Zoë had always been convinced that her father's palace was the most beautiful thing on the earth. Polished marble columns that stretched as far as they could see in either direction, tiled floors that depicted tales of the old. Gilded walls that shone when the evening light hit them, turquoise and jade and amber. Linen curtains that fluttered lightly in the sea breeze. Air so warm it always seemed to embrace. Ceilings so high they were often hidden in the dark of night.
The palace she had grown up in was a safe space, a haven. It was home, a place in which she had always belonged and felt at ease. She always felt her safest when surrounded by the tonnes of stone, impenetrable and older than any person knew. She liked to feel herself to be at the heart of it all, guarded and protected from a world she knew very little about. Within its walls, she was safe. Within its walls she belonged, where she could not be harmed.
That had always been the case. From the earliest moment she could remember, she had been taught that she was safe within her home. It was where she belonged, where she would always belong. Her home was a part of her. The history of the place, the kings and gods of old. It was all integral to who she was. Or so she had always thought.
Her father was a hard man, he had to be in order to lead such a vast nation. He was a strong ruler, a warrior through and through. Decisive and stubborn, few had ever lived long if they dared to question him. A ruler must trust in themselves, to be questioned was to be made to look weak. To be made weak was to allow a kingdom to crumble.
Her father was a hard man, unbending and strong willed. But he was also fair and true to himself. He had always taught her to follow in his footsteps. To be strong in the face of her enemies, to be true to what she believed, to stick to what she decided. Zoë liked to think that was something she had always done. Even if it was hard, she stuck to what she believed in. That had gotten her to where she was now, well and truly in a mess.
When her father had converted to Christianity, none had been more shocked than her. Stories had drifted up from within the city, from the port. Tales of the great cities to the east being sacked, being burnt and pillaged until nothing was left. The Christians were coming, the whispers had said. They march on us even now, none can stop them. Not even Atlas.
One day, her father had convened a war council. She had spent hours in the temple of Artemis at the top of the hill, praying for peace. She had sacrificed like no other, she had pleaded until her lips were blue and her eyes dry of tears. She had feared for her life, she had feared for her Kingdom, and she had feared for the gods she revered above all else.
She had heard of every other strong hold of the old religion falling, one by one, one after the other. Each had fallen to the plague of Christianity and none had been able to stop it. Not even the gods themselves had been able to prevent it from happening. The heathens of the one God had torn down the known world, brick by brick. And they set fire to the ruins they had left in their wake. She had prayed to stop them, pleading with the gods, as one of the last priestesses of Artemis left standing, to not let it happen. She had prayed until her knees were mottled bruises, purple and black.
Still, she had awoken to find the city surrounded one day. An army had been assembled, resplendent in their armour. The city could not be put under siege, the harbour did not allow for it. Her father had ridden out to meet the army, proud and straight backed. He had returned, hours later, and he had been a changed man. He spoke of a new religion, a new dawn, a new era.
He had declared the old religion to be heretical, he had promised to burn any who refused to submit. He had looked at Zoë as he had declared it, eyes level and voice steady. He must have seen it in her face, defiance in the place of resignation or joy. His eyes had hardened, as had his voice, all steel and determination.
Her heart had sunk into her stomach, dropping like a stone. If she stayed, she would be killed. She could not submit to the God of such barbarians. She would run, and be free. Her faith in the old religion and the true gods of Olympia would remain. And so, with her father's declaration and burning eyes strengthening her resolve, she had packed and fled to the harbour.
It still surprises her that she had made it out of the city, and across the straits, undetected. When she had reached the other side, it had been another story. Word had spread far and fast, a penalty had been placed upon her head. It was shocking to imagine what most would do for a monetary reward.
People were willing to go to extreme lengths for a reward, it seemed. Most would not hesitate at killing a lady, let alone a priestess of the old religion. The old religion held no stock in the new world being ushered in. She'd landed on the coast of Spain and had been on the run ever since.
She knew that there were many sinister things hunting for her, not all of them mortal. Creatures of the underworld crawled in search for her. Humans and monsters of all calibers were on her trail. It barely felt as if she were scrambling fast enough to keep ahead. At first, it hadn't been too bad. Those on her tail had been few and far between. She'd still been relatively well rested, and she'd had enough food to get her through.
Slowly, her supplies had run dry. More and more creatures had picked up on her trail, she had sensed them. It had only been a matter of time until they found her, until she had met her end. They were greedy and wished for nothing more than the riches promised to them when she died. At first, even as her supplies were bled dry, even as the hoarded of creatures chasing her increased, she had managed to stay three steps ahead.
She was smart, and stubborn, and she just didn't want to die. Zoë wanted to live, with her entire soul and being. So she'd stayed alert and ahead of the game. She'd found that she had a sense for short cuts, not that she had a destination. She had no goal in mind, she just ran from the fate that awaited her as soon as she stopped. At first, she'd been able to rest at night, for a whole night, and know that she was still ahead of the scum that chased her. Slowly, her nights had become shorter, her breaks in which she allowed herself to breathe became shorter.
Then her night time rests became short breaks, barely stopping to catch her breath or nap. She could feel the anxiety draining her, she knew she was no longer three steps ahead. When it reaches a point at which she can no longer allow herself to nap, she knows that she is not long for this world. Knowing that she will die true to herself brings comfort, but she isn't ready to go just yet.
She's been running for longer than she can remember, keeping as steady a pace as she can on the uneven ground. The ground starts to rise, and she knows that she's reached the Pyrenees. She's made it further than she probably should have, given that before she had run for her life, she had never left the city. As the ground becomes steeper and more treacherous, her pace begins to slow.
She knows that those whom seek her will be moving quicker, but she hasn't eaten or slept in more than three days, she hasn't stopped moving for two. She knows that she should struggle on and run, fight to go further, but she's struggling to move at all. The stitch in her side grows with every step, her breathing becomes more laboured with every movement.
She's done, beaten. And she knows it. She wants to live, but there is only so much that any one person can endure. She doesn't stop moving though. If she is to be one of the last priestesses of the old religion, she will go down saying that she tried to preserve that which was pure. She will go down knowing that she did her utmost to keep alive the flame of worship. She climbs at a slow pace for hours, the distance she had managed to keep between herself and those chasing her slowly lessening. It gets to a point where she can hear them and she knows that it will not be long.
Soon they will be upon her, and her father did not say he wanted her back alive. She's certain these are the sorts of creatures whom relish killing the almost defenceless. The ground evens out beneath her feet, and she finds herself stumbling to her knees. The sound of horses hooves echo through the mountain pass around her, it will not be long. Now that she is down, she does not have the energy to stand. She can not seem to find it within herself to carry on. There is no use in walking away, being killed from behind does not sit well within her.
Somehow, she pulls herself into a standing position. She is so tired, to a bone weary level, she sways where she stands. Still, if she will die this day, she will go down fighting. Preferably taking a few of the scum chasing her down with her. She draws her hunting knife, and prepares for the onslaught that will be upon her at any second. The thundering of hooves grows, and with it comes other noises. Grunts, laboured breathing, slithering, muffled curses.
Then those whom have been hunting her are upon her, they surround her in their dozens. Around her they form a circle, unbreakable and deadly. Her life dances before her eyes. Zoë remembers the hours spent praying, and mastering rituals to the goddess Artemis. Hours of study and dedication and rituals. All to be lost within the next minutes.
Still, she makes peace as she readies herself for an attack. She is poised and ready to be lethal. She will not be shy about hurting these poor excuses for men. It is what they wish to do to her after all. Several are looking at her in a way that is less than innocent, leering at her. Hunting knife in hand, she takes a hunched stance, ready to slash at whomever approaches her first.
Out of nowhere, a hunting horn sounds. Loud and unforgiving, she almost raises her hands to cover her ears, but something tells her not to. The world seems to come alive, shimmering silver. A ferocious battle cry is uttered, and every last one of her hunters looks terrified. Silver arrows stream into the crowd, the hunters have become the hunted.
Teenage girls that almost seem to glow in the twilight launch themselves into view. They seem to scatter into the crowd, ploughing down men as they go. In their midst is the most beautiful girl Zoë has ever seen. Instinct tells her that she is correct, it is the Lady Artemis. She joins in the massacring, dealing out blows with such grace that it is almost mesmerising to watch.
Gathering herself Zoë joins the fight. Dodging blows, she slashes throats and stabs at men without hesitation. She allows her body to guide her, she acts upon instinct. She does not show mercy, she is decisive in delivering her blows. After all, mere moments ago they were willing to do the same thing to her, simply for some gold.
She fights with a band of girls, strangers all, and it feels like home. Strangers whom were willing to risk their own safety for a half starved girl they have never met before.
It is over within mere minutes, and every last man is dead. Zoë would be lying if she didn't admit that knowing they will all shortly be crow food was slightly satisfying. The girls, now that they have stopped fighting, stand and look at Zoë. They are curious, she thinks, as to why such a large following had been interested in a mere girl.
She does not look at them, not for long. She finds herself in front of the figure she is certain to be Lady Artemis, and she takes a knee in a way that befits a priestess in the presence of her Goddess. Head bowed, she does not address her, for that is not her place. She waits for acknowledgement and when it is received, she allows herself to look up into the face of the Lady Artemis.