Kryptic ↟ Deimos

six: old haunts

ALL MEMBERS OF the Cult of Kosmos convene beneath Delphi for the first time in years —garbed in black robes and terrible ivory masks weeping red. Deimos and Enyo glow in the low light with newly forged and polished golden armor. They look like the personification of dread and destruction —standing side-by-side at the forefront of the cave.

A war between Athens and Sparta grows nearer —inevitable. All it will take is the right spark. The Cult thrives on the premise of war profiteering, teasing both poleis and their allies until one of them decides to strike first. Korinth beckons Sparta to strike first as the Athenians rise to power and tension grow with Megara, the Thirty Year Peace is all but broken. Even the Thracians, allies to Sparta, have a dispute with Athens —Perikles even ordered a small fleet to sail for Thrace. Hellas was at a tipping point.

Too much talk of political matters bore the Cult's champions. Enyo's fingertips brush over the back of Deimos's hand, following a raised scar running over one of his knuckles. He tilts his head to the side, gaze darting to his counterpart —he can see the corner of her lips kink into a subtle smile. Deimos shifts his attention back to the meeting but finds himself fiddling with two of her slim fingers, loosely entwining them with his. His expression mirrors her own —though to the others they will appear stoic as always. It feels like a dangerous game they're playing and neither of them knows the rules or what happens if they're caught.

The chamber empties of the cultists until only the champions remain. His dark gaze is focused on the golden artifact beneath the open jaws of the great bronze snake. It thrums with power and has long called out to both of them and now may be the only time they have to act on curiosity. Deimos steps toward the pyramid, hand outstretched. "Deimos!" Enyo calls —a part of her fears what secrets the artifact keeps. Fear is weakness she can hear Chrysis saying.

He looks over his shoulder. "Don't lie and say you've never thought about it," he goads, knowing she will not back down from a challenge. Enyo follows in his footsteps, coming to stand at his side before the artifact. She places her hand against the pyramid at the same time he does and feels a jolt of energy rush through her followed by memories that are not hers.

Alexios! A man and a woman ascend the steep mountain path, behind them is a girl, clutching a baby against her chest —protecting him from the biting wind and sleet. There's a plateau, at the far end sits an altar of blue-veined marble, scarred with weather and age. A sheltered candle gutters there next to a pot of oil, a krater of sleet-lashed wine and a platter of grapes. The woman halts with a choking sob. "Myrrine, do not be so weak," the man snaps at her.

Myrrine's face contorts, a fire rising inside her. "Weak? How can you call me that? It takes courage to confront your true feelings, Nikolaos. Weak men hide behind masks of bravery."

"It is not the Spartan way," Nikolaos hisses through his teeth, sparing a moment's glance at his daughter and young son —still a suckling babe. One of the priests comes at the girl from behind, a second tears the baby from her arms, passing him to an old, withered ephor.

"The Oracle has spoken," the priests wail in unison. "Sparta will fall unless the boy falls instead." The elder priest lifts the baby above his head, stepping past the altar and to the edge of the abyss.

"No! No!" The woman weeps as two priests drag her back. "Nikolaos, please, do something," she pleads, falling to her knees with a hoarse cry. He stands resolute as the ephor's body tensed, readying to hurl the baby into the dark chasm. "Nikolaos, please! Not my baby!" Myrrine cries as the young girl breaks free from her captors and darts toward the ephor. She stumbles, losing her footing and crashes into his flank. The ephor begins to flail, toppling over the edge of the mountainside...the baby with him. Alexios!