Chương 14: Chapter Thirteen: A Harrowing Letter

Even through the winds slashing outside, inside their draughty stone barracks, the air was actually warm and cozy with the amount of bodies packed inside. Of course, the "cozy" part only applied if one could ignore the stench of sweat and wet wool. Luckily for Cyrus, or unluckily, he had gotten much too used to it. Stretching his arms, he slipped his tunic over his head. A wince contorted his features as the coarse fabric slid down, scratching painfully at his sore muscles and scabs.

But as he clothed himself, a finger brushed against the clay amulet atop his neck. He glanced down, letting his thumb trace over the soft edges of Hestia's cheeks before tucking the small figure back safely underneath his clothes. He took a deep breath as a terrible ache for home filled his nerves. But he quickly dampened the feeling, before Simos could notice anything. At that thought, he turned to his companion.

Simos was currently trying to fix his sandals, which he had torn against a rather sharp rock, eyes squinting in frustration as his hands clumsily handled a bit of sinew thread. Simos gave a grunt, setting down the sandal with a sigh.

"Seriously, Cyrus," he muttered.

"I'm going to buy some new sandals once I get filthy rich." Cyrus snickered.

"Not wine? You seem like the type to do so." Simos sighed.

"You sound so brash, my friend! Yes, wine is an investment to the spirit, but do you know what's better? Food! Some roast pork, honeyed bread…" A sly grin spread across his lips, and he leaned forward.

"That reminds me. I always loved a proper trip down to the harbors. There are such beautiful flute-players there. Seriously, the beauty contained within their mortal flesh should be a sin! Say, Cyrus. Back in Boeotia, did you have some sweet farmer's daughter?" Cyrus scoffed.

"Certainly not."

"A pity," Simos sighed.

"A true agroikos you are, it seems. One day, my friend, I shall introduce you to some courtesans. Then you may—" Suddenly, from the far corner, a huff of laughter was expelled, startling both boys to turn and stare. Thalia sat with her knees drawn up as always, but for the first time ever, Cyrus watched as her cracked lips parted in speech.

"He'd have run from a sweet auletris faster than he ran from Acacius's rod," she said quietly, though she didn't meet their eyes. Simos recovered first, clutching at his chest.

"She talks! And with wit?" Thalia ducked her head. For a moment, Cyrus feared that Simos had gone too far with her timid personality, but a quiet, yet pleased voice squeaked out soon enough.

"Be quiet." Cyrus couldn't help it as he chuckled, laughter bursting from his throat. Across from him, Simos beamed, parting his mouth to say something else—"Neophyte Cyrus!" A stern voice boomed outside, instantly cutting off their banter. Briskly, the heavy woolen curtain was pulled back. A young servant admitted himself. In his hand, he held a small, folded scrap of dried papyrus tied tightly with a bit of dark twine.

"Which one of you is he?" the messenger demanded. Cyrus straightened up.

"I am."

"You have received a message," the servant said, tossing the small packet toward Cyrus.

"A courier passing along from Boeotia dropped it off this morning. Seems to have been given specific directions by someone, having figured out the drachma trick." The messenger didn't wait for a response. Instead, turning briskly, he strode out. Cyrus frowned. The messenger had seemed quite pissed off. Turning around, he startled backwards, finding Simos's gaping eyes barely inches from his own. Simos snatched the small, bound square of papyrus paper, setting it on the ground and poking it cautiously.

"What the…" he muttered in amazement.

"I've never seen a neophyte actually get a written message…" He raised his bewildered eyes to Cyrus.

"How in the underworld did your family even know you were here? This sect isn't exactly out in the open. And by a courier? I thought your father was a baker!" Cyrus was equally bewildered as he stared down at the small packet. But forcing his emotions down, he did his best to just shrug.

"I… don't know," he lied. But he did have a slight idea. Nicomedes. It had to be Nicomedes. Before the old cultivator had abandoned him at the gates, he must have sent word back to Boeotia, letting his family know that Cyrus had made it to Mount Helicon alive. However, even then… A letter? Cyrus was beyond confused. His family was far from rich. So why had they gone through such lengths to get a message to him?

Unrolling the stiff parchment, he found the ink inside to be smudged messily, though still comprehensible. Well, probably comprehensible. Cyrus wouldn't know, having never learned to read, and all he could do was stare down at the dark, tangled squiggles on the page. He glanced up.

"I… uh… can't read this. Can—?" Simos clicked his tongue.

"Well, well! Looks like you're in need of my help!" He teased, though he did so while stretching out a hand.

"Give it here. My uncle forced me to learn, so I wouldn't let the sailors cheat us when selling sponges. I can read... well, enough of it, anyway." The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. Cyrus felt a bit hesitant, but he still begrudgingly handed the letter over. Simos held up the parchment to the light, coughing before starting to read.

"To Cyrus, son of Karpos… may the gods keep you…" He snickered.

"Such pious nonsense. Your family probably had to pay some local scribe to write this. See? It's probably just your father asking if you're fine." Cyrus forced a smile. Right… It was probably nothing. But as Simos's eyes scanned further down the page, the boy's lighthearted smirk faltered. His lips moved in silence, his face gradually turning more aghast. Cyrus felt his heart begin to thud and revolt against his ribcage.

"What?" he asked.

"What does it say?" And yet, Simos didn't answer. Instead, giving a hard swallow, he set the paper down, staring at Cyrus with a strange expression.

"Simos. What?"

"It says..." Simos stammered, appearing terribly uncomfortable.

"Three days after you left... armed men came under cover of night." What? Cyrus at first thought he'd misheard. Then his heart seemed to plummet straight out of his chest. Simos picked up the paper and continued reading, though he tensed with every advancing word.

"Your father tried to fight them off... but he was struck down and left bleeding on the ground..."

"No," Cyrus whispered gruffly.

"You're misreading it. Do it again." Simos didn't argue. He looked up at Cyrus with wide eyes, clearly unnerved by the dreadful news he was being forced to deliver.

"Your mother and your sister were seized…" Simos hesitated before reading the scribe's final words.

"Your father lives, though sick with fever. Your brother paid me to write this message. He bids you to stay hidden. Do not return to the family. It is far too dangerous." Simos trailed off, a dark silence falling over the stone barracks. Cyrus sat frozen, unable to draw breath. His hand moved instinctively, sliding beneath his collar until his trembling fingers clutched the small clay figure of Hestia. Leandros. The noble boy had gone after his family. And his mother and little sister had been taken.

"By the gods, Cyrus..." Simos muttered, blatantly unsure of what to do or say. But Cyrus couldn't hear him. In fact, he couldn't hear anything. The air in his chest seemed to have turned into liquid lead, heavy and scalding his flesh. His thumb dug so violently into the clay edges of the Hestia amulet that the sharp edges bit into his skin, and Cyrus felt rivulets of blood drip down from his new wounds. Leandros.

Out of his shock, a blinding spark of panic and animalistic hatred flashed, completely shattering his paralysis, the fury burning away all rationality. He lunged to his feet, knocking his straw mat aside.

"Cyrus! Wait—!" Simos yelled. Cyrus tore past the heavy woolen curtain, bursting out into the freezing mountain gale. He sprinted down the muddy path, his sandals slipping against the slick ground. He had to get back down the mountain. He had to go to Boeotia. He had to kill Leandros with his bare hands.

"Cyrus! Stop! You fool, stop!" Simos's frantic shouts erupted from behind him. But Cyrus didn't stop. He scrambled up the slope leading toward the upper terraces, his lungs burning. He slipped, his knee slamming hard onto the ground, but he pushed himself up instantly, scrambling on hands and feet, leaving smears of blood and mud on the cold marble stairs. He reached the grand colonnade. Just beyond it lay the way down to the mountain base, and from there, the way to Boeotia.

He threw himself toward it— A pair of arms wrapped fiercely around his chest from behind, tackling him hard to the ground. Cyrus was slammed down, having the wind knocked out of him, but he immediately began thrashing, kicking, and clawing like a trapped animal.

"Let me go!" Cyrus screamed.

"Let me go!"

"Cyrus, calm down! Look at where you are!" Simos shouted into his ear, desperately pinning Cyrus down.

"You can't just leave, fool!"

"I don't care! GET OFF ME!" Cyrus thrashed, shoving his elbow into Simos's jaw. Simos grunted in pain, slipping off, and Cyrus scrambled back to his feet, staggering toward the gate. But the commotion had already drawn the attention of other sect members.

"What is the meaning of this madness?!" a booming voice came from behind him. Before Cyrus could even attempt to take three steps, two tall disciples stepped in front of his path. They were clearly confused at this rabid boy, but they moved without hesitation, clutching the arms of Cyrus and pulling back. But Cyrus would not have it. He kicked wildly, trying to break free.

"No! Let me go! LET ME GO!" Yet his roars for freedom only attracted more disciples, who began forming a wall of bodies around him. Until, through the crowd, a particularly interesting disciple stepped forward. It was the same disciple Cyrus had seen in the dining hall, who had stepped in to shut down the trio terrorizing Thalia. For a moment, confusion befuddled Cyrus's mind. What was he doing here? Even if his presence was different, he was still a neophyte, just like him.

So why were these Middle Terrace disciples letting him pass with such obedience? But Cyrus would not have time to dwell on this for long. Closing the distance between them with impossible speed, before Cyrus could even turn his head toward him, the mysterious disciple's hand snapped forward. Two lithe fingers dove into the side of Cyrus's neck. And everything, all of it, was consumed with darkness. ❦ ❦ ❦ Cyrus awoke to the sound of an iron latch rattling.

He jolted up, his head throbbing, especially in the spot where the disciple's fingers had struck his neck. Blinking, he found himself completely disoriented with his surroundings. It was a cramped stone cell, almost suffocating with its limited space, the only source of light being a small lantern positioned outside the cell. And from that light… There was a shadow. Suddenly realizing that he wasn't alone, Cyrus snapped his head up.

To see that on the other side of his cell, stood Archon Philotas—the grand, imposing man Cyrus had seen when he'd first arrived at the Helicon Mist Sect. Philotas stepped up to the iron bars, his eyes narrowed into a stern gaze that focused on Cyrus.

"You created quite a mess today, neophyte. What madness possessed you to attack your brothers and attempt such a desperate flight from this sanctuary?" Cyrus packed his lips together. He wasn't going to say anything. Oh, why would he tell a stranger of his troubles? What if— But somehow, even with his decision, the Archon's question seemed to act as a blade, snapping apart the last fragile thread of self-control holding Cyrus together.

Even without a conscious thought to his lips, the sob-ridden words began to tumble out of him. And between the cries, Cyrus let everything pour out. He retold the Archon everything. The letter, Leandros, all the dreadful situations he had gotten himself into in the past few days. Oh, the amount he blubbered and begged. His fingers clutched at the iron as he poured his heart out, anguishing before the Archon. Philotas listened in silence, until Cyrus had finally run out of words.

The old man's face had softened, and for a moment, Cyrus felt hope enlivening his heart. Maybe the Archon would let him out—"May the gods watch over them, child," Philotas murmured softly.

"My heart bleeds for your plight. But my conscience cannot allow a boy of thirteen to throw his life away. Outside these walls lies a world overrun with thieves, murderers, and those who would gladly cut your throat in the dark. I will not send you to your death."

"No! Please! I don't care about the danger! Please!" Cyrus wailed.

"Rest now, Cyrus," Philotas said gently. He withdrew his hand, and walked down the dark hallway.

"No! Come back! Don't leave me! Let me out!" Cyrus beat his bloodied fists against the iron until the Archon's heavy footsteps faded away. Deprived of all hope, his legs gave out, and he crumpled into a heap upon the cold stone floor. It was his fault. If he had never angered Leandros, his mother and sister would still be safe. His father would not be harmed. He lay alone in the dark, weeping his tears onto the floor. Then, behind him, nestled inside the darkness of his cell, a voice spoke.

"What a pathetic sight, boy."