The first rays of sunlight spilled over the hills, gilding the battered wooden palisades of the camp. The morning air was sharp, smelling of pine, damp earth, and iron. When Atlas and Alexios returned on horseback, the figure of Chrysis slumped and bound over the saddle, the camp was already awake.
Eryx, Phaedra, Lukas, Thea, Nikandros, Kyra, and Leonidas waited at the gates, their faces pale from exhaustion but lit by the fierce anticipation of children who knew what this morning meant. Behind them, more gathered: boys and girls of every age who had grown up under Chrysis's lies. They crowded in silence, parting as Alexios dismounted and dragged the cult priestess by her bindings toward the stadium.
Every eye followed them.
Chrysis stumbled once, caught herself, and lifted her head. Her gaze swept the crowd, not with shame but with cold anger. "Children," she hissed, voice hoarse but sharp, "what is this mockery? You betray the mother who raised you. The gods will curse such betrayal."
Her words were met with silence at first—until a voice cracked from the crowd.
"You are no mother!" shouted a thin boy of nine, his fists trembling. "You took me from mine!"
Another voice rose, a girl whose face was streaked with tears. "You told me my family was dead. You lied!"
The murmurs swelled into a wave. One of the older boys, nearly Atlas's age, stepped forward, jaw clenched. "You separated us from our families. You stole our fathers and mothers, our brothers and sisters. You said it was the gods. But it was you." His hand trembled on the stone he clutched, and with a raw cry he hurled it. It struck Chrysis's shoulder with a dull thud.
The crowd erupted. Stones, scraps of broken wood, even clenched fists rained down. Chrysis flinched and raised her arms, but her composure cracked only slightly—her lips curled in disdain. "Ungrateful whelps," she spat, her voice rising over the chaos. "I fed you! I clothed you! I gave you strength while your so-called families would have let you die."
"Lies!" someone screamed back. "All lies!"
"Enough!"
Atlas's voice cut like a blade through the noise. The children stilled, though their eyes still burned with fury. He strode into the center of the stadium, climbing the steps so all could see him. His presence calmed them not because of authority forced upon them, but because for years, Atlas had been the one who healed their fevers, fed them when others would have let them starve, and taught them to fight. He had earned their ears.
"This ends now," Atlas said firmly, his gaze sweeping across them. "We are not like her. We will not let rage make us beasts. Chrysis will be judged—by us, together."
He turned to the crowd, raising his hand. "Raise your hand if you want her to live."
A few hands lifted—small, trembling, uncertain. A handful of the youngest, who did not fully understand, and two older children whose faces twisted with doubt. The rest remained stone-still.
Atlas nodded once. "Now—raise your hand if you want her to die."
Like a wave crashing, nearly every hand shot up. Some children screamed as they raised their arms, others raised them with grim silence. The choice was undeniable.
Atlas's jaw tightened and let out a sigh. He had hoped for some mercy in their hearts. But the verdict was clear. "The vote is cast," he said solemnly. He turned to Chrysis. "Chrysis of the Cult—you die."
Alexios stepped forward, dragging Chrysis to her knees in the dirt. He shoved her down so that she faced the children, their faces lined with tears and fury. He leveled a sword against her throat. His voice was low, dangerous. "Any last words?"
Chrysis lifted her head, her eyes defiant. "Yes," she hissed. "The gods will punish you. You are blind, foolish children. You think you have won, but the Cult is everywhere. My death will not free you—it will damn you."
Alexios's knuckles whitened on the hilt. His teeth were clenched, his whole body taut with rage.
Atlas stepped closer, his voice steady but cold. "Gods or no gods—at the end of the day, you will answer for what you did. Here. Now."
He held Alexios's gaze and gave a small nod.
Alexios did not hesitate. The sword flashed, swift and merciless. Chrysis's head fell into the dirt with a heavy thud.
For a heartbeat the camp was utterly silent. Then, like a dam breaking, sobs and cries burst forth. Some children collapsed into each other, clutching hands and shoulders. Others shouted triumphantly, voices hoarse with years of buried anger. A few simply stood in stunned silence, tears running down their cheeks.
Atlas closed his eyes for a long breath. His chest felt heavy, but lighter too. This chapter was finished. Yet even as relief washed over him, he knew the fight was far from over. The Cult had roots everywhere; Chrysis was only one branch cut from a vast, poisonous tree.
He opened his eyes and spoke again, strong and clear. "This is done. Now we must act as one. First, clean the bodies. Drag them to the forest—the beasts will deal with them. The rest of you, hunt for food. Tonight, we celebrate our freedom. Tomorrow, we will discuss our future."
The crowd dispersed quickly, driven not by fear but by purpose. Older boys and girls dragged corpses toward the trees. Others fetched water and wood. Arrows were retrieved, blades cleaned, stones piled. For the first time, the camp worked not as prisoners but as people free.
That night, a bonfire blazed high in the center of the yard. Children gathered around it, eating roasted boar, drinking water sweetened with berries, laughing with voices that sounded too raw to be real. Some hugged, some sang, some simply stared at the flames in disbelief. They were free.
Atlas sat apart for a while, on the roof of the main barrack, gazing up at the stars. The air was cool and still, filled with the distant sound of laughter.
A familiar presence joined him. Alexios climbed up, settling beside him with the Spartan baby blanket tied around his waist. He leaned back on his hands, eyes reflecting the starlight.
"So," Alexios said after a long silence, "is this the start of our adventure, Atlas?"
Atlas glanced at him, then back at the sky. "Adventure?" he repeated.
Alexios smirked faintly. "We killed Chrysis. Took the camp. Freed the others. Isn't this… the beginning?"
Atlas let the silence stretch, then shook his head softly. "No, Alexios. It already began the moment we were born. The moment we were taken from our families, forced into chains. Tonight isn't the start—it's the first choice we've made for ourselves."
Alexios considered that, his smirk fading into something gentler. He pulled the blanket tighter and whispered, "Then let's keep choosing. Together."
Atlas allowed himself a rare smile. "Together," he agreed.
Above them, the stars stretched endless, and for the first time in years, the camp below slept without fear.