"Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same."

EMILY BRONTE

_______________________

Lyra

479 BC

Athens, Greece

A cold sweat formed on my forehead as I lifted my head and looked at the crowd. For a moment, it felt as though my breathing would turn heavy and my heart would simply stop inside my chest. Still, I forced myself to remain calm... or at least tried to.

People filled every corner of Athens. The streets, the balconies, the rooftops, even the marble stairs of the temples overflowed with bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder

The scent of burning incense mixed with crushed flowers beneath thousands of sandals Make me dizzy. Children sat on their fathers' shoulders waving olive branches in the air while women tossed rose petals from high windows above us. Priests stood near the temples chanting blessings to the gods.

I had known Athens was great, but never had I imagined this many people could exist within one city. It felt as though all of Greece had gathered to witness the return of its heroes.

Suddenly, thunder rolled across the heavens, a deep, earth-shaking sound.

I looked up at the grey sky as dark clouds gathered overhead clashing and colliding with each other. Rain was coming.

The gods are pleased.

Zeus and Ares themselves were blessing this victory from Mount Olympus. Their thunder was a divine sign of approval.

"Lyra, keep your eyes down," the High Priestess warned softly as she stood beside me draped in a long white robe, her silver hair hidden beneath a veil thin as smoke.

I quickly lowered my gaze.

"Do not forget what I told you, child. You must not make eye contact with them."

"I understand, Holy Mother," I whispered, twisting my fingers anxiously.

Yet my curiosity clawed at me from within.

Everyone in Athens had spoken of the warriors returning from battle. Mothers prayed for them. Poets sang of them. Children dreamed of becoming them.

Especially him.

Theon.

The Untamed.

The Blade of Ares.

I had heard his name whispered so many times over the years that he no longer sounded like a man, but a god born for war itself.

The High Priestess once said men like him were dangerous because people stopped seeing them as mortal.

They became legends and legends were worshipped more faithfully than gods.

Then the chanting began, low at first, then louder.

The crowd shifted like moving water as people hurried backward, creating a path through the center of the streets.

I lowered my gaze further, but my heartbeat quickened painfully inside my chest.

Then silence fell, even the children stopped speaking and through that silence a rhythmic sound of hooves echoed.

Clip. Clip. Clip.

My fingers tightened together.

Then one man shouted loudly from somewhere within the crowd.

"Hail the Untamed!"

"Theon!" hundreds answered instantly.

"The Blade of Ares!"

"Theon!"

"Who brings victory?"

"Theon! Theon!"

The city erupted and the chant spread wildly like a fire through Athens until it felt as though the earth itself shook beneath our feet.

"The Blade of Ares!"

"Theon!"

The warriors chanted loudly without pause as they marched behind him.

People raised their hands toward the sky. Women threw flowers, old men shouted prayers to Ares while young boys repeated his name with wonder burning in their eyes.

And then I saw him.

Only his boots at first beneath the black warhorse, then the dark crimson cloak flowing behind him.

I knew I should keep my gaze down.

I knew it.

But something inside me betrayed.

Slowly, i raised my head and my eyes lifted.

He rode at the front of the army.

Bronze armor covered his body, scratched and stained from battle, yet he wore it as though it weighed nothing. Rain-scented wind moved through his dark hair while a scar cut across the sharp line of his jaw. His hands rested calmly on the reins, but there was nothing calm about him.

No.

He felt dangerous. Like a blade hidden beneath silk.

His expression was cold, unreadable, as his pale eyes scanned the city with the detached gaze of a man who did not care about his victory, like it didn't matter. The whole of Athens welcomed him home, but to him, it seemed to mean nothing.

Flowers struck his armor and fell around his horse's feet. Still, he did not smile.

Thunder cracked violently across the sky above Athens and for one terrible moment, as his horse passed before me, his eyes shifted.

Directly toward mine.

My breath caught. The High Priestess's warning echoed inside my head.

'Do not make eye contact with them.'

Yet I could not look away.

Not when his gaze felt less like looking at a person... and more like standing before a storm.