Time pressed against Kakodaimon like a blade at his throat. He swept through his chambers, maps scattered across his table like battle plans for war against physics itself. Two days compressed into one night—delicious impossibility!
His obsidian fibula caught lamplight as he gathered instruments of power: sealed orders that would make guards grovel, gold heavy enough to purchase temporary morality, and a silver mirror for impossible conversations.
Iron hooves thundered on stone outside. The king's own war-chariot waited—by what magnificent deception had he claimed such authority?
"Speed... above... all others," he muttered, fingers trembling with excitement." Two days... made into... single night."
He strode toward destiny, knowing dawn would arrive with debt collectors' punctuality."Chakias... builder of... dreams made stone. Time for... bringing you... home. Willing... or... otherwise."
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In chambers once belonging to queens, Victoria sat before a mirror framed with gold torn from conquered temples—vengeance gazing back from plunder's embrace!
Her attendants moved with funeral reverence, bearing silk purple as emperors' blood, pearls poets claimed were sea-nymphs' tears, and divine-crafted gold. Yet Victoria chose for war, not beauty.White chiton bordered with gold thread fine enough to garrote enemies. Silver peplos clasped with designs where wisdom and warfare danced cold marriage. As ribbons braided through her hair and twisted gold adorned her throat, she remained statue-still—but her eyes burned with fire making winter seem warm.The door opened with theatrical precision.
Consort Theodora entered, beauty hardened by court intrigue, draped in blood-crimson robes with jewels glittering like fresh wounds. Her face, once lovely enough to snare kings, now bore edges sharp enough to cut unwary flesh.
"Victoria," venom threaded through honey, "you walk these halls as though stones remember your name. But everything changed while you played exile in distant lands."Victoria's hands never paused fastening a golden serpent bracelet—ouroboros consuming its own tail. Silence spoke volumes. Entire libraries.
Theodora's voice rose, trembling with fury making theaters seem understated. "I stood by your father's side when you abandoned duty! I warmed his bed when you were a dust-gathering memory! I bore him Alexios—the heir, child of my body and his blessing! Bloodline runs through my son now, not through your barren womb!"
Still Victoria maintained sphinx-like composure, though attendants began resembling mice noticing large cats."Think you the people forgot your shame? Your weakness for that dead prince? Your cowardly flight when duty called? My son is the future—legitimate, strong, beloved. You cannot erase him with wishful thinking. Try, and find me standing guard like a lioness!"
At last Victoria spoke, voice carrying mountain-moving authority. "You speak eloquently of duty yet demonstrate ignorance of its weight. You speak of legitimacy yet seem oblivious that your son exists only because I chose exile over civil war. You speak of futures yet see only your reflection painted across time." She turned with predator's grace. "I return not to steal—theft is inelegant—but to reclaim what was always mine by birth and blood. The difference, dear stepmother, you'll learn in time.
"When the door closed behind Theodora's hasty retreat, Victoria drew breath like a blade from its sheath."Prepare yourselves," she commanded. "We go to Zeus Soter's temple."
They hesitated, sensing lightning's promise crackling. "For what purpose, my lady?""To offer prayers for this troubled kingdom's salvation." She rose, terrible and beautiful in white robes.
One whispered with nervous courage, "But... my lady... you've never shown reverence before—"
Victoria's lips curved in what charitable observers might call a smile, though her eyes remained winter stars reflected in black ice. "There's always a first time to test new alliances' waters. The gods, I suspect, appreciate sincerity over habit."
In the great hall where kings once held court with learned mortals, Lycurgus stood among dancing shadows. Limestone columns rose like fossilized giants' dreams, capitals carved with ancient triumphs now quaint as children's games. Here generals had planned world-reshaping campaigns; here wise men spoke words moving stones to wonder.
Tonight, wisdom felt fragile as morning frost.Theodora found him, earlier composure scattered like storm-blown leaves. She clutched his scarred forearm with drowning desperation."I trust none but you, Lycurgus! Others whisper poison, spinning webs catching my son like flies. But you—honor carved from marble, tempered in honest fire. Swear by Styx—protect my son when the king names him heir! They'll come in darkness as they've come for bright princes before. Promise he'll be safe beneath your shield!"
Lycurgus gazed down, voice taking rich tones colored by experience's cynical truth. "How many mothers have I seen weep for sons marked by fate's cruel hand? How many desperate promises sworn when hope was the only currency?"
His scarred hand covered hers with surprising gentleness. "I swear it, Theodora. Young Alexios will be safe under my protection while my arm has strength and heart has beating. This I promise by honor guiding my sword and loyalty binding my service."Words carried absolute conviction, though beneath lurked bitter knowledge that fate rarely honored mortal promises. Still, Theodora's face brightened with hope fragile as spun glass, kissing his battle-scarred hand before hurrying away, clutching his vow against pressing darkness
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Zeus Soter's temple rose with architectural ambition suggesting divine inspiration or human arrogance—often indistinguishable. Columns reached toward heavens where the god-king allegedly held court among stars witnessing countless mortal ambitions' rise and fall. Sacrificial smoke wreathed its peaks, carrying prayers and offerings to immortals who might or might not listen but certainly appreciated gestures.Victoria moved through sacred corridors with measured steps, guards trailing at respectful distances suggesting reverence and healthy self-preservation. At Demeter's shrine—goddess of harvests, hidden things, and maternal disappointments—Victoria paused with theatrical precision. Her guards found sudden fascination in frescoes depicting Heracles' labors, failing to notice their mistress slip through narrow doorways into chambers where mother-love and ruthless ambition held ancient dance in kingdom-older shadows.There, in lamp-lit space painted with divine judgment scenes, waited a boy of ten summers. His eyes held youth's bright innocence but also something far more dangerous—steel speaking of royal blood and destiny's heavy hand.
Lysander, though the world would remain ignorant until proper theatrical moments arrived. Victoria's secret trump card, hidden blade, answer to every slight and betrayal years carved into her heart. Born in exile's bitter embrace, raised in shadow's cold comfort, he carried restoration's dreams and vengeance's promises within his young frame.
Victoria knelt as priestess before god's statue, though worship here flowed in directions making theologians weep. She cupped his face with hands trembling only here, only now, only for him—hands signing death warrants and caressing lovers, now offering nothing more complex than mother's love.
She kissed his brow with lips speaking flower-withering curses and government-toppling commands, now whispering only tender oaths. "Upon your father's grave, upon his memory and sacred blood flowing like liquid destiny—this kingdom will be yours. Every foundation stone, every border grain of sand, every cellar wine drop. I swear by Styx, by Zeus, by Three Sisters weaving mortal fate with tireless fingers and hearts never softening."
The boy nodded with solemnity making adults seem frivolous, too young to grasp her words' magnitude but old enough to feel their forge-heat. In his eyes she saw not merely beloved son but future king—wise where his father was weak, ruthless where duty demanded blood, loving only where love served greater purposes.
She embraced him once, breathing youth and infinite possibility's scent, then returned to guards as though nothing more significant than evening prayers transpired. But in sacred darkness Lysander remained, holding her promise like sacred flame that would illuminate kingdoms or burn them to ash.
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In servants' quarters where palace workers found rest between empire's endless demands, Sabio lay on narrow cot in sardine-tin space. Plain stone walls offered spartan decoration suggesting monastic virtue or budgetary constraints. Single oil lamp and shelf holding few possessions completed appointments—luxury being relative.
Night pressed against his window while palace's nocturnal symphony continued: servants banking fires with weary efficiency, guards changing watch with mechanical precision, distant murmur of those whose work acknowledged no day-darkness boundaries.
Sharp knocking shattered fragile peace. "Architect Sabio!"Kerokles—royal secretary delivering morning commands with bureaucratic enthusiasm making tax collectors seem personable. Sabio rose with hasty scrambling understanding that keeping royal functionaries waiting was unaffordable luxury."I am here, my lord," uncertainty flickering like candlelight in drafts."
General Kakodaimon requires immediate presence in his chambers." Words carried finality reserved for death sentences and marriage proposals.
Sabio's stomach performed circus-worthy acrobatics. The bargain concluded.
Through corridors stretching longer in darkness—palace conspiring to delay inevitable reckoning—Kerokles led him toward fate. Sabio kept his head lowered, confident daylight architect reduced to nervous servant summoned by powers beyond understanding.
In Kakodaimon's chamber, the general's face appeared blade-sharp, marked by wind and exhaustion from defying natural law. Behind him lurked only darkness."Brought... the one... you wanted," Kakodaimon announced, words arriving in uncertain clusters. "Made... real from... distance."Sabio leaned forward, heart establishing a war-drum rhythm. "Brought whom, my lord?"
Kakodaimon stepped aside, revealing Chakias unconscious upon the floor—alive, breathing, but senseless from whatever ordeal transported him across impossible distances."But my lord, that journey requires two full days—""Does not... matter... the how," Kakodaimon interrupted with impatience. "What matters... your part. The bargain... comes due... like debt to... patient creditors." Eyes fixed with calculating intensity. "Tell me... what I need... for knowing. About him... who protects... too well."
Sabio's throat felt desert-dry, but somehow found voice for treachery. Seeing in memory the man who saved him from slavery's chains, protected him from harm's embrace, called him precious with familial fondness—then, with resigned air of choosing between damnation flavors, spoke: "Lycurgus is most vulnerable during morning meals.
"Kakodaimon's head tilted unnaturally. "When... eats food... like common... mortals must?"
"During morning meals especially. He dismisses all guards for privacy—a man's right to break fast without observers. His sword rests far from reach, set aside while attending mortal needs."Something resembling a smile twitched across Kakodaimon's features—expression suggesting considerable practice but little natural aptitude. "Morning meal... when mortals... join honored... dead most... easily accomplished."
With mechanical efficiency, he lifted Chakias and carried him toward Sabio's chamber. The unconscious man weighed no more than shadows, testimony to whatever methods ensured cooperation during impossible journeys.
As the general departed, horses and iron wheels fading into hungry darkness told Sabio everything about how miracles were accomplished. Some magic was merely money, influence, and ruthless determination making natural law negotiate.
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Sleep refused Sabio's desperate entreaties. Unease gnawed with termite persistence in expensive furniture. Finally abandoning rest's pretense, he rose and made his way through corridors where shadows seemed deeper—darkness grown more ambitious in night's progression.
Two days compressed into single night's work. Achievement strained belief like over-weighted rope, yet remained stubbornly possible—merely expensive, dangerous, requiring resources existing only at power's highest levels.
Lycurgus maintained quarters where ancient stones bore first builders' chisel marks—men shaping rock with optimistic permanence making descendants seem frivolous. Here air felt thick with accumulated history, heavy with kingdom-shaping decisions sending dynasties tumbling into history's compost.
He found his guardian bent over correspondence by lamplight's golden circle, scrolls spread across ivory-and-cedar table that once grew in gardens lost to war and time."Sabio," Lycurgus glanced up with genuine surprise. "What brings you at such hours? Surely sleep would serve better than wandering while honest men seek beds."Sabio forced casual curiosity despite heart maintaining military-drummer rhythm. "If I may presume... a matter of practical interest?"Lycurgus set down his stylus with patient attention. "Speak freely, young architect."
"Is there any means to shorten the journey from my homeland to this capital? Some method allowing faster travel than normal horses would permit?"Lycurgus settled into tale-telling warmth. "Ah, now there touches power's very arteries! Many ways exist to cheat distance's tyranny, each wrapped in particular prices guarded by jealous watchmen."
He leaned back with comfortable authority. "The king's war-chariots—engineering marvels built light as morning air, swift as diving eagles, drawn by horses bred for pure burning speed making wind seem sluggish. Yet reserved only for His Majesty, official ambassadors, and royal messengers when urgent state business demands lightning wings."Wonder crept into his voice. "Temple horses—creatures bred for sacred journeys brooking no delay. Magnificent beasts burning across heavens like earthly falling stars, faster than any normal steed. But their hearts cannot long bear such divine glory—two summers, maybe three if gods show mercy. Only highest priests may employ them for sacred missions literally unable to wait."
More practically: "Desert couriers knowing secret mountain paths—men riding day and night without rest, cutting days into hours through routes passed father to son like precious heirlooms. Storm-carriages exist, rare as phoenix feathers, costing more than most men's weight in gold."
Sabio felt invisible hands constricting his throat. "And who would be forbidden such swift methods?""Anyone lacking proper authority. Palace officials, even considerable generals, cannot commandeer royal resources or temple steeds for personal convenience. Penalties for unauthorized use remain severe—exile for the fortunate, death for those displeasing wrong people." Eyes narrowed. "But why such specific questions? Surely your tower-building duties don't require detailed knowledge of state courier networks."Sabio manufactured brittle-leaf smile. "Merely curiosity during sleepless hours."
But retreating toward chambers, thoughts churned like gathering storm clouds. Royal chariots forbidden to all but highest authority. Yet Kakodaimon had employed one—Sabio remained certain. The impossible speed, military precision, exhausted horses glimpsed in reflection's honesty.How had a mere general gained access to state-reserved transportation? What authority did Kakodaimon truly possess, hidden even from Lycurgus's considerable knowledge?
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Alone with scrolls and multiplying suspicions, Lycurgus discovered returning to correspondence impossible. Sabio's questions echoed like warning bells in besieged cities—specific, urgent, deeply troubling in ways making sleep seem luxury reserved for innocents.The questions' manner disturbed him most—careful precision seeking to confirm existing suspicions rather than satisfy curiosity. The boy investigated something touching the kingdom's most restricted resources, and such investigations rarely ended well.
With hunter's measured pace tracking potentially dangerous prey, Lycurgus rose and made his way through corridors where tapestries depicted gods warring giants—artwork seeming increasingly prophetic.
At Sabio's chamber, he paused outside heavy sandstone doors, listening with warfare-trained ears for secret-revealing sounds. Within, he detected purposeful activity—not sleepless worry's restless tossing, but someone attending another's needs.
Another? In servants' quarters at this hour?His hand moved unconsciously to sword's hilt, obsidian handle worn smooth by countless faithful years. Some war-learned habits never quite faded.
Inside, Chakias stirred from depths too profound for ordinary sleep. Eyelids fluttered like emerging moths, revealing confusion but also deep intelligence mastering stone, timber, and architectural mysteries lesser men couldn't comprehend.
"Sabio..." hoarse voice of one traveling far through comfort-defying conditions. "How do I find myself in this strange place? I remember... men with ropes and cruel intentions, then waking transported to chambers never seen..."
Sabio knelt beside the bed carrying shoulder-heavy burdens, face mixing joy at friend's safety with growing horror at bargain's demanded price. "It is a tale longer than winter nights. A story of desperate choices and prices paid in currency I pray won't bankrupt my remaining soul. But I will explain everything—I swear by whatever gods still listen to foolish men's oaths—"The door burst open with violence suggesting emergency or fashionably late justice.
Lycurgus stood framed like justice incarnate, battle-scarred form terrible in lamplight painting shadows across features witnessing kingdoms' casual rise and fall. His eyes, having witnessed enough history to fill libraries, assessed the impossible scene with general's battlefield swiftness where the impossible achieved tax-collection efficiency.
"Chakias!"
The name exploded like finally answered prayer with questionable timing.Sabio spun with panicked grace suggesting extensive practice being caught inconveniently, face draining color until resembling rain-soaked parchment. "My lord, I can explain—"
But carefully prepared words died like winter-frosted flowers as he witnessed Chakias's reaction. The master craftsman's eyes, still clouded from whatever methods ensured cooperation during impossible travel, suddenly blazed with recognition and joy too pure for any mortal artifice to counterfeit.
"Father!"