The red, eel-stitched flag, flapping in the wind as if it were undulating through the sea. The dark sails, the same color as King Nemea’s bitter wine. Theodore reached my side; our bond calmed. He saw what I did, and it morphed his countenance back into that of a king. His chin lowered. His gaze grew hard. “There he is.” There was not a hint of surprise in his voice. He’d been prepared, he’d known Nemea’s men would come. So had I, but I found myself staring, slack-jawed, with terror wriggling through me as if it were that Godsdamned eel. Nemea had come to take back what was his.
