As dusk settled over Lithosmeyg, the last merchant carts rattled through the city gates, their wheels kicking up puffs of ochre dust in the fading light. Guards moved methodically along the walls, igniting torches that cast flickering patterns on the weathered stone. With a final groan of ancient hinges, the massive oak gates swung shut, sealing the town for the night.
An eerie quiet descended upon the empty streets. The wind carried whispers of sand skittering across flagstones, mingling with the distant sounds of merchants shuttering their stalls in the agora. A pair of guards made their rounds, checking each stall until the vendors could retire. Nearby, a patrol moved in formation—three armored figures scanning the shadows near wells and olive groves with military precision.
Captain Theo's helmet creaked as he turned toward the Temple District. His experienced eyes immediately noted the absence of smoke from Hestia's chimney. "Where are the evening offerings?" he muttered, adjusting the grip on his spear. With a sharp gesture, he redirected his squad toward the silent temple.
They had just rounded the corner of a pottery workshop when torchlight revealed two familiar figures. The Hiereia sisters walked with measured steps, each cradling a pithos jar the size of a maiden's forearm against their white-robed chests.
"Chaire, Pheropyr," Theo called, raising his torch higher. The firelight caught the polished edges of his bronze breastplate as he bowed.
"Chaire, Theo," the sisters replied in unison, their voices harmonizing like temple chimes.
The captain studied their composed faces. "Is all well at the temple? May we assist?"
Pheropyr's smile remained serene as shifting sand. "Merely inspecting the sacred brazier. We seek our teacher's counsel about hiring a smith to examine it." She adjusted her grip on the jar, its sealed mouth revealing nothing.
Theo's brow furrowed. "The people hold you both in high esteem, but..." His voice dropped. "Four thieves were caught near Zeus's temple tonight. With so many pilgrims, such vermin are inevitable."
When he offered an escort, Pheropyr shook her head. The pithos made no sound as she lifted it slightly. "We burden you no further. Your duty lies with the city."
Torch flames reflected in Theo's eyes as he studied the silent vessels. Finally, he stepped aside. "A fair evening to you then."
As the patrol departed, raucous laughter drifted from Zeus's opulent compound, where oil lamps still blazed against the night. The sisters walked on in silence until their teacher's darkened house came into view. No welcoming fire burned in the hearth; no lamplight glowed behind the shutters.
Pherodaro bit her lip. "How did you gather so many stones?" Her whisper barely disturbed the twilight.
Pheropyr's sandals scuffed the stones as she turned onto a lesser-used path. "Generations of our predecessors hid them. Teacher's collection joined ours to fill these jars." Moonlight caught the pride in her profile. "Each priestess marked her hoard—tiny jars inscribed with their names."
The younger sister's fingers traced her own jar's smooth curve. "Where do we go now?"
"Where he always goes when troubled."
The crescent moon climbed higher, its silver light competing with the glow from wealthy estates. Behind courtyard walls, gemstone-adorned nobles laughed over wine, their pet monkeys chattering at musicians playing lotus-shaped lyres. But in one garden pavilion, an old man sat alone, his wrinkled finger conducting imaginary stars as he sang a fragment of Sappho's verses.
Footsteps on the gravel path didn't interrupt his reverie. Not until a familiar voice spoke:
"Chaire, Teacher."
The elder priest turned slowly. Torchlight revealed his two finest students standing at attention, their pithos jars now resting at their feet like obedient hounds. He'd expected anger, yet their faces showed only the calm of deep springs.
"My brightest flames," he rasped, rising with effort. "You understand my decision, yes? Even among Olympians, all gods deserve—"
Pheropyr's perfect bow cut him short. She knelt beside her jar, working loose the wax seal. "Before we part, one request remains." Her hand disappeared into the vessel's dark mouth.
The old man sank onto the marble bench. "Ask what you will."
When her fingers reemerged, they held a single black stone—smaller than a date pit, yet seeming to drink the torchlight around it. She extended her palm like a supplicant at an altar.
"I believe this belongs to you."
The stone's surface shimmered oddly, as if underwater. For the first time in decades, the old priest's hands began to shake.