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The road leading to the vineyard wound gently up a sunlit hill, the sea breeze carrying the scent of grapes and dust. Atlas climbed steadily, his boots crunching over dry earth, eyes tracing the horizon.
So this is Markos's vineyard, he thought, gaze sweeping over the sprawling land ahead. Beautiful soil… good terrain… and yet…
What should have been a thriving estate looked more like chaos given form. Half-finished amphorae lay tipped on their sides, goats lazed under the vines chewing on fallen grapes, and a handful of exhausted workers halfheartedly swung their tools.
And above it all, a single voice echoed across the hills.
"Move faster, you lazy fools! Do you want Dionysus himself to laugh at us?! You—yes, you! That's not pruning, that's butchery!"
Atlas followed the shouting until he found the source — a man in his middle years, wearing fine but dusty clothes, hair tied back, a goblet in hand despite the hour. His gestures were wild, his smile broader than any sense of reason could justify.
"You must be Markos," Atlas asked dryly.
The man turned with theatrical flair. "Ah! A customer! Welcome to the finest vineyard on Kephallonia — soon to be the envy of all Greece!"
Atlas looked at the crooked vines, the half-broken barrels, and the goat currently chewing on a vine stake. "I can see that," he said, deadpan.
Markos placed a hand dramatically over his heart. "You mock me, stranger, but this—" he gestured grandly to the mess, "—is merely the beginning of greatness! I, Markos of Kephallonia, am a man of vision. You see a vineyard—"
"I see a disaster," Atlas interrupted calmly.
Markos blinked, then laughed as if it were a compliment. "Exactly! You understand! Greatness is born from disaster!"
Atlas sighed. "I'm not here to buy grapes. I'm here for information."
Markos's eyes narrowed slightly. "Depends who's asking."
"Someone who pays well," Atlas said, tossing a small coin between his fingers.
The merchant's grin returned instantly. "Ah, I like you already! What do you need, my friend?"
"I'm looking for someone," Atlas said. "A local named Markos—oh wait, that's you. Then maybe you can help me with another name: Kassandra."
Markos froze for half a heartbeat, then laughed awkwardly. "Ah! My friend! My partner! The best misthios in all of Greece — strong, brave, and, uh, very expensive!"
"So you know her," Atlas said, feigning casual interest. "Where can I find her?"
"Well…" Markos rubbed the back of his neck, eyes darting. "She's… out. Doing errands. Very important ones. You know how it is — collecting debts, maybe breaking a few bones… but always professionally!"
Atlas arched an eyebrow. Collecting debts. Duris, most likely.
"I see," he said. "Then perhaps I could hire your friend misthios myself — for some hunting."
Markos's eyes lit up instantly. "Hunting, yes! Of course! The best there is! But of course, you must pay first. The standard fee—let's say… thirty gold drachmae?"
Atlas crossed his arms. "Shouldn't I wait to see if she agrees?"
Markos waved dismissively. "No need! She trusts me completely! I'll handle everything — you just pay, and I'll tell her when she returns!"
Atlas hid a faint smile. He's definitely trying to scam her again… but this might actually help.
He reached into his pouch and tossed a small sack of coins. "Deal."
Markos's grin stretched ear to ear. "A pleasure doing business, my friend! You won't regret it. Now, while we wait for my dear friend Kassandra, perhaps I could interest you in an investment opportunity—"
"No," Atlas said simply, already turning to go.
Markos called after him, "At least hear the pitch! It involves olive oil, statues, and possibly… donkeys!"
Atlas didn't even look back. "Exactly why I'm leaving."
The merchant shrugged, pouring himself more wine. "Suit yourself! But when this vineyard is famous, you'll wish you'd bought some!"
Atlas only smiled faintly as he descended the hill. Some things in this world never change.
Meanwhile, at the Thermopolia
The afternoon heat clung to Sami like honey, thick and lazy. The marketplace hummed with voices and the smell of roasting lamb, sea salt, and cheap wine. Inside a small thermopolia tucked between two shops, Alexios and Lukas sat at a corner table, each with a cup in hand and a platter of olives between them.
Alexios slammed his cup down with a grin. "Now this is living! A bit of wine, a bit of sun, and no Atlas breathing down our necks."
"You say that every time we stop somewhere," Lukas replied, half-smiling as he took a slow sip. "And then we usually end up fighting someone."
Alexios leaned back, stretching like a lazy cat. "That's because someone always needs a lesson in manners."
"Or because you can't say no to a challenge," Lukas muttered.
"Not true," Alexios said seriously. "Sometimes I start the challenge."
Lukas groaned. "You're impossible."
Alexios ignored him, eyeing a pair of burly fishermen arm-wrestling at the next table. "Oh ho… Now that looks like fun."
Before Lukas could stop him, Alexios stood and slammed his hand down on their table. "Mind if I join?"
The fishermen laughed, welcoming the challenge. Coins began to clink as others bet on the outcome. The tavern owner — a balding, nervous man wiping mugs with a cloth — muttered a prayer to the gods that nothing got broken this time.
Alexios clasped hands with the first opponent. "Don't go easy on me," he said, smirking.
The man grunted, muscles bulging — and then Alexios slammed his arm down in seconds.
Cheers erupted. Wine splashed. The defeated man laughed good-naturedly, rubbing his wrist.
"Next!" Alexios shouted, pointing at another challenger.
"By the gods," Lukas muttered, watching his friend crush two more opponents in quick succession. "He's going to start a riot."
A group of young women sitting nearby giggled. One of them called out, "You fight as well as you drink, handsome!"
Alexios raised his cup toward them with a roguish grin. "I do everything well, my lady!"
Lukas groaned into his cup. "Please stop flirting, we just got here."
Alexios winked. "Relax, brother. What's the worst that could happen?"
That was when the door slammed open.
Fourteen men stomped inside, loud and mean. The air shifted — laughter died instantly. Their leader, a scarred brute with a nose bent in two directions, banged a club on the counter.
"Listen up!" he shouted. "The Cyclops demands his payment! This place is under his protection!"
The tavern owner froze, eyes darting around the room. "P-please… I paid last week—"
The thug slammed the club again, shattering a clay cup. "Not enough! Prices go up!"
Every patron suddenly found their shoes fascinating. The air filled with fear and silence.
Lukas sighed. "Here we go again…"
Alexios's jaw tightened. "They're shaking down an old man. You're just going to sit there?"
"Atlas said no trouble," Lukas hissed. "Remember?"
"They're the ones causing trouble," Alexios countered, rising halfway from his seat. "I'm ending it."
"Ending it is trouble!"
"Then I'm preventing future trouble!"
"Alexios—"
Before Lukas could finish, one of the Cyclops's men noticed the gleam of Alexios's sword — the Sword of Damokles — strapped to his back.
"Hey, pretty boy," the thug sneered. "That's a fine sword. Why don't you hand it over before you hurt yourself?"
Alexios grinned, leaning casually on the table. "You think so? Come take it."
The thug reached forward — and instantly regretted it. Alexios seized his wrist, twisted, and slammed him face-first into the table, snapping it clean in half.
Wine splattered everywhere. The room went dead quiet for a heartbeat.
Then chaos.
The rest of the Cyclops's men roared and drew knives and clubs, rushing the two. Lukas rose, cracking his knuckles.
"Don't use your sword," Lukas warned quickly. "Otherwise Atlas will really find out about this."
Alexios grinned. "Then fists it is."
The first thug swung a club — Alexios ducked low, countered with an uppercut that sent the man spinning. Lukas blocked another's strike with his forearm and drove a punch so hard the man flew backward into a wine rack, collapsing it in a shower of clay and grapes.
Two tried to grab Lukas from behind — he slammed their heads together like ripe melons.
"Next!" he barked, laughing.
Alexios flipped a table to block another charge, then vaulted over it, punching his attacker square in the jaw. "I'm not even warmed up yet!"
Within moments, the thermopolia was a storm of motion — shouts, crashes, fists, laughter. Patrons scrambled to safety behind overturned tables. The tavern owner cowered behind the counter, peeking over occasionally with a horrified whimper.
"Please! The furniture! That's new!"
"Sorry!" Lukas grunted, throwing another man into a wall. "We'll pay for it!"
"Troublemakers always say that!" the owner wailed.
Finally, the last of the Cyclops's men went down groaning, the floor littered with overturned chairs and spilled wine. Alexios wiped his hands on a napkin and turned to Lukas.
"See? No trouble."
Lukas stared at the wreckage. "No trouble, he says. Atlas will hang us both."
Before Alexios could reply, the door burst open again — this time, with authority.
"What in the name of the gods is going on here?!"
A woman's voice — sharp, commanding, and filled with exasperated authority.
Everyone froze.
Framed by sunlight stood a tall, striking woman — tanned skin, raven hair tied back, a wolf pelt across her shoulders, and eyes like storm clouds. In her right hand gleamed a broken spear faintly pulsing with golden light; in her left, a sword ready for war.
Alexios blinked, his cocky grin slowly fading. "Oh… gods."
Lukas muttered under his breath. "We're dead. Atlas is going to kill us."
The woman's eyes scanned the chaos — the broken tables, the moaning thugs, the two idiots standing proudly in the center.
Her gaze fixed on them, and her tone dropped to dangerous calm.
"You two," she said. "Start talking. Now."
Alexios instantly straightened though he didn't know why he acted like that, plastering on a nervous grin. "Uh… funny story—"
"Less funny, more story," she cut him off.
Lukas rubbed his temple. "This is going to be a long day…"
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