The thermopolia was packed, the air thick with smoke from roasting lamb, garlic, and the sharper scent of wine spilled on clay floors. Sailors argued over dice in the corner, hetaerae whispered in the ears of rich merchants, and the laughter of drunken soldiers bounced off the cracked stone walls. In the middle of it all, four young men claimed a rough wooden table near the back, wolfing down food as if it had been denied them for weeks.
Atlas chewed slowly, reading the room while tearing off a hunk of bread. Alexios, in contrast, was devouring a plate of roasted pork with such enthusiasm that grease slicked his chin. Lukas sat beside him, shaking his head at his friend's lack of manners while drinking deeply from a wine cup. Across from them sat Dorian — hood pulled back now, his face revealed, older and sharper than the boy Atlas once knew. His eyes, however, still carried a familiar light.
Alexios leaned back, slapping his hand against his stomach. "By the gods, this city may reek of piss and lies, but at least they know how to cook. I could live here just for this."
Lukas rolled his eyes. "You said the same thing in Nauplia when we ate fish stew. You'll say it again the next time someone puts olives in front of you."
"I have simple tastes," Alexios shot back with a grin. "Food. Wine. A good fight. What else do I need?"
Atlas smirked, glancing at Dorian. "A mind, perhaps?"
The table burst into laughter, Alexios groaning as he wiped his greasy fingers on Lukas's shoulder. Lukas shoved him away with a growl, nearly knocking over the wine jug.
When the laughter eased, Atlas leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. His voice softened. "It's been years, Dorian. You slipped away after we freed ourselves from Chrysis. Letters came now and then, but never enough. Tell me—what happened after you left the camp? Last time I saw you you were half-ill and two sizes too small for your cloak."?"
Dorian toyed with a piece of bread, eyes distant for a moment before meeting Atlas's gaze. "You remember how it was for me. When we found freedom, I searched for my family. There was no one left. Illness, debt, starvation—it had taken them all. For a time, I wandered with no purpose. Sadness was a cloak I could not take off."
Alexios, unusually quiet, muttered, "I remember. You looked like you carried half the world on your back."
Atlas's face softened, the weight of memory pressing down. "You weren't alone, Dorian. You never were. I tried to make sure you knew that back then—fed you, patched you up when you were sick. The camp was always your family."
Dorian smiled faintly. "I know. That's why I didn't let despair consume me. You gave me something to stand on. And when I finally lifted my head, I saw the world. Saw how the Cult's shadow stretched everywhere. I couldn't look away. So I became something else."
Alexios snorted, wine sloshing at the corner of his mouth. "So you became a gossip for hire?" He grinned. "I always said you had the look of a shadow."
Dorian chuckled. "Call it what you will. I learned to listen. To bargain. To dig. Secrets are a kind of currency, Alexios, and I've grown rich in them."
Lukas tapped his cup against the table. "So what secrets brought you to Korinth?"
The question brought a shift in the air. Dorian leaned in closer, lowering his voice until only their table could hear. "The tyrant here—Monger. A butcher dressed as a merchant. He bleeds the hetaerae for coin, breaks those who resist, and pays thugs to keep the city in fear. And worse—" He pulled a folded scrap of parchment from his cloak, setting it before them. "—I have proof he's tied to the Cult."
Atlas picked it up, scanning the crude writing and seals: shipments of arms, manifests marked with false buyers, payments signed with Monger's mark. His jaw tightened. "So he's not just a parasite. He's smuggling resources for the war."
Dorian nodded. "Supplying both Sparta and Athens through intermediaries. The war is his harvest. The people are his fields."
Alexios slammed his fist on the table, making wine slosh. "Then let's gut him tonight! End this before another coin lines his purse."
Atlas sighed, giving his friend a look. "Always eager to fight first and think later, aren't you?"
Alexios smirked. "You think too much. Between us we make one man army."
Lukas nearly choked on his wine. "More like half a fool and half a schemer."
They all laughed, but the mirth faded as Atlas placed the parchment back on the table. "You've gathered allies, haven't you, Dorian? No man gets this close to something or someone without eyes in the city."
Dorian's chest lifted with quiet pride. "Yes. A leader of the hetaera named Anthousa, who risks her life every day to protect the women under her from Monger's yoke. Dockworkers, merchants, even a laundress whose brother keeps keys to Monger's warehouses. They all whisper the same thing: Monger must die. The city is ready. They just need a spark."
Atlas tapped the parchment thoughtfully. ""We can strike, but we must strike with purpose. It's not enough to kill a man and leave the city to six more who will take his place.c We make his corruption visible. We seize his counting-house, expose his ledgers, and give the people back what he stole."
Alexios's eyes lit up. "And make it public. Throw his treasures into the streets. Let the people cheer."
"Exactly," Atlas said. "But we must be careful. Kill him too quietly and the Cult replaces him with another dog. Strike too slowly and his guards carry the goods to safety."
Dorian leaned closer, eyes gleaming. "Then we strike fast. The warehouses on the eastern quay, the tannery, the rope-makers—they're vulnerable if my allies move at once. You three take Monger and the counting-house. We seize the rest. In one night Korinth breathes free."
Lukas gave a wolfish grin. "Now that's a plan I like."
Atlas scanned each of their faces—his brothers in arms, his friend from childhood, all bound now by a single purpose. He exhaled slowly, the weight of decision made. "Then it's settled. At dusk we move. By dawn Monger will be a memory."
Dorian rose, pulling his hood back over his head. "I'll gather the others. When the moon is high, the city will rise with us." He clasped Atlas's forearm briefly before vanishing into the crowded thermopolia, swallowed by the laughter and smoke.
The three left behind sat in silence for a long moment. Then Alexios grinned, sharp and eager. "Finally. A real fight. Tonight we carve our names into Korinth."
Atlas leaned back, gaze thoughtful. "Not names, Alexios. Hope. That's what we carve."
Lukas chuckled, draining his cup. "Hope or names, I don't care—as long as Monger screams before the end."
The three of them stood, the tavern noise echoing around them. Outside, the city waited, restless and heavy with secrets. Tonight, Korinth would burn with change.