The days in the villa dragged on in a routine of suffocating beauty. Hermes carried out his tasks in the garden with dispassionate efficiency, his hands moving with the muscle memory that required no thought.
This mental void was his only defense against the constant threat looming over him. Lady Kratos had not summoned him again, but he felt her gaze on him from time to time—a patient, predatory presence, like a serpent waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Her threat didn't need repeating; it echoed in every silent corner of that house.
Driven by a dark need to see what was at stake, Hermes began using brief moments of rest to visit the medical wing. That afternoon, he found Theseus not in his bed but walking slowly down a service corridor at the back—a narrow walled courtyard connecting the infirmary to the kitchen. The doctor had instructed him to walk to strengthen his lungs.
"Your hands are covered in dirt," Theseus observed when Hermes approached, a faint smile on his face. He looked better. The cough was a shadow of what it once was, and there was a new light in his eyes.
"It's my job," Hermes replied, his voice a murmur as his eyes swept the upper windows, searching for watchers.
They walked in silence for a moment, the sound of their footsteps the only noise in that secluded corridor.
"I never properly thanked you," Theseus continued, his tone serious, voice low. "For what you did in the mine. And for… for being here. Agouri needs someone to hold him back sometimes, and I can't do it." The boy smiled in a melancholy way.
Before Hermes could form a response that didn't feel like the weight of the world, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed in the corridor, and Agouri himself appeared, rounding the corner in a burst of air and energy. He carried a cluster of grapes, so purple and perfect they looked like jewels.
"From the Young Lord himself!" he announced, beaming. "He said the vitamins would be good for you!" He handed the grapes to Theseus, who accepted them with reverence. "Today we spent the whole morning in the library. He has scrolls from all over Hellas! He taught me how to recognize the crests of the great Athenian families."
Hermes watched the two of them. The devotion on Agouri's face was absolute, and Theseus' gratitude was no less. They were two birds in a gilded cage, singing praises to their captor for giving them better seeds.
"He seems… very good to us, Agouri," Theseus said, carefully picking a grape. His voice was low, hesitant. "But… be careful."
Agouri stopped smiling. "Careful about what? He's the reason you're breathing better. He's the reason we're not breaking our backs in the dark."
"I know. And I'm grateful." Theseus looked at his own hands, then at his brother. "It's just that… nobles are different. Their moods change like the wind. What is a pastime for them, for us is life or death. Just… don't trust blindly."
"You worry too much!" Agouri shot back, though with less force than before. "He's different! He's kind."
To prove his point, he leaned forward, his expression conspiratorial. "Today he showed me something. He has a little finch, a songbird, in a silver cage in his quarters. He caught it in the garden last week."
Hermes felt a cold shiver—a premonition.
"He treats it very well!" Agouri went on, oblivious to the change in atmosphere. "Gives it the best seeds, fresh water… He adores the bird. Watches it for hours, listening to its song. But sometimes…" Agouri frowned, trying to recall his master's exact words. "Sometimes he covers the cage with a dark cloth so the bird will stop singing. He told me: 'It's necessary to teach it the value of silence, so it will sing more fervently when I remove the cloth. It must understand that its voice is a privilege I grant—and that I can take away whenever I wish.'"
Agouri smiled, proud of the philosophical lesson. "Isn't it clever? He's teaching me how to think!"
The silence that followed was heavy. Theseus stopped chewing his grape, his face suddenly pale. The metaphor was so clear, so terrible, that he couldn't speak.
Hermes, who had remained like a statue of stone, felt fury rise in his throat like bile. The bird in the cage. Agouri, the naïve singer, whose privilege to "sing" depended entirely on the whim of his sadistic master.
Theseus finally broke the silence. He didn't look at Agouri, but at Hermes, his eyes filled with a frightened understanding.
"You see it too, don't you, Hermes?" The question was almost a whisper. "That we must be cautious."
The direct question pulled him into the center of that fragile moment. He couldn't tell them about the Lady. Couldn't tell them that their lives were bargaining chips. But he could give them the truth—the only one he knew.
He met Theseus' gaze, then Agouri's. His voice, when he spoke, was low and sharp as broken glass.
"In this house, kindness is a chain as strong as any shackle. It only changes the sound it makes when it tightens around your neck."
The image made Agouri draw back, offense and confusion on his face. But Theseus nodded slowly, the light of hope in his eyes replaced by a shadow of resigned fear. He understood.
His gaze then fell on the cluster of perfect grapes Agouri had brought—the Young Lord's gift—resting on a small plate beside him. They were the symbol of kindness, of the hope he had embraced. With a slow, deliberate movement, Theseus reached out and pushed the plate to the center of the table, away from himself. A silent act of rejection.
Hermes watched the gesture and understood. He was no longer the only one who could see the bars around the three of them.