Hermes' intervention, subtle as it had been, had altered the delicate and rotten ecosystem of the mine. He, who for months had strived to be invisible, to become just another gray shadow among so many others, now had a name and a face in the eyes of at least two people.
Agouri, with his indomitable energy, began orbiting him with noisy curiosity, asking questions Hermes had no intention of answering and offering him part of his rations with a conspiratorial smile—a gesture the former god refused with a curt nod. The boy's gratitude was a burden, a constant reminder of his involvement.
Theseus, on the other hand, was different. His gratitude was silent, expressed in a look of understanding that was almost more unsettling. He saw Hermes not as an accidental hero, but as an anomalous piece on the board of that prison—a force whose nature he did not understand, but whose weight he could feel.
Hermes tried to ignore them, focusing on the numbing monotony of work. He clung to his routine with Seneca and Agatha, a small and somber simulacrum of family forged in misery. But the thread had been woven. Inevitably, during their meager meals or on the way to the tunnels, the five of them ended up close together—a small island of familiar faces in a sea of suffering strangers.
The tension sparked by Geryon's visit did not fade. On the contrary, it intensified. Rumors began to spread through the tunnels, whispered between the blows of pickaxes and the dry coughs of the sick. It wasn't just Geryon, the brutal overseer. Someone far more important was coming. The owner of it all. The Lord of those lands—and of their lives.
Confirmation came in the form of even more methodical cruelty. The guards, once brutal out of sadism, became brutal out of efficiency. The lashes were no longer to punish, but to hasten the work.
While working, Hermes overheard two older slaves whispering in a nearby tunnel.
"They're still angry about Theo," one said, voice low and fearful.
"Of course they are," the other replied. "He made one of Geryon's trusted men look like a fool in front of everyone. No one's ever dared to fight back like that. But what could he do? The guard was about to break old Eleni's arm for spilling a bucket of water. Theo just… stepped in." He paused. "And now he's rotting in solitary for it—if he's not dead already."
Hermes processed the information in silence. An act of defiance, noble in its intent, but futile in its result. Just another proof that in that hell, any spark of honor was quickly extinguished beneath the oppressors' boots.
The guards' violence now made more sense. They were "cleaning house" for the Lord's visit.
The night before the visit, the air in the tunnel the five called home was heavier than usual. Gathered around a small, flickering fire, they shared a meager portion of stale bread, the silence broken only by the crackle of the flames and Theseus' dry cough.
As always, it was Agouri who tried to break the gloom.
"They say the Lord's villa has fountains that pour wine and trees that grow golden fruit!" he said, his voice full of forced hope. "Maybe he'll choose us! At least we'd have real food."
"First we need to survive the inspection, Agouri," Theseus replied weakly, while Agatha, seated beside him, adjusted a thin cloth over his shoulders to shield him from the cold seeping from the stone walls.
Seneca, watching the flames with his calm eyes, finally spoke, his voice a deep counterpoint to Agouri's optimism.
"Do not yearn for the Lord's gaze. The attention of the powerful is like a storm. Better to be the grass that bends than the oak that breaks." His tone, as always, was devoid of emotion. "It happens every two or three years. He looks at us, counts heads, and sometimes takes the strongest or… most interesting… to his villa."
"And is that a good thing?" Agatha asked, her voice a thin thread of hope.
Seneca stopped his work and looked at her. For the first time, Hermes saw a flicker of something resembling pity in his tired eyes.
The fallen god remained silent, watching the scene from his corner. He saw Agouri's foolish hope, Theseus' protective loyalty, Agatha's quiet compassion, and Seneca's resigned wisdom.
They were a simulacrum of a family—a fragile island of humanity forged in misery.
He told himself they were burdens, weights he had not asked to carry. Yet, when Agouri made a face at Theseus in response to Seneca's nightly dose of wisdom, Hermes caught himself with the faintest corner-smile.
On the day of the visit, they were dragged from their tunnels before dawn and forced to line up in the main yard at the bottom of the mine's pit. Buckets of cold water were thrown over them—not for hygiene, but to settle the dust and make their muscles and scars more visible under the sunlight. They were livestock being prepared for auction.
Then they arrived.
The descent down the main ramp was a spectacle of opulence that mocked the misery around it. The Lord was a tall, broad-shouldered man in his middle years, dressed in a tunic so pure white it hurt the eyes. His face was a mask of aristocratic indifference, his gray eyes sweeping over the rows of slaves like a farmer surveying his crops.
At his side, the Lady floated in silks dyed in blue and purple. Gold and lapis lazuli adorned her neck and wrists. Her face was beautiful, but marred by boredom and a thinly veiled disdain for everything she saw.
And behind them came the Young Lord, their son—a youth in his late teens with a serene expression that contrasted sharply with his father's hardness and his mother's ennui. His eyes swept over the slaves not with interest, but with a shadow of sadness, as if the abject suffering before him genuinely touched him.
Geryon followed them like a hunting hound, bowing and pointing, his oily voice echoing through the yard.
Hermes kept his head down, trying to blend into the crowd. He felt the Lord's gaze pass over him, cold and calculating. But it was the Lady's gaze that lingered. He felt it like a physical touch—a morbid curiosity. He knew why. Even covered in grime, his hair was an unnatural white. And even worn down by labor, his body still held an echo of divine proportions. He was an aesthetic anomaly.
She leaned in and whispered something to her husband. The Lord looked at Hermes again, this time with more attention, and gave an almost imperceptible nod.
Hermes' heart froze.
The procession continued. Then the Young Lord's eyes met Agouri's. The boy, unable to feign complete submission, kept his eyes up, and the Young Lord offered him a faint, almost sympathetic smile.
The parade of horrors ended. Geryon stepped into the center of the yard, a wax tablet in hand.
"By order of the noble Lord Kratos, the following property will be transferred to domestic service." Geryon's voice was a false thunder. "The white-haired one!"
Guards moved toward Hermes. He did not resist. He felt Seneca's and Agatha's eyes on him, heavy with concern. He was being taken. The cage was changing.
"The skinny one with the scar on his eyebrow!" Geryon called next. "You!"
Two more guards went for Agouri. The boy paled but stood firm. When a guard grabbed his arm, he yanked it back hard.
"No!" Agouri's voice rang out, shocking everyone with its boldness.
The guard raised his hand to strike him, but before the leather could fall, a calm yet authoritative voice stopped him.
"Enough."
It was the Young Lord. He stepped forward, his movement graceful and deliberate, subtly placing himself between the guard and Agouri. His face showed no amusement, but a restrained disapproval toward the violence. The guard backed off immediately, bowing.
"What troubles you, boy?" the Young Lord asked Agouri, his voice surprisingly gentle.
"I'm not going without my brother!" Agouri shouted, pointing to Theseus, who was watching with wide, terrified eyes, a cough shaking his frail body.
A deadly silence fell over the yard. Geryon looked ready to explode. Lord Kratos frowned, irritated by the interruption.
The Young Lord, however, looked from Agouri to Theseus, and his face softened with what seemed genuine compassion. He turned to his father.
"Father, I ask for them," he said, respectful but firm. "This boy's loyalty is a virtue, not a crime. It would be an unnecessary cruelty to separate them." He paused, his gaze meeting Theseus', who trembled visibly. "I will personally see that the sick one receives proper care at the villa. Consider them my responsibility."
Lord Kratos stared at his son for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he shrugged—a gesture of concession. His heir's will, especially when expressed with such eloquence, was a small price to pay for peace.
"So be it. Take all three." The Lord's order was final.
The guards, now with new instructions, seized Hermes, Agouri, and a completely stunned Theseus, who looked at the Young Lord with an expression of reverence and disbelief. They were pulled from the formation. As he was dragged away, Hermes looked back one last time. He saw Agatha, hands over her mouth, fear and perhaps relief mixed on her face. And he saw Seneca, who looked at him not with pity, but with a deep, dark warning. It was the look of a man who knew that benevolence in a place like this was often the most dangerous mask of all.
They were led upward, out of the mine's darkness and into the blinding light of the sun. For the first time in months, Hermes felt the wind on his face. It was not the breath of freedom—it was merely the air of a new prison, whose bars, disguised as kindness, were closing around him, more complex and perhaps more suffocating than ever.