Midnight was a thin, silver knife over the camp. Lanterns guttered low; the masked guards made their lazy rounds with confident strides. The children lay in rows, breath even in sleep, unaware that tonight everything would change.
Atlas moved without sound. He led a dozen small shadows out from the hidden chamber—teams formed, ropes checked, blades whispered from sheaths. He paused at the field's edge, listening to the slow, predictable rhythm of the guards' boots, the rustle of canvas. Then he signaled once: go.
The night swallowed them.
Eryx and Phaedra moved like cats along the perimeter. Where the guards' steps were predictable, they were ghosts. Eryx's blade found the first man's throat in a motion so smooth the man never had time to swallow his next breath. He folded with a soft sound; the torchlight slid across his still face and left.
Phaedra's shadow slid between the post and tent. She had once been a child who bartered bread for stories. Tonight she moved like a woman who'd learned to take stories by force. A single, silent strike — a dagger slipped between ribs — and a sentry slumped into the straw. The camp's heart kept beating; its pulse had not yet realized parts of it were gone.
Nikandros and Lukas hit the gate as one. The gate guard was broad and arrogant, a man who had propped his boots and settled into a sleepy humor. Lukas's axe came down — not a blind heave but a practiced measured blow to the guard's shoulder so the man barely made a sound. Nikandros finished the motion with a spear at the throat. The rest of the gate hands were dispatched the same way: soft arrows through dark eyes, daggers finding curtain seams and soft skin. Where the loud clash of open assault would have roused the whole camp, the children's cold precision made the night swallow them.
The stables were Kyra's problem. She coaxed one horse free with a whisper and a bit of sugar she'd stolen earlier. Leonidas and two boys pushed mounts into a quiet line; the animals snorted but did not panic; the men who would've ridden them were not there to fear. The camp, usually a noisy place even at night, folded into a silence that felt almost reverent.
From all sides the teams converged at the main hall, breath puffing in tiny ghosts. Children who had once stolen bread together now clasped hands and checked each other's blades.
They gathered in the dark bowl of the small stadium, breaths pluming under moonlight. Atlas climbed the steps and looked at them — the faces he'd watched grow from frightened children into killers who could be gentle, into people who could be cruel if cruel was necessary. He did not feel triumph. He felt a focused, cold certainty.
It was surgical. No fanfare. No alarms. Daggers and bows finished what blunt force began; sentries never had the chance to raise a voice. When the last patrol had been cut down or silenced, the teams folded back into the dark and converged at the main hall.
They gathered there—faces pale in the moonlight, breaths visible in short clouds, blades still warm from the night. Children who had arrived as frightened, hungry things now stood like soldiers. Atlas climbed into the small stadium's center and turned to them. Every pair of eyes held the same burn: loss remembered, trust given, a readiness that made his chest ache and steady at once.
He waited for a silence so complete it could hold what he intended to say, then spoke.
"Brothers, sisters," he began, and his voice carried over the stones. "We were taken from beds where our mothers cradled us. We were torn from fathers who thought they only saw the worst of a plague, from brothers playing in the sun and sisters humming as they swept. They told those parents that their children were dead. They used the gods' names to bury their lies. They made a prison out of a place that could have been a home. They called us weapons and taught us that our hearts should be as empty as their masks."
A low sound wound through the gathered children—the sound of remembered lullabies, of hungry nights, of hidden tears. Atlas let them have it. He let the image of cradles, prayers, and stolen names hang between them.
"But we have become more than what they intended," he continued. "We fed each other. We healed each other. We taught one another to stand and to strike. We made from their cruelty a family. Tonight, we do not strike only for vengeance. We strive to take back a home that was stolen. We strive so that the mothers and fathers who were lied to know their children still breathe. We strike so brothers and sisters can be found. We strike so those who pretend the gods chose this will see what their choices have cost."
Heads nodded. A child at the edge let out a sob—short, fierce. Atlas did not hurry the grief. He let it pass through them, refine them, turn their pain into resolve.
Atlas moved on to orders, each voice clipped with purpose. "Eryx, Phaedra—take a small squad and sweep the stations that listen to the city of Argolis. Cut their throats, cut their lines. Kill the signal—leave nothing waking to raise the alarm."
Eryx's grin was calm. "And not one shall we miss."
"Lukas, Nikandros, Thea," Atlas continued. "Take the port at Nauplia. Secure the docks. If the enemy tries to bring ships against us, you break their oars. You hold the quays and burn the rope. Take their captain, take their keys. Keep the sea from answering Chrysis's bell."
Lukas thumped his chest. "We'll tear the air with our roars."
"Kyra, Leonidas," Atlas said, eyes settling on the two who'd moved goods and words for them in secret. "You and your team take Epidauros. Cut the watchmen, seize the smiths' forges for our use, and then fall back. Keep the coastal roads blocked. If the Cult's men move, you are the first blade they meet."
Kyra's mouth hardened. "We'll make their shadows count for dust."
"Alexios — you come with me. We ride to the Heraion of Argos. Chrysis will be there, wrapped in her lies and her robes. We take her. Dead or alive. We bring her mask or her head back to this camp before sunrise. If she breathes, let her see every face she stole. If she pleads, let her know each plea is already heard.
"The rest of you will hold the camp. Keep these grounds. If the enemy returns, we give a warning and we do not let them through. We defend our home."
Atlas let his gaze sweep the circle, letting each name land.
"Use the horses for speed. Take what you need and move like the wind. But always remember this—your life is worth more than our rage. If the struggle is more than you can bear, if your arms falter and your body cries to fall, do not collapse alone. Retreat. Live. We will carry you. If a brother or sister cannot stand, we will carry them. We will fight this together."
Alexios stepped forward, spear at the ready, eyes bright with a fury that was nearly joy. "Tonight," he said quietly, "we break them."
Atlas nodded. "Mount up."
Horses were saddled, ropes were fastened, and the children vanished into the night—a dozen dark figures, hearts cold and keen, moving toward the three stations and the Heraion.
Atlas watched them leave. For a single instant he let the old fear knot under his ribs; then he swallowed it. They were more than frightened children now. They were his family, and he had put them in motion.
"Go," he whispered to the sleeping sky. "Take back what's ours."
They rode like thunder, and the night held its breath.
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