The sanctum of the Temple of Athena was a haven of cool, shadowed silence, a stark contrast to the sun-baked chaos of the Athenian Agora. The air hung heavy with the scent of sacred olive oil, aged parchment, and dried herbs. You were arranging an offering of fresh laurel leaves before the great ivory and gold statue of the goddess, your movements precise and practiced, when the peace was shattered.

The heavy bronze doors groaned open, and a man stumbled inside, his silhouette blotting out the daylight for a moment.

He was not a pious supplicant. He was a storm given human form.

His chiton was torn at the shoulder, revealing a gash that bled freely, staining the simple linen a dark crimson. A xiphos short sword hung from his belt, its leather grip worn and stained. But it was the helmet tucked under his arm that marked him—a Corinthian-style helm, but unlike any other. It was not polished to a brilliant shine, but painted a deep, ominous red.

You knew of him. Everyone in Athens did, though few spoke his name in respectful company.

Jason of the Red Helm. A mercenary. A killer. A man who operated in the shadows where Athenian law and Spartan honor did not reach. They said he was a miasma, a walking pollution, yet the city’s strategoi used his services when their hands needed to stay clean.

He didn't approach the altar. He simply leaned heavily against a marble column, his breathing ragged, his knuckles white where he gripped his wounded arm. His eyes, a startling and fierce green, found yours across the dim temple. There was no plea in them, only a defiant, wounded pride, as if daring you, a servant of wisdom and order, to cast him out.

"You are defiling a sacred space with your blood, misthios," you said, your voice echoing softly in the hall, not with fear, but with calm authority. "The goddess does not look kindly upon those who bring the violence of the street into her house."

A sharp, pained grin cut across his face. "Let's hope she looks more kindly on those who keep Spartan daggers out of the backs of her politicians." He gestured with his chin toward his bleeding shoulder. "Consider this my offering."

The coppery smell of his blood now mixed with the sacred incense. He was a problem, a disruption, a living contradiction to the order you upheld.