Page 10 of A Spark in Time (A Knights Through Time Romance #21)

T he war council chamber reeked of masculine pride and barely contained violence—a combination Bebe recognized from every society gathering where the men retreated to discuss “business” over brandy and cigars.

Except here, instead of stock prices and railroad investments, they were planning who to kill next.

Things that are the same in every century: men thinking they can solve everything with enough swagger and sharp objects.

She sat on a carved chair that probably cost more than most people’s houses, draped in sea-green silk that made her feel like Aphrodite’s understudy.

The Athenian war leaders clustered around a bronze table covered in maps, their voices a rumbling undercurrent of strategy and ambition.

Lysias presided over it all like a conductor leading a particularly martial orchestra.

“The Spartans mass at Corinth,” General Kleomenes was saying, fingers tracing red lines across the parchment. His armor bore fresh dents from the morning’s training, and sweat darkened the leather straps despite the cool stone chambers. “τρε?? χιλι?δε? ?πλ?ται.” Three thousand hoplites, maybe more.

“Let them come,” Lysias replied, his voice carrying that smooth confidence that made lesser men straighten their spines. “Athens has weathered Spartan storms before.”

“Athens has also lost battles to Spartan storms before,” a new voice drawled from the doorway, rich with amusement and something sharper. “Or has the great General Lysias forgotten Marathon so quickly?”

Every head in the chamber turned toward the entrance, where a man leaned against the marble doorframe with the casual insolence of someone who’d never met a rule he couldn’t break. Bebe’s breath caught in her throat.

Now that’s what I call hot socks.

He was tall—taller than Lysias by half a head—with the kind of build that spoke of real work rather than ceremonial sword-waving.

Golden hair caught the torchlight like burnished bronze, and his skin bore the deep tan of someone who spent his days under the open sky rather than in marble halls.

A jagged scar ran from his left temple to his jaw, giving his handsome face a dangerous edge that made Bebe’s pulse skip like a Charleston beat.

But it was his eyes that held her—blue as a summer sky, bright with intelligence and wicked humor.

They swept the room with obvious disdain before settling on her with an intensity that made her feel like he could see straight through all her divine messenger nonsense to the scared flapper girl underneath.

“Kassander of Thessaly,” Lysias said, and ice could have formed on his words. “How... unexpected.”

“I live to surprise,” Kassander replied, pushing off from the doorframe with fluid grace.

His leather armor was functional rather than decorative, scarred and stained from real use.

A massive sword hung at his hip, the kind of weapon that suggested its owner knew exactly how to use it.

“Though I’d hardly call my arrival unexpected.

Your messenger was quite insistent about Athens’ need for experienced mercenaries. ”

“Mercenaries fight for gold,” General Kleomenes spat. “True warriors fight for honor.”

Kassander’s laugh was like whiskey—smooth, warm, and guaranteed to cause trouble. “Honor doesn’t put food in your men’s bellies or iron on their backs, old man. But I’m sure your hoplites will be greatly comforted by their moral superiority when Spartan spears punch through their bronze shields.”

The temperature in the room dropped several degrees.

Hands moved to sword hilts with the subtle menace of storm clouds gathering.

Bebe found herself leaning forward, fascinated despite herself by this golden-haired barbarian who’d just waltzed into Athens’ war council and called their generals fools to their faces.

“Perhaps,” Lysias said with deadly calm, “our northern friend would benefit from witnessing Athenian quality before making such bold pronouncements.”

“Perhaps your northern friend would benefit from some manners,” Kleomenes added, his scarred face flushing red above his beard.

Kassander’s grin widened, showing teeth white as marble and twice as sharp. “Manners are for men who can afford them. Out in the real world—you know, the place beyond these pretty marble walls—results matter more than protocol.”

Oh, this is rich. Bebe watched the testosterone-fueled standoff with the same fascination she’d once reserved for her parents’ dinner parties when the conversation turned to politics. Except here, the political disagreements were likely to end in actual bloodshed rather than just wounded pride.

“The real world,” Lysias repeated, his voice silk over steel. “And what would a sellsword know of Athens’ real challenges?”

“I know that while you’ve been playing dress-up and consulting your pet oracle,”—Kassander’s eyes flicked to Bebe with unmistakable mockery—“the Spartans have been moving. I know that your last μαν?α θε?ν (madness of the gods) got forty-three good men killed at Plataea because someone thought sheep entrails were a substitute for actual reconnaissance.”

The words hit like physical blows. Heat flooded her cheeks, shame and anger warring in her chest. Every eye in the room turned to her, measuring, judging, waiting for the Silver Siren’s response to this blasphemy.

He knows. Somehow, this golden-haired barbarian knew exactly what had happened at Plataea and exactly whose fault it was. The knowledge sat in his too-blue eyes like a challenge.

“The gods’ wisdom,” she said carefully, “is not always apparent to mortal understanding.”

“Ah yes, the gods.” Kassander’s tone suggested he placed divine wisdom somewhere between unicorns and honest politicians on the scale of believability. “How convenient that their wisdom happens to align so perfectly with Athenian ambitions.”

“You dare mock the divine?” Kleomenes was on his feet now, his hand fully on his sword hilt.

“I mock stupidity,” Kassander replied easily. “Divine or otherwise. Though I’ll admit, dressing it up in silver hair and sea-green silk is a nice touch. Very theatrical.”

The insult hung in the air like incense smoke. Around the table, bronze scraped against leather as swords cleared sheaths by inches. Bebe felt the familiar fire kindle in her chest—the same rebellious heat that had made her dance with bootleggers and kiss boys her mother wouldn’t approve of.

“Theatrical,” she repeated, rising from her chair with enough force to make the silk whisper against the marble. “Is that what you call it when someone actually tries to help instead of standing around making clever remarks?”

Kassander’s eyebrows rose, genuine surprise flickering across his features. “Help? Is that what you call sending men to die based on divine inspiration that could have come from a fortune teller at a carnival?”

“At least I’m trying!” The words burst out before she could stop them, raw with guilt and frustration. “At least I’m not some—some sword-swinging dilettante who waltzes in here acting like he knows everything when all he’s good for is cutting people up!”

“Dilettante?” Now Kassander looked genuinely amused. “That’s a five-denarii word from someone who claims to talk to gods.”

“Maybe the gods have a better vocabulary than mercenary thugs!”

“Maybe mercenary thugs have better sense than pretend oracles!”

They were standing now, facing each other across the bronze table like duelists measuring distance. The air between them crackled with tension—anger and something else, something that made Bebe’s pulse race in ways that had nothing to do with divine inspiration.

Lysias cleared his throat with the deliberate sound of someone reasserting control. “Perhaps we should return to matters of strategy.”

“Strategy.” Kassander’s gaze never left Bebe’s face. “Yes, let’s discuss strategy. Starting with the strategic wisdom of trusting military decisions to an oracle in pearls who’s never seen a real battle.”

“And what would you suggest instead?” Bebe shot back. “Trusting them to a wandering sword-for-hire who probably can’t even read?”

“I suggest,” Kassander said, leaning forward until she could smell leather and sword oil and something purely masculine that made her head swim, “trusting them to someone who’s actually kept men alive in combat instead of getting them killed with divine guesswork.”

The truth of it hit like a slap. Forty-three men dead because she’d wanted to sound wise. Forty-three families mourning because she’d been too proud to admit ignorance.

“That’s enough,” Lysias said sharply, but his voice seemed to come from very far away.

Kassander must have seen something in her face—some crack in her divine facade—because his expression softened slightly.

“Look, princess,” he said, his tone gentler but still edged with challenge, “I’m sure you mean well.

But wars aren’t won with good intentions and pretty speeches.

They’re won by men who know the cost of failure and plan accordingly. ”

“Don’t call me princess,” Bebe said quietly, but the fight had gone out of her voice.

“What should I call you, then? Oracle? Divine messenger?” His smile held no cruelty now, just honest curiosity. “Or would you prefer something closer to the truth?”

The question hung between them like a sword blade, sharp and dangerous. Around the table, the Athenian generals watched with the fascination of men witnessing either a divine revelation or a very expensive mistake.

He sees right through me. The thought should have terrified her. Instead, it felt almost like relief.

“The truth,” she said finally, “is probably more complicated than any of us want to admit.”

Kassander nodded slowly, something like respect flickering in those intelligent eyes. “Now that,” he said, “is the first honest thing I’ve heard in this marble tomb.”

As if summoned by the moment’s honesty, a messenger burst through the chamber doors, his face flushed with exhaustion and fear.

“General Lysias! The Spartan advance guard—they’ve taken Megara! They’ll be at our gates within three days!”

The war council erupted into shouting, maps rustling, bronze clanking as men reached for weapons. But Bebe barely heard any of it. She was too busy watching Kassander’s face transform from mocking amusement to predatory focus, like a wolf catching the scent of prey.

Well, she thought as chaos swirled around her, looks like we’re about to find out who’s right about divine wisdom versus practical experience.

Somehow, she suspected the answer wouldn’t be nearly as comfortable as her marble chair.