Episode 1 - The Prophecy of Delphi
The Dream That Would Not End
For three nights, the dream had returned.
Leontis stood on a shore of black sand, the sea before him boiling like a cauldron.
A woman emerged from the foam, her hair a halo of starlight, her eyes the color of deep midnight.
She placed a laurel crown upon his head and whispered words that burrowed into his soul:
"The lion's mane will shield the Aegean, and the gods will test your heart."
Each time, he awoke before he could ask her name. And each time, the whisper followed him into waking.
The Road to Delphi
By dawn, Leontis had resolved to seek the truth.
The only place that could unravel such visions was the Temple of Apollo at Delphi.
The road wound steep and treacherous, climbing past olive groves and goat paths, through gorges where the air was heavy with the scent of pine and thyme.
Travelers he passed whispered blessings to ward off evil - for in those days, men feared not only bandits but the caprice of the gods. In a shaded pass, an old shepherd halted him.
"You walk with the shadow of prophecy," the man said, eyes clouded with age.
"Be wary, lion-hearted one. The gods give with one hand and take with the other."
The Temple on the Heights
By midday, the columns of Apollo's temple rose before him - gleaming white against the dark green
slopes of Mount Parnassus. Pilgrims knelt in the forecourt, offering figs, honey, and doves for favor.
Priests moved among them, their robes edged with gold, their faces unreadable.
Within, the air was thick with laurel smoke.
The sacred flame flickered, casting wavering shadows across statues of Apollo, Athena, and Artemis. The Pythia - Apollo's oracle - sat upon the high tripod,
her eyes half-closed, lips moving in whispers only the god could hear.
The Prophecy Unveiled
When Leontis approached, the Pythia's voice deepened, as if another spoke through her.
"Leontis, son of mortal and god, you will rule where three rivers meet,
and your banner will be the mane of a lion.
But beware - for the spears of many kings will pierce your gates. From the sea, black sails will rise,
and the gods will weigh your soul in the balance."
A shiver ran through the chamber. The priests looked at him with something between awe and pity.
Prophecies were never given without cost.
Return to Thryon
It took six days to return to Thryon, his homeland - a cliff-top city-state perched above the Aegean,
built upon rock older than memory.
It's walls were said to have been laid by the Cyclopes themselves.
The streets bustled with life: fishermen hauling nets, merchants calling prices over amphorae of oil and wine,
children chasing each other through the colonnades.
Leontis walked among them not as a distant ruler, but as one of their own.
When famine struck the previous winter, he had emptied his own granaries to feed the hungry.
When pirates raided the coast, he had led the defense himself, spear in hand.
The people called him the Lion of Parnassus, for his crest bore the golden mane.
Whispers of War
That night, as the city feasted in honor of Poseidon's festival, messengers arrived - dust-streaked, their eyes
wide.
They brought grim tidings:
Theron, King of Sparta; Damas, Lord of Thessaly; and Kypros the Warlord had sworn a blood-oath.
They would unite their armies against Thryon.
"They fear you," said Myron, Leontis's captain of the guard. "Fear breeds alliance, even among rivals."
"Then they will find," Leontis replied, "that fear can also breed courage."
An Omen from the Sea
Three nights later, the winds changed. A storm rose from the Aegean with unnatural speed,
the kind sailors speak of only in hushed voices. Lightning clawed the heavens; thunder rolled across the
mountains.
In the city square, the statue of Athena - protector of Thryon - wept. Rainwater streamed down her marble
cheeks,
but to those watching, it looked like tears. The priests declared it an omen: the goddess herself mourned
for what was to come.
Old fishermen swore they saw a trident's shadow beneath the waves.
Poseidon had chosen a side - but whose, no one could yet say.
The Council's Division
Leontis convened the city's council in the great marble hall. The air was thick with arguments:
some urged immediate diplomacy, others demanded fortification.
Euphranor, the oldest councillor, leaned on his staff. "Three kings against one city - even the gods may not tip
the balance."
Leontis stood. "If the gods wish to test me, let them. I will not yield Thryon's gates to fear or to foreign
banners."
The Black Sails
On the seventh day after the storm, the watchtower bells began to toll.
From the highest balcony, Leontis saw them: black sails upon the horizon, cutting through the waves like
knives.
The prows were carved into the snarling heads of wolves and boars - the symbols of Sparta and Thessaly.
Three fleets. Three kings. One prophecy.
He turned to Myron. "The lion's mane will not fall without a roar."
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To Be Continued...
Next Week: Episode 2 - The Siege of the Lion's Gate