The forest breathed with damp life, each leaf dripping from a weeklong downpour. The scent of wet earth filled Cadmus's lungs with every labored breath. Vines clung to him like cold hands, snaking around his legs to drag him back into hiding. Mud oozed between his fingers, clenched on his dagger's hilt—his grip so deep it seemed part of the blade itself. Below the hill, a village erupted in desperate frenzy: horses neighing, carts groaning and sinking in the muck, peasants hurrying past with bundles and crying children.
Amid the chaos, Cadmus caught the panicked bleats of trapped livestock.
— The boy'll be back with the others soon, someone whispered from shadow, voice hoarse with fear.
— If the wolves don't find him first, another replied dryly.
Cadmus couldn't see their faces—only knew they were foes, targets smelling of terror and rot.
The sky was a leaden lid—no sun, no moon. The world had turned to gray: the plowed fields, the distant hills, even the old blood on his soaked tunic.
Cadmus stood still. His exhausted body protested; his legs wobbled as he tried to rise. Three days without sleep, and every muscle screamed for rest. But there was no luxury—
He scanned the fleeing crowd for one silhouette: the leader. He needed to find him again before he vanished among the fugitives.
Their last encounter had left Cadmus shaken: the target had isolated himself by a stream. Cadmus hesitated—mind blank, dagger heavy. When he regained focus, Lysander's body lay at his feet. His friend's face frozen in surprise, eyes staring at a sky that offered no answers. Rain had washed Cadmus's hands clean, but guilt remained.
Never again.
Soon, the village was empty, swallowed by silence.
Cadmus edged through narrow lanes. Fresh footprints in the mud spoke of stragglers. In the central square, broken carts and shattered tools lay abandoned. The smoke of burned bread mingled with the stench of manure and distant sea salt. He focused on the tide's steady pull—one, two, one, two—to banish Lysander's frozen stare.
A low moan made him pivot.
It came from a narrow alley to his right, slicing through the damp air like a ghost's breath. Cadmus pressed on, heart pounding in rhythm with his footsteps. Focus, he thought.
He followed the moans to a collapsed barn. Faint light flickered through cracked boards. At the door, a basket spilled with bloodstained rags. Inside, shadows twisted in the gloom, low murmurs lost beneath the ceaseless rain.
His target emerged suddenly, cradling a bucket of rainwater. Gasping, the man slid down the wall and sat in the mud, rinsing his face. Rainwater sluiced from broken gutters above, soaking him as he hunched there, head bowed, searching for answers in the mire.
Now, thought Cadmus—but his body froze. Fingers tightened on the dagger, vision blurring—not from rain, not exhaustion, but something darker stirring within.
He breathed deeply. Waves, he reminded himself. Remember the waves. He straightened and forced himself forward—but stepped onto a loose plank that snapped. Cadmus fell onto all fours in the mud.
The leader looked up as the bucket thudded to the ground.
— Who's there? the man rasped, eyes hollow, hands rough from digging graves.
Silence devoured his words. Cadmus struggled upright, both hands wrapped around the dagger's hilt.
— It's me.
The man studied him for a long moment.
— You were with the other boy, weren't you?
— I was.
— Is he dead? the leader asked, voice cracking.
Cadmus took a breath. The iron taste in his mouth, Lysander's frozen expression in the mud. He rubbed his eyes—the figure gone.
— He is.
The leader closed his eyes, swallowing hard.
— By the gods… he was just a boy, whispered the man, hand slapping his face as if to erase a nightmare. — I… let him slip away. Even though I knew he'd come back.
Cadmus's dagger-weight grew heavier.
— And he did, growled Cadmus. — Your hand guided mine.
The leader forced a bitter smile.
— Vengeance? he asked, eyes tired, devoid of fear. — Do you think killing me brings your friend back?
Cadmus said nothing.
— You have no right to decide who lives or dies, the leader stood, gaze narrowing.
— It's my duty, Cadmus moved to advance but boots sank in the mud.
— Duty? scoffed the man, gesturing to empty houses. — And what noble duty that is. You underestimated us. Do you know who built these walls? Who tilled these fields? he knelt, scooping wet earth— We were anything but slaves before you burned our homes, before you slaughtered our people, before you made this twisted order: you above, us below.
Cadmus clenched his teeth.
— Now you're slaves. Obedience is the only law left.
But his words rang hollow.
— Obedience? a dry laugh. — Why should we obey our executioners—those who convinced us even the gods wanted us dead? Power like that is cruel, raw, unstoppable. No forgiveness exists.
He stood, staring at the barn's doorway for reasons unknown—
— But you know what? you don't have that power anymore. The Great Rebellion has opened gates that will never close!
Cadmus inclined his head.
— So this is your rebellion. Good to know.
— It's what we've always planned, fool! he pumped a white-knuckled fist. — War has proven even Sparta bleeds.
— Your rebellion sows only chaos and death, Cadmus countered.
— To those already dead, death is freedom.
Cadmus flipped the dagger in his hand.
— Then let me free you.
The leader watched him long and silent, eyes reflecting blade's edge.
— If you meant to kill me, he said slowly, you'd have done it by now.
Cadmus set his jaw.
— What do you want?
— Your life, Cadmus spat on the ground, saliva mixing with rain.
The man's smile faded.
— Then take it.
Silence fell heavy as the storm.
His uncle's voice rang in Cadmus's mind: "Don't parley with slaves. They learn best when your rules are carved into their flesh."
The leader shifted, stacking fallen planks to bar them off. Cadmus braced to strike, but a groan from inside the barn drew his enemy's gaze.
Mistake.
The man flung mud into Cadmus's eyes. Vision blurred in murky swirls. Then a brutal shove knocked him down.
The dagger skittered away.
Rain pounded the roof, drowning out everything—moans, snarls, bodies rolling in mud. Cadmus groped for his blade and got a boot in the gut instead. He coughed, crawling back, lungs aflame.
Shadows peered through broken boards around him.
Pain coiled in his ribs. He heard footsteps, turned as much as he could.
His foe gripped the fallen dagger.
— Freedom, boy, the creature hissed, advancing.
Cadmus backed away, knees sliding. A cry rang out.
The leader hesitated.
That was all Cadmus needed.
He bolted for an abandoned cart, sensing pursuit. Gathering strength, he pried a plank free—wood slivers slicing his palm. With the board in hand, he spun and brought it crashing down on his attacker's face. It cracked like thunder. The creature stumbled and collapsed—half his face broken, teeth scattered like white stones in the mud.
On the plank, crimson rain pooled around a lone horn—trapped in the grain-veined wood.
Cadmus did not pause.
Another blow.
Another.
The body slumped unmoving.
His chest heaved. Eyes on the fallen, waiting for any sign of life. None came.
Then a new sound cleaved the air. The barn door swung open with a creak. A child appeared, boots sinking in the mud, eyes wide.
— Papa…
Her voice trembled.
Cadmus froze. Dagger, rain, blood, mud—all seemed frozen.
The girl stepped forward.
— Papa?
The storm roared, but he heard only her breath. And the crushing hush between them.
Cadmus rose, chest heaving, eyes locked on the motionless body. — Papa?
The creature stirred—one raspy breath. Mud and blood patterning his clothes.
— Papa? she whispered again.
That single word shattered something inside Cadmus. His grip loosened, the dagger slipping from his fingers with a dull thud that echoed in his mind. He took a step back. Then another. And another.
Beyond the barn, the sea thundered, waves mocking in their crash. Suddenly, the world dissolved—barn, rain, blood, mud—shadows swallowed it all.
— Cadmus? a soft voice called from somewhere beyond the darkness.
His eyes fluttered open.
He lay on a thin mattress, water dripping from his face like tears unchecked. The smell of iron lingered, now mingled with something gentler—incense, or olive oil.
— Cadmus?
The voice was steady, slicing through lingering moans in his mind. He sat up, back against the wall, hand reaching for an unseen hilt. His breath came in jagged gasps.
Roxana stood a few steps away, holding a low-burning lamp. Its golden glow lit half her face, hair escaping her hood. Her blue eyes held no fear—only keen curiosity. Cadmus's blood ran cold.
— Hey, insisted Roxana, tilting her head. — Why are you crying?
He wiped his face with his arm, dispelling the rain he thought he felt. His fingers shook; he hid them behind his back, brushing against his father's helm on the shelf. Clang. Clang. That memory anchored him.
— I'm not crying, he grumbled, voice rough as if he'd swallowed ash. — It's the rain.
Roxana lifted the lamp to reveal a toppled jar of flowers above him—its water, not rain, dripping down.
She said nothing. Instead she stepped closer, as if approaching an injured animal, and placed something at his feet—a piece of bread wrapped in cloth.
— Dreams lie, she said quietly—not comfortingly but as fact. — We're safe here.
Cadmus said nothing. The girl's cry from his memory blurred with Roxana's gaze; he clenched his fists until nails bit into his palms. He stared at his muddy boots.
— You—he began, then paused. — How are you?
Roxana smiled with her eyes.
— Much better. And… thank you, for helping me. Truly, she added, turning to leave. — Come. Demosthenes arrived at dawn. And you… need fresh air.
She walked away; Cadmus stayed, splitting the bread as he once had with Lysander by campfires. The first bite choked him—the taste carried him back to stolen game beneath the stars.
He glanced at his father's helmed shelf; lamplight flickered. He stood, warmth spreading through the bronze. Clang. Clang. This time, the echo was faint.
When he stepped outside, dawn bled on the horizon—purple, red, then gold. Roxana watched, cloak billowing like owl wings. Without turning, she whispered, soft enough for him to question if the wind had spoken:
— Even the dead need rest, Cadmus.
He said nothing. But for the first time in ages, he didn't crack a single chestnut the entire morning.