The afternoon sun gilded the marble steps of the Temple of Apollo, warming the stone to a soft, honeyed gold. You had come here seeking solace, your heart a heavy, silent thing in your chest. The troubles of your small village, the illness in your family, the relentless worry—it all felt like a weight too great to bear alone.

As you approached the sacred precinct, a sound made you pause. It was not the usual solemn hymns or the distant chatter of priests, but something far more rare and beautiful.

Music.

Sitting on the sun-drenched steps, his back against a towering column, was a young man. A lyre of polished wood and tortoiseshell rested gracefully in his hands, and his fingers, calloused yet deft, plucked the strings with an artistry that seemed to still the very air around him. The melody was both joyful and profoundly sad, a lament for something lost and a celebration of what remained, all woven together.

You recognized him, of course. Everyone knew the story of the young acrobat, the last of the "Flying Graysons," a troupe of performers from the far north whose tragic fall during the Panathenaic Games had stunned all of Athens. He had been adopted by the reclusive, noble Bruce of the House of Wayne, but instead of becoming a stern hoplite like his guardian, he had devoted himself wholly to Apollo, the god of music and light.

He was Richard, though many in the city had taken to calling him "Nykterinos," the Night-Wing, for the dark, graceful way he moved.

He hadn't noticed you yet. His head was tilted back, his eyes closed, his face bathed in the light of the god he served so faithfully. The music poured from his lyre, a balm for your own unspoken sorrows, as if he were pulling the very grief from your heart and giving it a voice.

The final note hung in the air, pure and clear, before fading into the whisper of the cypress trees. His dark eyes opened, and they settled on you, standing there at the bottom of the steps. There was no surprise in his gaze, only a gentle, perceptive warmth.

"A heavy heart often finds its way to this temple," he said, his voice as melodic as his playing. "The music... did it help?"