The forest breathed damply, each leaf dripping with the weight of a rain that would not cease. His world had lost its color. The mud clung to Cadmus like cold hands. A promise to keep.
The ambush. Lysander, impetuous. His own hesitation, a split second sown from the memory of a mother saving him from wolves. The ash spear, swift. Lysander's throat, drowning in his own blood, his eyes wide with surprise. The killer's smile, a satyr with broken horns.
Guilt was an acid. The red storm that followed was not vengeance; it was self-punishment.
"You don't reason with slaves, Cadmus. They understand better when the rules are carved into their backs."
His uncle's voice reverberated in his head. He did not reason.
The barn. The smell of death and rain. The female fell first. The old one next. Finally, Lysander's killer, terror in his eyes before Cadmus's dagger found his heart. The ringing of blood in his ears. Silence.
And then, a sob.
It came from a dark corner. A child. A small satyr, with her father's eyes, watching him from behind a pile of hay. He raised the dagger, the steel dripping. The cycle had to end.
She did not scream. She just stared at him, her voice small and terribly calm.
— Kill me too. Please.
The words. The dagger weighed a ton. The rage vanished, replaced by a horror that stole his breath. He saw the monster.
And then, she screamed. A scream not of fear, but of infinite pain. A scream that broke him in two and cursed him forever.
The scream shattered the dream.
— Cadmus?
The voice came from far away. He opened his eyes. His face was wet. Not rain, but water from a spilled vase of flowers. The smell of blood lingered, but now it mixed with incense. He shot up, back to the wall, his hand searching for a phantom dagger.
Roxana stood a few steps away, holding a lamp. The golden light illuminated half her face. Her eyes showed no fear, only a quiet curiosity.
— Hey — she insisted, her voice soft. — You were screaming. And crying.
He wiped an arm across his face, his hands trembling with shame; he hid them. The sound echoed in his mind. Clang. Clang.
— I'm not crying — he grumbled, his voice hoarse. — It's the rain.
She raised the lamp, illuminating the overturned vase. She didn't expose him. Instead, she approached slowly, like one would approach a wounded animal. He tensed, his body ready to fight or flee. She stopped and placed a piece of bread wrapped in linen at his feet. Then, she retreated.
He stared at the bread. A monster covered in blood, and she was offering him food. That simple, undeserved act of kindness wounded him more than any blade.
— Dreams are liars — she said, not as a comfort, but as a statement of fact. — We are safe.
He didn't answer. The image of the girl begging for death. Roxana's face. He had expected revulsion, fear. But all he received was a piece of bread.
— How… how are you? — he asked, his voice failing, the first question that wasn't about tactics or survival.
A smile that didn't touch her lips, but shone in her eyes.
— I'm better. And… thank you. Truly. — She turned to leave. — Come. Demosthenes arrived at dawn. You need some air.
He stood still until her footsteps faded. He knelt and picked up the bread. He broke it in half, as he used to do with Lysander. The first bite almost made him choke. In the corner, his father's helmet. He stood and touched the cold bronze. Clang. Clang. This time, the sound seemed hollow, the echo of a world that was no longer the only one that existed.
When he stepped outside, the sky was beginning to lighten in the shades of a healing wound. Roxana was watching the horizon, her mantle fluttering in the wind like an owl's wings. She didn't look back, but said, her voice so low it could have been the wind itself:
— Even the dead need their rest, Cadmus.
He didn't answer. But, for the first time in a long while, he didn't reach into his pocket for an almond. The hunger he felt was not for food.