Page 6 of Where Darkness Bloomed
In an abrupt change of heart, Tyndareus had bound her in marriage to coarse, brash Menelaus. As a suitor, Menelaus’s only true worth had lain in his powerful elder brother, Agamemnon. Lord of Mycenae, richest of the Greek kingdoms, and most feared.
As her husband, Menelaus became king of Sparta at Tyndareus’s death.
King Priam’s stony silence had been felt across the Aegean.
The alliance between Troy and Sparta had frayed further as Agamemnon’s thirst for power grew. His armies began to prowl beyond their borders, conquering Mycenae’s weaker neighbors with little effort. Grim tales had followed—cities razed, temples desecrated, innocents butchered.
Menelaus was a brute, but he wasn’t blind. He’d seen the growing rift between Sparta and Troy, the fragile bond hanging by a thread. Desperate to keep a valuable trading partner, Menelaus had invited the Trojan princes to his court, hoping to rekindle goodwill.
On the final night of their visit, as Sparta had drowned itself in wine and celebration, Helen had sought solitude in her chambers.
Then came the shadow. A rough hand had silenced her scream, dragging her into darkness. All the while, Menelaus lay in the next room, drunken and oblivious, entangled with his concubines.
A distant shout jerked Helen back to the present.
Ahead, Troy’s gates groaned on their hinges, slowly opening. The cart jerked forward, dragging her into the city’s cold embrace.
The streets she remembered were unrecognizable now. Years earlier, flower petals had fallen like rain. Priests had chanted blessings. The royal family had awaited them with open arms.
Now, those same streets were cold, empty. The palace loomed in silence beneath a bright moon, its warmth extinguished, its welcome long forgotten. The soldiers flanking the cart glanced uneasily at her, making no effort to hide their discomfort. But no one spoke.
The cart stopped before the palace, and she was drawn from it by rough hands.
Torches cast flickering shadows through the atrium as they entered. Theair grew colder, the silence heavier. Entombed by dark marble, they passed through stone archways, moving further into the palace.
Footsteps echoed like hollow drumbeats against the stillness as they ascended a spiraling staircase. At the top, a long corridor stretched, lined with braziers, flames dancing and illuminating the frescoes along the walls.
There, the gods gazed down at her in exquisite detail, radiant and indifferent: Apollo’s chariot blazing across the sky, Poseidon creating the first horse from sea foam, Prometheus breathing life into mankind.
A hand landed heavily on her shoulder, and Helen flinched.
The guards steered her through a doorway into the bedchamber beyond. The ropes binding her wrists were cut, sudden freedom stinging her raw skin.
She looked up expectantly, but the guards stepped back into the corridor. The door slammed shut, a bolt scraping into place.
For a moment, Helen was too stunned to move. Then she stumbled to the door, slapping her palms against the wood. “Wait!” she cried to anyone listening. “I must see King Priam!”
Fading footsteps answered her.
She pounded on the door until her hands throbbed. The skin split open, and her blood stained the wood. Her shouts eventually faded into hoarse whispers. Finally, she sank to the floor, exhaustion settling heavily over her battered body.
None of it made sense.
Priam was no fool. He was wise, a seasoned king. Too wise to provoke Sparta’s wrath with such a grave insult—abducting its queen.
The king was old, yes. But not mad.
Dawn crept through the window, and the door creaked at last. And then, slowly, it opened.
Helen looked up swiftly, hope rising in her chest. But it wasn’t King Priam who stared back at her.
Instead, a boyish face with dark features appeared in the doorway. Paris, second son of Priam, crossed the threshold. His gaze was already fixed on her.
“Helen,” he greeted her, offering a swift bow of his head. “You are most welcome here.”
His voice was smooth, familiar. Too familiar. She had spoken to him only once before, a dry exchange of pleasantries at a banquet. Yet now, his words dripped with the warmth of long familiarity. A casual intimacy, unwarranted and uninvited.
Helen rose to her feet, gathering her composure like armor. “Why have I been brought here?” she asked, hating the slight waver in her voice.
