5. The Market, Roger, and the Unyielding Scepter
He led them to a desk near the door. Three sets of uniforms were stacked neatly across the polished surface.
Behind the counter stood a figure cloaked in black. The hood fell low, hiding his face; only long dark curls and a pair of cold, unblinking blue eyes showed through the shadows. His silence pressed heavier than words.
“That’s Argose,” Chun murmured, voice dropping low, as if the name itself carried weight. “He bears the gift of Argus Panoptes. Don’t expect warmth—but when it comes to his craft, there’s no one sharper.”
Argose remained still, his presence more statue than man. When he finally spoke, his voice was flat, each word cut with precision.
“Three sets of outdoor uniforms. Three sets of class uniforms. Three sets of books. Three scepters. Three lyres with picks. Total: five hundred.”
Amelinda, quick as always, stepped forward with a bright smile. “I’ve got it.” She pulled a neat stack of paper bills from her pouch.
Argose’s gaze slid to the money, then rose, piercing. “That,” he said, voice low and final, “is not Reni.”
Amelinda faltered. “Oh—then…” She glanced back at Gwen. He opened his mouth, but Argose had already turned his gaze. His eyes locked on Heracles, sharp and certain.
“You have them.” Not a question. A fact.
Heracles frowned, confusion prickling. He reached into his pouch. His fingers brushed cloth, then the cool weight of something unfamiliar. He drew out five silver coins stamped with a lightning sigil. Coins he swore he had never packed.
He placed them carefully into Argose’s gloved hand.
As the last coin settled, Argose inclined his head slightly. His words fell soft but heavy, each syllable anchoring in Heracles’s chest.
“Stay away from the forest.”
The air shifted. A damp, earthy scent curled through the room—moss, leaves, the hush of deep woods. For an instant, Heracles heard it: the whisper of branches, the groan of bending wood. Sounds that didn’t belong inside a shop.
Gwen’s jaw tightened, almost imperceptible. His eyes flicked toward the door, then back again.
Heracles stiffened, a phantom chill crawling down his neck. “What?” The word slipped out sharper than intended.
But Argose had already turned away, setting the coins aside with slow, deliberate care. The weight in the room lingered like smoke, then thinned into the ordinary creak of shelves and clink of metal.
The trio packed their uniforms into their space rings. Chun offered a bright smile, guiding them to the door. “Travel safe, little heroes. All-for-You will be here when you need it.”
They stepped out into the narrow alley. The smell of damp wood still clung to Heracles’s senses.
Amelinda glanced sideways at him. “Where did you even get those coins? They didn’t look like anything I’ve ever seen.”
Heracles adjusted his strap, frowning. “I don’t know. My mother gave them to me when I was little—said they were a gift at my birth.”
Gwen’s brows shot up. “Herc… those weren’t just coins. They were Reni—Zeus’s mint. Hundred-Reni pieces. Rarest you’ll ever see. One of those could feed you for weeks at Hippocoon. Most people never touch one in their lives.”
“That much?” Amelinda blinked.
“More,” Gwen said, voice firm. “Every god’s got their own coinage. Different sizes, different symbols. Hera has the peacock. Hermes, the caduceus. Athena, the owl.”
Amelinda tilted her head. “So the lightning—”
“Zeus,” Gwen finished. “Which makes me wonder how your mom ever got them.”
Heracles didn’t answer. His thoughts snagged on the hooded man behind the counter. “What did Chun mean—Argose inherited Argus Panoptes?”
Gwen gave him a look. “You really don’t know Argus?”
“The giant who served Hera,” Amelinda chimed in.
“Exactly,” Gwen said. “The hundred-eyed giant. All-seeing. If his eyes are open, nothing escapes him.”
Heracles’s gaze narrowed. “You mean Argose can… see everything?”
“Pretty much,” Gwen said. “That’s why he didn’t need to check our bags. He already knew. And if he tells you to stay away from a place…” Gwen’s grin slipped for once. “…he’s not guessing. He’s seen it.”
Amelinda shivered. “Now I’m picturing a hundred eyes under that hood. Creepy.”
Heracles stayed quiet. But the warning sat heavy in his chest, like a stone he couldn’t drop.
They stepped from the alley into sunlight. The shop’s hush gave way to the roar of the market. Stalls jammed the square, the air thick with baked bread, grilled meat, and honey. Merchants shouted over clattering pots and bleating goats.
Seafood vendors showed off live octopus curling in barrels, jellyfish pulsing in glass tanks. A row of stalls dangled garlands of dried figs, strings of olives gleaming with oil, and paper cones of roasted chickpeas.
Heracles stopped at a pie stall, unable to resist the smell. Crisp tyropita—golden filo stuffed with salty feta—and spanakopita—spinach and herbs peeking through buttery layers—sizzled as they came off the griddle. He bought two of each, the crust flaking in his fingers.
Amelinda drifted toward the sweets, claiming skewers of loukoumades—fried dough dripping honey, dusted with walnuts and cinnamon. Syrup clung to her fingertips, sticky and perfumed.
“Delicious,” Gwen said around a mouthful of spanakopita. “Needs goat’s milk or yogurt to cut it.”
“Goat’s milk for me,” Heracles said.
“Yogurt,” Amelinda answered instantly, licking honey from her hand.
They bought a jar each—tangy yogurt for Gwen and Heracles, creamy goat’s milk for Amelinda—and kept strolling. Weapon stalls gleamed with polished spears and swords, wine barrels stained dark red lined another row, but none of them lingered. Weapons and wine could wait.
A faint pine-scented breeze slipped through the alleys. Heracles caught Gwen glance toward the treeline just once before he looked away.
“Look,” Gwen whispered suddenly, nudging him. “Is that Roger?”
Heracles followed his gaze. Towering above the crowd strode a man cloaked in furs, a pair of axes strapped across his back. His red, round face bristled with curls, but behind them glinted small, piercing blue eyes.
“That’s him,” Heracles murmured. “Want to follow?”
Gwen’s grin flashed, white teeth sharp. “Absolutely.”
“Hurry, Amelinda,” Heracles urged.
“What are you plotting now?” she sighed.
“Roger,” Heracles whispered. “The greatest hunter alive.”
“Mysterious, too,” Gwen added eagerly. “Nobody knows where he comes from. Or where he goes.”
Roger ducked into a pub, its wooden doors half-hanging, barrels stacked beneath the eaves. A voice called out as he entered, “Roger! Ryder!”
Amelinda squared her shoulders. “Follow me.” She yanked the doors open and marched in. Heracles and Gwen scrambled after.
“This isn’t a place for children,” grunted a hairy man at a desk.
Amelinda ignored him. “Roger! We’re here!” she said loudly, sliding onto the stool beside him.
Roger narrowed his eyes. “Do I know you?”
“Not yet,” Amelinda grinned. “But we know you.”
The publican laughed from behind the counter. “I like this one. Name?”
“Amelinda.”
Heracles found seats for himself and Gwen. “I’m Heracles. That’s Gwen.”
Roger leaned forward. “So. What brings you to me?”
“Curiosity,” Amelinda said at once.
“Yeah,” Heracles nodded.
“Where do you come from? Where do you live?” Gwen pressed, eyes gleaming.
Roger chuckled, low and rough. “Not supposed to say. But soon you’ll find out—just not from me.”
“What do you mean?” Amelinda asked.
“You’ll see,” Roger said slowly. Then, with a shrug, “Drink? My treat.”
“Dean, bring them something,” he told the innkeeper.
“Of course,” Dean said. “We’ve got ouzo, raki, tsipouro, wine… though those are for men, not children. Milk? Yogurt? Grape juice?”
“We just ate,” Amelinda said quickly, glancing at the boys.
“Yeah,” Gwen agreed.
“Water’s fine,” Heracles added.
“Nonsense!” Dean barked, bustling off. “You’ll try this.”
He returned with steaming cups and a mug of goat milk. “From the West. Made from a strange grain. Took ages to figure out the recipe. Worth it.”
Inside, the drink was thick and dark brown, almost gelatinous. Heracles took a cautious sip. The flavor was strange—bittersweet, heavy, rich—but good.
“Add milk if you like it sweeter,” Dean said.
“What is this?” Amelinda asked, wrinkling her nose.
“Chocolate,” Dean replied.
“Chocolate?” Gwen blurted. “The gods’ drink?”
Dean chuckled. “Not quite. We just call it that because it tastes divine.”
“I like it,” Heracles said with a rare smile.
“Good,” Dean said warmly.
Roger chatted with Dean a while longer, then rose. Outside, he took a different road, leaving town. The trio slipped back to their coachman’s carriage. Gwen rode with Heracles and Amelinda before peeling off toward his own home.
That night, Heracles couldn’t sleep. His mind churned with everything—scepters, rings, Roger’s axes, Argose’s warning. He turned the ring over and over, willing it to open a world of his own. Nothing. The void inside stayed white and blank.
Frustrated, he tried again—calling objects out. One by one they appeared: books, lyre, even clothes. Everything but the dragon scepter. No matter how he reached, it refused to come.
At last, he sank back onto his bed, the ring glowing faintly on his finger, its silence heavy as stone.
Heracles and the Nemean Lion
The first epic in the Heracles and the Twelve Labors series — witness Heracles' legendary battle against the invincible lion. A tale of strength, fate, and immortal valor.
Heracles and the Dragon Hydra
The second chapter of the Heracles and the Twelve Labors series. Heracles faces the monstrous Hydra — a dragon-like beast with many heads, each reborn from the last. A mythic journey of courage, strategy, and divine challenge.
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