The Breaking — Prologue
On the day Kyra was supposed to be executed, the guards who came for her didn't have to drag her from her cell. She'd already accepted that she was going to die screaming in front of a crowd. The torturers would have their way with her, and then the executioner would finally put her out of her misery. She knew misery well, after a year in the Empire's dark and foul prisons. She welcomed the chance to escape it.
Not once did she imagine she'd see Deimos Autokratōr walking along the line of the shackled condemned, inspecting them before they were dragged off to their fates on the Prytaneion's stage. Kyra never thought she'd see Deimos this close.
Deimos, Autokratōr and Hegemon of the Hellenic Empire, resplendent in black leather and golden armor. Deimos, who'd conquered the world and ruled it with ruthless efficiency. Deimos, strolling closer and closer, accompanied by her personal guards, the High Executioner, and a train of retainers.
Kyra's wrists strained painfully against their manacles. She was stuck here, held fast by ankle irons, and all she could do was stare with the impotent hope that she might incinerate Deimos with the same heat that boiled her blood.
The tales of Deimos's cruelty were told in whispers. Even then, speaking of her invited the spectre of terror in for a visit. The prisoners in line averted their eyes, and Kyra knew she should do the same: shrivel herself small and go quietly into death.
She knew it, but she didn't heed it.
Now Deimos was only a few paces away. With a cursory glance, she dismissed the prisoners before her. And then she turned, and her gaze was snared by Kyra's open defiance. Hate kept Kyra from looking away. Hate pulled Deimos closer. The stories Kyra knew of Deimos failed to describe how imposing she was, or the way the air vibrated with danger around her, or her cold and regal beauty. Perhaps she was a god after all.
Bronze eyes flecked with gold settled upon Kyra with the piercing, dispassionate gaze of a raptor. "And what do we have here?" she asked, the molten iron of her voice filling Kyra's ears.
The High Executioner's face was hidden by the stern and androgynous features of a silver mask, but there was a man's shoulders in the silhouette of his black robes. He turned to his assistant. Papyri shuffled and changed hands. Then he read aloud: "Kyra of Mykonos. Condemned to death for inciting an ineffectual rebellion against the Empire."
His words were a slap. Ineffectual. Kyra saw gallant Praxos swinging his great mace, singlehandedly fighting off twenty soldiers to buy her and the others a few more moments to escape. Kyra saw Makaria, whose empty quiver left her with only a dagger to defend herself, cut down by a torrent of swords. Kyra saw the spear that stabbed her own thigh and the shield that struck her forehead. And somehow, somehow, she woke up at the end of it alive. She'd survived wounds, survived torture and captivity, and now she stood before Deimos Autokratōr and all she could do was spit in that arrogant face.
She'd give one final insult before Deimos gutted her where she stood.
Gasps hissed through the air. Swords leapt into hands. The prisoners cringed away from her as far as their chains would allow.
Deimos tilted her head, coldly calculating. Then she wiped the spittle from her cheek, smiled, and turned to her guards. "Take this one to my chambers," she said, and continued on her way as if nothing had happened at all.
Hands grabbed Kyra by the elbows and held her fast as she fought and kicked. Ineffectual. The irons around her ankles were freed from the coffle and the hands began to pull. "No!" she shouted, stupidly, as she realized the enormity of her mistake. She'd thrown away her chance to escape through death.
"Gods have mercy on you," someone whispered, and it was repeated by another, and another, Mercy on you, Mercy on you, trembling in her ears, echoing behind her as the guards dragged her away.