We need to stop this war.”

We’re in the grand bathing chamber, the air humid and making our clothes stick to our skin. Hippolyta stalks around the giant bath. Lykou’s face is unreadable.

After returning to Troy, Helen and I immediately sought them out and dragged them from their beds. Granted, Lykou was already wide-awake with worry when we reached him.

“I thought you weren’t going to keep any more secrets from me,” he said, rolling from the auburn furs.

“That’s why I’m rudely waking you up.”

Now at the pool, I lean down and drag a hand through the crystal-clear water. The movement immediately eases the aches in my arms. I snatch my fingers back. I have no interest in using the heritage of a god in any way.

“Priam won’t see reason,” Lyta says, kicking up a spray. “Or at least, there’s no way we can make him do so without looking like fools.”

“We have to at least try.” Helen stands with her arms crossed.

Lykou walks over to me and sits. “What did your brother say to you?”

I shake my head. “Nothing important.”

The lie festers between us. We both know it.

“Remember when I told you, not so long ago, that I don’t deserve your lies.” My friend grabs my hand, and then a small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “And that you are beholden to no one.”

I nod, lower lip trembling.

“That includes your brothers.”

My gaze snaps to his.

“Why did Alkaios say that about Hermes and Apollo?” We both look up at Helen, her arms still crossed over her chest.

“Apollo and I…” I swallow. “I have a complicated history with the gods.”

“She loves the god of prophecy,” Lykou says. There is no judgment or reprimand in his voice. “Alkaios knows that.”

Helen turns toward the room’s entrance, in the direction of the Achaean camp beyond the walls. “I guess I cannot fault you for that, Daphne. We cannot control who we love.”

Lykou’s hand tightens around mine.

“And yet we can control who we save.” Hippolyta marches toward the doorway. “Let’s go stop this war.”

Before we meet with Priam, Lykou helps me pull on Hephaestus’s armor. The leather is snug, sitting comfortably without pinching or pulling at my skin. It is also light, but I have no doubt that it is stronger than all other armor that awaits me on the battlefield.

My friend’s touch lingers on my shoulders and hips, and I let it. The touch is a comfort, if nothing more.

We walk slowly to the audience chamber, waiting as farmers and lords make their complaints. When our turn arrives, Helen steps forward. She’s draped in green Trojan silks and her eyelids painted with teal. With her wavy mahogany hair and the stubborn set of her jaw, I cannot help but think she looks so much like Artemis.

There is nothing delicate about my queen. She is as fierce and wild as the goddess of the hunt.

“My anax Priam,” she says, bowing low with reverence. “May I beg a private audience?”

The old king leans forward on his throne, steepling his fingers and resting his chin upon them. “If by private, you mean with your bodyguard and that Amazon entourage, I think you’ve misunderstood the definition of the word.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

Helen is much more polite than I would be. She gives him a demure smile. “Yes, my anax. I would like to meet with you, my people, and yours to discuss this war.”

He considers her a moment. A hiss of skirts lets me know that Kassandra has come to stand behind us. I flash her a quick look, but she is watching her brothers. Hector and Paris walk up to their father, standing on his either side. Too quiet for us to hear, they confer with hunched shoulders and backs turned to us.

After a long, tense moment, Priam nods to Helen and stands. His red peplos sweeps behind him as he marches from the megaron, followed by his sons, his guards, and our measly entourage.

The mapped floor is freshly mopped when we enter, the ground still glistening. It makes my sandals squeak as we follow and I immediately feel more on edge. Priam leans a hand against the sole table in the room and turns to us.

“You wish to stop this war,” he says without preamble.

Helen nods, not betraying even a glimmer of surprise on her lovely face. “We can bargain with them. Do whatever we must to end the needless bloodshed.”

“Even give yourself over to them?” Paris asks. His face is unreadable.

Lykou and I step forward at the same time.

Helen casts her eyes down. “I would if I thought it would help, but we know that despite rumors, I’m not the true reason for my husband’s declaration of war.”

“You think we haven’t gathered as much by now? Achaeans do not care for honor.” Priam shakes his head, the glass beads woven into his graying hair tinkling. “No, now it is a matter of pride.”

“Your pride?” Lyta glares at the Trojan. “My women will not turn their backs on you, but you would be expending their lives needlessly.”

“We will quash down the Achaeans like the rats they are,” Paris says, slamming a fist on the table.

Hector, ever the pacifist, steps between all of us. “This war will not last forever. We ask only for a few battles more, to cut down enough of them to have them turn tail and flee.”

“My husband”—Helen’s chin trembles and her hands curl into fists—“will drag out this war for a decade, until there are only two left standing, and even then he will leave and come back with more.”

“Then perhaps it is your husband we should kill first.” Paris’s eyes glint, his mouth a hard line.

Helen matches him glare for glare. A salphinx sings in the distance. An Achaean rallying cry.

“The Greeks demand more blood spilled,” Priam says, waving a hand toward the city below. “And we shall answer in kind.”

I turn to Hippolyta, face beseeching, but she can only shake her head. If we withdraw, we will be labeled as cowards. If we do not fight, we will be killed as traitors.

I march onto the battlefield, Hephaestus’s armor snug on my skin. Lyta squints, standing next to me, and looks me over.

“Something is different.” Her gaze roves from my sandaled feet to my helmet. “One blink and that is the Amazon armor my sister gifted you with, and the next it is black.”

“A gift from Hephaestus.”

“Think he could outfit our entire army?”

“You’ll have to ask him yourself.” I look down at the girdle sitting around her waist. “What abilities does that girdle have?”

“It helps me see through deceptions.” Hippolyta’s eyes gleam. “If only my sister had been wearing it, and not me.”

“She would never.” I turn forward to face our common enemy. “She would want you to have every ounce of protection available.”

“I miss her.” Lyta’s lip trembles.

The Achaeans march ever closer, the sounds of their drums and horns filling the plains. Dread seeps into my bones, filling me with a queasy ache. I don’t think I’ll ever leave behind the fear that sweeps through me at the start of every battle. This time, though, it is but a mere itch.

Just as Alkaios said, the Achaean kings ride forth in chariots with spiked wheels.

There is no fanfare, no pronunciations or sweeping battle cries. They come charging and they do not stop. I angle my sword high, pointed toward the men who run in my direction. A scream claws from my throat as the front lines are broken and the Achaeans power forward.

As one, Lyta and I move in a sweeping motion. Lykou takes up the rear with dual swords. Blood sprays around us as our blades cut through armor and flesh. The Adamantine is an extended limb, cleaving appendages as no other blade could.

I ignore the symbols painted on my enemies’ armor. I don’t need the shroud of guilt around my shoulders. I need speed and strength.

Hermes’s training takes me by force. I kick a spear aimed for my thighs and balance on the wood to swing my other foot around. My heel clips my assailant’s jaw and knocks him out, and then a bloodcurdling cry catches my attention from above.

Furies dive with wild screams. Trojans and their allies are ripped from the battle, then dropped from staggering heights into the fray. They fall with sickly thuds all around me. Archers atop Troy’s walls fire volley after volley. The Furies expertly avoid the arrows.

I spin and slide across the sand. The dory is a familiar weight in my hand as I scoop one up. Another man is yanked from the field, and even from yards away, I can see the whites of his eyes blaze with fear. I heave the dory back and let it soar.

My throw is short, the weighted butt bringing it down. I can only pray to Nike that it hit a Greek and not one of my allies. As I turn and search for another spear, an Achaean charges for me, but the Adamantine sword is ready. I meet his swing and his blade shatters. Pieces of bronze litter the ground around us, and shock blanches his features in the instant my sword slices his gut. I don’t wait to watch him die.

I’m sprinting across the plain for another spear. It’s in my hands and soaring through the air—it misses the nearest Fury by scant inches. I slice the kneecaps of the next Greek and I fling his sword at the nearest demon soaring above me. She banks and her hideous face turns in my direction.

Fear like I’ve never known before skitters through my bones.

All three women begin flying toward me. They swoop, claws missing my face and arms as I roll away. Their wings will forever beat in my nightmares.

“We have a fate worse than death for you, Shield of Helen,” they say as one.

The Furies have been said to inflict madness upon their victims.

Thundering footsteps power in my direction. I turn and cover my eyes as a spray of sand blocks the women from my view. A gasp wrenches from me.

Apollo, breathing heavily, stands between the Furies and me.

His bronze tresses are pulled back with a chaplet of golden leaves. His tan face is severe, the sharp angles of his jaw pulled into a look of absolute fury. Fire blazes in his blue eyes.

“You stand in the way of retribution, Son of Zeus?” they ask as one.

The god stands straighter, twin falchions appearing in his hands. “For her? I will stand in the way of anything.”

His swords lash out, impossibly fast. The blades cut and jab, tearing their pale skin and spraying black ichor all around us. Each cut heals instantly. He holds out a fist. Light flashes from his curled fingers, flutters, and then dies.

The grins do not fall from the Furies’ faces. This is a game to them, a chase. We are the mice and they are the hawks about to flay the skin from our bones.

I spin and hack at the nearest arm reaching toward me. She rises just above my blade with a preternatural swiftness. Her hand latches on my wrist. Fire and fury overwhelm me as I scream. Tears spill from my eyes and my knees buckle. She wrenches my other arm behind me. A cold fills the limb, my swords falling to the sand.

Apollo yells, gold flaring around him. The Furies hesitate. The light blinks away and he staggers with a furious roar. An Erinys pounces onto him and they both fall to the sand in a tangle of limbs.

My helmet is ripped away. The two other Furies grab my arms, with one grabbing my face. My teeth clash together. The Erinys gazing into my face is calm despite the war raging around us.

“For you, a curse I place with utmost glee,” she says. Her voice is a claw raking down my spine.

“Curse her,” Apollo says, voice like rage incarnate, “and I will rip the wings from each of your backs.”

The Erinys clenching his arm behind his back grins, so wide I can make out the blood staining her teeth.

“We can kill you. Remember, son of Zeus?” says the Fury holding my face. “We are gods just the same as you.”

Turning to me, she says, “You, Daphne, Daughter of Ash and Sea, we curse you.”

“Go ahead,” I hiss.

I spit in her face, fighting against the flame and chill and fear to look her in her eyes. They are black and emotionless. Her brow drips with my spittle.

Magic will not help me here. No power of Olympus can save me. Her lips curl back to reveal teeth stained with blood. This is going to hurt. “We curse you with—”

I ram my forehead into her nose. Bright light flares behind my eyes. Ichor sprays between us. The Erinys screams. My eardrums threaten to burst. My cry mingles with hers. As her hands release me, feeling returns to my limbs. I jerk free of her sister’s grip.

The Erinyes release a wild war cry and leap for me. I meet one in the air and hook my legs around her waist. Throwing my weight down, I fling her with my legs across the sand. The other is too startled to immediately react. Apollo rips free from his captor and rolls to his blades.

He meets the Furies with a roar, blades a cyclone of singing metal and pulsing golden light.

The Amazon war horn sounds behind me and I spin around. Hippolyta rallies her remaining warriors into a phalanx. A line of chariots bowl through Trojan hoplites around them.

One chariot stands out among the others. It’s painted a red so dark it could be black, its rider taller than any mortal man. Ares leads the line of kings on their wheeled steeds. His horse is black like midnight.

I sprint toward them. My swords are lost behind me. The only weapons I have left are the daggers on my thighs.

A primeval smile splits Ares’s face. He tips his spear forward and aims for his last remaining daughter. The chariot blazes forward.

My arms pump at my sides as I cross the plain in inhuman lengths, the strength and speed of whatever god sired me imbuing me.

But it is the Spartan in me that grabs one of my daggers. My years of training bring me to a stop at just the right distance. I may have missed the Erinyes, but I will not miss this target. I fling the dagger. End over end it soars through the sky.

And embeds in Ares’s eye.

He’s flung backward. The god of war tumbles from his chariot. Riderless, the horse stumbles and the spoked wheels bounce, and then tip. The other chariots lose formation. They break and then flee.

I don’t pause. I’m running again, another dagger already in my hand. I leap the final distance and straddle the god of war. His body is solid rock between my sweat-soaked thighs. I do not think twice about the consequences of taking a god’s life. Ares’s one eye blinks just as my second dagger rams into his throat.

A gurgled gasp escapes him, black ichor spurting between my fingers. His lung collapses around a final breath.

The adrenaline rushes from me. I stagger to my feet, reeling.

I killed Ares.

I killed the god of war.

I’m blasted back in a flare of lavender light, landing in a tangle of twisted limbs. Sand whips around the plain, blinding and furious. I spin around, but the Amazons are gone in the storm. Even Troy’s walls have disappeared from view. I cover my eyes against the sting.

Hera steps from the storm raging around me. She is lovely and flawless. The sand seems to avoid her as if a barrier of wind protects her from its touch. She levels a long finger at me.

“You may have avoided justice once today,” she says, voice dripping with rage. “You will not do so again.”

The storm rises and I’m swept from the bloody fold.