Menelaus paused mid-murder.

  "It ends badly."

  He resumed, his blade moving in the same arc that had opened throats from Troy to Thessaly.

  Anaktoria tried to shift left. Her legs didn't get the memo, undone by exhaustion. The sword descended.

  Damon stepped in front of her, bracing his broken blade for impact.

  "WAIT!" Cassandra tried again. Might as well die first. "I can get you through Helen's gates!"

  The deck went as silent as their graves.

  Menelaus paused mid-step. "Helen's gates."

  His voice had gone dangerously still.

  "Yes! Or maybe even around the back..."

  His sword leapt.

  Anaktoria saw it. Too far. Damon saw it. Also too far. The point was...

  HEEE-HAWWWWW

  The sound tore through combat like divine judgment. Not exactly loud, sounds didn't need volume when they had that much authority.

  Everyone froze. The sword point wavered an inch from Cassandra's throat.

  On the rail stood Athena.

  Someone's helmet perched crooked on her head. In her mouth, a masticated piece of human. Her eyes held the serene certainty of a creature who'd transcended mortality by never giving a shit in the first place.

  HEEE-HAWWWWW

  She announced it again, in case anyone had missed the divine mandate.

  "Is that..." someone whispered. "Is that wearing Kleitos?"

  In the stunned silence, a figure straightened from behind the water barrels. Democritus had been there the entire time.

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  "Ah!" He greeted the frozen tableau. "Right on schedule!"

  Menelaus's sword didn't move, but his eyes did. "Democritus?"

  "My lord! The prophecy unfolds!" Democritus stepped over something organic. "The foreign prophet who ensures victory!"

  "What prophecy?" Menelaus's tired expression suddenly made more sense.

  "The one about..." Democritus caught Cassandra's confused, but hopeful expression. "Tell him about the gates! Helen's gates!"

  The sword jerked. Menelaus's face went from tired to incandescent.

  "Helen's gates?" Cassandra repeated, uncertain why everyone had stopped breathing.

  "I'm done. You're done."

  "I meant where Helen is! Inside!" Cassandra scrambled. "Her gates! The ones she opens!"

  The fury flickered, replaced by something worse. "You've seen her?"

  "No."

  "But you know where Paris took her?" The sword lowered slowly. "Her chambers?"

  "The palace presumably?"

  "Draw it." Someone was already producing a wax tablet. "Show me."

  Cassandra drew a shaking square. "The royal quarters would be central"

  "Does she see the sunrise?" His voice had gone hollow. "She always woke with dawn. Would he give her eastern chambers?"

  "I guess..."

  "I came home to rose petals." He wasn't looking at her anymore, tracing the square with one finger. "She must have scattered them on our bed. Seven days ago." His thumb lingered on imaginary windows.

  No one dared breathe.

  "Can she see the sea?" The question came out strangled. "When she wakes, does she look for my ships?"

  The lieutenant bravely coughed. "Should we continue killing them, my lord?"

  "What?" Menelaus blinked, surfacing. "No. She knows where Helen sleeps." He clutched the tablet against his chest. "She'll lead me to her door."

  As Greeks moved to secure them, Anaktoria muttered, "This got intense fast."

  The cell door slammed. Proper lock, oiled hinges.

  "Well," Damon said, testing the walls for give. "We're not dead."

  "Give it time," Cassandra said. She learned from the best.

  Anaktoria stood frozen by the door, processing their situation. Her ship: captured. Her crew: dead. Her investment strategy: catastrophic. She should be planning revenge, looking for escape routes... mourning.

  Instead, she was calculating the cell's dimensions. Eight feet square. Three people. One bench.

  "Sit before you fall," Damon suggested, claiming floor space. "Long day tomorrow. Probably involving our deaths."

  Anaktoria sat. The bench complained but held. Cassandra shifted, mumbled something about futures, and dropped her head onto Anaktoria's thigh like a stone.

  "Is she..."

  "Unconscious," Damon confirmed. "Every day."

  The prophet's breath evened out against Anaktoria's leather pants. One pale hand curled around her knee, anchoring. Anaktoria's fingers found her hair without consultation.

  "This is a disaster," she said quietly.

  "Obviously." Damon had already arranged himself for sleep, back to wall, hand near his boot knife. "Get some rest. We're going to need energy to dig ourselves deeper."

  The lamp flickered. Cassandra burrowed closer.

  Anaktoria looked down at the prophet drooling slightly on her leg.

  "Right," she said to no one. "Rest."