“But of course,” Aristos said. “Think of it not as generosity, but as a sign of my good faith in the business we will conduct here.”

“Business . . . ?” her father repeated.

“Of course,” the other man said. “Why else would a man surrender his pride to come to the den of those who nearly extinguished his bloodline, if not for pure business?”

Lore’s nostrils flared, but her father held on to his calm. “Why, indeed.”

“I’d heard that you were going from bloodline to bloodline like a beggar seeking comfort and aid,” Aristos said. “A pity they did not see the opportunity you offer.”

“For an alliance?” her father questioned, ignoring the whispers and snide laughter around them.

“An alliance?” Aristos leaned forward on his throne, tilting his head. “No, Demos. I have an offer for you. An arrangement that will change your fortunes.”

“If such a thing is within another man’s power,” her father said coldly.

“I asked you to bring your daughter, for I would like to bring Perseus’s noble blood into our line,” the man continued. “I wish to purchase her from you, for marriage.”

Lore’s pulse began to thunder in her head. Her temples throbbed.

Her father looked to Belen, who was smearing his snot across the front of his tunic. “Surely the children are too young for their futures to be decided—”

“Our fates are decided at birth,” Aristos Kadmou said. “As you well know.”

“I am less certain of such things,” her father responded. “I believe we choose what we become.”

“Then you stand against the Moirai?” the archon said. “Perhaps that has been your mistake these many years. I recognized my destiny as a boy. I inherited it, along with the vast timé and vaunted kleos of my sire.”

“And yet you have decided young Belen’s fate,” her father said, “by requesting my daughter’s hand on behalf of your bastard son.”

There was a hiss of surprise and clattering of weapons at the slight. Belen slunk back, his face red with the anger of shame. But when the archon of the Kadmides spoke again, he silenced even Lore’s father.

“I do not want her for Belen,” he said. “I want her for myself.”

Lore’s fingers went slack, and it was only reflex that allowed her to catch the bottle before it hit the floor and shattered. She twisted around to look up at her father, silently begging for them to leave now, before another vile word could pass from the man’s snake lips.

“She is only ten years old,” her father said. “You are her senior by half a century—and your other wives—”

A quiet murmur passed through the Kadmides. Some hissed, others thumped their chests, but it was the archon Lore watched. A thunderous expression passed over his face at the mention of his six wives, all departed to the Underworld without giving him a true heir.

“I will wait until she is twelve, as ancient custom permits, to wed her, and wait until her first blood to bed her,” Aristos Kadmou said, not looking at Lore. “She will be fostered with me until then to ensure that she is brought up correctly.”

“No!” Lore barked. Her father held her back, squeezing her shoulder again.

“Forgive her, she is very spirited,” he managed to get out. “Your offer is . . . generous. However, Melora has already begun her training with the Achillides.”

“Why?” Aristos asked. “Why bother, when you’ve known all along that there was but one future for her?”

“I don’t see it that way,” her father said. “She is my heir—”

“She is certainly not,” Aristos said. “How many daughters do you have now, Perseous? And no sons. No one to pass on your name. She will never receive a better offer than to serve the archon of the Kadmides. You know this to be true.”

Fury billowed up inside Lore.

“Be wise, Demos. You have two other whelps to unload onto other bloodlines,” Aristos said. “Rid yourself of one leech and you will breathe easier. I will pay you handsomely for her.”

It was a moment before Lore realized the faint growling sound was coming from her.

Her father, to her surprise, let out a hollow laugh.

“Do you think me such a fool,” he began, “that I don’t know the real reason you’ve offered for her?”

The room fell silent again. Aristos Kadmou leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees and raising a brow in challenge.

“It must haunt you, as it haunted your father and his father before him,” Lore’s father continued, “to have such an inheritance in your possession, and to have it be nothing more than decoration. How heavy is it in your hands? Can you lift it unassisted the way any of my girl whelps could?”

The other man’s eyes flashed, his expression darkening.

“And how it will haunt you to know that the inheritance you lost lies beneath your feet, just one floor down,” Aristos said. “Waiting. Waiting. Waiting for you to try to take it back.”

Lore’s vision flashed red as the heat inside her grew. They were talking about the aegis, the shield of Zeus carried by Athena. The inheritance Zeus had given her bloodline at the start of the Agon, the one the Kadmides had stolen from them. It was here.

“Does it call to you?” Aristos wondered. “Can you hear it, even now? Or do you hear the wailing of your ancestors, slaughtered like pigs?”

“I hear only the desperation in your voice,” her father said evenly. “But my daughters will never give you a child who can wield it.”

The archon’s face passed into the shadows on the stage as he rose to his full height. “I don’t need to mix your inferior blood with mine to use it.”

“It will never be willingly given,” her father said. “If we are to die, then it will disappear with us. How unfortunate for you that the most stubborn of the Perseides families was the one to survive.”

Aristos descended from the stage slowly. His arms had been tattooed with a snakeskin pattern, and the thick veins there bulged as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Is that right? Tell me, girl, what it is you desire?”

Lore glanced up at her father and mimicked him. She stared straight ahead, refusing to look at the archon.