Chapter 15: Vassals

"The seal on the blade. The mark of the Archon..."

The fire crackled gently, its amber light flickering across Perseus's features, casting sharp shadows along his jawline. His expression was carved in stone, eyes fixed on the dancing flames as if searching for answers within their chaos.

The air around him was still heavy with the weight of unspoken thoughts. Zoë sat nearby, her knees drawn up, her hands resting lightly atop them. Her gaze lingered on Perseus, her dark eyes searching his face for a hint of his inner thoughts, but he remained inscrutable.

Prometheus stood a short distance away, his tall frame silhouetted against the towering trees that encircled their camp. His arms were crossed, his expression pensive as though each crackle of the fire was a whisper of the revelations he had unearthed.

The night around them was unnaturally quiet, as if the forest itself held its breath, listening to the words that had yet to be spoken. "Your Grace—"

"Tell me what it doth mean; what they seek—what she desireth." The god's tone was measured, but there was an edge to it—a demand for answers.

Prometheus stepped closer to the fire, the flames catching the sharp lines of his face. He bent slightly, his fingers brushing against the blade resting at Perseus's side.

"'Tis," he said, tracing the spiraling sigil etched into the celestial bronze, "the sigil of Order's fealty."

He glanced up at Perseus, his brow furrowed deeply. "'Tis the mark of those who serve beneath her light."

"Serve beneath her light?" Zoë tilted her head, her dark braid slipping over her shoulder. "What doth that signify?"

The Titan of Foresight straightened, his face grim. "The devote. The faithful. 'They who doth good.' The swords of the virtuous."

"The Acolytes of Light".

The name hung in the air like a blade poised to strike. Zoë's brow furrowed as she repeated it, the words foreign yet heavy with meaning. "Acolytes of Light?"

"They art more than a mere alliance, Your Grace," Prometheus explained, his tone darkening. "'Tis an empire. Gods, Titans, monsters, even mortals—all march beneath their banner. Olympus doth serve them, with Zeus and Hera guiding the flock. Outcast Titans, such as Selene, lend their strength to its cause. Monsters like Echidna and her brood are forced into service."

"And mortals..." His voice dipped, laced with disdain. "Entire kingdoms hast been consumed."

Zoë's expression darkened as she absorbed his words. "Consumed? In what manner?"

Prometheus turned his gaze to her, his expression somber. "Naxos standeth as the clearest example," he said. "The Acolytes hast wrought it into a stronghold of their doctrine. Mortals revere the light as divine and uphold its will with cruelty and fervent zeal."

"Torture..."

"Rape..."

"Murder." He watched as her eyes sunk back with each description.

To him, this was common knowledge, but to her, she was a recently escaped bird from her cage. She was far too innocent and inexperienced to fly away from them just yet.

"Slavery doth flourish beneath their rule, and their grasp spreadeth unchecked. To the untrained eye, it seemeth a paradise—streets kept clean, harvests plentiful, and folk devout in their piety. Yet beneath the surface doth rot fester. The people remain blind to the price of their prosperity." The titan finished.

Zoë's jaw tightened. "And the cost is paid in blood," she murmured.

Perseus's gaze never left the fire. The light reflected in his void-like eyes, making them seem even deeper and more unfathomable. "An abomination spreading throughout the realm," he said softly, his voice tinged with quiet menace.

Those eyes of his began to churn; their bright pull almost seemed to take hold of the dancing flames at their feet. His heart ached, and his chest pumped with an unknown lust. Why did it so? Why did his teeth clench and his fists swell?

What putrid wreck had his creations succumbed to? "No being, be they mortal or immortal, dare lay hand upon the realm mine mother hath wrought. We must purge this... disease."

Prometheus nodded gravely. "Aye. Yet their might is great, and their faith unwavering. They shall not fall with ease."

A long silence settled over the camp, the fire's crackling the only sound. Zoë shifted uncomfortably, glancing between Perseus and Prometheus. Her hesitation was palpable before she finally ventured, "And what of Order? Sister to Chaos... What doth this portend for us? For thee?"

Prometheus stiffened slightly, his eyes darting toward Perseus. He cleared his throat before speaking, his tone cautious. "A truth I had not known," he admitted. "Her grasp upon Olympus is great, yet if she be truly the sister of Chaos..."

Zoë turned her full attention to Perseus, her gaze softening slightly. "Thou hast spoken but little of this revelation," she observed, her voice quieter now, almost hesitant.

Perseus's head turned slightly, his gaze meeting hers. His expression was unreadable, his eyes as still and deep as the void.

"Because it altereth naught," he said firmly, his tone carrying a finality that brooked no argument. "Though she be kin to mine own mother, my gaze remaineth fixed upon the offenders before me—upon their ruin—their destruction."

Zoë blinked, her surprise evident. She opened her mouth to respond, but Prometheus stepped forward, his voice cautious. "Even so, Your Grace, 'tis a truth worth reckoning with. If—"

"No," Perseus interrupted sharply, his voice cold and cutting. "I reckon with that which standeth before me."

Prometheus hesitated, his expression conflicted. He had not expected his king to approach such matters in this way. It was terrifying in a sense—to incur the wrath of the Prince of the Cosmos was to ask for death's most vile punishment.

Perseus rose from the ground, the sword of this hostile cult in his hand. The firelight cast his shadow long and foreboding against the forest floor. His presence seemed to fill the clearing, a quiet intensity radiating from him.

"Corruption? Slavery?" A dark black mist coiled upward, tendrils of shadow snaking across the celestial bronze blade. "They belong not in mine own cosmos. I shall cast these Acolytes into the void."

The mist pulsed as though alive, growing denser with every second, devouring the light of the fire's reflection. Once radiant and proud, the sigil of the Archon flickered erratically as cracks began to spiderweb across its surface.

Prometheus took an uneasy step back, his eyes fixed on the blade, understanding dawning on his face. "Your Grace..." he murmured, his voice almost an alarm. But Perseus did not respond. His gaze was locked on the blade, and his grip tightened, his knuckles whitening.

The cracks deepened.

A sound like distant thunder rumbled through the air as the sigil fractured completely, a jagged line splitting its once-perfect design. The celestial bronze groaned under an unseen pressure, the mist consuming it inch by inch as if suffocating the light.

And then, with a sharp, resonant crack, the blade shattered.

The fragments exploded outward, glowing briefly before dimming into lifeless shards that fell to the ground with dull clinks. A wave of shadow burst from the broken weapon, extinguishing the fire in an instant.

The clearing was plunged into darkness, lit only by the faint, otherworldly glow of Perseus's void-like eyes.

The mist did not dissipate. It swirled around Perseus, clinging to him like a mantle of shadow, a declaration of his power and intent.

Zoë shuddered, her breath catching in her throat as she watched the scene unfold. The tension in the air was almost suffocating, the sheer weight of Perseus's presence filling the space like a storm about to break.

Prometheus, for all his millennia of existence, looked shaken. His gaze darted between the fallen shards of celestial bronze and the cracks that had spread across the Archon's sigil. Though not entirely broken, the seal had been damaged in a way that no mortal or god had dared to attempt.

"The Archon's mark..." Zoë began, her voice unsteady.

The cracks in the seal and the darkness that had poured forth felt like an omen of something far greater, something terrifying.

Perseus's voice cut through her thoughts, cold and deliberate. "Their light doth thrive upon weakness, preying upon fear. It devoureth without restraint. But the void..."

His eyes swept over the clearing, landing on Prometheus and Zoë in turn. The mist swirling around him seemed to writhe, feeding off his very presence.

"The void swalloweth the light. The void consumeth all."

Zoë stepped forward cautiously, her hands trembling slightly at her sides. Despite her hesitance, her voice held firm. "Perseus, what dost thou speak?"

"I say unto thee," he spoke, his voice growing darker, "I shall not merely battle them—I shall unmake them. Their fire shall wither, their faith shall fall to ruin. I am become the void."

Prometheus, who had stood rigid and watchful, finally stepped closer. His unease gave way to a grim determination as he straightened his posture. "And what then shall we become, Your Grace?" His voice was cautious, yet there was a flicker of understanding in his eyes.

The primordial turned his gaze to the horizon, where the faint glow of dawn threatened to break through the canopy of trees. But the light seemed insignificant, frail against the encroaching shadow.

"The Descent," he declared.

His voice dropped to a quiet intensity, each word laced with finality. "A pact forged in shadow, bound by naught but purpose. It shall not bend, nor shall it break. It shall devour their fire until naught remaineth."

"We shall drag them down from the heavens."

Prometheus did not hesitate. With deliberate motion, he stepped forward and dropped to one knee before Perseus, his head bowed in reverence. The titan's voice was steady, resonant with conviction. "Then I pledge myself to this covenant. To the Descent. To thee, my king."

But the titan did not stop there. Prometheus, ever the harbinger of foresight, placed his hand over his heart and raised his other palm toward Perseus, offering his loyalty and something far deeper.

"Taketh mine own mind, Your Grace," he said solemnly. "Let mine own thoughts be thine, mine own knowledge thy weapon, and mine foresight thy shield. Let mine existence be naught but an extension of thy will."

Perseus regarded him in silence for a moment, his void-like eyes unreadable. The mist around him seemed to glow as if acknowledging the titan's vow.

At last, he spoke, his voice steady and cold. "Thy mind, Prometheus, is a gift most precious. I accept thy pledge. Rise as mine own servant, mine ally, and mine sword."

Prometheus inclined his head slightly, his expression unchanging, yet his eyes gleamed with renewed purpose. His right arm crossed his chest as two fingers on his left hand curled to his forehead.

"Heed me, O Lord."

Zoë hesitated. The weight of the moment pressed down on her, the sheer gravity of what Perseus was becoming, of what they were stepping into. She looked at him, his form wreathed in the midst of the void, and saw something both awe-inspiring and terrifying.

The firelight had long since been extinguished, but the darkness surrounding him was alive, a force all its own.

This person in front of her was not Perseus. It was something far more divine than her normal visage of him. This was a prince.

Royalty.

A god beyond gods.

And she wanted to see more.

Her arms twitched at her side, and her mind wandered—unbidden—to memories of the garden. Days spent beneath the golden boughs of the Hesperides, her sisters laughing, the cool scent of the sea carried on the breeze. She had been safe then, sheltered.

A defenseless maiden, a victim of her heroes.

But that wasn't who she was anymore.

Her breath quickened as she stood there, her heart racing. Those days in the garden were over—the golden boughs of the garden. The laughter of her sisters. The scent of the sea breeze. All of it; those days had been beautiful but hollow, a cage draped in splendor.

The ex-Hesperide's fingers trembled as they moved to her hair, brushing over the celestial bronze hairclip that had once seemed so insignificant. Now, as she unclasped it, each motion felt deliberate, symbolic. The soft waves of her hair tumbled free, cascading over her shoulders as if releasing the last vestiges of her past.

This small act was more than the removal of a simple adornment. It was a shedding of who she had been—a defenseless girl hiding behind others' strength. With each step she took toward Perseus, she felt the weight of her old self falling away, leaving only resolve in its place.

The hairclip began to shift in her hands, its shape reforming into the celestial bronze blade Anaklusmos. The weapon glimmered faintly in the dim light, its edge sharp and unyielding. Zoë tightened her grip, her resolve hardening with each passing second.

Stepping forward, her movement was steady and purposeful. If she had once sought safety, she now sought freedom—not just for herself, but for those who stood beside her. And she would begin by freeing Perseus from the burdens he carried alone.

She knelt before the Prince of the Cosmos, her gaze fixed firmly on his. Her voice, when she spoke, carried the weight of her resolve.

"My lord," she began, holding the blade across her palms and offering it to him, "thou shalt carry burdens too many and for too long. Let this blade serve as a token that thou needst not bear them alone."

Perseus's void-like eyes locked onto hers, his expression unreadable. The dancing mist around him seemed to calm as if listening.

Zoë's voice grew steadier, stronger. "Once, I was weak, hidden behind walls of gold and the shelter of others. Yet in our journey, thou hast given me more than all mine immortal youth e'er did grant, and I shall prove that thou wert not mistaken in so doing."

Her grip on the blade tightened briefly before extending it to him. "One day, I shall show thee that thou mayst rely upon me as well."

For a long moment, Perseus stared at her, the weight of her words settling over them like a shroud. Slowly, he reached out, his fingers brushing against the hilt of the blade. The celestial bronze seemed to shimmer under his touch, the mist around him curling as if in deference to the weapon.

"Zoë," he said, at last, his voice quiet but resonant. "Thou offerest me more than a mere blade. Thou dost offer me trust, strength, and loyalty. This I shall accept, not as a token of thy service, but as a vow—an oath of ascension."

He took the blade from her hands, his movements deliberate, almost reverent. The sword felt both familiar and foreign in his grip, its perfectly balanced weight a reminder of the battles yet to come.

Zoë inclined her head, her gaze steady. "Thou mayst rely upon me," she said softly. "And one day, thou shalt behold it beyond all doubt."

Knelt beside Prometheus, her right arm crossed her chest as two fingers on her left hand curled to her forehead.

The nymph's voice was quiet but unyielding as she spoke the words that sealed her fealty.

"Heed me, O Lord."

The streets of Naxos were paved in gold—or so they seemed to those who had never looked past the surface. To the blind, the city was a beacon of prosperity, where alabaster buildings gleamed beneath the noonday sun, and golden wine flowed as freely as the laughter of the noble elite.

It was a paradise sculpted in marble and bathed in the light of the Allmother, her statues standing at every crossroad, arms stretched in benevolent grace.

But Phoebe knew better.

She walked with her head bowed, her arms wrapped around a bundle of silk meant for her master. Her ginger hair, dull and tangled, clung to her neck in the humid air. Dirt smudged her freckled cheeks, and the bruises hidden beneath her tunic pulsed with each careful step. She dared not slow.

Behind her, her master strolled leisurely, a picture of noble elegance. His dark robes, lined with golden embroidery, trailed slightly with each measured step, his gilded sandals clicking against the pristine stone road. He did not need to look at her. Phoebe was his shadow, a creature bound by leash and command.

A sharp tug at the back of her tunic nearly sent her stumbling.

"Move with haste," her master murmured, his voice smooth, almost amused.

But Phoebe knew better than to mistake that for kindness. "Aye, my lord," she whispered, quickening her pace.

The city was alive with activity. Merchants called out in smooth, honeyed voices, their carts overflowing with ripe figs, golden jewelry, and bolts of silk dyed in rich hues. The nobles lounged under shaded awnings, fanning themselves languidly while temple priests spread their arms in practiced blessings, proclaiming the virtues of the Allmother.

A passerby might have thought the city divine. But Phoebe saw the truth.

In the alleyways, away from the shining plazas, shadows festered. The forgotten gathered in silence—slaves and beggars alike, their skin stretched thin over bones, their eyes vacant. A man no older than twenty struggled to lift a sack twice his size, his arms trembling as he bore the weight meant for beasts of burden. A child, ribs visible through torn rags, pressed against a cold wall, her eyes downcast.

Phoebe's stomach twisted, but she did not linger. A sharp smack landed against the back of her head. "Cast thine eyes downward, girl," her master hissed.

The slave girl nodded quickly, her jaw tightening. She had seen too much. She always saw too much.

A commotion ahead forced her to slow. A group of nobles had gathered in the street, murmuring in hushed tones as a trio of women walked through the market square. Their silken gowns, dyed in the colors of the royal house, caught the sunlight as they moved.

Princess Roheo led them, her posture stiff and commanding. Her dark eyes, sharp as a falcon's, scanned the streets as if searching for threats among her people. She carried herself like a warrior dressed in finery, a woman who had long since learned that power was both armor and weapon.

Beside her, Princess Molpadia stood with arms crossed, her expression one of clear impatience. She tapped the edge of her sandal against the stone road, her brown curls swaying slightly as she glanced at her elder sister with undisguised frustration.

Lingering slightly behind them, Princess Parthenos had her hands clasped in front of her. Her soft features carried none of the sharpness of her sisters. Her wide, brown eyes flickered across the marketplace, filled with a hesitant curiosity, as if she were searching for something beautiful in a city that had little to give.

Phoebe kept her gaze low, willing herself to disappear.

But in her moment of distraction, she failed to see the stone in her path. Her foot caught against it, and she tumbled forward. The bundle of silk fell from her grasp, landing at the feet of the princesses.

The marketplace fell into a hushed stillness.

Phoebe's heart thundered in her chest. She scrambled forward, reaching for the bundle with trembling fingers, but a soft hand beat her to it before she could grasp it.

Parthenos. The youngest princess bent down, lifting the fabric carefully. She brushed the dust from the silk with delicate fingers, her expression unreadable. "Thou shouldst take greater care," she murmured, extending it toward the slave girl.

Phoebe hesitated, her hand hovering just above the bundle. But before she could take it, an iron grip closed around her wrist. Her master.

"Forgive her, my ladies," he said smoothly, his nails pressing into Phoebe's skin. "She doth forget her place."

Phoebe bit back a wince.

Roheo's gaze flickered between Phoebe and her master. Her umber brown eyes lingered for a breath too long before she turned away.

"See to it that she doth not forget again. Wretches such as this should not draw near a princess," she said coolly.

Molpadia scoffed, stepping back as if the very presence of Phoebe offended her. "Were she mine, I would hast left her in the pits."

Parthenos's frown deepened. "Sister—"

"Come," Roheo interrupted, already moving.

The moment they disappeared into the crowd, Phoebe's master yanked her sharply to the side, his fingers biting into her arm as he dragged her toward the shadows of an empty alleyway.

She barely had time to breathe before the first blow landed. Pain burst across her chest, sending her stumbling backward. A second strike came, aimed at her ribs, knocking the air from her lungs.

"Thou humiliated me," her master murmured, his voice devoid of its usual honeyed tone. He knelt beside her, his breath warm against her ear. "Thou art a slow learner. Err once more, and I shall personally see thee cast into the nearest furnace."

Phoebe remained curled on the ground, biting back the whimper that threatened to escape. The stones beneath her felt cool against her burning skin.

Her master stood, brushing imaginary dust from his robes. "Come," he said, his tone returning to something casual, almost bored. "We have yet matters to tend to."

Phoebe pushed herself upright, her limbs shaking. She swallowed past the metallic taste of blood in her mouth and stumbled after him. The streets continued as if nothing had happened.

Because in Naxos, nothing had.

Phoebe followed, her steps unsteady, her vision swimming as the sharp ache in her ribs pulsed with each breath. The sting of humiliation clung to her skin as she wove through the bustling streets in her master's shadow, head bowed, shoulders hunched.

The world did not slow for her suffering—merchants continued their calls, nobles laughed over golden goblets, and the faithful knelt at the feet of the Allmother's statues, whispering prayers of gratitude.

No one spared a glance at the girl bleeding in the dirt mere moments ago.

The scent of roasted meat and spiced wine, mixed with the gutters' acrid stench, turned her stomach as they passed the outskirts of the market square. Here, the crowds thinned, giving way to more discreet dealings. The air grew heavier, thick with the scent of incense, masking something far less pleasant underneath.

The package awaited them at the edge of the market, in the hands of a merchant dressed in deep crimson robes. His fingers drummed lazily against the wooden crate beside him, his expression unreadable beneath the golden mask that obscured half his face.

"Ser Thorn, ever punctual, as always," the merchant said smoothly, nodding toward Phoebe's master.

Her master chuckled, his hand settling lightly on her shoulder. To any observer, it might have looked like a gesture of reassurance. "Thou knowest me well," he mused, "I do prefer mine investments delivered without delay."

Phoebe stood still as the merchant's gaze swept over her. She did not shiver, did not flinch, though she felt his scrutiny like the tip of a blade against her throat.

"Thy payment is secured," the merchant continued, tapping the crate. "As per the Gentle Sun's decree, it shall be sent unto the palace within the hour."

Phoebe's master hummed in approval. "King Staphylus shall be pleased."

The merchant's lips curled into something too knowing. "Pleased... or pliable?"

A chuckle passed between the two men, low and amused. Phoebe kept her eyes fixed on the ground, pretending not to listen.

"This," her master murmured, placing a hand atop the wooden lid of the package, "shall ensure his devotion remaineth... unyielding."

Phoebe did not need to know what was inside. She already understood. Her master's grip tightened on her shoulder, a silent command.

"Taketh it, girl," he ordered, his voice deceptively gentle.

Phoebe stepped forward and reached for the package, lifting it carefully into her arms. The weight of it settled into her bones. She could not explain why, but something deep within her whispered that this package was important. That this moment, this exchange, would be the catalyst for something far beyond her understanding.

She glanced, just once, at the grand palace in the distance. The golden walls gleamed beneath the sun.

A gilded cage. And within it, a king shackled by wine, by whispers, by something unseen.

Phoebe swallowed. And she walked.

The streets of Naxos stretched endlessly before her, the sun casting long shadows against the pristine marble. Every step she took felt heavier, as if something unseen coiled around her ankles, dragging her deeper into the city's gilded rot.

She could still hear the merchant's voice, smooth and knowing, still feel the package pressing against her arms, a silent reminder of the burden she carried—not just in clay and liquid, but in something more insidious.

The palace loomed in the distance, untouched, unbothered. The heart of Naxos beat steadily behind its walls, but it was a slow, drugged pulse, dulled by wine and words whispered in the dark.

She turned away.

The manor loomed before her like a beast with its jaws parted wide. Massive columns lined the entrance, carved with intricate images of Lady Order bestowing her blessings upon the devoted. The golden doors gleamed, reflecting the afternoon sun in a dazzling display meant to blind outsiders to the truth lurking within.

Phoebe stepped across the threshold, her limbs trembling beneath the weight of exhaustion. The moment she and her master had returned, she had been ordered to carry the package—its weight far greater than she expected—to the storeroom. The amphorae inside sloshed quietly with each step, a thick liquid shifting against the clay.

The hallways swallowed her whole.

Inside, the air smelled of incense, thick and cloying, clinging to the walls like a veil. It was meant to disguise the other, less pleasant scents—the metallic tang of blood, the stale musk of unwashed bodies.

Statues of the Allmother lined the corridors, their faces carved with an expression of soft serenity. But Phoebe knew better. They were not symbols of peace. They were watching.

She passed by several slaves in the corridor, their eyes empty, their heads bowed so low their chins nearly touched their chests.

One of them, a boy barely older than her, limped heavily as he carried a tray of steaming dishes. His hands shook. His fingers—what remained of them—gripped the metal plate precariously. Two were missing entirely, the stumps wrapped hastily in dirty bandages.

Phoebe swallowed thickly and hurried on.

She reached the storeroom, slipping inside and closing the door behind her. The package weighed heavily in her arms. As carefully as she could, she set it down. Her fingers brushed the clay amphorae inside, smooth and cool. A shiver ran down her spine.

This was meant for the king. A king too drunk to think, too dazed to notice his own strings being pulled.

Phoebe turned to leave, eager to escape the suffocating air. But then—voices.

She froze.

Low, hushed tones slithered through the cracks of the wooden door. Her master's voice was unmistakable, that familiar, honeyed cadence dripping with amusement.

"The faithful grow ever more fervent with each passing day," he murmured. "Their thirst is unquenchable. The day of prophecy, foretold by Lady Order, draweth nigh—speaking of this foreign godling."

A second voice answered, rough and rasping. "And the girl?"

Phoebe's stomach clenched. Her hands reached out to cover her mouth, forcing herself not to spill the very little she had in her gut.

"She is nigh seventeen years of mortal age, perfectly ripe," Her master gave a quiet chuckle. "Her beauty alone would fetch a high price, yet her spirit... ah, 'tis that which maketh her truly precious. The faithful shall take great pleasure in breaking her."

The world tilted. Phoebe barely registered the rest of their conversation. Her pulse roared in her ears, drowning out every sound but the hammering of her own heart. Her breaths came fast, uneven, sharp gasps of air that did little to ease the tightening in her chest.

She had to escape. Now.

But as she turned, her foot brushed against a loose floorboard. A sharp creak split the silence.

The voices outside went still. Phoebe's breath caught. Then—the scrape of a chair against stone. Footsteps.

"Who goeth there?" her master's voice was sharper now, all pretense of warmth gone.

The door slammed open before she could move. Her master stood in the doorway, his mismatching brown and blue eyes cold, piercing.

"I see," he murmured, stepping inside. The flickering torchlight cast long shadows across his face, sharpening the angles of his jaw and his cheekbones.

He was smiling. But there was no mirth in it. "Curiosity is a perilous thing, little one. Some might even say it be more cruel than the very monsters of the pit."

Phoebe ran. Or she tried. A hand shot out, fingers clamping down on her wrist like a vice.

She was yanked back, her body colliding with the stone floor. The impact sent a sharp burst of pain through her bones, stealing the breath from her lungs.

Her master crouched beside her, his expression unreadable.

"I should carve out thy tongue as I did with the others," he mused, voice soft, almost thoughtful. His fingers trailed along her jaw, tilting her chin upward as though examining something precious. "But nay... thou art far too valuable for such a fate. My... friends may well take pleasure in doing so themselves."

The first blow came swift, precise. Firelike pain scorched inside her frail body.

Then another.

And another.

Phoebe curled in on herself, arms wrapping around her head in a desperate attempt to shield herself. It didn't matter. The kicks came brutal and unrelenting, striking her ribs, her stomach, and her legs.

She could hear her own breath rattling in her chest. Her master did not touch her face.

He never touched her face.

"The faithful," he murmured between blows, "shall take their time with thee. Piece by piece, leaving naught untouched, until there remaineth nothing of thee."

She did not scream. She could not. The pain was too much.

The world swam, her vision blurring at the edges. She was vaguely aware of movement—two pairs of hands grasping her arms, dragging her away. She did not resist. She couldn't.

Somewhere in the distance, a voice whispered a hurried prayer to the Allmother.

The irony nearly made her laugh.

Or perhaps it was hysteria creeping in at the edges of her fraying consciousness. It didn't matter, nothing did.

Her body swayed limply as she was dragged through the manor's corridors, her bare feet skimming over polished marble, leaving faint smears of blood in their wake. She could hear the muffled conversations of nobles beyond the walls—laughter, the clinking of goblets, the soft murmur of prayers spoken with reverence. Their world remained untouched, pristine.

No one saw her. No one cared.

The hands gripping her arms were neither cruel nor gentle, only efficient. The nameless slaves who carried her did not meet her gaze, their faces locked in the same vacant resignation she had seen a hundred times before.

They did not speak to her. They did not acknowledge her pain. She was nothing.

Her mouth struggled to part, her lips cracked and bleeding. "H-help me..." She managed out.

The grand halls faded into darkness as they turned a corner, the cool air thickening with the stench of damp rot and filth. The marble beneath her feet gave way to uneven stone, then to packed dirt. A door creaked open. The scent of horses and stale hay engulfed her senses, suffocating her.

She barely registered the jolt of her body hitting the ground. The hands let go. A moment later, the heavy door groaned shut, sealing her away from the golden light of the world above.

The scent of damp hay and blood clung thick in the air, settling in her lungs like a sickness. Phoebe lay motionless on the cold ground, her body curled in on itself as the pain in her ribs pulsed with each shallow breath. The floor beneath her was rough, coarse with scattered straw, but her nerves had gone numb beneath the constant ache.

She barely remembered being brought here—only flashes of movement, the firm grip of calloused hands hauling her through the halls, the distant murmur of voices too indistinct to understand. They had dropped her onto the stable floor without ceremony, the door slamming shut behind them.

For a long while, she did not move.

Her body trembled with exhaustion, every muscle bruised and raw. Even blinking felt like a battle, the heaviness in her limbs anchoring her to the filth of the stables. Somewhere in the shadows, a horse snorted, shifting its hooves against the wooden stall.

Phoebe's mind swam in a haze of pain and memory. Her master's words echoed through her skull, low and measured as if he were discussing nothing more than the price of a ripe fig.

The faithful will relish breaking her? Her stomach churned, bile rising in her throat.

She would not live to see another week. That much was clear. The moment she was handed over to those devout monsters, there would be nothing left of her but tattered flesh and silenced screams.

A sharp, rattling breath escaped her lips. She closed her eyes, trying—failing—to summon the face of her father. But it had always been like this. She could never quite picture him, only fragments of an image blurred by time.

But the eyes—his eyes—she could still see.

Teal-blue. Vivid. A shade unlike anything else she had ever known.

The memory of them stirred something deep within her, an ember buried beneath the weight of suffering. It flickered, weak and fragile, yet refusing to be snuffed out.

Warmth spread through her chest, faint at first. Then stronger.

Her fingers twitched. She felt it—an odd sensation, like liquid fire pooling beneath her skin, humming through her veins. Her breath hitched as an unfamiliar glow curled around her hands, dim but steady, illuminating the filth-stained skin of her palms.

The bruises along her ribs dulled, the sharpest edges of pain retreating into something softer, more bearable. Her wounds did not close entirely, but the agony ebbed just enough for her to move.

The light faded. Phoebe stared at her hands, her breath unsteady. What had she done? What was that?

She had no answers. Only the certainty of one thing. She had to leave.

Now.

With great effort, she pushed herself upright, biting back a groan as her ribs protested. Her vision swam, dark spots creeping at the edges, but she swallowed her pain and forced her legs beneath her. She wavered for a moment before steadying herself against the wooden stall.

The stables were empty save for the restless horses, their large, vacant eyes watching her in eerie silence. She stumbled toward the entrance, each step sending a dull throb through her battered limbs. The night greeted her with an unnatural stillness.

The golden glow of Naxos stretched before her, lanterns lining the streets like scattered stars. To any outsider, the city would seem peaceful, draped in wealth and splendor. But Phoebe knew better.

She had seen the truth beneath the gold. Keeping to the shadows, she moved swiftly, her bare feet silent against the cool stone. She avoided the main roads, slipping between alleys and side paths, ducking behind stacked crates and abandoned carts whenever footsteps neared.

Her breath came shallow; each inhale laced with the phantom taste of copper and decay. Every heartbeat pounded like a war drum against her ribs, warning her—run, hide, disappear. But there was nowhere to go.

The city loomed around her, its beauty a deception, its towering statues of the Allmother whispering silent prayers of salvation to a god who the slave girl believed abandoned it.

The streets had quieted. The distant echoes of laughter and clinking goblets faded into something more sinister—shuffling footsteps behind closed doors, hushed voices in alleyways, the scuttling of unseen things in the shadows.

She kept her head down, her gaze flickering to the noble gardens ahead. The scent of ripe pomegranates and evening-blooming jasmine thickened the air, cloying and oppressive. The warm light spilling from marble archways turned the world into something dreamlike.

But the dream was rotting from within.

The scent hit her before she saw it.

Not the spice of wine or the floral decadence of Naxos, but something rancid. Foul. A stench so thick it coated the back of her throat like oil, clinging to her skin, burrowing into her very being.

Phoebe froze. Every instinct in her body screamed at her to turn away, to flee into the safety of ignorance. But there was no other path. No safety left.

She pressed forward.

And then—she saw it.

Beyond the golden archways, where the façade of Naxos ended and the truth began, a mound loomed against the darkness. At first, it was shapeless, an amorphous heap of something discarded. Maybe rubble. Maybe broken goods from the marketplace. Maybe—

But as she crept closer, the shapes became clearer.

Limbs.

Faces.

Bodies.

Phoebe's breath hitched in her throat, a silent sob threatening to claw its way out. It was not rubble. It was not market waste.

It was a mountain of corpses.

Slaves. The discarded, the forgotten. Their bodies twisted and contorted in unnatural ways, stacked atop one another like spoiled fruit left to rot in the sun. Some were fresh, their skin still clinging to the illusion of warmth.

Others had begun to bloat, their flesh dark and splitting, their mouths open in silent screams. The sickly-sweet stench of decomposition choked the air, filling her lungs with death itself.

Phoebe's stomach lurched violently. She gagged, pressing both hands over her mouth to stifle the sound. Her knees threatened to buckle, but she couldn't fall here. She couldn't let the filth of this place consume her.

But there was no way out.

The gates were locked. The walls of Naxos stood tall, unscalable, unyielding. The only way forward was through. Through the dead.

Tears blurred her vision, but she forced herself to step forward. Her foot sank into something too soft. A wet squelch followed, the sound burrowing into her bones. She bit down on her lip so hard she tasted blood, willing herself to move.

"I am sorry. I am so very sorry," the ginger-haired girl cried softly as she moved.

A bony hand brushed against her ankle. She nearly screamed. It was small. A child's. Their fingers curled in the dirt as if still reaching for something—someone. The rest of their body was buried beneath the heap, nothing but that tiny outstretched hand left to be seen.

Phoebe's breath came in ragged, uneven gasps. Her vision swam. She wanted to stop, to collapse, to curl into herself and let the darkness swallow her whole.

But she had no choice.

She climbed.

Her hands grasped at whatever she could—torn fabric, brittle ribs, the slimy remnants of flesh. The bodies shifted beneath her, sinking, threatening to pull her down into their embrace. The scent of death invaded her every sense, coating her tongue and seeping into her skin.

"I am sorry. I am sorry. I am sorry. I am sorry..." She continued between breaths.

Wincing at the sight of a young girl's face caused her to slip. Her fingers scraped against something jagged—a shattered rib protruding from decayed flesh. A sob tore from her throat, but she bit it back, swallowing it down like gall.

And she climbed.

She did not know how long it took. Minutes? Hours? It could have been an eternity. By the time she reached the top, her arms burned, her legs shook, and her lungs heaved against the weight of exhaustion and filth.

Phoebe collapsed onto the other side.

The ground was cold, blessedly cold. Not warm like the bodies behind her. Not cloying with the stink of rot. The grass was damp with dew, and she pressed her forehead against it, her body trembling with something beyond exhaustion—something primal, something broken.

She turned her head, just once, to look back. "I am sorry... I am so very sorry."

The golden lights of Naxos flickered in the distance, their false divinity undisturbed. Behind her, the mountain of the dead remained unmoving, silent in its condemnation.

Her master was still inside. The nobles still feasted. The slaves still suffered.

But she—she was no longer one of them. Phoebe rolled onto her hands and knees, forcing herself upright. Her body screamed in protest, every bruise and cut burning like fire. But there was no time to rest. No time to falter.

Before her, the vast and endless dark forest stretched into the horizon. A void untouched by Naxos, by its lies, by its cruelty. For the first time in her life, there were no walls around her. No chains.

She was free. And yet—she had never felt so alone.

The wind howled through the trees, carrying with it the scent of the dead behind her and the unknown before her.

Phoebe took her first step into the dark.

And didn't look back.

AN

Hey readers! Sorry for the long wait, but look, more characters and worldbuilding!

I hope the chapter's second half isn't too graphic for anyone. I did my best to limit the maturity to a level that I thought could be stomached but is uncomfortable at the same time. We're also getting a more introspective look into some of Rick Riordan's side characters and the world that they lived in before the PJO timeline!

Additionally, Perseus has now established a new organization under the name The Descent to topple Order's fanatics—and it already has its first two followers: Zoë and Prometheus.

I will try to continue to update this story as much as possible, it's always a welcoming feeling when I know you guys want an update.

Please leave your thoughts, comments, criticism, and the like for me to review. Thank you!

- ANAKX

Word Count: 7062