The night lay heavy over the camp, silence broken only by the distant chirp of cicadas. A dying fire smoldered at the edge of the training field, its glow casting faint shadows across the sleeping forms of children huddled on their mats. The masked guards patrolled lazily at the perimeter, their torches bobbing like wandering stars.
Atlas opened his eyes. His body had been still for hours, waiting. Every creak, every breath in the barracks had been counted. Now, at last, the moment has come.
He rose silently, movements practiced and deliberate, slipping his sack over one shoulder. Beside him, Alexios was already awake, spear in hand, eyes gleaming in the dark. They shared a look—serious, steady.
"Ready?" Atlas mouthed.
Alexios nodded.
They moved.
Careful steps over creaking wood, breaths measured, hearts steady. A child rolled in his sleep, murmuring nonsense, and both froze. When the boy settled again, Atlas exhaled slowly and motioned forward.
Near the doorway, a guard's shadow passed across the thin cracks of the wall. The glow of his torch painted the room orange. Atlas pressed Alexios down, both crouching low until the footsteps receded.
Only when silence returned did they slip out into the night. The cool air wrapped around them, carrying the faint scent of pine and ash. Their bare feet padded softly against the dirt as they hugged the shadows, weaving between tents and sleeping forms. Another guard's torchlight swept past, but the man's eyes were heavy, his head lolling with fatigue.
Atlas's instincts screamed at him to freeze. He grabbed Alexios by the arm, pulling him into the cover of a stack of crates. The guard paused, blinked blearily, then moved on.
Alexios let out a long breath. "Too close."
Atlas gave him a flat look. "You need to breathe quieter."
"Sorry," Alexios whispered with a grin. "My heart doesn't listen."
When the camp was finally behind them, Atlas led the way into the forest. The trees swallowed them whole, the canopy blotting out the moonlight, their path lit only by faint slivers of silver above.
When the last torchlight was swallowed by trees, Atlas finally exhaled. "We're clear."
Alexios smirked faintly. "You've done this before."
Atlas shot him a sideways look. "You ask too many questions." He adjusted the strap of his sack and broke into a controlled run, pace steady and measured. Alexios followed easily.
After several minutes, Alexios asked between breaths, "Where's the road to the Sanctuary? Shouldn't we take it before the guards notice?"
Atlas shook his head, not slowing. "Too risky. Guards watch the roads. We'll cut through the forest. At the far side is the Heraion of Argos. From there, we borrow—" his lips twitched "—or steal horses. It's too far to run both ways."
Alexios grinned. "Stealing horses now? You're full of surprises."
"Survival, not surprises." Atlas pushed on, breath steady.
"Admit it," Alexios said with a grin. "You've done this before."
Atlas didn't answer.
Alexios laughed. "Knew it. You're too calm for this to be your first."
When they broke free of the trees, the Heraion rose before them in marble splendor. Columns reached high, gleaming pale beneath the moonlight. Torches lined the steps, their flames flickering against painted walls. Pilgrims still lingered—some kneeling in prayer, others clutching offerings, their voices whispering pleas into the night.
The air was heavy with incense and oil.
Alexios slowed, frowning as he watched a mother press a child forward, begging a priest for Hera's blessing. "Strange. They ask gods for what a healer could give."
Atlas's mouth tightened. "Faith blinds more easily than it heals."
Alexios glanced at him. "You don't believe in the gods?"
Atlas shrugged. "I believe in people. And what they choose to do with power."
Alexios considered that but said nothing more.
Atlas tugged his hood low and gestured forward. "Keep your head down. Don't draw eyes."
They wove through the crowd, their movements smooth, unnoticed. Atlas's gaze swept the surroundings until it fixed on the side road. Four horses stood tied to posts, tails flicking lazily, a lone guard slumped against the wall, snoring with his torch at his feet.
Atlas crouched low. He gestured: quiet.
They approached silently, boots soft against the stone. The horses snorted but did not cry out. Alexios reached for the reins while Atlas stroked one's muzzle gently, soothing it with soft murmurs. The guard shifted in his sleep, snorted, then went still.
Reins loosened. Hooves shuffled. And then they were moving—horses guided slowly, step by step, away from the sanctuary.
Only when the Heraion faded behind them did they mount.
"Mount up," Atlas whispered.
In moments, they were galloping away from the sanctuary, the wind whipping through their cloaks.
Alexios laughed over the thunder of hooves. "You seem a little too familiar with this kind of thing, Atlas. How many times have you done this?"
Atlas smiled awkwardly. "A few."
They kicked off, hooves thundering against the road. The wind tore past their cloaks, and Alexios laughed over the rush. "By the gods, this feels good! Almost worth the risk."
Atlas gave him a sidelong glance. "You'll think differently if we're caught."
Alexios only grinned wider.
The Sanctuary of Asklepios rose on the horizon, solemn and still. They dismounted far from the entrance, leading their horses into the cover of bushes before proceeding on foot.
Moonlight bathed the sanctuary in a pale glow, illuminating rows upon rows of stone slabs. They stretched like a graveyard, inscriptions carved deep into their surfaces.
Alexios slowed, awed. "There are… hundreds."
Atlas nodded. " The priest records every sickness they cure. Every pilgrim who came here seeking healing. Their names, their illnesses, their prayers. Proof that Asklepios 'saved' them.—or so the priests claim."
They moved quietly among the slabs, Atlas scanning each one with practiced eyes. His fingers traced the grooves of letters as he muttered softly. Alexios followed, spear tight in his grip, his steps heavy with anticipation.
Then Atlas stopped. His hand hovered over one slab, scarred by deliberate scratches.
"Here."
Alexios bent close, frowning. "Most of it's ruined." His voice rose with frustration. "Who would do this?"
Atlas steadied him with a hand. "Calm yourself. I can still read parts of it." He crouched, reading the fragments. His voice was steady, but Alexios heard the weight behind it.
"'Of Spartan woman. Came here with child. Sought pity from the gods.' The rest is too damaged."
The lower half was nothing but gouges, letters carved away by deliberate swords. Atlas's mouth tightened. "The rest is too damaged to be read."
Alexios's jaw clenched. His fists trembled at his sides. "Damn them. They tried to erase it."
Before Atlas could speak, a voice echoed softly behind them.
"So… you seek the Spartan woman."
Both boys spun instantly. Atlas's blade was out in a flash, steel gleaming at the old man's throat.
The priest raised his hands quickly. "Peace! I mean no harm. My name is Timoxenos. I am a priest here."
Atlas's eyes narrowed. "How much did you hear?"
"Enough." Timoxenos swallowed, sweat glistening. "Please, lower the blade."
Alexios stepped forward, spear leveled. "Speak. Now."
The priest licked his lips, trembling slightly. "I remember this slab. The words carved here are etched in my memory. It says: 'Of Spartan woman. Came here with child. Sought pity from the gods. The woman arrived filthy, bleeding from her travels. We fed her, bathed her. Then she left. Where she went, I do not know. The child she named Alexios of Sparta… could not be saved.'"
The world seemed to stop. Alexios's spear trembled. His breath caught, eyes blurring with tears. "Is that… true? Is that all?"
Timoxenos's eyes and voice softened. "You must be that child, If you stand before me, alive, then Chrysis must have taken you. The slab records what the priests were told. But I believe the truth is different."
Alexios's knees nearly buckled. He clutched at the stone, head bowed, tears streaking down his cheeks.
Atlas pressed harder with his blade, glaring. "Do you know where spartan woman is, her name is?"
The priest shook his head. "No. But the woman left something behind. I kept it safe, hidden from Chrysis's hands."
From within his robes, he withdrew a folded cloth. A child's blanket. Worn with years, but upon it was stitched the unmistakable crest of Sparta.
Alexios froze. His trembling hands reached forward, clutching it tight against his chest. His tears fell freely now, wetting the fabric.
Atlas's sharp eyes caught the symbol. Royal. Noble. Spartan blood of kings.
Before more could be said, torchlight flickered in the distance. Voices shouted, growing closer.
Timoxenos's eyes widened. "Chrysis's guards are coming. You must go—now!"
Atlas grabbed Alexios by the arm, pulling him toward the shadows. "Move!"
Alexios stumbled, blanket still clutched to his chest, but he followed. Together they sprinted into the night, leaping into the saddles of their waiting horses.
The chase of hooves thundered behind them, but their mounts carried them swift and far. The voices soon faded, swallowed by the forest.
The road home stretched beneath the moonlight, their breaths ragged, the night wind cutting cold. Alexios rode in silence, his eyes locked on the blanket pressed tight to his chest.
Finally, he spoke, voice raw. "So… what now, Atlas?"
Atlas gazed at the stars, expression unreadable. "Now? Nothing. We're too young to change our situation. But this proves one thing—your family never abandoned you. That blanket bears the crest of a noble Spartan house. Perhaps even of kings."
Alexios blinked through his tears, then barked out a laugh. "A prince? Me?" He puffed out his chest, grinning shakily. "Bow before me, Atlas."
Atlas gave him a flat look. "Don't push it."
Alexios laughed harder, tears mixing with joy, the sound echoing into the night. Slowly, the weight lifted from his shoulders.
His laughter softened, turning into a quiet chuckle. "Then what's the plan? Where do we go from here?"
Atlas's eyes hardened. "First? We break the chains that bind the camp. That place is our prison. Until it's become our true home, Only then can we talk about families and thrones."
The camp's torches flickered into sight ahead. The two dismounted quietly, slipping back inside as the barracks slumbered on, none the wiser.
Alexios lay on his mat, the blanket clutched tight against his chest. His eyes finally closed, a faint smile breaking the pain.
Atlas lay awake beside him, staring at the dark ceiling, his mind already shaping paths yet to come.
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