The first light of dawn had barely touched the eastern hills when the city gates groaned open under the guard's push. Carts laden with produce from the countryside began lining up for inspection, their wooden wheels creaking against the worn cobblestones. Somewhere in the distance, a rooster's crow sliced through the morning quiet, its call echoing across the still-sleeping town of Lithosmeyg.
Inside the Temple of Hestia, the sacred flame cast flickering shadows against the walls. Young Pherodaro knelt before the fire, her short curls damp with sweat from the heat. The final words of her morning prayers still lingered in the air as she heard soft footsteps approach from behind.
"You may rest now, little sister."
Pherodaro turned to see Pheropyr standing in the arched doorway leading to the temple's rear chambers. Her older sister looked immaculate as always - white chiton perfectly draped, dark hair neatly braided, not a single ash smudge on her hands despite having just tended the sacred fire.
"The priests at Zeus's temple seem overwhelmed today," Pheropyr continued, her storm-gray eyes glancing toward the distant sounds of celebration. "They've called for extra hands to prepare the midday sacrifice."
Rising stiffly from her knees, Pherodaro brushed stray olive leaves from her skirt. "Sister, did you only sleep two hours? That's not enough, even for you."
Pheropyr's lips quirked in that half-smile Pherodaro knew so well. "I'll be fine." She reached out to tuck a sweaty curl behind Pherodaro's ear, her fingers cool against her sister's flushed skin. "You're swaying on your feet. Go. Sleep."
With a tired nod, Pherodaro performed the traditional hand-over-heart bow. "As you wish." Her sandals whispered against the stone floor as she made her way to the small sleeping chamber behind the temple.
Left alone, Pheropyr began her morning inspection. The offering bowls shone from recent polishing. Fresh herbs hung drying near the kitchen alcove. Extra kindling had been stacked neatly by the hearth - more than strictly necessary, clearly prepared with thought for whoever would next tend the flame. A warmth unrelated to the sacred fire spread through Pheropyr's chest at these small considerations.
As the sun climbed higher, the first worshippers arrived - mostly elderly women bearing baskets of barley cakes and early spring flowers. Pheropyr received their offerings with solemn grace, performing the blessings and listening patiently to their whispered prayers. Many asked after their beloved elder priest, their wrinkled faces falling when Pheropyr could only repeat that the old woman remained "indisposed."
By midmorning, the trickle of devotees had become a steady stream. Pherodaro reappeared at her sister's side, her short hair still mussed from sleep but eyes alert.
"You should have slept longer," Pheropyr chided even as she handed her sister a basket of blessed herbs to distribute.
Pherodaro shook her head stubbornly. "The festival crowds are heavier than usual. You need help."
And so they worked in tandem - Pheropyr conducting the more complex rituals while Pherodaro greeted visitors and kept the offerings organized. The air grew thick with the scent of burning incense and crushed herbs underfoot. Through it all, the sisters noted the increasing discontent among the worshippers, their mutters about the elder priest's absence growing louder with each passing hour.
When the sun reached its zenith, the last supplicant departed, leaving behind a temple littered with flower petals and trampled herbs. The sisters surveyed the mess in silence before reaching wordlessly for brooms.
They had just begun sweeping the rear courtyard when an unfamiliar voice called from the temple's entrance.
"Hello? Is anyone here?"
Exchanging glances, the sisters moved toward the sound. Standing in the doorway was a Greek boy of perhaps fourteen summers, his freckled face partially shaded by a traveler's wide-brimmed hat. A leather satchel hung heavily at his side.
Spotting the priestesses, he performed a creditable bow. "Which of you is Pheropyr?"
"I am." Pheropyr stepped forward, her posture unconsciously straightening into what Pherodaro privately called her "high priestess stance."
The boy rummaged in his bag and produced two scrolls of fine vellum, each tied with ribbon the deep blue of the Aegean. He handed the first to Pheropyr with both hands. "For you, my lady."
Then, to Pherodaro's shock, he extended the second scroll toward her. "And for Pherodaro."
Her fingers trembled as she accepted the unexpected missive. The vellum felt unnaturally heavy in her hands, its surface smooth as temple marble.
The messenger touched his hat respectfully. "A good day to you both." With that, he was gone as abruptly as he'd arrived, his sandals slapping against the stone path outside.
Pheropyr untied her scroll with practiced ease, her face unreadable as her eyes scanned the contents. Pherodaro, meanwhile, could only stare at her own scroll, a cold dread pooling in her stomach.
After a long moment, Pherodaro held out her unopened scroll to her sister with a wordless plea. Pheropyr took it without comment, breaking the seal with her thumbnail.
Pherodaro turned away, unable to watch. She focused instead on scuffing her sandal against a crack in the floorstones, the gritty sound loud in the silent temple.
Finally, the soft rustle of vellum signaled Pheropyr had finished reading. "Well?" Pherodaro whispered, her fingers nervously worrying the edge of her chiton.
"All good news," Pheropyr said mildly. Then, after a deliberate pause: "For everyone but us."
Pherodaro's breath caught.
"Our teacher has been called to oversee the Hestia temple in Mieza," Pheropyr continued, her voice carefully controlled. "You're to accompany her as an acolyte. It seems your dedication has been noted."
The words hit like a blow. "They're separating us?"
Pheropyr nodded once, the movement barely perceptible. "And closing this temple, it would seem."
Pherodaro's toes curled against the cool stone floor. The idea of this sacred space - their home since childhood - standing empty made her chest ache.
Seeing her distress, Pheropyr's expression softened. She reached out to tilt Pherodaro's chin up. "We'll seal the temple properly tonight after vespers. I'll speak to our teacher about the arrangements."
"But... the eternal flame..." Pherodaro protested weakly. "Hestia's fire isn't supposed to—"
"There are precedents," Pheropyr interrupted gently. "During the Persian wars, many temples were temporarily closed. The gods understand necessity."
She tucked the scrolls into her belt with finality. "As for our teacher, don't worry. I have something that will ensure him cooperation."
Pherodaro didn't need to ask what her sister meant. The determined glint in Pheropyr's eyes told her everything - this was about the black stones again.
And for the first time, the thought of those mysterious artifacts filled Pherodaro not with unease, but with desperate hope. If anything could keep them together, it would be her sister's relentless pursuit of the temple's secrets.
The afternoon sun slanted through the temple windows, illuminating motes of dust stirred by their sweeping. Somewhere beyond the walls, festival music played for Zeus's glory. But in the quiet sanctuary of Hestia, two sisters continued their work side by side, each lost in thoughts of impending separation - and the lengths they might go to prevent it.