Page 96 of Crown of Serpents

She blinked, realising she’d stopped moving. The sea pulled at her legs, eager to drag her back into its depths. She kicked forward with a surge of effort, following them as the shoreline grew closer with every agonising stroke.

Andromeda took a deep breath, forcing her racing mind to stay calm. Seraphine had trained her for moments like this. A panicked healer could save no one.

Finally, her feet hit the cold rocks of Seriphos’s shore as she stumbled onto land. Her legs trembled, threatening to collapse from the weight of exhaustion. Yet, Andromeda walked in determined strides to where Aetos and Atticus lowered Kleos onto the wet sand, his head lolling to one side, chest unmoving.

“Kleos…” Andromeda’s voice cracked. Her soaked gown clung to her, a second skin, but she hardly noticed the chill night breeze. “Move,” she ordered, shoving Atticus's protective arm aside with precise, controlled strength.

Atticus exchanged a glance with Aetos but relented, stepping back to let her work. Andromeda knelt beside Kleos, her hands trembling as she inspected him. Blisters had risen along his arms and neck, some already weeping clear fluid. His lips were blue, his skin cold, and when she pressed her ear to his chest, she heard nothing.

“Breathe, Kleos,” she whispered, tilting his head back. Her fingers brushed against the strong line of his jaw, now slack and unresponsive. “Elysium can’t have you yet.”

It dawned on her that she had never actually treated severe burn wounds like this. Nor had they saved someone from drowning in Astarte’s temple, towering high above Joppa’s harbour. Andromeda felt her panic surge once more, but then the familiar touch of her goddess settled upon her shoulder, guiding her like the bright glow of the evening star.

She hesitated only a moment before pinching his nose shut and sealing her lips over his. She breathed into him, her breaths shallow and rushed, her heart hammering against her ribs. Then, she pressed her hands to his chest and pushed down in quick, coordinated thrusts. “You will come back to me,” she murmured. “Please.”

The moments stretched into eternity, each one punctuated by the rhythmic pressure of her hands against his chest and the crash of waves behind her. Aetos shifted uneasily nearby, his wrinkled face grim, while Atticus muttered prayers to the Greek god of medicine.

Finally, Kleos’s body jerked, and a wet, rattling cough tore through his throat. Water spilt from his mouth, and Andromeda quickly turned his head to the side, her vision blurring with tears of relief.

His eyelids fluttered, and for a fleeting moment, his dark blue eyes met hers, unfocused and heavy with pain. Her heart leapt, hope surging through her.

“Kleos?” she asked softly, leaning closer.

His lips moved, but no sound came, and then his eyes rolled shut again, his body going limp beneath her touch. Something shattered inside her chest.

“No.”Andromeda placed trembling fingers against his neck, feeling the faint thrum of a pulse beneath her fingertips. He was alive, but barely. How could she ensure that he remained that way? Instinctively, she reached for the medicine pouch at her side, only to find cold sand in its place.

“Andromeda,” Atticus said, placing a hand where Astarte’s touch still lingered. His voice was low and firm. “You’ve done all you can.”

She shook her head, unwilling to move, unwilling to let go. “No. I can do more.”

She needed to do more, needed to clean Kleos’s wounds, to remove the dead tissue —

“And you will,” Aetos said, crouching beside her. “But not here. We need shelter, fire—something to keep him warm. Let’s get him to the city.”

For a long moment, Andromeda stayed frozen, her hands still pressed to Kleos’s chest. Then she nodded, her jaw tight, and stood. Her legs felt weak beneath her, but she turned to Aetos and Atticus, her amber eyes blazing golden. “Help me carry him.”

CHAPTER SIXTY

Thunder crackled and boomed as Perseus trudged along the muddy path to his childhood home. Ominous storm clouds choked the sky, and the howling wind whipped and tore at his black tunic. Seriphos had never experienced such ferocious autumn storms as in the past days, forcing most fishing boats to remain anchored in the harbour. Perseus had barely encountered a soul on his walk to the fishing hut above the cliff.

It was a silent journey. His chest ached with every step, the pain of where Poseidon’s trident had pierced his skin lingering, but Perseus pressed on. He needed to bring his father to rest.

Perseus carried a wooden stretcher on his shoulders. It was the only way they could carry Dictys’s lifeless body back to the cottage he had built for Perseus and Danae. The roads were impassable quagmires for chariots due to the constant rain of the past days. Still, Perseus had insisted on burying Dictys beneath the cypress tree in their backyard rather than being burned on a pyre with the other fallen men.

Orestes, Elias, Meliton, Chares, Petrov, Darius, Eusebios, Aegon, and Zotikos. Those were the names of the men who had lost their lives because they had chosen to follow him. The gruesome images of their bodies scattered on the marble floor still haunted him. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Elias’s and Meliton’s mangled corpses, their hands outstretched, reaching in vain for each other. Nine men had died for him. Even more were dead because of him. He did not even know the names of the fallen epetae that night. Still, they had burned their bodies side by side with the sailors they had slaughtered. Perseus had forced himself to stay and watch until nothing but ashes and glowing embers were left of them, reciting the names in his head. Orestes, Elias, Meliton, Chares, Petrov, Darius, Eusebios, Aegon, and Zotikos.

Yet, he had refused to bury Dictys in the same manner. He had not died a hero or in line of service like the guards. The old man had died in the dank, suffocating dungeon of the palace that was once his. He had perished from the countless wounds his torturers had dealt him in the name of his brother. Dictys had died alone, not knowing whether his family had made it out. Perseus would make sure that he would not be alone in his death. His body would rest in the home he had built for them so he might stay with Danae and Perseus forever.

Behind Perseus, somebody yelped, and Perseus turned just in time to see Medusa steadying Danae as she slipped in the mud. The stretcher tilted dangerously, but Perseus’s hand instinctively shot up to steady it.

This procession was nothing like the ceremony they had held in the palace. Only he, Danae, and Medusa walked the treacherous, rain-soaked path to the far end of Seriphos. They alone carried Dictys to his burial site. Not even Andromeda had come.

The former princess of Joppa had refused to leave the palace. She had refused to leave Kleos’s bedside. She did not drink or eat unless Medusa brought her a plate to the small room where Kleos’s unconscious body rested. He had not woken since.

Andromeda worked tirelessly to heal the burned skin on his back, arms, and face. She kept his body wrapped in bandagessaturated with a balsam made of herbs, honey, and some plant she called aloe vera. Perseus had sent for the best healers in Seriphos so they might help her restore Kleos’s skin or what was left of it, but she had refused to let anyone else touch him. When Perseus had asked when his friend would wake, only one healer had dared to answer. Only the fates could decideifKleos would wake.

Grief and anger crashed over him, making his knees buckle. Orestes, Elias, Meliton, Chares, Petrov, Darius, Eusebios, Aegon, Zotikos, and Kleos. Too many lives weighed on his conscience.

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