A low wind stirred the dust in the valley of Alpheus, winding like a whisper through the hills, past cypress and olive, past stone and soil and scarred hoofprint.
The chisel rang against marble, clear and persistent, like the echo of fate.
Men sweated beneath the open sky, clad in tunics smeared with ochre and white chalk, their calloused hands guiding the forms of immortals into being.
King Leonidas, son of Dromeus, stood upon the scaffold of polished cedar, his hand shading his eyes as he gazed upon the nearly complete sanctuary below.
A circle of eleven mighty statues, each carved in honor of the Olympian gods, now adorned the sacred hill.
From the solemn gaze of Athena to the storm-wreathed trident of Poseidon, the figures stood proud, watching the earth as if the sky had sent them to judge it.
Yet the center remained bare.
The statue of Zeus, god of sky and thunder, had lain unfinished for days, though it was not for lack of effort.
The workmen strained and groaned with pulley and lever, but the stone would not move.
It sat heavy in the shadow of the hill, as though the king of gods refused to take his place among the others.
"A sign," murmured the high priest, Demodocus, robes whipping against his ankles in the wind. "The Father of Heaven rejects this house. Something is wrong."
Leonidas turned, his voice calm but edged with iron. "Then the error must be found."
A silence gathered among the men. Some spat to the side, others muttered prayers, fingers clutching amulets of Apollo or Artemis.
Then came the voice—quiet, clear, feminine.
"It is not Zeus who rejects this place," the voice said, "but his brother, forgotten, Father."
Heads turned. There, standing just beyond the row of cedar poles and the scent of cut stone, stood a young woman draped in deep violet, a tunic fastened with iron pins instead of gold.
She held no staff nor garland, no priestly seal. Dust from the road clung to her feet.
"Princess Thea," said Demodocus with eyes darkening in displeasure, "you were ordered to stay under the tutelage of Temir. Why are you here?"
But Leonidas raised a hand. His gaze, sharp and weighing, met hers.
"Daughter," he said at last, "What do you mean. Be specific."
"Father, I'm only here on behalf of my master's orders," she replied. "And she has already envisioned that Father will be humiliated by this incident. I'm here with the solution."
The murmurs rose, suspicion and superstition intertwining like smoke.
"Speak then," he said from the throne. "If you know why this statue will not move, let the gods judge your truth."
She nodded once and moved past the line of laborers, her fingers trailing across the base of the Zeus statue.
She knelt, pulled from her satchel a block of black stone, obsidian, veined with faint red shimmer, and set to work.
Not a word was spoken as her chisel began its song. Her strokes were swift, reverent, not frantic.
A face emerged: stern, hooded, with eyes that seemed to look through time itself. Not cruel, but grave. Not savage, but just.
A seated figure, no taller than a man's palm, formed in the cradle of her hands.
When the idol was complete, she walked with careful steps and placed it to the right of Poseidon, beneath the gaze of the sea god and near the empty place meant for Zeus.
For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.
Then the ropes pulled taut. The statue of Zeus rose without protest, sliding into place as though the weight had been an illusion.
Gasps. Then murmurs. Then awe.
Demodocus fell silent. The other priests stared at the little idol, its presence undeniable.
The sanctuary was still. The great statue of Zeus now cast a long shadow across the courtyard, but beneath that shadow, a storm was gathering—not of wind or rain, but of men.
Leonidas's grip over the scepter of blackened bronze tightened when he witnessed the scene.
The air was heavy, and though the midday sun burned high, none dared sweat.
Below him, Thea stood with hands unbound, hair pulled back, and lips unflinching.
"Thea," Leonidas said in a thunderous voice, his eyes gathered with anger as he rose from the throne. "You placed the one who dwells below in the sanctum of the Gods?"
"Eh?" Thea seemed visibly surprised. "The one who dwells below?"
"Yes, he who is the enemy of Archon. No, the enemy of mankind." Leonidas replied.
Thea's eyes fluttered in shock.
A murmur moved through the onlookers. Some of the priests turned away. Others watched with barely veiled fear.
But Leonidas did not blink.
He descended the dais, each step like the toll of a war drum. When he reached her, he extended his hand.
Thea shut her eyes reflexively, expecting a slap. But Leonidas spoke. "You brought an idol of an Olympian that was banned in the Empire of Archon. But you were only following the orders of your master. Hence, I will hand you a light punishment. Your punishment is that you will gather one hundred thousand oak leaves. Dry, unbroken, natural. And on each, with ink, not chisel or blade, you shall write the name of Zeus."
A sharp breath was drawn across the square.
Leonidas wasn't done yet.
He turned now to the row of sculptors—men with arms like corded rope, their tunics still stained with the work of gods. They had made the sanctuary, each hammering beauty from marble in obedience to the king's vision.
"You, artisans of misguided stone. One of your kinsmen dared to sculpt the statue of the one who is banned from worship. You will take your tools and depart."
Gasps now—raw and rising.
"For what land, Lord Leonidas?" one dared ask, his voice breaking.
"Exile," the king declared. "From all that bears my name. From the cities of light, the markets of trade, the temples of men. You may walk only where demons dwell, and build for those who thirst for war. Perhaps they will find use for your misguided hands."
"Have mercy!" cried Macar, the eldest among them. He fell to his knees, beard streaked white with marble dust and age. "We only carved what the gods asked! It is not fair to exile the whole community for the sin done by an individual."
Leonidas turned his head slowly. "This is not punishment, sculptor. This is a statement to the world."