Chapter 11
“The Warrior”
The streets of Athens had long since ceased to resemble the stories that Andriana’s grandmother had once told her. The narrow alleys were crowded with the desperate, their faces lined with hunger and fear, their eyes hollow from the constant struggle to survive. The Parthenon still loomed on the hill above, half-collapsed yet defiant, a symbol of greatness now reduced to a monument of what had been. The smell of rot and exhaust mixed with the scent of wild thyme and oregano that grew unchecked in the cracks of the ancient stones.
Andriana walked through the remnants of the Agora, her footsteps purposeful, her eyes scanning the chaos that had taken over what had once been the heart of Athens. The market had become a tangle of makeshift stalls, people trading whatever they could find—scraps of food, rusted tools, ancient coins no longer worth anything but sentiment. Her presence drew glances, some curious, others wary, but no one dared approach her. Not with the sword strapped to her back.
The blade was old, its hilt wrapped in worn leather, the steel dulled with age. Her grandmother had told her it was once the weapon of an ancient warrior, a guardian of their people blessed by Athena herself. Andriana had never known whether to believe that or dismiss it as a story meant to comfort a frightened child. But now, it didn’t matter. The sword was hers, and it was the last connection she had to her family, to the past they’d fought to protect.
She adjusted the strap on her shoulder, the weight of the blade familiar against her back. The sword had not seen true battle in generations, but to the people of Athens, it marked her as something more than just another survivor. It made her a symbol—a guardian, a protector of what little remained. Andriana wasn’t sure she wanted that role, but she had accepted it all the same, because someone had to. And if not her, then who?
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The crowd parted as she approached a stall selling water, the vendor—a thin man with a grizzled beard—giving her a respectful nod. “Good evening, Andriana,” he said, his voice rough from the dust that choked the city. “You’re late today.”
“Good evening, Giorgos,” she replied, her voice steady. She reached into her satchel, pulling out a small bundle wrapped in cloth. “Had some trouble near Monastiraki. A group tried to take the last of the olive oil.”
Giorgos shook his head, a weary smile on his lips. “They must be desperate to challenge you.” His eyes flicked to the sword on her back. “I hope you taught them a lesson.”
Andriana didn’t smile. “No one needs lessons, Giorgos. They need hope. They need food.”
He sighed, nodding as he handed her a small bottle of water. “True enough. But you give them hope, don’t you? With that sword, with what you do for us.”
She took the bottle, her fingers brushing against the cool glass. “I try,” she said quietly. Her grandmother’s words echoed in her mind, stories of Athena, goddess of wisdom and war, protector of the city. Andriana had never felt like a goddess’s chosen, never felt like anything more than a woman trying to keep her people alive. But the weight of the sword on her back was a reminder of the role she had taken up, of the legacy she was trying to uphold.
She turned away from the stall, her eyes drifting up to the Acropolis, the ruins of the Parthenon silhouetted against the setting sun. The sky was a dull orange, the color of smoke and fire, and for a moment she allowed herself to remember the Athens her grandmother had described—a city of marble and wisdom, of beauty and art. It was hard to imagine that world now, with the city crumbling around her, with the people reduced to scavengers and traders of scraps.
But as long as she carried the sword, as long as she walked these streets, Andriana knew she would keep fighting. For the memory of what had been, for the hope of what might still be. And if the time came when she had to enter the Ultimate Dive, to trade her life for a chance at something greater, she would do it. Not for herself, but for the people who still looked to her, who still believed in the stories her grandmother had told.
Athens was broken, but it wasn’t dead. Not yet. And neither was she.
The weight of the sword pressed against her back as she walked, a constant reminder of who she was, of what she had chosen to become. A warrior, a protector, the last echo of a time when the gods themselves had watched over the city. Andriana didn’t know if the gods were still listening, but she would keep shouting, keep fighting, until there was no breath left in her body.