The night brought no sleep. It brought clarity. Back in the slave dormitory, Hermes saw Agouri's terrified face, heard the echo of his sobs, felt the weight of the truth about Theseus's fate. The apathy, the guilt, the despair—everything had been burned away, leaving only the cold, sharp metal of a purpose.
The plan formed in his mind, not with the complexity of a strategist, but with the brutal simplicity of a predator.
Chaos. Weapon. Action.
He did not wait. He slipped out of the dormitory, his movements no longer those of a haunted ghost, but of a shadow with intent. His first destination was the gardeners' tool shed.
The guards' swords were out of reach, but there he found something he knew: a heavy pruning tool, with a curved, cruel blade used for cutting the thickest branches of the olive trees. He tested its weight in his hand. It was clumsy, brutal. Perfect.
His second destination was the stable. The place smelled of dry hay, leather, and animals. It was the beating heart of the villa's logistics—and its most flammable material. With a flint stolen from the kitchen and a handful of hay, he began his storm. A small spark, fed carefully, became a flame that licked at the dry hay and clung to the old wood of the stalls. In minutes, an orange blaze was roaring into the night sky.
He did not stay to admire his work. As the first cries of "Fire!" split the silence and he saw the silhouettes of guards running toward the smoke and chaos, Hermes moved in the opposite direction, the pruning tool gripped tightly in his hand, heading for the heart of the house.
The kitchen's service door was unguarded. He entered. The villa's interior was beginning to awaken to the pandemonium. Servants ran, voices shouted orders. It was the cover he needed. Keeping to the shadows of the corridors, he headed for the west wing.
Two guards, left behind to protect the main hall, were the first. They saw him too late, mistaking him for a panicked servant for just a second.
"Go back!" one of them shouted.
Hermes's reply was a growl that rose from deep in his chest. He advanced.
The first guard raised his spear, but its arc was long and predictable. Hermes slipped inside the thrust, his body moving with a fluidity not born in the mine, but echoing a long-forgotten dance between lightning and thunder. The curved blade of the pruning tool found the man's throat. The sound was horrible—a wet tear—and the guard fell, drowning in his own blood before he could even understand what had happened.
The second guard, seeing his companion fall, shouted and drew his short sword. He was faster. The sword's blade cut through the air, and Hermes felt a sharp pain in his forearm as he dodged. Blood ran down, hot and real—a reminder of his mortality. But the pain only fueled his fury. He ignored the wound and slammed into the guard, using his body's weight to throw him off balance. They fell together in a tangle of limbs. The guard tried to drive the sword into his ribs, but Hermes caught his wrist with a strength born from months of breaking stone. With his other hand, he drove the sharp tip of the pruning tool into the man's eye. The scream was cut short. The body went limp.
Hermes rose, panting, the guard's blood and his own mingled on his skin. He looked at the two bodies on the marble floor—the villa's luxury now stained with the carnage he had brought. He felt no remorse. He felt nothing but the urgency of his mission.
He crossed the kitchen, exiting through the door on the other side, which led to the gardens.
No guards in this area—probably by order of the Lady herself, who liked to be alone with her "plants."
"Excellent," he thought.
He approached the bushes without bothering to hide. He wanted to be seen. He wanted to cause fear.
He heard rustling in one of the shrubs and drew closer. He spotted the back of his tormentor, desperately trying to pull on his tunic.
"Faster, you fool!" A sharp, familiar female voice called from deeper in the garden.
The man had no time to respond. Mid-hop as he tried to dress, he was swept off his feet by a kick to his supporting leg. The dull thud of his fall and his groan of pain were followed by a thrust into his neck.
His eyes went wide, unable to produce any sound beyond the choking on his own blood. His last sight was Hermes's bloodstained face, twisted by fury.
Hermes moved toward the garden's center, pushing aside the bushes that stood in his way.
"Hurry up, you—" The female voice shouted again.
But when the shadowy figure approaching pushed aside the last bush between them, she fell silent. Shock took over her face.
"Y-you! You bastard—" She cried out in panic, stepping back.
Hermes answered with a glare of pure hatred. Teeth bared. A beast.
Before she could escape, he lunged forward and, with brutal strength, hurled her to the ground.
She begged. She pleaded for forgiveness and, in the end, with a pathetic smile and tears in her eyes, she said:
"I wish I had never pulled you out of that damned mine."
"I bet you do."
SLASH
One clean cut ended that part of his vengeance, sending Lady Kratos's soul to the underworld.
Hermes rose from her body and turned back toward the main house.
Re-entering the marble corridors, chaos reigned. Servants ran in panic—some fleeing the fire in the stables, others the screams now coming from the gardens. They saw him—a lone figure covered in blood, wielding the cruel blade of a gardener—and moved away, terror in their faces.
Hermes ignored them. His mind was locked, a predator following a trail. He moved toward the west wing, the path to the Young Lord's chambers.
As he passed a corridor that connected to the medical wing, a door opened. The slave-healer—the same man who had tended to Theseus—appeared in the doorway. His eyes widened in terror at the sight of Hermes, bloodied and relentless. Hermes tensed, waiting for the alarmed shout that would seal his fate.
But it didn't come. The healer looked at Hermes, then down the corridor toward the Young Lord's chambers, from which voices of command were now audible. The fear on his face wrestled for a moment with another emotion—a flicker of old, weary hatred.
With a trembling but deliberate motion, he pointed to the corridor's end.
"West wing," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "Phylo… he already knows. I… I'm sorry."
Without waiting for an answer, the healer stepped back into the infirmary and shut the door, leaving Hermes alone with the information. It was a small betrayal—a tiny act of rebellion born of regret. And it was all Hermes needed. The confirmation that his target was ahead, and that time was running out.
He followed the corridor toward the Young Lord's chambers—and stopped. His path was blocked. Four guards, part of the family's personal guard, stood as a wall of shields and swords. And in front of them, his face pale with rage but eyes as cold as ever, stood Phylo, the administrator.
"Murderer!" Phylo spat the word. "You will take no further step. Lord Kratos has been alerted. Your madness ends here."
Hermes raised the bloodied pruning tool. The fire of vengeance burned in his eyes.
...