Alexios Theron hated hospitals.
The smell of antiseptic clung to his clothes like smoke. The buzzing fluorescent lights gave him a headache. The white walls felt too clean, too empty, like they were trying to pretend sickness wasn't everywhere.
He sat at the edge of the bed, staring at the frail figure lying beneath thin sheets. His mother — Helena Theron — once a brilliant university professor, now reduced to shallow breaths and an IV drip. Her face was pale, her once-lively eyes closed, lashes unmoving. Machines hummed around her like vultures circling.
Alex hadn't cried in weeks. Not because he wasn't hurting — he just didn't have the energy to cry anymore. At sixteen, he'd learned how to keep things in. Lock them behind sarcasm, shut them down before they could get loud.
He looked down at his hands. Calloused from part-time jobs, bruised from fights he didn't start but couldn't walk away from. The world expected him to be quiet, responsible, and invisible. No one asked how it felt to walk home every day knowing it might be the last time he saw his mom alive.
His father was probably in Egypt, or Peru, or somewhere else chasing ancient relics. That man hadn't called in six months.
"Just a few more months," he whispered to no one. "I'll get through school. I'll get a real job. I'll fix this."
But he knew it was a lie.
His mom had always told him stories — Greek myths, legends, and tragic heroes. When he was younger, she'd curl up beside him and talk about Achilles, Perseus, and Theseus. Alex had soaked them all in, memorized every tale. Not because he believed in gods and monsters, but because they were bigger than life. Braver. Louder. Impossible to ignore.
Unlike him.
He picked up the worn-out paperback she kept by her bed — The Odyssey. The cover was torn, the pages yellowed. He flipped to a dog-eared page and read aloud in a whisper:
> "Sing to me of the man, Muse, the man of twists and turns…"
---
He walked home late that night. The Athens sky was overcast, the moon hidden behind thick clouds. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, shoulders hunched as if that could protect him from the cold drizzle falling from above.
The city was quieter than usual. No traffic. No shouting from the tavern across the street. Just the steady sound of his sneakers hitting the pavement and the soft rhythm of rainfall.
Then he heard footsteps.
Too far behind to be casual. Too slow to be friendly.
He didn't look back. Just turned the corner, quickened his pace.
The footsteps followed.
A sick feeling twisted in his gut.
He turned into a narrow alley, the shortcut he always used — until his foot slipped. The wet concrete rushed up to meet him. Pain exploded in the back of his head.
The last thing he saw was the blurred shape of a shadow standing over him.
Then darkness.
---
He expected nothingness. Death was supposed to be quiet.
Instead, he woke up gasping for breath, like he'd been underwater for hours.
The sky was wrong.
Above him stretched a swirling canvas of violet storm clouds and streaks of golden lightning. The air felt heavy, charged with something ancient and watching. The ground beneath him was black marble — polished, flawless, cold to the touch.
He sat up slowly, blinking. All around him rose the towering walls of a coliseum — massive, obsidian stone carved with runes he didn't recognize. It stretched endlessly in all directions, a perfect circle of impossible scale.
He was still wearing his hoodie, torn and bloodstained, and his jeans. But his phone was gone. His bag — gone. His wounds — gone too.
Then a voice echoed through the air like thunder.
> "You were not supposed to die."
Alex turned.
A figure stood at the center of the arena, cloaked in gold-trimmed black robes. A lion-shaped mask covered their face, and behind them, wings shimmered like the night sky. They were neither male nor female — they were presence.
> "Alexios Theron. Mortal son of a broken line. Your time was stolen. But the Fates have intervened."
Alex stumbled to his feet, heart pounding. "What is this? Am I… dead?"
> "Yes. But not fully. Your soul remains tethered."
The figure stepped forward. Their voice was calm, but behind it was a storm waiting to break.
> "This is the Arena of the Fallen. A crucible forged by gods. Those with unfinished purpose are brought here — to prove they are worthy of return. Or to be forgotten forever."
Alex stared at them. "What… purpose?"
The figure didn't answer. Instead, they raised a hand.
A loud grinding sound echoed through the arena. Across the black marble floor, a gate slid open — revealing only darkness.
And from that darkness, something crawled out.
It was humanoid in shape, but its body was smoke and shadows — limbs too long, a face without features, just rows of gleaming white teeth stretching in an unnatural grin.
Alex's breath caught.
The figure pointed to the ground beside him. A sword appeared — bronze, simple, shining with a dull light.
> "Your first trial begins now. Survive."
And then they vanished.
---
Alex stared at the blade.
Then at the monster.
He wanted to scream. To run. To wake up.
But he didn't.
Instead, he heard her voice again — soft, distant, like wind through olive trees.
> "Don't let them break you, my lion."
He didn't know if it was real. But it gave him just enough strength to reach for the sword.
It was heavier than he expected.
The creature lunged.
Alex raised the blade, barely blocking the first strike. The force knocked him to the ground, pain shooting through his arm. He rolled away, scrambled up, and swung wildly.
The sword passed through smoke — then connected. The creature screeched, part of its chest tearing open like a ripped tarp.
It reared back, then rushed again.
This time, Alex didn't wait.
He stepped in, ducked low, and drove the blade into its center.
A flash of golden light exploded from the wound — and the creature shattered into mist.
Silence returned.
Alex dropped to his knees, panting. His arms shook. His legs trembled.
He had never killed anything before.
But it wasn't the act that haunted him.
It was how easy it was to become someone who could.
---
Then, from above, came the voice again — but this time, it wasn't thunder.
It was a woman's voice, sharp and clear.
> "Not bad, new blood."
He looked up.
A figure stood atop the coliseum wall — a girl in bronze armor, cloak fluttering behind her, golden braid swaying in the wind. Her eyes glowed faintly silver.
She leapt down.
Landed beside him like a phantom.
> "Name's Lysandra. You survived the entry test. That means you're not completely hopeless."
She offered him a hand.
Alex hesitated.
Then took it.
The real trial, it seemed, was only beginning.
---