The conversation about the bird in the cage left a mark. Hermes noticed a change in Theseus in the days that followed. The hope on his face was now tempered by a caution that hadn't been there before. He was still recovering, his body gaining a fragile strength, but his eyes now watched the world with the same silent intensity as Hermes.
Agouri, on the other hand, seemed to have rid himself of doubt. His loyalty to his master—perhaps as a defense mechanism against the terrible truth he refused to see—had grown even more fervent. He spent less and less time with Theseus, always busy with the tasks and "teachings" of the Young Lord.
That absence created a void, a space of silence that Hermes and Theseus began to fill. One afternoon, Hermes finished his work early and, driven by an impulse he didn't bother to analyze, went once again to the medical wing. He found Theseus sitting alone, tracing patterns in the dust of a window with his finger.
"He didn't come today," Theseus said without turning. He didn't need to say the name.
"He's busy with his master," Hermes replied, leaning against the doorframe.
Theseus finally turned. His clear, intelligent eyes studied Hermes. "You care about him too."
It wasn't a question. Hermes didn't respond.
"You're not like the other slaves, Hermes," Theseus continued softly. "Even in the mine. There was… something different. You fight, but not like Agouri, with noise and defiance. Your fight is silent. What were you… before here?"
The question caught Hermes by surprise. No mortal had ever dared to ask him about his past so simply. He looked at his own hands, calloused and stained with earth. How could he explain what he was? A god? A messenger? A traitor? Words had no meaning now.
"I traveled," he said, his voice rough. The truth, in its simplest form. "I saw the world. From above."
Theseus nodded slowly, as if that answer made some sense to him. "Then you understand what freedom is."
"I understand what it is to lose it," Hermes corrected, with bitterness.
A moment of silence fell over the room. Not an uncomfortable one. It was as if both were taking their time to reflect on the conversation.
"I was never able to go anywhere," Theseus confessed, with a sadness free of self-pity. "My body has always been my chain. But Agouri… he was born to run. That's why I worry. He thinks the Young Lord gave him wings, but I fear he's only weaving a finer net. No one in this house gives anything for free."
"You're right," Hermes agreed, and for the first time, he felt a flicker of genuine respect for a mortal. Theseus, in his fragility, saw the world with a clarity many gods would never achieve. "The price here is always high. And it's rarely paid by the one who receives the gift."
The infirmary door opened, interrupting them. It wasn't a servant, but Lord Kratos himself, accompanied by Phylo. They didn't enter, just stopped at the threshold. The Lord didn't look at Theseus or Hermes, but at the slave-healer who bowed nervously in a corner.
"So… this is the item?" The Lord's voice was disdainful, as if speaking of a piece of furniture. "My son's… charity experiment?"
The healer stammered an affirmative answer.
"And what's the progress?" Kratos asked, his gaze finally landing on Theseus, devoid of any warmth or human interest. It was the look of a man assessing a horse or a vase. "Is he good for anything yet, or is he still just a waste of resources?"
Hermes saw Theseus shrink. The small flame of dignity his recovery had rekindled seemed to flicker under the weight of those words. Being called "item," "experiment." The son's kindness was merely the whim of a noble, and the father's contempt was the truth of that house.
Hermes frowned. He saw the casual cruelty with which they treated life, the way they crushed a sick boy's hope with mere words, out of sheer boredom. It was arrogance he recognized—the same arrogance that ruled Olympus.
"He's showing improvement, my Lord," the healer said quickly. "With time…"
"Time is a resource I decide how to spend," Kratos cut him off. He cast one last look of disdain at Theseus, and then at Hermes, as if noticing his presence for the first time. "Continue your work. But don't expect miracles from cracked clay."
With that, the Lord turned and left, leaving a frozen silence in his wake.
Lord Kratos's departure left a chill the afternoon warmth could not dispel. Theseus, still pale from the humiliation, stared at the door through which the noble had exited. The word "item" echoed in the infirmary's silence. Hermes observed the scene, not with a wave of compassion, but with a cold, analytical fury. It was the arrogance that disgusted him—the same casual presumption of the gods, now in a mortal form, pathetic and revolting.
Theseus was pale, his eyes fixed on the spot where the Lord had stood. The truth of his condition had never been so brutally exposed.
Hermes moved. He stepped closer and, without thinking, placed a hand on Theseus's thin shoulder. The gesture was awkward, strange to him, but the contact was firm. A silent act of solidarity.
For an instant, Hermes saw himself in that boy.
Theseus lifted his gaze to him, and in his eyes there was a new understanding. Fear was there, but also a spark of defiance. He was no longer alone in his distrust.
"The weight of chains…" Theseus whispered, more to himself than to Hermes.
Hermes squeezed his shoulder one last time before stepping back. As he left the infirmary, the afternoon sun seemed weaker, the garden's colors less vibrant. The villa's beauty was a lie—a thin veneer over deep rot. The flame in his chest burned hotter. The images of the gods on Olympus blended with the faces of House Kratos.
His scar ached, as if pierced.
Walking through the villa, he saw his reflection in a basin of water on the ground.
He saw in himself the same expression as Theseus—humiliated. A contained revolt, without strength.
Hermes was certain he was not as fragile as Theseus, and he knew, with a terrible and absolute certainty, that he would not stand by and watch that cracked clay be shattered.
…
Several days passed. Hermes's routine now more often included a visit to the estate's medical wing.
Sometimes, he and Theseus would sit quietly, watching the view from the highest part of the grounds. They saw the villa as a world of ants. The thought amused Theseus, who was sometimes caught by Hermes smiling discreetly for no apparent reason.
The sight brought back memories for the fallen god. The world certainly seemed larger when seen from below for so long, he thought. That view from the top of the estate and the breeze from the window against his face helped him remember the sensation of flying.
Unfortunately, when he opened his eyes, the sensation faded, replaced more often than not by the irritating voice of the healer or some other nosy servant who came to provoke young Theseus.
Their envy over the treatment the boy received usually stayed hidden when Hermes was present. But he always noticed the malicious looks burning into their backs.
One afternoon, after a moment of quiet that followed the healer's and Lord Kratos's departure—another of the Lord's visits to check on the treatment—the door opened again, and Agouri's energy filled the silence. He carried a ripe peach in his palm.
"Look, Theseus! The Young Lord gave me this for you!" he announced proudly. "He said the juice would do you good."
Finding only heavy silence and tired faces, his smile faltered. "What's wrong?"
Theseus accepted the fruit with a forced thanks. Feeling the growing distance, Agouri pressed on. "Why are you always like this? Don't you see how lucky we are compared to the mine?"
Hermes, watching with irritated detachment, shrugged. "Ignorance is a blessing, boy. Enjoy it."
The condescension in Hermes's voice was a stronger blow than any argument. Agouri stared at him, hurt and confused. Feeling like a stranger among the only two people he considered friends, he turned and left the room in offended silence, leaving the peach behind.
Theseus sighed. "You didn't have to be so harsh with him."
"The truth is harsh," Hermes replied, his gaze lost out the window. He wasn't thinking about Agouri's feelings, but about the rotten system that allowed a spoiled noble to manipulate the hope of a hungry boy.
...
From the infirmary window, it was possible to see a small training yard, rarely used. Instead of returning to his master's quarters, Agouri went there. He picked up a wooden sword from a rack and began practicing the moves the Young Lord had undoubtedly taught him.
His movements, however, were hesitant, lacking their usual vigor. He stopped, the sword hanging low, and looked back toward the medical wing, his face a canvas of conflict and loneliness. For a moment, it seemed he might drop the sword and return. But then, he set his jaw.
With forced determination, he resumed training, this time with an almost desperate fury, as if trying to crush his own doubt with every strike in the air.
...
Theseus sighed. He looked up at the sky outside the window and smiled warmly.
"Maybe someday we'll manage to get out of here," he said.
Hermes opened his mouth slowly, ready to crush the boy's poor hopes. But he went on.
"And then you can show us what it's like to travel seeing the world from above, right?" He turned to Hermes with an innocent smile.
Hermes raised his eyebrows in surprise. The boy's fragile, youthful face gave way in his mind to the image of his younger brother. Apollo. He remembered the times his brother had carried him through the skies against his will, showing him the most beautiful forests and oceans on the planet in a way only Apollo could—extremely fast and clumsy.
And then, for the first time since his fall, Hermes smiled.
"I think so."
Theseus smiled back.
The conversation was interrupted by a servant entering. He addressed the slave-healer.
"Orders from Lady Kratos," the servant announced. "The imported herbs from Ionia for this patient's treatment are suspended. The resources are needed elsewhere. Use common remedies."
The servant left, leaving a heavy, cold silence in the infirmary. Theseus stared at the door, his face pale with shock, processing the sentence that had just been passed.
Then the slave-healer, who had until then remained hunched and silent, approached Hermes. His movements were quick and furtive, his frightened eyes checking the empty hallway before fixing on the fallen god.
"The Lady is displeased," he whispered, his voice a trembling thread of fear. "When she is displeased, we all suffer. Be careful, boy—for all our sakes."
Without waiting for a response, the healer hurried away, returning to his herbs as if the conversation had never happened, leaving Hermes with the grim confirmation that his analysis was correct. This was not just an order. It was the first move in a declared war.
The rest of the afternoon dragged on. Agouri eventually returned. His anger had faded, leaving guilty awkwardness. He sat in a corner, saying nothing, creating a silent and uncomfortable trio. Hermes felt trapped—not by affection, but by the irritating web of obligations these mortals wove around him.
The infirmary door opened. It was Phylo, the administrator. His face was as impassive as ever.
"Hermes."
The call was dry and final.
"The Lady awaits you in her private gardens. Immediately."
The air froze. Theseus looked at Hermes with genuine panic. Even Agouri seemed to feel the gravity of the moment. The serpent was tired of waiting.
Hermes stood. As he did, he looked into the worried faces of the two boys. He saw the frightened loyalty in Theseus's eyes and the confusion in Agouri's—a brother trying to protect another from a world too big for them.
He had failed his own brother. The guilt was a debt that could never be repaid. But here, before him, was the echo of that same loyalty. Leaving them at the mercy of that woman's cruelty was no longer an option.
He exchanged one last look with Theseus—a look carrying the weight of a silent promise the boy could not understand.
He turned and followed Phylo, leaving behind the smell of medicinal herbs and the sudden silence of the two boys. Each step through the marble corridors was a step toward the monster's mouth. The cracks in the veneer of that gilded cage had become fissures, and he felt that everything was about to shatter.