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Wine flowed like rivers. Anthousa's house brimmed with laughter, music, and the roar of voices. Freed citizens, merchants, hetaerae — all crammed shoulder-to-shoulder, toasting to the fall of the tyrant Monger.
Alexios was already red in the face, slamming his cup against the table with a grin that could split his jaw.
"To freedom!" he shouted. "And to skewering pigs!"
The table roared with approval, cups lifted. Alexios grabbed another amphora, filling his cup so full it overflowed. He gulped, half the wine spilling down his chin.
"Graceful," Atlas muttered dryly, watching from across the table.
Alexios pointed at him with his cup, wine dripping. "Graceful and heroic. Like Achilles!" He jabbed his spear into the air dramatically, nearly knocking a platter of olives across the floor.
Lukas, leaning back with his axe resting against the wall, let out a booming laugh. "Heroic? You almost tripped over Monger's belly before finishing him!"
"Lies!" Alexios cried, pounding the table. "I was as swift as Hermes himself!"
"You were as clumsy as a goat," Lukas replied, and the table howled with laughter.
Lukas himself wasn't idle. His heavy frame drew the attention of several hetaerae, and he winked broadly at them, raising his cup. "Ladies, did you see how I cleaved through Monger's men? A single swing!"
They giggled, one of them fanning herself dramatically. "And yet you still couldn't fit through the door without ducking."
Lukas laughed even louder, throwing an arm around the nearest girl. "That's the price of being a god among men."
Atlas sat back, sipping his wine carefully, watching the chaos with amusement. For a moment, it almost felt… normal. Like they were boys again, teasing and brawling in the camp.
Later, when the music softened and the wine dulled the edges of voices, Atlas slipped aside to where Dorian sat with Anthousa, their hands entwined.
"So," Atlas said with a small smile, "you finally found yourself a lover. I never would have guessed you'd be the first among us."
Dorian flushed, glancing at Anthousa before glaring playfully at Atlas. "Says the man who still sleeps with his sword."
Anthousa chuckled, squeezing Dorian's hand. "He told me how you took care of him in the camp. He speaks of you as if you were his older brother."
Atlas's gaze softened. "He was family. All of you were. All of you are."
They fell quiet for a moment, then Atlas asked, "So Dorian, tell me, how did you come here? To Korinth?"
Dorian leaned back, pouring more wine. "After I left the camp, I wandered. I thought of settling, maybe finding peace. But I saw too much. Slaves beaten, farmers taxed into ruin, women like Anthousa's sisters forced into silence by Monger. I couldn't ignore it. Not after you taught us what it meant to fight back."
Anthousa smiled faintly. "He stumbled into our world half-starved and stubborn. And somehow, he lit a fire under us all."
Atlas nodded approvingly. "You've done well. Better than I expected."
Atlas reached into his cloak and pulled out a folded letter, worn and smudged from travel. He slid it across the table to Dorian.
"It's from one of our wandering brothers," Atlas said. "He wrote of a rich merchant. A Cult supplier. A man funding both Sparta and Athens, feeding the war so it never ends."
Dorian's expression darkened as he read. "So Monger wasn't the root. Just a puppet."
Atlas nodded grimly. "And our puppet master took a ship toward Sami, in Kephallonia. If Monger was his creature, then that merchant is our true target."
Dorian looked up sharply. "Supplying both sides of the war… that's madness."
"No." Atlas's eyes narrowed. "That's control. Sparta and Athens bleed each other dry, and when both are weak, the Cult steps in. They don't want peace. They want chains."
Dorian let the letter fall, anger simmering in his eyes. "Then we hunt this merchant. Before the war swallows all of Greece."
"No." Atlas's gaze softened."You will stay here, in Korinth, after all, We — no, They need you here "
Dorian looked up, trying to argue "But, we are — "
"No,, buts, Dorian." Atlas's eyes narrowed.
After a silence, Dorian asked, trying to change the topic, "And the others? At the camp?"
Atlas allowed himself a small smile. "They're thriving. Some found their families. Some chose to stay, build lives with us. Others wander the world, gathering knowledge. Like you. The camp has become more than survival. It's a home."
His gaze shifted to Alexios, who was now loudly arm-wrestling Lukas with one hand while trying not to spill his wine with the other. "Except him. He's still searching. For his family. For his mother, Myrrine… and his sister, Kassandra."
At that name, Dorian, halfway to drinking from a fresh amphora, froze. His knuckles froze on the jar. "…Myrrine?"
Atlas frowned. "Yes. Why?"
Dorian stood abruptly. "Wait here."
Before Atlas could question him, Dorian stormed back into the house. Moments later, he dragged Alexios and Lukas outside, Anthousa following behind with quiet steps.
Alexios protested loudly, still flushed from drink. "Oi! The wine's inside, Dorian, not out here!"
Dorian ignored him, his face is serious. He turned to Anthousa, who nodded gently.
"Alexios," Dorian said, voice tight. "This is about your mother. Myrrine."
The drunken haze vanished from Alexios's face in an instant. His spear arm tightened, his jaw clenched. "…Say it."
Anthousa stepped closer, her voice steady, though sorrow flickered in her eyes.
Anthousa stepped closer, her voice steady, though sorrow flickered in her eyes. "If your mother is Myrrine, a Spartan woman… then yes. She came here, to Korinth, years ago. When Monger was still only a small thug. She tried to oppose him, but she had no allies. We were too afraid to resist back then, so she failed. And we failed her."
Alexios's hands trembled at his sides.
Anthousa continued softly. "I sheltered her during her stay. Brave, proud, fierce. She left the city upon winning a ship — the Siren Song. That was the last time I saw her."
Alexios's chest heaved. His voice cracked, but he held steady. "She fought… and lived. Alone."
Lukas, standing nearby, grinned and clapped him on his the shoulder. "Like mother, like son."
For the first time in years, Alexios's grin wasn't reckless or mocking. It was raw, trembling — and filled with pride.
And hope.
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