The sea appeared first as a line of silver on the eastern horizon, then as a vast expanse of blue that hurt his eyes after the green and brown of the mountains. Adrestus had seen the ocean before, but never from this height, never with Skotadi's wings cutting through salt‑laden air. Below, the coast of Attica unrolled like a torn map—fishing villages reduced to ash, olive groves turned to charcoal, beaches littered with the wreckage of boats and bodies.
The smoke was everywhere. Not the clean smoke of hearth fires, but the black, greasy smoke of burning timber and burning flesh. It rose in columns from a dozen settlements, merging into a single dark cloud that blotted the sun. The air smelled of death and copper.
Adrestus descended. Skotadi folded her wings and dropped toward the shore, her hooves skimming the waves. He needed to see the ground, to understand the scope of the destruction. What he found made his blood run cold.
A fishing village—he never learned its name—had been annihilated. The buildings were collapsed, their stone walls shattered by something massive. The bodies of fishermen and their families lay in the streets, not slain by swords but crushed, as if a giant had walked through and stepped on everything in its path. A child's doll floated in a pool of blood. A dog lay beside its dead master, still trying to lick his hand.
Adrestus slid from Skotadi's back and knelt beside the dog. It whined and looked up at him with terrified eyes.
"I'm sorry," he said. He did not know why he said it. The dog could not understand. But the word needed to be spoken.
He rose and scanned the horizon. The tracks were easy to follow—a trail of destruction leading north, toward Athens. Cyclopes, at least three of them, judging by the size of the footprints. And behind them, thousands of smaller prints: undead soldiers, their feet leaving no blood, no mud, only the dry imprint of bones wrapped in leather.
Ares has unleashed his army, he thought. And the people here have no one to protect them.
He mounted Skotadi and flew north, following the trail of ash.
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He found the column an hour later.
The undead marched in loose formation, their movements jerky and unnatural. There were perhaps two hundred of them—skeletons wrapped in rotting armor, their eye sockets glowing with faint red light. They carried swords, spears, axes. Behind them lumbered a cyclops, fifteen feet tall, its single eye scanning the horizon. And above, circling like vultures, a flock of harpies.
They were heading toward a small promontory where a group of survivors had made their last stand. Adrestus could see them from the air—maybe thirty soldiers in Athenian armor, their shields locked, their spears pointed outward. Behind them, huddled against a crumbling watchtower, were civilians. Women. Children. Old men. They had nowhere to run. The sea was behind them, the undead before them.
The cyclops raised a massive club and roared.
Adrestus did not hesitate.
He drew Anemothēros—the Bow of the North Wind—and nocked an arrow. The red lightning surged along the shaft, coating the tip in crimson fire. He aimed at the cyclops's eye, drew, and released.
The arrow flew faster than sound. It struck the cyclops's eye dead center, and the red lightning exploded inside the socket. The creature screamed—a sound like a collapsing building—and staggered, its massive hands clawing at its face. It stumbled sideways, crashing into a cluster of undead, crushing them to dust.
The harpies shrieked and dove toward him. Adrestus fired again, again, again. Three harpies fell from the sky, their bodies smoking. The rest scattered, climbing higher, out of range for the moment.
He landed Skotadi between the undead column and the survivors. The black unicorn spread her wings and screamed a challenge that echoed off the cliffs. Adrestus slid from her back, drew Aetos Pheme, and let the red lightning coat the blade.
The undead turned to face him. Their red eyes flickered. They had no fear, no hesitation. They simply advanced.
Adrestus stepped forward.
The first rank fell in seconds. His spear thrust and withdrew, thrust and withdrew, each strike finding the gap between ribs, each strike sending a burst of red lightning through brittle bones. The undead crumbled to dust. He moved like water, flowing through their formation, never stopping, never letting them surround him. His absolute body control turned every dodge into a counter, every counter into a kill.
The Echo of Legend skill activated—each exchange granting him more damage, stacking, building. By the time he had killed fifty, his spear was a blur of crimson light, every thrust shattering three or four enemies at once.
The survivors watched from behind their shields. Their captain, a bearded man with a lion‑crested helmet, lowered his spear and stared.
"By the gods," he breathed. "Who is that?"
Adrestus did not answer. He was fighting.
The cyclops, despite its destroyed eye, was still alive. It swung its club in a blind arc, trying to crush him. Adrestus leaped onto the club, ran along its length, and drove Aetos Pheme into the creature's temple. The red lightning discharged directly into its brain. The cyclops froze, shuddered, and collapsed like a felled oak.
The remaining undead—perhaps sixty of them—turned and fled. They did not have fear, but they had programming. Without the cyclops to lead them, they scattered into the hills.
Adrestus stood in the center of the carnage, his chest heaving, his spear dripping with ichor and dust. The red lightning faded slowly, retreating into his veins. He turned to face the survivors.
Their captain stepped forward, removed his helmet, and knelt.
"I am Dorian, captain of the Athenian coastal guard." His voice was rough with exhaustion and awe. "You saved us. You saved all of us. Who do I thank?"
Adrestus extended a hand and helped the man to his feet. "My name is Adrestus. I'm here to help. The city—Athens—is it still standing?"
Dorian's face darkened. "For now. But Ares's army grows larger every day. There's a plague in the streets. The people are dying faster than we can bury them. And the gods..." He spat. "The gods do nothing."
Adrestus looked north, toward the city. The smoke was thicker there, a black bruise on the sky.
"Take your people inland," he said. "Find a cave or a fort. Hide until this is over."
"Where are you going?"
"To Athens." He mounted Skotadi and gathered the reins. "Someone has to light a fire under the gods."
The black unicorn leaped into the air, and Adrestus flew toward the burning city, leaving the survivors to count their dead and thank whatever gods still listened.
Behind him, the coast of Attica burned, and the war had only just begun.
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End of Chapter 27