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  “Make toward the front of the cell.”

  She had no idea how she was going to manage that. Even were she willing to trample everyone between her and the door, which she was not, there was hardly enough room to shift her feet the proper direction. A buzz filled the small room as feet shuffled, allowing her to slowly press forward. Murmurs of the numerous fates awaiting her nipped her heels. Grateful that the roaring in her ears prevented her deciphering the words spoken, she moved steadily toward the door. Each step was a log thrown in her own pyre. But then, she was a slave. There would be no funeral for her. Her body would not be burned to send her soul skyward so she could live with the gods. She would be thrown in a ditch to be fodder for the worms. The one person who cared for her enough to offer the sacred rites was in no position to do so.

  “Seraphime?”

  Lifting her eyes from their perusal of the grain of the wood in front of her, she met the cold eyes of a stranger who looked at her between the bars that covered the small window carved into the door. She nodded once in confirmation.

  “Well, well. You are a pretty thing.”

  Immediately she dropped her eyes at the suggestion in his words, chills breaking out over her entire body. The underused door creaked open.

  “Gods be with you.” Paraskeve’s invocation filtered through the haze swathing Seraphime just before the door snicked closed behind her.

  Seraphime was escorted to the bathhouse. No one explained what was happening. To say that her imagination was rampant with unsavory possibilities was an understatement. She didn’t ask questions – it would be considered insolent. If something was wanted of her, she would be given instructions. That, or what was desired would be taken by force. Eyes cast to the floor – it was expected – she waited. Again. Such was the life of a slave. Always waiting.

  Footsteps announcing new arrivals drew Seraphime’s attention. She chanced a glance through her lashes to find two soldiers flanking Persephone. The sight of her opened Seraphime’s mouth in horror. Persephone was covered in blood. Dizzy with worry, Seraphime rocked on her feet.

  “Come, I must bathe for a welcome feast in honor of our guests.” Persephone’s voice rang clearly in the cavernous room and she made her way directly toward the hottest of the baths. “It would not do for me to arrive smelling of swine.”

  Despite her grisly appearance, Persephone seemed unhurt, and the way the supervising soldiers glared in reply to Persephone’s affront suggested to Seraphime that the blood likely belonged to one – or several – of their own. One soldier cracked his knuckles menacingly.

  Though she managed to school her expression, Seraphime found Persephone’s audacity shocking. It wasn’t that Persephone was never insolent, but typically she was far more subtle about it. To behave so recklessly, she had to know something Seraphime didn’t. Or she was trying to get them both killed, which, given the alternative, was a possibility.

  “Of course, my lady.” Seraphime followed unconsciously, seeking desperately to figure out Persephone’s intent.

  Without waiting for Seraphime to assist her, Persephone dropped into the water still wearing her apodesmos and briefs. Flustered, Seraphime quickly moved to disrobe. Inadvertently, her eyes strayed to the watching soldiers, a fact both they and Persephone noted.

  “Do not worry.” Framed as an order for the benefit of listening ears, it was Persephone’s attempt at reassuring Seraphime. “The Perdomans will mind their manners. For now.” Though innocuous, the way Persephone’s voice pitched at the last let Seraphime know there was a message intended just for her.

  Persephone’s words and actions frequently carried dual meaning. There was the superficial – the message that was intended for all. And then there was what she actually meant – the true reflection of her thoughts and feelings. Through years of experience and the tightness of the bond between them, Seraphime was the one person who was able to interpret both meanings in nearly all things. Growing up, it was a skill they had practiced and tested at great length. Thinking they were very clever for tricking the adults in their lives, it had started as a game between young children. As they’d aged and begun engaging in riskier larks, the ability to communicate subversively had become necessary for survival.

  Listening closely for the rest of the missive, Seraphime dropped into the water and immediately set to helping Persephone shed her ruined undergarments.

  “We shall have to make a good impression to ensure they continue to do so,” Persephone finished.

  Trying to force her mind to catch up with her circumstances, Seraphime quickly reviewed what Persephone had told her. She’d said not to worry because the Perdomans would mind their manners, for now. That was easy enough: you are safe for the moment. Then Persephone had said they would need to make a good impression to ensure that they – the Perdomans – continued to mind their manners. It was an instruction: Do what they tell you. But Persephone had emphasized the words for now far more heavily than any others. Why? Because she could see Seraphime was distraught and she needed her to focus? Possibly, but hearing what the other was trying to say was second nature for the two of them, so more likely the words carried meaning of their own. Then it hit her: they’d been emphasized because they applied to both statements: You are safe for the moment, do what they tell you until things change.

  Seraphime nodded at Persephone to let her know she understood. If Persephone wanted Seraphime to go along with things, it was because she had – or was developing – a plan. But what price would she be willing to pay in order to achieve her goal? Knowing Persephone, it would be quite high.

  Chapter 3:

  The Pride of House Galanis

  The man who assumes he has no shortcomings will inevitably find himself matched against an opponent clever enough to find the weakness he never knew existed.

  – Augustine Sempronius, General of the Nex Division

  From the bathhouse, they had been escorted into the Grand Hall. Persephone heard the raucous clamor long before entering the room. Once inside, she immediately noted that every seat was occupied. The room itself was abustle with Perdoman soldiers and palace slaves.

  “Get to work. You are on the head table.” The lead soldier barked the order at Seraphime, punctuating it with a snap of his fingers.

  Persephone inwardly bristled at his treatment of her, but knew she had to choose her battles wisely at this point. Much as she’d like to, this was not one worth taking up. To serve was, after all, Seraphime’s present role, and there was no expectation or requirement that anyone speak to her politely. Seraphime inclined her head, respectfully acknowledging the order in spite of the disrespect with which it was issued. Breaking away from their small group, she moved gracefully into position.

  Knowing, at least, where to keep an eye on Seraphime, Persephone continuously scanned the many faces for Kolimpri’s. Panic stirred when she did not initially see any of her family members. Where were they? Had the general broken his word? With increased urgency, Persephone quickly searched the room again, touching on each face before moving on to the next. She allowed herself a silent sigh of relief when she finally spotted them and immediately realized why she had overlooked them on the first pass. Kolimpri, her mother, and her brother were floating around the head table with wine carafes¸ refilling the chalices of the foreign soldiers seated there – a servant’s task. Her father was the only one seated, but not as he should be.

  Pushing her shoulders back and tilting her chin up, Persephone followed her escort to the center of the head table, directly to the king’s seat. Her father’s seat. Only it was the general, not her father, who occupied it. The general’s claiming of the position was as much practical as it was insulting. Positioned in the middle of the table with its back to the wall, the king’s seat allowed its occupant the ability to readily observe the entire room. Seated directly across from him – a place reserved for high-ranking visitors – was her father, the king. Branded a guest in his own hall.

  Lounging com
fortably with a chalice of wine in hand, the general initially met her eyes, but quickly dropped his gaze, visually caressing her body. The chiton she wore was light lavender in color and thinner than she would have liked, but given the year-round warm weather in Galilae, she did not own anything heavier. Seraphime had attempted to compensate by draping it as demurely as possible. The way his gaze penetrated the fabric, she may as well have been naked. Persephone refused to allow her discomfort to show and waited for his eyes to slowly make their way back to her face. He held her gaze for several moments while she stared back impassively.

  His eyes were a mesmerizing hazel, interspersed with flecks of blue and gold. Though it was the way he looked at her, not the color of his eyes, that held her attention. Without a doubt he assessed her as carefully as she did him. This was a man that would be hard to fool. Being so unnerved by their capture, she hadn’t really looked at him during their first encounter. Under different circumstances she would have found him attractive. He had dark brown hair, almost black. His square jaw was masculine and strong, and the light stubble dusting it gave him a virile appearance. He had the muscular build of a soldier, without being overly large. Because of his lithe build, she suspected he was much faster than his comrades. His size and probable speed would make him a formidable opponent.

  “You look lovely.” From his lips it sounded both a compliment and a threat.

  “Your approval means everything to me, General.” Wise or not, she dragged out the word general as she had earlier, punctuating each syllable and infusing all of the disdain she felt into the one word.

  Shots to their pride, their authority, always seemed to be the most effective ways of irking men in power. Or so she’d found. Deluded with their own self-importance and eager to believe the best of themselves, many of them were shockingly oblivious to subtle nuances such as tone of voice. Persephone had learned early in life that if her words themselves were proper, polite, the dumb ones missed her slurs. The smart ones caught them, but because there was nothing overtly rebellious in how she spoke, she’d never been reprimanded for her bad behavior. Though that might have been in part because her father, the king, tended to take words at face value.

  The general’s lip quirked, but from the set of his jaw and the cold in his eyes, it was not an amused smile. He was one of the smart ones. That he was here, on Galilae and in control of the palace, she’d assumed he would be. It pleased her to know he’d heard the insult. Briefly reveling in her small victory, she snubbed him again before he could respond by breaking eye contact in order to track Kolimpri. Koli looked tiny compared to the large soldiers around her. She was struggling with a wine carafe almost as long as her torso. Persephone prayed it wasn’t full. She didn’t know how long Koli would be able to hold it, even empty. Kolimpri had spotted Persephone and was staring back, her face awash in her distress and confusion. Turning her mouth up in the most encouraging smile she could manage, Persephone watched helplessly.

  “Your sister is fine.”

  She hated him.

  “I, on the other hand, am parched.”

  She turned back to glare at the general unsympathetically. His eyes laughed as he held up his chalice and indicated the carafe in front of him with a tilt of his head. Smashing it on his smug face occurred to her – a temptation she denied herself. For the moment, at least. Persephone grudgingly plastered a simpering smile on her face as she topped off his cup.

  “See? I knew you had it in you to play nice. You do not strike me as the type to continue to do so, however, so I think it best that you stay right here. You can see to my personal needs.” The suggestive way he intonated personal left little doubt that he was not referring to dining.

  Her stomach turned. Even to protect her family, she was unwilling to stay idle and allow herself to be raped. Only years of experience in hiding her true sentiments kept her foreboding off her face.

  “And if I promised to behave?” She forced herself to look contrite. Kept her tone graciously repentant.

  The general released an amused snort before his lip curled in a sly smile. “In that case, I should insist that you sit and join me.” He patted his knee as he spoke.

  Praying the gesture was an invitation rather than a command – as it was, she wasn’t entirely sure – she smiled with polite detachment. “Gratitude, General. I prefer to stand, so I must respectfully decline.”

  “As you will it. The invitation is an open one.”

  Persephone forced herself not to sigh her relief. “How gracious of you, sir.” Sarcasm slipped into her words unbidden. She could have smacked herself, though she forced herself to continue to watch him blandly rather than advertise that she was appalled by her own behavior.

  He eyed her with open curiosity before once again schooling his features. “I meant it when I said you will stay here.”

  “Of course. Do not fret, I know my place.” Despite the respite she’d felt, she couldn’t seem to keep the insolence from her tongue. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Persephone internally chastised herself.

  “Do you?”

  Not trusting herself to speak, Persephone kept her lips firmly closed, nodding her head in reply.

  “See that it remains so.” With that he turned back to the food and people in front of him.

  As soon as he turned, Persephone found her mother’s worried gaze. She had been silently watching the exchange from the far side of the table. Her relief was as palpable as Persephone’s own. The corner of Persephone’s mouth twitched in a half-hearted attempt at consolation before guilt and shame that she had left her mother in her failed escape attempt overwhelmed her and Persephone had to turn away.

  Wanting to distract her mind from the dour thoughts plaguing her, Persephone looked around the room in order to truly assess their situation. With nary a Galilaean guard in sight, she couldn’t help but wonder if they’d all been killed or if some had been captured. Likely the former.

  Palace slaves – the only familiar faces in the room – attended the foreign soldiers. Persephone suspected they had been chosen somewhat randomly for the task, as few were performing chores that would normally have been assigned to them. It was clear their selection was not wholly random, though, since each of the slaves in the room was relatively young, female, and attractive. Though they flitted about the room, doing as instructed, they continued to shoot fearful glances toward Persephone. She had always protected them in the past; undoubtedly they hoped she would yet be able to do so. Persephone bit the inside of her lip until she tasted blood. The metallic tang and the discomfort distracted her from the knowledge that she was completely helpless to prevent the abuses they would inevitably experience as the night progressed. Suppressing the urge to give up altogether and crumble into a heap on the floor, Persephone turned her attention back to the soldiers. Regardless of how hopeless their circumstances felt, she needed to develop a plan, and quickly. There was far too much at stake for her to waste her time wallowing.

  She’d already deduced that the invaders were Perdomans, thus the apex of her concern: thus far, no kingdom had managed to repel the Finctus once targeted. However, to her knowledge, this was the first time a kingdom had not been taken in open conquest. She wasn’t sure if that improved their odds or worsened them.

  The three tables in the Grand Hall bordered the walls, making a U shape. At the base of the U, the focal point when entertainers were not using the open space in the middle of the room, sat the head table. Each of the tables sat fifty. Each space was occupied with Perdoman soldiers. She saw few readily identifiable officers, each of which was seated at the head table. The short supply of ranked soldiers implied the force was not a large one. The more men, the more officers there would be to lead and maintain order. So, based on the number in this room as well as the assumption that there were at least another fifty men stationed as guards around the palace, a conservative guess numbered them at two hundred. Though Persephone thought it more likely that the general had brought a small battalion, which w
ould number them at least three hundred. Regardless, it was an infinitesimally small number to siege a city. But then, they didn’t need the city. Just the palace. With that, the entire kingdom was theirs.

  Hoping to glean any information she could about how they’d gotten onto the island and into the capital district, or what they planned to do now that they had control of Galilae, Persephone turned her attention to eavesdropping on the conversations around the table. Mostly their discussions were unhelpful. From what she could hear they were reveling in the ease with which the palace had fallen. Unfortunately, she agreed with them.

  She noticed that the general was listening, but not participating in the surrounding dialogue. He leaned indifferently in his chair, wine cup in one hand while carelessly picking at the food on his plate with the other. The man who had captured her by threatening Kolimpri sat directly to the general’s right. The captain. His position next to the general, in addition to his leader’s address of him earlier, confirmed his rank. Persephone had to restrain the snarl that threatened to curl her lip upon seeing him. His hair, a dark blond, contrasted with the general’s darker appearance. Like the general, the captain had a fine dusting of stubble along his jaw. His light gray eyes, alert and intelligent, were never far from her. He too seemed to be listening without contributing to the banter around him. Unlike the general, who hadn’t acknowledged her since their initial exchange, the captain was far more concerned with keeping an eye on Persephone.

  Not learning anything useful, she turned her attention to her family. Her brother, Antaios, likely fumed internally, but his body language and facial expression only advertised his fear. Always making himself an easy target, she thought humorlessly. Her mother, who in spite of everything still managed to look regal, maintained her composure far better than Antaios, though she had to be just as fearful. Kolimpri was terrified and struggling. Seraphime stayed close to Koli, attempting to help as much as possible. It was a good thing too, because Persephone could tell that Koli’s stamina was waning. She wasn’t sure if she felt more inclined to cry or scream. The knowledge that Seraphime was helping Koli as much as she could and fear that, if she did something, she would make the situation more dangerous for all of them were the only things that kept Persephone immobile.