The enemy forces, though still vastly outnumbering their opponents, found themselves caught in a deadly vice. They were surrounded, their lines ensnared by a well-orchestrated ambush that had thrown them into disarray. Panic spread like wildfire through their ranks as the realization set in: they were trapped.
Above them, the sky was alight with the fury of the mages, who unleashed a relentless barrage of destructive spells. The ground shook as fireballs, lightning bolts, and shards of ice rained down upon the invaders. Explosions ripped through their formations, tearing apart men and earth alike, while torrents of magical energy swept across the battlefield, leaving nothing but devastation in their wake. The air was thick with the acrid scent of smoke and ozone, the once-organized ranks of the enemy reduced to a chaotic, writhing mass of bodies struggling to survive the onslaught.
But the true horror descended from the skies, where the noble warrior monks of Juno swooped down on their majestic, armored birds. These formidable creatures, their wings spanning wide and their talons gleaming like sharpened steel, plunged into the fray with deadly precision. The monks, skilled and merciless, directed their mounts with practiced ease, targeting the enemy banners and their bearers with chilling efficiency.
With swift, lethal strikes, the birds snatched the banners from the hands of their bearers, lifting both fabric and men high into the air. The hapless soldiers, gripped by the armored talons, were hauled skyward, their desperate screams lost in the howling winds. And then, in a horrifying moment of realization, they were released, plummeting back to the earth far below. The impact was bone-shattering, their broken bodies left as grim reminders of the monks' ruthlessness. The banners, once symbols of protection and unity, fluttered uselessly as they were carried off, leaving the enemy exposed and vulnerable.
The loss of the banners was catastrophic. These symbols were not just decorative; they were the heart of the enemy's defense, crucial for maintaining the protective Aegis shields that kept them safe from magical attacks. Without them, the invaders were stripped of their last line of defense. The mages, sensing the vulnerability, redoubled their efforts. With no shields to deflect the onslaught, the enemy was pummeled mercilessly. Spells tore through their ranks with impunity, reducing even the most heavily armored soldiers to ash and cinder.
But the defenders’ greatest advantage came from the skies.
High above the battlefield, Artemis perched on the back of a majestic gryphon, her keen eyes piercing the darkness. Despite the night’s deep shadows, she could see every detail of the chaotic battle below as if it were midday. Her heart pounded as she watched the desperate struggle unfold.
"There is a strong man on the left… he’s killing them! He’s killing them!" she cried out, her voice filled with urgency.
The old general beside her remained calm, his years of experience allowing him to assess the situation with a steely composure. His earring, a symbol of his command, glowed faintly as he issued his orders with a voice of authority. "Send the blacksmith’s wife to duel the champion," he instructed, his tone steady despite the chaos.
On the ground, a warrior monk of Juno was coordinating the defense with the precision of a seasoned commander. Unlike her sisters, who fought from the skies, she stood amidst the fray, her round shield and spear a symbol of her unwavering resolve. Her eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned the battlefield, searching for any sign of weakness in the enemy's lines.
"Kaveh!" she called out, her voice cutting through the din of battle. The child she summoned was a formidable sight, his small frame encased in a lamellar armor so thick it covered him like a protective shell. His helmet, fashioned with a steel plate shaped like a face, gave him an almost otherworldly appearance as he wielded a great hammer with surprising strength. The boy had just smashed through an enemy's shield, his youthful energy unmatched.
"Y-yes?" Kaveh responded, breathless but eager, his wide eyes peering through the narrow slits of his helmet.
"Call your mother! We need her to face the champion on the left. He’s wielding a great axe and is covered in golden armor," she commanded, her voice firm.
Without hesitation, Kaveh nodded and dashed back through the lines, his heart pounding with urgency. He found his mother, a formidable woman, drinking water from a goatskin, her breath steady and measured despite the turmoil around her.
"Mother," he called out, his voice tinged with both reverence and urgency. "A champion was spotted on the left. He’s wielding a great axe."
The woman, a seasoned warrior with a stoic expression, merely nodded in acknowledgment. She was the blacksmith’s wife, known for her skill in both crafting weapons and wielding them with deadly precision. With a swift motion, she drew her sword and closed the visor of her helmet, the faceplate mirroring that of her son’s. The steel visage was cold and impassive, a reflection of her resolve.
She moved with the grace of a dancer and the precision of a predator, weaving through the throngs of soldiers with deadly intent. Her target was clear—the enemy champion who had been cutting down her comrades with brutal efficiency. Bodies flew through the air, and the stench of blood and sweat hung heavy in the air as she approached.
The enemy champion, a hulking figure clad in golden armor, spotted her. His eyes narrowed behind his visor as he swung his massive axe with the force of a battering ram. But the blacksmith’s wife was quicker, her movements a blur as she sidestepped the blow with practiced ease. The axe cleaved through the air where she had stood moments before, but she was already behind him, her sword flashing as it found the vulnerable spot behind his knee.
A sharp cry of pain erupted from the champion as he fell to one knee, the deep cut in his flesh oozing blood. Every movement sent waves of agony through his body, his strength sapped as he struggled to remain standing.
"There are men in armor in the middle… they all have fancy armor," Artemis reported from above, her eyes never leaving the battlefield. "They’re being protected by Aegis shields."
The general’s eyes flickered with recognition. "Send in our best troops to the center," he commanded, his voice unwavering.
Below, the defenders rallied with every ounce of strength they could muster, their best warriors surging toward the center of the battlefield. But even as they fought with renewed determination, it was clear to Artemis from her vantage point high above that they were struggling. The defenders were a motley assembly of farmers, tailors, blacksmiths—ordinary people thrust into extraordinary circumstances. Against the trained and battle-hardened invaders, they were slowly being pushed back, their resolve tested by the relentless assault.
Artemis’s sharp eyes scanned the chaos below, and her heart clenched as she spotted her grandmother, Leto, in the thick of the battle. Leto was fending off attackers with the grace and skill of a seasoned warrior, but even she was being overwhelmed. Artemis watched in horror as Leto was struck down, her body hitting the ground hard. The moment seemed to stretch into eternity, the sounds of battle fading as fear gripped Artemis’s heart. Leto would have been killed if not for the swift intervention of a warrior monk, who dashed to her aid, fending off the attackers with desperate ferocity.
Anger and desperation surged through Artemis. She drew her bow, the weapon glowing with a brilliant light that cut through the darkness like a beacon. It was as if a new star had been born in the night sky, its radiance casting shadows on the battlefield below.
Artemis scanned the enemy ranks, her gaze locking onto a soldier in the most ornate armor she could see. The man was surrounded by a protective barrier of Aegis shields, shimmering in the night. But Artemis’s focus was unbreakable, her hands steady as she drew the bowstring back, the arrow glowing even brighter as it prepared to be unleashed.
Beside her, Apollo looked up, concern etched on his face. “Sis?”
But Artemis was beyond hearing, her mind singularly focused on her target. Far below, the mighty birds of Juno swooped down, their armored talons grabbing the enemy banners and carrying them high into the sky. Without their banners, the enemy soldiers began to panic, their morale crumbling as their symbols of protection were ripped from their grasp.
With a deep breath, Artemis released her arrow. It streaked through the night, a blazing comet of light that arced across the battlefield with unerring precision. The world seemed to hold its breath as the arrow flew, the air crackling with energy as it bore down on its target.
The arrow hit the ground with a force that defied imagination, as if a meteor had crashed into the heart of the battlefield. The impact was cataclysmic. In an instant, the enemy’s position was consumed by a blinding explosion of light, so intense it seemed as though a new moon had been born among them. The ground trembled violently, and the night was torn asunder by the sheer magnitude of the blast.
The explosion erupted outward in a searing wave of destruction, swallowing everything in its path. Warriors were lifted off their feet and hurled through the air like ragdolls, their screams lost in the deafening roar of the blast. Debris—splintered wood, shattered weapons, and torn banners—was flung skyward, caught in the fiery maelstrom.
But the devastation didn’t end there. As the light began to fade, the air itself seemed to recoil, rushing back to fill the void left by the explosion. The sudden vacuum created a powerful implosion, dragging everything back toward the epicenter of the blast with terrifying force. Soldiers who had been flung away now found themselves pulled back, bodies and debris sucked into the vortex as the very atmosphere seemed to collapse inward.
The battlefield was a scene of utter chaos, the once-organized ranks of the enemy now reduced to a maelstrom of confusion and terror. The ground where the arrow had struck was scorched black, a massive crater marking the spot where the explosion had torn the earth apart. The few enemy soldiers who remained standing were dazed, their ranks shattered, their morale utterly destroyed by the sheer power of Artemis’s strike.
Above, Artemis's body went limp, her strength drained by the sheer effort of her attack. She felt herself falling, the world around her a blur of shadows and fading light. Before she could fully succumb to the darkness, she was caught by the strong arms of the old general and Apollo. Their grip was firm but gentle, a lifeline in the midst of her exhaustion. Her vision blurred, the edges of her world darkening as her body grew weaker, unable to even hold onto her bow. It slipped from her grasp, vanishing into the void below, swallowed by the night.
Despite her fading consciousness, Artemis caught a glimpse of the devastation she had wrought. The explosion she had unleashed had turned the night into a momentary day, a brilliant moonlight that had illuminated the battlefield with its terrible beauty. The enemy's ranks, once solid and imposing, were now in utter disarray, their formations shattered beyond repair.
Panic spread like wildfire among the enemy soldiers. What had once been a force driven by honor and duty was now a mass of terrified men, each driven by a singular, primal instinct: survival. They fled in all directions, their fear eclipsing any sense of loyalty or discipline. The explosion's shockwave had flung many into the air, and the debris that rained down upon them caused more devastation than the blast itself. Bodies lay crumpled on the ground, broken by the force of their fall, while others staggered to their feet, only to be swept away by the tide of retreating men.
The sight of their comrades in full retreat broke whatever resolve the remaining enemy soldiers had left. Their ranks thinned as more and more of them abandoned their positions, the terror of Artemis's attack searing itself into their minds.
But for the defenders, the sight of the enemy's disarray was a signal to press the attack. Their hearts, heavy with the losses they had suffered, now burned with a fierce determination. They surged forward with renewed vigor, their cries of vengeance echoing across the battlefield. The momentum had shifted, and they seized the opportunity with both hands, driving the enemy back further with each step.
Weapons flashed in the moonlight, clashing against armor and flesh as the defenders pushed their advantage. Their strikes were fueled not just by the desire for victory, but by a deep, burning need for retribution. Every blow, every spell cast, was a tribute to those they had lost, a promise to themselves and to their fallen comrades that they would not rest until the enemy was utterly vanquished.
The enemy, once so formidable, was now a broken, fleeing mass, their morale shattered by the relentless assault. The defenders, though weary, were relentless, pushing forward with a unity and purpose that only grew stronger as the enemy faltered. The battle was turning in their favor, the tide of war now flowing in the direction of the town’s defenders. The night was still dark, but for the first time, hope began to flicker in their hearts.
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The man in the ornate armor was sent hurtling through the air, the force of the explosion flinging him like a ragdoll. It was the second time he had witnessed the dreadful light that tore through the night like a second moon, and for the second time, he had taken the brunt of its destructive power. His armor, once a proud testament to his status and strength, had done its job—barely. It had shielded him from the worst of the blast, but the impact had shattered his bones, leaving him gasping for breath, each inhale a jagged knife of pain.
He landed with a sickening thud, his body bouncing and skidding across the ground like a stone skipped over a pond. Each impact jarred his broken bones, sending waves of agony coursing through him. His armor, now bent and twisted, did little to cushion the blows as he tumbled across the battlefield. The world spun around him, a chaotic blur of dark skies and fractured earth.
For a moment, everything went black. He slipped into unconsciousness, a brief respite from the torment that wracked his body. But even in the darkness, there was no peace. The sound of distant bells rang in his ears, faint and haunting, pulling him back to the world of the living. When he finally regained consciousness, his vision was hazy, the shapes around him little more than indistinct shadows.
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As his senses returned, the blurry figures came into focus. He saw his own men—his warriors—racing past him in a blind panic. They trampled over him without a second thought, desperate to escape the carnage behind them. Their faces, usually so stoic and hardened, were now twisted in terror, eyes wide with fear as they fled the battlefield. The realization struck him like a hammer: his forces were crumbling, his lines were breaking, and his soldiers were abandoning the fight.
A surge of rage and disappointment filled his heart, the emotions almost overwhelming. He wanted to roar in anger, to demand that his men stand their ground, to punish them for their cowardice. But the words caught in his throat, choked off by the pain that radiated from every inch of his body. Every attempt to move sent fresh waves of agony through him, rendering him helpless. The only part of him that remained untouched by the pain was his wooden arm, a lifeless appendage that mocked his current state.
He tried to rise, to command his men, but his body refused to obey. The mighty warrior, the man who had once inspired fear and respect on the battlefield, was now reduced to a broken, silent figure, lying helpless as his army fell apart around him.
He noticed a voice calling out to him, a familiar figure emerging from the chaos. It was one of his most trusted generals, a knight whose once magnificent armor was now dented and scratched, bearing the scars of the brutal battle. Yet despite the damage to his armor, the man moved with the strength and ease of a seasoned warrior, effortlessly lifting his lord to his feet.
"My Lord," the general said, his voice steady and urgent, "we must retreat. We need to report this to the King. Let us retreat before it's too late."
The fallen Lord clicked his tongue in frustration, his pride stinging more than his wounds. With a pained grunt, he forced out a single word. "Yes."
The troops scattered in every direction, their retreat turning into a full-fledged rout. The defenders, now tasting the sweet victory, didn’t bother to chase after them. Instead, they roared and cheered, their cries of triumph echoing across the battlefield. They had fought with everything they had, and now, against all odds, they stood victorious.
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High above, the old general cradled Artemis in his arms, his grip firm but gentle as he held the exhausted young girl. "Artemis," he said, his voice softer than usual, betraying a hint of concern. "Young one, are you okay?"
Barely able to speak, Artemis whispered, "H-help…"
The old man sighed heavily, a mix of exasperation and worry in his eyes. "You’ve used too much mana, Artemis. Don’t ever do that again. Mana deficiency can be fatal."
"T-teacher… that’s b—" she tried to explain, her words slurring from exhaustion.
But before she could finish, the general cut her off, his tone sharp and commanding. "I AM NOT YOUR TEACHER AT THIS TIME! ADDRESS ME BY MY RANK!"
"Y-yes, General," Artemis stammered, her voice barely audible as she forced herself to obey.
The griffin descended slowly, its massive wings beating the air as it brought them closer to the ground. The sight of the battlefield below made the old general chuckle, a low, rumbling sound that echoed his dark sense of humor.
He surveyed the devastation caused by Artemis's spell, the once fierce battleground now littered with debris and the crumpled forms of enemy soldiers. The general chuckled again, a deep, throaty laugh. "Such a spell could annihilate entire armies… too bad it didn’t."
Artemis, still cradled in his arms, looked up at him, her vision swimming with exhaustion and the aftereffects of her powerful spell.
The general continued, almost to himself, "Artemis is just a young girl, still a rookie, a rank one. The greatest damage she did was displacement and kinetic force. If she were of a higher level, she would have vaporized them. But for now, she sent them flying, and many suffered a nasty fall. They didn’t die, but they were incapacitated. And those who did perish were the unlucky ones—not wearing armor, not under the protection of Aegis shields, or simply caught by the flying debris."
He then turned his gaze to Apollo, who beside him, concern etched on his face. "Young man," the general said, his voice carrying the weight of authority, "which God do you worship?"
Apollo sighed, realizing there was no evading the question. "The Goddess Gaia and her consort, Thanatos," he replied, his voice steady despite his exhaustion.
"Who are they?" the general asked, raising an eyebrow. "Are they minor deities?"
"Sort of," Apollo admitted with a tired nod.
The general mused over the answer, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "That makes sense. There are a lot of minor deities out there. They have so few worshippers that we often forget they’re still Gods… and their blessings are just as powerful."
He looked back at the battlefield, at the victory that had been hard-won, and at the three young warriors who had played a crucial role in it.
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The next day dawned with a heavy stillness, the weight of the previous night's battle pressing down on the town like a shroud. Artemis, Apollo, and Hyakinthos stood outside the town walls, their young faces etched with the grief and exhaustion that came from witnessing so much loss. Before them stood the marble buildings, each adorned with statues and symbols representing the gods worshiped within. The air was thick with sorrow as the trio watched the mournful procession of townsfolk, their faces streaked with tears as they carried their dead inside.
Mothers and children wept openly, placing gold coins on the eyes or in the mouths of their loved ones—a final offering to secure safe passage in the afterlife. The trio stood in silent witness, their hearts heavy as they recognized faces among the dead—friends, neighbors, children their own age, now lifeless and cold. Though they tried to remain stoic, to be strong as they had been taught, the sight of so many familiar faces being carried into the marble tombs chipped away at their resolve.
They moved slowly, almost as if in a trance, toward the other side of the town, to a place that was painfully familiar to them. This was not the first time they had visited this sacred ground, but it was different now, heavier. The weight of loss settled deep in their chests as they approached the spot they knew too well.
Their grandmother, Leto, was there, her figure bent in prayer before the deceased. Her voice, soft and filled with reverence, whispered ancient words over the bodies of those who had fallen. This time, it hurt more than ever before. The trio could see the faces of those who had been their family—their mothers, their older sisters. Women who had cared for them, guided them, and now lay still, their lives cut short by the cruelty of war. Some had families of their own, children who would now grow up without a mother.
The grief hit them like a wave, and for the first time since the battle, they allowed themselves to cry. Their tears fell silently as they placed gold coins in the mouths of the deceased, the familiar ritual now feeling unbearably personal. Memories of happier times flashed through their minds—laughter, stories told by the fire, gentle hands guiding them through their lessons. Now, those memories were all they had left, and the weight of that realization was almost too much to bear.
Their grandmother, Leto, looked up from her prayers, her eyes filled with a deep, enduring sadness. "We will take care of them," she said softly, her voice carrying both comfort and sorrow. "Don't worry about them, my children."
Without words, the trio responded, wrapping their arms around their grandmother in a desperate embrace. In that moment, the warmth of her presence was a balm to their aching hearts. At least they hadn’t lost her. She was still with them, a pillar of strength in a world that had suddenly become so fragile.
They stayed to help with the burial, their small hands working alongside the others to lay the fallen to rest. Unlike the nobles, the common folk could not afford grand mausoleums or elaborate tombs. The only marker they had was a simple stone, inscribed with the name of the deceased. It wasn’t much, but it was a testament to the life that had been lived, a reminder that they were not forgotten.
Still grieving, the three children, joined by their remaining siblings, ventured into the forest to gather acorns. Together, they planted the acorns on the graves, a small act of hope amid so much despair. As they pressed the seeds into the earth, they prayed to the Goddess of Life and the Deity of Death. Their prayers were for the souls of those who had lost their lives, that they might find peace in the afterlife, and for those who were left behind, that they might find the strength to carry on.
The acorns, small and fragile, were planted with trembling hands, each one a promise that life would continue, even in the face of so much loss. The children prayed silently, their words a mix of grief and hope, their hearts still heavy but somehow lighter with the act of planting. They prayed that the trees would grow strong and tall, their roots holding the memories of those who had passed, their branches reaching toward the heavens as a symbol of life enduring, even in the shadow of death.
The weight of grief hung heavily over the three as they left the funeral behind, the sorrow clinging to them like a second skin. After the somber ceremony, they longed for rest, a brief respite from the overwhelming sadness that had settled in their hearts. They thought of the orphanage, a place that had always been a refuge for them, but now, the thought of it brought only more pain. Too many new children had lost their parents in the siege, and the beds were needed by those who had been left alone in the world.
So, they made the silent decision to go back home.
Apollo retreated to the library, where the shelves were lined with scrolls, the pages filled with knowledge he had once eagerly devoured. Now, he struggled to focus on the words, his eyes scanning the lines without truly seeing them. His hands trembled as he unfurled each scroll, trying to immerse himself in the comfort of learning. But every few moments, his vision blurred, not from the strain of reading but from the tears that welled up, refusing to be held back. The words on the scrolls became indistinct, smudged by the dampness of his grief, and yet he persisted, determined to find solace in the familiar routine.
In another part of the house, Artemis stood with her bow in hand, the familiar weight of the weapon a small comfort in her trembling grasp. She had always found peace in the rhythm of shooting, the way the world narrowed down to the target and the feel of the string against her fingers. But today, her aim was off, her arrows straying wide of the mark. Each missed shot stung, not because of the failure but because of what it represented—the distraction of her sorrow, the inability to focus on anything other than the pain that throbbed in her chest. She blinked rapidly, trying to clear her vision, but the tears fell anyway, hot and unbidden. Her shoulders shook as she pulled the string back again and again, each release a silent cry, each miss a reminder that even in this, she could not escape her grief.
Hyakinthos busied himself in the kitchen, the simple task of boiling vegetables his chosen distraction. He sat close to the fire, its warmth a contrast to the cold emptiness he felt inside. The rhythmic bubbling of the pot was almost hypnotic, and for a brief moment, he allowed himself to be lulled by it, focusing on the task at hand. He watched the flames dance under the pot, the vegetables bobbing in the water, but the simplicity of the scene only served to underscore the complexity of his emotions. As he stirred the pot, his thoughts drifted to the faces of those they had buried, the sound of the mourning cries still fresh in his mind. The tears came suddenly, catching him off guard, and he bit his lip, trying to hold them back. But it was no use. The dam broke, and he sobbed quietly, his hands gripping the spoon as if it were the only thing anchoring him to the world.
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The next day dawned with an air of solemnity and pride as an award ceremony was held to honor the nobles who had distinguished themselves in the recent siege. The courtyard was filled with young warriors, all dressed in regal purple robes that signified their bravery. Their faces were a mix of youthful pride and the lingering shadows of battle, as they stood tall, awaiting recognition. The General, a figure of immense authority and wisdom, personally bestowed each of them with a golden wreath. The wreath, acting as a badge, was carefully pinned to their red tunics, symbolizing their courage and the blood they had shed for their people.
Among them, two stood out for their exceptional acts of bravery. Zephyrus, who had risked everything to save his comrades, received a special commendation. His face, usually so calm and composed, showed a flicker of pride as the General placed a laurel wreath upon his head. Iris, the inventor who had created the explosive pots that incapacitated so many of the enemy, was also recognized. Her invention had turned the tide of battle, and as she received her award, a quiet satisfaction gleamed in her eyes.
However, there were three notable absences among the young heroes—three children who were supposed to stand among the honored but were nowhere to be found. The General, though noticing their absence, said nothing. He had been informed beforehand by their parents and understood the reason for their absence.
In the commoners' district, far from the grandeur of the ceremony, Artemis and Hyakinthos were hard at work inside a small temple. The space was filled with the groans of the wounded and the hushed whispers of those tending to them. Women and children lay on the ground, their faces pale with pain and fatigue. The air was thick with the scent of herbs and the faint tang of blood. Hyakinthos and Artemis moved through the crowded space, their arms laden with bundles of herbs and rolls of bandages, which they handed to the apothecaries working tirelessly to tend to the injured.
Apollo was there as well, his face etched with concentration and a touch of anguish as he knelt beside the wounded. His hands glowed with a soft, golden light as he used his gift to heal one person after another. Each time he closed a wound or mended a broken bone, a wave of pain rippled through his own body. The agony of each injury he healed was transferred to him, and there were moments when the pain became so intense that he nearly fainted. But Apollo pressed on, gritting his teeth against the torment, determined to ease the suffering around him. Artemis stayed close by his side, her eyes sharp and alert, ready to support him if the pain became too much to bear.
Hyakinthos, with his immense strength, was a crucial help to the apothecaries. At times, his power was needed to move the patients, lifting them as gently as he could despite the urgency of the situation. His face was set in a mask of determination, but his eyes betrayed the sorrow that lingered just beneath the surface. The three worked in unison, each driven by a need to help, to do something—anything—to make up for the lives they had seen lost.
As night fell and the temple began to quiet, the three children returned home, their bodies aching with exhaustion. But as they entered their home, they were met with an unexpected sight. Seated at the table with their adopted mother, Caeilia, was a fat man with tired eyes, sipping tea as if he had all the time in the world.
"Ahh," the man said as he noticed them. "Are you Apollo and Artemis?"
"Yes, we are, Lord Lawrence," the two replied, dropping to their knees, trying to hide their discomfort at the sight of the nobleman in their modest home.
"No need to bow to a lowly child of a baron," he said, waving his hand dismissively. "Stand proud, Champions."
The two exchanged a confused glance, unsure of what he meant.
"But we aren't champions," Artemis protested, her voice hesitant.
The fat noble chuckled, rising from his seat with a heavy grace. He approached Artemis first, placing a badge with the symbol of the Golden Horse on her chest. The emblem gleamed in the dim light, a bright contrast against the shadows of the evening. Then he turned to Apollo, repeating the gesture with a solemn nod. "This is the banner of the Golden Horse... the symbol of this town. You may not be champions of the Gods, but you are the champions of this house. Stand proud, both of you. This is the highest honor I can give to the three of you."
His words hung in the air, the weight of the honor settling over them like a mantle. The two stood in silence, still trying to process what had just happened, when Lord Lawrence glanced around, his brow furrowing slightly. "Where is the child known as Hyakinthos?"
"He went home?" Artemis answered, her voice uncertain.
"He?... Wasn't Hyakinthos a girl?" the noble asked, his confusion evident.
"No, my Lord. Hyakinthos is a boy," Apollo clarified, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "A very feminine boy."
"Ahh, I see," Lawrence replied, nodding slowly as if piecing together a puzzle. "Don't worry, your friend will receive the reward he earned." He then turned to Caeilia, bowing slightly. "Thank you for the tea, my lady."
Caeilia returned the bow with a graceful nod as the steward and his guards prepared to leave.
"Congratulations," she said warmly to her children once the visitors had departed. "You two must be tired and hungry. Come, children, let us eat."
The two shrugged off their confusion and followed their mother to the table. As they sat down, Artemis mused aloud, "I wonder how Haya would react when he sees the steward at his home?"
Apollo chuckled, his first genuine smile in what felt like days. "He would probably be just as confused as we were."
"Now, now, my dear children," Caeilia gently chided, her voice soft but firm. "You should not underestimate the value of that honor. After all, the three of you earned it."
As they began to eat, the warmth of the meal and the comfort of their mother's presence provided a small balm to their weary souls. They still felt the weight of the day, of the losses they had witnessed and the grief that still lingered, but for a moment, they allowed themselves to be children again, to find solace in the simple act of being together.