A light flickered in the void. Little, stumbling steps echoed far into the depths of labyrinthine tunnels and branching passageways. Soon the torch flame would die out, smothered by damp air and the deepest of shadows. Soon there would be nothing but darkness, and yet, she was not afraid.

The child tightened her grip on the rose close to her heart. A symbol of the highest honor, to be the one chosen for the glory of the life beyond, chosen by the Gods. No amount of fear could do away with her conviction, no amount of weariness of mind or sight could corrode her faith. Not even the cries that rang in her ears could do so, for as much as, deep down, she felt otherwise.

The screams, the struggle, the pain that clawed at her heart. She loved her dearly; she was her older sister, after all, the most important person in her world. However, everyone knew better than to test the will of the Gods. Yes, it pained her, but she managed, for the good it would bring. Soon, grand blessings would come to her people for the year to come. Soon, she would ascend and bask in the glory of eternity, where she would wait to reunite with her beloved sister, waiting with a mother and father she would finally come to know. Together again, in the glory of the Gods.

On and on she went, despite the growing weight in her head.

Was it a test of the Gods, this malady? Transcendence taking place? A sign of what had yet to come? She pushed aside these questions as soon as they arose, for they were pointless and heretical. It had been trust that brought them out of the brink of ruin and starvation. It had been blind faith in the words and guidance of the Chieftain, the one true voice of the Gods, which made them prosper. Who was she to test the patience of the divine with such foul inquiries?

Her light perished in the void.

She tightened her hold on the rose, fearing that her doubts had brought upon her damnation. She saw little more beyond the tip of her own nose, but then, as if a pardon of the higher powers, the cavern began to glow. A dim, turquoise light shone throughout the elongated path. A path that guided her into an opening at the very end.

Was this it? Was this the sign she was been waiting for?

A chamber welcomed her. There she stood in awe, gazing at the glow of the room and the clean-cut formations of the stone. It was something beyond nature, something only a dream could manifest. This, however, was tangible, a true unnatural wonder surrounding her with its mystique. Her wonderment did not last for long, however, for a loud cracking noise beneath her feet snapped her out of her daze and brought her attention to what it was that lay below.

Not a sound came out of her as her legs trembled and her face twisted into the pure, primal expression of terror. Piles of human bones cluttered the cavern floor, as did the remains of many a petal and stalk. Horrified, she stumbled back towards the entrance of the chamber, only to crash into a wall of immovable flesh, causing her to fall to the bone-ridden floor. As she gazed up, she bore witness to the nightmare.

A grotesque vision, that of an enormous, misshapen man, in all but one part. There, instead of a face, was the gnarled visage of a horned creature. A pair of glowing eyes that stared at her, pierced at her very soul.

She screamed, but her cries could not be heard, for they were deafened by the roar of the beast.

The Coasts of Greece 1 Year Later

Surrounded at all flanks they were, ambushed near the edge of a seaside cliff, a barren wasteland blasted by the inclemency of the desert sun. Their mounts neighed in protest, as half a dozen mounted, masked brigands, clad in dirt-colored cloaks, bandanas, and garbs, wielding an array of lances, axes, and swords, glared and cackled at them, as a pack of ravenous hyenas would their prey. Unlike a pair of wounded zebras, however, these two encircled men remained undeterred.

"You ready, old friend?" said Amram, the bald, hulking, axe-wielding Abyssinian, who rode atop a steed of the finest quality—as its former owner, a pompous Arabic merchant, and breeder of beasts, attested to before it was stolen from right under the man's nose.

The Abyssinian gave his trusty weapon a couple of swings, a weapon that, if the runic inscriptions in its handle were to be translated roughly to the modern tongue, would be known today as defiler of your mother.

"Whenever you are," said Zelikman, the pale, lithe, dark garment-clad—sweltering heat be damned—hat-wearing—though no less dangerous, Frank, as he too brandished his signature weapon: a bloodletting lancet, forged to order by the maker of his family's rabbi-physician instruments. A most unusual choice for those ignorant of the duo's escapades, but an effective one nonetheless.

Undaunted, the pair waited, taunting the first move out of the brigands with silent glee. The ruffians took the bait.

Taking advantage of the brutish approach of their assailants, the duo prepared their respective strikes, along with a maneuvering pull of the reins—should they were to find themselves in the need to move their prized steeds out of harm's way. Masterful in execution they were, indeed, but what came next not even they could have anticipated.

With strength and resilience not of this world, as if parrying sticks wielded by rowdy children, the brigands flung Amram and Zelikman off their horses in the clash of steel and threw them to the rocky floor. Then, two of the brigands grabbed each one of the duo's mounts by the reins and galloped off with the stallions by their side, with the ease of one dragging a mangy, roadside mutt.

Powered by adrenaline, Amram and Zelikman rose from the sands and assumed their battle stances. They were uneasy, however, stupefied by the unexpected turn of events, as well as the palpable sense of bloodlust that came from the remaining scoundrels, their half-covered faces dirty, their sand-covered eyes brimming with inhuman relish.

Releasing a guttural roar, the brigands continued with their horseback assault. Amram and Zelikman ducked, dodged, and evaded the blows, thrusts, and slashes, escaping death by a hair's breadth, for they knew that an attempted parry would not only break their weapons but every bone in their hands as well.

The one-sided skirmish went on for less than a minute before the pair—ignorant of their surroundings in the effort to survive—was pushed back to the edge of the cliff. In their last weary attempt to evade the bone-rattling strikes, they slipped and plummeted into the ocean below.

Once the ever-fading screams of the falling pair came to an end, consumed by the roar of the crashing waves, the brigands howled like maddened beasts and galloped off, to reunite with their brethren and celebrate the spoils. As their joy too dissipated from the scenery, monotony reclaimed that unforgiving land. Not a sound broke its deathly peace of barren waters, slamming onto uneven cliff-faces and myriad jagged spires and stones. Not a sound, save for the almost inaudible hacking coming from down below.

"Are you alright?" screamed Amram, as he both grasped onto the handle of defiler of your mother for dear life—having struck its edge on a small crevice of the cliff face in the nick of time—and held Zelikman's right leg.

Zelikman dangled upside down, spitting out strands of his own long locks of blond hair as they whipped back and forth due to the razor-cold winds of the coast. One would assume he could have used his free hand to keep his intrusive mane in check, or better yet, reach for one of the rocky protuberances and free his companion of the small yet considerable burden of his weight.

Then again, one would also assume a hat disposable in such a situation.

"Guess!"

Amram made no effort to. He also made no effort to disregard the notion of letting Zelikman drop.

"Amram?"

"What?"

"So much for being ready!"

Amram almost did.