OPHELIA

  AT FIRST, THE LIGHT IS overwhelming as I step from the carriage, blindly following the stranger's hand. I clasp it like a lifeline and descend, shielding my eyes from the pale torch glow.

This world is strange. There is no sky to be found. No grass beneath my feet. This world is built from stone and mortar, lit with sparse firelight, held in the hands of stranger men. Soldiers, but much unlike those from home.

  My father's men are fearsome, armed with xiphe and doused in navy leather. As a child, I remembered my angst at those milky-eyed men, the bags beneath their eyes hinting at the evasion of another night's rest, knuckles worked raw to the bone.
  These men, however, are hardly even men at all.

  Even the smallest of them towers at least three inches above my father, and all built thick as oxen. Their faces hidden beneath heavy-set helmets with flaming scarlet crests, bodices carved from rivers of rich bronze, their skins are tan and shockingly unmarred, gold as their armour from too many days in this cruel Grecian sun. These men look ready for battle, though I dearly hope there's not the occasion, right here in this stagnant moment. Though I've heard the tales of their debauchery, their barbarity — I certainly do not wish to witness it.

"Thank you." I say, and quickly pull my hand from the soldier's; trying so desperately to hide my horror. Ascella's face mirrors my own, a scantily clad mask, fraying a little at well-worn hems.
  Andromeda is stoic as the stone she stands on, perhaps she knew it would be like this, and if she didn't, she hides it well.

The soldier bows to me but says nothing, rejoining the row of troops at the nape of the carriage, standing in perfectly bridled silence, as if they are not really men at all.
Standing so still, so unbreathing, it's almost as if they are carved from the same bronze as their armour. Perfect replicas carved in the image of the Spartan King himself.

They wield no xiphe, rusted and flecked with browning blood stains like father's men, instead, they hold far more modern swords; polished to an almost painful practice of cleanliness and tucked into dark leather scabbards. A dazzling red stone I have never seen before adorns the hilt of each weapon. A show of wealth, and for what purpose? Maybe for no reason at all, other than simply because they can.

Back home such a practice would've caused the solider's to become a target from the village common folk which they resided over. As if they hadn't hated them enough, a scarlet prize might have been enough to coax the folk to inhuman depravities.

If you dare dangle a steak before a starving dog — don't be surprised when you lose a hand.

  There had been a soldier once, a cruel, pale-faced man named Reid. Father had no idea that one of his own men had been buying nights with desperate village girls, ones whose families would starve without their sacrifice — without the soldier's coin. At least, he had no idea until they found Reid strung up to the gnarled oak in the centre of town; dead as they come.
  Turns out Reid had a taste for something a little rarer than desperate girls with empty bellies and hollow cheeks. He pushed too far, asked too much — asked for girls who had not even experienced their first bleed.
  Even the most heartless of folk couldn't turn a blind eye to that. And so, they had killed him, all turning at once, late one night when even the crow daren't caw.

  There had been enquiries, of course, father had been furious, threatening more hangings, fewer rations, and yet still, the folk did not turn on one another. Albeit through the mutual hatred of the soldier's tyranny or fear of ending up the same way as Reid, should they rat.

  After that father held his leash a lot shorter, clutched it closer, for fear of it being pulled from his hands irreparably. His men were no longer allowed to do as they pleased. And after that, they never found a soldier dead again.

A hand at the small of my back causes me to jolt forwards, "Come, Ophelia, it is time for you to meet the King." A low voice, my fathers, sickly sweet before the eyes of so many strangers.

More carriages begin to arrive, some drawn by pallid white horses with bridles and tack cast from silver coins, others by beastly brown cattle still with grass stains at their hocks.

Streams of gentlefolk, all dressed in their best finery, all here for one thing — though they may never admit it; greed.
They were not here out of the goodness of their hearts, or because they liked the Spartan King. In truth, the duty of a king is scarcely to be liked at all, instead, feared is far more favourable.
They were here because they wanted what he could offer them. Money. Fortune. Fame. Possibly even pride, should they propose the right bargain.

We three daughters follow the grain of gentry in silence, as perfect portraits of what daughters should be. Children our father would be proud of.
  He leads in front, bowing his head every now and again if a familiar face should strike his favour. More guards stand on either side of huge oak doors, currently closed, but this is where people gather, all eagerly awaiting.
Ascella discreetly nudges my hip, "Nervous?"

I shake my head, no, but that is only because I have not yet allowed myself to think what may happen if we don't strike the Spartan King's fancy.
Just as Pala always warned — men are stupid, thick creatures with an insufferable affinity for beautiful things. Just as a crow may collect silver strings and bring them back to its nest. Never satisfied, always craving more. We just have to hope that with our painted faces and rich new robes, we are striking enough to be worthy of collection.

  Time passes, though I'm not sure how long. There is no sunlight this deep into the mountainside. Hundreds have gathered by now, filling up the vast expanse of the stony chasm. Their mutual unrest reverberates through me, their nervousness becoming my own.
  It thrums through my chest, like the thrill right before a lightning strike. I feel it all around me. It's in the air, it's in my lungs, it's on my tongue.

  The taste is bitter and I struggle to swallow the angst down. Until finally, for a brief moment the world stills, and then the doors swing open.

  "The Spartan King will receive you now." Declares the finest of the scarlet guards, his barking voice echoing a thousand times over off of the stone ceilings and I beg my beating heart to still. "Let the annual reaping begin."

***
  QOTD- Who's excited to finally meet the king?🙋🏻‍♀️