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A year after saving the powers of Olympus by defeating Nyx, the Goddess of Darkness, Daphne is haunted by still-looming threats, her complicated feelings for the god Apollo, and the promise she made to the Olympian gods that she would help them again when they called upon her. When their command finally comes, it is deceptively simple: secure herself a spot as one of Queen Helen’s guards.
A war is coming, and all of Sparta must be prepared.
In the midst of a treaty summit among the monarchs of Greece, Daphne and Helen uncover a plot of betrayal—and soon, a battle begins that leads to all-out war. As the kingdoms of Greece clash on the shores of Troy and the gods choose sides, Daphne must use her wits, her training, and her precarious relationship with Apollo to find a way to keep her queen safe, stop the war, and uncover the true reason the gods led her to Troy. But the gods are keeping more than one secret, and Daphne will be forced to decide how far she is willing to go to save those she loves—and whose side she’s on in a war that is prophesized to be the downfall of her people.
Claire M. Andrews continues to turn Greek mythology on its head in this thrilling sequel that centers a female protagonist in a land ruled by powerful men and gods alike, filled with exhilarating action, unforgettable romance, and a destiny that could destroy the world.
Preorder the jaw-dropping conclusion, Storm of Olympus, now!
Spartans are made of metal and fire. Their every instinct, every drive is solely focused on war and protecting their kingdom at all costs. They value nothing more than victory.
Where once I aspired to such greatness, now I have tasted its folly, for I have experienced death in ways no other Spartan has.
I try to remind myself of this fact as Paidonomos Leonidas marches up and down the line of Spartiates, my kingdom’s most elite warriors. We’re being paired up for practice. A frown furrows my brow. I, along with the other women and Mothakes—outsiders with no prospects—were forced into our own line. The Spartiates are being handed the prime weapons, while down my own line, our swords and spears are on the verge of crumbling in our palms.
The paidonomos stops before me, his face as unreadable as ever. His hands are fisted at his sides, shoulders ever so slightly hunched. “No weapons for you, Diodorus,” he says before pointing to a familiar head of curly black hair in the other line. “You’ve spent too much time behind a shield. It makes for a rusted blade.”
Without needing further direction, Lykou and I march to a corner of the arena, taking up our fighting stances. Last summer we sparred in similar positions, twirling spears around raging bonfires and dancing around unsaid feelings.
My friend chuckles. “This feels painfully familiar, doesn’t it?”
“Because we’re always paired up?” I return his laugh. “I’m sure it will feel painfully familiar as I’m swiping your legs from beneath you.”
Soon I’m eating my words as, head over heels, I’m flung across the grass.
I soar across the depths of Tartarus once more. The scent of seawater fills my nose, ruby eyes swarming my vision. All my training on how to brace for such a landing flees my mind and I land hard enough to steal the air from my lungs. Aching, I climb to my feet. I don’t miss Paidonomos Leonidas shaking his head in disappointment, nor the confused glances of the other Spartans who are sparring around us.
Lykou doesn’t give me a chance to catch my breath. He charges me and I have only a moment to dance from his reach. I could have grabbed him by the arm and used his own speed against him. I could have even tripped him. Yet my head is so clouded that all I can think to do is dodge his attacks.
Lykou holds nothing back as he clips me in the jaw. I barely remain on my feet.
Images of Nyx standing above me flicker in and out of my vision. Her claws dig deep into my spine.
I don’t duck in time to avoid my friend’s next swing. A fist catches my temple.
“I’m going to enjoy ripping you apart.” Nyx drags me to my feet and slams her forehead into mine. “And then, when I’m finished, I’m going to find your brothers and do the same to them.”
The stadium spins. The memory of Nyx’s assault is so fresh the stars still flash behind my eyes. I raise my arms to block Lykou’s punches, gritting my teeth. His knuckles dig so deep that my bones sing.
The paidonomos’s barked order is sharp enough to stop all movement across the gymnasion. When Leonidas addresses Lykou, the others reluctantly continue their brawls.
“Leave us, son of Xanthippos,” he says, nodding to my friend.
Breathing ragged, Lykou takes a step back and bows low for the Spartan general before turning on his heel.
“You know the rules of the arena as much as any, Daphne Diodorus.” His voice is stern, but not angry. I cannot meet his too-knowing gaze. He points to the entrance. “The moment you step beneath that archway, you leave your personal feelings behind. You are not to be weighed down by trivial concerns or familial worries when training here. That is the surest way to get injured.”
The bruises already forming on my arms affirm as much. “Yes, sir.”
Paidonomos Leonidas grabs me by the shoulder, forcing me to turn toward the other sparring matches. Waving an arm to them, he says, “You earned their respect last year when you won the race. You brought our kingdom a year of wonderful harvest and fortuitous alliances.”
Gritting my teeth, I nod.
“Now go and choose a weapon.” He claps me on the back. “Not a spear. With your head in the clouds, you’ll knock out your own teeth before the end of the day. Pick a weapon that will distract us both.”
Leaving him, I press through the crowd of sweaty Spartans toward the row of gleaming swords. Shame threatens to overwhelm me as I pass the line of sparring warriors. I should be practicing, fighting among them. I’ve let Nyx haunt me for long enough.
I don’t notice the hand latched around my wrist until my arm is nearly ripped from its socket.
“What happened back there?” Lykou demands, spinning me around.
“Nothing.” I yank my hand away and cross my arms.
People watch us from around the stadium. When I glare in their direction, they quickly turn to their weapons and opponents. Their eavesdropping couldn’t be more obvious.
My friend’s dark eyes narrow. “Don’t lie to me, Daphne. I deserve better than that.”
He does deserve better than my hedging. His handsome face is pulled into harsh lines. I can almost still see the wolf in his features.
With the gods waiting at all times to drag me again into their games, every moment I spend with Lykou is another chance for them to ensnare him as well.
“Truly,” I lie, unflinching as I hold his gaze, “I didn’t sleep well last night.”
My words sound wooden and forced even to my own ears. Lykou steps close, dropping his voice.
“This has to do with them, doesn’t it?” His eyes are imploring. “Apollo turned me into a wolf for the entire summer. Artemis turned your brother into a deer. You died, Daphne. You actually died to fix their mistakes.”
How could I forget? The memory of that death haunts me. The emptiness, the weightlessness of my body as I fell through space and time, even if it was only for the barest of moments, jerks me awake every night.
All for them.
The gods are reckless with their power. Last summer, when they commanded me to find answers, I didn’t trust them, especially not Apollo, who was sent on the mission alongside me. But something precious was stolen from them, and they needed me to learn where it was hidden.
These stolen items were the Muses. And as the caretakers of the Garden of the Hesperides, the power of Olympus became a wild rampant thing with them missing.
One by one, I brought the Muses back to Olympus, and the power of the gods returned.
But not before I faced down the Muses’ kidnappers—the gods Ares, Hermes, and Nyx.
The last claimed my life. I struck her down with one of Artemis’s arrows. Yet like me, she eluded true death.
The gods have no idea where she is. Nyx could come after the Muses, or me, at any time.
“It’s not that simple,” I say to Lykou, raising my chin. “The gods own me.”
I swore myself to Zeus as protector of Olympus. When the gods need me, I am at their disposal, and with Nyx still very much alive, that time might come sooner than I like.
Lykou reaches for me again, this time to brush a lock of hair from my face. His voice is soft, coaxing. “The Daphne I knew was beholden to no one, even the people who love her the most.”
I cannot take the disappointment clouding his face. “The Daphne you knew died.”
There is no lie in my words.
I don’t look at Lykou again as I march toward the racks of weapons.
I stumble as I reach the row of blunted swords. Not because of them, but instead because of the goddess of the hunt lurking in the shadows of the gymnasion’s entrance.
Artemis winks and crooks a finger to me.
The gods are finally calling in my blood debt.
Sunlight spills across the forest floor, alighting our path. Artemis expertly leads me through the trees, her steps as lithe and silent as a panther’s. I swallow any friendly conversation I might’ve made. I don’t miss the golden arrow gleaming from the quiver on her back.
“Still bearing a grudge, I see.” Artemis pulls aside a branch for me to pass. Her lips curl into a feral grin.
“It’s impossible not to when I’m reminded of your Curse every time I bathe.” Even now, the Midas Curse pools on my abdomen. The molten gold, a living tattoo, makes my skin itch wherever it travels. The sting of her arrow slicing across that very spot a year before still causes my hands to tremble.
“Are you not grateful? It saved your life.” She inclines her head, considering me as she walks. “Many times, in fact.”
The Curse was once both a punishment and insurance, retribution for my insolence toward the gods and to assure I succeeded in their mission. It nearly killed me, once.
My hands curl into fists. “I have no need of it anymore.”
She releases a small, girlish giggle. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll have need of it again soon enough.”
I’m prevented from asking what she refers to by the sudden firmness of the ground beneath my feet. My sandals thump across marble as Artemis continues down a long, open hallway, one side looking out to vast mountains with shimmering palaces perched on each peak. We pass a dozen marble columns as we continue down the hallway, between each a glimmering fresco.
“This is your palace,” I realize, dragging my fingers across a fresco that details a black horse rearing in Artemis’s hidden glen. The next is of a white stag frolicking across a midnight sky. Another is of a bear with a small cub beside a lonely spring. The bear has an arrow through its neck, blood pooling into the water. “Are these your victims?”
Artemis nods. Something akin to remorse flickers in her eyes.
I consider the empty palace, bereft of personal effects. Hermes once said that Artemis prefers the forest to Mount Olympus. I wonder what the other gods’ palaces are like. An image of fountains overflowing with wine crosses my mind when I think of Dionysus, and the lavish silks and furs that must adorn every surface of Aphrodite’s palace. Weapons, cold and gleaming on a pale marble wall, rise from the depths of my memory, and I keenly remember the way Ares’s fist cracked across Ganymede’s body. That must have been the god of war’s palace. No amount of curiosity could draw me to those dark hallways ever again.
Golden brown hair atop her head in a tight bun, Artemis has dark green peplos bound on each shoulder, and across her midriff is a leather cuirass and on each arm are leather greaves.
“Are you preparing for war?” I ask, nodding at the battle attire.
“I’m always prepared for anything, or anyone”—her hand lifts to the silver grip of her bow—“that might want to do my family harm.”
I cross the threshold of the airy pantheon and surprise makes me take a step back.
Where once three of the marble thrones were empty, now only two remain vacant. There are no signs of Hermes or Ares, the bloody traitors who cost me my life last year, and now, unlike then, Poseidon sits atop his pillared throne, considering me with hooded eyes and pursed lips.
He is tall and broad like his stormy brother. Dissimilar to the bronze curls of Zeus, Poseidon’s hair is flaxen and shaggy, bound to his brow by a band of turquoise stones fashioned like stars. His skin is paler even than Hades, king of the Underworld, with a strange blue tinge.
Swallowing, I allow him nothing more than a cursory glance before raising my chin and marching to the center of the pantheon. Dionysus lifts a kylix toward me from his ruby throne, grinning widely. To his left, Demeter and Aphrodite sit in astute silence. Beside them, Athena’s face is as unreadable as ever, and opposite are Hades, Hephaestus, and Hera. The latter’s bitterness toward me has not lessened, evident in the withering glare she spears me with.
I don’t understand why she dislikes me so much. Perhaps she hates all mortals, and I just happen to be in her presence more than others.
My gaze is drawn inexorably to the god of prophecy, Apollo. Something I cannot, will not explain courses through me at the sight of him. It itches like an insatiable hunger and yet holds me back all the same. His bronze hair and tan skin and handsome face are just as I remember—though his hair is a touch longer than last summer, curling gently atop his broad shoulders. My throat is suddenly dry.
Apollo offers me nothing but a small, bland smile. Absolutely meaningless.
Hurt flickers in the back of my mind. Artemis takes her place beside him, hopping nimbly atop her high throne.
I never noticed it before, how their power fills the space and fights for dominance. The smells, the crackling of energy, and the shift in the very elements around me. The roses of Aphrodite fill my nose as Dionysus’s wine coats my throat without me even taking a single sip; Demeter’s aura of a warm summer sun heats my skin just as the cool sea breeze of Poseidon fights to chill my bones.
The king of the gods’ face is unreadable. As stern as ever and a slightly aged version of the son I grew to love last summer, Zeus rests his chin upon a fist, though it is Aphrodite who breaks the silence first.
She waves a hand before her face with a pinched grimace, then says, “Do all mortals smell as bad as her, or just the Spartans?”
A blush rises up my neck. I smell, no doubt, like the sparring ring. Sweat and dirt cling to my arms and cheeks. I can’t even look at Apollo.
“Shut up, Aphrodite,” Artemis snaps. “Not everyone can magically make themselves smell like roses.”
A sharp laugh bursts from Hera. Her ebony hair is plaited over a shoulder with purple ribbons that match the vibrant shade of her silk chiton. “Did she hit a nerve teasing your precious Spartans, Orthia?” Her grin is feral. “Or are you likewise insecure about the smell of horseshit that follows you around?”
“Perhaps what you are smelling is hard work,” I say, words spilling from my mouth before I can think twice about them. “Something you wouldn’t know a thing about.”
Lavender light begins to pulse around Hera, her face pinched with fury.
Undaunted, I continue. “Have you brought me here for anything in particular”—I throw Aphrodite my most withering glare—“or just to critique my personal hygiene?”
“Oh, discussing your lack of personal hygiene would take us all day, darling.” Aphrodite’s smile is saccharine.
“Enough.” Poseidon’s rough voice startles me. I jump, meeting his piercing, gray eyes. “We haven’t got an eternity to listen to this nonsense.”
“You’re lucky to have any time at all,” I snap, once again speaking before I can consider my words. “Any time you have is thanks to me.”
Silence stretches across the pantheon. A chill creeps up my spine as my stomach churns. I shift on my feet and silently implore Apollo to meet my gaze but it remains on his hands, which are hooked over his knees.
Coward, I want to call him. His silence is all the proof I need that I made the right choice turning him away.
The quiet is broken by a bark of laughter. Dionysus claps his knees, roaring so hard his wine is flung across the white marble floor. Poseidon glares at me. Apollo’s face is suddenly pained, but his father merely chuckles.
Zeus claps Poseidon on the back. “See? I told you that she has her father’s tongue.”
My mouth snaps shut. “My father?”
He waves aside my question impatiently. “Neither here nor there. Forget I brought it up.”
“I’ll forget if you tell me who he is.”
“Liar,” Hera says.
“Rude,” I say with mock afront. “I’m the embodiment of honesty.”
“As stubborn as her damn father,” Hera exclaims, waving a tan hand through the air.
“If you tell me exactly who that is, maybe I can rectify my behavior.” I give her a smile as sweet as pomegranate juice.
Dionysus chuckles into his goblet. Hera’s power crackles around the pantheon. Like static, it raises my hair, itching my scalp. Sweat rolls down my spine. She could level me with a single thought. They all could.
As coolly as I can manage, I say, “You brought me to Olympus because Nyx is still out there, correct?”
Zeus nods. The hearth in the center of the pantheon crackles and Hestia feeds it another stalk of wheat.
My gaze flicks to Apollo through the smoke swirling atop the hearth. Irritation eats at me; his lips press harder together. He knows just how dangerous Nyx is, and how very much alive she still is. Together, we foiled her efforts to steal the power of Olympus, but we also both failed to kill her.
Hera leans forward, violet-painted nails digging into the arms of her throne. Her lovely face holds nothing but contempt. “Are you afraid? Yes. That is exactly as the bitch would have you. You foiled her plan, and so as punishment, she wants you to fear her for the rest of your life.”
I bite my tongue to keep from retorting. When I finally harness my fury, I wave an arm to the assembled gods. “Do you truly think that she won’t come for you again?”
“She would be a fool to do such,” Athena says, followed by a chorus of agreement from her kin. Her owl, Glaukopis, chirps on her shoulder.
“I think Daphne’s fear should serve as an example.” Hades gives me a small nod. “After all, she is the only one among us within the last century to personally know Nyx’s wrath.”
“Which would make any mortal more paranoid,” Hera says, confirming my theory that she holds a similar disdain for all mortals. She crosses slim arms over her chest and leans back, sniffing.
“What my uncle says is true.” Apollo finally speaks up, straightening under the full might of Olympus’s attention. “She knows Nyx’s machinations. Daphne is the only among us to have tangled with the goddess of night and survived.”
My spine straightens. I want to give him a grateful smile, but he still won’t look at me.
Hades interrupts my thoughts by adding, “And all of us know that Nyx is nothing if not relentless in her wrath.”
“Be that as it may”—Zeus cuts his son and brother a silencing glance before returning his attention to me—“if Nyx is indeed fool enough to strike Mount Olympus, this time we will not be sitting idly. Your warning is heeded, young Daphne. As my son says, Nyx’s wrath is nothing new to us and we are prepared to smite her back to Tartarus.”
“Because that worked so well the first time,” I mutter.
Dionysus, leaning back with a goblet balanced on his chest, guffaws. “I like this one, Apollo. Why do you not bring her around more often?”
Because I’m the one who refused him, I do not say.
A peal of thunder forces the god of revelry to clamp his lips firmly shut, though his eyes wrinkle at the edges with mirth.
“We have a task for you,” Zeus says, voice rumbling around the pantheon.
“Oh?” I ask dryly.
I don’t fail to notice the tic forming in his jaw. “There will be an agon in Sparta to be among Helen’s personal guard.”
A frown pinches the space between my brows. “This is the first I’ve heard of it.”
In a society as fiercely competitive as Sparta, agons are as often and expected as the seasons. Though, never one with a prize so significant.
“I may or may not have given the anassa an idea while she was daydreaming.” Aphrodite waves a hand through the air.
“Why do you care about mortal games?”
“Not out of boredom, I assure you,” Zeus says. “We want you to win it.”
The pinched line between my brows threatens to become a permanent feature. “Why?”
Zeus ignores my question and points to Hephaestus. “We will outfit you with whatever you need.”
“I need nothing from you to win. What I need is to know why.” I square my shoulders.
Poseidon rises. “You will hold that insolent tongue and do as you’re told or—”
“Or what?” I cut him off. “You’ll turn one of my brothers into a fish?”
“Daphne, please.” Hades’s gaze is pleading. “Be reasonable. Do we ask anything of you without purpose?”
“Why am I not allowed to know what that purpose is?”
“Because I damn ordered your obedience, you foolish mortal,” Zeus barks, slamming a fist into the arm of his throne hard enough to make the entire pantheon tremble. Dark storm clouds roll in from behind him, shrouding the entire sky. The gods glance among one another. Wind whips around me, yanking my hair from its braid and threatening to toss me aside.
Hestia looks up from where she sits beside the hearth. She raises both hands, undulating them in a gentle wave motion and stopping them before her chest, palms facing toward her brother. Zeus’s face softens and the clouds rapidly recede. Poseidon’s fury has not lessened, though. The anger on his face is enough to make me tremble. With a snap of his fingers, he could level all of Sparta.
Apollo rises and my breath catches. He walks slowly toward me—eyes unreadable but never leaving my own—before moving to stand at my back. Surprise flickers in my chest. Despite whatever it is between us, his presence is a comforting warmth. He meets Poseidon’s gaze evenly, frown for frown.
“You proved yourself last summer,” Zeus says with a sigh, leaning back. “And as such, I would wish for no other to personally protect my daughter.”
“Your daughter?” I inhale sharply. “Anassa Helen is your daughter?”
I’ve heard the rumors, just as everyone in Sparta has, but had given them no worth. Stories of Helen’s mother, Queen Leda, seduced by a god. Two of Leda’s children blessed by Olympus and two the image of a mortal king. How the stories forced the queen into hiding the moment her daughter ascended the throne five years ago.
Hera’s expression has darkened considerably. I didn’t think it possible for the glower to carve deeper into her face. The glare she gives her husband could melt stone. Even Hades cringes when he glances Hera’s way.
Zeus ignores his wife. “We have reason to believe that Helen could be in danger. Menelaus has called all the Achaean kings to Sparta for a conclave. After the agon, all the rulers of Greece will descend upon my daughter’s palace like locusts. Protect her, and your family will know wealth, power, and prestige beyond your wildest dreams.”
His offer means nothing to me, but I cannot deny the need to protect Helen. I chew the inside of my cheek while in my mind a war brews. I press, “Have you heard something that makes you believe that she will be in danger at this conclave?”
Zeus considers me a long moment, but it is Athena who speaks. “We’ve been unable to enter the Mycenaean palace for a number of years, particularly the bedchambers and council chambers, which leads us to believe there are other Olympian powers at play here. Only recently did we hear whispers of the conclave.”
This only fills me with a hundred more questions. “How is that possible? Why would Helen be in any danger from an Olympian?”
“What a fool.” Hera’s eyes roll up to the clouded sky.
“She is my daughter,” Zeus says, as if the answer were obvious. “And your queen.”
“And you’re the one who foiled Nyx.” Hera’s lips curl back.
“She will want revenge, Daphne,” Demeter says, face pained. “Against you and Olympus. We don’t know where or whom she will attack first. The Nyx we knew centuries ago was nothing short of vengeful, cutting down anyone she thought stood between her and her vendettas.”
“She will rain darkness upon Sparta until nothing remains but bones,” Apollo says, voice harsh.
Gaping, I turn to him. My heart pounds in my ears, so loud I do not hear anyone’s next words. This time when I look at him, he doesn’t tear his gaze away. I cannot read what his eyes say, what his lips will not.
The gods continue conferring around me. I may have defeated Nyx before, but that was due to nothing but sheer luck. I was dying, broken in body and full of a venom with no cure. If it hadn’t been for Artemis’s silver bow, Nyx would have continued on her path. And if it hadn’t been for Apollo’s golden bow, my soul would still be in the Underworld. A silver bow to take life, and golden to bestow it. Only once, though.
Now both are as useless against a god as a mortal weapon.
I merely wounded Nyx, and she left to lick her wounds and bide her time. To continue to plot Olympus’s downfall, and unleash calamity upon the mortal world.
- * "Free of vanity, indifferent to the male gaze, and portrayed without objectification, Daphne’s the compelling hero of an epic closer in tone to its Homeric source than to many pop-culture iterations... A vivid, riveting sequel."—Kirkus, starred review
- “[A] solid follow-up to Daughter of Sparta… The gods are well characterized, and Daphne remains strong and staunch.”—Booklist
- "Spectacular storytelling! Blood of Troy is an action-packed sequel that brings a new twist to a classic tale. Daphne, Helen, and Apollo provide surprises at every turn. Don't miss this series!"—Carly Heath, author of The Reckless Kind
- "Andrews’s writing and worldbuilding run closer to the Homeric epic than other retellings, while...giving women more agency. This myth-infused adventure grounded in historical details is recommended for all YA collections."—SLJ
- "It is hard to imagine a more compulsively readable book than Daughter of Sparta... but Andrews has outdone herself with Blood of Troy. Daphne is a stubborn, ambitious gem in a myth-spun tale full of glittering royalty, shining gods, and secrets that threaten to topple them all. The burning question I am left with? How will I—I mean readers—manage to wait for the trilogy's final installment?"—Lillie Lainoff, author of One For All
- "This one had me at the edge of my seat. Absolutely riveting. Andrews weaves mythology, political intrigue, and aching romance with a masterful hand. I need the third book. Right. Now."—Rebecca Rode, author of Tides of Mutiny
Praise for Daughter of Sparta:
"A fresh, original spin on classic Greek mythology. Andrews is a debut to watch; Daughter of Sparta is an action-packed adventure with phenomenal writing and empowering female characters that are sure to pack a punch. I was absolutely enamored by this book!"—Adalyn Grace, New York Times bestselling author of the All the Stars and Teeth series
- "Daughter of Sparta deftly weaves classic Greek myth into a spellbinding adventure led by a fierce and complex heroine. An utterly transportive and breathtaking debut."—Katy Rose Pool, author of There Will Come a Darkness
- "Claire Andrews' Daughter of Sparta is an epic story about female empowerment, packed with romance, adventure and mystery. This fast-paced and well-researched novel was truly difficult to put down!"—June Hur, author of The Forest of Stolen Girls
- "Nonstop action, drama, and an unforgettable female warrior will keep readers turning pages.... Awe-inspiring."—SLJ
- "A strong female-led adventure story with an underlying romance."—SLC
- "This twist on the narrative is great for readers aging out of Rick Riordan’s books."—Booklist
- "This book has all the right elements to sweep you off your feet.... A fresh and exciting reimagining of the classic Greek myth."—Nerd Daily
- "Every reader who's groaned at the passivity of helpless girls ensnared by gods behaving badly will root for her [Daphne] to succeed.... Andrews brings Daphne's world convincingly to life, earning extra credit for breathless scenes of mortal combat."—Kirkus
- On Sale
- Aug 1, 2023
- Page Count
- 496 pages
- Little, Brown Books for Young Readers
About the Author
Claire M. Andrews was raised in both Alaska and Scotland, but currently lives in Vermont; when not writing, she can usually be found outside swimming, skiing, or hiking across the state’s famous green mountains. She is the author of Daughter of Sparta, Blood of Troy, and Storm of Olympus and can be found on Instagram and Twitter at @cmandrewslit.