The children sat on the sun-warmed stones of the courtyard, bits of bread clutched in their hands and nibbling on olives Powder brought from the pantry. Dust clung to their clothes, hair tousled from morning play. The air smelled faintly of smoke from a nearby hearth, mixing with scent of lavender and rosemary. 

 

“We should get on with chores.” Powder reminded them

 

“My dad says if things get worse we’re gonna have to move.” Ekko suddenly said 

 

“We’re gonna be fine. One lost battle doesn’t mean the whole Sparta is going down.” Mylo said 

 

“Really?” Vi raised an eyebrow “Do you know how many battles we lost recently? 

she was biting into her bread with a snap of frustration. “Sparta’s fucked,” she said bluntly. “Everyone’s greedy and corrupt. We’re losing our power because people only care about themselves!”

 

Mylo shook his head. “It’s not lost, Vi. Sparta still has warriors. We can hold our ground.”

 

“I agree with Vi. We are crumbling from the inside.” Claggor said “And in the meantime Rome is gaining more and more territory. It’s just a matter of time.”

 

“Says a big fighter who was turned down from military training. If you’re the future of Sparta we’re truly screwed.” Mylo scoffed into his wrap “You lose a fight over Powder” 

 

“Never said I was. Not my fault I can’t see properly” 

 

“If everyone actually did their part, we wouldn’t be worried about Thebes marching on us.” Vi said 

 

Ekko fidgeted, glancing down at his hands. “Benzo… he says Thebes is at our doorstep,” he whispered. His voice was small, tremulous, like the boy he still was. “If they take the town… I’ll be sold again.”

 

Vi’s eyes softened, then hardened. “I’ll never let that happen, Ekko. We stick together no matter what.” 

 

“That’s right” Mylo said 

 

“Stop it all of you” Powder intervened “You’re scaring him”

 

Trying to ease the tension, Vi picked up a wooden sword, tossing it toward Ekko with a grin. “Let’s see how well you’ve been training.”

 

The boy caught it easily, eyes alight with mischief, and the children jumped up again. 

 

The courtyard became a whirlwind of movement, wooden swords clashing, dust flying, shouts of challenge echoing against the stone walls.

 

….

 

The outpost stood on a low rise overlooking the road into Laconia, a rough ring of stone and timber built for watch, not comfort. Wind tugged at the canvas of the command tent, carrying the scent of dry grass and distant smoke from villages further south. Spears were stacked neatly by the entrance. Shields leaned against the wall, scarred and chipped from older battles.

 

Inside the tent, a heavy wooden table had been dragged into the center. A map of Laconia lay stretched across it, weighted down by small stones at the corners. Carved wooden markers placed across the surface to mark troops and towns.

 

Four men stood around it.

 

One of them towered over the rest.

His shoulders were broad beneath his worn cuirass, his dark beard threaded with early silver. Scars crossed his arms and neck, marks of a lifetime of war. He leaned forward with both hands braced on the table, eyes fixed on the map.

 

“Thebes grows bolder every month,” he said. “Leuctra broke our line, and they know it. They test our borders now, not with armies, but with raids. One town today. Another tomorrow.”

 

He nudged a wooden marker toward the southern edge of the map. “Ephyra sits here. Loyal. Poorly defended. If they take it, they open the road deeper into Laconia.”

 

One of the officers frowned. “Sparta still stands.”

 

“For now,” he replied. “But fewer men answer the call each season. Our allies hesitate. Our enemies do not.”

 

Another man shifted uneasily. “And the west?”

 

He moved a different marker, far beyond the Peloponnesus. “Rome is not our enemy yet. But they will be, one day. They take land the way others take breath. Slowly, then all at once. Their legions are disciplined. Their ambition has no border.”

 

The tent fell quiet.

 

“We cannot fight Thebes and the future at the same time,” he went on. “So we hold what we can. We protect the towns still loyal. We show strength, even when we are bleeding.”

 

“You’re a fool Vander” One of the men scoffed softly. “Strength won’t stop a knife in the dark.”

 

“No,” Vander agreed. “But discipline might. And unity. If we lose that… then Sparta becomes a memory instead of a city.”

He straightened, towering over the table.

“Ephyra will hold. I’ll see to that myself.”

 

The silence did not last.

 

One of the men at the table straightened, arms folding across his chest. He was younger than Vander, lean and sharp-eyed, his cloak pinned with a bronze clasp shaped like a wolf.

 

“Ephyra will not hold,” he said. “Not alone.”

 

Vander turned slowly. “Choose your next words carefully, Doreios.”

 

Doreios did not flinch. “We should not be standing alone at all.” He reached forward and moved one of the wooden markers away from Ephyra, sliding it toward the north.

 

“We should bind ourselves to someone stronger. The world is changing. Thebes holds the land routes now. Their armies grow. Their generals think in new ways. If Ephyra swears to them, they will protect it.”

 

The tent went still.

 

Vander’s hand slammed down on the table.

“That’s a treason.”

 

Doreios lifted his chin. “Treason to what?” he shot back. “To a city losing its grip on the world? To old laws written for a different age?”

 

“You would kneel to the men who broke us at Leuctra?”

 

“I would survive them,” Doreios said. “There is a difference.”

 

Vander’s eyes burned. “You call selling our borders survival. I call it surrender.”

 

Doreios stepped closer, lowering his voice, but not his defiance. “You are a visionary trapped in yesterday, Vander. You still fight as if honor alone will hold the line. But honor does not stop supply lines from being cut. It does not stop allies from abandoning us.”

 

“And alliances bought with fear will chain us,” Vander replied. “Thebes will not guard Ephyra. They will own it. First they ‘protect’ it. Then they place their men there. Then their laws. Their taxes. Their banners.”

 

Doreios spread his hands. “Better their banner than none at all.”

 

“That is how cities die,” Vander said coldly. “Not in battle but by choosing comfort over freedom.”

 

Doreios laughed once, sharp and bitter. “Freedom is a pretty word for graves.”

 

Vander stepped forward until they were face to face, his height casting Doreios in shadow. “And fear is a poor reason to betray your own blood.”

 

Doreios did not look away. “The world does not care for blood. It cares for power. Rome rises in the west. Thebes rises in the north. And Sparta stands still, polishing old spears.”

For a long moment, only the wind outside spoke.

 

Vander finally turned his back on him.

“Ephyra will not kneel,” he said. “Not while I command its defense.”

 

Doreios’s jaw tightened. “Then you will doom it.”

 

Vander did not answer. But the space between them had already become a battlefield.

 

…..

 

 

That evening, the house had fallen quiet.

A small oil lamp flickered on Vi’s desk, its flame casting long shadows across the stone walls. She sat hunched over a sheet of rough papyrus, tongue caught between her teeth in concentration. Her handwriting was careful, deliberate, each letter pressed with purpose.

This was not the first time she had written it.

A petition.

Not to a god. Not to a merchant.
But to the Spartan military academy.

When she finished the last line, her jaw tightened. She read it once more, then signed her name at the bottom with steady resolve.

Violet 

 

She rolled the papyrus tightly, heating a lump of red wax over the lamp until it softened. The wax dripped onto the seal, and she pressed her signet into it with a firm hand. The mark bloomed in the wax like a wound.

 

Behind her, the door creaked.

 

“Again?” Powder stood in the doorway, her long braids falling over her shoulders.

 

Vi exhaled slowly and nodded. “If I’m stubborn enough, maybe they’ll get tired of saying no.”

 

Powder crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed. “I admire you,” she said quietly.

 

Vi snorted. “For what? Being rejected by old men with beards longer than their patience?”

 

Powder shrugged. “For not giving up.”

She picked at the hem of her tunic. “All I’m good at is scrubbing floors.”

 

Vi turned in her chair. “That’s bullshit.”

 

Powder blinked. “Vi..”

 

“You talk people into things. You calm them down. You make them listen. I punch things.” Vi stood and walked over, sitting beside her. “I might be a good fighter, but you? You’re a born leader. Heck you know science, astrology, physics. That’s power.” 

 

Powder huffed softly. “What good will that do once I’m married?”

 

Vi stilled. 

 

Powder’s voice dropped. “I want to see the world. Travel. See cities bigger than Ephyra. Academies, Ships. Markets. Places where no one knows my name.” She hesitated, then added, bitterly, “Instead, my great adventure will be birthing another generation of well-equipped warriors.” Her shoulders slumped.

 

Vi reached for her hand. “You don’t belong to that future,” she said softly. “You don’t belong to any future someone else chooses for you.”

 

Powder’s eyes shimmered. “That’s not how it works.”

 

“It does for us,” Vi said. “You don’t give up on your dreams. You don’t let men tell you what you were born for.”

 

Powder leaned into her, resting her head against Vi’s shoulder and whispered, “If you leave… will you take me with you?”

 

Vi didn’t hesitate, she lifted her sister’s chin up with her finger to meet her eyes “Wherever I go, you go.”

 

Powder wrapped her arms around her sister holding her tight “I love you.”

 

Vi swallowed. “I love you too.”

 

From the other side of the house came the scrape of boots and the familiar thud of armor being set down.

 

A voice followed, deep, tired, unmistakable.

 

Vi’s head snapped up, eyes lighting instantly.“Vander!”

 

….

 

Vi and Powder burst into the kitchen together, colliding with their father as he stepped inside. Vander barely had time to drop his pack before both girls threw their arms around him.

 

“Father!”

 

His face softened instantly as he wrapped them in his arms, pulling them close against his chest. 

The boys followed right after, Claggor nearly knocking into them, Mylo squeezing in wherever there was space.

 

“You’re back,” Powder said into his tunic.

 

“I missed you,” Vi added, her voice rougher than she meant it to be.

 

Vander laughed quietly, the sound low and tired but warm. “Easy now,” he murmured. “You’ll crush me if you keep this up.”

 

A small woman stood by the hearth, wiping her hands on a linen cloth. She had silvering dark hair tied back tightly and sharp eyes that missed nothing.

 

“If you keep hugging him like that, he won’t be fit to eat. “ she said with the smile “Off with you, all of you. Let the man sit before he collapses.”

 

She shooed them away with the cloth, already turning back to the fire. “Table. Now. Plates, cups, bread. Move.”

They scattered, Vander chuckled 

 

“Easy on them Thaleia, I’m not that fragile” 

 

“No sir, I believe you’re not. But you do look like you haven’t had a proper meal in months.”

 

“That I can’t argue.” 

 

Mylo grumbled as he reached for the stack of clay plates. “Setting plates is a girl’s job.”

 

Vi smacked the back of his head without hesitation. “Say that again and you’ll be eating off the floor.”

 

“Animal,” he muttered, rubbing his head—but he obeyed.

 

Soon they were all seated around the low wooden table.

 

The kitchen was warm with firelight and the smell of herbs and roasted grain. Bundles of garlic and dried plants hung from the beams. Clay jars lined the walls beside stacked shields and spears, reminders of war sharing space with bowls and ladles. It was the house of a general but softened by years of laughter, arguments, and shared meals.

 

For a moment, no one spoke.

 

Then Claggor blurted, “How’s the front?”

 

“Is there going to be a war?” Powder asked quickly.

 

Vander hesitated, fingers tightening slightly around his cup. “We’re trying to avoid it,” he said. “That’s all I can say.”

 

“Oh please don’t be too long winded” Vi chuckled passing a bowl of fruit to her sister 

 

Mylo puffed up. “We should just crush Thebes.”

 

Vander’s eyes hardened, not with anger, but with something heavier. “You don’t know war,” he said quietly. “There’s no glory in dying son.”

 

Silence fell over the table.

 

After a beat, he cleared his throat. “Enough of that. Tell me what I missed. Two months is too long to be gone.”

 

Powder brightened first. “I started studying mechanics. And sciences. We got a new teacher, she’s a woman, Father, and she’s brilliant. She showed us how to build water clocks and pulley systems.”

 

Mylo cut in. “I advanced another rank at the academy.”

 

Claggor snorted. “Yet you still lose to Vi.”

 

Mylo scowled. “Only because she fights dirty.”

 

“You think they’re gonna ask you politely before they ram you with a sword?” Vi scoffed 

 

Claggor grinned. “I started work at the tavern. Carrying barrels mostly…But worked at the tap the other day”

 

Vander nodded, listening to each of them with tired pride.

 

Then his eyes turned to Vi.

“And you?”

 

She shrugged, staring into her bowl. “Same old, same old.”

 

“She got turned down again.” Mylo said with genuine concern for his sister 

 

Vander reached out and grabbed the back of her neck, pulling her closer and giving her a fond, rough shake. His grip, familiar, strong, protective felt like soothing balm on her skin.

 

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “You’ll find your way, Vi. Even if you have to carve it out of stone yourself.”

 

She let out a slow breath. “I suppose so” she murmured.

 

….

 

The room was dim, lit only by the small oil lamp on the low table and the faint glow of two thin incense sticks. Vi held one carefully between her fingers while Powder cupped the flame, shielding it until the tip caught and began to smoke.

 

They placed the sticks upright in a shallow clay bowl filled with sand, before a tiny shrine tucked into the corner of the room.

Two simple wooden figures stood there, one carved in the shape of a man, the other a woman. Time had smoothed their edges. Someone long ago had painted faint lines for eyes and mouths, though the color had nearly faded away.

 

They knelt side by side.

 

For a while, neither of them spoke.

The smoke curled upward in slow, ghostly threads.

 

“I miss them,” Powder whispered at last.

 

Vi’s jaw tightened. “Me too.”

 

Powder stared at the little figures. “I don’t remember their voices anymore.”

 

Vi swallowed. “Neither do I.”

 

Another silence settled between them, heavier this time.

 

“I remember Mum’s hair,” Powder said softly. “How it smelled. Like herbs and smoke and… bread. Warm bread.”

 

Vi let out a quiet breath through her nose. “I remember Dad’s hands. Rough. Always rough. But he used to lift me like I weighed nothing.”

 

They stayed like that, knees drawn in, shoulders almost touching.

 

They did not pray the way Vander did.

These figures were not the gods of Sparta. Not the ones carved into stone temples or sung about by soldiers. Their parents had worshipped different names, different spirits, old ones, whispered in another tongue. When Vi had asked once why their shrine looked nothing like the others, Vander had only said, gently, that not all faith wore the same armor.

 

Vi’s red hair and freckles marked her as different too. Even here, among Spartan children, she stood out like a spark in ash.

 

“Do you think they’d be proud of us?” Powder asked.

 

Vi didn’t answer right away.

She remembered the day the soldiers came.

Not clearly. Just flashes, smoke. Shouting. A hand pulling her forward. Powder crying so hard she couldn’t breathe. Bodies in the street. And then a man in a red cloak lifting them both, one under each arm, carrying them out of the ruin like they were worth saving.

Sparta had taken them in.

Vander had taken them in.

 

“They’d be proud you’re still here,” Vi said finally. “They’d be proud you’re smart. That you build things. That you don’t give up.”

 

Powder gave a weak smile. “You say that about everything.”

 

“Because it’s true.”

 

Powder leaned her head against Vi’s shoulder. “Sometimes I think… if Sparta hadn’t come, we’d be dead.”

 

Vi stared at the shrine.

“In my head,” she said quietly, “Sparta is the reason we’re alive.”

 

She didn’t say the rest out loud. That she needed that to be true. That if Sparta failed, then everything that had saved them meant nothing.

 

Powder’s voice dropped. “Do you think they watch us?”

 

Vi hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. I think they do.”

 

They sat there until the incense burned low and the smoke thinned into nothing.

 

Powder shifted, rubbing her eyes. “Vi?”

“Mm?”

 

“Can I sleep with you?”

 

Vi reached out stroking her cheek

“Of course you can” she said. “Come on, before you freeze to death” she smiled jumping on her feet. 

 

Outside, the house creaked as the night wind moved through the courtyard.

 

And somewhere beyond the walls of Ephyra, armies were already deciding the future of the world they were trying to hold onto.

 

…..

 

Morning in Ephyra smelled of bread, olives, and sea wind.

 

The market was already alive, vendors shouting prices, baskets knocking against knees, children darting between stalls with sticky fingers and bright eyes. Canvas awnings flapped overhead, throwing stripes of shade across stone streets warmed by the sun.

 

Vi walked with her hands hooked in her belt, eyes roaming like a hawk’s.

 

Powder clutched a small woven basket already half-full with herbs and dried figs.

They stopped first at a weapons stall.

Short blades lay in neat rows on a rough cloth, throwing knives, utility daggers, small sharpened spikes meant for armor gaps. The vendor was an old man with a crooked nose and a scar like a smile carved across his cheek.

 

Vi leaned in close. “Look at this balance,” she murmured, lifting one knife carefully and testing its weight.

 

Powder wrinkled her nose. “I’m so impressed”

 

“It’s art,” Vi said seriously. “Deadly, stabby art.”

 

Powder snorted. “You’d marry a blade if you could.”

 

Vi smirked. “Only if it treated me right.”

 

They moved on before the vendor could scold them. Powder dragged her toward a stall with bowls of crushed pigments, reds from ochre, blues from ground stone, yellow like powdered sunlight. Brushes made from reeds and animal hair stood in jars.

 

Her eyes lit up. “Look at this blue!”

 

Vi squinted. “It looks… blue.”

 

“It’s lapis,” Powder said proudly. “Expensive. Don’t touch.”

 

Vi lifted her hands in surrender. “Wouldn’t dream of it, genius.”

 

Powder selected a small bundle of charcoal sticks and a little clay pot of yellow pigment, carefully counting coins.

 

“You’re gonna paint another map, aren’t you?” Vi asked.

 

“Maybe,” Powder said. “Or a bird. Or a machine.”

 

“A machine bird?”

 

Powder beamed. “Exactly.”

 

They wandered together, cheese stall, bread stall, olive jars, baskets of onions and garlic. Powder debated between two bunches of herbs like it was a life-or-death choice.

 

Vi leaned over her shoulder. “Pick the one that doesn’t look like it’s already dying.”

 

“They both look fine!”

 

“That one’s drooping.”

 

“It’s… expressive.”

 

They laughed, shoulder to shoulder.

 

Then Vi stopped.

 

Across the square, near the old fountain, a man stood on an overturned crate.

 

He wore a dark cloak and spoke with sharp, cutting gestures.

 

“People of Ephyra!” called. “How long will you pretend Sparta still protects you?”

 

Powder followed Vi’s gaze. “There’s another one,” she murmured. “Benzo said they’ve been popping up everywhere.”

 

Vi tugged her closer. “Shh. Listen.”

 

The man’s voice carried.

 

“They send us fewer soldiers each season. Fewer supplies. Fewer promises kept. Thebes stands strong while Sparta bleeds itself dry on pride and old stories!”

 

A few people muttered agreement.

Others shouted back.

 

“Traitor!”
“Sparta saved this land!”
“You’d kneel to Thebes?”

 

The speaker raised his hands. “Thebes offers protection. Liberation from chains forged in another city’s war! Why should Ephyra die for Spartan honor?”

 

Powder’s fingers tightened on the basket. “This is getting bad,” she whispered.

 

Voices rose.

 

“Better Thebes than ruin!”
“Better death than surrender!”

The crowd pressed inward.

 

Vi shifted, stepping in front of Powder without thinking.

 

The man went on, louder now. “Sparta’s generals will abandon you when the walls fall! Choose life, choose..”

 

Someone hurled a rotten fig.

It hit his head.

 

Another voice shouted, “Coward!”

 

A shove rippled through the crowd.

Then another. Powder stumbled as someone bumped her shoulder.

 “Vi—”

 

A man elbowed past them roughly.

Her basket tipped. Her herbs and yellow pigment spilled across the stones 

 

“Hey!” Vi snapped pushing back.

 

Another shove hit Powder hard in the side. She cried out, dropping to one knee.

That was it. Vi lunged forward and shoved the man back with both hands.

 

“Watch where you’re going!”

 

He shoved her back. “Get out of the way, girl!”

 

Powder was suddenly struck across the cheek by a flailing arm. She yelped and fell sideways.

 

“Powder!”

 

Vi moved like fire. She drove her fist to his jaw sending him crashing into another protester. Someone swung at her. She ducked and shoved again, trying to reach her sister.

 

“Get up!” she shouted.

 

Someone slammed her face so hard her head snapped to the right. Before she knew it she was in the fight. 

 

Vi’s vision swam for a heartbeat, stars exploding behind her eyes as the force slammed her head to the side. Pain stabbed through her skull, but there was no time to think.

 

“Powder, move!” Vi barked, yanking her sister’s arm.

 

A man with a club swung at her from the side. She ducked low, letting the shaft whistle over her shoulder, then shoved him backward with a quick shoulder check. He staggered into a fruit cart, sending apples rolling like bright grenades across the stone.

 

Another tried to grab Powder’s arm. Vi intercepted, punching the man hard in the ribs with the heel of her fist. 

 

Crowds pushed and shoved, hands grasping, elbows hitting.

Vi’s knuckles burned, bruised from every strike, but she didn’t stop.

 

“Keep moving!” she shouted, voice ragged, as she grabbed Powder’s hand and yanked her toward the exit of the market.

 

Shouts grew louder, sticks and stones flying. People collided in panic, some falling, some swinging whatever they could grab.

Voices blurred into noise.

 

“Traitor!”
“Loyalist!”
“Down with Sparta!”

 

The speech dissolved into chaos.

Stalls overturned. Jars shattered. Someone screamed.

 

Guards burst into the square, shields raised.

“Clear the market!” one yelled.

 

A club struck someone near Vi. Then as she spun she felt a heavy blow glance off her shoulder. Then another hit her square in the side of the head. White exploded behind her eyes.

 

She fell.

 

The sky spun.

 

The last thing she saw was Powder reaching for her, face streaked with tears and dust.

 

“Vi!”

 

Then the world went dark.

 

…..

 

Cold stone pressed through Vi’s thin tunic.

She sat on the floor of the holding cell with her back against the wall, elbows braced on her knees, head hanging forward. A thin line of blood crept from her brow down the bridge of her nose. Her top lip was split, already swelling, and her knuckles were scraped raw and black with dirt.

Her red hair had fallen loose from its tie, curtaining her face like a shield.

 

Across from her, a man with three teeth and breath like sour wine leaned close to the bars.

 

“So,” he rasped, squinting at her, “what’d a little flame like you do to get tossed in here?”

 

Vi didn’t look up. “Set the city on fire. You’re next.”

 

He chuckled. “Feisty. I like that.”

 

She finally lifted her eyes, sharp and bright despite the bruise darkening one socket.
“Get any closer and you’ll like the floor too.”

 

He snorted and shuffled back to his corner.

A moment later, heavy footsteps echoed down the corridor.

 

Keys rattled.

 

The iron bars slammed open.

 

She looked up.

 

Vander stood there, filling the doorway. His cloak was dusted with road grit, his face drawn tight with worry and something darker underneath it.

 

“Let’s go.” he said firmly 

 

She pushed herself to her feet, wincing when her ribs protested.

They walked out together, past stone walls and torchlight, into the open air.

Neither spoke until they were beyond the guardhouse.

 

“This has to stop,” Vander said at last.

 

Vi scoffed. “What, walking in the market?”

 

“You know what I mean.”

 

She turned on him. “What, fighting? Listening? Having eyes?”

 

“I never should’ve encouraged it,” he said. “It’s my fault.”

 

She stared at him like he’d struck her. “You’re blaming me for them starting a riot?”

 

“You’re a girl, Vi.”

 

The words hit harder than the guard’s club.

Her voice rose. “How dare you. I didn’t throw the first punch. I was protecting Powder!”

 

“You could’ve been killed,” he snapped back. “Beaten. Taken. Dragged off and rap….” He stopped himself mid sentence and stopped walking.

 

So did she.

 

For a second, neither of them spoke.

Then Vander exhaled slowly and reached up, rough fingers surprisingly gentle as he brushed her hair aside to look at the cut on her brow.

“Gods,” he muttered. “It’s deep.”

 

“I’ve had worse.”

 

“Not the point.”

 

His hand hovered near her face, unsure, then finally rested there, thumb brushing just under her eye where the bruise was already darkening.

 

His voice dropped. “I worry about you. All of you.” He grabbed the back of her neck pulling her in. “You’re all I have.”

 

Her anger drained out of her like air from a punctured skin.

She folded into him without meaning to.

His arms came around her, solid and warm.

For a moment, she let herself be held.

 

“I just don’t want to be useless,” she said into his chest.

 

“You’re not,” he said quietly. “You’re just… reckless.”

 

She huffed weakly. “Occupational hazard.”

He gave a low, tired chuckle.

 

….

 

The courtyard was quiet under the late afternoon sun. Vi expected they were headed to the house, but Vander’s stride carried her past the front doors, across the stone courtyard, and toward the back of the building.

 

“Where are we going?” she asked, trying to keep the edge of sarcasm in her voice.

 

“I need to show you something,” he replied without looking back.

 

Vi raised an eyebrow. “If you mean the oil I told Mylo…” A hand on her shoulder cut her off.  She followed him into the cellar quietly.

 

Vander stopped and reached for one of the heavy barrels stacked against the wall. With a grunt, he moved it aside, revealing a small, dust-choked wooden hatch in the floor.

 

Her eyes widened. “What… what is that?”

 

Vander’s expression was unreadable now. Dead serious. “Listen carefully. This is important. There’s war coming Vi. Thebes… they will come. It’s not a question of months, it’s a matter of weeks.”

 

Vi opened her mouth to argue, to protest, but he barked, sharp and commanding, “Listen!”

 

He pulled open the hatch. Darkness yawned below, a narrow stairway leading down into the cool gloom.

 

“There’s a tunnel,” Vander said, voice low, almost urgent, “leading outside the city walls, to the vineyard beyond. If Thebes reaches inside the walls… “

 

“No…” she took few steps back

 

“Vi…listen to me! You take your brothers and sister and you run”

 

Vi’s mouth fell open. “I… what are you saying?”

 

“Just listen!” Vander pressed, his eyes locking onto hers. “Do not try to protect me. Do not fight. Get them out. Understand? Just run.”

 

Her chest tightened. “No… no, I can’t—”

 

Vander stepped closer, cupping her face in his rough, warm hands. “Yes you can and you will! Do not fight. Do not hesitate. Just run, Vi. Promise me.”

 

Tears filled her eyes. “What about you?” she whispered.

 

“I’ll find you,” he said quietly, holding her gaze. “I will always find you.”

 

Vi’s eyes dropped to the gaping darkness of the pit below. Her stomach twisted. Horror seeped into her bones like ice water, cold and unrelenting. She wanted to argue, to scream, to refuse, but the seriousness in Vander’s eyes left her silent, trembling, and rooted to the spot.

 

The tunnel yawned before her like a mouth of stone. Escape, survival, and fear collided in her chest. Somewhere deep down, she knew that the world she thought she understood was already cracking, and there was no going back.

 

….