. “After Agamemnon nearly killed me yesterday, my sister thought the girdle’s protection would suit me best. She ignored when I pointed out that the girdle’s magic comes from the same god that pits an entire army against us.”

Hopefully the magic of her father can save us all on the battlefield—despite us all fighting against him.

My friend twirls her sword while looking over a shoulder and throwing me a wry grin. “Are you ready?”

“Never.” I turn to Lykou. “Are you?”

“To kill my kin? Never in a thousand years.” Pain flickers across his face, replaced in an instant with a determined frown.

Before I can reply, Achaean horns ring out across the field. The horses and feet of a thousand men kick up dust as far as I can see.

Just like before, my heart thunders loud enough in my ears to drown out the battle cries around me. Fear grips me by the ankles. I could almost choke on it. It’s as potent as ever.

Hippolyta leaps forward. Her warriors don’t hesitate to follow. They roar an Amazon call.

There are no shadows here. There are only soldiers. An army out to capture and potentially kill my queen. I clench my teeth. That will never happen.

I charge after the Amazons, a wild scream wrenching from the depths of my soul.

Spartans—my people—thunder forward, roaring in answer. I raise my sword high above my head, my muscles living flame as I speed across that last stretch of sand.

Spartans collide with Amazons with a crash that threatens to shake the earth.

The breath is stolen from my lungs as a man slams into my shield. I remain on my feet. He drives his dory for my chest, my face, my legs. I dance from his reach. Carnage echoes around us.

“Prodótis,” the man hisses, his dark hair peeking from beneath the Spartan helmet.

“Shield,” I reply. I duck beneath his next swing and drive my sword forward.

He dodges my attack easily. A growl of frustration rumbles from the back of my throat. He swipes wide, forcing me to roll beneath the swing. Sand flies around us as I leap back to my feet. Just in time for the butt of his dory to land directly on my chest.

My breath eddies. I barely manage to keep ahold of my sword, stumbling backward. He advances, grinning.

I dash forward, leaping high. He raises his dory to meet my sword. I drop the weapon, grabbing on to the spear. The grin vanishes from his face.

Using my weight as I come flying down, I jerk the dory from his startled grip. I sweep his feet from beneath him, and with a wild scream, I ram the point through metal, leather, and bone. Right into the center of his chest.

He chokes on blood, spraying my face, only inches from his.

It drips from my eyelashes. My heart stutters, then stops.

I stumble backward, leaving the dory. My breath escapes me in rapid gasps, growing faster and faster until my lungs threaten to burst from my chest. A storm builds inside me, a tempest waiting to be unleashed. I can almost taste the static of lightning on my tongue, the roar of wind building in my ears.

I killed him. One of my own people. I stumble, keenly aware of the fighting continuing around me but heedless to the danger.

Perhaps I deserve death for my treachery and betrayal, of the people who took me in.

My knees wobble, threatening to buckle beneath me.

A scream directly to my right spins me around. I duck beneath a Spartan hoplite’s wild swing, then run and slide across the sand, grabbing my sword and turning in the same movement. I slice wide, right through the man’s leather armor and above his navel.

Blood spurts, then pours. The man grabs helplessly at the wound, collapsing on his knees.

A wave of lavender light blasts me from my feet, and I’m flung across the sand.

Hera strides toward me. I stand and raise my sword.

“Zeus will be quite cross with me for killing you.” She cracks her neck, the noise audible even on the battlefield. “But better to ask for forgiveness.”

She lunges, inhumanly fast. I barely register her scepter before it smashes into my cheek. Lights flash behind my eyes and my teeth sing. My head snaps back and I fall. Hera’s scepter slams beside me, lightning fast, and I can only roll away before she pounds it again and again into the ground. The entire earth rumbles beneath her immortal strength. My mortal muscles are no match for her.

I’m on my feet, and only have time to raise my sword before her scepter sweeps between us and smashes the blade into pieces. I yelp, the blow making the bones in my arms sting. I fling the hilt at her head and she bats it away with a wild laugh.

“If I promise to only maim you, not kill you, will you stop moving?” She stalks forward, purple chiton billowing in the breeze behind her. “You’re more annoying than a gnat.”

Hera spins and kicks my legs out from under me. I hit the earth hard enough to knock the air from my lungs. She raises the scepter high and brings it down with all her strength.

A silver sword, curved like a crescent moon, meets it just above my face.

My thundering heart catches in my throat. Artemis, biceps flexing, raises the sword and the scepter atop it. Hera grimaces, teeth bared, as she fights to push down the goddess of the hunt’s weapon.

“I don’t know what my father sees in you,” Artemis says. She lets go, and both Hera and the weapons fall forward at the sudden loss of resistance.

I roll away. Artemis collects her sword just as Hera springs to her feet. As she’s about to raise her weapon again, the younger goddess lands a kick directly into the other’s chest.

Hera snarls, “I can’t wait to put you in your place, Stainless Maiden.” She sneers, then charges forward.

Their weapons meet in the air, and the force of the blow blasts sand all around in a curved arc. Their movements are too fast to track. Jabs, kicks, slashes, all in a matter of a few blinks.

A Spartan charges toward me.

“Prodótis” he roars. Many heads turn in my direction.

A target is officially on my back.

I grab a fallen man’s dory in my right hand, and another’s sword in my left. The man charges me, and we meet in a flurry of movements. More men come running, weapons raised. I block and jab, fluid like the sea.

I can’t move fast enough, their attacks coming from all sides. I spin on my heels, jabbing and slashing. My elbow catches the helmeted head of one, a lancing pain shooting up my arm. Without stopping, I slice the man from shoulder to hip, turning and ramming the next in the stomach with the butt of the dory.

His spear catches me in the ribs, tearing through leather and flesh.

I gasp, pain like a wildfire racing up my side. I don’t let myself pause, angling my sword and slicing the man right across the throat. The one I hit with my dory has finally caught his breath, yelling and swinging for my legs. I jump, and in the same movement ram the dory into the side of his head.

I’m tossed from my feet by what feels like the force of an ox. Artemis and Hera, a whirlwind of swords, storm past. Men battling beside their duel fall beneath the goddesses’ elbows and feet, screaming as they are stomped on and kicked with inhuman strength.

Artemis may be the goddess of the hunt and wilderness, but Hera is the Queen of Olympus for a reason.

I don’t even see the elbow Hera throws at Artemis’s face. She barely avoids getting her nose smashed when the queen’s scepter hooks under her legs. Artemis falls and I cry out. Without hesitating, Hera drops to her knees and straddles the younger goddess, wrenching her face up to meet her own by yanking on a handful of Artemis’s brown curls.

“I can’t kill you,” Hera says in her face. “But I’ll make you regret the day you ever dared to stand in my way.”

Her forehead smashes down into Artemis’s nose. It crunches, black ichor spurting between them, and the goddess of the hunt collapses, still. Fury, like a rain of thunder, itches to explode from me.

The darkness swoops in despite the sun arcing high across the sky. I blink, looking up to the growing shadows. My stomach hollows out.

Through a crowd of soldiers, Ares marches toward me wearing a bronze helm. His chest is bare, that red vulture tattoo flapping its outstretched wings with his every step. Chaos emerges around him. The eyes of Achaeans and Trojans alike go wide, the whites of their eyes glistening in the sun. Their movements are frenzied and without focus, slashing and hacking and chopping at random. They attack one another and themselves.

This is the power of the god of war. It is bloody and wild.

Hera laughs behind me. “My son. I knew you’d return to me.”

“I’m not here for you, Mother.” Ares’s voice drips with malice. “I’m here to kill the girl.”

“Zeus will be cross with me for not bringing you to Olympus for justice.” Hera’s smile is cruel, a twin to her son’s. She takes a step back and gives me a mocking bow. “But I will gladly watch you kill this annoying mortal first.”

“Kuna,” I hiss under my breath. Turning to Ares, I hold my sword at my side, gripping the hilt tight with bloodstained fingers and tuck my dory beneath my other arm, bending my knees, ready to pounce.

His answering chuckle echoes above the screams around us.

There are no healing wounds or scars on his tan skin from his fight with Apollo. His hand is still gloved in black, the one Lykou bit off so long ago. Distantly, my own wounds protest, a trickle and sharp pain in my ribs.

“Might as well throw down your weapons,” Ares says, grinning as he holds his arms wide. He stops five yards short of me, the darkness a barrier between us and the growing carnage of war. “They won’t help you against my powers.”

“I’ll take my chances.” I aim the point of my dory right between his eyes.

His knees bend, ready to leap the space between us, when a horn so familiar to my nightmares echoes across the field.

“You made many enemies last summer,” Ares says.

The shadows dissipate, clearing to reveal Spartans and Amazons at one another’s throats. But all fighting stalls, the people on the battlefield turning hesitantly toward the north.

Where a thousand horses thunder across the plains.

But there’s no one astride them. The riders, bare chested and screaming with wild fury, are one with the horses.

The Kentauroi of Foloi Forest.

Before I can react to their arrival, Ares unleashes a wild roar. He clears the space between us with a single leap. His sword, made of solid black, aims for my head. I only have time to duck and roll from his attack. He advances, cackling. With each laugh, the lash of a whip cracks around us.

I barely reach my feet when he swings down for me. The Midas Curse leaps from my abdomen, and with a yell, I whip my hand out. The gold curse encases my hand like a glove just as the sword cleaves between my fingers.

It bounces off my palm, the blow reverberating up my arm. My bones cry out, pulling a pained yelp from between my clenched teeth.

Fury splits Ares’s wild, frenzied face as a golden vein branches up the sword from hilt to tip. It shatters, glittering metal falling into the sand.

He drops the useless hilt, pulling a dagger from the air. I roll backward from his swing, stumbling over a body, and crash back. He leaps forward, arm back and ready to skewer me with the jagged blade.

Before he can kill me, a furious roar leaves him, pummeling me farther to the ground with its force.

An arrow has pierced his chest, followed in quick succession by two more. He staggers back. Black ichor beads from the wounds, veins standing out against his skin as he looks above me.

Where Apollo advances, another arrow nocked into his golden bow. Something warm and unnamed swells through me.

He wears golden armor, bronze curls free in the whipping wind. He closes one eye, the other fixed on the goddess of marriage. “Now, my memory isn’t what it was a couple of centuries ago, but I believe Zeus told you to leave Daphne alone.”

Hera blanches, taking a step back, and disappears. Ares yanks an arrow from his chest with a growl, the wounds sealing themselves up almost instantly. Apollo turns the arrow on his brother.

“And you’ll get not a single step closer before I cut her head from her shoulders,” Ares warns. Sweat glistens at the base of his throat and at his brow. He stumbles, muscles in his thighs clenching.

Apollo walks forward, arrow still aimed at Ares’s head. “Drop the weapon, brother.”

“Brother?” He barks a bitter laugh, climbing onto his now healed knee. “We were never brothers.”

“We could be now.” Apollo rolls his shoulders, then draws the arrow back. “Or you can continue to be my enemy.”

Ares rips two more of the arrows free from his flesh. A yelp is plucked from my lips as he rams them, in quick succession, into a Trojan fighting behind him. The man collapses with a choked scream. His skin begins to shrivel and turn black.

Apollo shot plague arrows, I realize.

I can’t shove the Amazon away in time. It lodges in the woman’s back and she collapses.

With clenched teeth, Apollo throws aside the bow and pulls a sword from his hip.

“No flashy tricks of fire and sun?” Ares’s smile widens, white teeth stained with ichor. “Is my father responsible?”

Apollo’s face is unreadable.

“He bound your powers, didn’t he?” Ares cackles, the sound making me tremble. “Let’s see if just your sword can stop me from ripping your darling’s heart out.”

“Not a chance.” I roll, sweeping my legs around and kicking him hard, directly in the kneecap. There’s a satisfying crunch, accompanied by his howl of pain. I’m already on my feet, dancing from his wildly swiping blade.

He takes a step forward, then jerks to a halt. He turns to face Hippolyta a dozen yards away, her arm outstretched and a dagger imbedded deep into his spine.

Black ichor drips from the corner of his mouth. “Daughter. I expected familial loyalty from you at least.”

He spits, his ichor spraying the sand. The horns of the centaurs echo closer as they crash upon the right flank of the Trojan army.

“I’ll be benevolent today.” Ares holds his arms wide, turning to face each of us in turn. His grin is wide and maniacal, the dagger falling to the ground as the healing wound pushes it free. “Let’s see what is left of you after the Kentauroi take their retribution.”

The sand rises around us on a sudden wind, lashing into my mouth and eyes. It rises and rises, spinning in on itself. I cover my face just as Ares steps into the epicenter.

And disappears.

“Bloody coward,” Apollo mutters. The sand falls, revealing a line of thirty centaurs powering toward us.

“Why didn’t he just kill us?” I ask.

“Nyx is saving us for something worse, no doubt.” There’s something unsaid in his voice, proving this proclamation for the half-truth that it is.

Exhausted and furious, I nearly lash out at him. Hippolyta comes to my flank.

“We have another enemy at hand,” she says.

The centaurs are only yards away. Apollo on my other side, we raise our weapons as one. I brace my body, locking my legs and ready to leap at a moment’s notice. I won’t be plowed over.

The centaurs dig in their hooves, skidding to a halt. Their leader would be recognizable anywhere, even if I did not know him from last summer.

Eurytion, red hair gleaming in the summer sun, glares down at us from his impressive height. He snorts, more horse than human, and paws at the earth. “I should kill you for what you did.”

He speaks to all three of us.

Apollo pulls at the collar of his chiton, revealing a set of pale scars. “Need I remind you that you were the ones who attacked us last summer, not the other way around?”

Eurytion’s men pull the strings of their bows tight, a dozen arrows trained on us from head to toe.

“Our commander has forbade me from killing you three. At least until we’ve completed our negotiations.” Eurytion waves a heavily muscled arm to the archers alongside him. “But, believe me, I hope the negotiations fail miserably.”

“Have you always been this odious?” Hippolyta rolls her eyes but doesn’t relax her stance, weapon still raised.

Another centaur, one I don’t recognize, trots up to our standoff. The battle around us has begun to dissipate, Achaeans marching back to the beach as Trojans prepare to gather the dying and wounded they’ve left behind. A glimmer of relief passes through me.

The new centaur, with the body of a pale stallion, moves between Eurytion and us. His skin is dark, a sharp contrast to the white fur of his other half. His hair is long and pulled into narrow braids that swing past his elbows. His dark eyes look us over before landing firmly on me.

“Are you Daphne Diodorus?” he asks, voice smooth and deep like a sweet, dark wine.

I swallow, throat dry, but nod. I’m no coward.

“You keep curious company, god of prophecy.” He looks between me, Apollo, and Hippolyta, before turning to the line of centaurs at his back. “Round up the men.”

Eurytion, with a final angry snort, gestures to his men and rears. They turn as a single unit, thundering back across the plain.

The centaur who spoke to us offers an apologetic smile. “Forgive my brother. He has never let go of a grudge in his entire life.”

“My brothers are similarly stubborn,” I say.

“As are mine,” Apollo says, hooking his bow across his shoulders. “It’s been many years, Chiron. Have you finally decided to rejoin your kin?”

“My wife implored me,” the centaur—Chiron—replies with a lopsided smile. “It seems that we owe Daphne a great debt.”

“Your wife”—I stumble forward a step—“the centaur we found in the Sphinx’s cave. Chariclo.”

“Indeed.” Chiron sweeps an arm behind his back and bows low, horse legs dipping. “For which my people and I will be forever grateful.”

Hippolyta coughs. “Not grateful enough, it seems.” She nods to the army of centaurs now galloping in circles just beyond the bloody plain.

Chiron paws at the earth, digging a blackened hoof into the sand. “Yes, Eurytion has many of my kind at his back. My fellows were quite angry with how many were killed in your escape.”

“Maybe they shouldn’t have aligned themselves with Nyx”—my lips curl—“and kidnapped us, tortured us, and stole from us. Maybe then we’ll take your people’s concerns seriously.”

The centaur considers me, face unreadable.

“Go back to your fellows, Chiron of the Kentauroi,” Apollo says, the command of Olympus in his voice. “Use your famed wisdom to persuade them that Troy is not their enemy.”

“The Kentauroi have friends on both sides of this war,” Chiron says, voice gruff. “As do I. We owe you and Daphne a great debt for saving my wife. I will try my best.”

Without another word, he turns and trots to the centaurs still galloping in the distance. The sun has risen to its apex above us, so hot I can hardly breathe. The air is hazy, making the horse figures look like shimmers now.

I clench and unclench my fingers around my dory, palms sticky with blood. Spartan blood. My stomach flips as I remember the men who died beneath my swing. I puke, right then and there, at my friends’ feet. Neither looks disgusted, but their pained sympathetic expressions are so much worse.

Apollo glances to the west, where the Achaeans are now building pyres for the day’s dead. For the people I slaughtered. “We will have time before the next battle. This was another test.”

He opens his mouth, about to say more, but closes it with a flicked glance at Hippolyta, before vanishing in a glimmer of iridescent sunshine.

“If only he’d made us all disappear like that last summer.” Hippolyta starts walking toward the city, her feet dragging slightly. “His powers could have helped us out of that mess, just as they could help us win this war.”

If he wasn’t bound, we could possibly stop this entire war. I don’t understand how it is possible for Zeus to have so much power.

Hippolyta looks over her shoulder at the ransacked temples, where Achaeans drink and boast on their steps. “I don’t understand why they just take such sacrilege. The gods are supposed to be prideful. Why are they not angry that their temples have been desecrated? Troy, the pride of Olympus, being attacked day in, day out?”

I dip my chin to my chest. “Perhaps it is more entertaining for them to watch this fight unfold. Very little must entertain them after thousands of years.”

I make sure Lykou and Helen are with King Priam discussing with the other lords how to barter with the Kentauroi before I make my way to the city’s streets. I’ve barely hit the road before I pull the pipes from around my neck.

I drag a jagged nail over the etchings, the roosters and snakes seeming to mock me, but I don’t let myself second-guess my choice.

I bring the pipes to my lips and blow.

As if he had been waiting for me, Hermes steps around a marble column. His braids swing as he saunters toward me.

I raise my chin, staring him down. “I will take you up on your offer.”

His wicked grin almost makes me regret the words. “And what makes you think I haven’t changed my mind?”

“Because you still desire a place atop Olympus.” I roll my shoulders back. “And you owe me a debt.”