Guilt was a slow poison. Doubt, a terrible sedative.The sound Hermes had heard from the Young Lord's window—that muffled crying, that cruel, hissing command—refused to fit into the narrative that was crushing him. He tried to ignore it, tried to sink back into the desert of his own misery, but the echo of that sound haunted him—a dissonance in the symphony of his suffering.
He began to watch Agouri, no longer with the distance of a judge, but with the intensity of someone trying to solve an impossible puzzle.The boy was a ghost. He carried out his tasks with empty precision, his body present but his spirit absent. Hermes saw, one day, when Agouri dropped a water jar—the sound of shattering pottery made him flinch and shield his head, as if expecting a blow that never came. He watched how the boy ate, without taste, without pleasure—just the mechanical motion of bringing food to his mouth. Grief didn't look like that. That was fear.
Unable to bear the dissonance any longer, Hermes cornered him two days later, in the very place where their fragile alliance had once formed: the now silent and empty medical wing. The scent of herbs still lingered in the air, a ghost from the time when Theseus—and hope—had still lived there.
"Agouri."
The boy turned, and upon seeing the intensity in Hermes's face, tried to retreat.
"We need to talk."
"We have nothing to talk about," Agouri said, his voice low and lifeless. "Leave me alone."
"What did the Lord's son do?" Hermes asked, his voice harsher than he intended. "At night. In that room."
Terror flooded Agouri's face. The transformation was instant—emptiness replaced by pure, animal panic. "I don't know what you're talking about! He… he's good to me. He teaches me things. You… you don't understand anything!"
"Tsk." Hermes clicked his tongue, stepping closer. "That crying I heard the other night… was it yours?"
The question hit Agouri like a punch. He shook his head frantically, tears welling in his eyes. "No! It wasn't! You're crazy! It's your reckless conclusions that end up getting everyone killed! Leave me alone!"
The last sentence made Hermes falter, his grip slackening. That was the opening Agouri needed. He wrenched his arm free and fled, running as if Hades himself were on his heels.
Hermes stood in the middle of the empty room. He had uncovered nothing concrete, yet he was certain from the boy's reaction. The official story was a lie. The guilt that had chained him was a lie. And whatever was truly happening was so horrific that Agouri preferred drowning in the lie to facing it.
That night, Hermes's resolve was steel. He was no longer driven by doubt, but by a desperate need to understand the nature of the monster that had broken his friend. He waited until the villa sank into the silence of midnight, the only sound being the wind blowing from the sea.
He moved through the shadows—a specter of vengeance in a house of secrets.
As he moved near the garden, he heard something strange.
A muffled moan.
He raised an eyebrow. After so long working there, he knew every inch of that garden.
He knew the perfect route to cross the estate unseen, yet tonight something felt different.
He slipped behind bushes and flowers, carefully peering into the garden's interior.
And there he saw something unexpected at the central fountain.
Lady Kratos, the master's wife, was naked, clinging to another figure obscured by shadows.
The woman's voice hissed:
"Ahh—Saulo—"
Mouth slightly open, Hermes slotted a piece into the puzzle. He remembered his torturer's satisfaction—someone he had never even met before—when hurting him. The grudge he seemed to relish as he inflicted pain.
"Looks like you finally got what you wanted, didn't you, bastard?" Hermes thought.
He understood. It wasn't just lust. For a slave like Saulo, being the Lady's lover was the highest form of power. It meant protection, privileges… and the freedom to be cruel to others without consequence. His torture in solitary had not been merely fulfilling orders—it had been the delight of a small man exercising the only authority he had.
As shocking as the discovery was, it was time to proceed with his plan. His destination was the medical wing.
He slipped past the family's quarters, evading the guards with the skill of one who had earned the title of God of Thieves.
Reaching the physician's quarters, he waited until the patrolling guard moved in the opposite direction, then slipped through the window without a sound.
The physician lay in deep sleep on his cot.
Hermes crept toward the tables in the room, searching for something. He picked up a small blade, used for simple incisions, and tested its edge in the air.
He heard the physician sigh and startled, glancing back. Nothing—still asleep. He drew closer.
SLAP
The poor physician woke with a start, eyes wide. And before he could cry out, he froze at the sight of the shadowy figure, who, with a macabre smile, pressed a finger to his lips, commanding silence.
The blade against his neck allowed no movement.
Outside, the patrolling guard passed the medical wing's door once more, yawning.
Inside, an interrogation began.
"I will only ask each question once, and if I'm not satisfied with an answer—" Hermes whispered with a deadly expression, pressing the blade against the man's neck to reaffirm the threat.
A subtle nod was the reply.
"What happened to Theseus?"
The blade eased slightly.
The healer swallowed hard."H-he died after the treatment was stopped—"
"And why was the treatment stopped?"
"I-I-I don't—" The healer's tone betrayed a hint of desperation.
Before he could finish, Hermes squeezed his neck with one hand, making him choke.
The blade left his neck and drifted toward his cheek.
It stopped mere centimeters from his eye.
"Why. Was the treatment. Stopped?" Hermes asked slowly, his expression terrifying.
Sweat ran down the healer's forehead, mingling with a tear.
The grip on his neck loosened.
The words came out like a lament."It was after you attacked the Lady."
"So it was her, after all?" Hermes thought. His remorse surged back. He really was the one to blame.
"The day after you were imprisoned, the Young Lord came and told me to replace the boy's treatment herbs."
Hermes's expression darkened.
The healer waited a moment in silence, as if expecting an order to continue. When none came, but the blade remained, he went on.
"He said it was a treatment he saw in a book he'd received from an Athenian. Something that would cure the boy once and for all. In the first days, when the boy worsened, I tried to warn that it would be better to stop." He choked, his eyes desperate to convey truth. "But he threatened me. Asked if I had the courage to say I knew better than him. And then, the boy couldn't hold on—within a week he… he—"
Hermes stared at the man in silence.
The room remained still for nearly a minute.
Outside, the guard's footsteps sounded for a moment, then faded again.
The blade withdrew. Hermes released the man onto his straw mattress.
Without a word, he placed the blade on one of the tables and climbed onto the window. Before leaving, he glanced back at the healer, still frozen in fear. The message in his eyes was clear.
Outside, he moved along the great house's side, slipping through bushes and trees with effortless skill.
He reached the outer wall of the Young Lord's chambers and, realizing where he was, paused for a moment.
Then he pressed his ear against the cold stone, near the same bent shutter.
At first, he heard only the rustle of fabric and the sound of liquid being poured into a cup. Then, the Young Lord's voice—smooth and venomous, like honey laced with hemlock.
"Drink. It will warm you."
Silence, followed by a choking sound, as if someone drank against their will.
"That's… better," the Young Lord continued. "You've been so… sad lately, my little finch."
Hermes held his breath.
He heard a low, stifled sob—Agouri's voice, weak and trembling. "Please… my lord…"
"Shhh." The Young Lord's voice was false comfort. "Don't beg yet. You know, sometimes I think I made a mistake."
A tense silence.
"Yes, a mistake in not getting rid of your sick friend sooner. Your desperate crying the night he died—ha—nothing has ever aroused me more." The voice took on a disgusting timbre of pleasure—delight.
Agouri's voice rose, a broken lament. "He didn't do anything…"
"Of course not!" The Young Lord's laugh echoed—it was the ugliest thing Hermes had ever heard, a rotten sound devoid of the benevolence he pretended to possess. "That's what made it so good!"
Hermes felt the world tilt.
Then came the final blow. The truth, naked and monstrous, spoken with sadistic pleasure.
"In fact…" the Young Lord mused aloud, savoring each word, "…maybe it's time to get rid of your other little friend—the one with white hair."
He laughed with scorn.
Agouri's crying was no longer contained—it was the sound of a soul breaking, a lament of pure agony and despair. Mixed with it came the sound of a slap, and the Young Lord's cruel hiss: "I told you to be quiet."
Outside, Hermes stepped back from the wall. The cold night wind lashed at him, but he didn't feel it. He wanted to leap into that room and end it all.
"No. Not yet. Forgive me, Agouri—I'll be back."
The guilt that had crushed him, that had turned him into an empty shell, evaporated instantly. Something far worse emerged. Something cold, heavy, and absolute.
Certainty.
Theseus had not died of illness or lost hope. He had been murdered. The Young Lord—the "savior"—was a monster who fed on the suffering of others. Kindness was his weapon, hope his bait, and Agouri's pain his feast.
Hermes closed his eyes, the wind howling around him. The image of the bird in the cage—the allegory Theseus had understood, and which Hermes only now fully grasped—burned in his mind.
He opened his eyes. Despair was gone. Apathy was gone. All that remained was a purpose, forged in the fire of the most terrible truth. He was no longer a victim hiding in the shadows.
He was the echo of a god.And he would free the bird from its cage—or die burning the entire house down.