A few minutes later.
The inner city of Athens was a direct assault on my senses. If the village I woke up in was a grayscale photo of a landfill, this place was a high-definition, neon-lit fever dream. Everything screamed "Woman." The architecture had curves where Earth had corners; the mana lamps didn't just glow, they shimmered with a soft, rose-tinted light that made everyone look like they were filtered for Instagram.
And the people? My old soul was currently having a heart attack. I was seventy years old on the inside, but seeing women dressed in gowns that seemed held together by nothing but magic and sheer willpower was doing things to my blood pressure. Every noblewoman walking by looked like a supermodel with a PhD in Fireballs. They had this effortless grace, their chests puffed out with the pride of a gender that had never known the words "glass ceiling."
"Stay close, boy," Mistress Helga grunted, snapping me out of my hormone-induced trance. "Don't go gawking at the Ladies. They'll have your eyes for breakfast if they think you're being disrespectful."
I huddled deeper into the back of the carriage, trying to look as non-threatening as a wet paper bag. "Trust me, Mistress. My eyes are on the floor. I'm a floor enthusiast. Very fond of cobblestone."
We wound through the Merchant District—a chaotic symphony of smells. Grilled meats, expensive wine, and that distinct metallic tang of magic. We finally pulled up to a shop that looked decidedly less flashy than its neighbors: HELGA'S WEAPON SHOP. It was a sturdy stone building that looked like it had survived a few sieges, which was comforting in an "at least the roof won't fall on me" kind of way.
Inside, the atmosphere changed. It wasn't the airy elegance of the streets; it was a testosterone-filled sweatbox. Helga led me to the main forge area to meet the crew. There were four of them—all men, all built like brick shithouses, and all currently looking at me like I was a cockroach that had just learned to walk upright.
"This is Arthur," Helga announced. "He's the new clerk and stable hand. He can read, so don't try to cheat the inventory."
A giant named Barnaby spat on the floor near my shoes. "He looks like he'd snap in a stiff breeze. Why'd you bring a twig to a forge, Mistress?"
"I don't need him to swing a hammer, Barnaby. I need him to use his brain—something you clearly haven't done since the last moon," she snapped.
The glares intensified. I got it. I was the "smart kid" in a room full of jocks who took orders from a woman. I was at the bottom of a very miserable totem pole.
Then I was ushered to my "quarters"—a room that was essentially a closet with a view of a horse's backside. One lumpy bed, one flickering candle, and enough dust to trigger an asthma attack.
I sat on the bed, my mind racing. I needed to get to the Temple of Venus. I asked Joe earlier, a mercenary guard employed by Helga herself, who looked like he'd seen too many bar fights, about getting in.
"The Temple?" Joe laughed, picking his teeth with a splinter. "Sure, kid. Just walk up to the High Priestess and hand over a chest of gold and silver. That's the 'donation' fee for the unwashed masses. No gold? No Goddess. Now go muck the stables."
Great. Pay-to-play religion. Typical.
But I wasn't going to wait. I was an adventurer at heart—or at least, I'd watched enough fantasy movies to think I was. The moment Helga went to the front to haggle with a customer, I slipped out the back. I scaled the wooden fence of the barn—which nearly gave me a hernia—and dropped into the alleyway behind the shop.
That's when I heard it. The sound of a muffled sob and the sharp clank of armor.
I crept forward and peeking around a stack of crates. Three Knights of the Rose—massive, Amazonian warriors with abs you could grate cheese on—were cornering an old woman. She was dressed in rags, her face bruised, clutching a piece of moldy bread like it was a holy relic.
"P-please, noble Ladies," the old woman whimpered. "I was only looking for scraps..."
"Scraps in the High District are for the Temple hounds, not for filth like you," one of the knights sneered. She was beautiful in a terrifying way, her silver plate shining under the twin moons. She raised a heavy, armored boot and kicked the old woman's hand, sending the bread flying into a puddle.
Now, look. I'm a coward. I'm skinny. I have a phobia of women that should be studied by scientists. But seeing three six-foot-tall tanks bullying a grandmother? My New York soul boiled. "Hey!" I shouted, my voice cracking halfway through. I stepped out into the light, trying to look "manly" and failing miserably. "Why don't you pick on someone who isn't... you know, eighty?"
The three knights turned. They looked at me, then at each other, and then they laughed. It was a cold, melodic sound that made my skin crawl.
"Look, sisters," the leader said, stepping toward me. Her armor clinked, and the scent of roses filled the air. She was a foot taller than me and twice as wide. "A little rat wants to play hero. How adorable."
"Leave her alone," I said, my knees shaking so hard I thought they'd come unhinged. I stood in front of the old woman, my heart hammering against my ribs. "She's just an old lady."
"And you're just a pathetic beggar," the knight replied.
She didn't even draw her sword. She just reached out—a hand larger than my chest—and slapped me. It wasn't a "girl" slap. It was a "trained-warrior-in-gauntlets" slap. My vision exploded into white sparks. I felt my feet leave the ground. I think I saw my grandfather waving at me from the clouds.
Then came a kick to the ribs that folded me like a lawn chair. I hit the stone floor hard, my face in the mud.
"Next time, stay in your hole, rat," a voice echoed from far away.
Darkness rushed in, cold and heavy. But just as I was about to slip into the void, a voice—soft, familiar, and dripping with that same celestial honey I heard in the white void—echoed in my mind.
"Arthur? Oh, you poor, sweet idiot. It's time to wake up. We have shopping to do."