On the next day in the training fields
The field rang with the sound of wood on wood. Dozens of children trained under the scorching sun, sweat stinging their eyes as they swung wooden swords or thrust spears with aching arms. The masked guards barked commands, their voices harsh and unrelenting.
"Again! Strike again! You are not here to play at being children—you are here to become weapons!"
Atlas parried Alexios's spear with his sword, twisting his wrist to lock the shaft aside. He stepped forward, pressing the blunt edge of the sword against Alexios's ribs.
"Dead," Atlas said flatly.
Alexios grunted, jerking back, then spun his spear in a wide circle. "One of these days, I'll crack that calm face of yours. You can't stay perfect forever, Atlas."
"You keep talking instead of fighting," Atlas replied, striking again. Their weapons clashed with a hollow thunk.
The children around them stumbled through the same drills, most clumsy and uncertain. Some fainted from the heat, others gasped for air as they tried to keep up. Atlas and Alexios stood apart—one precise as a surgeon, the other fierce as a wild beast.
"Enough," barked a new voice.
The clash of weapons slowed. Children straightened, panting, as two masked guards stepped forward. Between them walked the masked leader, his presence sharp as a blade. His gaze swept the field before landing squarely on Atlas and Alexios.
"You. Atlas. Alexios. Come."
The children stiffened, whispering among themselves. The two boys exchanged a quick glance—confusion, wariness—but said nothing. Obedience was survival here.
As they stepped forward, the masked leader's voice rang out:
"Mother Chrysis summons you. Sanctuary of Hera."
The words struck the air like a stone dropped into still water.
The path to Argos wound down through olive groves and rocky slopes. The sky was streaked with red and gold as the sun sank lower. Guards escorted them at a distance, though not too close. Atlas walked with measured steps, his mind already racing.
Why call us?
Beside him, Alexios twirled his spear like a walking stick, his grin too wide, too forced. "Maybe she finally realized how glorious I am. She'll probably give me a crown of laurel leaves, a golden spear, and your bow because she knows I'd use it better."
Atlas shot him a sidelong look. "She'll probably throw you in a pit with lions."
Alexios laughed loudly, clapping him on the back. "Then I'll kill them, same as always."
But even Atlas could hear the unease in his friend's voice.
The Heraion of Argos rose before them, its marble columns gleaming in the fading light. The air grew thick with incense. Pilgrims crowded the steps, clutching offerings: baskets of figs, jugs of oil, flowers, and even live animals.
People knelt in prayer, their voices a sea of pleas. A man begged for his crops to thrive. A mother wept over her fevered child, holding him up for a priestess's blessing. Others whispered for fertility, for wealth, for revenge against enemies.
Atlas slowed as he watched, a bitter taste in his mouth. Medicine exists. Treatment exists. Hippocrates is alive in this very age and his students are spreading knowledge. And yet here they kneel, waiting for invisible hands to save them, If Hippocrates or his students stood here, these people would have hope. Instead, they wait for the gods to cure what herbs and hands could mend.
He shook his head, struck speechless by the weight of ignorance.
"Alexios," Atlas called, but when Atlas turned, Alexios wasn't at his side.
He had stopped several paces back, staring across the courtyard.
Atlas followed his gaze to where a family sat beneath a laurel tree: a strong father holding his small son high in the air, the child laughing as his mother clapped. A baby girl gurgled happily in her mother's arms. The four of them glowed with the simple peace of a shared day.
Alexios's expression is blank. His knuckles whitened on his spear. His jaw loosened, though his eyes betrayed something deeper—longing, raw and aching.
Atlas sighed softly. He knew the truth behind that look. Fate is cruel, he thought. Myrrine had once brought baby alexios here, seeking treatment only to be deceived by Chrysis declaring the child dead when he still lived, claiming him for the Cult. Myrrine had broken down since then, believing she had lost both son and daughter. She had fled Sparta, first to piracy under Xenia, the Phoenix, and later to rule Naxos in defiance of Paros.
But Alexios knew none of this. To him, family was only an ache in the chest, a picture of what he had been denied.
The boy's lips moved soundlessly, as though forming words he didn't dare speak.
Atlas sighed softly. "Alexios."
Alexios blinked, his eyes lingering on the family a moment longer before he tore them away. He masked his sorrow with a crooked grin. "Hah, staring won't fill my stomach, right? Let's go before Chrysis grows impatient."
He strode ahead, but the sadness lingered in his eyes. Atlas followed, the weight of fate pressing down on him.
The Sanctuary itself was vast, torches flickering against white stone. Priestesses moved silently across the marble floors, their chants echoing softly. At the far end, Chrysis sat on an ornate seat, her aged frame draped in crimson robes.
"Ahhh," she cooed as they entered. Her voice slithered through the air. "My two lion cubs return to me."
Her hands lifted as if to embrace them, though her eyes were sharp and unblinking.
"How you've grown. Stronger. Fiercer. The others whisper of your hunts, your victories. Such promising children."
Atlas inclined his head politely, though every muscle in his body screamed distrust.
Alexios shifted uneasily, his grin gone. The years under Atlas's quiet guidance had changed him and sharpened his instincts. Once, her words might have flattered him. Now, her words tasted sour in his ears, and the boy no longer looked at the old woman with admiration. Suspicion shadowed his gaze.
Chrysis leaned forward, her voice lowering. "But strength is not enough. Obedience, loyalty—these are the true weapons. A lion cub without discipline becomes a stray beast. You are not strays, are you?"
Atlas answered smoothly, "We follow where we are led."
"Good." Her smile widened. "Then you will grow into something great. Something worthy of the gods themselves."
She spoke with them until the sun dipped fully, her words winding like a serpent—questions about their hunts, their training, their loyalties. Each answer they gave was measured, cautious.
"You may return to the camp," she said at last, her voice sweet as poisoned honey. "Train well, my cubs. Great destinies await you."
The words followed them as they stepped back into the night.
The road back was silent at first, the stars blooming faintly above them. Their footsteps echoed off the stones.
Alexios broke the silence, his voice quiet, almost hesitant. "Atlas… do you think we have a family? Somewhere out there? A mater, a pater… a brother or sister?"
Atlas stopped walking.
Alexios forced a laugh, waving the thought away. "Forget it. Who would want us? Maybe I'm better off without some boring old pater yelling at me anyway."
But Atlas's eyes stayed locked on him.
"No," Atlas said firmly, his voice cutting through the night. "We do have a family."
Alexios turned, confusion flickering in his gaze. "What?"
Atlas stepped closer, his eyes unwavering. "Let me show you the truth."
Alexios shifted uncomfortably, his grin faltering. "Atlas, what are you—"
But Atlas didn't look away. For too long, lies had bound them. He would not let Alexios's life be defined and controlled by the shadows.
This time, there would be no hiding.
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