Four years passed like shifting seasons, and the camp was no longer the place of despair it once had been. Under Atlas's guidance, it had transformed into a home of purpose, growth, and hope.
The first thing Atlas did during those years was to reclaim what Chrysis had taken most recently—the stolen baby infants. With Alexios and the others, he gathered the babies hidden in the old temple and cradled them in his own arms, swearing that not a single one of them would grow up in chains like they had. Patiently, he searched in Argos for their families. Some reunions brought tears of joy, mothers collapsing onto the dirt roads when their stolen children were returned. Others were heartbreaks—families lost to illness or poverty, leaving Atlas to keep some of the orphans in the camp.
"Even if the world turned its back on you," Atlas told them softly, "this place is your family. We will raise you stronger than fate itself."
With Chrysis's hidden treasures, Atlas began something no one had imagined: a business. His modern knowledge gave him an advantage no merchant or farmer in Argolis could compete with. He bought an abandoned farm just beyond the camp and planted wheat and barley in careful rotations. He cultivated grapes for wine and raised pigs for pork, goats for cheese, all under a system that maximized yield while wasting nothing. Soon, crates of bread, amphorae of wine, and baskets of cheese began flowing from the camp to the markets.
At night, the camp became a school. Atlas sat beneath torchlight, teaching children to read and write—not just letters, but numbers, mathematics far ahead of their time. Addition, subtraction, multiplication, division—concepts foreign to most Greek villagers became tools of trade and survival for Atlas's family. He wrote his knowledge into thick parchment books, binding them with leather.
"These books are not mine," he said, pressing one into Thea's hands. "They belong to all of you. Pass them down. Learn from them, teach them, and let no knowledge be lost."
He also crafted tools of wonder. With iron, polished wood, and magnets, he built crude compasses. With gears and weighted springs, he built pocket watches, teaching the children how to tell time not just by the sun's shadow but with precision.
"These will guide you when you travel," Atlas explained. "When you wander far, you will never be truly lost and you can always find your way home."
Connections grew. Trade routes stretched to Korinth, Salamis, and Megara. Atlas's wines became sought after, his cheese spoken of in marketplaces, his bread and pork were prized by soldiers and merchants alike. What began as survival became prosperity.
Meanwhile, the stronger children took to bounty work. Bandits fell beneath their swords, and the roads became safer. Employers learned quickly that payment was not optional. On the rare occasion someone tried to cheat them, Atlas himself ensured justice. Overnight, their stolen coins and treasures would vanish, and by morning, the employers understood—mess with the children of Atlas, and you would pay dearly.
But business was not the only front. Atlas and his group began to strike at the Cult directly. Quietly, one nest after another was cut down. Argolis, Nauplia, Heraion of Argos, Epidauros, even the Sanctuary of Asklepios—all freed from Cult influence. Wherever they went, locals welcomed them with gratitude. Farmers, smiths, merchants—everyone was instructed: if you see a suspicious man, if you hear whispers of the Cult, tell us, and you will be paid.
Slowly, city by city, Atlas carved out safe havens. Not kingdoms—no banners flew—but lands where the Cult dared not tread, and where the children of the camp were respected.
Families were found. Children who had spent years in sorrow were reunited with mothers, fathers, brothers, and sisters. Some went home and never looked back, others stayed at the camp, too bound by loyalty and purpose to leave. A few families were wealthy and gave gifts of riches. Others had influence and offered connections—ships, land, allies. Gratitude flowed, and Atlas wove it into a net of stability.
With coin steady and connections wide, Atlas undertook his greatest project: a ship of his own design. He poured every piece of modern knowledge he had into it. Sleek, fast, built to dance over the sea.
When at last the ship slid into the water, its prow cutting the Aegean waves, Atlas christened it The Skylark—a name for the bird that soared higher than any storm, carrying voices of freedom into the wind. But unlike the 1650's ships, it has no war cannons. Instead, Atlas built an ingenious device inspired by stories of ancient China: a repeating arrow machine, a storm of bolts that could shred enemy crews in moments. The Skylark was not a ship of conquest, but of defense and exploration.
The children cheered as it launched, their home now expanding from land to sea.
Yet amidst all the victories, one thread remained loose: Alexios's family.
Year after year, Atlas helped him search. Clues came, but many were false. Some pointed to wanderers in Laconia, others to families in Korinth. Finally,
One evening, Alexios announced his intent.
"I'm going to Sparta," he said, his voice heavy but resolute. "I need answers."
Atlas studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "Then go. But remember—truth can heal, and it can also wound. Be ready for both."
The journey took weeks, but when Alexios finally set foot in Sparta, his heart pounded. The city of warriors loomed before him, proud and unyielding. He pulled his cloak tighter, walking among soldiers training in the fields, merchants selling in the agora, elders speaking beneath shaded porticos.
When he approached a group of men sharpening their spears, Alexios asked carefully, "Have you heard the name Myrrine? Myrrine of Sparta?"
The men exchanged uneasy glances. One spat to the side and muttered, "Best not to speak that name, stranger." Another barked, "Go back where you came from." Their eyes lingered on him as though he carried a curse.
Alexios clenched his fists. He tried again with an old woman selling olives. "Excuse me, κυρία (Kyria - a woman of a greek household), I'm looking for someone. Myrrine of Sparta. Do you know her?"
The woman's face paled. She dropped an olive from her basket and whispered hurriedly, "Not here. Not that name. Go." She turned her back, shooing him away with trembling hands.
At the fountain square, Alexios tried with a merchant. "Myrrine," he pressed. "Do you know her? She had children, years ago."
The merchant's jaw tightened. He leaned in close and hissed, "If you value your life, boy, stop asking questions." Then, louder, he waved him off as though Alexios were a beggar. "No coins? No trade."
Rejection after rejection weighed on him, and yet the whispers grew. People were avoiding him, crossing the street, their faces shadowed with fear. The name Myrrine carried a taboo in their voices.
Finally, near dusk, Alexios sat at the base of a column, his shoulders heavy. Was this all for nothing?
A frail old man shuffled toward him, his cane tapping against the stone. He stopped and studied Alexios, his eyes clouded yet sharp with recognition.
"You've been asking about Myrrine," the old man said softly.
Alexios's head snapped up. "Yes! Do you know her? Please—tell me."
The old man sighed and eased himself down beside him. "Aye. I know. But the story is one of sorrow."
Alexios's throat tightened. "Tell me everything."
The man's voice trembled as he spoke. "Myrrine was a proud noble spartan woman, She is the daughter of King Leonidas. She bore two children. A daughter, Kassandra, strong as a lion cub… and a son, Alexios. But then the Oracle at Delphi spoke of a prophecy. She said the boy would bring ruin to Sparta. To prevent this, the child was to be sacrificed at Mount Taygetos."
Alexios's blood ran cold. His voice cracked. "Sacrificed…?"
The old man nodded grimly. "They cast the boy from the mountain, boy. And as for the girl—she tried to save her younger brother but she, too, was cast down. Myrrine lost both her children in one night. I saw her after… her eyes were empty. As if her soul had left her body."
Alexios's hands shook. He grabbed the old man's sleeve desperately. "And Myrrine? Where is she now? Is she alive?"
The old man looked away, sorrow in his face. "She left Sparta, broken. Some say she wandered, others that she sailed to the isles. Whether she still lives… I do not know. But hear me, child—you are alive, and that is miracle enough."
Alexios felt rage, grief, and a faint flicker of hope all clashing in his chest. He stood, fists trembling. "Alive…, but Myrrine lost everything." His eyes burned. "I swear, I'll tear the Cult apart. Every last one."
The old man placed a frail hand on his arm. "If you do, boy, do it not just for vengeance. Do it for the family that still waits in the dark."
When Alexios returned to the camp, the others saw the fire in his eyes. He found Atlas standing on a cliff, the sea wind whipping his cloak.
"She lost me. She lost my sister. She lost everything because of them," Alexios said, his voice trembling. "Atlas, I swear I'll burn the Cult until every last one of them is gone. I'll find her. I'll find them both."
Atlas didn't speak at first. He only placed a hand on Alexios's shoulder and met his gaze firmly. "Then we'll burn them together."
The oath was sealed in silence, the stars above bearing witness.