Page 19 of Where Darkness Bloomed
“Ships,” someone whispered in the corridor. “A thousand of them. The Greeks—they’ve landed in the bay.”
That day, Paris’s honeyed promises had turned to ash in his mouth.
There had been no word since. Only waiting. Waiting for an army to appear, for the predator to make itself known.
With a soft groan, Helen rose from the bed. Across the chamber, the servants fell silent, watching her warily. Without a word, she stepped past them into the corridor.
As the months rolled past, she had been slowly granted small mercies—visits to the gardens, walks along the royal terrace. Illusions of freedom.
But golden chains were still chains.
Sunlight spilled over her as Helen stepped onto the high terrace. The breeze brushed her skin, but the air was hot, thin. Her palms met the warm stone of the balustrade, and she looked out at the countryside that had become familiar.
Breath fled her lungs.
The swath of flat ground stretching out before Troy was consumed by soldiers. A swarm of Greeks covered the earth like a plague summoned by the gods’ wrath. A sea of bronze and leather stretching to the horizon’s edge.
War had come.
And she was at its heart.
Chapter 9
At the edge of Troy’s battlefield, two figures stood. Beneath the sun’s blinding glare, one leaned heavily against a spear, his thick armor swallowing the sunlight. Beside him, a figure in radiant gold gripped a bow, shimmering like a mirage in the heat.
Ares’s gaze swept the horizon, tracking the Greek army as it marched toward Troy. “A great force for just one woman.”
“You may thank Aphrodite,” Apollo replied, his tone dry as the sunbaked earth beneath their feet.
Ares scowled, jaw clenching. “The damage is done,” he said brusquely. “Now we see that Troy survives it.”
“The Greeks have brought the greatest army in the world to Troy’s gates,” Apollo retorted. “How do you propose to save them when Zeus forbids us from the battlefield?”
Ares glanced toward Troy. Then his chin jerked to the city walls looming high in the distance.
“Those walls were a gift from Poseidon during Laomedon’s rule. They have never been breached. The Trojans can withstand a siege—if they’re prepared.” He paused, then grimly added, “If their king is prepared.”
“Priam is beloved by Troy.”
Ares barked a mirthless laugh. “Peace has softened him.”
“How can you be so certain?” Apollo asked testily.
Ares watched the armies before them. “Any other king would have sent the girl back the moment she arrived.”
In the distance, the armies collided in a wild crash that echoed across the plain. Screams of men and horses rose on the wind. Blood arced in vivid sprays, staining the sky before falling in heavy spatters onto the dust below.
Overhead, crows circled lazily, grim spectators awaiting a feast.
Ares’s gaze idled over the carnage.
The Greek fought loosely, careless and confident in their greater numbers. The Trojans, though fewer, held their lines with grim resolve, cutting through the enemy’s ranks like teeth ripping into flesh.
His eyes snagged on a promising young Trojan. His sword flashed with lethal grace as he felled Greeks one after another—until an arrow streaked the air, punching through his eye. The warrior crumpled, trampled underfoot in the fray.
Nearby, a towering Greek swung a spiked club with brutal force, each blow landing with bone-shattering impact. Armor splintered. Bones crunched. Men fell, screams lost in the discord.
Ares’s lips curved. “There.” His head tipped toward the clubbed brute. “The mighty Achilles?”
