I go to the Amazon palace by the city’s northern gate.

“We should surprise them just as they mean to do us,” I say, imbuing my words with every last shred of confidence that I have. I brush a hand over the armor I hurriedly donned before running over. “Don’t let them make a mockery of us. They hope to take us unawares. We shouldn’t let them even leave the hills.”

Lyta, who stood when I stormed into the palace, asks, “How many did you see?”

“Three hundred.” To my Sparta-trained eyes.

Penthesilea, standing beside her, nods. Her fierce gaze turns to the gate below us. “The question now is are these men fodder, a distraction while they attack elsewhere, or do they truly believe they can take Troy’s northern gate by surprise?”

“What were you even doing up there, Daphne?” Hippolyta peers at me.

I’m saved from having to answer by Penthesilea clucking her tongue. She chews on the inside of her cheek before snapping, “Lyta. Tell Hector to meet us at the Northern Gate. We must be quick if we’re going to beat them.”

Lyta hesitates, body angled to the exit in a blind reaction to her sister’s words, but indecision paints her face in stern lines. Her lips pinch, as if she’s swallowing back the words she wants to say, the arguments she wants to voice.

“Hippolyta.” Penthesilea stands, flicking her wrists out. Two warriors stride over and tie on the queen’s vambraces. “Disregard any backtalk that is surely floating around in that stubborn head of yours. Be quick, and tell Hector to use discretion. If we want to take the Achaeans by surprise, we need to leave the city in the dark, hypothetically speaking. We cannot cause a stir.”

Without another word, the Amazonian queen turns on her heel and sprints from the room. Lyta motions me to follow her sister. We cut down the stairs, her warriors taking flight behind us, each woman arming themselves in fine leather armor and two swords each. I buckle Hermes’s sword to my hip as my heart pounds in my ears, a steady drum that drowns out the sounds of the city.

The people watching us pass merely give us confused looks, and I understand why Penthesilea didn’t want to alert the entire army, only Hector. The moment the Trojan army gathers, the people will panic, the horns will blare, and the noise in the city will rise.

Penthesilea doesn’t wait for her sister and Hector before ordering the gate open. Unlike the other city gates, which are crowded with markets, this one sits just beyond a horse paddock.

As my hand lands on the red-painted gate, a voice chirps up from behind us.

“Stop!”

Kassandra, looking like a wraith, strides across the paddock. Horses gallop every which way around her, but she ignores them all. Her eyes are red-rimmed and wide. “You mustn’t leave!”

She stumbles the last few steps, and a part of me wonders how she was even let out from her father’s palace. Her chiton is only half tied, baring a shoulder and an entire leg. Her hair is only halfway plaited, a single eyelid painted with ochre as she strides right up to the gate and shoves me away.

I’m so startled that I actually fall back a couple of steps.

“Do not sacrifice the warriors of the black banks of the Thermodon,” she says breathlessly. She throws both arms behind her as though she can keep these gates shut by sheer force of will. “This field will eat their bodies whole with flame and gold.”

She blinks, then stumbles away from the gate. She stares at her hands.

I grab her by the shoulder and peer into her face. “Are you feeling all right, Kassandra?”

She looks to me as if she’s suddenly just noticing me. Her pupils dilate, mouth opening and closing. Her thick, dark brows draw together in a frown. “You shouldn’t be here, either. Wait with the queen, in the dusty halls of Priam’s palace. Do not tread between those foothills to meet the god of death with open arms. You have much blood to let, kataigída.”

I blink. “How do you—”

“Enough.” Penthesilea gives the princess a frustrated look. “None of your fearmongering here on the dawn of a fight. Go back to your palace and silks.”

Kassandra recoils as if slapped. “I’m trying to save you.”

“My warriors do not need saving.” Penthesilea sneers.

Blushing a red so deep her face reminds me of wine, Kassandra steps away from the gate. Her head bows, and Trojan infantrymen stride forward to open the great doors for us.

On hinges so quiet they must be oiled by the gods themselves, the gate is pried open just far enough for each warrior to slink through before shutting firmly behind us. We sprint for the foothills, which are crowded with prickly juniper and vibrant olive trees. The perfect cover from any scouts the Achaeans might have on the crest of the hills.

Hunched low to the ground, we slither among the trees. We don’t raise the dust as we pass despite our speed and number, our steps so assured and smooth. We reach a dip between the hills, following the ravine.

Penthesilea jerks us all to a halt with a single raised fist. She glances to the sky, cloudless and still bright with sunlight. Foolish, it seems, to attack the gate in the middle of the day. An itch forms on the back of my neck.

A warm breeze stirs Penthesilea’s hair, tugging the ebony strands and grazing her cheekbones with them. A teasing gesture, as though the Anemoi beg for our attention.

Under her breath, so soft I barely hear, Penthesilea says, “Three hundred men, weighed down by little weapons, should have been here by now.” Slowly, as dread pools in my stomach like hot oil, she turns to look at me. “Draw your sword.”

Before I can even grab the hilt, a scream pierces the air. The breath is knocked from my lungs as a body slams into mine. I’m thrown, tumbling across the sand. Penthesilea’s scream matches those of our attacker. She wrenches her two swords free, whipping them in circles. Her warriors draw their blades, metal singing as all three hundred of the Achaeans come running around the hill, from above and below. The Amazons meet them with teeth bared and swords raised.

I stab into the side of a man currently bearing down on one of the Amazons closest to me. He gurgles, blood trickling from his mouth. Before he’s even fallen, I’m moving on, sword ripped from his body.

Three hundred Achaeans against forty Amazons. Even if I keep cutting through these men like stalks of grass, we’ll never survive unless Hector arrives with the Trojans soon.

Towering above all the others, Ajax thunders through the melee. He carries an axine in one hand, a club the size of my body in the other. He swings wildly, knocking both Achaean and Amazon from their feet. A shiver runs up my spine at the sight of him barreling directly toward me. His muscles ripple beneath his black armor with each pounding step, his charge so similar to the Minotaur’s.

A dory swings for me. I duck and its tip slices my cheek. A searing pain rushes through my face. I deflect the next swing, spinning within the man’s reach. Surprise widens his mouth as my sword plunges into his gut.

I don’t have time to tear my blade free. A club catches me in the middle. Both me and my victim soar through the air, the wind leaving my lungs when I crash to the earth.

I moan, cradling my ribs as little jolts of lightning tear up my side. I try to push from the ground, but my arms give out and I collapse again. The sun is suddenly blotted out, painting the earth around me gray. With a mouthful of sand, I look up just as Ajax raises his club above his head.

His smile is wicked, his eyes black.

I spit blood at his feet. “No dramatic words, Ares? We all know how much you love to gloat.”

The god shows no surprise. “A little weasel like you will take any opportunity to flee. Why wait?”

“So you’re not completely dense.” I cough. I try to rise again, my elbows trembling. His club cracks into my spine. Even with the Midas Curse, the gold a second armor, his blow reverberates throughout my whole body.

My breath leaves me in a whoosh, and I fall forward.

“Nyx commanded me not to kill you.” He bends over, hissing in my ear, “But never said I cannot break you.”

A wild scream rips through the air. Ares turns just as Penthesilea leaps forward. Her strong legs propel her impossibly high, the ichor of her father carrying her as she soars.

Penthesilea drives a dagger right into his back. His eyes pop open. She shoves off him, hurrying to my side. Her lovely face is painted with enemy blood. “Can you walk?”

Over her shoulder, I spy Pyrrhus among the fray, standing and watching. He did nothing as Ares nearly killed me.

Another pain, a cold and hollow emptiness like frostbite, floods my chest. My own brother was willing to watch me die.

Penthesilea grabs me roughly by the upper arm and drags me to my feet. “We must continue fighting. We have to hold them off until Hippolyta—”

A dagger’s point glints from the center of her chest, stealing her final words.

“No!” I scream, clutching at her arms.

She gasps, patting her abdomen. Blood soaks through her leather breastplate.

Ares’s wretched face sneers over his shoulder. “Daughter or not, no ichor spilled of mine will go unmet.”

She’s wrenched away from me, lifted into the air by Ares. Then, blade and body are thrown aside. With a wild scream, I grab Hermes’s sword from the Achaean’s body and swing. Ares’s hand, the one gloved in black, arcs through the air and thuds beside Penthesilea’s prone body.

Ares’s roar shakes the very earth. I collapse backward.

“Enough of this,” he says, spitting and furious. “I will gut you now, you pathetic little rat.”

He takes another step, then dances from the reach of my sword. A smile painted red and black with ichor splits his face. “Hermes gave you his little blade? A traitor to no end.”

He moves forward, then jerks to a halt. He looks behind me. I feel it then: the thundering of a thousand hooves shudders through the earth.

My chest heaving, I hold the blade between us. Pain lances through my body with every breath. My arms tremble, struggling for the first time in my life to hold a sword aloft. “Better leave now, Ares.” I bare my own bloodstained teeth at him. “Or everyone will know that the gods are pretenders among us in this war.”

“Oh, you little fool.” He chuckles. “They already know.”

He holds his palms up at his sides. The mask of Ajax slips once more over his features as, still grinning, he takes a step back and disappears.