(PS: Please support me on patreon there 135+ chapters there and there also my new GoT: The True Dragon Fanfiction of Game of Thrones
https://patreon.com/BX_XDS)
Sunlight slanted through the cracked roof tiles of the cottage, forming warm, golden stripes across the dusty floor. The air inside the small shelter smelled intensely of crushed feverfew and boiling willow bark—sharp, earthy, and reassuringly medicinal.
Atlas crouched beside the clay bowl as the father carefully poured the newly prepared medicine into a small cup. The father's hands trembled with lingering fear and exhaustion, but his movements were steady and precise, guided by Atlas's teaching.
Atlas checked the mixture one last time. The color—a soft greenish-brown—was correct. The thickness—smooth, not watery—was perfect. The scent—slightly bitter with a clean, herbal hint—was exactly as it should be.
He nodded, a brief, affirming movement. "Good. You did it right," Atlas said, his voice calm and confident.
The father visibly sagged in relief, his shoulders dropping the weight of acute anxiety. "We… we really did?" he asked, his voice wavering with disbelief.
Atlas handed the cup back to him. "You did. This will keep their fever under control. You saved them, not the gods."
The mother covered her mouth, her eyes instantly filling with grateful tears as she looked at her recovering children. Their breathing was no longer fast and painful—it was slow, steady, and peaceful.
"Thank the gods…" she whispered. "Thank the gods and thank you…"
Atlas raised a hand gently to stop her effusive thanks. "Don't thank me. Just make the medicine on time. Every few hours. And follow the notes exactly."
Phoibe perked up proudly. "See? You won't forget anything!" she said, holding up the leather-bound notebook Atlas had given them like a rare, priceless treasure.
The notebook's pages were filled with Atlas's precise, elegant handwriting and clear diagrams:
Hand-drawn illustrations of medicinal herbs.
Precise measurements and necessary boiling times.
Detailed warnings and step-by-step instructions.
The mother slowly knelt, placing a grateful, trembling hand on Phoibe's cheek. "You're a brave girl, little one… Thank you for bringing him to us."
Phoibe beamed, her small chest puffing with pride. "I told you! Atlas can fix everything!"
Atlas cleared his throat lightly, a subtle correction. "Well… not everything. But I will always try."
The parents exchanged a soft, profoundly emotional look—the kind people exchange when a miracle, however temporary, walks into their lives unexpectedly.
Atlas stood to his full height.
"I can't stay on Kephallonia for long," he repeated gently, preparing them for the inevitable departure. "But you have everything you need now. Just keep each other safe, and keep the fire low."
The father wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve. "We will. You have our solemn word."
Phoibe tugged at Atlas's wrist, her attention already focused on the next adventure. "Atlas… are we going to look for Kassandra now?"
Atlas nodded. "Yes. They're probably done with the business at Sami by now."
He turned toward the broken doorway. Sunlight spilled into the cottage as he pushed aside the old wooden frame.
"Let's go."
Phoibe grabbed her tiny bag and ran after him, her sandals tapping lightly on the forest floor. Together, they stepped back into the winding, shaded paths—the trees whispering softly overhead, the hidden cottage fading quickly behind them.
With every quiet step, the island's story shifted just a little more, moving away from tragedy and toward uncertain safety.
Phoibe led the way with determined little steps, weaving expertly through the trees and hopping over gnarled roots like a creature who had lived in the forest her whole life. Atlas followed behind her, his hands relaxed at his sides, his eyes constantly scanning the environment with quiet, practiced awareness.
They reached Markos's vineyard first.
Markos was sprawled across a battered wooden chair outside his house, snoring loudly with his mouth wide open. A half-empty wine jug rested precariously close to the edge of the table, challenging gravity. His snore rattled, cracked, and ended with a surprisingly melodic whistle.
Phoibe wrinkled her nose. "He snores worse than a boar, Atlas."
Atlas smirked lightly. "That's genuinely impressive. I've heard some very loud boars."
Phoibe tiptoed closer, peeking around the vine-covered trellises.
"Alexios? Lukas? Kassandra?" she called softly.
Silence. Just Markos snoring like Zeus himself had cursed him with eternal, wine-induced sleep.
Atlas scanned the messy yard. He noted displaced stones, a few fresh, deep boot prints, and signs of rapid departure.
"They were here, probably early this morning," he said simply. "They moved fast."
Phoibe puffed her cheeks in frustration. "Hmph. They always leave before the fun starts."
They reached the port town, which now bustled with midday life—fishermen shouting about fresh catch, merchants waving their arms, children running chaotic errands between stalls.
But there were no tall, recognizable warriors. No loud Spartan siblings. No hammer-wielding giant.
Phoibe checked behind crates, under a heavy cart, and even inside a wide wicker basket.
Atlas raised an eyebrow. "…They wouldn't fit in there, Phoibe."
"You never know," Phoibe said seriously. "Lukas is big, but maybe he can squish if he tries hard enough."
Atlas chuckled under his breath, the low sound shaking his chest. "Highly unlikely."
They walked through the marketplace with no luck, finding not a single trace of the trio.
"Where are they?" Phoibe groaned, her energy flagging.
Atlas rubbed the bridge of his nose. "If I know them, they're already in a fight. Or walking directly toward a fight. Or actively planning one."
Phoibe blinked, considering this. "That's… actually very true."
They followed narrow trails leading away from the market, Phoibe skipping ahead while Atlas used his hearing to listen to the distant sounds of the island. Goats bleated loudly, climbing rocks like they owned the island's vertical space.
Phoibe cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted with surprising volume:
"KASSANDRA! ALEXIOS! LUKAAAAS!"
Only a goat responded instantly. "Meeeeehh!"
Phoibe sighed dramatically, hands dropping in defeat. "This is impossible. They're gone."
Atlas finally stopped, rolling his shoulders to loosen them. "All right. That's enough wandering. They know that the Adrestia is our meeting point."
Phoibe lowered her hands, panting lightly, the excitement instantly returning. "So we're going back to Captain Barnabas's ship?"
"Yes," Atlas said. "We'll wait for them there. They'll show up eventually, likely covered in dirt and blood."
She grabbed Atlas's wrist and pulled him toward the docks with a surprising surge of strength for someone so small.
Atlas followed, amused by her urgency. "Careful," he said. "You'll pull my arm clean off at this rate."
Phoibe grinned over her shoulder. "Then you have to walk faster!"
They hurried down the path toward Sami's harbor, the sun high above and the wind picking up—the island shifting rapidly toward the next chain of events.
The harbor of Sami bustled with loud afternoon noise—merchants shouting prices, fishermen hauling heavy nets, seagulls squawking overhead—but the Adrestia sat unusually quiet and still at the end of the long pier. Her dark hull rocked gently against the tide, ropes creaking softly. With her sails tied down and no captain on deck, she looked like a sleeping giant.
Phoibe clutched her tiny sack—barely bigger than a loaf of bread—against her chest. It carried all she owned: two simple dresses, a worn wooden toy eagle, and a string bracelet she'd made herself.
Atlas gave her a large, reassuring pat on the shoulder.
"Go ahead," he said calmly. "Store your things in the ship's storage room. Stay on the deck until the others arrive, all right? We might need to set sail quickly once they return."
Phoibe immediately straightened like a tiny, focused soldier. "Yes, Captain Atlas!" she announced proudly.
She ran up the ramp—promptly tripped over a rope—windmilled her arms—caught herself—
"I meant to do that!" she insisted, and dashed inside with eager energy.
Atlas let out a quiet, fond laugh. Then his expression shifted back to focused neutrality.
Where is Barnabas?
He began searching the pier. First, he checked the deck—empty. Then he walked along the side, looking for the familiar old captain leaning on a barrel with a cup of wine. Nothing.
Atlas headed into the small market area near the docks. Vendors called to him as he passed:
"Fresh figs, mighty warrior!" "Fish! Best fish in all Kephallonia!" "Olives! Only slightly overripe!"
Atlas ignored them all, his eyes scanning every face. Still no sign of Barnabas.
Finally, he spotted a group of Adrestia crewmen crouched in a circle, playing dice. They were laughing loudly, slapping the ground, and passing a skin of wine between them.
Atlas approached. "Excuse me," he said, his voice cutting through the noise. "Have any of you seen Barnabas in the last few hours?"
The tallest crewman squinted at him, then tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Captain Barnabas… Captain Barnabas… hmm… Oh! Right! He said he was going to get wine. The good kind."
Another crewman snorted. "Or he met a beautiful woman and forgot about everything else. That's more likely."
The men howled with raucous laughter.
Atlas stared at them, completely unamused. "So… no one actually knows where the Captain of the ship is, then."
All the crewmen shrugged in perfect, drunken synchronization.
Atlas inhaled slowly, a subtle venting of frustration. "…Understood."
He walked away, rubbing his temples. Unreliable men. Unreliable captain. Unreliable, yet beautiful, island.
He needed something productive to occupy himself while waiting. He strolled through the market again—mostly to distract his mind from the logistical nightmare. Merchants waved jars of honey in his face. Children ran past, chasing each other with sticks. A fisherman tried selling him "fresh" goat milk, which smelled like it had been fresh sometime last year. Atlas politely walked around that vendor.
Then, something familiar caught his eye.
A small blacksmith's shop—simple but well-kept—with a stone forge still glowing warm from use. And instantly, a memory clicked.
Kassandra's spear.
The Spear of Leonidas—its handle shattered and ruined, the golden spearhead still intact, but the wooden grip destroyed long ago. He could fix that.
The blacksmith's shop sat near the center of the Sami marketplace, smoke curling lazily from the forge chimney. The rhythmic clang–clang of metal on metal echoed through the bustling street, mixing with the shouts of merchants and the smell of roasted fish.
As Atlas stepped into the shade of the forge, the blacksmith looked up from shaping a horseshoe. He was a large man—broad chest, thick arms, and a beard singed from years of leaning too close to hot metal.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead with a cloth. "Welcome, friend!" he boomed. "Looking to buy a blade? Maybe fix a shield? I've got good prices today."
Atlas shook his head. "I want to borrow your forge."
The blacksmith froze, hammer halfway raised. "…Borrow? My forge?" He blinked in disbelief, then frowned slightly. "Brother, if you borrow my tools, how am I supposed to earn my drachmae? I have a family to feed."
Atlas nodded calmly, anticipating the objection. Without a word, he reached into his pouch.
Three gold drachmae glinted brightly in his hand—brighter and more valuable than anything the blacksmith usually saw in a month. He placed them firmly into the man's palm.
The blacksmith stared, his jaw slack. "By the gods…" he whispered. "This—this is… gold!"
Atlas gently pushed the man's hand closed around the coins. "For your time. Now let me borrow the forge."
The blacksmith instantly straightened like a soldier standing before a general.
"THE FORGE IS YOURS!" he declared loudly. "Use everything! Take your time! If you need water, tools, coal—ANYTHING—just shout! I will watch the entrance!"
Atlas gave a faint nod. He placed his bag on the ground and stretched his fingers, feeling the familiar anticipation of creation. The forge crackled invitingly.
Then he reached into the bag and pulled out the materials.
The blacksmith leaned forward curiously—and his eyes nearly popped out of his skull, his hand instinctively gripping the gold in his pouch.
Atlas lifted a small, dense block of Isu metal, shimmering faintly beneath the daylight, and several pieces of rare Orichalcum ore, glowing with an unnatural, soft blue sheen.
The blacksmith sputtered. "What—what in Hades' name is THAT metal?! It's—it's glowing! Metal doesn't glow!"
Atlas smiled faintly, an expression of secretive knowledge. "It's rare. Hard to work with. But strong. Stronger than anything you have seen." He didn't elaborate further. The less the blacksmith knew, the better.
The forge roared hotter as Atlas pumped the bellows. Flames licked the precious metal as he lowered the combined materials into the heart of the fire.
The blacksmith watched, mesmerized, like a child staring at magic he couldn't comprehend.
Atlas's hands moved with certainty and economy, each motion smooth, practiced, and purposeful. When the metal reached the right heat—bright orange, nearly white—Atlas pulled it free with tongs.
He raised his heavy hammer.
And struck.
CLANG! Sparks exploded outward, dancing like miniature fireflies.
CLANG! The metal began to fuse—Orichalcum threads melting into the Isu alloy, creating a swirling, shimmering, internal pattern.
A few passersby stopped, drawn by the unnatural glow of the materials. Atlas ignored the gazes, focused entirely on his task.
He hammered the metal thinner… narrowed the core… twisted the center… widened the base… shaped the internal lock mechanism… carved the necessary retracting channels…
Each stage was precise. Each strike was meaningful.
Halfway through, the blacksmith dared to speak. "What… what in the world are you forging?"
Atlas answered without looking up, focused on the glowing metal. "A spear handle."
The blacksmith's eyebrows shot up in disbelief. "That block is becoming a handle? It will snap!"
"A very special one," Atlas said simply.
He heated the metal again. Then hammered. Heat. Hammer. Cool. Shape.
The cycle repeated until the sun dipped lower toward the horizon.
Slowly—beautifully—the metal began to take form: a compact cylinder with grooves for grip and hidden internal slots, designed to seamlessly extend into a full-length spear and collapse back into dagger size. A masterpiece born of ancient technology and modern precision.
The blacksmith swallowed hard, stepping back. "That… that is no ordinary handle," he breathed.
Atlas smiled slightly, a glint of proud achievement in his eyes. "It's worthy of the spear it belongs to."
Leonidas's spear. Kassandra's legacy.
He wasn't done yet, but the foundation was perfect.
And far away, at the same moment the glowing Isu metal was being perfected…
Kassandra, Alexios, and Lukas reached the entrance of Kleptous Bay, the Cyclops's highly-anticipated base.
But something was profoundly wrong.
No guards. No lookouts. No shouting. No heavy-handed mercenaries anywhere. Nothing. The area was eerily quiet.
Kassandra frowned, lowering her new bow. "That's strange. Too quiet."
Lukas scanned the area, his massive hand already resting on his hammer. "Where is everyone? They were supposed to be here."
Alexios scratched his head, confused. "This feels… off. Like a trap, but without the effort."
Before they could investigate the silent base further—
A sharp, panicked scream echoed from deeper inside the bay.
It was followed instantly by loud, cruel, mocking laughter.
The trio exchanged rapid, focused looks.
Kassandra's eyes narrowed, all weariness gone. "Let's go. Something is wrong."
They sprinted toward the sound, their previous conversation about the "ugly" Cyclops forgotten, replaced by the grim reality of trouble.
(PS: Please support me on patreon there 135+ chapters there and there also my new GoT: The True Dragon Fanfiction of Game of Thrones
https://patreon.com/BX_XDS)