LESYA ARRIVES AT the Sanctuary of Asklepius shortly after sunrise after stopping at a stream to scrub the blood from her hands and fade the fresh, dark stains on her pale grey chiton. She takes rest in the shade beneath a large oak near the heart of the Sanctuary as Kassandra had yet to arrive —or show herself.
Deimos dodges her blade but does not move to strike when the opening is created. They are toying with one another like this is a game. The snap of a switch pulls them away from what looked to be a well-rehearsed dance. "You both hesitated," Alektor announces, snapping the supple switch against the ground with a crack. He had seen it in both champions —a moment's hesitation could mean the difference between life and death in battle. The Cult could not afford to let hesitancy have a place within demigods. "Again," the trainer instructs.
Sweat beads down both Deimos and Enyo's foreheads under the hot sun. Their armor is discarded in a pile outside the chalked circle. She levels her sword, tracing his steps as he moves around her like a predator preparing to pounce. He lunges, sword slicing through the air like a viper strike. She spins out of range, then darts forward, flicking her blade upward —the tip cutting into Deimos' cheek. He stumbles back, lifting his fingers to his cheek to find them coated in blood. The distraction serves its purpose. Enyo uses his bent knee as leverage and leaps into the air —twisting as her legs enclose around his neck and shoulders.
They both hit hard in the dirt, but it is Enyo who has her knee against his chest and blade against his neck. Deimos looks up at her, panting —blood running down his cheek and back into his hair. "Good," Alektor praises with drawn-out applause. Enyo rises, tossing aside her blade and extends her hand —he wraps his fingers around her wrist and pushes off the ground. Alektor nods his approval and turns from the training grounds, leaving the champions to themselves for the evening.
He reclines against the cool stone wall when they return to the villa —ignoring the sweat stinging the fresh cut as he watches Enyo splash water on her face and neck. Wringing out the water of a rag, she goes to his side and scrubs away the blood on his neck and clinging to the stubble on his jaw. Deimos' lips twitch, tugging into a half-smile when he drags Enyo into his lap —hands lingering on her bare thighs. "Didn't mean to draw blood," she admits, noticing her blade had cut into his brow too as she dabs the drying blood away.
"I've had worse, you know," Deimos remarks. She laughs softly at that, the sound reverberating through her chest so that he could not only hear but feel it too. They had both had far worse than scratches. He thinks she is beautiful, skin still flushed from training with sunlight streaming through the window lattice. Her laughter combined with the sun across her skin and strands of hair framing her face —it makes him smile so genuinely that he is sure he must look a fool. But as she dips her head to press their lips together, fingers ghosting across his skin again, by Zeus, he could not care less.
WHEN SHE WAKES in the early afternoon, it is to the sound of a woman sobbing and pleading with the priests and priestesses for her sick baby. They claim the boy has passed on, but Enyo has seen how this story plays out time and time again. Priests lie, Chrysis claims another child and the Cult gains soldiers who endure a lifetime of torment.
Lesya rises, unsheathing one of the blades on her back and approaches the squabbling priests. "Let her see the child," she demands and does not have to speak again on the matter. The doors to the building open and the distraught mother races forward, lifting a squalling babe from the table and to her breast.
A swell of anguish rises inside her as she looks upon the mother and child, but it is all consumed by a bitter emptiness. They took everything from me. Lesya closes her eyes and remembers the pain and the blood. The room had been dark, lit by a single brazier. A group of masked figures surrounded the stool. Only the twisted physician did not cover his face. Chrysis' laugh had been unmistakable when they tore out her womb —it was the final step to become the Cult's Champion. For a second time, Deimos had found her lying unmoving in a puddle of blood. He had carried her from the antechamber and refused to leave her side until the next full moon over a fortnight later.
She recognizes the physician though he does not know her. "Hippokrates?" Lesya queries, stepping up to the table where there is an array of herbs and oils. He does not frequent the sanctuary often as many consider his methodologies impious, but it is a quicker journey here than to Argos for the assortment of herbs he needs to continue treating patients near the Cave of Pan.
The physician turns —eyes quickly skimming over the woman though he finds no indication of sickness or injury. "What ails you?" He asks.
Lesya thinks about the mother and child and knows this is folly. "I," she starts but then shakes her head, "it's nothing."
Hippokrates has heard rumors from the soldiers he's treated of a demigoddess who bears an eerie resemblance to the woman before him —copper hair and laurel eyes and something harsh and cold in her expression. He is certain this is Enyo, a weapon for the Cult of Kosmos.
But now, her expression is softened, filled with pain and longing. The physician looks over his shoulder, following her gaze to a mother and child. "They took your choice," he surmises and Lesya nods, swallowing the lump in her throat. "I know what you seek," Hippokrates tells her, "but I cannot help you nor can any other physician." What was done could not be undone unless by the hand of Asklepius and Eileithyia.
KASSANDRA DISPELLS WHAT she has learned from Hippokrates and the priests in the sanctuary upon finding Lesya wandering about the Epidauros sanctuary temple at dusk. Everything brings her to a single conclusion. The priestess, Chrysis, had lied to Myrrine that night about her son's death and taken Alexios as her own —turning him into Deimos, a weapon. "You must know something, Lesya," the Eagle Bearer pleads, remembering she had mentioned the old priestess before.
She looks at her hands —Midas' blood still stains her nails. It has been many years since Chrysis had brought her children to Argos, but the path through the forest is ingrained in her memory. "There's a temple on Mount Kynortion near the Altar of Apollo Maleatas," Lesya announces, "she takes the children there." Kassandra nods, clasping Lesya on the shoulder in thanks. They have work to do before the sun rises.
Splayed out on the altar is a dead eagle —a warning. Ikaros lands on the feet of Apollo, staring down at his butchered kin before taking to the skies again. In the still air, both Lesya and Kassandra can hear the piercing cries of a child. The Temple. Lesya motions for the Eagle Bearer to follow —they both creep through the underbrush, keeping low and out of sight.
Before the small temple are two Cult guardians and within is the child. Kass frees the curved bow on her back and nocks an arrow, aiming at the man furthest from their position. Lesya keeps her attention focused on the other. The arrow sails through the air, finding its mark in the neck of the guardian, a second later Lesya bursts from the underbrush —dual blades moving in a fury. She straightens, and the severed head of the last guard rolls off his shoulders to the ground. Each of them had fallen without a sound.
Kassandra kicks open the doors to the temple. The air is heavy the scent of herbs and myrrh and lying on the altar is a babe crying for its mother. Chrysis stands above the child —knife in hand— when her gaze is drawn to Deimos' sister and her child. "Killing seems to run in your bloodline, oh mighty Eagle Bearer," the old crone rasps.
The misthios takes another step into the small temple, but Lesya is rooted in at the doors —frozen with ire. Her feet are only spurred into motion by a burst of flames licking at her skin. Chrysis flees, leaving the child to perish in the fire. Kass scoops up the baby and Lesya bounds through the heat, seizing the knife the priestess had wielded —she is not yet out of sight, out of range. Lesya rears her arm back, launching the short dagger into the air. It catches Chrysis' calf and sends her headlong into the dirt. "Is this how you repay me for what I made you?" Chrysis screeches, but it turns into a sharp scream when Lesya twists the blade, pulling it free from bone and muscle.
The Eagle Bearer stands over Chrysis now too, but her gaze is focused on Lesya. There is dark hatred and hunger glinting in her green eyes mirroring how she'd looked after slitting Leandros' neck in Athens. This is the woman who caused so much pain for her and Deimos —the monster who stole children from families and tormented them until they died or were turned into a hollow shell. The Eagle Bearer steps aside, keeping her sandal on Chrysis' torso should the old priestess try running from her fate. "You deserve this more than I do," she notes and Lesya nods, fingers curling around the bloody hilt of the knife.
The old crone laughs at her lost child —trying so hard to become something she isn't. "Even though you try running from it, you can't. You're a killer," Chrysis hisses, "that's what I made you." Lesya's face twists in anger as she crouches down. Shame Deimos can't be here to see you die. "You can use a spear as a walking stick but that does not change its nat–" Chrysis' words are cut off with a spray of blood.