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I tried to busy myself during the days that Lysander wasn't there. I hadn't realized how my days had been filled with him. I could still feel his kiss burning on my lips. Days turned into weeks as I waited. I wrote letters to him every day, letters that he would never see. It was hard to have faith in something I had never had faith in before. So, now I worried about my father, Lysander and Zander. It was almost too much to bear.

"Ophira, what are you doing?"

I looked at my sister, breaking my concentration. I realized I had been standing there with the broom in my hand, not sweeping, but leaning against the brush. I couldn't shake the sharp nagging I had in my stomach.

"I hate this," I complained.

"I hate sweeping too, but it must be done," Phaedra shrugged.

"No, I hate worrying. I've felt sick the last couple of days. I haven't been able to sleep and I just know something's wrong."

I felt the tears begin to stream down my cheeks. I wiped them away with the back of my hand and began to sweep, turning my back to my sister. I felt a hand on my shoulder.

"I know how you feel," she said softly.

"How can you possibly know how I feel? You are only 14."

Phaedra giggled.

"Can you keep a secret?"

I looked at her wide-eyed, not wanting to hear it.

"I'm in love with Bastiaan."

I looked at my little sister and smiled. Young love was so exciting. Bastiaan was one of Zander's closest friends. This was was the first for the two of them. Truly, Phaedra had more to worry about than I did. Lysander was experienced and cautious whereas young soldiers are overzealous and passionate.

"That is wonderful, Phaedra. I hope that the gods bring both of our men home safely. Though I feel that something is wrong," I said.

"Sister, you think too much. Bastiaan and Lysander will be fine, they're Spartans."

I heard someone calling at the door and furrowed my eyebrows. Phaedra took the broom from my hands which I wiped on my apron. I entered the house and approached the door. My mother stood, frozen like a statue. I joined her when I saw the soldier standing in our doorway, holding a piece of parchment. He stepped forward.

"Ophira Dranias?" he asked.

I looked in terror at my mother. I could not speak, just nod. He handed me the paper, bowed, and left. My heart pounded and my hands shook as I turned the paper over and over again in my hands. I didn't want to see what it said.