"Let me show you something, Alexios," Atlas said at last.
He didn't raise his voice. It was steady, sharp, a tone that left no room for argument. Without another word, he turned from the road that led back to camp and started walking in the opposite direction.
Alexios blinked, stunned. "Atlas? The camp is that way."
"Just follow me," Atlas replied, his pace quickening. "We'll return soon. I've already assigned the older children to hunt in group, so the others won't go hungry. But first… there are things you need to see. About the camp. About Chrysis. About all of this."
Something in his tone silenced Alexios. He swallowed whatever protest rose in his throat and followed, boots crunching against the dirt.
Then Atlas broke into a run. Alexios cursed under his breath, clutching his spear as he sprinted to keep up, "If we get caught, it's on you."
The city of Argos was alive even under the cloak of night. The market still hummed with activity—merchants crying out their wares, torches burning bright, the smell of roasted meat and fresh bread wafting through the streets. Crowds jostled shoulder to shoulder, bargaining, praying, laughing.
Alexios kept close to Atlas, weaving through the throng. "Atlas!" he hissed. "What are we doing here?, "If the guards realize we're gone—" And what are you holding?"
Atlas pressed a bundle into his hands. "Quiet. There are masked guards here. Put this on."
Unfolding the bundle revealed a rough cloak with a deep hood. Alexios raised a brow wondering. "Where did you get this?"
Atlas pulled on his own, the hood casting his face into shadow. "Stole it. No time for questions. Follow."
Alexios sighed, muttering, "You're going to get us killed one of these days," but obeyed, tugging the hood over his head.
They slipped away from the crowd into the darker alleys where the night swallowed them whole. Atlas led without hesitation, his steps certain. Soon they reached a row of homes, their clay-tiled roofs gleaming faintly in the moonlight.
Atlas crouched, leapt, and caught the edge of a roof. In one fluid motion, he pulled himself up.
Alexios stopped, groaned. "Of course. Roofs."
"Climb," Atlas ordered.
With a grunt, Alexios followed. Together, they moved across the rooftops, silent shadows above the bustling market. The noise of the crowd dulled beneath them; only the sound of their boots on clay tiles and their steady breathing filled the night.
Step by step, rooftop by rooftop, they moved like shadows toward their destination.
At last, Atlas raised a hand, signaling a stop. Ahead loomed an ancient temple, its stone walls weathered with age, its entrance guarded by two towering masked men. Torches flared in iron brackets, and patrols circled the perimeter like wolves on a chain.
Alexios whispered, "This place reeks of trouble. What are we even doing here?"
Atlas only gestured to follow, slipping into the shadows. The front was impossible. Only the side, where a narrow window yawned high above, offered entry.
Atlas climbed first, fingers finding holds in the weathered stone. Alexios cursed softly but followed, gritting his teeth.
They slipped through the window and dropped silently onto the floor inside.
Alexios froze. His breath caught.
Row upon row of cradles filled the chamber, each one holding a tiny bundle. Babies, tiny forms swaddled in cloth, their breaths soft, their faces peaceful. The faint smell of milk and oil hung in the air. Dozens of them. Their soft breathing filled the silence, a chorus of fragile lives untouched by the outside world.
"By the gods," Alexios whispered, his eyes wide. "Atlas… what is this place?"
Atlas's expression was grim. He stepped between the cradles, his hand brushing one gently, careful not to wake the child. "This is the Cult's nursery. Chrysis takes them from their families, telling the parents the child is dead. She invokes the gods to cloak her lies. And when the babies grow old enough to hold a blade, they are sent to the camp. To us."
Alexios's face twisted, shock breaking into horror. "These babies… they were stolen?"
Atlas nodded slowly. "Not just them, Alexios. You. Me. All of us."
The words hit harder than any spear. Alexios stumbled back, clutching at his chest as though the ground had fallen away beneath him. "No. No, that can't—"
"It is," Atlas said softly, but with iron in his tone. "I've investigated for years. This is what we are. Not chosen by gods, but stolen by liars."
Alexios's hands shook. Rage and hope warred in his eyes. "Then… I have a family? A mater? A pater?"
Atlas looked at him, then nodded once. "I investigated your traces and found, a stone slab in the Sanctuary of Asklepios, southeast of here. It records a mother coming for treatment—for her son. Named Alexios. I went there and asked the priests about that stone. But the priests' throats are bound by Chrysis's hand. They cannot speak."
Alexios stood rigid, his chest heaving, his fists clenched white around his spear. Then he turned, eyes blazing. "Show me the slab, Show me now."
Atlas stepped forward, seizing his arm. "Calm yourself. Not tonight. If you rush, you'll bring the Cult's wrath down on us—and the other children. Do you want to doom them too?"
For a long, taut moment, Alexios glared at him, chest heaving. His hand gripped his spear as though he would strike something—someone.
Slowly, Alexios's fury burned unchecked. Then, slowly, it cooled into a simmering storm. He swallowed hard and gave a stiff nod. "Tomorrow, then."
Atlas exhaled, relief quiet in his chest. "Good, Tomorrow. I promise now we go back."
The return was swift, their shadows flitting across rooftops, their cloaks hiding their faces in the market's dim light. By the time they reached the camp, the guards at the gate gave them no second glance.
Inside, the children lay asleep, breaths deep, faces calm. The night was still, the fire embers glowing faintly.
Atlas pulled off his cloak, exhaustion weighing on him. "Sleep, Alexios. Tomorrow will be heavy."
He lay down, eyes closing almost instantly.
But Alexios remained awake, staring at the ceiling, his heart pounding in his chest. His mind replayed the sight of the cradles, the whisper of Atlas's words: You have a family.
He clenched his fists beneath his blanket, his thoughts a storm.
How am I supposed to sleep like this?
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