Heart of the Priestess

The Macedonian sun doesn’t shine—it scorches. It bakes the ground into cracked pottery, turns the wind to fire, and makes every breath feel like inhaling dust. My linen shirt clings to my back, my boots are caked in sand, and Julia is trying, for the fifth time today, to slather sunscreen across the bridge of my nose. “Rosie, hold still,” she scolds, her calm voice a sharp contrast to the chaos of the excavation site. “You’re starting to crisp again.” I swat halfheartedly at her hand. “At this point, I’m going to be lacquered like a museum display. Just ship me back to D.C. and put me under glass.” Julia doesn’t smile, but her dark eyes glint with suppressed amusement. She caps the sunscreen and smooths out the sleeve of my already sweat-stained shirt. “Dinner’s confirmed for eight. Air conditioning. You’ll survive.” Behind us, Shay Dalton hunches under an umbrella, a laptop balanced precariously on his knees. His glasses have slid down his nose, and he’s typing like the fate of the free world rests on whatever ancient inscription he’s trying to cross-reference. Dio Leandros—Mr. Dio Leandros, my boss—insisted on bringing Shay. According to Dio, Shay’s the only historian alive who can trace the legendary artifact we’re after. To me, this whole thing is a political stunt wrapped in a fantasy. The ruins of Amphipolis stretch around us—sunbaked stones and fractured columns, remnants of what was once a jewel of Alexander’s empire. And this is no ordinary ruin. This is where Roxana, Alexander’s Bactrian queen, was imprisoned alongside their son and executed on Cassander’s orders. The place where the bloodline of an empire ended. Dio is convinced this site hides an amulet—a priceless relic he calls the heart of the priestess Roxana. My phone buzzes again. I shade the screen from the glare and read Dio’s latest text: Any progress? I sigh, shove the phone back into my pocket without replying, and walk toward the edge of the trench where Dio’s handpicked excavators are dangling from ropes. Their chisels tap against weathered palace walls, the sound sharp and steady beneath the hum of generators. Each strike feels like peeling back another layer of history. This should thrill me. As a Smithsonian curator specializing in Hellenistic antiquities, I should be ecstatic to be standing where legends were made. Instead, my stomach knots with exhaustion and the dull certainty that we’re chasing shadows. I trail my boot along the crumbling edge of the trench, scanning the ruins, half-listening to Shay mutter about stratigraphy. My heel skids on loose gravel. The ground shifts beneath me. Before I can react, a hand catches my arm and yanks me back. I spin around, heart pounding. A man stands there—tall, lean, with sun-kissed golden hair cut neatly but already bleaching in the heat. His eyes are strikingly blue, flecked with a glint of gold near the pupils, like sunlight caught in deep water. He’s dressed wrong for this climate: a dark button-down with sleeves rolled, tailored trousers, yet he doesn’t look uncomfortable. And, annoyingly, he’s gorgeous. I rip my arm free, stepping back like I’ve been scalded. “Excuse me?” His voice is smooth and low—and distinctly American. Not even a hint of Greek accent. “Please be careful,” he says, calm as ever. “You could fall.” Something about his tone, paired with those unsettling eyes, freezes me for half a second. Then my irritation spikes. “You think grabbing me without permission was the solution?” I snap. He doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t even flinch. Just watches me, sun at his back, looking like he both belongs here and doesn’t. I cross my arms, forcing composure. “Who are you?” Finally, he speaks—steady, unruffled. “I’m here to find the amulet.” There’s a faint curl of amusement at his lips as his gaze sweeps the ruins. “You don’t seem very excited to be here,” he says lightly. “This is the castle where Alexander the Great once walked. Aren’t you excited? I certainly am.” I narrow my eyes. “Excited? If I could say anything to Alexander right now, it’d be to berate him for his carelessness—especially burning priceless libraries like kindling.” Something flickers behind his eyes, unreadable. Then, softly, almost to himself, he says: “Ne mozhev da se vozdrzham.” The words roll strangely, not quite modern Greek, and definitely nothing I recognize. I frown. “What did you just say?” He looks at me again, that faint, unsettling smile returning as he steps back. “Nothing,” he says smoothly. “Good luck with your search.” And just like that, he turns and walks away, disappearing into the maze of stone corridors. I stand frozen for a moment, heart thudding, a chill crawling down my spine despite the oppressive heat. When I finally make my way back to the umbrellas, Julia is waiting for me, her face lit up with excitement. She grabs my arm the moment I’m close enough. “What did he say to you?” she asks, breathless, eyes practically glowing. I shrug, still unsettled. “He touched me without permission.” Julia’s jaw drops—not in outrage, but pure envy. “You’re lucky,” she says, fanning herself dramatically. “I wish he’d touch me like that.” I blink at her. “Excuse me?” “That’s Lex,” she says, as if it’s obvious. “The model. He’s everywhere—runways, magazines, perfume ads. You’ve seriously never seen him?” “Not unless he’s been hidden behind a stack of artifact registries,” I mutter. Julia ignores me, still glowing. “He must be here for a photoshoot or something. And honestly? What better backdrop than an ancient ruin?” I glance over my shoulder toward where he vanished, my brows knitting together. Something tells me that guy isn’t here to sell cologne.