Praxis was still thinking about the redhead as he arrived at his mother’s chambers. It wasn’t so much her beauty that he was thinking about (although that played a larger role than he was willing to admit) but more what she’d called him.

In fact, it was the name that many called him by in the city of Argos.

Foreigner.

It had all started because of his father, a man that wasn’t native to the city of Argos. He became the king for a short while, marrying Doris and fathering Praxis before something happened to make him leave the city, but it was always this facet that was up for debate.

Damian liked to say that he was kicked out of the city—banned for all time but Praxis had never been able to get the truth out of his mother.

In her eyes, his real father had ceased to exist. And there was no power on earth that could make her speak of him.

That didn’t mean that Praxis didn’t yearn for the truth. He wanted to know more about his father and especially why he, as his son, was still called foreigner despite living in the city all his life.

Perhaps then he could figure out why he was never truly accepted by the Argives.

Like he expected, Praxis found his mother waiting by the door, her worry clear as day on her face. She let out a sigh of relief once she saw him, soon rushing in for an embrace.

“You’re in one piece, thank the gods!” said Doris, hugging her son. “I was dreadfully worried about you!”

“Not for lack of trying,” muttered Praxis, pulling back from his mother. “I don’t know how you tolerate that man. Not one brave bone in his body. Cowardly.”

Doris was quick to shake her head. “Damian provides for me. You don’t know what might happen to us without his generosity.”

“It’s generosity that we don’t need,” said Praxis. “I can take care of the family.”

Doris smiled at her son. “And how would you do that? You don’t have a talent for farming and the last time I saw you with pottery, you made it all misshapen. You’re a warrior, my son. And warriors don’t get paid to fight and kill.”

Praxis didn’t respond to that directly. Instead, he moved to a bowl of water sitting nearby. He put his hands in the water and then splashed some on his face, rubbing his skin in the process.

He took a deep breath before the next words came out of his mouth.

“Mother, will you tell me about my father?” asked Praxis.

Doris stiffened as the smile dropped from her face. She looked at the ground as if her eyes were glued to it. “I do not have any information about your father, Praxis.”

“You must know something. Who was he? What was he? Where is he now? Why does every person in this city call me foreigner? Why do they all seem to know what I do not?”

Doris made a pained face. She gave her son a wounded expression. “You ask me things that I do not speak about. Things that upset me greatly. I will not talk about them. The time I spent with your father was another lifetime ago. Our marriage was cursed by Apollo himself, which was the reason why he abandoned us. Why do you wish to know about a man that so willingly gave you up?”

It was a fair question. In Doris’ eyes, Praxis’ father left them of his own volition. He abandoned his responsibilities to his family and she rightfully cursed him for it.

By all accounts, Praxis should hate the very mention of him but he couldn’t help the innate curiosity that stemmed from wanting to know where he came from.

There had to be more to it than that.

“I just have a feeling there’s more to the story,” he mumbled.

Doris shook her head. “That is the entire story. He’s gone and he’s never coming back. Why would he come back? He has nothing here in Argos. Not you or me. That’s even if he is still alive, which I doubt.”

Praxis swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded sullenly. Seeing his expression, Doris rushed to embrace him again, putting her hands against his cheeks.

“Don’t be upset, my son,” she urged. “You are a good man. You are nothing like that bastard that left us. I know you seek to understand your origins and maybe you will in time but there is nothing but pain when you look at the past. It’s best for it to stay gone.”

Praxis nodded. “Yes, Mother. Forgive me for asking.”

She smiled and patted his cheek. “There is nothing to forgive. I’m so incredibly proud of the man you’ve become. Only twenty years of age and already a legend in your own city. I don’t blame you for wanting to know about the past, but sometimes things are better left there instead of bringing them to the present.”

That seemed to settle the matter for now, and Doris said nothing further about the question. It still gnawed at him though, even if he wouldn’t admit it aloud. Later on that evening, Praxis was sharpening his sword when Theron paid a visit to his quarters.

“Already practicing for the next battle?” joked his friend. “How sharp does that thing need to be anyway?”

Praxis smiled as he checked the tip with his thumb. “The blade can never be too sharp. I’d be much less effective if I had to hack my opponents to death.”

“Maybe less effective but no less famous,” teased Theron as he made his way inside. Theron walked around the room, never once settling into a seat.

Seeing as Praxis had known Theron since they were boys, it became obvious that Theron was feeling antsy.

“Why do you keep pacing?” asked Praxis after a moment. “You’re like a mother hen with too many chicks.”

Theron shrugged. “I worry about what might come from the battle today.”

“Not you as well,” groaned Praxis. “I had a long rebuke about that today from my stepfather.”

“And? What did he have to say?”

“Just the usual. That I’m a disappointment to him and that I may bring utter ruin on the city by the Spartans.”

Theron shivered. “Do you think there’s any truth to that? There were people by the city theater just a bit ago, many of them saying the same. They think the Cynurians will rush to tell the Spartans of what we did. They think that war is coming.”

Praxis held up his sword. “Another reason why it’s good to have a sharp blade.”

“Come now, Praxis, be serious.”

Theron gestured for him to lower the blade and gave him a long stare. “Will we incur the wrath of the Spartans for this? Is war coming?”

Praxis thought about his answer long before he gave it.

“I don’t know,” he finally admitted. “Maybe? Potentially? The Spartans have been very aggressive lately and our people have never gotten along with them. Could they have been using the Cynurians to test us? It’s definitely possible but I think that one way or another, we’re going to get the same result.”

“What result is that?” asked Theron.

Praxis gave him a long look. “I think war is unavoidable. The Peloponnese is not big enough for two dominant powers. Sooner or later, the Spartans will come for us. And I believe in being as prepared as possible for that showdown.”

Theron didn’t respond to that immediately, which was telling in its own way. Seeing as his friend wasn’t about to make light of the situation or come up with some joke about the Spartans’ fighting ability was enough to show that he was frightened at the implication.

Anyone with half a brain would be frightened to face the Spartans alone.

“Well then, we’ll have to hope that our luck continues to hold,” said Theron finally. “Horn of Hades, all this talk of war is making me thirsty.”

Praxis cracked a smile. “I know that look in your eye. You’re trying to get drunk tonight, aren’t you?”

“Tonight is an excellent night to get drunk, is it not?”

“Your words would have more weight if I didn’t hear you say that yesterday and the day before that and the day before that,” said Praxis while laughing.

“Sometimes, you just need a little bit of wine to make your problems go away,” joked Theron. “At least until the next day!”

“Well, I’ll be joining you for a drink,” said Praxis, putting his sword away. “The encounter with my stepfather this afternoon has put me in a foul mood. I wouldn’t mind drinking away my sorrows.”

“Now that is something you’ll have to give me more details about. I always enjoy listening to the rebukes of stern King Damian!”

And so it was that the two men found themselves walking to the local watering hole near the base of the Aspida hill. The hill was the definable center of the city. It was where the local market was, with a variety of shops and stalls. The theater was not far away as was the ancient temple of Hera that was grand and intimidating in size.

Being near the center of the city, it was also the most crowded. Many of the Argives out this evening were still in the midst of business, while some were already in the pursuit of pleasure.

Yet it was once such Argive woman that caused both Theron and Praxis to stop dead in their tracks.

“Blessed Demeter,” whispered Theron, letting out a low whistle in the process. “Would you look at that? I didn’t expect to run into Astara tonight!”

Praxis craned his head to look at the beautiful Astara—the youngest daughter of one of the wealthiest merchants in the city. Astara had a reputation nearly as large as Praxis’. Her beauty was renowned throughout the city as was the fact that she was currently unattached.

Praxis didn’t see how that was even possible. She had long, straight black hair that seemed to shimmer whenever the light caught it. Astara also had the bluest eyes he’d ever seen, the kind that seemed to penetrate his body every time they were cast in his direction. And even those features were nothing compared to the rest of her body—a body that any woman would sacrifice to have.

“By the gods have they ever made a woman more perfect?” asked Theron as he watched Astara move through the city.

“No, they have not,” agreed Praxis, watching her as well. At one point, Astara turned her head to make eye contact with him. She didn’t smile or give any acknowledgment to him, but it was that stare alone that caused him to utter his next statement.

“I’m going to marry that woman one day,” vowed Praxis. “I swear it now to all the gods in the skies and the seas, I’m going to make that woman my wife.”

To his surprise, Theron started to crack up with laughter. “And learn to fly in the process? I love you like a brother, my friend, but we both know that a woman like Astara is going to end up with some rich man or a king. Or even the son of a king from what I hear.”

Praxis had heard that rumor as well. It was an open secret that Xanthos had his eyes set on Astara, wanting her to be his second wife. His first wife, Melitta, was just a year younger than Praxis and very homely. Their marriage was the result of a political alliance that was sealed by their nuptials.

No, Xanthos wanted Astara to be the trophy in his collection, and rumor had it that she wanted no part in that affair.

“Xanthos has a wife already,” said Praxis as Astara disappeared from sight and the two men continued to walk. “Why should he have another when I have none?”

“You’ll need to take that up with him,” said Theron, chuckling. “Although, I don’t recommend offering to fight him for her hand. Something tells me he wouldn’t take that bet!”

The two men made their way to the front door of the local watering hole, an establishment that was owned by a trader named Creon. It was the place to be that evening judging by the clientele—many of whom were warriors that were already drunk after securing their victory that afternoon.

“There he is!” roared one of the drunks. “It’s the foreigner! Three cheers for the foreigner and his role in crushing the Cynurians today!”

Many of the patrons cheered at seeing Praxis and Theron enter, and they were immediately served cups of wine that were already paid for.

“I rather enjoy going out with you,” said Theron as he raised his cup. “A man could get used to getting free drinks.”

“So could a woman,” said a familiar voice from just behind Praxis. By the time he turned around, he found himself staring into a beautiful face.

“Hello foreigner, remember me?”