ATHENS- {GREECE }
A pinnacle of greatness, a city most wondrous and fearsome, among the largest jewels of fair Greece. Named for Pallas Athena, goddess of war and wisdom, Athens stood as the capital of a nation unmatched, the mightiest realm to ever grace this earthly stage.
Creon and Eurydice, rulers of Greece, wielded unmatched power, their names whispered far and wide. King and Queen they were, most renowned among the Greeks. Yet their fame was not born of virtue or love, nor of peculiar grace, but of hatred, cruelty, and an unruly nature, marked by partiality and spite. They were rulers feared and loathed, the very embodiment of tyranny, yet their crowns remained steadfast upon their brows.
To this grim pair were born three children, touched by the hands of the gods. Foremost among them was ATHIN, blessed by the goddess Athena, whose beauty rivaled all of Greece, surpassed only by the unmatched radiance of Medusa, a figure of divine and unearthly allure. Yet, her fair form belied her true character, which spoke not of grace but of discord.
Before Athin, there came two brothers, sons of Zeus himself—HAEMON and THEUS. Haemon, quiet, humble, and meek, bore no likeness to his parents' cruel ways, a rarity among such bloodlines. Theus, however, was their mirror, a reflection of their pride and fury. As his namesake Zeus, he was bold and unyielding, embodying the storm and might of the heavens, a force of power and peril.
It was that time of year when the city stirred with unmatched fervor, its streets alive with the hum of countless voices. Merchants called out their wares, slave sellers bartered, tradesmen haggled, warriors boasted of their feats, and women adorned themselves in their finest. Kings and princes walked among the throngs, their eyes alight with ambition. It was the grand Olympics, the most revered games in all of Greece.
Men from distant lands—Argos, Troy, and other neighboring kingdoms—journeyed to partake in this illustrious contest. Who could resist? The rewards were beyond measure: honor unparalleled, fame eternal, and glory that would echo through the ages.
But this year, the stakes were higher still. King Creon himself, in a declaration that shook the city, promised the hand of his daughter in marriage to the victor—a prize more coveted than gold or renown. The games, already famed, now carried the weight of destiny, drawing even the boldest of hearts into the arena.
The Olympics encompassed numerous contests, from swimming and racing to feats of strength and skill, each a testament to human endurance and mastery. Yet, among them all, one event stood above the rest—the Match of Gladiators. This was the crown jewel of the games, the pinnacle of bravery and ferocity, where princes and even kings stepped into the arena to clash in mortal combat. It was a trial of survival, a stage for the fittest to prove their mettle.
This was no place for the faint-hearted. Only the godborn, noblemen, princes, and warriors whose names were already etched in song could dare to participate. Their prowess was legendary, their courage unshaken, for the stakes were as high as the glory that awaited.
And for the past three years, only one name had rung out in triumph: Theus, the prince of Greece, son of Zeus. Unmatched in strength and cunning, he had become the undisputed champion, his victories solidifying his place as the most formidable warrior of his time. This year, all eyes turned to the arena once more, wondering if any could rise to challenge his reign.
Some claimed it was the blessings of Zeus himself that made Theus unbeatable, the thunder god's favor shielding him from defeat. Others whispered that his skill was natural, a gift born of his own unmatched prowess, marking him as possibly the greatest warrior of their generation. Whatever the truth may be, none had ever managed to best the Greek prince in combat, his victories as certain as the rising sun.
Yet what made this year's games all the more captivating was the same as ever—the whispers of a prophecy. It was said that destiny would play its hand, and the gods themselves had woven the threads of fate into the arena. The prophecy promised a challenger, one who might rise from the shadows to shatter Theus's reign. Whether it foretold triumph or tragedy, none could say. But it left the city alight with anticipation, for the gods' will was about to be revealed.
«"Hearken now, O seekers of fate,
For the threads of destiny are spun.
One shall rise, unbound by law,
Favored by no divine hand nor star.
When the theater of mortals and gods is alight,
And every gaze turns to the fateful plight,
Lo, the son of mighty Zeus shall fall—
His might undone by this nameless thrall."»
.
.
.
Somewhere along the cost of syllos.»
The streets were alive with light and sound, a tapestry of glowing lamps and flickering torches, while the hum of music, laughter, and cheerful shouts filled the festive air. The city rejoiced, basking in the vibrant energy of the season.
Yet at the far edge of the street stood a barn, a place shrouded in shadow, notorious for its chaos and lawlessness. This was no ordinary gathering spot; it was a haven for the unruly, the reckless, and the mad. Only the boldest—or most desperate—dared to enter.
Inside, the air was thick with noise and tension. Men bellowed as they placed high-stakes bets, their coins clinking on rickety tables. Fists flew freely, brawls erupting with little cause, while deeper within, the inner chamber held merchants with dark appetites, trading in cruelty and vice. The barn was awash with harlots and whores, their presence as much a part of the scene as the stained wooden beams. Some had already begun to ply their trade, catering to the impatient, their laughter and whispered promises mingling with the din. This was no place for the faint of hearts.
Suddenly, chaos erupted in the inner chambers of the barn. A folly had been played, and tempers flared like fire stoked by the wind. The culprit, swift as a shadow, darted past his pursuers, moving like a breeze weaving through trees.
"Hold him! Stop him!" voices roared, their cries cutting through the barn's cacophony. Yet, the man was a step ahead, his movements fluid and unrelenting.
With uncanny agility, he slipped through the crowd, leaping toward an open window. In a single bound, he hurled himself through it, vanishing from sight. Below, a heap of grain sacks lay haphazardly piled, and fortune smiled upon him as he landed unscathed amidst the wheat, the golden grains softening his fall like a miracle.
"Odghar!!!" A man bellowed, his voice seething with anger and spite. "Even the vultures of Lebedus will scorn the flesh of your skull!"
Moments later, as Odghar pulled himself free from the soft heap of grain, the barn doors burst open behind him. Men poured out, their faces dark with rage, eyes scanning the streets like wolves on the hunt.
But Odghar was already gone, weaving deftly through the labyrinth of streets, his figure vanishing into the festive chaos of the city.
Down the bustling streets, Odghar dashed with full speed, weaving through the crowd like a gust of wind. The laughter, music, and glow of the festivities faded as he slipped into a cool, dark corner, hidden from prying eyes.
Breathing heavily, he reached into the bag strapped to his waist, its contents jingling with stolen treasures. Gold coins, trinkets, and jewels spilled into his hands as he rummaged through his ill-gotten gains. Sorting through the spoils, he selected the most beautiful and practical, discarding the rest carelessly onto the ground.
Amid the glittering loot, his fingers brushed against something unusual—a golden handband, intricately laced with shining pearls. It gleamed even in the dim light, a piece far grander than the rest. As he turned it over, he noticed an inscription etched delicately onto its surface: Athena.
That was a well-known name, especially in the kingdom he now found himself in. "Athena," he muttered with disgust, almost retching at the sound of it. Without hesitation, he flung the handband aside, letting it fall forgotten onto the ground. He secured the rest of his gold, satisfied with his haul, and turned to leave.
But before he could take a step, a sharp blow struck the back of his head. The world spun, and he crumpled to the ground, unconscious. Darkness consumed him, and all went silent.