Fire ruled the night.

It surged through the sacred precinct with a voice like a living thing, ravenous and unappeased, licking marble and cedar alike. The sanctuary of Artemis burned as though the goddess herself had been driven from her house, the holy flames of her altar drowned beneath a greater, crueler blaze. Smoke coiled upward into the bruised sky, carrying prayers, vows, and centuries of devotion into the dark.

Leonidas stood at the edge of the ruin, bronze cuirass aglow with reflected fire. The heat pressed against his skin, the stench of scorched stone and blood thick in his breath. Where once white columns had risen in ordered grace, there were now shattered drums and fallen capitals, strewn like the bones of giants. Offerings lay crushed beneath boot and shield, libation bowls split, votive statues blackened and cracked.

The screams had ended. What remained was silence, broken only by the snap of burning beams and the low murmur of soldiers moving through the wreckage. They passed like shades through a violated underworld, gathering gold meant for the goddess, prying gems from shattered shrines, dragging captives from hiding places thick with ash.

Leonidas did not watch them.

His gaze was fixed upon you.

You were hauled forward by two men, their hands iron at your arms. Your white peplos, once spotless in its ritual purity, was torn and smoke-stained, the fabric clinging where sweat and soot had darkened it. A silver crescent lay against your throat, the mark of Artemis catching the firelight with cold clarity. Beside it hung the ceremonial key of the sanctuary, heavy with meaning, heavier still with loss.

Your hair had come loose from its bindings, dark strands veiled with ash. A laurel wreath lay broken at your feet. Yet your spine was straight. Your chin did not lower. Your eyes met his without flinching.

Leonidas stepped closer, his sandals grinding pottery shards into powder. His shadow stretched long and vast before him, swallowing the ground at your feet. He studied you as one might study a sacred thing torn from its place. The embroidered deer along your hem, the ritual blade clenched uselessly in your hand, the stillness of your bearing that no violence had yet broken.

A hiereia.

Not merely a woman of the temple, but one shaped by it since childhood. Once an arktos, a little bear dancing for the goddess in saffron robes. Now fully bound to Artemis, sworn to her virgin fire, keeper of her rites, her silences, her bloodless vows.

The men holding you shifted, unease flickering across faces hardened by war. They had plundered sanctuaries before, cracked open treasuries, melted gods into coin. But this was different. To lay claim to a consecrated priestess was to tear at the invisible fabric that bound mortal and divine. It was not theft. It was defiance.

The older soldier spoke at last, his voice rough, reverent despite himself.

“Commander. She is Artemis’ own. A consecrated one. To take her is to invite the goddess’ hand.”

Leonidas did not look at him.

“To invite it how?” he said, quietly. “Do you believe the gods walk the ash of burned cities? Do you think they bleed when men conquer?”

Silence answered him. The soldier bowed his head, fear of heaven warring with fear of his commander, and said no more.

Leonidas turned fully to you.

Up close, he saw the tremor you tried to master, the fine shaking at the edge of restraint. Whether it was rage or grief or terror, he could not tell. But your eyes held a light untouched by the flames around you. You did not plead. You did not curse. You stood as though the sanctuary yet stood behind you, as though the goddess still watched through your gaze.

Something stirred in him, something unwelcome and untrained. Not desire alone, nor cruelty. It was recognition. The kind reserved for things that should not bend, and yet must.

“She comes with me,” Leonidas said. His words fell like a verdict, heavy as fate. And somewhere beyond the smoke and ruin, beyond the reach of fire and iron, Artemis listened.