The Moirai vanish in a blast of heat and smoke. I cough, waving a hand, and by the time it dissipates, nothing remains of the Fates. Nothing but every part of my body screaming at me to run.

The music hasn’t stopped, and neither have the joyous cheers, both echoing through the hallways. A dull roar begins in my ears, like the rising of a summer storm.

“Lykou,” I say. “We need to check on the prisoners. Kassandra, go warn your parents.”

The princess sprints away, and I am forced to hope she will follow my orders, whether they believe her or not.

I dash for our rooms, grabbing Hermes’s pipes and a pair of daggers on the way and strapping them to my thighs.

“Let me help you.” Apollo reaches for my hand.

I spin and slash his wrist. He bites back a yelp.

“I don’t need your help,” I say, pouring as much loathing and disgust as I can into my voice. It isn’t enough. “You and your family have done enough damage.” To add salt to the wound, to match the stinging of my fractured heart, I add, “Besides, you’d be useless to me as powerless as you are.”

His face crumples. I jog from the room, Lykou on my heels. I don’t look over my shoulder to see if Apollo follows.

“Go find Lyta,” I command as we run from the room, pointing down the hallway. He lunges into the shadows and I do the same in the opposite direction.

I go over my mental map of Troy as I sprint down stairs and alleyways. I take a corner so hard I slip, slamming into the wall. My arm barks in pain, but I don’t stop. I’m thundering down the streets, ignoring the curious stares that trail me.

Just outside the prison, there’s an enormous celebration. Trojans burn wooden effigies of gods as they dance, passing amphoras of wine and bowls of food.

I arrive at the barracks to find it heavily guarded, but no one looks alarmed. In fact, they all look at me as if I’m deranged when I demand, “Where are the prisoners?”

Whether it be from newfound respect or being truly unbothered, none of the Trojan guards protest when I march inside. The cells are belowground, down a cracked, narrow stairway, but not so far down that my skin prickles with cold or the memory of Tartarus.

The Achaean prisoners are crowded into a single chamber no larger than my suite, all fifty of them. A murmuring starts when I arrive.

“Prodótis” some whisper as I pass.

Some spit through the bars of the cage, leering and telling me in great detail how they would mutilate my body. Most largely ignore me, simply shaking their heads and turning away.

My heart hammers in my chest, so intense I can hardly breathe. I cannot find my brothers in the crowd despite my gaze normally being drawn to Pyrrhus’s auburn hair. The Spartans are easiest to pick out by their glares and the way they sneer as I stalk past.

The men part for Odysseus when he walks slowly forward, every step measured.

“What can we do for the Shield of Helen?” He waves to the meager space left in the cell. “I’ll admit that this is a fair bit roomier than the Horse we were all crammed inside. I could ask Teucer to scootch over and make space for you.”

I don’t laugh, much too panicked for even a crack of a smile. “What are you planning?”

He cocks his head. “Other than rotting in here until Agamemnon returns and bargains for our freedom? Nothing really. Maybe relieving myself a few times in each corner and teaching the men an Ithacan dance I’m quite fond of. You might like it, actually. It involves—”

I silence him by yanking him forward by the cuff, slamming his chin into the bars. “Quit toying with me, Odysseus. What are you all plotting?”

Several of the men perk up.

The Ithacan merely frowns. “We were plotting to climb from the Horse in the dead of the night after you all brought the damned thing inside, but I expect nothing remains of the statue except cinders and we’re all stuck behind bars now so…” He whistles and grabs the bars, leaning back to stretch out his arms. He grunts in satisfaction when both elbows pop.

I grab the bars as well and give them a firm shake. Neither budge. Marching down the line, I try each to the same effect. I should have expected Troy to have the finest cells this side of the Aegean.

“Which of the gods helped you create that wooden monstrosity?” I peer into the crowd, frowning. Menelaus leans against a wall in the back of the room, staring at the ceiling and ignored by everyone around him. He’s not possessed by Nyx any longer, if she was ever inside his head. Perhaps he was always just a craven and cruel man.

No doubt the soldiers despise him. Multiple failed efforts to take the city, and many lost Spartans. Still no sign of Alkaios, though.

“Athena for starters,” Odysseus says, “but I’m sure you knew that from the great big owl Nestor insisted we add.” He begins ticking off names on his fingers. “Poseidon, Hera, and some of the lesser ones. Thetis, Angelos, and Enyo. We never saw them, but they left us gifts, hints. It was Athena’s idea to build it using ships. We started in the water, and Poseidon aided us unseen. Then that great storm arrived and the contraption was lifted out.”

“Their hubris will be their own downfall one of these days.” I shake my head.

“But that’s the thing,” the king says, voice light for someone trapped in a cell. “The gods may be proud and deceitful, but they are not stupid. If there truly is something within these walls that they want to protect, why would they help us?”

“Perhaps they wanted you within the walls to protect it. Or to control you all. They don’t fear us mortals. Not truly.” I inhale through my nose. “None of you spoke with them directly?”

“Well, one of us did.” Odysseus’s grip on the bars tightens. His knuckles are white in the dim light. “How do you think we knew you would spot our battalion in the foothills that day, in order to ambush you?”

“Someone knew I was with Hermes on the roof.” Cold dread splashes over me like a pail of water. “Alkaios. He asked about me. What the messenger god meant to me.”

“The battles were even because a god spoke through your brother.” Odysseus’s brows rise. “Someone who understood your god of tricks.”

“Where are my brothers?” I ask quietly.

Alkaios and Pyrrhus are loose in this city, no doubt under the influence of Nyx. Troy is lit with wine and joy, making the citizens wholly blind to any dangers. I cannot wait for Lykou and Lyta to get here before I start looking. With a sharp order to the Trojans that two of their prisoners managed to escape, I dive into the unruly crowd with single-minded focus.

I slip between people, searching for Pyrrhus’s long red hair. He eludes my gaze, everywhere I turn. He has the entire city to hide in. I should be trying to understand his goal, not searching randomly.

Alkaios was trained with the same instincts as myself. A hunter’s focus has always guided both of our movements. Pyrrhus had always been the more rash of us all. Alkaios has the silent gait, the uncanny ability to meld into any shadow and avoid being seen by any creature.

Both have reason to want to watch this city and me burn. Bile rises in my throat, threatening to choke me.

I force myself to squash my panic and think rationally. It would be useless to simply leave the city. No, Alkaios would feel he owes Odysseus a life debt, and would do anything to help him escape. Or, at least that’s what he would have done if not influenced by gods unknown toward some other purpose.

I shake my head, trying to rearrange my thoughts in a useful order. As Odysseus said, the gods may be proud but they are not fools. No, an enemy of Olympus likely helped the Achaeans. And likely the same one who is hiding my brothers in the shadows right now. Pyrrhus, rash and impulsive, is more susceptible to godly influence. Nyx could get in his mind. They have to be searching together for whatever it is the walls of Troy protect.

The wealth of Troy does not immediately lay in its treasure, but rather in the ingenuity of its people.

I’m just thinking in circles. Cursing under my breath, I stomp past another bonfire and narrowly avoid colliding with a celebrating Amazon, her wine spraying the ground and splattering across my feet.

I wrack my mind through everything I’ve seen in this city. The markets and palaces, the megaron and fields where horses roam free. The statues and temples just beyond the walls, and the frescoes on every corner.

I jerk to a halt. That fresco of the pantheon that I first saw when the Erinyes attacked the city.

“This fresco was made by the gods themselves,” Kassandra once said.

I break into a sprint again, dashing around revelers and corners. My breath burns up my throat as I run faster than I ever have before. Passing the courtyard where Apollo and I once danced, I slam into another corner. The air knocked from my lungs, I stumble only once before taking off again down the last alleyway to the fresco.

The art looms high before me. I’m sliding across the ground, knees and hips barking in protest. Above, Selene has brought the moon high, full, and whiter than bone. Nobody else lurks in the alley.

Doubt settles along my spine like a clawed touch. I turn every way, peering into the shadows, but nothing lurks and there is no lingering scent of lavender prone to be left behind when Nyx uses her magic.

The fresco arches above my line of sight, the paint unblemished despite the elements and age. At my feet, Trojans have left gifts to thank the gods for their victory. Laurel for Apollo, bowls of cow’s blood for Zeus, and perhaps sheep’s blood for Hades, olive branches for Athena, and bread for Demeter. More gifts for the other gods line the ground. I nudge the bowl for Zeus aside with a toe, careful to make sure none of it splashes out onto my feet.

A whisper of the celebration’s music flits in the air. Not Hermes, not Apollo’s lyre. Troy’s paian song. The city celebrates in blissful ignorance to the danger lurking in the streets while I stand here and gape at a giant painting.

But I just can’t look away.

The stones shimmer in the moonlight, though not from magic or impurities. The small cracks catch my eye again, arcing in a semicircle just higher than the reach of my arm. My hands curl into a hesitant fist for the barest of moments before I place my palm on the crack slicing Apollo’s face in two.

A boom so loud it makes my ears ring echoes into the night. I jump back. Not a cloud in the sky, no hint of Zeus’s lightning. No, the sound came from the wall. From within the wall. Then a rumble begins to form. The bowls of blood shiver. Olives roll down the street. I take another step back, mouth falling open.

The cracks widen. They peel and roll backward with little clicking movements until, finally, a doorway appears.