Protogenos

Chapter 16: Eleusis

Chapter 16

Eleusis

The port of Eleusis glistened in the morning light, the Aegean waves lapping gently against ancient stone docks worn smooth by centuries of tide and toil. Fishing nets hung like silver-threaded spiderwebs between moored ships, still damp with the sea's breath.

The scent of salt, bread, and brine filled the air, swirling through narrow streets and open market stalls that thrummed with life. Eleusis, the Advent City of Demeter.

Prometheus scoffed under his breath as they passed another merchant stand—this one offering clay canisters of sea salt stacked high like pale stones.

"Ten obols for a jar," he muttered. "In Crete, they'd pay half that."

"Thou hath mentioned," Zoë said dryly, trailing two steps behind him. "Twice already."

"And I shall mention it thrice," Prometheus replied, his face grave. "T'is thievery when the price of salt outweigheth the price of fish."

"Wouldst thou like me to haggle on thy behalf, old man?" she teased, eyes dancing.

Perseus, trailing behind them with his hood pushed back to his shoulders, raised a brow. "Please do. I want to watch a former Hesperide argue about brine with a Titan who probably thinks the moon is a drachma."

Zoë huffed. "Mock me, my lord, but I shall still buy the better figs."

"I doth not doubt it," he said, smirking faintly.

He moved like current beneath calm water—fluid, unseen until felt. His cloak was lightweight, black linen instead of wool, and the sword Anaklusmos was hidden beneath the folds. He looked, to most, like a wealthy traveler bored by the spectacle of a market.

Gold glinted from the necks and wrists of passing nobles, but the Primordial God's gaze rarely lingered on them. Instead, his eyes swept the streets, the rooftops, the spaces in between—ever-watchful, ever-quiet.

A potter's apprentice bumped into him with a yelp. "I-I apologize, my lord—!"

Perseus caught the boy by the shoulder before he fell. "Be wary, boy," he said mildly. "I hath heard the price of salt outweigheth the price of fish..."

The boy blinked, startled, then scurried off.

Prometheus chuckled. "Thou art adjusting well to civilization."

"Thus my attempts to blend in," Perseus replied, picking a fig from a crate and tossing it into the air. "Telleth me—doth I seem properly disinterested in the suffering around me, Young Titan?"

"Thou needth a goblet and a lounge chair, Your Grace," the Titan offered.

Perseus bit into the fig. "I'd settle for a place to sit where I doth not hath to stare at three dozen statues of Zeus's left thigh."

"Have you counted?"

"Unfortunately."

Zoë, in contrast, could not contain herself.

She darted from stall to stall with the glee of a child, and the eyes of someone starved for wonder. She paused to admire painted ceramics and lifted honeyed almonds from a vendor's tray to sample before returning them with a guilty grin.

Her new cloak—simple wool, kissed by amethyst purple—fluttered around her ankles as she moved, its hem already collecting dust.

"Perseus, look at this!" she called, holding up a carved wooden comb shaped like a laurel branch. "It looketh just like the one the Goddess Artemis wore in that tapestry we saw near Corinth!"