Kryptic ↟ Deimos

thirty-three: beacon in the night

LESYA STRIDES INTO the Spartan war camp with the blood of their brother-in-arms still on her hands. She drives her spear into the ground and glances around at the sparring hoplites before approaching the central pavilion with the sealed edict in hand. The flaps are pulled open, a gathering of three men surround a small table looking over a fading and partially torn map of Boeotia and Attika. She almost pities the Spartan commander until he looks up– "Stentor?"

"You!" Stentor hisses, quarter drawing the short sword from his belt. The men under his command echo the motion, drawing swords and leveling spears. She takes a step back, hand reaching behind her back —fingers brushing over the cool leather hilt of her blade but instead, wrap around a piece of papyrus.

"I have a message from the Kings of Sparta," Lesya announces, holding out the scroll for all to see. The thunder of voices ebbs, all eyes on the sealed edict. Stentor —chest heaving— slams his sword back into its sheath, then spins away, stomping to the table at the center of the tent. Lesya follows him with the wary eyes of the Spartiates watching.

He takes the scroll and unfurls the message, face twisting and falling as he reads King Pausanias's orders. Stentor rolls the edict back up. "Why was this entrusted to you?" He asks, sneering as he turns from the table —throwing the edict into a brazier to burn. She carried her own death sentence.

Lesya watches the papyrus and ink burn, unable to discern any of the writing before flames take hold. "Brasidas asked me to deliver it," she answers with a shrug, still unsure of why the general would trust her with such a task given her transgressions against him and Sparta.

Stentor braces his weight against the map table, looking down at the fading rivers and hills and the markers for the Athenian and Spartan forces. What happened in Megaris still leaves a bitter taste in Stentor's mouth, but he cannot deny her slaughter of the leader had been instrumental in their campaign's success. He sees her as a means to an end, a tool to obtain victory in Boeotia and then discard. "I suppose now that you're here–" he straightens and crosses his arms "–you may be of use."

They glance at the map, and the stones huddled together representing the Korinthian fleet near the harbor city of Korsia. Stranded at sea for two moons, blocked on land by the Athenian army and at sea by their navy. "Our allies cannot make landfall," Stentor says, motioning for his harmost and strategos to join them. Both men regard Lesya with disdain —each has seen men die at the blades of a ghost with copper hair.

"You need me to clear a path," Lesya surmises, whether by slaughter or diversion the Korinthian fleet needs to make landfall if Sparta is to secure Boeotia. She leans over the table, committing the lines of the city streets and walls to memory.

"If you think you can manage what my men could not–" Stentor glares at her, his dark eyes harsh as daggers "–then yes."

Silence takes hold of the air, broken by the sound of knuckles cracking. Lesya looks up from the map —she will see the Spartan army receives the aid of their allies, if only for spite. Stentor rounds the table, exiting the tent. Sparing a final look at the map, she turns to follow.

"Have you heard of the Boeotian Champions?" he asks, standing on a promontory overlooking Thebes in the distance. The meddlesome warriors spur the morale of the Athenian forces with each desecrated Spartan corpse. Lesya nods, know how to test the strength and resolve of Boeotian myths and legends. "Good." His smile is grim. With the likes of her, they can end the war. "They say you are a weapon–" Lesya grimaces at his words and the reminder of what she'd been to the Cult "–be my weapon and secure this region for Sparta."

Her laurel gaze settles on the horizon —there is work to be done. Stentor grips onto her forearm before she can leave, drawing her close. "But do not forget," he hisses, "I know who you are and that your blood is tainted."