A week had passed since the Trial of Spartacus. The bruises on Atreus' ribs still throbbed when he breathed, and the cut across his shoulder had only just begun to close. The elders spoke of his cleverness, of how he outwitted boys larger and stronger. But for Atreus, their words felt heavy, not triumphant. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the mysterious warrior from the arena—the stranger who tested him and vanished without a trace.
At night, the village quieted. Fires burned low, the clang of hammers and the bark of orders fading into the rhythm of crickets and wind. Atreus sat alone in his grove, staring at the canopy above. The stars peeked between leaves like watchful eyes.
That was when the presence came.
It was not seen, nor heard in the way a man speaks—but felt. A weight pressed on his chest, a warmth coiled in his bones, and then a voice slid into his thoughts like a blade into water.
"You are clever, Atreus."
He sat up sharply, clutching the worn spear by his side.
"Who's there?"
The voice was calm, deep, and commanding. It seemed to rise from the earth itself.
"A mortal who sees what others cannot. A man who turns weakness into strength. You intrigue me."
Atreus' breath quickened. "Why me?"
A low, amused chuckle echoed, though no lips made it.
"Because you carry something rare. Something that must be shaped, refined. One of your elders has seen it in you—though he may not yet understand what he has nurtured. He gave you lessons others would never grant. He tempered your mind as well as your body. He made you ready."
Ata's weathered face flashed in Atreus' mind—his cane striking the dirt, his sharp eyes gleaming whenever Atreus learned quickly. The old man had always pushed him harder, made him lift stones twice his size, forced him to think three moves ahead in combat.
The voice pressed deeper.
"You are no ordinary mortal. And you will not remain as one. Only a vessel prepared through patience and fire can endure what is coming. I seek such a vessel—not a slave, not a servant—but a bearer of wrath."
Atreus shook his head violently, his defiance burning even as his heart pounded. "I don't trust gods."
The voice hummed, almost like a predator circling prey.
"Trust is irrelevant. Power waits for no one. Refuse me, and you walk into the jaws of wolves unarmed. Accept me, and survival will bend in your favor. Even your tormentors will bow in time."
Atreus lowered his eyes to his scarred hands. He remembered Ata's words during training: "Pain can forge you—or destroy you. Decide which." The lessons that seemed only human suddenly carried a heavier weight, as though someone else had whispered them long before.
At last, he whispered, "I will listen. But only as a tool—not a master."
The air shivered as if in amusement.
"That is enough."
The presence receded like smoke, leaving a heat in his chest that did not fade.
But another voice came—this one real.
"Atreus?"
He spun, startled, spear raised. Selene stood just beyond the grove's edge, carrying a small basket of herbs and bread. Her cloak was dusted from the path; she had come from tending the sick in the village outskirts. Her silver hair caught the faint starlight, eyes narrowed with both concern and curiosity.
"Who were you speaking to?" she asked softly, tilting her head. "I heard your voice. Like you were answering someone."
Atreus froze. His pulse hammered. "I… I wasn't. Just… talking to myself."
Selene frowned, unconvinced. She knelt and set the basket beside him, the soft smell of herbs rising between them. "You're a terrible liar," she said, half-smiling but her tone edged with worry. "Was it Cassian again? Or the others? Did they follow you here?"
"No," Atreus said quickly, shaking his head. His eyes drifted to the shadows of the grove, where the echo of that other voice still lingered. "It was nothing."
Selene studied him, quiet for a long time. Then she sighed and touched his arm. "You carry too much in silence. Whatever it is, I hope it doesn't consume you."
He didn't answer. Couldn't.
As she sat with him in the grove, sharing quiet bread and watching the stars, Atreus felt the strange weight in his chest burn faintly. Somewhere, something far greater than them both had begun to stir.
From the edge of the trees, Ata watched, cane pressed into the dirt. His face betrayed nothing, but his eyes glinted with thoughts unspoken.