ALL MEMBERS OF the Cult of Kosmos convene beneath Delphi for the first time in years —garbed in black robes and terrible ivory masks weeping red. Deimos and Enyo glow in the low light with newly forged and polished golden armor. They look like the personification of dread and destruction —standing side-by-side at the forefront of the cave.
A war between Athens and Sparta grows nearer —inevitable. All it will take is the right spark. The Cult thrives on the premise of war profiteering, teasing both poleis and their allies until one of them decides to strike first. Korinth beckons Sparta to strike first as the Athenians rise to power and tension grow with Megara, the Thirty Year Peace is all but broken. Even the Thracians, allies to Sparta, have a dispute with Athens —Perikles even ordered a small fleet to sail for Thrace. Hellas was at a tipping point.
Too much talk of political matters bore the Cult's champions. Enyo's fingertips brush over the back of Deimos' hand, following a raised scar running over one of his knuckles. He tilts his head to the side, gaze darting to his counterpart —he can see the corner of her lips kink into a subtle smile. Deimos shifts his attention back to the meeting but finds himself fiddling with two of her slim fingers, loosely entwining them with his. His expression mirrors her own —though to the others they will appear stoic as always. It feels like a dangerous game they're playing and neither of them knows the rules or what happens if they're caught.
The chamber empties of the cultists until only the champions remain. His dark gaze is focused on the golden artifact beneath the open jaws of the great bronze snake. It thrums with power and has long called out to both of them and now may be the only time they have to act on curiosity. Deimos steps toward the pyramid, hand outstretched. "Deimos!" Enyo calls —a part of her fears what secrets the artifact keeps. Fear is weakness she can hear Chrysis saying.
He looks over his shoulder. "Don't lie and say you've never thought about it," he goads, knowing she will not back down from a challenge. Enyo follows in his footsteps, coming to stand at his side before the artifact. She places her hand against the pyramid at the same time he does and feels a jolt of energy rush through her followed by memories that are not hers.
Alexios! A man and a woman ascend the steep mountain path, behind them is a girl, clutching a baby against her chest —protecting him from the biting wind and sleet. There's a plateau, at the far end sits an altar of blue-veined marble, scarred with weather and age. A sheltered candle gutters there next to a pot of oil, a krater of sleet-lashed wine and a platter of grapes. The woman halts with a choking sob. "Myrrine, do not be so weak," the man snaps at her.
Myrrine's face contorts, a fire rising inside her. "Weak? How can you call me that? It takes courage to confront your true feelings, Nikolaos. Weak men hide behind masks of bravery."
"It is not the Spartan way," Nikolaos hisses through his teeth, sparing a moment's glance at his daughter and young son —still a suckling babe. One of the priests comes at the girl from behind, a second tears the baby from her arms, passing him to an old, withered ephor.
"The Oracle has spoken," the priests wail in unison. "Sparta will fall unless the boy falls instead." The elder priest lifts the baby above his head, stepping past the altar and to the edge of the abyss.
"No! No!" The woman weeps as two priests drag her back. "Nikolaos, please, do something," she pleads, falling to her knees with a hoarse cry. He stands resolute as the ephor's body tensed, readying to hurl the baby into the dark chasm. "Nikolaos, please! Not my baby!" Myrrine cries as the young girl breaks free from her captors and darts toward the ephor. She stumbles, losing her footing and crashes into his flank. The ephor begins to flail, toppling over the edge of the mountainside…the baby with him. Alexios!
Deimos frowns.
A scrawny little girl sits next to a loom with a slave girl, one side of her face a mosaic of blue-and-purple —some places are pinker and take the shape a man's fingers. The slave girl softly chides her for getting distracted so easily by the sound of her two brothers playing soldiers in the courtyard. Lesya! Her attention returns to the weave of fabric and untangling the loom weights.
Vases shatter in the courtyard. Timotheus and Tundareos' antics turn silent as heavy footfalls echo through the villa. Lesya can hear her mother crying. Her brothers dart into the solar and tug her away from the loom, beneath a table. They know too well what it means when their father returns in the late hours of the evening smelling of wine and strong perfume.
"She's cursed this family," Leandros shouts, his ire reverberates off the walls. Tundareos feebly holds onto his sister. The slave girl glances over her shoulder from the loom —she is accustomed to receiving her master's wrath. Rising, she moves to the table where the children hide and pull a finished sheet of linen to conceal their hiding place. Lesya hears her mother pleading. "Out of my way, Kalanthe!"
There's a soft thud as flesh collides with stone. Timotheus peers around the linen covering, watching as his mother rises from the ground. He eyes the open window. He could lift his sister to it —the drop on the outside was short and cushioned by a bed of spring flowers. "No, she is my daughter," Kalanthe grits out, tired of his hatred, "and you will not touch her again."
They both stumble back from the artifact. Deimos meets Enyo's troubled amber gaze and shifts. He lifts his hand to her cheek —the same one he'd seen bruised in the memory. Her eyes slip shut as Deimos' rough thumb slips over her cheekbone, breath shaking. Deimos cranes down —lips ghosting over hers. He stalls, hovering on the precipice but Enyo will not let the opportunity pass. She tugs on his armor and smiles as his lips —both rough and supple— move against her own. They both know this is wrong, but gods, it feels right.
Enyo pulls away, heart beating in her throat —eyes glowing gold in the firelight. Deimos searches her face for a trice before surging forward, decisive. His hand still rests against her cheek, the other pressed into the curve of her back —it's astonishing how well they fit together.
ENYO STRIDES INTO the sanctuary beneath the Temple of Apollo in Delphi with blood spattered across her face and white-and-gold armor. She expects to be welcomed with cries of victory —for now, the Cult has both Malis and Lokris beneath their yoke. The embers of war are turning to flame.
Instead, she is greeted with Deimos in a state of comatose, blood dripping down his face as Agis and his rabble of miscreants circle the fallen demigod like predatory animals. "Stop!" Agis rears back his truncheon and brings it down on Deimos' shoulder. "I said STOP!" Enyo roars, driving the jagged end of a broken spear lance through Agis' back and out his front. The other men step away from Deimos —their fear pungent in the air. None of them dare cross blades with Enyo.
In the shadows, six cultists watch as their scheme comes to fruition. As time drew on, it had become clearer that Deimos and Enyo were reckless and acted on their own terms rather than what the Cult demanded. It'd become more of an issue as of late but had progressively worsened ever since Nisos raised his hand against her. "They cannot be controlled, especially when together," one remarks. In the distant past, the opposite had been true.
"Take one away and the other is ours," a deep, grating voice said. The other five nod their agreement. Something needed to be done or the champions would drive the Cult into the ground, risking everything they'd worked to achieve.
They watch as Enyo pulls Deimos up, draping his arm over her shoulders. She is strong and committed, but hers is not the blood of the gods and they have plans for the rest of his bloodline. "He is more valuable to us," a feminine voice hisses. Only death would part the champions from one another.
"I'll give the order," a fourth announces stepping back into the dark antechamber. Gods save me from the wrath of Deimos.
DEIMOS GROANS AS he falls back against the smooth stone wall. Enyo kneels at his side and turns his bloodied cheek toward her, bringing his somnolent gaze to her as well. Ever since he was old enough to learn what certain desires meant, he'd always thought Enyo was fair to look upon —now with the dried blood of enemies on her face, she is beautiful. A true war goddess.
Water drips back into the bronze basin as she wrings out a strip of discarded linen. Wiping away rivulets of blood flowing over his eye, she finds his cheek is already bruised and swollen. "What happened?" It wasn't commonplace for the Cult's champion to be covered in his own blood.
"Bad wine," he grunts. She doubts it is the full truth, but does not press him to say anything more. Enyo's fingers go to the ties of his cuirass and pteruges, doffing him of the armor with mechanical efficiency —she sets the breastplate aside to be cleaned of dirt and blood. Deimos undoes the line of small buttons at his shoulders and the grey-and-gold chiton that matches her own falls around his waist. Black-and-blue bruises are scattered across his ribs —she knows time is the only thing capable of mending those hurts.
Sitting back, Enyo removes her armor and scrubs her face of sweat and blood 'fore setting a filled kettle over the fire to heat for a bath. She fills the stone tub several times over and once pleased with the temperature —strips out of her sweaty and muddy exomis. A soft moan escapes her lips as she sinks into the hot water. He spares a quick glance in her direction —eyes darting over her back and the deep, uneven scars. Time had not changed them.
It's not long before Deimos joins her. Water laps at the sides of the tub and spills over onto the stone floor. He sits facing away —the muscles in his back tense. On his shoulder blade is a nasty bruise from Agis' club. Enyo presses the heel of her palm against the dark spot and rotates her hand in tight circles. He tries to stop the groan from leaving his lips, but the tension fades with her skillful ministrations.
Deimos shifts, stretching his legs as much as he can and leans back —head pillowed on her breast and hand holding onto her thigh. Enyo runs her fingertips up the scar on his side then drapes her arms across his chest and gives a long, content sigh.