“I know you didn’t intend for this. It was my fault, allowing you that bracelet.” Achilles combs fingers through her blood-stuck curls and presses a soothing kiss to her forehead. There’s no use chiding her—she’s already wracked with guilt. “I will make this right, I promise.”

He rises, Lyra cradled in his arms, and turns his flinty eyes back to Medea. “Now, where has my son gone? You’ll help me find him and lift your curse. His wounds must be treated.”

His tone is that of a hero and a would-be king: commanding, even as he stands as a shade, trapped by a circle of lamb’s blood.