“Melita! Melita, two men in armor stand by your door. They’re here for you.” Kore met Melita and Aree as they returned from their daily trip to the Agora, where she paid for a satchel full of goods with the money she stole from sailors and foreign merchants.

She swiftly pulled her son close, pressing him against the wall to keep him out of sight, and turned to Kore, “Any clue why they’re here?”

Kore shook her head. “I’ve never seen them before. Judging by their accents, they’re Aeolians.”

Melita came from Aeolia. A week’s walk eastward in fair weather. The nations were tense, with Aeolia controlling the land route between Athenion and Spartia, the two greatest powers in the region. Aeolia’s control imposed a peace both powers found convenient and irritating. “Did they act aggressive or threatening?”

“No, they greeted me with courtesy as I walked by. That’s how I caught their accent. The younger man complimented me; he’s quite charming.” Kore blushed deeply.

“Stay here with Aree. I’ll talk to them. Do I look presentable?” Melita adjusted her chiton, tightened her belt, and tucked loose strands away from her face and under her headscarf.

“You look good.” Kore nodded, reaching for Aree’s hand.

Melita took a deep breath and stepped into Scribe Alley. She had no problem spotting the two men waiting by the shop. One leaned against her door while the younger man smiled at passersby. The older man looked about Melita’s age, while the younger man’s patchy beard suggested he was between fifteen and seventeen. Both wore a linothorax breastplate of cloth hardened with glue, swords at their belt, and common wool cloaks on their shoulders. No shield. No spear. No helmet.

No spears, a good sign they weren’t here to arrest her. Melita approached with a welcoming smile. “Can I help you, gentlemen?”

The man stood, and both bowed politely. “I am Miltiades, son of Miltes.”

“… and Prince of Ekkos,” Melita completed. She remembered her encounter with the young prince years before. “Have you treated the abscess?”

Miltiades’ face fell, eyes wide with surprise. “How… How did you know?”

“Women have ways of knowing.” She smiled subtly, her amusement hidden beneath a calm demeanor.

Miltiades paused, deep in thought. “That is part of the reason I came. The short answer is no, I have not. Not yet. Not fully. Things spun out of control. And I now find myself without a kingdom and short on funds.”

“No crown, no gold. You have little to offer a woman.” Melita sought to understand why they stood at her door.

“We’re looking for Ptolos, the Scribe who worked with my father. We thought he might be able to help again.”

“And perhaps join us on our quest,” the younger man added.

“Sorry, but my husband passed. He never came back from his last reckless adventure. That was over five years ago…” She looked away, pretending to care about Ptolos.

“I apologize. I didn’t know. I assumed...” Miltiades looked troubled, biting his lower lip. The men exchanged uncertain looks.

Aree burst between Melita and the man, his little fists up and ready for a fight. “What do you want?”

Surprised, the man stepped back and raised his hands in mock surrender. “Whoa there, soldier. I wanted to ask about your dad.”

“Dad’s dead,” the boy replied, still in a fighting stance.

Melita’s soft laughter broke the tension, steering the moment away from hostility and nudging the boy toward the shop door. “Aree, inside. I’ll be there soon.” And turning to the men, she added. “The gods blessed me with a great protector. Consider yourselves warned, I’m not defenseless.”

Miltiades looked at the boy, who refused to move and dropped to one knee to look at the boy face-to-face. “Aree, is it? I have questions for your mother. We won’t be long.”

Aree tensed, readying himself to shield his mother. He spoke through clenched teeth. “I am Arakos, son of Ptolos. My friends call me Aree. Not you.”

“Arakos?” Miltiades repeated, his eyes darting from the boy to his mother. Miltiades narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing Aree as though connecting unseen dots. Melita saw he recognized the boy’s true father. “Is he…?”

Melita lifted a finger, glaring Miltiades to silence, preventing him from finishing his sentence. “Aree. Inside. Now.” She nudged the boy toward the door and waited for him to enter. Aware of the growing interest from nearby neighbors, she invited the men inside to continue the conversation away from prying eyes. She waved Kore off, confirming everything was fine.

Inside, dust motes danced in the narrow beams of sunlight piercing the small windows of the shop, the smell of ink and parchment thick in the air. Melita spoke slowly, carefully enunciating each word. “My son’s father is the scribe Ptolos, son of Philippos. Is that clear?” They nodded in silent complicity, endorsing the unspoken lie of Aree’s parentage.

Melita retreated into the kitchen, placing her satchel on the table and removing her headscarf before returning to the shop, where the men waited, whispering together. Their sudden excitement was unmistakable.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

Miltiades inquired, “Do you know Arakos' whereabouts?”

“We seek the aid of a hero with his strength and renown,” Petrokles interjected, brimming with enthusiasm.

“He disappeared as well.” Melita shut her mouth so as not to show her jaw quiver. This one hurt. She turned away, arranging scrolls on the shelves, using the brief moment to gather herself before turning back.

Again, the young man spoke with his youthful enthusiasm, saying, “I hope to prove myself on this expedition... Having Arakos with us would have made it all much easier.”

“Are you among those heroes?” Melita asked him.

“Yes, ma’am. I am Petrokles, son of Diomes, my lady. Arakos saved me in Ekkos during the battle against the Titan.” His voice betrayed an intense admiration. As she recalled, the events unfolded differently, but she let it pass.

Miltiades cut in. “I met Arakos on the road and learned much from our short meeting.”

Aree reappeared, clutching a piece of bread and a small coin. His mother asked him, “Where are you going, young man?”

“Thank Hermes for his genosty!” He said as he got to the door.

“It’s ge-ne-ro-si-ty.” But the boy was gone, and the door closed by the time of the last syllable. Turning to the men, she mumbled an apology.

Petrokles cast a curious glance at Melita. “If you don’t mind my asking. Have I seen you before? You look familiar. His wife! You aided my father with his leg! I never thanked you.” Petrokles grabbed and shook Melita’s hand.

“Melita, please.”

“Thank you, Melita. For my parents.”

Miltiades interrupted. “Time is short. Will you help us?”

“I honed the magical skills of my late husband and traveled across many lands. I’ll see what I can do.” Melita said, unable to stop herself.

“I don’t know how I could possibly express my gratitude.” Miltiades flashed a smile before his attitude turned serious with a new intensity. “How can we destroy that which cannot be killed?”

Melita sifted through the pile of scrolls, feigning a search. “Impossible to kill? A Titan… You plan to take on that monster beneath Ekkos! Bold. Risky.”

“Yes. We considered sailing to Minosia to consult the priests of Hephaestus. They have weapons and machines that might help.” Miltiades suggested, looking to Petrokles to support his idea.

Melita shook her head. “What use is a weapon against a Titan? You can’t kill it. Not forever…”

Petrokles cut in. “A wolf doesn’t always have to be killed. Sometimes, you just have to keep it at a distance…” Petrokles nodded.

“Yes. Let me find you a torch to drive it away. Leave the specifics to me.” Melita had no idea how to deal with A city-sized wolf… She wanted to project confidence but wondered if it could be done.

Petrokles broke the silence. “Should we visit the Great Oracle?”

Yes, Melita thought. “You might seek the oracle of Poseidon in Piraeus. A generous offering of gold might earn the sea god’s favor.”

“That’ll save us weeks of walking!” Petrokles patted his friend’s shoulder.

“I’ll need to know when you plan to sail and make preparations; I can’t leave Aree alone.”

“There’s a lot to arrange for a trip like this. At least a month. That puts us at the beginning of autumn…” Miltiades didn’t appear pleased with that answer.

Melita spread a large map of Olympia across the table, covering the scrolls and books. The thrill of adventure reignited a forgotten spark within her. Her breath came in short bursts. The three studied the map while Melita discussed locations and potential routes, though nothing caught their attention.

After the men left, Melita assured them she would remain in contact via magical messengers and inform them of any new developments. As she shut the door, a surge of excitement rushed through her.

A new adventure!

Aree returned to her thoughts only after being left alone in the shop. A wave of dizziness washed over her. How had she forgotten him so easily? Was she becoming like her divine father, drifting from one matter to the next without considering the consequences? Her head spun. The boy had been her whole world for years, and now a short visit from old friends had turned her life upside down.

She hated having to choose—between her son and this new journey. That a short conversation had turned her entire life upside down.

She hated herself even more that she did not choose her boy.

* * *

“That went better than I expected. I thought I’d find a crusty old curmudgeon who would shut down any idea we had with an I told you so, or That’s not how magic works, you fool. Melita will be the key to our success. The gods smile upon us today!” Miltiades clasped his hands, excitement coursing through him as they strolled through the bustling agora.

A step behind, Petrokles grunted, his gaze wandering, uninterested in the bustling stalls around them. He added nothing to the conversation.

Miltiades continued without noticing his friend's lack of engagement. They crossed the Agora until they got to a wine merchant where a shapely woman in a revealing dress offered them spiced wine. The prince asked for two with his fingers. She gestured for them to sit at a nearby table, added drops of honey, and stirred the wine with a cinnamon stick.

Extending a wooden cup to Petrokles, Miltiades asked. “What’s wrong?”

Petrokles took a deep breath. “I always thought he was immortal. That he would live through anything by sheer willpower.”

“Who?”

“Arakos. I always thought I’d meet him again.” His words faded into a whisper. “Only when we meet in the Afterlife.”

Miltiades gave his shoulder a reassuring pat. “Don’t worry, my friend. Together, we’ll craft a story that Hades himself will hear before we arrive. When the time comes, Arakos will be waiting for you on the other side. Melita will find us the information we need. Beneath the dust of that shop, our answer lies hidden. How do we kill what cannot be killed?”

Petrokles took a sip of wine. “You are right.” His voice was flat, devoid of enthusiasm.

“We’ll rebuild Ekkos anew.” Miltiades gestured vividly as he described the scene, tracing outlines in the air. “Better and more beautiful than it ever was. Your children will race up to the palace from the docks through the bustling market.”

Petrokles sighed, weariness etched into his expression. “I don’t see how it matters anymore, Miltiades. It’s all just... gone. Our people scattered to the four winds.”

Miltiades’ voice faltered for a second before he masked it with another broad gesture. “Don’t give me that… Not now. We finally have someone who can help us… ”

“I don’t know… Maybe we should leave the past behind, Miltiades…”

Miltiades took Petrokles cheeks and forced him to look into his eyes. “Just… Imagine the Temple of Zeus rising above the plain, inviting pilgrims and merchants to the safety of our walls. Its white marble columns of the temple gleaming under the sun, visible for miles.” He let go to trace his vision with his fingers.

“Yes, I see it,” Petrokles swirled the wine in his cup, watching it dance along the edge.

Miltiades motioned for more wine, his words quickening with excitement. “First, we deal with the beast. Then we take revenge on those who preyed on our people.” That got Petrokles’ interest.

“Really?” He lifted his eyes from his cup.

“Just the two of us, side by side.” Petrokles’ enthusiasm slowly returned. “That’s the spirit! I’ll find you a beautiful princess to marry!”

From the extreme periphery of his vision, a figure in a long brown robe caught his eye. Miltiades’ pulse quickened as the figure in brown seemed to melt into the shadows, too quickly to be human. It could not have been a mere trick of the light. There are no coincidences in Olympia.

Not when the gods roamed the streets among mortals.