Alkaios POV
My journey back to Koutalas lasted for what felt like hours as I was deep in thought. I couldn't stop thinking about my interaction with Zeus. I knew well that invoking the God King would draw his attention, but I never imagined we would appear in person.
'Whether that Eagle was Zeus, I can now state with certainty that all my actions are under watch by the Gods. The problem is: what is this Zeus like? I know his Lostbelt self was like this, but the Zeus there and the Zeus here may have similar personalities, but they are not the same.'
My thoughts were in disarray as I tried to imagine what this Zeus is like. I thought about my brief interaction with Zeus, and from what I could see, Temenos breaking our oath prompted Zeus to come down himself. That in itself said a lot.
'It means he takes his job seriously, which means I have to be careful in what I do in the future. What I also know is that Zeus loves his children, as seen in the various myths I read. He did, after all, raise Heracles to Godhood.' The sound of struggle broke my train of thought as I finally came upon the three remaining soldiers I had captured earlier. I saw them freeze at my appearance, and I couldn't blame them. My battle with their fellow Athenians had soaked me in blood.
"The battle is over, and you are free to go," I said, seeing their eyes light up. "I should warn you that if you attack me, you will send yourselves to meet Hades. That bolt of lightning, which likely woke up all of Greece, was the God King punishing your fellow Athenians for breaking your captain's oath. You don't have to believe it, but it is true." I warned them.
Judging by the way their faces paled, they must finally have gotten the unspoken question: why did Zeus send down that bolt of lightning? I walked up to the two men trapped in the stone chairs, and I couldn't help but snort, seeing their faces pale. Didn't I say I was going to let them go?
"Dona,"
I released the two men with a quick cast of Dona. I watched as they rubbed their wrists. We all turned to the sound of the earth rising as it brought the last soldier trapped in my pit back up to the surface. I grimaced at seeing how badly injured the trapped man's leg was. It was already turning purple as the bone protruded.
I quickly summoned my haversack and brought out my survival kit, ignoring the questions about how it appeared out of nowhere. Using the first-aid knowledge I had, I created a splint using Dona and gently wrapped the limb with padding from the survivor kit. Usually, I wouldn't have known this, but back when I chose my CYOA options, knowing first aid made sense to me.
Observing how the block of earth fully supported the soldier's limb, acting as a splint. I nodded, satisfied with the job well done, but not before intending to cast a healing spell to make sure the soldier would not be in danger.
"Shīha"
I watched with satisfaction as the man's leg seemed to straighten itself. Taking my eyes away from the injured soldiers, I turned my eyes back to the two remaining soldiers.
"Your friend's leg should heal in a few weeks. Take him and return to Greece. Your duty in this land is over." I said, gesturing for the two soldiers to pick up their friend. Watching the two soldiers walk away with their friend, I turned my attention back to the earth I created around Koutalas.
"Dona."
A quick cast of magic had the earth return to the ground, leaving no evidence except for the slight disturbance of vegetation that the world had interfered with. When the tall walls fell, I encountered all the citizens of Koutalas. That wasn't much of a surprise to me, as I'd expected all of Greece to be awake after Zeus' wrath.
Seeing the expectant looks on the citizens' faces, I raised my fist and smiled. All was silent before cheers rang out throughout Koutalas, threatening to announce to all of Greece the people of Koutalas' happiness.
I couldn't help but smile at the various children asking questions about what happened.
"Can you all gather everyone in Koutalas? We still have some matters that need to be settled. "I said to the citizens of Koutalas. I still needed to help efforts to help the citizens. As of right now, they couldn't keep staying in Koutalas, not when these people were starving and crops were still being grown. But I could help them settle in Stymphalos, where everyone here could recover.
'I would have to suspend my journey first to escort everyone here. In asking them to travel by themselves, I might as well ask everyone here to die with all the beasts or bandits they may encounter.' Just thinking about all the logistics that go into this made me want to slam my head into the ground.
Seeing all the citizens slowly trickle in, I waited patiently for the rest to arrive. Looking around, I grimaced seeing that some citizens were thin. I didn't really get a good look before, but now seeing everyone thin and nearly emaciated, I quietly cursed Andreas again. The only thing holding back my scowl was the happy looks on everyone's faces.
I took a deep breath to calm myself before putting on a smile.
"Everyone I know tonight has had a long night, but today, no more bandits will come to harm anyone here. But we cannot stay here. Seeing the looks of confusion, I said, "I know you are all confused, but the harvest will not come today, and you are all hungry." Hunting for food until you all have regained your strength is vital. That's why I shall take you all to Stymphalos myself, where you all can regain your strength. "I said my voice echoed throughout the night.
I watched as all the citizens shuffled nervously at the idea of abandoning their homes. Some of these people have made entire lives here for probably generations. One citizen walks up from the crowd. He looked like he was a local merchant judging from his attire.
"Do you expect us to just abandon everything we have here — our lives and everything we've built?" The merchant said. I can see the crowd agreeing with him. I couldn't help agree with him too.
"What's your name, sir?" I asked the merchant. I needed to settle these issues now before everything grew and became an issue later.
"It's Aechenus, Alkaios," Aechenus said. I nodded my head, committing the name to memory for the future. Especially if he was a merchant, I would rely on him for future jobs.
"You're right. I am asking a lot of you all, but we need to leave. I won't always be here to help you all. That's why you all need to help themselves first. That's why you all need to leave for me. One day, you all will come back to your homes here. But first, gather your strength, eat, and heal before you all take that step." I said my words ringing throughout the night. "But before all that, we have to do one thing first…. and that's a PARTY!"
For a heartbeat, the villagers didn't understand what I said. All was silent before thin and doubtful laughter began. Like a wave, the laughter spread through the crowd, much like a spark igniting dry grass. Someone barked a sharp, incredulous ha! as if the idea itself was an offense to the exhaustion in their bones. A child echoed it, then another, and suddenly mouths that had clenched in fear all night opened with warmer expressions.
A cheer rose again, but it differed from the victory cheer. The cheer did not mean to challenge Greece; instead; it reminded everyone that they were still alive. Before the noise could escalate, I raised both hands and said, "Listen! Tonight we have a victory meal, for the terror that has plagued Koutalas has ended tonight, and a promise to move tomorrow."
Men with hollow cheeks, women with eyes sharpened by hunger, elders in threadbare cloth, and children stared at me, their gazes as though I had pulled the moon from the sky. I forced my smile in place from seeing just how emaciated some citizens were.
"Who here has pots?" I asked. "Bowls? Any dried stores, even if they're little? Bring them to the square. We'll pool what we have, we'll share it, and we'll leave with clear heads and fuller stomachs."
A few murmurs and hesitant nods arose from my questions. Yet a question came cutting through the rising noise.
"Alkaios," Aechenus said, stepping forward again. In the torchlight, his merchant's tunic looked expensive compared to the rest, but it hung looser than it should—like it belonged to someone who'd been shrinking for weeks. His eyes were still skeptical, still calculating, but the edge had dulled. "If we empty our stores tonight, what do we march with tomorrow?"
"I understand, Aechenus. That's why it's a victory meal. You all suffered an ordeal and have survived. We won't eat everything, just enough to walk and reach Stymphalos." I answered Aechenus but spoke to everyone in the crowd.
"And we do another thing," I added. "We must decide what we bear. Not in whispers, but out loud together."
That last word—together—passed through them similar to a hand against the spine. A shiver of collective remembrance: bandits at the gates, people carried off, granaries raided, the helpless realization that suffering is more manageable to endure when you could act like it is a private matter.
I would not enable them to feign. There was no faking what transpired never happened. The events that occurred here couldn't depart, so all I could do this instant was support each person proceeding onward to the future.
"Split into groups," I announced, and pointed as I uttered. "Any able-bodied men and women—assist collect firewood but do not wander too far from the village. Hunters, if you have bows, pikes, whatever that even now holds an edge — assemble by the path on the east side. The elderly—sit. Rest. Mothers—hold the youngsters close. Anyone who knows herbs or recovery, approach me after we have built the bonfires. Fill your water skins. If you have carts, bring them. If you have a family member who's ill, tell me right away."
The townspeople hesitated. So, I simplified it for them.
"Right," I stated, rolling my shoulders as if this was only an additional task in a lengthy day. "I'll start."
I went to the center of the square and knelt, pressing my palm on the earth. The land under Koutalas even now remembered my will—even now had the faint residual of spells that I had used tonight. Channeling mana to my Gate, I reached for the leftover magic I had left behind.
"Dona."
The earth's surface swelled with a soft groan, not violent this moment—soft, as if the ground itself was inhaling and exhaling. A wide, temporary structure rose, resembling a table, then evened out. Another went next to it, a slight bit higher, with a lip at the edge's perimeter for preventing bowls from sliding.
Next came a bench, then there was an additional one. I carved shallow basins into the platform with a second cast, shaping them into firepits.
The once hesitant murmurs transformed into awe. My lips twitch in a small smile hearing the awe of the children.
"Bring stones," I told them. "Line the pits. Keep the flames contained."
A boy no older than eight stared at the benches like they were a miracle, then ran off with a shriek that sounded suspiciously like joy.
For a moment, I forgot all about bandits, gods and even the future. But as my eyes drifted back up to the black sky beyond the rooftops. 'Every single action of mine is under watch.' The thought returned like a blade pressed to the back of the neck.
I took one slow breath and stood straight.
"Hunters," I called.
They came in ones and twos, cautious as stray dogs. Seven men. Most carried crude spears. A man carried a bow, and it looked like he had repaired its string a dozen times.
Their eyes kept flicking to my blood-soaked clothes. I didn't blame them.
"I'll do the dangerous part," I said simply. "You do the work that saves the village. We need meat—anything we can dry for travel. If we find nothing, we return immediately. Understood?"
They nodded like soldiers. I grabbed a torch from the nearest rack and turned toward the eastern path. Aechenus fell into step beside me.
"You're doing this," he said, voice low, "to keep us busy. To stop people from thinking."
"Yes," I answered, not trying to hide it.
"And to make them obey you." Aechenus shot back to me.
I glanced at him.
"No," I said, and meant it. "To help them understand the reality of the situation they are in now. Aechenus, remain here and assist everyone while I am gone."
Aechenus's mouth tightened. But he didn't argue; with a nod, we departed while the men and I left for the nearby plains hoping to find some game.
We followed the path until where the fields ended and scrub began. The night air was icy enough to sharpen the mind, and the land smelled like trampled wheat and old smoke. Somewhere in the distance, an owl called.
The sound of the owl made me freeze. My eyes darted every trying to find the owl, but they couldn't find anything. I lifted my torch, scanning the dark. I wanted to keep looking for the owl, but no matter where I looked, I couldn't find it.
My mouth tightened. If Athena didn't want to be found, there was no way I was going to find her owl. I took a glance back, seeing the looks of confusion and worry on the hunters. I gave a forced smile before we continued our hunt.
I didn't have the luxury of wandering for hours. I needed something fast. Movement—low, quick—near the edge of a thicket.
Boar.
I held up a fist, and the hunters stopped. The animal was lean, but not starving. Its tusks were bright in the firelight. Mindful of the fading ache from earlier battles, I shifted. I didn't need to prove anything. I just needed food.
I stepped forward. Feet shifted and body tensed as I prepared to kill the boar. The boar, sensing my intent, brought its head low, its tusks aimed at me to pierce my body, hooves hammering into packed dirt, stones kicked sideways, the brush snapping behind it like whiplashes. Its breath came in harsh, explosive bursts—huff, huff—each one steaming faintly in the cold night as it built speed. The smell hit me next: animal musk, churned earth.
The boar charged at me like a battering ram. Every step drove its bulk forward with brutal certainty, head angled for my thigh, my knee—some joint it could shatter to drop me. I saw the twitch of its neck as it lined up the goring strike, saw the ripple of hide across its shoulder as it gathered itself for impact.
The boar filled my vision, a freight of muscle and malice, tusks flaring wider as it committed to the goring line. I saw the angle—my left leg, just below the hip—exactly where it hoped to break me and keep me down. Compared to the Stymphalian birds, the boar was moving in slow motion.
With a clean sidestep. My hand snapped down to the Reid; my right hand found the hilt. Steel cleared the scabbard with a whisper that sounded almost polite compared to the beast's rage, and I brought the blade up and over in one smooth arc, letting gravity and my whole body align behind the cut.
There was no hesitation. No flourish. Just a single descending strike—straight, final, and merciless.
The sword came down along the boar's neck as it twisted, catching the moment its head lifted just enough to expose the line beneath the jaw. The resistance was thick at first—hide and sinew—then the blade bit deeper and everything gave way in a sudden, sickening release.
Hot blood sprayed in a sharp fan across the dirt. The boar's head separated cleanly, tumbling forward with the last of its momentum while the body staggered two more steps on blind instinct, legs still trying to run without a command to guide them.
Then it collapsed. The head rolled once, stopped in the torchlight, and the eyes—still wide, still furious—stared at nothing at all.
Silence. Then a sharp exhale from one hunter, like he'd been holding his breath since the lightning.
"Carry it," I said.
They moved at once—hunters melting into motion like a bowstring finally released. The tension in their shoulders shifted to something sharper, something useful. We pushed beyond the first thicket, deeper into the scrub, torches kept low to avoid spooking everything within a mile.
And then—almost immediately—the night opened its hands.
A rabbit bolted across our path, fast as a thrown stone. Before I could even lift a finger, the man beside me snapped his spear forward. The throw was clean—no wasted motion, no hesitation. The shaft hissed through the dark and pinned the rabbit to the earth with a soft, final thud.
I let out a whistle seeing the beautiful throw. His eyes flicked to me as if to ask whether he had done well.
"Your name?" I asked the man who threw the spear.
"Aelius," Aelius answered me. I gave an approving nod to Aelius.
"That was a wonderful throw, Aelius," I told him with a smile.
A pair of hares broke from cover on the left—two hunters split without speaking, feet silent, bodies low. One snared the first with a weighted cord. The other drove a short spear into the second's ribs with practiced brutality.
We hadn't even gone far? Further ahead, the underbrush rustled again—heavier this time. Not a boar. Deer.
Two of them—deer—moved like ghosts at the edge of the scrub. Thin, yes, but not starving. Their coats still held a dull sheen in the moonlight as they stepped into an open patch as if they'd never learned caution.
A hunter beside me—one of the younger men—lifted his bow with hands that trembled from hunger and adrenaline. The string drew back. I saw the arrow's tip catch the torchlight, and before it could fly; I reached out and closed my hand over his wrist.
He stiffened, eyes snapping to me in confused alarm.
"No," I murmured, low enough that only the hunters close to us could hear. "Not yet."
His jaw clenched as if he wanted to argue. The deer were right there—food walking into our hands. Weeks of empty bellies screamed at the back of every throat. But I kept my grip steady and lifted my gaze to the night sky. The moon hung high—cold and watchful. Silver pooled across the grass, making the deer look almost unreal, like offerings placed on an altar.
My mind flashed to the stories I'd read. To the punishments in myth. To the divine pride that could turn a simple hunt into a tragedy.
'Artemis, I should make a prayer asking for permission to be safe. Zeus has gotten involved, and the owl from early on could have been Athena. No need to tempt the fates, I thought.
I released the hunter's wrist and stepped forward one pace, careful not to advance like a predator. I lowered my torch slightly so the light wouldn't flare too aggressively into the clearing, and I set the tip of my blade against the earth—an anchor, a sign of restraint.
Then I bowed my head—not deeply, not theatrically, but with the measured respect you give a power that doesn't need your belief to hurt you.
"Lady Artemis," I said softly, voice carried away by the open night. "Mistress of the Hunt. Protector of maidens."
The hunters behind me went still. Even their breathing quieted. Although I couldn't see the hunter whose hand I held, it turned pale at the thought of what his desperation for food could have caused.
"These people in Koutalas have not eaten," I continued, choosing each word with care. "They are weak. They are frightened. I am leading them away at dawn, and if they collapse on the road, it will not only be their deaths—it will be the deaths of children and elders who cannot protect themselves."
I lifted my eyes to the clearing again. The deer hadn't fled. They stood in the moonlight, ears twitching, watching us with calm, dark eyes.
"Not for sport," I said. "Not for pride. Only for survival. If you are pleased and give your permission, let us hunt, and I swear we will waste nothing. We will feed the living with the meat. They will be kept warm with the hide. The bones will be used. We will take only what we need, and we will remember whose domain we walk in."
Silence. No wind. No owl calls. Just the faint crackle of the torch behind me, and the distant sound of blood in my own ears. Then the moonlight changed.
Not dramatically—there was no thunder, no voice from the heavens—but the silver on the grass seemed to brighten, as if the clouds had shifted away from the moon at that exact moment. A clean, pale glow spilled across the clearing, bathing the deer in a clearer light—almost like a spotlight granted, not stolen.
The hunters sucked in quiet breaths.
One of them whispered, barely audible, "She… heard."
I didn't let myself smile. I didn't let myself assume. But I took it as the closest thing to permission a mortal ever gets. I stepped back, lifted two fingers in a slight gesture, and spoke without looking away from the deer.
"Now," I told the bowman quietly. "Make it clean. Make it fast."
The bowman swallowed hard, steadied his breathing the way men do when they're trying to pretend their hands aren't shaking, and drew again—slow, controlled, as if the string might snap from the sheer hunger in his arms.
"Loose," I whispered.
The string snapped forward. The arrow cut through the clearing with a thin, vicious hiss and struck the first deer clean behind the shoulder. It jolted—one sharp, startled kick—then stumbled two steps as if trying to argue with what had happened. Its legs buckled. It collapsed into the grass, breath flaring once, twice, then fading into a wet, quiet stillness.
The second deer finally understood fear. It turned—too late. A second bow twanged from my left. Another hunter, older, calmer, released without flourish. His arrow struck the deer low in the neck. It bounded once, panicked, then staggered as blood darkened its throat. By the time it reached the edge of the moonlit patch, it was already falling. The clearing went still again, as if the night itself had been holding its breath for the moment to finish.
No one cheered. No one spoke. I kept my gaze on the fallen shapes, waiting for the last twitch to cease, and only when the bodies were truly still did I let my shoulders loosen.
"Good," I murmured. "Clean kills."
The hunters approached cautiously, like men afraid the goddess might change her mind mid-step. Before anyone touched a carcass, I raised a hand.
"Wait." I said, freezing everyone in place. I lowered my torch, set it upright in the dirt, and faced the moonlit clearing once more. I bowed my head—not to the deer, but to the presence that ruled the wild places.
"Lady Artemis," I said softly, voice steady. "Thank you for the permission. Thank you for the mercy."
I laid my palm briefly against my chest, then extended my hand toward the bodies—an offering of intent rather than blood.
"We will waste nothing," I promised. "And we will remember."
The hunters murmured the words after me in broken fragments—some clumsy, some sincere, some spoken like men reciting a name they'd only ever feared. But it was enough. Only then did I nod.
"Now, work fast. Quietly."
The bowman, who had taken the first deer, exhaled. He held his breath for weeks, and then he crouched to begin field-dressing the deer. His trembling hands slowly steadied as purpose replaced panic.
And that should have been the end of the hunt. That should have been the end of our luck. Instead, the night kept opening.
As we hauled the deer toward the village, the brush ahead rustled again—quick, light footfalls. A rabbit dashed across our path, then another. The first hunter with a sling cracked his stone through the dark and dropped one cleanly. The second rabbit bolted straight into a snare line someone had instinctively set while we worked, and it kicked twice before going limp.
We hadn't gone fifty paces before we spotted more movement in the scrub—shadows slipping between low branches. Hares. Three. Then five. They were everywhere, bold as if the world had briefly forgotten that humans existed.
Aelius—broad-shouldered and silent—whipped his spear with a motion so clean it looked like the air itself guided it. The point pinned a hare before it could sink away.
"By the gods…" someone breathed, half laughing, half afraid.
"Quiet," I warned, though my pulse had picked up.
We crested a small rise, and there—down near a shallow dip where the grass grew thicker—stood another deer.
Then another. Then, a small boar rooting at the edge of the reeds, its back bristling like a dark ridge. Torchlight should have spooked the boar — by scent, by men. It lifted its head, snorted once, and didn't run.
My stomach tightened. This was no longer mere fortune. This was excessive. The hunters looked at me, eyes wide with the hope that turns dangerous if you let it grow unsupervised. I lifted two fingers—commanding calm, demanding discipline.
"We take what we can carry," I said. "Nothing more. We do not get greedy."
But even then, we found more. A pheasant burst from the reeds, and another followed. A hunter threw a weighted line and brought one down. We spotted tracks—fresh, deep—then saw the animals themselves, as if the wild was presenting its pantry in neat rows.
By the time we turned back, our arms were heavy. Meat and fur and feathers. The weight of it dug into our shoulders and made our hands ache, but none of the hunters complained. Starving men don't complain about carrying salvation.
I kept it to myself, not uttering it aloud, but storing it in the hidden place behind my eyes, where my persistent skepticism remained.
'This is too much.' I kept my face neutral as we walked, but my thoughts churned.
Koutalas had been starving. Andreas and Spyridon had choked the life from the village and turned the roads into knives. That meant less hunting, fewer farmers in the fields, fewer men walking these paths. Game could grow bolder when humans withdrew.
That explanation was reasonable, with the timing. But right after Zeus' lightning split the sky. Right after I spoke in public of survival, of moving, of vows and order. Right after I offered a prayer and received that strange, approving clarity of moonlight.
'How coincidental,' I thought, eyes flicking upward to the stars between branches. 'How perfectly placed.'
There were only two possibilities. Either we had stumbled into the luckiest hunt of our lives, or the gods had pressed a thumb onto the scale. I didn't know which was worse.
People could thank luck and forget, but the gods never provided help without a cost. As the hunters murmured excitedly behind me, I let my gaze drift to the darkness ahead, searching for shapes that shouldn't be there.
An eagle silhouette. A shimmer in the air. A pressure behind the eyes that meant someone noticed. But no matter how much I searched, my eyes couldn't find anything.
'Which of you is it?' I wondered silently, carefully, as if even thinking too loudly might count as disrespect. 'Zeus, because you punished an oath and now you reward the consequences? Artemis, because I asked permission and you answered? Astraea, because justice has been served and my path aligns with your mantle? ' My thoughts were in disarray.
It could be someone else entirely. Apollo, amused by mortals trying to outrun fate. Hermes, laughing as he nudged the world's pieces into place. Athena, watching the boy who killed her soldiers.
I kept the speculation locked behind my teeth and forced my attention back to the road. The hunters needed certainty from me, not theology.
Still… I couldn't stop one last thought from sliding into place like a knife into a sheath.
If the gods are helping silently… then they're also watching to see what I do with the help.
I tightened my grip on the deer's hind leg, adjusted the weight on my shoulder, and kept walking toward the village lights.
Out loud, I said only one thing—firm, practical, the voice of someone who refused to let providence make him careless.
"Stay close. Eyes up. We don't relax until the food is on the fire."
The lights of Koutalas came into view like a low constellation—torches clustered around the square, firelight licking up the walls of homes that had been too quiet for too long. The closer we got, the clearer the sounds became: murmurs, soft laughter, the crackle of wood, the measured voices of people trying to organize themselves into something other than victims.
Then, someone saw us. A sentry — barely more than a nervous man with a spear—stood at the edge of the square. His head snapped toward the road, and for a second he just stared, as if his eyes couldn't accept what they were being asked to report.
"Meat," he breathed.
The word didn't carry far… but it didn't need to. He shouted it a heartbeat later, voice cracking with disbelief.
"Meat! They have Meat!"
The village turned as one. Faces turned towards us, and the square became suddenly and stunningly quiet, as if the whole settlement was holding its breath. Torchlight spilled across our silhouettes, across the antlers, the slung carcasses, the blood-dark stains on hide and cloth.
For a moment, no one moved. Then the cheer hit. It rose like a wave breaking—ragged, messy, too loud for bodies that had been hungry. The sound of the celebration wasn't clear. It was relief made shameless. Joy, locked away for so long, emerged bruised.
People surged forward—men, women, children, elders—drawn by the sight of food the way thirst draws the dying toward water.
"By the gods…" someone sobbed.
A child ran ahead of the adults, thin legs pumping, eyes wide and shining. He reached the edge of our group, stopped short as if afraid to touch the miracle, then looked up at me with a kind of reverence that made my ribs tighten.
"Is it real?" he whispered.
"It's real," Aelius said before I could, voice rough and proud. He lifted his spear slightly, showing the rabbits bound at his belt as proof.
The child made a sound that was half laugh, half gasp, then turned and screamed back toward the crowd, "IT'S REAL!"
That was all it took. Mothers caught their children before they could grab at the carcasses with greedy hands. Elders shuffled forward slower, eyes fixed on the deer as if the sight alone was feeding them. A few people dropped to their knees outright, hands clasped, faces lifted toward the sky.
"Lord Zeus, we praise you…" "Lady Artemis, thank you…" "Lady Astraea preserve—"
Names spilled out like prayers remembered in desperation. I raised my voice before the excitement could turn into a frenzy.
"Enough!" I called—firm, not harsh, but with the command tone that stops panic from becoming disaster. The crowd stilled, breaths tight, eyes still hungry.
"We will share," I said, letting my gaze sweep them. "No one rushes. No one fights. Elders and children eat first. Injured next. Then the rest. We will cook what we must tonight and dry what we can for the road tomorrow."
A ripple passed through them—hunger protesting, reason answering. Heads nodded, some reluctantly, some with grateful obedience.
Aechenus pushed through the crowd, his wax tablet still in hand, charcoal smudging his fingers. He took one look at the deer and went still, like a merchant staring at a chest of coin he'd never expected to see again.
"How…" he began. I didn't give him theology. Not here.
"Work," I said simply. "And luck."
Privately, my eyes flicked to the moonlit edge of the rooftops, to the space beyond the firelight where the night could hide anything that wanted to watch.
"Make the fires hotter," I ordered. "Boil water. Bring knives. We will not waste a drop. We will not waste a bone."
The hunters stepped forward then, suddenly so proud hunger couldn't crush. They lifted the carcasses higher so the village could see, so the children could believe.
The cheer rose again—but this time it wasn't wild. This time the focus was there. Purposeful. Like a people remembering all at once that tomorrow could exist.
I sat off to the side where the torchlight thinned and the shadows could still breathe, one knee drawn up, my back against a low stone wall. My shoulders ached with the honest weight of the hunt, not from physical fatigue but mental. The dried blood on my skin had tightened in uncomfortable patches. I let the noise of the square wash past me—laughter, breathy sobs, the scrape of pottery, the crackle of flames—without stepping into it.
Across the square, the village moved with a vigor that didn't feel human after weeks of hunger. Fires burned brighter. Pots bubbled. Someone had found a basket of onions; someone else, dried herbs. The smell of stew deepened from thin desperation into something that almost resembled home.
The ritual began as naturally as breathing. It started with a murmur—one voice, then two—names spoken with the caution of people who believed the gods were close enough to hear.
"For the Great God Zeus." A priest said as the man stepped forward holding a clay cup and a shallow plate. His hands trembled as if he were about to present an offering to a king in the flesh. Beside him, an older woman cradled a small jug of wine like it was a relic. It was not much—thin, sour-smelling—probably the last of what the village had hidden or saved.
Yet they approached the fire with the reverence usually reserved for temples. The man knelt at the edge of the flames. He poured the first splash of wine onto the earth, and it darkened the dirt in a small spreading stain that steamed faintly as it kissed the heat.
"For Zeus, God King," someone whispered. Others echoed it.
"For Zeus."
The plate followed. Someone put down the first portion of meat—small, carefully cut—beside the wet earth, not for hungry mouths but for the sky. A crust of bread. A spoonful of the thickest part of the stew.
I watched the offering and felt that familiar tightening behind my ribs. It was moments like these that reminded me just what era I was in. I thought about what the Gods might do if they weren't given an offering they didn't need.
I watched the way the villagers prayed to the Gods, the only way they knew how, with gratitude that bordered on fear. The villagers didn't stop at Zeus. Names moved around the circle like a litany, passed from mouth to mouth as if saying them out loud could build a wall between Koutalas and disaster.
"Lady Hera, Queen of Heaven…"
"Lady Athena, Protector…"
"Lord Apollo…"
"Lady Artemis…"
"Lord Ares…"
"Lady Aphrodite…"
"Lord Hermes…"
"Lord Hephaestus…"
"Lord Poseidon…"
"Lord Dionysus..."
"Lady Demeter…"
"Lady Hestia…"
And—quietly, almost apologetically, as if acknowledging the last one might invite trouble.
"Lord Hades…"
Each hungry village remembers the twelve Olympians and the thirteenth name, and they invoke each god, adding a token portion: a few drops of wine, a bite of bread, a sliver of meat, and a sprinkle of grain. The pile did not grow large, but the meaning did. It was payment, yes—but more than that, it was a declaration. We are still your people. We still know your names. Please do not forget us.
Drawn by the smell, a child tried to edge forward, and someone gently pulled the child back. Even hunger knew better than to steal from an altar.
As the pile of food on the altar grew larger every second, I watched. I got up knowing that even if I didn't want to; I had invoked Zeus' name earlier with Spyridon. I would be a fool not to offer Zeus anything.
The square didn't quiet instantly, but people noticed anyway. They always did. Torches flickered. Faces turned. A few voices faded mid-sentence as if the night itself had learned to pay attention when I moved.
I walked to where the hunters had laid out the carcasses for butchering—where the smell of fresh meat and smoke mingled so thick it felt like you could chew it. One hunter looked up, knife paused.
"Alkaios?" he asked, uncertain, as if afraid I was about to take the best cut for myself.
"No," I said, and reached down. I chose a portion that made even me hesitate a heavy slab of venison, thick with promise, the kind that could have fed a family by itself. I added a generous strip of boar besides it — fat-laced, rich — then took a full heel of bread and a pinch of roasted grain.
When I turned back toward the fire, the murmurs started — soft disbelief, hungry eyes following the meat as if it were being carried away from their mouths. I didn't meet those eyes. I kept my gaze forward and walked to the place where the villagers had poured the first wine into the earth. The little altar was nothing more than dirt darkened by libation, a circle of stones, and offerings set with reverence, but the surrounding air had changed.
Charged. Attentive.
I knelt. Heat licked my face. Smoke curled around my hair and vanished into the night, carrying scent upward like a message. I set the meat down carefully, not tossed, not dropped. Placed. I laid the bread beside it, then the grain, and only then did I bow my head.
"Lord Zeus," I breathed.
The village had been speaking the gods' names like fragile charms. When I spoke his, it felt heavier, like putting weight on a scale and waiting to see which way the world leaned.
"God King," I continued, voice even, controlled. "Tonight you reminded all of Greece that oaths still matter."
A few people inhaled sharply at that, as if afraid the sky would punish speech itself. I didn't flinch.
"I give you this portion," I said, "not because you hunger but because we do, and I would not ask for your notice without paying respect."
I let the silence settle, then added the reason that mattered most carefully, plainly, with no attempt to dress it in poetry.
"In my duel with Spyridon, I invoked your name. I used it to bind my words and steel to something higher than mortal pride." My fingers tightened once against my knee, then relaxed. "You did not strike me for it. You allowed it."
I lifted my head slightly, just enough to look into the fire.
"For that… I give thanks." I spoke.
Not groveling. Not bargaining. Just acknowledgment. Just respect. Then, softer only for me, only for the night.
"If I am to carry your name again, let it be for justice. Not for vanity," I whispered.
For a moment, nothing happened. No thunder. There is no voice. No sign in the flames and yet the fire seemed to burn steadier, as if the draft had changed. A few sparks rose in a slow spiral, almost graceful, and the smoke climbed straight upward instead of scattering.
Aechenus found me where I'd returned to the edge of the square, half in shadow, the waterskin cool in my hand. He moved with the careful confidence of a man who understood crowds—how to weave through them, shouldering no one too hard; how to arrive beside someone important without looking like he was begging.
He stopped at a respectful distance and inclined his head.
"You're already thinking about tomorrow," he said.
"I have to," I replied. "Tonight is morale. Tomorrow is survival." I tipped my chin toward him.
"Aechenus." He straightened slightly, attentive at the sound of my words. "I need you to do what merchants do best," I said. "Make order out of chaos."
Aechenus's eyes narrowed in thought before saying "A ledger."
"Yes," I said. "A list of everyone here—names and numbers. Families. Children. Elders. Who has injuries? Who is currently sick? Those who can fight. Anyone who can hunt. Who can mend? Who can cook?"
Aechenus's mind was already moving; I could see it in the slight shift of his gaze, the way he started arranging the village into columns before I even finished speaking.
"And supplies," I continued. "Everything they can bring."
He nodded once. "Tools. Carts. Donkeys. Seed grain. Water skins. Blankets." Aechenus replied.
"Knives," I added. "Needles. Rope. Anything metal. Items available for trade. Anything that can build shelter when we reach Stymphalos."
Aechenus nodded as he looked deep in thought. He let out a slow breath, as if weighing the size of the task. "Some will lie," he said. "Some will hide what little they have. Hunger teaches secrecy."
"I know," I said, and met his eyes. "That's why it needs to come from you. Not from me."
His brow lifted minutely.
"If I ask it, they'll hear a demand," I explained. "If you ask, they'll hear practicality. And if you make it public, then the villagers will guard themselves. No one wants to be the neighbor who hoarded while children went hungry."
Aechenus studied me for a moment, then the corner of his mouth twitched — almost a smile, almost not.
"You think like a king," he said.
"I think like someone who doesn't want to bury eighty bodies on the roadside," I replied.
That wiped the hint of humor away. Aechenus nodded once, decisively.
"I'll do it," he said. "I'll need a few helpers. People who can write, or at least count."
"Take them," I said. "Choose whomever you trust, even if you trust no one fully, and Aechenus?"
"Yes?" Aechenus asked. I leaned closer just enough so that my next words didn't carry.
"Mark the people with skills," I said. "Carpenters. Smiths. Who knows medicine? Anyone who's traveled. Anyone with ties to Stymphalos."
For a few seconds, he looked at me as if he were seeing past the blood and youth to something steadier underneath. Then he bowed his head.
"As you command," he said, and turned away, already calling quietly for a stylus, wax tablet and for anyone who could count past twenty without losing their place.
I watched him disappear into the crowd, the first true thread of structure weaving through the night. I reached for my haversack, fingers closing around something smooth and familiar, and drew out a waterskin that hadn't existed in this village an hour ago. Taking the cork off, I drank water for the first time in hours.
The first swallow hit like mercy. The water slid down my throat and loosened knots I hadn't realized I'd had there. My thirst hiding beneath duty, fatigue hiding beneath adrenaline.
I lifted my waterskin again and drank—because the party was loud, and the fires were warm, and the village was finally eating — but dawn would arrive whether we were ready.
Chapter 7: The Feast After Wrath