The first year of their five-year wait passed slower than Atlas expected. Every dawn began the same: the bark of masked guards, the clash of wooden weapons, the sting of punishment for failure.
But something beneath the surface shifted.
Before Atlas arrived at the camp, the camp was a cruel pit where the strong ate and the weak faded away. Now, children who once snarled at each other over scraps sat shoulder-to-shoulder, gnawing on roasted boar.
Atlas was the reason.
When a boy twisted his ankle during training and was left limping, Atlas supported him back to the sleeping quarters, then tore strips of cloth to bind the joint.
When a girl fainted under the scorching sun, Atlas rubbed her chest with peppermint leaves and forced water between her lips until she stirred again, =
When fever spread through the younger children, he boiled willow bark tea and spoon-fed it himself, ignoring the bitter faces they made.
One night, as Atlas ground herbs by firelight, Alexios sat beside him, poking the embers with a stick.
"You really think this helps?" Alexios asked skeptically. "Half of it smells like goat piss."
Atlas snorted. "Says the boy who almost puked when I made him drink mint brew last week."
"That was goat piss," Alexios muttered, making Lukas laugh from across the fire.
Atlas shot him a look, though a small smile tugged his lips. "If it were, you wouldn't be alive to complain."
Even Thea, normally shy and quiet, giggled softly into her hands.
Moments like this transformed the camp from a cage into a place of fragile belonging. The children began to see Atlas not just as a peer, but as something more — a guide, a protector, maybe even a leader.
By the second year, the transformation was undeniable.
The camp was no longer divided into the strong and the weak. Everyone trained, everyone ate, everyone survived. And Atlas had begun shaping them in ways the guards couldn't see.
At dawn, while most of the guards still rubbed the sleep from their eyes, Atlas drilled groups in the shadows. He corrected stances, showed how to dodge properly, how to use their small frames to their advantage.
"Balance here," he said one morning, gripping Lukas's shoulders and lowering them slightly. "If you swing too heavy, you're open for a counter."
"But I can crush them in one blow!" Lukas argued.
Atlas smirked. "Not if you miss. Again."
Lukas grunted but followed orders, sweat dripping as his axe strikes grew cleaner, faster.
Meanwhile, Atlas worked closely with Thea, who had taken to the bow like it was part of her soul. She struggled at first with the tension of the string, but Atlas patiently adjusted her form.
"Relax your shoulders. Let your breath guide you and always shoot with an empty lung."
She released. The arrow struck near the center of the target.
Thea's eyes lit up, though she tried to hide it.
"See? You're not weak," Alexios told her loudly. "You just needed the right weapon."
Her blush at his words didn't escape Alexios's sharp eyes, though the boy only raised a brow and grinned.
At night, the children began to whisper about Atlas in tones of admiration. The masked guards noticed their unity, but mistook it for discipline. They had no idea rebellion was being born right under their noses.
The third year brought the first real opportunity.
The guards whispers spread that Chrysis had left Argos; the priestess had left Argos to spread her teachings across Greece. For the first time since Atlas's arrival, her shadow no longer loomed directly over them.
Atlas acted fast.
At night, by candlelight, he drew maps of the region on scraps of stolen parchment. With Lukas, Thea, and Alexios at his side, he planned routes, marked safe paths, and circled towns that could provide what they lacked.
He selected groups of older, stronger children and sent them to Epidauros by the seaside and Nauplia to the south of Argolis. Their orders were clear: gather information. Learn the names of leaders, the owners of shipyards, the wealthiest families. Discover who might be tied to the Cult—and who might be bribed.
Before they left, one of the boys asked nervously, "What if we're caught?"
Atlas placed a hand on his shoulder, eyes sharp but calm. "Then you return as if nothing happened. You're only curious children to them. Remember that. Children's curiosity can be easily dismissed by an adult."
At the same time, Atlas expanded the camp itself. Beneath the room where they slept, he and a few trusted hands dug and carved out a hidden space. Timber beams stolen from the edge of the forest braced the walls. Crates became seats. A small underground chamber was born—a discussion room.
It became their secret room, where plans of the future were made beyond the ears of the masked guards.
Over the months, small groups slipped out under the pretense of hunting and returned with information. They learned who owned shipyards, which blacksmiths were loyal to coin, and which leaders' loyalties smelled rotten with cult influence.
Atlas also has changed.
His body, once small and frail, hardened with each passing season. He mastered every weapon — sword, spear, axe, shield. He moved with a fluidity that even the guards whispered about.
But his hunger for knowledge was greater than for combat.
He traded favors for time with blacksmiths in Nauplia, learning the art of metal and fire. He practiced herbal medicine in secret, expanding beyond what the forest could offer. He studied shipbuilding techniques, recalling every detail from books he once read in his past life. His comprehension—unparalleled and infinite—allowed him to learn in months what others required years to grasp.
One night, Alexios flopped onto his bedroll, groaning. "Do you ever stop? You train all day, study all night. It's like you're trying to turn yourself into ten men at once."
Atlas, still sketching the keel of a trireme, didn't look up. "One man isn't enough to break chains."
Alexios stared at him for a long moment, then shook his head with a smirk. "You're insane. But… if anyone can do it, it's you."
And then came the strange discovery.
Late one night, as Atlas meditated to steady his mind, he felt it—two shapes keys within himself. Not physical, but carved into the fabric of his soul.
One was dark, as if already used, resting in some long cooldown. The other shimmered faintly with half-formed rainbow hues, as though waiting to be filled.
He reached for them with his mind, probing, testing. No matter how he pushed, no reaction came. Hours passed, sweat on his brow, yet the keys remained dormant.
"What are you?" he whispered into the darkness of his mind.
No answer. Only silence.
In the end, he sighed and released them. Whatever the keys were, their time had not yet come. For now, they were mysteries locked within him.
Atlas opened his eyes, staring into the firelight. So be it, he thought. When the time is right, they will reveal their purpose. Until then, I will move forward.
Four years passed like this. The camp no longer felt like a prison, but a seedbed for something greater. Atlas had united the children, sharpened their bodies, and lit a flame in their hearts.
The rebellion was no longer a whispered dream. It was a storm, gathering strength. And soon, it would break.
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