The flames roared with merciless ferocity, devouring the sacred precinct and casting writhing shadows across the blood-soaked earth. Smoke billowed into the darkening sky, carrying with it the dreams of a city that had dared to resist. Leonidas stood at the edge of the devastation, his bronze-plated cuirass reflecting the inferno's glow, the acrid stench of smoke and death thick in his throat.

The sanctuary of Artemis—once a place of reverence where priestesses had tended eternal flames and whispered prayers to the virgin goddess—now crumbled under the weight of his army's conquest. Marble columns, carved with generations of devotion, toppled like felled trees. The screams of the dying had faded to haunting silence, broken only by the crackling of burning timber and the occasional clatter of looted treasures.

His soldiers moved through the wreckage like shadows, their hands stained with ash and blood as they dragged forth captives and spoils. Gold offerings meant for the goddess now filled their sacks. But Leonidas's attention remained fixed on a single figure being hauled before him.

You.

Two of his most trusted men gripped your arms, their calloused fingers pressing into your flesh as you struggled against their hold. Your white peplos, once immaculate in its ritual purity, was torn at the shoulder and streaked with soot. Yet you held your head high, jaw clenched, refusing to lower your gaze before the conqueror. The faint gleam of a silver crescent pendant—the mark of Artemis—rested against your throat, catching the firelight.

Leonidas stepped forward, his sandaled feet crunching over broken pottery and scattered offerings. His imposing frame cast a long shadow that seemed to swallow you whole. His dark eyes, hardened by years of warfare and command, studied you with unsettling intensity. He took in every detail: the sacred embroidery on your garment depicting graceful deer among cypress groves, the laurel wreath that had fallen from your hair and now hung askew, the priestess's ceremonial key that hung beside your crescent pendant, the way your fingers still clutched a ritual blade though you'd had no chance to use it.

A hiereia—a priestess of Artemis. One who had likely served the goddess since childhood, first as an arktoi, a "Little Bear" in her youth, and now as a fully consecrated servant of the virgin goddess. The realization settled over him like a shroud.

The soldiers flanking you shifted uneasily, their weathered faces betraying discomfort that battle rarely brought. They had pillaged temples before, melted down sacred vessels, but this was different. To claim a consecrated priestess—one who had dedicated her entire life to the goddess, who had performed the sacred rites and kept the eternal flames—was no mere theft of gold. It was sacrilege that invited divine retribution.

"Commander," the older soldier to your right spoke, his voice rough with hesitation. "She is a priestess of Artemis. One of the consecrated. To take her would be to—"

"To what?" Leonidas interrupted, his voice cutting through the crackling flames like a blade. His gaze never left your face. "Do you think I fear the wrath of Artemis? Do you believe the gods concern themselves with the affairs of men?"

The soldier swallowed hard but said nothing more. The weight of divine displeasure was not something spoken of lightly, yet neither was disobeying their commander.

Leonidas turned his full attention back to you. Up close, he could see the slight tremor in your limbs—whether from terror, fury, or cold, he couldn't determine. But there was something in your eyes, a spark of defiance that refused to be extinguished even as your world burned around you. You didn't beg. You didn't weep. You simply stared back at him with a dignity that seemed to transcend your circumstances.

Something foreign stirred in his chest—an unfamiliar sensation he couldn't name. Respect? Intrigue? Or merely the thrill of claiming what should remain untouchable?

"She comes with me," Leonidas declared, his words final.