The next morning, when our forces rally to the city’s gates for battle, we find no opponents waiting for us. Smoke still lingers in the air as the Achaeans move to their boats, at least a quarter of the force leaving to find supplies. They’ve doubled their sentries. Across the line of Trojan soldiers, I flash Lyta a grin before we march right back into the waiting city.

For the rest of the day, Troy celebrates.

Bonfires are lit in every corner of the city, blessings and sacrifices made to the makeshift temples now erected within the walls. I dress Helen for a banquet that Priam hosts in celebration as well.

“We must savor each victory,” he said to his people just that morning. “No matter how small and inconsequential they may seem.”

“We should be attacking while they’re weak. Not partying,” I say to Helen, wrapping a silver gown around her frame.

Helen says nothing, her face downturned in a frown. Once lush with curves, her body is now frail, her skin pale and hair limp. As though this war eats her whole.

I rest a hand on hers. “I’m sorry. For all of it.”

Her eyes meet mine for a split second in the bronze mirror before she jerks her hand away and stands. “To be sorry means that you would not do it again. But you would do it all again, wouldn’t you?”

She marches for the doorway, stopping only to place a hand on the frame and say, “Being my Shield wasn’t enough for you. You also needed the glory of the gods.”

She disappears without another word. With a reproachful look that says he hasn’t entirely forgiven me yet, Lykou follows.

My throat bobs. I wonder if she’s correct. I drag my fingers over the soft fabric meant for me, the color of seafoam and laced with thunderbolts in yellow. As if the palace seamstresses had known I would be leading the armies not for Helen, but at the behest of Zeus.

That bastard has controlled me this entire time. I screech and throw the fabric aside.

“Perhaps a different color?”

I spin to find Apollo in the doorway, wearing a red chiton so dark it could be black. He stalks forward lazily. Such power, evident even in that simple stride, even with his gifts bound. I turn my head to look up at him when he stops just short of me.

“How did you know that it wasn’t my color?”

He smiles and holds up a length of fabric. “You look loveliest in red.”

I have a dagger in my palm instantly. It’s pressed against his neck before he can even take another breath.

“How did I save you, the night I slashed this very throat?” I shove the blade so that he can feel how sharp the edge is.

Apollo raises his hands so I can see them. His cerulean eyes don’t leave mine. “You followed the constellation of Auriga back to the camp,” he says, slowly and carefully. “Where you used Dionysus’s wine to revive me.”

I take a step back, breathing heavily, then drop the knife to my side.

“I had to make sure it was you.” I run a frustrated hand through my hair, catching on my knotted curls. “I feel like I’m going mad.”

“Understandable that you would be on edge when the trickster has his hand in your bed.” Apollo waves to the bed in question, where my armor and weapons lay. The Adamantine sword shimmers there in the torchlight.

I wrap my arms around myself. “If you’re jealous, you can—”

“I can what?” He grazes my arm with his fingers. “Leave? Challenge Hermes to a duel? No, jealousy and brutality would never win your affection. I have no interest in squaring off against my brother, nor do I want to stand idly by as he chases after you.”

He looks me over, gaze lingering on my lips, the arch of my neck, between my breasts and thighs. I imagine his lips in all those places. Heat creeps from my abdomen to my cheeks.

“No.” He meets my eyes. “I will start with what you have asked all this time.”

Breathlessly, I ask, “What is that?”

Apollo’s mouth quirks to the side. “To prove that you can trust me.”

The hand that brushes my arm suddenly stops, gripping me firmly. His face dips, lips brushing my own. My breath catches.

He swallows, then says, “You are so lovely, you make me lose all sense. So strong, I can hardly believe you’re real. You’re a feast and I am still hungry for more.”

I want to turn away from his unflinching gaze. I want to shove him. I want to leave, fight, and even cry. But, most of all, I want to kiss him.

But once you’ve tasted that heavenly fire, can you really be content with anything less?

I shudder, leaning back on my heels. “About that new dress…”

Apollo blinks, then shakes his head. “Yes. New color.” He turns to the fabric he brought into the room. “If not that watery color, or red, and I’m guessing you’re getting mighty tired of gold…” He turns his back to me, so I cannot see what he does with his hands. The thought of what his hands could do makes my skin flush.

“What about something simple?” I offer.

He turns and holds a new dress aloft. “It’s as if you read my mind.”

The fabric is white, shimmering with a pearlescent sheen. I flash him a coy smile. “Would you like to help me put it on?”

His jaw clenches. “Then we’ll never leave this room.”

In the end, he turns his back to me. I drop my clothes and wrap the fabric around my waist and shoulders. It is as soft as feathers and sits with barely a whisper on my scarred skin.

I let him lead me through the palace hallways. Revelry echoes down the corridors, instruments I’ve never heard before, laughter and singing. We slip into Troy’s crowded streets. Colored lamps have been hung between houses, doorways split by sheets of red and gold and green.

“Troy’s colors of celebration,” Apollo says, pointing to one. Each is painted with varying animals. Peacocks fan their tail feathers on this one, and snakes slither up and down the next. “And to honor each household’s chosen god.”

“What do they do with the sheets when not celebrating?” I ask.

Apollo grabs my hand, his fingers warm and callused. “They hang them over hearths in their kitchens, similar to what Ligeia had in your Spartan home.”

“Do you think Ligeia was originally from Troy?”

“No. You’ve visited her birthplace before, actually.” He tugs me along. “She was born to a fisherman in Eleusis.”

We walk deeper into the city. People dance around the great fires. Food and drinks are passed among all. Spices I could never hope to recognize fill the air, flitting with the smoke and songs.

“Do you know where she and my parents are?” I cannot help the hopeful edge that leaks into my voice.

“No doubt they are hiding.” Apollo plucks a hanging flower and threads it through my curls.

“With moly?” I pat the flower self-consciously. It’s not the same flower, but a similar color, this one off-white with long, thin petals.

“Is that how Hermes avoids my father’s sight?” Apollo guesses correctly. “Perhaps.”

He leads me through a market crowded with dozens of food stalls. Each smells more intoxicating than the next. My mouth waters insatiably.

Apollo pays handsomely for a pita stuffed with lamb, feta, and spices. “Your favorite, yes?”

I accept the food with a blush. “You remembered.”

“I could never forget how adorable you looked stuffing your face with feta in Knossos.”

His golden hue has dimmed, face becoming softer, less burdened with the edges of Olympus and immortality. But his height is still stark compared to the Trojan people, and his beauty beyond compare. People watch us as we flit through crowds.

After we finish eating, Apollo tugs me toward a circle of dancing couples. “Just this once.”

“I have all the grace of a fawn,” I say and try to pull my hand away.

“I’ve seen you dance before.” He’s inexorable. “That’s not true.”

I don’t have time to ask when he’s seen me dance before he’s pulling me into the throng. My skin is soon slick with sweat, the chiton clinging to my every curve. He rests a hand on the small of my back, the other hooked around my waist to pull me close. Our bodies dip and twist together, hips never parting. His eyes don’t leave my own. Hungry, intent, lethal.

Despite knowing the danger lurking beneath that gaze, I don’t pull away. We don’t stop dancing until Selene’s moon has reached the height of the sky. I’m spinning and my eyes are closed.

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

I stumble, eyes fluttering open with a gasp. Apollo trips with me and we fall from the crowd. People watch us as he leads me toward an empty alleyway.

“What’s wrong?” Worry stains his words. He looks me over as if assessing me for any wounds.

I shake my head and clench my eyes shut. “Do you think we are fools to celebrate so prematurely?”

“Fools? No.” His voice is husky. He leads me farther from the bonfire, hand still resting on the small of my back. “There is so little joy in the world, especially during times of war, that it is important to grasp it while you can. Otherwise, what is the point of fighting?”

“To survive?” I chuckle dryly.

He returns in kind. “What’s the point of surviving without joy, then?”

“In Sparta, joy seemed like a foreign concept. We were supposed to strive for nothing other than the role of Spartiate. Or marriage.”

I hook my arm through his and a happy rumble echoes through the god’s chest. Our sandals echo down the street, the sounds of revelry slowly fading away. When I look up, a gasp steals itself from my throat.

The great fresco looms before us. The etched faces of the gods look down in varying shades of disapproval and condescension.

“The likenesses are uncanny,” I say. “How many hours did you have to sit for this?”

“I did not sit.” Apollo shakes his head. “This was crafted from mere memory by a god most haven’t even heard of. I haven’t seen Kothar-wa-Khasis in centuries.”

“Hermes told me of the battle for Olympian power,” I say, voice almost a whisper. “Was this god one of the casualties?”

Apollo throws a furtive glance around to make sure nobody—god or otherwise—lingers in the shadows. “Hermes really has no understanding of secrets.”

“He’s the god of cunning,” I say, shrugging. “There’s no doubt a reason behind his dispensing of secrets. A method to his madness, so to speak.”

“Your nights training with Hermes have given you some insight, eh?” Apollo nudges me with an elbow.

“My…” Friendship doesn’t sit right on my tongue. “My partnership with Hermes has its uses. At least I can expect honesty from him.”

A sharp laugh bursts from Apollo. So loud and hard he doubles over, clutching his chest. When he’s finished, he points a long finger at the messenger god’s image. “Honesty is something you could never expect from him.”

I open my mouth to argue but a high-pitched voice cuts through the night.

“Daphne.”

Apollo and I turn to face Kassandra. She stands at the end of the alleyway, framed in the refracted firelight. When she speaks, her voice sounds hollow and far away, like at the end of a cave.

“Daphne of Seasara, the Daughter of Ash and Sea.” Her eyes are so wide, the white rims stand out. “Helen will be killed.”

My hand goes to the sword at my hip. “Are you threatening my queen?”

“Not threatening,” Kassandra says, unblinking. “Warning you. If she continues on this path and kneels before the king of Mycenae, he will kill her this very night.”

“Are you mad?” I stomp toward her. Everything in my body screams at me to fight her, argue, and toss her aside.

Apollo grabs my wrist and hauls me back. He spins me around to face him, dropping my hand to squeeze my arms.

“Apollo! What are you doing?”

His eyes bore into mine. “Ignore what the princess says and listen to me.”

I clamp my lips shut at the urgency in his voice.

“Leave the city. Right now, Helen takes the path you were on just last night. She means to give herself over to Agamemnon to stop this war. She will be unsuccessful.”

“What?” My entire body starts to shake. “How do you know?”

“Run, Daphne.” Apollo shoves me away. “As fast as you can.”

Where everything in my body fought against Kassandra’s words, now my entire being screams at me to run.

And so I do. With the wings of Hermes beneath my feet, I flee the city of Troy.