Dawn had barely broken over Kydonia when they came for her.
Galea heard them before she saw them—the heavy tread of booted feet, the metallic jingle of bronze armor, the low murmur of male voices accustomed to command. She was already dressed and waiting, her few possessions bundled in a sling woven from island plants. The pendant Bobby had given her hung against her chest, its glow dimmed to almost nothing, yet still providing a comforting warmth against her skin.
Six royal guards filed into the small courtyard outside her hut, their spears glinting in the early morning light. They wore the insignia of King Minos—the double axe, labrys, emblazoned on their shields and breastplates. Their faces were impassive, professionally detached as they surveyed her modest living space.
"The island witch?" the leader asked, though it was clearly a statement rather than a question.
Galea winced at the term but nodded. "I'm Galea."
"You're to accompany us to Knossos. By royal command." The guard captain held out a clay tablet impressed with the royal seal. "The king wishes to consult with you on matters of importance to the kingdom."
Galea accepted the tablet, though she could not read the symbols etched into its surface. Four months on the mainland had improved her knowledge of spoken language, but written communication remained a mystery. Bobby had taught her many things, but reading the mainland's script had not been among them.
"I have preparations to make," she began, but the captain shook his head.
"Everything has been arranged. You'll depart immediately."
Outside the hut, a small crowd of villagers had gathered to witness her departure. Among them stood Aristos, the village elder, his expression carefully neutral. Behind him, Phaedra watched with what might have been regret in her eyes. Of Demetrios there was no sign, though Galea soon discovered why.
"I'll be accompanying you as guide," Demetrios announced, appearing suddenly at her elbow. He was dressed for travel, a small pack slung over his shoulder, a short sword at his hip that hadn't been there when they'd returned from the island.
Galea bit back the retort that sprang to her lips. Guide indeed—spy would be more accurate. Demetrios would ensure she reached Knossos without attempting escape, reporting every word and action directly to his royal master.
A donkey was brought forward—her mount for the journey. Galea approached it cautiously. On Atlantea, there had been no domesticated animals; her experience with such creatures was limited to what she remembered from childhood and the few months since her return.
"You've ridden before?" the guard captain asked, noting her hesitation.
"No," Galea admitted.
The captain sighed, then gestured to his men. One stepped forward, demonstrating how to mount and control the beast. Galea listened attentively, then awkwardly climbed onto the donkey's back. The animal shifted beneath her, and she grabbed instinctively at its coarse mane to steady herself.
"It will be a five-day journey if the roads are clear," Demetrios informed her, mounting his own animal with practiced ease. "Longer if we encounter difficulties."
Galea glanced back at the village one last time. In the four months since she'd arrived from Atlantea, she had developed a complicated relationship with Kydonia. She had brought hope and healing to many of its residents, yet always remained an outsider—the "island witch" whose strange markings and abilities inspired as much fear as gratitude.
And now she was leaving again, this time not by choice but by royal command. The look in Phaedra's eyes as she turned away told Galea everything she needed to know about the true nature of this summons. She was not being invited to Knossos; she was being collected, like a rare specimen for the king's menagerie.
As their small procession moved through the village gates and onto the dusty road heading inland, Galea felt a flutter of anxiety in her chest. She touched the pendant at her throat, drawing comfort from its familiar contours.
"Bobby," she whispered, too softly for anyone to hear. "I wish you were here."
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The landscape beyond Kydonia revealed the full extent of the drought's devastation. Fields that should have been green with spring crops lay barren and cracked. Olive groves, normally evergreen regardless of season, showed browning leaves and withered fruit. The few farmers they passed worked listlessly in the heat, their gaunt faces and hollow eyes speaking of prolonged hunger and diminishing hope.
Their route took them through three villages smaller than Kydonia, each in worse condition than the last. In the second, hollow-cheeked children lined the road as they passed, small hands outstretched in silent supplication. Galea tried to stop, reaching into her bundle for the dried fruit she had packed, but the guards urged her onward.
"We have a schedule to maintain," the captain said flatly.
"They're starving," Galea protested. "I could at least identify edible plants for them. There—" She pointed to a patch of scrubby growth beside a dry streambed. "Those roots can be ground into flour. And those leaves have medicinal properties."
"The king's command was clear," Demetrios interjected smoothly. "No delays."
Galea fell silent, but her eyes continued to catalog the native flora as they traveled, noting which plants still survived despite the lack of rain, which might serve as emergency food sources. The knowledge Bobby had imparted about plant biology, combined with her own unique connection to vegetative life, allowed her to see possibilities where most mainlanders saw only weeds and brush.
They made camp that first night in a small grove of stunted pines. The guards efficiently established a perimeter, built a small fire, and prepared a simple meal of dried meat and hard bread. Galea was offered a portion, which she accepted with murmured thanks.
As darkness fell, she found herself seated near the fire opposite Demetrios. The flickering flames cast his features in sharp relief, highlighting the calculating intelligence in his eyes.
"You should consider yourself honored," he said, breaking the long silence between them. "Few commoners receive direct summons to the royal palace."
"I don't feel honored," Galea replied honestly. "I feel like a possession being retrieved."
Demetrios smiled thinly. "Perceptive. But that doesn't change your circumstances."
"What does the king really want from me?"
"Isn't it obvious? Knowledge. Power. The secrets of Atlantea." Demetrios leaned forward, lowering his voice. "He's heard tales of the guardian—this 'Bobby' you speak of. Some say he's a god who grants immortality to his chosen. Others claim he's a spirit of the ancient world who created the island as a sanctuary from death itself."
"Bobby is..." Galea hesitated, unsure how to describe her enigmatic mentor. "Not what people imagine."
"Yet he taught you to manipulate plants with your mind. He gave you that pendant that never leaves your throat. He healed your childhood illness when conventional medicine failed." Demetrios fixed her with an intense stare. "The king would know more of such a being."
Galea touched the pendant reflexively. "There are some questions I cannot answer."
"Cannot? Or will not?"
She met his gaze steadily. "Either way, the result is the same."
Demetrios studied her for a long moment, then nodded as if confirming something to himself. "We shall see. The king can be very... persuasive when something interests him."
The implied threat hung in the air between them. Galea turned away, focusing instead on the unfamiliar stars overhead. The constellations here were the same as those visible from Atlantea, yet somehow they seemed colder, more distant without the island's luminescent glow to complement their light.
Later, as the guards took turns keeping watch and Demetrios snored softly nearby, Galea lay awake on her thin sleeping mat. She closed her eyes and attempted the meditation techniques Bobby had taught her, seeking the calm center within herself where her connection to plant life was strongest.
On Atlantea, this would have yielded immediate results—the surrounding vegetation responding to her mental touch, bending toward her, their inner structures opening to her perception. Here, separated from the island's unique energy field, her abilities were significantly diminished. Yet she could still sense the life force of the stunted pines around them, could still feel the slow pulse of sap through trunks stressed by drought.
She directed her awareness toward those trees, willing a small measure of her own energy into them. It was a technique she had developed since leaving the island—not as dramatic as the plant manipulation she had mastered on Atlantea, but useful in its own way. The pines responded sluggishly, their life-signs strengthening slightly under her influence.
It wasn't much—just enough to help the trees survive another week of drought—but the act itself brought Galea a measure of peace. Whatever awaited her in Knossos, she still retained some small fraction of her abilities. That knowledge, like the pendant against her skin, provided comfort in an increasingly uncertain situation.
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On the second day, they encountered refugees on the road—families displaced by crop failure, trudging listlessly toward the coast in hopes of finding food. Their possessions were piled on crude handcarts or carried in bundles similar to Galea's own. Children too exhausted to walk were carried on parents' shoulders, their small faces gaunt with hunger.
This time, Galea refused to be hurried past. She dismounted from her donkey despite the captain's protests and approached a group resting by the roadside.
"We have nothing to share," the guards warned, but Galea ignored them, extending her water skin to an elderly woman whose cracked lips spoke of dangerous dehydration.
"Drink," she urged. "Slowly."
The woman accepted with trembling hands. As she drank, her rheumy eyes fixed on the faint luminescent patterns visible on Galea's skin where her sleeve had ridden up. The markings had dimmed significantly since leaving Atlantea but were still noticeable in the shadow cast by Galea's body.
"You're marked by the gods," the woman whispered, her voice rough with thirst.
The surrounding refugees fell silent, their attention suddenly focused on Galea with an intensity that made the guards shift uneasily.
"I'm just a healer," Galea replied softly, aware of the danger in being perceived as something more.
The woman's gaze dropped to the pendant at Galea's throat. "That stone... it glows with inner light. I've heard tales of such things, from the blessed island beyond the western sea."
Demetrios moved swiftly to Galea's side, his hand falling casually to the hilt of his sword. "We must continue our journey," he announced loudly. "The king's business cannot wait."
At the mention of the king, the refugees drew back slightly, their momentary hope fading back into resignation. The elderly woman returned Galea's water skin, her fingers lingering briefly on Galea's hand.
"Remember us," she murmured. "When you stand before the throne, remember those who die in the dust."
The words followed Galea as she remounted her donkey and the procession continued down the road. Despite Demetrios' clear disapproval, she insisted on sharing her food rations with the refugees, distributing dried fruit and hard bread until her own supplies were nearly depleted.
"The palace will provide all you need," Demetrios said when she mentioned the state of her provisions. "There's no sense in going hungry for strangers who would have forgotten you by nightfall."
"Hunger isn't easily forgotten," Galea replied. "And neither is kindness."
Demetrios shrugged. "Noble sentiments. But in times of famine, sentiment is a luxury few can afford."
As they rode, dark clouds began gathering on the horizon—an unusual sight after months of clear skies. The guard captain studied them with a practiced eye.
"Storm coming," he announced. "We should seek shelter. There's an old temple about two miles ahead—solid stone, probably dry."
Demetrios nodded his agreement. "The road will be mud by nightfall if those clouds deliver rain. Better to wait it out."
They increased their pace, reaching the temple just as the first heavy drops began to fall. It was an ancient structure, predating even the oldest buildings in Kydonia, its weathered columns supporting a roof that remained largely intact despite evident neglect.
Inside, the air was cool and musty. Niches along the walls held the remnants of offerings long since turned to dust. Faded frescoes depicted gods and goddesses Galea didn't recognize—figures with animal heads, winged beings grasping serpents, women with upraised arms summoning flowers from barren earth.
While the guards established their camp within the temple's main chamber, Galea wandered deeper into the structure, drawn by the faint remnants of religious devotion that seemed to linger in the air. Bobby had taught her that certain locations retained energetic imprints of significant events or long-term usage—a scientific principle he explained in terms Galea only partially understood, involving quantum entanglement and psychic resonance.
In a small chamber at the rear of the temple, she discovered a series of carved reliefs that made her breath catch. They depicted an island, surrounded by treacherous waters, where humans were healed of afflictions by touching sacred stones. The island in the carvings bore a strange luminescence that the artist had indicated through intricate patterns of dots and swirls.
"Atlantea," Galea whispered, tracing the carved patterns with her fingertips.
"Impressive, isn't it?"
She turned to find one of the younger guards standing in the chamber entrance. Unlike his comrades, he had shown small kindnesses during their journey—offering her extra water when the day grew hot, adjusting her donkey's saddle when he noticed her discomfort.
"You know this place?" she asked.
He stepped forward, his expression softening from military discipline to genuine interest. "My grandfather was a temple keeper before the new cults took prominence. He taught me about the old ways." The guard gestured to the carvings. "This depicts the blessed island—Atlantea in some traditions, though it has other names in older texts."
"What does it say?" Galea asked, pointing to symbols carved beneath the island scene.
"'Beyond the western gate, where storms guard the approach to paradise, the wounded are made whole and the old are made young again,'" he translated. "It's just mythology, of course. Though..." His eyes flickered to her pendant, then away. "Perhaps not entirely."
Galea studied him more carefully. He was younger than she had initially thought—perhaps only a year or two older than her own eighteen years. His features were pleasant rather than handsome, with intelligent eyes that seemed to notice more than his military bearing suggested.
"What's your name?" she asked.
"Theon," he replied, seeming startled by the personal question. "Third rank in the royal guard."
"Why did you join the guard, Theon?"
He hesitated, glancing over his shoulder to ensure they weren't overheard. "My family needed the stability. A guard's rations are guaranteed, even in times of drought. My younger siblings eat because of my service."
The simple honesty of his answer touched Galea. It was the first time since leaving Kydonia that she'd encountered motivation that wasn't clouded by politics or self-interest.
"The carvings," she prompted, returning to safer ground. "How old are they?"
Theon seemed grateful for the shift in topic. "Very ancient. From before the first kings of Knossos, possibly even before the great migration. The temple was built to honor gods whose names have been forgotten."
Thunder crashed outside, followed by the steady drumming of heavy rain on the temple roof. In the main chamber, the guards and Demetrios could be heard organizing their camp, their voices echoing against the stone walls.
"You should return to the others," Theon advised quietly. "The captain doesn't like us fraternizing with... charges."
Galea nodded. As Theon turned to leave, she called after him softly. "Thank you. For the translation, and... for the water yesterday."
He offered a brief smile, then resumed his professional demeanor as they rejoined the main group.
The storm continued through the night and into the following day, forcing them to remain at the temple. The guards grew restless with the delay, but the captain insisted it was safer than risking the roads, which would have transformed into muddy quagmires under the sustained rainfall.
Galea spent the unexpected reprieve exploring the temple further, studying its ancient carvings and frescoes with growing fascination. In one chamber, she discovered additional references to the "blessed island," including detailed depictions of plants that closely resembled Atlantea's unique flora.
During a brief lull in the storm, Theon sought her out again, this time bringing information about their destination.
"Knossos isn't like Kydonia," he explained as they stood in the temple doorway, watching rain drip from the stone lintel. "It's not just larger—it's different in nature. The palace complex alone houses more people than three villages combined. And the king..." He hesitated.
"What about the king?" Galea prompted.
Theon lowered his voice further. "King Minos rules by divine right, descended from gods according to royal tradition. He permits no challenge to his authority, no questioning of his decisions. Those who displease him tend to disappear."
"Are you warning me?"
He met her eyes briefly, then looked away. "Just offering information that might be useful. The court has... complexities. Politics that an outsider wouldn't understand. Say little and observe much—that would be my advice, if anyone were asking for it."
"And the queen?" Galea asked.
"Queen Pasiphae is beautiful and dangerous—like a venomous snake adorned with jewels. She watches everything, remembers every slight, and never forgives an enemy." Theon glanced over his shoulder, ensuring they remained alone. "There are rumors she practices old magic, darker than the state religion permits."
The information heightened Galea's apprehension, but she was grateful for the insight. "What of the royal children? I've heard the king has many."
"Eight sons and five daughters that the court acknowledges, though there are likely others. Princess Ariadne is his current favorite—clever and beautiful, they say she has her father's cunning and her mother's looks. A dangerous combination."
Their conversation was interrupted by Demetrios, who appeared silently in the temple entrance. "Making friends, guardsman?" he asked, his tone deceptively light.
Theon straightened immediately, resuming his military bearing. "Explaining court protocol to the king's guest, sir."
"How thoughtful." Demetrios' smile didn't reach his eyes. "I'm sure the captain has more appropriate duties for you."
Theon bowed slightly and departed without further comment, though he cast a final glance at Galea that held something like concern.
Demetrios studied Galea, his expression calculating. "Collecting allies already? Impressive, but ultimately futile. The king's guards serve the king, not foreign curiosities with pretty faces."
Galea refused to be provoked. "I was simply learning about my destination."
"Knossos is beyond your comprehension," Demetrios said dismissively. "It's the center of civilization, the jewel of the mainland. Its customs and hierarchies were established generations before you washed ashore on your miracle island." He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Whatever game you think you're playing by charming a lowly guard, abandon it now. In the palace, such manipulations will only lead to suffering—yours and anyone foolish enough to help you."
With that warning delivered, he turned and walked away, leaving Galea to contemplate the veiled threat behind his words.
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By the fifth day of their journey, the initial storm had passed, but the roads remained difficult. What should have been dry, packed earth had transformed into treacherous mud that sucked at the animals' hooves and slowed their progress to a frustrating crawl.
They were traversing a narrow pass between two hills when they encountered a military detachment heading in the opposite direction. Unlike the royal guards escorting Galea, these soldiers wore armor stained with use and carried weapons that showed evidence of recent combat. Behind them trudged a line of bound men—perhaps twenty in all—connected by ropes around their necks and wrists.
"Prisoners?" Galea asked Theon, who had managed to position his mount near hers despite Demetrios' obvious disapproval.
"Bandits, most likely," he replied quietly. "The drought has driven many to desperation."
As the two groups passed each other, Galea studied the captives more closely. They were a ragged lot, dirty and bloodied, but their physiques suggested they had once been farmers or tradesmen rather than career criminals. One man's gaze met hers briefly—in his eyes, she saw not the hardened malice of a bandit but the hollow despair of someone who had lost everything.
The detachment commander, a burly man with a thick beard and scars across his face, reined his horse alongside their procession.
"Hail, Captain," he called to their escort leader. "What business takes the king's elite guard so far from Knossos?"
"Royal business," the captain replied curtly, clearly disinclined toward conversation.
The commander's gaze swept over their group, pausing when it reached Galea. His eyes narrowed as he noted her unusual appearance.
"By the gods," he murmured. "Is this the island witch they speak of in the coastal villages?"
Demetrios moved his mount forward, interposing himself between Galea and the commander's scrutiny. "The king's guest travels under royal protection," he stated firmly. "With all due respect, Commander, your questions exceed your authority."
The commander's expression darkened momentarily, then smoothed into a careful neutrality. "Of course. Forgive my curiosity." His eyes flickered to Galea's pendant, lingering there with unconcealed interest. "Safe travels to you all."
He rejoined his detachment, but not before casting one final, calculating look at Galea that sent a chill down her spine. She had encountered that look before—in Kydonia, when certain visitors realized her abilities might serve their personal ambitions.
"Will those men be executed?" she asked Theon once the detachment had moved past.
He hesitated. "That depends on their crimes and the king's mood when they're presented. Lesser offenses might mean conscription into labor battalions for the royal projects."
"They didn't look like bandits," Galea observed.
"In times like these, the line between desperate civilian and outlaw blurs," Theon replied. "Some take up arms against tax collectors when their families starve while royal storehouses remain full. Others raid supply caravans bound for the palace. The king calls it banditry; others might call it survival."
"And you? What do you call it?"
Theon's expression closed off, the momentary openness replaced by military discipline. "It's not my place to judge, only to enforce the king's law."
Their journey took two days longer than planned due to the road conditions. On the afternoon of the seventh day, they finally crested a hill that offered their first view of Knossos in the distance.
Galea's breath caught at the sight. Even from miles away, the palace complex dominated the landscape—a sprawling collection of structures rising tier upon tier up a central hill, their white walls gleaming in the late sunlight. Surrounding the palace, the city of Knossos spread outward like the spokes of a wheel, its buildings growing progressively smaller and less impressive with distance from the center.
"The greatest city in the world," Demetrios announced with evident pride. "Home to thirty thousand souls, center of trade for the entire sea, seat of King Minos' power."
Galea said nothing, but her hand rose instinctively to touch her pendant. In that moment, she felt farther from Atlantea—and from Bobby—than ever before. The pendant remained warm against her skin, but its glow had diminished to almost nothing, as if the very air of the mainland dampened its power.
As they descended toward the city, the guards adopted a more formal formation, creating a protective square around Galea with Demetrios riding directly behind her. Citizens on the road stepped aside at their approach, many bowing their heads in deference to the royal insignia.
"Remember," Demetrios murmured, close enough that only she could hear, "you are about to enter the heart of civilization. Whatever primitive customs you practiced on your island have no place here. The king's patience extends only so far, even for curiosities like yourself."
Galea straightened her spine, refusing to show the fear and uncertainty churning within her. She had faced the loss of her father, survived a deadly childhood illness, and mastered abilities that most humans couldn't comprehend. She would face whatever awaited her in Knossos with the same determination.
As they passed through the outer gates of the city, Galea found herself silently reciting one of Bobby's rare pieces of direct advice: "Adapt when necessary, resist when possible, but never surrender who you truly are."
The pendant warmed briefly against her skin, as if in affirmation of the memory.