The night of Athens was alive when they stepped out of the White Stallion inn. The scent of oil lamps clung to their clothes, mixed with smoke, roasted meat, and the sharp tang of wine. Stellos and Damos staggered in the front, each leaning on the other as though they were one creature with two heads. Their laughter spilled into the street, loud enough to draw glances from passing strangers.
Thersandros followed behind with long, patient strides, his lips pressed into a thin line. His muttering was meant for no one but himself, words lost under the slurred songs of the men. Eiranaios walked at his uncle's side, steady and silent.
The inn had been a furnace of noise and heat. The memory of it lingered—mercenaries with scarred faces laughing over dice, painted women sliding between tables with practiced smiles, men who looked like sailors whispering of distant harbors, and the smell of coin changing hands in shadowed corners.
Thersandros had nudged him there, telling him without words to watch, to listen, to learn. He had not forced him into drink, nor thrown him at the women as Stellos had joked, but he had made certain his nephew's eyes were opened to the currents of the city. Eiranaios, for all his unease, had understood. The inn was not only for pleasure; it was a forge of information.
Now outside, the cool air washed over him, cutting the fog of wine from his head. He had only taken a pint, nothing more, yet even that was enough to loosen his mind. His steps were steady, but his thoughts swam somewhere between clarity and haze.
The streets stretched out before them, dimly lit by torches mounted on doorposts or the flickering bowls of oil fires. Athens at night was not the Athens of the day. The marble temples and proud columns stood in darkness, their majesty hidden, while alleys whispered of shadowy deals and stray figures prowled in search of coin or weakness.
From somewhere in the distance came the faint sound of a flute, rising and falling with a rhythm that felt both festive and mournful. Closer at hand, a dog barked. Then another joined it, and another still, until the sound rose into a chorus.
Eiranaios slowed as the pack appeared from an alley. Mangy, ribs showing through their fur, their eyes glinted in the torchlight as they circled warily. Abandoned long ago, strays of the city, they had learned to live off scraps and fear.
The drunken stumble of Damos and Stellos was enough to spook them. The animals barked sharply, teeth flashing. Damos let out a startled cry before swinging his boot in a clumsy arc. His foot struck one of the beasts, sending it yelping into the shadows.
"Cursed mutts!" he roared, though the tremor in his voice betrayed his fright.
The rest of the group broke into laughter, their mocking rising above the fading growls of the dogs. Even Thersandros allowed himself the ghost of a smile.
" The almighty Damos almost scared shitless by a dog, i never knew you feared strays, bested by dogs!" one mercenary jeered.
"A new tale for the campfires, an excellent tale to entertain our selves as we camp I. Troy ," another added.
Damos cursed them all, though the grin tugging at his lips gave him away.
Eiranaios shook his head. The sight of the animals stirred something heavier in him—a memory, perhaps, of alley dogs in his past life, prowling city streets much like these. Different world, same hunger. The universality of survival weighed upon him, though he said nothing.
Their mirth, however, was short-lived.
A sharp voice rang out behind them.
"Halt! Who goes there?"
The group froze and turned.
A patrol of city guards approached, their bronze helmets gleaming faintly in the torchlight. The leader, a man broad in shoulders and steady in gaze, had his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The others flanked him, spears in hand, their sandals scuffing against the stone street.
Eiranaios felt his heart tighten. For a fleeting moment, his mind flashed to the laws of Athens, the punishments for brawling, drunken disorder, or worse. His group, smelling of wine and laughter, looked guilty even if they had done nothing.
Thersandros stepped forward before any could speak. His posture was relaxed, his hands open at his sides, his face carrying that practiced smile of calm authority.
"Good evening, guards," he said, his voice steady, almost warm. "We have just departed from the White Stallion inn. My men have had their fill of wine, nothing more. We are on our way home."
The patrol leader studied them in silence, his eyes flicking from face to face. He inhaled, catching the sharp scent of alcohol rolling from the group. He clearly regarded with suspicion, at first glance they resembled a band of drunk thieves stumbling back from an unsuccessful theft
At last, the guard nodded. "Very well. But do not linger. Athens is not safe at this hour. If you had met the other patrol groups, they would have bundled and thrown you lots into the city dungeon without listening to your reasons"
Thersandros inclined his head. "We thank you."
The patrol passed them by, their footsteps echoing down the stone street until the night swallowed the sound.
The men exhaled in relief. Stellos muttered something about overzealous guards, and Damos laughed too loudly, as though to mask his earlier fear. But Thersandros said nothing, his jaw tight as he resumed walking.
Eiranaios walked beside him, silent too, though his thoughts spun. The exchange had seemed simple, but he could not ignore the undertone in the guard's words: Athens by night was a place of dangers beyond even drunken mercenaries and stray dogs.
The rest of the walk stretched on, carrying them through narrow alleys and along broader avenues where the torchlight glowed faintly on polished stone. They passed shuttered stalls, the scent of yesterday's spices still clinging in the air, and doorways where shadowy figures exchanged whispers too soft to catch.
Once, they heard a woman's laughter from a balcony, light and fleeting, followed by the slamming of a door. Another time, they glimpsed two men haggling furiously in a corner, hands moving quickly to conceal a small exchange of coin.
Athens at night was a different city—one ruled not by marble and daylight, but by whispers and shadows.
An hour passed in such a manner before they reached their quarter.
Here, the houses stood quieter, the streets emptier. The flickering of the lamps felt gentler, and the weight of the city's chaos seemed to ease. The mercenaries split off in twos and threes. Some returned to their bedrolls near the training ground. Others, restless still, wandered toward another tavern for yet more drink.
Damos and Stellos, of course, fell into the latter. They laughed and clapped each other on the shoulders, their voices carrying as they staggered away.
Eiranaios shook his head with a faint smile. He knew they would pay for it in the morning.
He alone turned toward the main house. His steps were steady, though his mind carried the residue of the night—the sights of the inn, the dogs, the patrol, the streets heavy with unseen dealings. He felt both wearied and alert, his senses caught between two states.
At last, he entered his room. The walls were familiar, plain yet steady, a refuge from the shifting world outside. He removed his tunic, washed quickly with the little water left in the basin, and sat upon his bed.
For a long while, he stared at nothing. His thoughts turned inward, circling the truth he had come to accept over the past weeks.
He was a transmigrator, yes—but unlike the tales he remembered from his former life, there was no system, no cheat, no guiding voice that offered him strength or power. No divine intervention, no magical skill. He had been dropped into this life with nothing but the memories of a stranger whose body he now carried.
As a tranmsigrator he had not been blessed with a system, his previous life had been ordinary, and his present monotonous.
It has only taken a month for him to come to the conclusion he has no cheat, no system not superpower, he was just an ordinary boy in an ordinary Greek world.
He was confident backed by the years of memories possessed by the previous body that this world was ordinary with no aspect of the supernatural. The only thing to be cautious of are swords and mortal means, that has been one of the reasons he had hoped to become a mercenary, it is exciting but mundane without unexplainable phenomenona.
And the existence of the worship of the Greek gods were just worships tales devised and told by men's of rich imagination, deception used by priest to con the populace, at the very least religion was clearly a mean for strong morals.
His lips twisted into a smile that held no mirth. "Damn," he whispered. "I must be the most pathetic transmigrator alive."
The words lingered in the air before fading into silence. He laughed once, softly, at the absurdity of it all.
Perhaps he had not even crossed worlds. Perhaps this was the same earth, merely centuries earlier, separated not by space but by time. The thought made sense, in a way, though it brought him no comfort.
"Am I even a proper transmigrator?" he asked himself with a dry chuckle.
No answer came, of course. Only the soft whisper of the night beyond his window, the faint rustle of leaves, and the distant cry of a dog somewhere in the streets.
His body grew heavy. His thoughts, still swirling, began to lose their shape. One by one they unraveled, giving way to the weight of exhaustion.
At last, Eiranaios lay down, pulling the thin blanket over himself. His eyes closed slowly, the noise of the city fading, replaced by the steady rhythm of his own breath.
And so, in the quiet of the night, on the eve of a journey that would carry him across the sea, Eiranaios drifted into sleep.