1.70

The Young Griffon

Olympia‘s western dock town was as I remembered it, though it felt downright decrepit after weeks spent in the grandest city in the free Mediterranean. Stout wooden constructions were the standard out here, no amethyst-veined marble or towering bronze doors. It was refreshing, in a way. The beaches were teaming with fishmongers and their patrons, a cool breeze of waning winter offset by the cheerful warmth of unclouded sun.

The port’s rubble mound breakwater could be seen from a respectable distance, jutting up from the Ionian several spans out. It hugged the coast up and down as far as mortal eyes could see, and if the maps were to be believed, a bird or a god looking down on it from above would see the winding lines of rubble as a gorgon’s snarling face – each of the tangled serpents that served as her hair a point of entry for enterprising ships. It was a sight that Nikolas had boasted of seeing for himself after returning home for his wedding, all the while smugly refusing to explain how he’d done it.

I had a few ideas, myself. Someday soon I’d bring one of them to life and have a look for myself. See the ugly leer that the free Mediterranean cast across the Ionian at her lowly scarlet colony. Later, of course, when there weren’t more compelling things to do.

I cast a lingering glance at the Roman walking down the beach beside me.

“You were confident about that one, weren’t you?”

Sol’s lip curled in silent contempt.

“There was weight behind those words, I could tell,” I said, considering the crowded shacks and broad and oak tables buried in the sand for the day’s catch to be displayed. “It wasn’t difficult at all to imagine you in your armor, cape and all. Was that how you spoke to your legionnaires? I’m sure It inspired them on their way to the underworld.”

Strong hands grabbed up my shoulders and spun me around. Scythas pulled me down to his eye level, his influence clashing with my own. Hands of my violent intent clamped down on his own shoulders along with his arms and neck, fisted themselves in his faded green robes and glowed with building heat.

“What is the matter with you?” Scythas demanded, golden coals burning.

“The Oracle wasn’t wrong,” I mused, leaning further in. This close, it was impossible to deny. “You are a pretty thing. Thicker eyelashes than most marble beauties, and lips well suited to pouting. If you shaved that stubble you’d be a hot commodity in any bathhouse.”

I added my flesh and blood hand to the mess of pankration intent, pressing my palm flat against his forehead and pushing him down. The Hero’s pneuma rose. His lips pursed for a whistle.

“Leave him be, Scythas.”

The Hero of the Scything Squall scowled. “He had no right.”

“No,” Sol agreed. “He didn’t. I apologize on his behalf.”

“I wasn’t talking about what he said to me.” The fair Hero shoved me off and whistled a sharp note, blasting my pankration hands off his body with gale winds. “I’m going to find us a ship.”

He stalked off, muttering ugly oaths under his breath.

“Farewell to the brave Hero,” I said, waving a solemn goodbye. “We can only hope to meet again one day when the stars align above. Remind me why you brought him instead of the reaver?”

“Jason won’t set foot on a ship as he is,” Sol answered, sitting down right where he was and burying his feet in the white sands.

“Of course he won’t,” I said, collapsing beside him and leaning back on my elbows to watch the sea. The waters were gentle this close to shore – it was a calm day, and the breakwater stifled what waves there were. “Naturally the Heroic sailor is afraid of sailing. I’d expect nothing less of your companions. A shame mine weren’t quite so useless, really – your speech might have swayed them if they were.”

“What’s wrong?” he asked, without any particular expectation.

“A broad question. Where to begin-”

“Griffon.” He struck me with a look. As if there were a discerning mind behind that heavy Roman brow. “The others might think you’re just being more of yourself, but this isn’t like you. Cruelty of this kind isn’t your style.”

“Ho?” I raised a challenging eyebrow, dismissing a pair of errant pankration hands when they formed and reached for his throat without my permission.

“Your father‘s story shook you,” Sol said, irritatingly certain. “It’s the only reason I didn’t break your jaw when you said what you said just now.”

“I thank the Legate for his compassion.” I bowed my head, which in my lounging position was more a tucking of my chin. Perhaps I’d take this time to replenish my body. Scythas wasn’t liable to find us a worthwhile vessel any time soon, and the sand was as comfortable as anything else.

“Was it your uncle?”

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

I dismissed another formless hand, scowling. “Which one?”

“The dead one.”

“No.” Idly, I fingered the pommel of the blade I had stolen off my father’s wall. It was a different blade than either of the blades that Anargyros had carried in the vision of his ascension. Even the sliver I had pulled from its sheath was enough to tell. It was bronze, where the first had been iron and the Talon had been ship wood. But It still thrummed like lightning when I touched it.

And the hilt was still the same.