ATHENS -GREECE-
The kingdom was in chaos, the streets alive with panic as citizens scattered in fear. Within the palace walls, Prince Haemon strode with purpose, his anger burning in every step. He stormed toward the council chamber, where his father, King Creon, sat in meeting alongside his brother, Theus. Without hesitation, Haemon flung open the heavy doors, his voice cutting through the room's deliberations.
"So, this is where you hide?" he growled, his eyes narrowing as he fixed them on Creon and Theus. Theus, calm and composed, met his gaze, while the council members stared, startled by the prince's sudden intrusion. "Out!" Haemon barked, turning to the gathered elders. "All of you, out!" His words hung in the air, met with stunned silence. When none moved, he seized a long ceramic tray and hurled it against the wall, the shattering echo punctuating his rage. "I said, get the fuck out!" This time, the council scrambled to obey, their fear magnified by the king's silent acquiescence.
As the chamber emptied, Creon broke the tension, his tone mocking. "Your time in the East has done wonders for your tongue, Haemon. Listen to your accent—so refined." He leaned back in his chair, his words an attempt to diffuse his son's wrath.
Theus, still seated with calm detachment, spoke next. "What is the meaning of this, brother? Have you lost all sense of decorum?"
Haemon ignored the jab, his gaze burning into his father and brother. "What was this meeting about?" he demanded.
Theus smirked, leaning forward slightly. "And since when have you taken an interest in council meetings?"
Creon, his amusement growing, waved a hand dismissively. "No, Theus, let him have his moment. Perhaps it's a good thing. Haemon finally accepting his role as a prince—who would've thought?" He leaned forward, his voice dripping with condescension. "We were merely discussing plans for the upcoming Olympics. Not that it concerns you, of course, but now that you're here, perhaps you'd like to contribute?"
Haemon's jaw tightened, but his voice remained steady. "And what, pray tell, is the grand prize for this summer's Olympics?"
Both Creon and Theus exchanged a brief glance, confusion clouding their faces. Then Creon smiled, a broad, smug grin. "Why, whoever emerges victorious shall add your sister—my daughter, Athins—to their list of conquests, of course."
Haemon stepped forward, his presence commanding, his shadow falling over the seated king. He bent low, his face mere breaths from Creon's, his voice sharp and biting. "Well, in case you've failed to notice, your majesty," he began, his tone dripping with sarcasm, "your grand prize hasn't been in the castle for three days now."
Creon's smile faltered, his brow furrowing 24thas Haemon continued. "Her bracelet," he said, tossing the ornate object onto the table, its inscription—ATHENA—glowing faintly in the torchlight. "It was found on the streets, near the borders of Syllos."
The chamber fell into a heavy silence as the weight of Haemon's words sank in. Theus shifted in his seat, his warning tone cutting through the stillness. "Haemon—"
But Haemon ignored him, straightening to his full height. "I thought I'd let you know. Not that it matters, of course. After all, who cares about seeing the grand prize before the competition begins?" His words were laced with scorn as he turned and strode out of the room, leaving the king and his brother in stunned silence.
Somewhere..... Someplace
Odghar stirred with a grunt, his heavy eyelids parting to meet the sharp assault of light. Slowly, his vision adjusted, but the light faded, replaced by a suffocating darkness. He tried to move, but his limbs were bound—cold iron chains clung to him like a curse. A dull ache pounded at the back of his skull, the strike he'd suffered now making itself fully known, pain searing through his senses.
He drew in a deep breath, forcing himself to steady his mind. Bit by bit, his surroundings took shape in the dimness. The faint clinking of chains confirmed he was not alone; others, too, shared his plight. The wooden creak beneath him told of a moving cargo hold—likely a cart or ship.
Instinctively, his hand searched for the pouch that once held his precious gold. His fingers met nothing but the rough fabric of his tunic. Realization dawned, and a surge of anger boiled within him. "Bullocks," he muttered under his breath, frustration curling his lip. "Damn bastards. A man can't so much as admire his gold before it's stripped away and he's thrown in chains!" His words hissed through the darkness, his voice laced with both fury and bitter disbelief.
The cargo came to a stop, and heavy footsteps approached. Odghar remained still, pretending to be unconscious as he listened closely.
"You always have to be the one to slow us down, you bastard!" one of the men shouted.
"Bah, I just need to take a piss," another grumbled, stepping away under a tree. He loosened his belt and sighed in relief.
"Slave traders," Odghar muttered under his breath, his mind racing as he took in their words.
"Be quick with it will you? The others are already far off" Odghar hears one of them say. The first man grumbled, fastening his belt. "I'm done, I'm done," he muttered, stepping out of the bushes with a crooked grin.
"Let's take one more look at our beauties," he said, heading toward the cargo.
"Why must you always be so difficult?" his companion scoffed.
"It's just a look," the man replied with a shrug. "What's the worst that could—"
Before he could finish, a bundle of chains came hurtling out of the cargo, striking him square in the head. He crumpled instantly.
Odghar sprang from the cart before the second man could react. With a swift swing, he lashed the loose chains still bound to his wrists, cracking them against the head of the man on horseback. Bone shattered, and blood splattered the ground as the rider collapsed.
Wasting no time, Odghar leaped down, scanning the saddlebags. He found the key, unlocked his restraints, and reclaimed his stolen gold and precious belongings. With a final glance at the cargo, he unhooked the horse, setting it free—unaware that this choice would soon come back to haunt him.
With his gold reclaimed and his chains undone, Odghar turned to leave without a second thought for the others trapped in the cargo. But just as he took his first step away, a desperate cry for help stopped him in his tracks.
He hesitated for a moment, then cursed under his breath and made his way back. With a powerful kick, he broke down both doors of the cart, sending splinters flying. The dim interior came into view, revealing six—no, seven—figures huddled inside.
His gaze swept over them quickly, but one among them stood out—a woman, too composed, too strange to be just another captive. Something about her didn't belong.
Odghar tossed the key onto the floor of the cart and turned to leave, but just as he stepped away, the girl's voice stopped him.
"I'm lost," she said, her tone soft yet urgent. "I don't know where to go from here… and it seems I'm very far from home."
He paused, then slowly turned back to face her. His eyes narrowed.
"How did you end up here in the first place?" he asked, his voice edged with reluctance. His gaze shifted across the others. "All of you?"
One of the men scoffed. "The same way you did. What do you think?"
"Then I'm guessing you can find thy own way out of here," Odghar said with a smirk, turning his back on them. He stopped briefly, glancing over his shoulder. "The same way I'm doing," he added mockingly, bowing in exaggerated jest before stepping away.
"Please," the strange woman's voice called out again.
He turned to see her already freeing herself, stepping gracefully down from the cart. Now, bathed in the moonlight, her beauty was even more striking—something about her felt almost unnatural.
"Where are you from? Where are you headed? And how were you captured?" Odghar asked, his eyes now fixed on her with keen interest.
She parted her lips as if to answer, but then hesitated, her gaze shifting cautiously around. Odghar caught on immediately. Without a word, he gave her a subtle nod and motioned for her to follow, leaving the others behind.
Just as they were about to slip away, the distant thunder of hooves reached their ears. Odghar's eyes narrowed. He had been so focused on his escape that he had overlooked one crucial detail—they weren't the only cargo on this road.
Realization struck like a hammer. The horse he had freed must have alerted the others. And true enough, through the dim light, he could make out five riders fast approaching, their swords gleaming, their whips curled like vipers ready to strike.
Panic erupted among the captives. Some stumbled back into the cart, others clung to each other in fear. The strangely beautiful woman, however, did something else entirely—she clung to Odghar, gripping his arm as if he were the only thing keeping her alive.
And perhaps, in that moment, he was.
Odghar scanned his surroundings, his mind racing. With no other options, he seized the lady's wrist and bolted toward the forest, leaving the others behind.
One of the pursuers reacted swiftly, his whip cracking through the air like a serpent. In an instant, it coiled around Odghar's neck, yanking him backward with brutal force. The princess gasped, frozen in terror as he released his grip on her.
But Odghar was no stranger to battle. Instead of struggling, he turned his focus on the mounted attacker. Before the man could bring his sword down, Odghar twisted beneath the horse, looping the whip tightly around the beast's legs. The sudden pressure sent the animal into a frenzy, rearing up with a shrill neigh. Its rider lost control, flailing for balance before he was violently thrown to the ground.
The man staggered to his feet, shaking off the dust, and advanced toward Odghar, who was still loosening the whip from his neck.
"All this trouble… just for a sack of gold," Odghar muttered in frustration, yanking the whip free.
"Behind you!" the lady's urgent cry shattered the moment.
Odghar barely had time to turn before the attacker lunged, sword flashing under the moonlight. The strike was swift and brutal, meant to end him in a single blow.
But Odghar was faster. With a graceful twist, he evaded the deadly arc, his movements as fluid as the wind. Then, in a blur, he leaped—not to strike, but as if to land atop the man's shoulders. At the last moment, he shifted his weight, landing lightly behind him.
Before the swordsman could react, Odghar looped the whip around his throat, pulling tight with a practiced grip. The man thrashed, his blade clattering to the ground. He clawed at the strangling cord, his gasps turning to gurgles. Odghar held firm, his expression cold and unyielding, until his pursuer's struggles ceased entirely.
Releasing the body, he took a breath and turned to the lady. "Let's go."
He turned and saw that among the six in the cargo—save the lady beside him—one was slain, and two were taken captive. As though time itself had stopped, all eyes fell upon him, the whip in his grasp, and the dead man at his feet. Seeing the truth laid bare, Odghar cast down the whip and fled, for his very life depended on his speed.
He grabbed the lady by the waist, lifted her onto his shoulder, and rushed into the trees, with the other three following close behind. The bandits chased them fiercely, but like an antelope fleeing a hunter, he did not tire. Then, suddenly, the bandits stopped, spoke among themselves, and turned back.
Afraid to return for fear of the bandits, Odghar and the remaining captives ventured deeper into the dark forest. After walking for a while, they stopped under a great baobab tree to rest and catch their breath. They had escaped danger, but now they were lost.
Odghar leaned back against the tree, watching as the others collapsed onto the ground, their breaths heavy with exhaustion. His gaze shifted to the man who had first spoken boldly back at the cargo hold.
"I'm guessing you found your own way out," Odghar remarked, his tone casual. "Like I did."
The man stepped closer, his expression more measured now. "You're skilled," he admitted. "If not for you, we'd have ended up like the rest—dead or captive."
Odghar regarded him in silence. With his long, smooth black hair, striking features, and powerful build, the man had the air of a Spartan prince. There was strength in his stance, but something else, too—respect.
"My name is Milos," he said, extending a hand.
Odghar hesitated for a moment, then clasped it firmly. "I'm Odghar," he replied.
He looks at the fair misplaced lady who shylishly turns away with a blush. A puzzled look appeared on Odghars face thinking 'What was that for?'
Odghar's gaze drifted to the fair-skinned woman among them, who, upon meeting his eyes, quickly turned away, a faint blush creeping up her cheeks. A puzzled expression crossed his face. What was that for? he wondered.
Shaking off the thought, he pushed himself to his feet, scanning the weary group. Including the woman, there were five of them left. The others had either fallen in battle or been taken captive back at the cargo hold.
"Do you know where we are, or a way out of here?" Milos asked, his tone steady but laced with urgency.
Odghar nodded slightly, his mind already working through their options. "We'd be able to get back to the main road if we return the way we—" He stopped abruptly, his words faltering as his eyes swept over their surroundings.
A grim expression settled on his face. Something was wrong. Realization dawned, heavy and unforgiving.
"And to think I'm in all this for a bunch of gold," Odghar muttered under his breath before turning to Milos and the others.
"Look closely. Look around. Do you see the path from whence we came?"
A hush fell over them as they turned, murmurs rising like a low tide. The landscape had shifted—what was once familiar was now foreign, twisted into something unrecognizable. The path they had taken was gone.
"What happened? How is this possible?" the fair-skinned woman asked, her voice laced with unease.
All eyes fell on Odghar. He exhaled slowly, his expression unreadable.
"I don't know how this happened," he admitted. "But I do know where we are. And if I'm right..." His gaze darkened, his voice dropping to a grim whisper.
"The chances of us leaving this place alive… are close to none."...