Let no man be called happy before his death. Till then, he is not happy, only lucky.

- Solon, Ancient Greek Law Maker

The fight had been long and brutal. Sweat stung his eyes as the blade of his sword met his opponent's over and over again. Clang. Clang. Clang.

What was once a full battlefield had drained to just the two of them. They had been sparring for what felt like hours. Alexios could feel himself flagging. His muscles ached and joints protested. Ikaros screamed in the distance.

But he had to keep going.

His opponent was dressed in black armour, his face concealed. Alexios did not know who he was, but felt that if the man won, everything would be lost. There were no questions. He needed to win.

The warrior in black thrust his sword at Alexios. The world seemed to slow. He saw a break in the armour, between his neck and breastplate. Without wasting time, Alexios plunged the blade of the sword into the flesh.

The warrior sunk to his knees, falling over.

Gripping his sword handle, Alexios looked around him. The battlefield was indeed deserted. Swords, bits of bronze and iron, arrows, and puddles of blood dotted the landscape.

As he turned, he caught the sight of something strange in the distance. He squinted his eyes. It was a young woman, dressed in bright blue robes. She raised a hand to him.

When he tried to reciprocate the greeting, an intense pain ripped through his abdomen. Looking down, he saw a sword protruding from his belly, piercing straight through his golden breastplate.

Alexios fell to his knees, watching blood pour from the wound.

A pair of black greaves blocked his line of vision. It was the dark warrior. Alexios looked up at the man, who stared down at him, head cocked unnaturally to one side, the gash oozing pus and maggots.

'H-help,' Alexios choked out, but the man did nothing.

After a moment, the warrior began removing his helmet. Alexios reached a hand up to him.

The helmet dropped to the ground with a loud thud. As Alexios' eyes adjusted, he saw his own face staring back at him.

Alexios woke to the sound of his own yell.

Taking a moment to slow his heartbeat, he fisted his hands into the bedclothes, reminding himself that he was, in fact, in his bed and not on the battlefields of some far-flung island. He planted his feet firmly on the cool stone floor and then stood, walking to the windowsill. Opening the shutters he hung his head outside, drawing in long breaths of the cool night air.

When he first arrived back to Kephallonia with Kassandra and his mother in tow, the dreams had been brutal and persistent. But after a few months they'd lessened and a year on he hardly found himself dreaming. And if he did, he'd forget it soon after.

But this one had been different. It was vivid.

There was a stain of orange beginning to show across the ocean, bruising the sky a deep purple colour. Alexios had chosen this room because he enjoyed waking up with the sun.

He found that keeping a strict routine was the best way to ease himself back into good society. He was a Spartan by blood, afterall. Besides, what else was a man to do after a few years of philandering, pillaging, adventuring, and killing? So, he purchased a small olive grove on this quiet island and had begun pressing olive oil.

It was not far from his old, decaying residence. The farmhouse was large enough to accommodate his mother and Kassandra, but they'd both declined to somewhere else. Myrinne preferred city life and Kassandra did not yet have her fill of travel, wine, and women.

He hired one farmhand and kept it simple. Strabo was an old man from Ithaka and skilled in such things. He taught Alexios how to use the press and husband a small herd of sheep.

It was a dull life, and in truth, Alexios didn't need the drachmae. But for the first time in a long time, he had a sense of satisfaction at the end of each day. He reckoned most people referred to that as happiness.

Alexios shivered as he recalled the warrior in black taking off his helmet, the maggots dropping from the putrefied gash. He shook his head to rid himself of the image, readying himself to wash and get ready for the day ahead.

Before he left the sill, he head Phobos nicker from the pasture beneath the window. Looking out over the small inlet, he saw a tiny rowboat pulling up on the shoreline. Beyond that, a gilded ship with red sails waited patiently on the calm water.

Eudora ran through the streets, dodging vendors, shoppers, and stray dogs. She was late again for the noon prayers and Media would not be pleased. Huffing, she pulled her headscarf tightly against her hair and began elbowing people out of the way. Delphi was thrumming with activity.

'Appeared to him in the fields…'

'The prince has made a large offering to the Pythia…'

'Must see the oracle…'

There had been rumors bouncing from person to person all morning. She had let herself become distracted by falsified truths and now she was in store for the worst kinds of temple chores as punishment. Or was the story truly gossip? One could never be sure in Delphi, where it seemed the mountains placed them closer to the gods by virtue. The supposed account of the goddess Athena appearing the young Prince of Cyrene seemed too incredible to be true. Eudora felt a pang of jealousy. How was it that a small handful of people on this earth were blessed with fame, fortune, and the love of the gods? While she, a lowborn, but devoted, priestess, had never had one measly supernatural encounter to gloat about.

Well… maybe not quite a priestess… more like a priestess in waiting. She served mainly as a handmaid to the Pythia and hoped that in doing so, she would be able to maintain a close relationship with the god Apollo. Perhaps then she would be able to decode her own strange visions, eerie dreams which sometimes showed her the future. But the longer she stayed at the temple, the more it seemed like Apollo… and all the other Olympians for that matter, did not care for lowly amateur priestesses.

'Get out of the way!'

Eudora tripped into a gully beside the road just in time for a horse to brush past her. It felt like the wind had been punched out of her lungs and she gasped out a breath.

'You alright there miss?' asked a kindly young shepherd. He hauled Eudora to her feet, helping her brush some of the dirt off her sky blue tunic. 'Better to stay off the roads when such officious men are about. He'll feel very foolish when he finds out he ran a priestess of Apollo into a ditch!'

Eudora thanked him with a smile and wave of her of hand, setting off at a flat run down the road. She hiked the impractically long tunic up and over her calves, feeling her sandals bite into her skin. She had a hunch that the prince wanted to consult with the Pythia.

Now she really was in trouble.

The prince was becoming a small dot in the distance. She pumped her legs faster, though people generally gave her a wide berth when they saw a Daughter of Apollo pelting toward the temple. The ruckus she was causing would surely make its way to Media's ears.

Eudora brushed that thought aside. The temple was in view now and she ran up the steps, her sandals slapping against the marble floors.

A powerful hand stopped her in one swift motion, causing Eudora to nearly somersault into the sanctum.

'Where have you been!' Media asked, her voice deadly low. 'The Prince of Cyrene has come to seek counsel, he has already been in with the Pythia for five minutes!'

She walked Eudora roughly along the columned porticoes, to the secret door where the Pythia was held. 'Go in, she is waiting for you'.

Ducking her head, she entered the small vestibule, barely large enough for two women. Hero was sitting on the bench, her long black hair bound around the crown of her head in tight braids. Her brow was furrowed as she spoke. 'One nation will rise and another will fall…' she said, pitching her voice higher in an effort to sound more regal.

She motioned to Eudora to join her, her eyes widening in urgency.

'That is no good Pythia! I need a firm answer! I have paid alms to Apollo! How am I to defeat the threat of another invasion?'

Immediately, Eudora remembered her dream.

Looking at Hero, she began to sign, moving her fingers as quickly as possible.

You must seek…

Eudora forgot the word for warrior; panicking for a moment she mimed slashing someone with a sword.

'A renowned fighter,' Hero relayed.

'But how will I know it is him?'

Eudora went back to signing. He has an eagle.

'He carries an eagle, a gift to him from the great god Zeus. As is befitting of a King.'

Eudora rolled her eyes at Hero's exaggeration. The man in her dream certainly did not seem like such an aristocrat.

'I think… I know who you speak of,' the prince said.

'Then take my counsel and may the gods have mercy on you,' Hero said, preparing to slide the latch shut over the hole and end the session.

Eudora frantically signed at her.

'O-one moment-' Hero said, looking intently at Eudora's hands. 'This man you seek. You must find him as quickly as possible, as your enemies are in pursuit of him. There is the potential for him to be corrupted, and he may work against your cause.'

'Thank you, great Pythia!' the prince said, though Eudora could hear that he was nearly down the great hall, his voice echoing off of the columns.

Hero shut the small window with the latch and leaned against the stone bench. 'Well that was unexpected!'

Eudora nodded in agreement, sinking back against the wall until she sat down.

'Is Media cross with you? I told her that you were visiting your mother! How could you have known the prince would ride into the temple and demand a meeting?'

At that, Hero burst out laughing and Eudora smiled. As far as anyone knew, Eudora was the only one who could foresee future events. All of the other priestesses at the temple pretended. But Eudora's gifts had made the temple rich again, and the Pythia's prophesies the respected sacrament they once were.

It was a well-kept secret amongst the women. All priestesses of Apollo, especially the heralded Pythia, were supposed to have the gift.

'Come, I'm sure the prince was generous with alms after such a prophecy. I think we deserve some honey cakes and tea,' Hero said, reaching for Eudora's hand.

The two women exited the warm little room into the afternoon sunshine. The heat of the day was just beginning to abate. Hero readjusted her headscarf to demurely cover her hair. They both sighed as a cool breeze billowed through their long blue robes.

Eudora did her best not to be jealous… but it could be hard at times. Hero seemed perfectly blessed in every way. She was young, beautiful, smart, and most importantly, from a well-connected family who donated generously to the temple every year.

She played her role as Pythia with a refinement none of the other priestesses had. Her voice was soft and musical. Eudora often dreamed of speaking like Hero, dispensing counsel to the great men of Greece.

But the daughter of a poor farmer and midwife would certainly never sit on the Pythia's bench. It simply was not done. Even if she could foretell the future.

As if she were reading her thoughts, Hero took Eudora's arm in hers as she steered her toward the priestesses' residence. 'Media will certainly have to reward us with something! Maybe a new copper headband for me… and one of silver for your beautiful golden hair,' she said, tugging on one of Eudora's escaped curls.

With matching bracelets.

'And matching men to bring them to us,' Hero said with a wink.

'What are you two prattling on about?' Media asked in her severe way. Though not a priestess herself, Media was so curt and prudish that she might have been. The old woman managed the temple archives, daily business, and the young women with a shrewd eye. Eudora supposed that the woman had been eighty years old for the past two decades.

'Oh just the lovely things you are going to give Eudora and I when you sort out the prince's donation,' Hero explained brashly, not bothering to stop walking.

'You'd best hope the prophecy holds. The prince has already begun assembling the lords of the mainland, not unlike Agamemnon.'

'Your old tales bore us Media,' Hero said. 'Who cares about war and fighting when we can enjoy a nice cup of tea and something sweet? I am famished, what about you, Eudora?'

Eudora nodded her head enthusiastically. Regarding them for a moment, Media snapped her fingers at one of the temple servants. 'Your priestesses are hungry, bring them something suitable.'

Eudora's smile faded as she spotted something at the end of the portico, swiftly marching toward them.

'My dear?' asked Hero, but Eudora could not answer.

It was the man in black armour, from her dream this morning. The edges of her vision became hazy as he strode directly toward her, black helmet concealing his features. There was the hiss of his sword being pulled from his scabbard.

Before long he was close enough to kiss. She could feel his breath on her nose. She peered up at him. His eyes held no pupils, but were instead black. All black.

Brandishing his sword, he plunged it into her abdomen. Blood puttered from her lips, onto the temple floor. She fell, holding her hand against her stomach, trying to hold her entrails in.

'It is a fugue,' she heard Media whisper, but it was like she was underwater.

'Come back to us,' Hero commanded, but the soft, musical lit of hers was getting further and further away.

'Come back.'