It had been weeks since Albert and Bruno began their training under the Spartans. To Albert, every day felt like punishment from the gods. His arms were weak, his feet unsteady, and combat seemed to reject him at every turn. Still, he had at least learned how to hold a stance without collapsing face-first into the dirt.
Bruno, on the other hand, fought like a wounded beast. Every strike he threw carried the weight of vengeance and the desperate need to survive the coming trial by combat. His body bled, bruised, and swayed, yet his spirit burned so fiercely that even some of the older Spartan boys began to respect him.
Training was merciless. Boys as young as seven fought with a discipline that dwarfed anything Albert had known back home. Their teachers were only a few years older, but already their eyes were cold as iron. Against them, Bruno and Albert felt like infants.
And then came the days Albert dreaded most—training without clothes. To the Spartans, it was discipline and equality; to Albert, it was humiliation. Today was one of those days.
From behind the shadow of a marble statue, Albert watched Bruno sparring bare-chested with a wooden sword. The boy clashed against opponents half his size, yet each strike rained down on Bruno with frightening precision. Bruises painted his skin purple and red, but Bruno's jaw only clenched tighter as he pressed on.
Albert shivered, muttering to himself, "Such monsters."
"Maybe they are."
The voice came sharp and cold, right behind his ear. Albert flinched. He spun around and froze.
Standing there was a young woman—tall, broad-shouldered, with muscles sculpted like marble. Her jaw was sharp, her stance unyielding. She was his age, yet her presence carried the weight of someone who had already lived and fought twice his years.
Albert's mind stumbled back to Oxford, to Professor Aidan Milgruf's lecture about the gulf between Spartan and Athenian women. Warriors and mothers, both, the professor had said. And now one stood before him.
"U-um, I didn't hear you coming," Albert stammered.
The woman smirked. "That's the point."
Albert blinked. "The point…?"
"You're not from here." Her tone was blunt, matter-of-fact. "It's obvious you don't understand our ways."
"I—I know a few things," Albert blurted, too quickly. "I studied you."
Her eyes narrowed. "Studied us?"
His heart skipped. Too careless. He couldn't reveal he was from the future. Nobody would believe him, and if they did, it could end in disaster. He forced a nervous laugh. "I mean, I've been studying your customs while staying here. That's all."
The woman gave him a long look, suspicion flickering before she sighed. "Strange. But I suppose that matches you. You demanded trial by combat, and even begged for a year to prepare." Her laugh was short and sharp.
"Bruno will fight for both of us," Albert muttered, defensive. "We'll earn our freedom with honor."
Her laugh grew louder, mocking. "Naïve. Spartans train from the age of seven. Even if you had ten years, you'd never match us. Your friend has spirit, yes—but spirit without skill is nothing."
Albert's throat went dry. Books back in Oxford had prepared him for this, but facing a Spartan woman's words cut deeper than any text. His eyes drifted back to the sandpit, where Bruno collapsed, beaten bloody by a boy no older than twelve. Albert's stomach knotted. This was going to be far harder than he ever imagined.
The woman turned to leave. Over her shoulder, she gave her name. "Kyra."
Albert blinked as the syllables lingered.
"Live while you can, Albert. You never know what's coming."
And then she was gone.
Albert sagged back against the statue, his thoughts spiraling. For a heartbeat, he swore he saw the two Spartan kings—Agesilaos and Archidamos—locked in combat on the training ground, their blades flashing in the sun, sparks leaping like fireflies. Was it a vision? A dream?
The thought vanished with pain exploding across his cheek.
"Wake up, idiot!" Bruno's fist pulled back for another strike. "If you can't fight, at least don't sit around daydreaming. Water."
Still dazed, Albert handed over the flask. Bruno's body was battered and naked, but his eyes burned with defiance. Albert fell silent, unease gnawing at him.
Why did that feel so real…?
Meanwhile, in Athens
The palace blazed with torchlight. Marble columns dripped with ivy and laurel garlands, while the air swelled with the scent of roasted lamb, spiced wine, and honeyed figs. Nobles from across allied city-states filled the great hall, their cloaks dyed in crimson, indigo, and deep violet, bronze brooches glinting in the firelight. Lyres and flutes played over the din of laughter, while dancers spun in silk peploi, their golden girdles flashing as their jeweled braids caught the light.
At the center of it all sat Princess Damaris, veiled in silk, her gown pure white edged with threads of gold. A diadem crowned her brow, glittering like moonlight. Beside her sat Richard, cloaked in mystery, the "messenger's device" he once revealed still burning in every whisper.
But beneath the revelry, unease lingered. To some, their union was a blessing of Olympus. To others, it reeked of folly.
"Don't be full of yourself," Damaris whispered, her lips curved in a perfect smile for the crowd. "Although… you're doing a decent job at acting."
Her fingers tightened around Richard's trembling hand. Outwardly, he looked composed—upright, steady—but the shaking betrayed him.
"I just miss my animes," Richard muttered, sulking like a boy dragged to a lecture.
Damaris's brow twitched. She leaned closer, voice like honey over steel. "Say that word again, and I'll shoot you with my arrows."
Richard swallowed hard.
Leo, ever watchful, intercepted nobles before they could pin Richard down with questions. His tongue was silver, his presence commanding, but not everyone was so easily dissuaded.
"So… Leo, was it?" A voice cut through the music, sly and sharp.
An old noble leaned forward, his jeweled fingers tapping his goblet. His cunning eyes gleamed despite his drunken flush. "You claim to advise this 'messenger.' But I have heard whispers—cheap tricks, sleight of hand. Tell me, why should Athens believe such nonsense? Why should our princess be shackled to a fraud?"
Nearby lords shifted uncomfortably, the words spilling farther than intended.
"I understand your concern, Lord Nikandros," Leo replied smoothly, voice calm as still water. "But both the Messenger and I proved ourselves before the king himself."
Nikandros laughed, the sound crude and sharp. "Proved? To a desperate king willing to sell his daughter for spectacle?"
The King rose then, his voice firm, cutting through the hall. "I think you are tired, Nikandros. Rest would do you good."
But the old man stepped forward, emboldened. "Tired? No. Ashamed! That you, King of Athens, would give your daughter to a nameless stranger. A stain on your house!"
The hall hushed. The king's jaw clenched, but he remained composed. "He is no stranger. He is the Messenger of Olympus, and I have seen proof with my own eyes."
Nikandros sneered. "Proof? From a king who himself married a bastard woman? Your bloodline is already tainted!"
Silence froze the hall. The insult cut deeper than any blade.
Damaris's smile didn't falter as she glided toward him. "Oh, Lord Nikandros," she said sweetly, embracing him in what looked like kindness. To the guests, it was nothing more than grace.
But in the shadow of her sleeve, her jeweled ring shifted. A hidden blade slid free. With a subtle twist of her wrist, the steel kissed his ribs. Nikandros stiffened, but Richard was already at her side, his tall frame blocking the sight.
"You must be tired," Damaris whispered, her smile radiant. "I pray to the gods for your health."
When she stepped back, Richard gathered the man into his arms, covering the wound. To the hall, it looked like compassion—the Messenger escorting a drunken noble with dignity. Only Leo and the King saw the truth, their eyes unreadable.
The music swelled again. The feast resumed. And Princess Damaris's smile shone like moonlight—bright, beautiful, merciless.
Meanwhile, in Olympus
The marble halls of Olympus shimmered in eternal twilight, clouds drifting like silver veils around the thrones of the gods. Aphrodite's laughter broke the stillness.
"My, my, Athena… blessing your champion so soon? How unlike you."
Athena stood at the edge, her gaze fixed on the mortal world. She did not turn. "He would have been helpless otherwise."
"So you admit your mortal is weak," Aphrodite teased, her words like honey dripping with venom.
"Wisdom is knowing strength and weakness," Athena replied calmly. "To blind oneself with false optimism is the truest weakness. I know Albert's limits—and his worth."
A slow clap echoed, thunder crackling faintly in its wake. A flash of light revealed Zeus, towering, his storm-gray eyes heavy with power.
"Well spoken, daughter."
Aphrodite leaned lazily on her throne. "What a rare sight. The King of Olympus graces us himself."
Zeus ignored her tone. His gaze swept between them. "I bring counsel, not ceremony."
Athena finally turned, curiosity sharpening her features. "What is it, Father?"
"Be wary of Hades," Zeus said. His voice was calm, but thunder rumbled in the clouds above. "I sense shadows stirring in his domain."
Aphrodite tilted her head, her golden hair spilling like silk. "And what proof do you offer? A whim?"
Zeus's eyes narrowed. "He is my brother. I know the weight of his silence. Instinct tells me he moves against us."
Athena and Aphrodite exchanged a glance—doubt and unease flickering in their eyes. Athena, ever perceptive, saw that her father was withholding something. But she did not push.
"Be cautious," Zeus finished, his voice like rolling thunder. Lightning flashed, and he was gone.
Silence lingered in the glow of Olympus. Athena's gaze returned to the earth below, her thoughts sharpened like a blade. Somewhere, she knew, the first pieces of a far greater game were already in motion.