Heat radiated off the bricks behind her; she backed into them as close as she dared, as the drakon stared at her with its gleaming, yellow eyes. She didn’t know when she’d turned from its treasure into its adversary—whether it was due to Demeter’s command or simply that the beast was not terribly bright. She had nowhere to run.

The drakon took a step toward her, and its mouth parted.

There was no time for conscious thought. Persephone reached up into the air with a grasping motion, then brought down her hands into fists by her sides, summoning the ghost of the oak tree that had been felled to create the rafters. She didn’t wait to gauge the outcome of her command, but ran toward the bed. She slid the last few cubits on her stomach, then crawled until she was completely underneath the bed, her belly flat on the floor and her hands clasped over her head.

The rafters creaked, then buckled. The drakon closed its mouth for a moment, angling its head upward as though puzzled.

One beam snapped and then another. The drakon inhaled. Persephone whimpered.

The drakon exhaled upward toward the rafters, bathing the room in garish orange as flames spread across the ceiling. The ancient oak screeched as it fell, burning beams scattering across the room. The floor above must have been used for storage, as amphora fell down, too, the flames hissing as wine and pickling juice splashed against them.

Persephone screamed when a beam fell onto the mattress above her, causing the bed to sag. She heard the drakon roar and could not help but feel pity for the suffering in its voice.

After that, she heard only the crackling of the fire. When she breathed, she tasted smoke in the back of her throat.

Persephone uncovered her head and crawled out from under the bed. Her fingers touched something sticky, and she recoiled.

The drakon’s glassy eyes stared at her, accusingly, its head lolling on the floor. A massive truss crushed it to the ground, blood pooling all around it.

Persephone held her himation over her face, coughing. Sweat rolled down her back as she stumbled toward the door, skirting pottery shards and flaming beams. She heard another crash behind her as she entered the cellar proper and found the stairs, taking them two at a time.

The floor above was completely gone, except for the stairwell area. Persephone fumbled at the door that she knew from memory would lead her outside. It was locked.

She coughed again, her throat searing. She did not have time for this. Ash and elm—she raised her palm, and the door...

Did nothing.

She slammed her fists against it. “Help,” she croaked. She coughed and tried again. “Help!”