Page 165 of Where Darkness Bloomed
The world shattered.
A discordant roar surged around her, screams and clashing metal. In the distance, flames engulfed the city gates, clawing into the sky. The glow bled across the night, a grim beacon of Troy’s ruin.
Below the landing, the gardens were a battlefield. Soldiers clashed in a frenzied melee, blades flashing, bodies crumpling.
Then—eyes turned, finding her. Recognition flared.
Two Greeks broke from the chaos, sprinting for the stairs that led toher. Helen spun away, but she barely made it a step before a hand latched around her ankle.
A vicious yank brought her down hard against the steps. Stone met her shoulder in a bone-rattling crash. Pain thundered through her, but she barely registered it as her assailant lunged.
She kicked wildly, and her heel struck hard.
A sickeningcrunch.
The soldier’s head snapped back. A choked scream tore from his throat as blood gushed from his shattered nose, spattering against the steps. He reeled, limbs flailing, then tumbled backward.
Bones snapped like dry branches as his body crashed down the stairs.
Helen scrambled upright, palms slipping against blood-slick stone. Then, another rough hand seized her arm, wrenching her backward.
“I have her!” The voice was a guttural snarl, thick with triumph.
An arm locked around her waist, crushing her hard against a breastplate. The stench of sweat, iron, and death filled her nostrils, suffocating.
But then the man behind her jerked violently. His grip slackened. A breath later, he crumpled forward, dragging her down with him.
Helen tore free of his grasp, falling against the steps. Her hands sank into something warm, thick and wet.
Blood.
It burbled in wet, pulsing gushes from a gaping wound in the man’s throat as he lay beside her, a dagger buried deep. A pool bloomed across the stone, its warmth seeping into her skin.
More shouts erupted. More footsteps charged for the stairs.
But she couldn’t move. Couldn’t tear her gaze from the sight before her.
Her hands—slick, trembling—were bathed in crimson. Blood painted her fingers, clung to her arms, soaked the fabric at her knees. It was everywhere. And still it came, pouring in throbbing beats from the man’s torn neck.
Move.
Her mind screamed, but her body refused. She was stone, rooted to the bloodied steps. Panic surged, wild and useless, as thunderous footsteps closed in.
A flash of bronze.
A sword sang through the air, fast and bright as lightning.
The soldier reaching for her staggered, eyes bulging as red spray filled the air. His body buckled. The second had barely raised his blade beforeanother strike fell, clean and merciless. His cry died in his throat, severed mid-breath.
A boot lashed out. Both bodies tumbled down the steps, limbs twisting, blood smearing the stone.
Helen flinched at the crash. Slowly, with terror rising in her throat, she lifted her gaze from her bloodied hands to the figure before her. Breath caught harshly in her chest.
Just steps away, half-veiled in shadow and the curling steam from spilled blood, Achilles knelt. Blood dripped from his sword in steady rivulets, thick and dark. His chest rose and fell with eerie calm, breath fogging the chill night air.
He lifted his head. Fierce, sea-green eyes met hers.
Stay where you are.
