With A Stranger

ㅤㅤThe town was lively but not too large—a mix of small markets, taverns, and dockside workers moving crates of fish and grain. The air was thick with the scent of salt, fresh bread, and the occasional waft of unwashed bodies. Vendors shouted their wares, children weaved through the streets, and drunken sailors laughed raucously outside the tavern.

ㅤㅤIason and Ariston kept to the edges, listening. Watching. Careful not to draw attention.

ㅤㅤThey spent the next several hours gathering scraps of information, moving from one corner of the town to another, blending into crowds where they could.

ㅤㅤLegends. Tales. Circe. The Witch of the Island.

ㅤㅤSome said she was a goddess, as old as the Titans. Others claimed she was merely a sorceress, dangerous but knowledgeable. A few swore she turned men into beasts, her island a prison for those who crossed her.

ㅤㅤBut no one knew exactly where her island was.

ㅤㅤAnd one thing was certain: Sailors whispered her name with fear.

ㅤㅤIason leaned against the rough wooden frame of a market stall, watching as Ariston listened to an old fisherman spin another story about Circe.

ㅤㅤ"She lures men in with honeyed words," the old man croaked, his wrinkled hands clutching a cup of wine. "And when they're deep into their cups, she changes them. Some say she makes them forget who they are. Others..." He leaned in, voice barely above a whisper. "Say she turns them into animals. Pigs, mostly."

ㅤㅤAriston's brows furrowed, as he mimicked and leaned in, curious. "Why pigs?"

ㅤㅤThe man cackled. "Because that's what men are! Greedy. Filthy. Rooting through the dirt for more than they deserve." He took another swig of wine and muttered, "Seves 'em right."

ㅤㅤIason exchanged glances with Ariston. This was going to be harder than they thought.

ㅤㅤAnd then—the real problem.

ㅤㅤThey had no money.

ㅤㅤIason scowled, running a hand through his hair. "We'll figure something out."

ㅤㅤAriston shot him a skeptical look. "Figure what out? We can't just take a boat. We can't even buy food."

ㅤㅤIason dropped onto a step and sat on the flight of stairs leading to the marketplace. He knew Ariston was right. Even if they found a ship willing to sail near Circe's domain, they had nothing to offer—no coin, no leverage, nothing of value—nothing to persuade even the dumb to take them.

ㅤㅤThey had been walking the streets for more than hours they had already spent, pressing for answers where they could. But the more they searched, the less they found, and nearly exhausted all options and townsfolk.

ㅤㅤIason was starting to feel it now—the weight of exhaustion, the dull ache creeping beneath his eye like an itch he couldn't scratch. It was like fatigue. Maybe it's getting hungry.

ㅤㅤHe hadn't fed since Troy.

ㅤㅤBlood.

ㅤㅤThe realization settled in his stomach like a stone. He didn't feel weak, not yet, but he could sense it lurking—stirring awake, crawling, moving—just behind and beneath the surface, lying dormant, still there. How long before it became unbearable? How long before the whispers started again? His fingers curled at his sides. His body had changed, and though it seemed quiet now, how much of that was real—and how much was just the calm before another storm?

ㅤㅤHe exhaled sharply, pushing the thoughts away. They had to find Circe. If anyone could undo this, it was her.

ㅤㅤBut what if there was no undoing it?

ㅤㅤWhat if this was him now?

ㅤㅤFrustration rose. His jaw clenched. No. There had to be a way.

ㅤㅤAnd then—

ㅤㅤA shadow shifted in the periphery of Iason's vision.

ㅤㅤNot a threat. Not yet.

ㅤㅤA man leaned against a wooden post near a vendor's stall, idly inspecting an apple in his hand. His tunic was plain, the color of old parchment, and his cloak, though weathered, was neatly fastened at the shoulder. He looked like any other traveler—until he turned slightly, just enough for Iason to catch the faint glint of rings on his fingers. Not a laborer, then. Someone accustomed to trade.

ㅤㅤ"You've been asking the wrong kind of questions," the man said, his voice carrying just enough weight to be heard over the hum of the market. He took a bite of the apple, chewing slowly before glancing between them. "Looking for Circe, are you?"

ㅤㅤIason stiffened. Ariston did too.

ㅤㅤThe man smiled—not friendly, not unkind either. "Don't look so alarmed. It's not a crime to be curious." He turned the apple in his hand, inspecting the flesh where he'd bitten. "But curiosity, in some places, can be costly."

ㅤㅤAriston's fingers twitched at his side. Eyes laced with worries and lips frowned. "

ㅤㅤ"And you would know this... how?" Iason replied.

ㅤㅤThe man chuckled, tossing the apple once in his palm before tucking it into the pocket of his cloak. "I know a great many things. Like the fact that you have no coin, no ship, and no real plan beyond asking the first fool willing to answer." His gaze flickered toward Ariston, then back to Iason whose expression was unreadable. "But I may know someone who can help you."

ㅤㅤIason picked up on cue. "For a price."

ㅤㅤThe man's lips quirked. "Naturally."

ㅤㅤHe let the word settle, as if waiting for them to object. When neither did, he shrugs playfully.

ㅤㅤ"And, from the looks of it, trouble isn't something you can afford right now."

ㅤㅤIason said nothing, frustration making him shut his jaw tight as he met the man's gaze. He didn't like the way he was being studied—like a puzzle the man was on the verge of solving—and it only brought bad news such as exploiting any weakness. There was a knowing in his eyes, an awareness that unsettled Iason. As if he saw more than he let on. As if he already knew the answer to a question Iason hadn't even asked yet.

ㅤㅤThe man took their silence as agreement. "Fortunately for you," he said, voice smooth and deliberate, "I happen to know things. I know people. And I know that the kind of knowledge you're after isn't given freely—or the very least isn't well notable."

ㅤㅤHe lifted a hand, fingers tracing a slow arc through the air—a casual movement, but one that carried an unspoken authority. It was the kind of gesture a man made when he was used to being listened to. When he didn't need to raise his voice to command attention.

ㅤㅤ"But," he added, "I also believe in fair trade."

ㅤㅤIason's eye hurt. Like something sharp has stung it. He relented. "And what exactly is fair?"

ㅤㅤThe man's lips curved into a slow, deliberate smile. "A favor. Something simple. A retrieval."

ㅤㅤAriston's glance shifted between them, before frowning as he caught on and the dirty stench of this whole ordeal. "A retrieval of what?" Ariston asked. The boy wasn't out of order, but Iason spared him a sharp look before looking back at the man.

ㅤㅤThe wit man reached into the folds of his cloak, his movements measured and precise. When his hand emerged, a small coin sat between his fingers. He rolled it idly, letting the dim light catch on its surface. Not a bribe, not yet—just an object to hold attention, to keep their eyes on him while he spoke.

ㅤㅤ"Something taken from this town's leader when the Greeks arrested him."

ㅤㅤIason nearly turned and threw away the chance to gain information and passage to Circe. His breath hitched at the mention of the Greeks. His fingers curled with a mixture of emotions—hate, anxiety, fear—as his nails pressed deeply into his palm.

ㅤㅤThe man didn't seem to notice. Or, more likely, he did and simply didn't care. His tone remained even, detached, as if he were discussing the weather. "They've set up camp just outside the town. Small enough to not draw too much attention, large enough to be a problem. The man they took—Aetios—wasn't just any leader. He's the reason this town still has walls standing."

ㅤㅤNow it was Iason's turn to study him. His eyes betray him as he can't seem to get a read on the man. "And you want us to free him?"

ㅤㅤA quiet chuckle. "No. The man's already lost. I just need something that belongs to him."

ㅤㅤAriston cast Iason a wary glance before turning back to the stranger. "What is it?" He was becoming impatient.

ㅤㅤThe man only smiled. "Unimportant to you."

ㅤㅤThis was becoming unnecessary and risky. "If you won't even tell me what it is, how am I supposed to retrieve it?" The man's smirk lingered. "Because I'll be going with you." Both Ariston and Iason stiffened, shocked. "You're coming?" The man flicked the coin between his fingers before tucking it back into his cloak. "I'll get us in. You'll do the rest." His eyes turned to Iason, voice calm but weighted. "Sneaking, if all goes well. But if the alarm is raised..." He shrugged. "I expect you to handle it."

ㅤㅤ'Damn it.'

ㅤㅤ"By 'handle,' you mean kill."

ㅤㅤEvasive as ever, the man didn't confirm nor deny, simply watching him with that same unreadable expression. "If it comes to that." The whole thing was unbecoming, and Ariston was clearly uneasy, but he didn't speak. Not that Iason never noticed it.

ㅤㅤ"And if we refuse?" Iason spoke as he crossed his arms.

ㅤㅤHe tilted his head slightly, as if considering. "Then you leave this town with nothing. No answers. No ship. No way to reach Circe." His gaze sharpened. "But if you agree, I'll make sure you get what you're after."

ㅤㅤSilence stretched between them.

ㅤㅤAt this time the tension was at its peak. Ariston was flexing his fingers at his side, trying to release the stress. His legs shifting weight between—unable to stand still—as he glanced at Iason, waiting for his call.

ㅤㅤFinally, Iason's shoulders slouched, frustration curling like smoke in his chest. He hated this. Hated being backed into a corner, being given the illusion of choice when the outcome had already been decided.

ㅤㅤ"Fine," he said at last.

ㅤㅤThe man's smirk widened, slow and knowing, like he had expected nothing less. "Good."

ㅤㅤHe pushed off from the wooden post he had been leaning against and nodded toward the shadowed alleyway behind him. "Come," he said, his voice almost amused, and this irked Iason. "We'll discuss the details elsewhere."

ㅤㅤThe walk through the narrow streets was quiet, the man leading them through twisting alleyways until they arrived at a nondescript building, its entrance hidden behind stacked crates. Inside, the air smelled of leather, salt, and burning oil. A handful of men lounged about, sharpening weapons, speaking in hushed tones. The atmosphere was thick with unspoken understanding—this was no mere merchant's dwelling.

ㅤㅤThe man turned to them, finally offering his name. "Call me Dorian."

ㅤㅤIason narrowed his eyes. "Merchant? Traveler?"

ㅤㅤDorian smirked, something that Iason noticed the man seemed to do a lot. "Both. And a mercenary, when it suits me." He gestured around the room. "These men—my crew. We own a ship."

ㅤㅤIason exchanged a glance with Ariston, realization settling in. This changed everything.

ㅤㅤDorian caught his expression, his smirk turned into a wide smile. "You seem more eager than before." The man pulled himself a chair to sit, with Iason following the gesture—sitting across from Dorian with a table in between—as talk began. "If you have a ship, then this is no longer just a desperate gamble. This is a real chance."

ㅤㅤDorian chuckled as he grabbed the neck of a bottle and poured himself and Iason a drink. "You have that correct, my friend." He took a swing, before continuing. "But I need a help from you—a friend—before you get a help from me, a friend. An exchange, a trade, whatever. The thing is, is that desperation makes for strong allies, don't you think?"

ㅤㅤ"Or it ends up badly." Iason answered, inspecting the drink and then Dorian who sat nonchalantly, staring at him with eyes full of mischief, and the look of a man on a mission.

ㅤㅤ"Then, shall we start in getting further into details?"

ㅤㅤThe hideout was far from secretive gloom—it was lively in its own way, like a forgotten tavern repurposed for men who no longer had homes to return to. The scent of ale and charred meat lingered in the air, mixing with the musk of damp wood. The occasional burst of laughter or the clatter of dice echoed from the men gathered at the far end of the hall, lounging around overturned crates and makeshift tables.

ㅤㅤBut at the center of it all, tension hung thick over their particular table.

ㅤㅤIason sat rigidly, fingers drumming idly against the wood, his expression carved from stone. Across from him, Dorian leaned back in his chair, at ease despite the weight of the discussion. Between them, maps lay sprawled, heavy with inked markings and hurried notes detailing their next move.

ㅤㅤAriston stood beside Iason, his arms crossed, though the way his fingers gripped at his sleeves betrayed his unease. He had been silent for most of it, trying to absorb the plan, trying to believe in it. But now, he couldn't hold back anymore.

ㅤㅤ"I don't like this," he admitted, voice firm but lacking the sharpness of command.

ㅤㅤDorian's gaze flicked to him, studying him with something between amusement and indifference. "Noted."

ㅤㅤAriston's frown deepened. He looks to Iason, hoping he'd look to him and see his worries and concerns. "I mean it." His hands tightened at his sides before averting them to look at Dorian. "You and Iason will be walking straight into a Greek camp. A real one. Surrounded by actual soldiers. If something goes wrong—"

ㅤㅤDorian lifted a hand, cutting him off. "You have my word."

ㅤㅤAriston hesitated, then turned once again to Iason. "And you're fine with this?"

ㅤㅤIason finally moved from his unresponsive state—having thought it all through—before exhaling deeply through his nose, and pressing his fingertips against his temple as if warding off a headache. "Fine."

ㅤㅤAriston inhaled sharply, as if he was fuming, ready to argue, but Iason's tone darkened before he could. "You're staying here."

ㅤㅤConfusion got a hold of him, but he warded it off and tried to say otherwise, being stubborn. "I can help—"

ㅤㅤ"No."

ㅤㅤThe word struck like steel against stone—unyielding.

ㅤㅤAriston swallowed hard, watching Iason carefully, searching for an opening to change his mind. But Iason's expression remained unreadable, his body language closed off.

ㅤㅤDorian, watching the tension with an amused flick of his eyes, propped his elbow on the table. "Iason's right," he said smoothly, tapping a finger against the wood. "You'll be safer here. My men will keep an eye on you." If Ariston was stubborn before, he was after that. "And I'm just supposed to trust them?" Dorian's grin was sharp, wolfish. "No. But you should trust me." Ariston let out a dry laugh—the first time Iason heard it—before the boy shook his head. "That's worse." Dorian chuckled at that, only seeming to find amusement in everything. "Fair."

ㅤㅤIason sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. "Enough." His voice softened, but his words left no room for argument. "This isn't up for discussion." But Ariston didn't move. His arms stayed crossed, his lips pressed into a tight line. He wasn't throwing another argument at Iason, but he wasn't letting go of his frustration either. Iason narrowed his eyes. "What's with you?"

ㅤㅤ"I know men like him." Ariston's voice was quieter now, but no less firm. Iason had a feeling, but he continued along. "Like Dorian?" Ariston finally looked at him, his gaze steady. "Men of gold. Mercenaries." His fingers twitched against his sleeves. "They were everywhere in the palace. They smiled, bowed, made promises—but they didn't serve Troy. They served themselves." His voice dipped, edged with something bitter. "The highest bidder always won them over. And if that bidder was an enemy? Then they'd switch sides like it was nothing."

ㅤㅤIason studied him for a moment, understanding the boy's frustration, he knew it more than the boy ever could. His past being something akin to the case Ariston just mentioned. But he didn't have to know. "So you think Dorian will sell us out?"

ㅤㅤAriston hesitated, glancing toward the man in question. Dorian, ever the perceptive, merely smirked and propped his chin on his fist, as if entertained by the entire conversation. "I don't know," Ariston admitted. "But I know that men like him can't be trusted."

ㅤㅤIason leaned back in his chair, regarding Ariston carefully. "You worked in the palace. You were surrounded by schemers and liars. And yet, somehow, I can imagine you being inclined to trust their honey words than men like Dorian?"

ㅤㅤ"I never trusted them." Ariston's jaw tightened. "That's the point."

ㅤㅤIason finally took a swing from his drink, downing it in one gulp. "Dorian isn't a palace noble whispering poison into ears. He's a fighter. He has no reason to betray us."

ㅤㅤ"No reason—yet."

ㅤㅤDorian huffed a quiet laugh, raising a brow at Ariston. "You wound me, boy."

ㅤㅤAriston stiffened at the condescension, but Iason placed a firm hand on his arm before he could bite back. His grip was meant to be steadying, but there was a warning in it too. Iason lowered his voice. "Look, I get it. You think you've seen enough of the world to know how it works. And maybe you have." His fingers tightened slightly before letting go. "But you're still a boy. You've got more to learn. Not everyone is your enemy."

ㅤㅤAriston opened his mouth, then hesitated. His fingers curled at his sides. He didn't like being treated like a child—but Iason wasn't wrong. He had spent his life within palace walls, overhearing whispers, dodging cruel glances, learning to survive in the shadows of those who held real power. And yet, outside those walls, the world was different.

ㅤㅤUnfamiliar.

ㅤㅤUnpredictable.

ㅤㅤAnd Iason knew it better than anyone.

ㅤㅤ"I fought in a war," Iason continued, his voice quieter now, rougher. "I fought against Greeks, against men who had every reason to hate us. But I also fought beside men who weren't bound to Troy by birth or blood—only by coin." His gaze darkened, memories surfacing. "Some of them were monsters, just as you think. But others? Others died on Trojan beach and land, fighting for a city that was never theirs." He exhaled through his nose. "Mercenaries don't fight for gods or kings. They fight for what's worth the price. And sometimes, dignity is worth more than gold—just men that at least have decency."

ㅤㅤAriston frowned, arms brought back from his side, crossing over his chest. "So you're saying Dorian is honorable?"

ㅤㅤIason snorted. "I'm saying he has his own rules. That doesn't make him any less of a beast—but it does mean he can be useful. And right now, that's all that matters."

ㅤㅤAs he listened to Iason, he spared a glance toward Dorian, who had been silently observing their exchange with an amused glint in his eye. The mercenary leaned further back in his chair, tipping it onto two legs as he idly shuffled a worn bronze coin between his fingers. When he caught Ariston's look, he arched a brow and offered a lazy smile, as if to say, 'See? He gets it.'

ㅤㅤAriston finally relented, but was unimpressed still. He looked back to Iason. Begrudgingly, he nodded.

ㅤㅤBut meanwhile, Iason didn't relax, not fully. He shifted his attention back to the map, but not before sparing Dorian a brief glance. Dorian, still balancing his chair, grinned and gave an exaggerated stretch, arms folding behind his head. "Glad to know I have your faith, boys." he drawled.

ㅤㅤIason rolled his eyes and ignored him.

ㅤㅤThe plan was set. There was no turning back now.