Chapter 1
"Feet Grounded & Heads High"

Alba Longa, Latium
18 years after the Trojan War

Noon ushered a renewed wave of heat to settle across the barren field, and sweat pooled beneath his chest plate, seeping through his shirt and causing the leather guarding his shoulder to stick to his damp skin. The horse pawed impatiently at the dry grass, tossing its mane, nostrils shuddering, and he ran his hand along his steed's black neck, felt the dewy sweat gum against his palm, and patted the animal. Its onyx coat shivered, and it neighed while pacing slightly.

"Easy," Haemon murmured as he legs flexed around the animal's hefty chest, and his hands tugged on the reigns to regain control. The horse stilled, bowing its head and snuffing agitated at the dirt, but the mounting pressure between the two armies lined up and matched to face the other was unavoidable. At their crux the enraged Umbrian leader Scipio gestured wildly, cursing every Alban man who stood in opposition of his people, and with each sweep of his accusing hand, Ascanius intervened, ebbed his horse closer, and yelled to be heard over the leader's tone. The Umbrian did not possess the patience or political agility to part in peace, but battles in these lands were rarely guided by logic or reason.

The leader was the first to turn away, a blatant insult for Ascanius who now rode against the glare of sun toward his people and slowed to speak with his brothers.

"He claims he does not know who ordered the attack, and yet he demands reparations-"

"For fields we have not plundered," Haemon interrupted brusquely.

Ascanius' steed paced before them, its rider's blue eyes tense and unnerved by a bloody end for a petty quarrel.

"This was never about the fields," Nereus spoke. "His army can't defeat the Etruscans, and so he turns to us in search of glory to bolster his name."

"This day he will meet defeat." Haemon's dark eyes flashed beneath his knotted brow, and his steed grew more restless as if sensing its master's rising fury. His gaze searched his brothers' faces for the resolve mirrored in his own, and he dismissed them, ordering, "To your lines." No sooner had they dispersed was his sword drawn and raised overhead, the bronze glinting dully above him, an aged beacon of his family and his people.

"Albans!" his singular voice thundered across the field as a cue for each man who drew his sword. Some shouldered flimsy wooden shields for protection while others, poorer and more brazen, had only an axe. "We fight for our lands!" Haemon's eyes voracious and pulsating searched the grounds between them, and he sucked in the dry breath to command, "Let these bastards die for theirs!"

The soldiers roared to life behind him, and his heels wrenched into the horse's ribs releasing the tension like a bow's sinew. They careened forward reckless and powerful as a bull charging. Footfalls tumbled after them racing to keep pace with their leader, but he would not be slowed. Scipio yelled for his men to keep line, to advance, but their strategy waned in the face of one audacious enemy. The men fell to their knees, bending when the black stallion jumped above their heads and landed its rider within the throes of his adversaries who were lethargic to react. The bronze bladed across one man's chest, once more to sever another's head, but his steed was distressed, too young and unfamiliar with battle to stand its ground. Its hooves pounded against the grass, pacing, swaying, pitching to avoid the spears and swords brandished around them, and all at once the ranks contracted as the Albans collided into the Umbrians, spurring Haemon deeper into the latter's rows. His horse circled, ignorant to its rider's commands, black eyes wide to reveal the white circling them. Its lips drew back as it nipped at the bit, and Haemon pulled forcefully, growling through his clenched jaw, blade swinging overhead even as the forces corralled him. Spears brandished into the air soon to be followed by swords if they closed any further. He knocked away their weapons, turning, helmet-less, and barren features open with the challenge. One soldier rose to answer and stabbed eagerly with his weapon only to face Haemon's blade. He tugged again on the reigns and struggled to keep the steed steady, but the tension was too great. The black horse rose to its hind legs, kicking blindly at the soldiers charging them but backing more into their lines. Haemon drove in his heels, trying to guide them forward, but the steed bucked to its full height neighing and shuddering even as its rider threw his weight forward and strove for control.

The foreigners stormed them, the horse balanced unsteadily and jerked at the sight of weapons flashing in the sun, and time slowed around him as he fell, landing heavily on the ground, narrowly rolling to avoid his horse's collapse a moment later. The fall sent the blood diving to his head in a sudden rush until he could hear nothing over the shrill ringing in his ears, and the air fled from his lungs, his chest aching with the effort to gulp it back down. His body felt leaden by gravity's grip, and he stumbled to his feet disarmed but no less lethal. He tore the shield from his back, swinging and breaking one soldier's jaw who dared step too close. As the Umbrian fell with face bloodied, Haemon stole his sword and deflected the blade swooping for his chest. He sensed the attack behind him but fought off the soldier facing him, knocking his weapon from his hands, before Haemon twisted and threw his blade. The sword pierced the man's chest with such force his legs were swept out from under him, and he landed thrashing in the dirt. As Haemon turned once more, he swung his shield, knocking the man off balance and ready to guard against the dagger he drew from his waist. The Umbrian raised it overhead, but his attack was stifled by the arrow buried into his chest. Another ornamented him barely an inch apart, and the blade fell from his limp hand like his lifeless body collapsing into the dirt.

Nereus tossed his axe to his brother and notched another arrow, executing every soldier who charged him with the same merciless accuracy until his quiver was emptied, and he drew his blade. The hefty bronze was not his weapon of choice, but his strategy was brutal, each move calculated and planned, so that the soldiers who met him were incapacitated by his wit more than his strength. But even he could not anticipate all. The Umbrian struck unexpectedly, catching Nereus beneath his arm, and sliced open his chest, and the Prince stumbled back as the pain bladed through him like fire burning up his blood. The weight of his blade was magnified tenfold, and he struggled to raise it and meet the next blow. The sword fell from the Umbrian's hand when he clutched at his gushing throat and fell to his knees, revealing Ariston behind him. His young face was stained with blood and dirt making his blue eyes seem the more savage as they gazed at his older brother and noted the blood seeping from his side.

"It's barely a flesh wound," Nereus lied as he cupped the lesion and applied pressure, but he would not release his blade.

All at once, Ascanius charged past them with such speed the wind chased after him, and the brothers followed his exit to see the Umbrians sprinting toward the hills, their fearless leader an insignificant outline in the front of their lines. At the edge of the field, Ascanius ceased his pursuit, aggravated to have been distracted with battle and not realized the men sneaking away.

"Let him run," Haemon decided and swept the blood and sweat from his brow.

Ascanius glanced at his eldest brother looking fatigued and aggravated at once despite their victory. "We could send a division of men after him."

"He'll need time to lick his wounds before he tries again," he said and turned away from the Umbrians' retreat to the battlefield they abandoned, now scattered with corpses both Umbrian and Alban. "We'll return to the city and take our carts. We should gather our dead before the crows do."

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Sweat mingled in the slender lines on her forehead, still thin whisps that would deepen with age, but the dirt accented them making her seem more exhausted and haggard in the golden afternoon. The folded cloth in her arms threatened to overflow at any moment, and the pitcher dug against the bone of her hip, hitting again and again with every rocking of the water inside. It was difficult to manage both tasks simultaneously, but she couldn't spare the time to carry the fresh linens and then run across the square to draw water from the well. Sweat trickled down her spine and her arms, making the clay slip in her grasp, and she paused with a heavy exhale to readjust her grip before she lost her handle completely. The breeze tangled pieces of hair in her lashes, and she grumbled, bending her head and roughly tugging the strands free. As her neck straightened once more and her eyes flicked open, they met dark charcoal, and as quickly they considered her dirty toes sticking out from her sandals. Needing no further prodding, her heart was electrified and awoke with a sudden clamor, beating so wildly, so quickly that she felt a wave of dizziness seize her. Her mouth went dry, and she began her stride once more, too conscious of the slight limp from the weight of the pitcher and the awkward angle of her arm to hold the towels. Nothing elegant, feminine, or beautiful about her to draw his attention, and yet she still felt his eyes following her nervous shuffle toward her brother's home.

Lifting her chin, her chestnut eyes focused on the home ahead of her, but she could see him from the edge of her gaze: tall, slender, short black hair, and handsome features distorted by the mask of ashes smeared across them. The iron glowed in his hand, waiting for its next victim, ready to seal the wounds too heavy to afford the patience of stitches. A blacksmith mostly and a healer only when he was needed. Her features tensed with the effort to maintain her poise and her balance, but her eyes were too curious and eager for another glimpse as they darted toward him, sizzling to catch his own in their depths. His head snapped toward the soldier being brought to him and purposefully away from her, and she too turned from him, enlivened, uncertain, and defeated by such a simple exchange.

Little over a year ago Damian had been accepted into their ranks. They were long in need of a blacksmith after Pallas' death, and they were eager to welcome him so that he might mend weapons and armor and forge still more. In a year he and Iliana had spoken precisely ten words to one another, and eight of those had been from her shaking lips. Two curt responses diminished the dreams she held of his approaching her, speaking to her, courting her, but forever his gaze followed her path through the square as she went about her duties. He was at once burning and cool, taunting her with his attention and then looking away, making her feel wanted in one moment and like a leper the next. Was he reticent? Did he despise her? Did he find their torrid game amusing?

Shoulders heavy, brow limp with fatigue, and body numb, she escaped the tension knotting between them and hurried into the home where she could hear Nereus' voice echoing through the walls.

"What was that?! Charging blindly into their lines! I expect that from Ariston, but you!" Nereus' siege was interrupted as Sera drew his shirt away from the wound, and his loose jaw was forced closed by the flash of pain.

Haemon barely lifted a brow from his place at the doorway where he watched Nereus' pregnant wife fret over her husband's wounds, and Iliana brushed past him to deposit the pitcher and extra cloth.

"Give us a moment," the man grunted through his clenched teeth, face contorted with anger and pain.

"And let you bleed out so that you can feud with your brother?" Sera returned undeterred and wrung out a fresh cloth to clean his wound. The moment the material touched his injury, Nereus hissed between his lips, and his wife gave him a potent look, irreproachably feminine and annoyed. His blue eyes flickered with surrender, and his head lolled to one side as he lifted his arm and sealed his lips to allow Sera to finish her work. The strategist of Hector's children, Nereus knew when to charge and when to retreat.

"Listen to your wife, brother," Haemon said from the door and flashed a lupine grin, amused to see his brother subdued by a woman. "We'll speak after you've rested." Nereus' gaze narrowed, and with his wife distracted, he didn't spare Haemon a vulgar gesture to send him on his way. The older man chuckled and turned from his brother's room, and he headed toward his own home while checking beneath the bandage on his arm to the see the wound finally clotting, relieved it wouldn't require sutures.

"Haemon!" Iliana called out and rushed after him. Her dress and arms were dirtied with men's blood from treating various soldiers, but her face remained bright with youthful hope, capable of bursting into a smile when others were burdened by sorrow and fatigue. "I've been searching everywhere for you."

"As has everyone since we've returned," he acknowledged, mere paces from returning home but still hours away from escaping his duty this day.

"Are you hurt?" Her eyes probed him for any visible signs, trying to decipher which blood was his own and which Umbrian.

She couldn't see the aching of his back, bruises riddling him, minute scratches and lesions, and most sore, the burden of responsibility on his broad shoulders… "Nothing that needs attention."

"Good." When her eyes focused on her brother's, she nodded curtly and explained, "Solon has returned from Apulia and is speaking with Father… I thought you would like to know."

"What have you heard?" Haemon pressed without hesitation, and Iliana smiled gently.

"Nothing. You and your soldiers returned shortly after him. I had no time to be your spy, brother." His face was loaded with unspoken words among siblings, and her timid smile grew to a grin. "If you're so curious, why don't you ask Father yourself?"

"I can't interrupt these negotiations," he muttered, distracted and provoked.

"But you want to," she taunted and laughed lightly, but her older brother's pensive mask was not so easily broken. "Go home and wash off the dirt," she continued, not sparing an elbow in her brother's rib as she passed him. "You smell worse than the swine!"

Her amusement waned as she exited the home and was once more faced with the soldiers bloodied and in need of care. Haemon followed but a moment later, paused in the doorway, and surveyed the small square where soldiers sat exchanging names of the fallen and women rushed about them to address their wounds. Each pair of eyes bold enough to look upon their commander was rewarded a sliver of Haemon's attention, but the look was rarely sustained for it was not difficult to acknowledge a man as exhausted and agitated as themselves. His attention was drawn to the largest home where their father now received the news that could save their city from yet another war.

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"We have received word from Apulia," Solon announced from the threshold of Aeneas' meeting room. At the center, a large table was strewn with an askew map, weighted to the table by candlesticks and a chalice. The forgotten Dardanian Prince, once handsome trickster sent from the loins of Aphrodite, and leader of the Albans sat at the head having sunk deep into his seat from the hours spent pooling over the map's contents.

His blue eyes flickered to life and swept from the yellowed parchment to the old man calling to him. His fist fell from before his mouth, allowing him to inquire, "How fares King Savas?"

Solon folded his hands in a manner that forebode ill news. "He has denied our offer and countered with a new proposal."

A muscle tensed in Aeneas' jaw, invisible beneath his thick beard, but he feigned composure while asking, "On what grounds?"

"He feels a trade negotiation too loose a contract among two countries with as… trying a history as Latium and Apulia."

"He doubts my motives," Aeneas decoded bluntly.

A better ambassador and steward of his words, Solon explained, "Understandably we were the ones who approached him… He feels he holds sway over the negotiations."

"A trade agreement implies an equal exchange of resources." Aeneas lifted his brow, wrought with aggravation and impatience. "Does he prefer gold?"

"No, My Lord. It would seem he wants for a more lasting arrangement."

"What has he suggested?"

Solon paused, the only visible crack in his calm demeanor, and perhaps he took the time to gather his wits before he answered, "Marriage and all the advantages it implies."

He slumped once more into his seat almost laughing with shock at such a preposterous outcome. "I regret to inform the King I have but one daughter, and I'm not looking for a suitor."

"He did not mean Iliana."

Aeneas speared the ambassador with his cool eyes annoyed to be baited but willing to bite once more. "Has the King a daughter I've not heard of?"

"Not quite."

His chair screeched to life when he thrust to his feet. His body was rigid and stiff with age, but anger gave him the power to direct those heavy limbs. "My sons deserve better than a counselor's daughter. The King wastes my time and insults my family." Aeneas turned to approach his quarters needing a chalice of wine and a meeting with his sons to discuss how they would face winter in light of negotiations failing with Savas.

"Aurora, daughter of Lycaon, son of Gallad, legitimate heir of Apulia."

The title was a whip to his tired body, and he spun to face the ambassador, growling, "And he thinks me stupid… Lycaon and his family were murdered when I first arrived on these shores. As I recall, Savas blamed our men, then Samnium's, and most recently the Tribes of Osci."

"Yes, My Lord," Solon maintained as tempered as his master was enraged, "but it would seem Lycaon's daughter survived."

"He promises a pureblood princess –one who has more claim to the throne than himself."

"She is a powerful asset," he agreed.

"Yet he wishes to be rid of her. Why?"

"He needs gold. His people are starving. Few will survive winter."

Aeneas shook his head, rubbing his callused palm across his face, and concluded, "This is senseless."

"Desperate men with make rash decisions."

"He may be desperate, but he is not stupid. If she were truly Lycaon's heir, he would marry her to one of his sons and legitimize his line rather offering her to his enemies."

"Forgive me, My Lord, but I think his greater mistake would not be to offer a marriage between this woman and your son but to betray you. He wouldn't dare."

"He's arrogant," Aeneas settled flatly, though his interest was caught. "How old is she now?"

Again, Solon paused, making Aeneas even more wary. "Twenty-six."

"And she is unwed? Women are unmarried at that age when they are insane, or worse, barren."

"She's an orphan," the ambassador corrected. "She's had none to vouch for her name or arrange a match."

"Savas acts as her guardian."

"It would seem he was more concerned with his own children before that of Lycaon's."

Aeneas' gaze was distracted, but his posture remained caught between. Solon had a final trick, the most compelling he saved for last.

"Long have we fought for our home, but at every turn, we have faced attack, dishonor, and harsh words. We will forever be treated as unwanted neighbors, but if this is the lost heir of Lycaon, think of the jewel Savas has brashly dealt us! We would have the heir to one of the greatest leaders of the western shores in our grasp. Kings would be forced to recognize our lands and our legitimacy. Latium would finally be safe!" Aeneas' features were weathered with responsibility, and Solon uttered the final words to seal his decision, "Your children could die of old age –not war."

Silence trickled into the room, ripe with the Alban King's thoughts, and at length, he wondered, "You truly believe she is Lycaon's heir?"

Solon fought away a victorious smile. "I believe they believe she is Lycaon's heir. That is as powerful."

All at once, Aeneas gathered his full height and with it the unyielding tone of a ruler, "Call Haemon and Ascanius. Let them ride to Apulia and decide if this woman is an imposter or a gift."

‡‡‡

Barion, Capital of Apulia
One Month Later

"Three lambs, sir?"

"The King has a particular taste for lamb!"

"But you've not paid me for the chickens I gave a fortnight ago-"

The steward halted amidst the chaos unfolding within the royal kitchen. The sweat beading across his wrinkled brow and the stiffness of his right knee couldn't diminish the pride and purpose bolstering his regal stance. Rotating atop his injured leg, the steward was slow, but the simmering insult remained on his face as he confronted the peasant and pierced him with his beady gaze.

"Might I remind you it is an honor to serve the King in any manner His Majesty requires, and that there are others who would be far more than willing to see to their Highness' needs, knowing the favor they will procure and the undoubted graciousness His Majesty would soon bestow upon them…"

The stream of words dangerously cool and gathered unhitched the peasant's sure anger. Uncertain and somewhat confused by the lengthy address, the middle-aged man merely grunted and shifted his eyes toward the feast being assembled around them.

"Three lambs," he agreed with a swift spit into his palm then extended toward the steward, "but not a pheasant more until I see what's mine."

A noticeable crease to his nose, the steward accepted the gesture with a limp, reluctant hand and dismissed the peasant.

"Three lambs," a nearby servant repeated under her breath while kneading another batch of dough. "We've not to eat, and the King's up to his jowls in all!"

One stern look from the steward silenced her tongue, but even he –a loyal follower unto his death- couldn't inwardly agree, A country in poverty. Crops and livestock withered and choking on the rain… And the King asks for more bread to sop up his plate.

There was a burst of clatter as the plates tumbled to the ground. Desma bounced off the table, scurrying around the cluttered mess she had caused and wringing nervously at the kerchief twisted around her hands. Tears lined her dark eyes when they met the steward's, and she stumbled forward, clutching to his forearms for the strength to stand.

"Where is she?" he hissed.

"I-I've looked everywhere," Desma sputtered and buried her boney knuckles into the old man's flesh as she gripped more tightly. "The study, the garden, the stables…"

"Gather your wits, girl!" Taking her elbows, he shook her roughly, watching as the shock travelled through her whole body and knocked the air from her core. "The Albans will arrive at any moment!"

"They've come nearly a week in advance!"

"And we cannot appear unprepared!" Now he held her steady, bending to level with the desperate flicker of her eyes. "The banquet begins with or without your mistress, but be certain there will be a lashing for you if she is not accounted for! Now go!"

‡‡‡

"You're quiet today," Atlan commented while trailing behind the young woman. Days it had rained, and the soil was pliable and grasping at their feet, smearing across their toes and slowing their journey through the woods. Her posture was tense with shoulders straight and spine unbending, and he could tell well enough what plagued her thoughts for the years spent at her side had taught him the intricacies of carrying on a conversation with the Princess.

"The Albans arrive today," he continued with the ease of a man turning a leaf in a book, searching for the topic that would pique her interest enough to react. "You're nervous to meet them." All at once she squatted to her heels, peering at the small tracks embedded in the soil and knowing they were fresh considering all else had been washed away.

"Aurora…" he said when she still would not answer.

"Yes," she responded brusquely as if an exhale of pent up breath and straightened to her feet once more. Her face was uncertain when it turned to him, her eyes searching for confirmation as she admitted, "But I do not believe it was the Albans who took my family."

"Nor do I."

Satisfied with this accord, Aurora turned once more and followed after her prey where it had taken refuge in the meadow. Nettles tore at her ankle, and she sucked sharply on the air, knocking them away with the tip of her bow, before she stepped out into the open space. The ashy trunks and blackened canopies looming behind them had once been the scene of her nightmare more than a decade ago, but she could brave them by the light of day and with Atlan faithfully at her side.

"I dreamt again last night," she murmured while her eyes scanned the green field turning brown in places where the rain had pooled too heavily.

"Of what?"

"My mother waking me…" Her thumb plucked nervously at the sinew of her bow, agitated by the memory, and Atlan's calm grey gaze considered her.

"Did you see their faces?"

She bowed her head and looked at her dirty feet, lost thinking of that night.

"To your right."

In a flash, her fingers notched a fresh arrow and drew the bow to its full reach. The wood subtly groaned; the sinew ached; the arrow's head poised for attack. Her lips flattened as she held the breath swirling deep inside her belly, letting her body still while she waited for the jerk within the grass. Green waves billowed in the moist breeze, and she centered on the speck of brown hiding in the center. Prey and predator waited for the other to advance, feeling the slow ebb of time pass around them…

Horses' hooves shattered the peaceful silence of the woods, sending the rabbit bounding into its burrow and Aurora diving behind the cover of a fallen tree. The riders burst past like thunder rumbling through the heavens, and she flattened against the bark, feeling the wet soil seep through her dress and into her knees. No words acknowledged her, yet they rode close enough she could smell the lingering sour tinge of sweat on the air in their wake. They carried the breeze after them, and as she heard the distant gallop of their steeds, their exit as abrupt as their appearance, she dared to peek above the trunk and decipher the pack heading east.

Rudy colored horses like clay from the earth, long statures bent over their manes, weapons adorning their sides, and a flag nearly torn from its post as it flailed in the wind.

"Albans…" she whispered though her voice rose in alarm.

"Run!" Atlan commanded. "Through the fields!"

She slung her bow across her back and sprung from her cover, sprinting across the field, through the woods, and toward the palace in the east.

‡‡‡

"What will the council say, My Lord, knowing you've accepted these thieves into your home?"

"Not a word," Savas returned as a servant added the fur-lined cape to his shoulders.

"But, Majesty, I humbly remind Your Grace of the years these villains have pillaged our forests and grasped for our riches. Before their eyes, the world is a bounty to be taken, and I've caught word their prince is more ruthless than his father. He wants war with Umbria to pay the blood they've cost his family-"

Savas extended two fingers stiffly, pausing then to admire the pregnant ruby skewered beneath his knuckle. "All young men want war, Galen… It's hardly a character flaw."

Galen bowed his head, exposing the greasy bulbous point. Years before the hair had fled to feed his ever-growing eyebrows now pinched in thought while his bright eyes searched beneath. After pursing his lips, releasing, and pursing once more, he tentatively added, "You seek peace with men of war."

Savas stiffened, and with one jerk of his chin, the servants scattered from the room. He waited for the chamber door to groan closed before he turned to face his advisor. Pulling on the golden chain fastening the cape across his chest, he countered bluntly, "We cannot afford another war, Galen… My people are starving. The summer is waning. Fall comes, and with it, winter. How many more bodies will be buried beneath our hills?" He shook his burly head and became evermore aware of the golden crown buried into his wiry hair. "Whatever the manner of these men –or lack of– they hold necessary ports in the west, and their King is desperate and foolish enough to consider a proposal between his son and my niece. If this passes, Galen, you will have to pry me from my knees for the praise I will give to the Heavens."

Galen exhaled bitterly but kept his eyes downcast.

Savas gripped the man's shoulder, pressing firmly as he stepped from the pedestal in front of his mirror, and the older man's knees shook with the effort not to buckle. Sensing him still strong and impenetrable, Savas patted his back and smiled candidly. "You've been by my side through the years, Galen. We've seen too much for you to stray from me now."

Their gazes locked, and he nodded nervously. "Of course, My Lord. Your Majesty's wisdom has never led us astray."

The curt knock at the door interrupted their concentration, and Savas barked out, "Enter!"

A servant obeyed with his head respectfully bowed. "A thousand pardons, Your Majesty, but the Princes and their men have arrived."

Savas straightened in thought, knowing the danger and possibility lurking in his decision, but the tides had gone out. It was too late to abandon his course. "Have them escorted to the throne hall… I will join them shortly. And call for my sons. They should welcome our guests as well."

"Yes, My Lord."

The chamber doors closed once more, and Savas glanced at his companion. "What's their game? Arriving a week in advance?"

"Arrogance, Your Grace," Galen answered and fidgeted with his anxious hands. "Alba Longa boasts the strongest riders in the west, a fact the Alban Princes do not wish you to forget."

Though frowning, the King decided, "We will acknowledge their haste and stoke their pride tonight."

"My Lord?"

"I need them agreeable, Galen –no matter the agitation it causes me." After a last adjustment to his cape, Savas advanced toward the door and into the corridor with Galen at his heels. "I won't need you for this."

"What would you have me do?"

"Oversee the final preparations. Be sure that all is in place and beyond any feast your eyes have beheld… And most important, visit our little peace treaty." He narrowed his pale eyes to mark his intent. "She is a prize we do not want the Princes to forget."

‡‡‡

"It's cold!"

"It would have been warm were you in your place and not running about the grounds, but we've no time to heat you a proper bath," Cybele chastised while regaining her brush and scrubbing at Aurora's exposed shoulder.

The younger woman winced and growled through her clenched jaw, "I was in the garden!"

Cybele sucked loudly on her teeth and plucked a piece of straw from Aurora's hair, and the latter had no comment to dispute it. Tossing aside her evidence, she continued scrubbing until the blood bloomed beneath Aurora's skin while muttering, "I've attended to you since you came to the palace over a decade ago… I know where you go each afternoon."

They arrive a week before they're expected, and we're all to bustle into place like dogs called to their heels, she lamented and closed her eyes as she feigned immunity to the ache of the brush against her skin. Cybele paused, sniffed Aurora's hair, and added more perfume to the water while her mistress continued aloud, "I don't see why the King panders to them… They're thieves and murderers…"

The older woman sealed her lips from a topic too volatile and dangerous about which to speak, and their attentions turned to Desma startling into the chambers, a manifestation of her nerves and anxiety as she wrung out the kerchief practically stitched to her palms.

"My Lady, I'm told the King will soon depart for the banquet hall. He has sent Lord Galen to escort you."

Aurora's eyes flashed and turned to the mirror-like surface of the bath, recognizing her ghostly expression staring back -vacant and aware. "Tell Lord Galen I am capable of finding the dining hall myself."

Desma's posture shivered anxiously though she bowed her head and backed out of the room. "Yes, My Lady."

"Out with you!" Cybele prompted and reached for a cloth to dry her. "The King won't be kept waiting!"

"Why should my absence disturb His Majesty? He has quite enough to occupy him this night."

"All the more reason not to attract his wrath!"

"I've no desire to deal with these men, Cybele," Aurora groaned into her palm while her slender fingers massage at her forehead, trying to match the pressure building behind her eyes. "I fear why they've come."

The older woman's features softened like the maternal warmth spreading to her voice. "You know there's no fighting it."

The words seeped through her pores with the perfumed water of her bath, and reluctantly, she pulled herself from the water.

‡‡‡

The chills stubbornly clung to her skin and pricked each hair until her body was shivering with the draft inside the palace walls. Her steps were an irate staccato echoing through the corridor, but she was deaf to its resonance. All her attention was directed to the dress her uncle had chosen –a vibrant red like blood against her pale skin, and she could find no peace with the way the fabric nipped at her slender waist and revealed the smooth lines of her chest, the fabric subtly arching around her breasts and straining to reach her shoulders. A golden broach adorned the base of the cut, encouraging the fabric to hang lower and cling tighter to her chest, and she could not bear another moment of its boldness. Her fingers were still numb from her cold bath and clumsy as they worked at the pin. So simple a task and yet Cybele had wound it perfectly in the fabric and at an angle that seemed impossible to address, and the Princess huffed irritably as she discovered she could not remove it. The aggravation built, giving her only purpose and no patience, and all at once, she tugged at the broach as if she could tear it away. The metal was immune to her siege, but its persistence matched her own. Bracing herself, she pulled again, and the pin snapped open unleashing such a wave of satisfaction through her that her skin tingled with renewed vigor; but her victory ended sourly when she collided into the solid mass of a man. She released a short gasp as the pin embedded into her skin, and rebounding, she was stunned, staring down the valley of her breasts to the small prick and the large drop of blood that fell from it to mingle in the fabric of her dress.

Her furious gaze tore from her wound to the source, sweeping up the length of his tall figure until it settled on his face, even more unnerved as she discovered his eyes were enraptured with the cut of her gown and the wound at its deepest point. She flattened her palm across her skin, shielding herself away from him, and he lethargically drew his attention up her neck, across her jawbone, and finally to her face where her fury lay in wait.

The chestnut flickered back and forth between her eyes, and she instantly knew he was comparing the color, subtly discovering how one was a golden green and the other stained a tawny brown. "The touch of the Keres," the superstitious called it, another rumor stemming from the endless night of her past, and one which was popular among servants always whispering behind her back that she had seen the agents of death while lost in the forest. Inevitably, his attention made her feel exposed, but she was too furious to hide away.

"It is a pity," he commented with his gaze lazily wandering across her, "to spoil something so perfect."

Her pulse shuddered to a sprint, and she attempted to steel herself from such vulgar words. "The only pity is that you were raised with no manners," and this centered his attention once more.

"You crashed into me."

"Do you often loiter in the middle of corridors?"

"Less than you walk about blindly. You could have hit a wall."

"Haven't I?" she snapped irritably, unaccustomed to men speaking against her. "You look as dull and as large…" Without another word, she brushed past him and hurried into the hall knowing what would confront her if her uncle were forced to wait a moment longer. She felt his eyes following her back, and she was satisfied and invigorated to know she had secured the final, biting comment in their brief exchange.

Servants opened the doors for her, and she slowed her pace to appear more demure and worthy of her title, though her heart remained at a constant race beneath her breast. The hall was crowded with counselors, generals, lieutenants, wealthy merchants, and her own adopted family, and she recognized less than half of those gathered. It was not uncommon. King Savas would wish to seem affluent, powerful, and above all else rich in the face of his adversaries, now possibly friends if the meeting passed well. The guests circled about the hall, exchanging their titles and professions like pleasantries, while they sipped at heavy chalices of wine and listened to the musicians playing from the back corner. All were dressed in their finest regalia with rich shades of coppers and browns and golds, and she suspected they had not seen these garments for years considering Apulia's growing debt. But they all played their parts well even making her believe for a moment that this was a frivolous celebration, not a strategic political move.

She startled as a hand roughly took her elbow, and she turned to see her eldest cousin Davos poised with reprimand.

"Where have you been?" he growled beneath his breath, and she realized futilely that she had been too late to go unnoticed.

"Has he asked for me?"

"Of course he's asked for you!" Davos released her arm before others noticed, and she anxiously adjusted the robe sitting on her shoulders to grasp at what little modesty she could manage. "Come. You must meet the Princes before this is all ruined."

He guided her through the ranks of those noble officials called to welcome their guests, and her pulse grew with every step until it was numbing her to all else but its rumble inside her chest. The group stood at the center of the hall where others respectfully kept their distance though remaining near enough to eavesdrop when they could manage. Davos pushed past these onlookers, and Aurora followed on his heels.

Her uncle, King Savas, turned grandly at her entrance and swept his arm with a jovial smile, announcing, "Ah, my niece has arrived." Only when his cold blue eyes turned to her could she see the cracks in his mask, truly furious and not amiable. However, he turned toward his guests once more and quipped, "I told you she would be well in a moment."

"We have all felt the effects of the rain," the Queen agreed demurely to add to this charade about her tardiness. Weak women ever falling ill at the slightest breeze. It was a tired act but an effective pretense, and Aurora was anxious enough to hold her tongue.

"Princes Ascanius and Haemon, I present my brother Lycaon's daughter -Aurora."

"We are thankful to find you well," one of the men spoke up, and her attention strayed to him finding him of average height with a crown of pale brown curls and startling blue eyes. His features were etched as if by a skilled sculptor and smoothed by tan skin, and they now parted to grant her a congenial smile which seemed so much more suggestive merely by its owner's handsome demeanor.

She swallowed and promptly turned to the man stepping forward to be at his brother's side when the agitated racing of her heart halted. All too familiar chestnut eyes stared back at her, provoking her like the candid smirk curling his lips, and she swore his appearance were a slap to her face as it had the same stunning effect. An Alban Prince… What a fool you are! Surely he had known it was her when she rushed into him in the corridor, and perhaps what she had mistaken for a salacious comment had in fact been an attempt at a compliment toward her. And now…

"It's a pleasure to meet you at last," he said, eyes blazing, "Princess." The smirk morphed into a full smile that appeared kind and warm to others, but to her pale features, it was akin to an open attack –the lupine look of someone who stumbled upon a fortuitous secret.

Mute and intimidated, she was certain she had ruined it all.

Author's Note: Hi my lovelies! A Girl in the War sequel? I swore I would never ever, but apparently my muse doesn't know when to bow out. I realize this first chapter is confusing. I've opened a lot of doors and not shown you what lies behind them, but no worries. Everything has a place, a purpose, and a reason, and I'll explain them all through the course of the story. I will clarify some basic information up front: Haemon is now 29, Ascanius 28, Nereus 27, Ariston 23, Iliana 19, Aeneas 54, and Myrina is deceased (which you already knew from the end of GitW). Since I'm continuing with the settlement after the Trojan War and all the events which follow it, I'm charting unwritten territory and taking full advantage of my artistic license. I always do my best to research and give historical context to anything I write, but I'll admit now that I'm being much more brazen and imaginative because it's very difficult to dig up information about this specific period and location -especially considering Aeneas is a mythical character, and thus, his settlement is non-existent. So if you're a sucker for historically accurate pieces, you might want to turn away now or risk being offended by various anomalies. Otherwise, I hope you enjoy the revival of an old tale and the twist that it has taken :) xoxo