He leaned back against his throne as they approached. An old, powerful tree had been cut down to make it; Lore’s eyes fixed on the carved dragons protruding from either side of it, warning anyone who came too close.

The man looked the way Lore had always imagined Hades would as he oversaw his kingdom of the dead.

Sitting near his feet was a boy that looked about Lore’s age. He wore a similar outfit to the man—a dark silk tunic, dark pants, dark boots, a dark smile. He looked down his snub nose at her like a dog he intended to kick away.

“Welcome, Demos of the Perseides,” the man said. “I am glad you accepted our invitation.”

Lore had heard stories about Aristos Kadmou. His dead wives. His near-kill of Artemis. His ruthless rise through the ranks of his own bloodline to become archon. His face told all of these stories, the deep lines and heavy scars making it seem as if it had been carved from the same tree as his throne.

From what Lore knew, he was only a decade older than her papa, but she supposed a black soul would rot you from the inside out faster than Khronos ever could.

“I thank you for extending it,” her father said. “May I introduce my daughter Melora?”

Lore glared.

“Welcome, Melora,” Aristos Kadmou said with a small smile.

“My wife has sent us with a gift,” her father said, holding up the package. Aristos nodded to the boy, who rose with a look of annoyance and went to retrieve it. He was the one to open it, and the one to hold up the two jars of honey inside.

Lore balked at the sight of them. Her mother kept a hive on the roof of their building and sold the honey at one of the city’s farmers markets on the weekend. It was liquid gold to them, but the boy, Belen, wrinkled his little pig nose at the sight of it.

“What do we need this for?” he sneered. “We can just buy it at the store for a few dollars.”

Hot blood rushed to Lore’s cheeks, and it was only her father’s grip on her shoulder that kept her from clawing the boy’s face.

“Now, Belen,” Aristos said lightly, giving the boy a look that was anything but chastising. “All offerings, even the most . . . humble, are welcome here.”

Muffled laughter followed. Lore felt her father’s body go rigid beside hers. The hand he’d placed on her shoulder tightened, and though his head was still bowed, she saw him struggle to master his expression.

Aristos snapped his fingers at one of the nearby women, who bowed to him in acknowledgment and brought forth an old bottle.

“My favorite Madeira,” the archon said. “Aged over two hundred years.”

Her father nudged her forward to accept it. Lore stared the woman down as she slinked forward, all muscle and sinew. Her eyes were rimmed with black kohl, as were the eyes of many of the other women and girls nearer to her own age gathered around them. It made their eyes seem to glow.

They are the Kadmides’ lionesses, Lore realized, taking the bottle.

“You are very generous,” her father said, the words stiff. “I thank you on behalf of my family.”

“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.