Gordon Doherty - Assassin’s Creed Odyssey (The Official Novelization)

SPARTA

WINTER 451 B.C.

For seven summers, I carried a secret inside me. A flame, warming and true. Nobody else could see it, but I knew it was there. When I looked up to my mother and father I felt it grow brighter, and when I gazed at my baby brother I sensed its warmth in every part of me. One day, I dared to describe it to Mother. You speak of love, Kassandra, she whispered, her eyes darting as if she feared that someone might hear. But not the kind a Spartan knows. Spartans must love only the land, the state and the Gods. She squeezed my hands and made me swear her an oath: Never reveal your secret to anyone.

One winters night during a howling storm, we sat together in the hearth room of our home before a crackling fire, young Alexios in Mothers arms, me sitting by Fathers feet. Perhaps all four of us carried that same secret flame within? It comforted me to think so, at least.

And then our warm, quiet sanctuary was pierced by the sound of nails scratching upon the door.

Fathers slow, steady breathing halted. Mother clutched little Alexios to her chest and stared at the door as if she alone could see a demon standing in the shadows there.

It is time, Nikolaos, a voice like crackling parchment called from outside.

Father rose, sweeping his blood-red cloak around his muscle-bound body, his thick black beard masking any expression on his face.

Wait, just a little longer, Mother begged him, rising too and reaching up to stroke his thick, dark curls.

For what, Myrrine? he snapped, swiping her hand away. You know what must happen tonight.

With that, he swung toward the door, picking up his spear. I saw the door creak open, the chill rain scourging Father as he stepped outside. The wind groaned and thunder grumbled high above as we stepped out behind himfor he was our shield.

And then I saw them.

They faced us in a sickle-blade arc. The priests, bare-chested, wearing wreaths on their brows. The gray-robed ephorsmen more powerful even than Spartas two kingsholding torches that spat and roared in the tempest. The oldest ephors long gray hair whipped in the wind, his bald crown gleaming in the moonlight as he beheld us with bloodshot eyes, his age-long teeth serried in an unsettling smile. He turned away, wordlessly beckoning us in his wake. We followed them through the streets of Pitanamy home and one of the five sacred Spartan villagesand I was wet to my skin and freezing before we even reached the outskirts.