Chapter 3 - Zeno

By the next morning, I had decided three times not to return to the old goat shelter—dangerous and impossible to explain if caught. Yet, I had stolen two figs, half a heel of bread, a strip of clean linen from Mother’s wash, and a small clay cup of watered milk.

 

Clearly, I was lying to myself. I tucked everything into my tunic and tried to walk normally, which only made me look awkward. Damon noticed first, standing beside Father by the olive press, sleeves rolled up and looking useful.

 

“Where are you going?” Damon asked, his voice steady but suspicious.

 

I stopped so fast that one of the figs nearly rolled out against my stomach. “Nowhere,” I said.

 

Theron, who was sharpening a small blade on the step, looked up with immediate interest. “Nowhere must be hungry,” he said, amused.

 

My face went hot.

 

Lykos leaned out from the stable door, one brow lifting. “And thirsty,” he added lightly.

 

I pressed my arm tighter against the hidden cup. “I’m checking the trench,” I said quickly.

 

“You checked it yesterday,” Damon replied.

 

“It clogs a lot.”

 

Theron laughed, slow and delighted, because he had scented weakness and decided to roll in it like a dog in something dead. “The mighty trench guardian returns,” he mocked.

 

Lykos grinned. “Do you think the reeds tremble when they see him coming?” he asked, teasing.

 

I should have said something clever. Damon would have. Theron would have said something loud enough to make everyone forget the question. Lykos would have twisted the whole thing into a joke that made him look charming and everyone else look foolish.

 

I said, “Maybe.”

 

Theron blinked and laughed harder; even Damon’s mouth twitched. No one expected brilliance from me, so they didn’t notice when I failed. They anticipated my awkwardness and solitude—me wandering off because I didn’t fit in. For the first time, that worked to my advantage.

 

Father barely looked up from the wax tablet. “If you’re going down there, clear the south channel too,” he said absently.

 

“Yes, Father,” I replied, already backing away.

 

Mother came out with a basket of damp clothes balanced on her hip. Her gaze flicked to my tunic, then to my face, and I thought for one awful moment she knew—not about the food, not about the old shelter, but about the frightened hatchling hidden near the edge of our farm with blood in her feathers and murder at her heels.

 

But Mother only softened. “Don’t stay in the sun too long, little fish,” she said gently.

 

Theron snorted.

 

I hated the name more with my brothers listening. “I won’t,” I muttered.

 

I walked away quickly, my stolen breakfast pressing against me. Each step down the slope felt exaggerated—the bread scratched my ribs, figs bumped my side, and the little cup felt cold against my tunic. I expected Lykos to call out, or Damon to follow, or Theron to mock me, but no one came.

 

I was just Zeno—strange and weak, preferring goats and mud to the company of my brothers.

 

When I reached the lower field, my heart raced, and I paused by the irrigation channel, shaking. I glanced back at the farm: Damon with Father, Theron with his knife, Lykos with horses, Mother washing. No one noticed me disappearing toward the goat shelter.

 

I should have felt insulted, but I clutched the food tighter and hurried through the weeds.

 

The old goat shelter looked exactly as I had left it, which somehow made my stomach twist harder. The fishing net still hung over the broken opening, the cracked basket still leaned sideways in front of it, and the straw I had kicked into place had not been disturbed, at least not by soldiers.

 

I crouched a few steps away. “Hello?” I whispered, immediately feeling stupid because that was what people said to other people, not frightened harpy hatchlings who had every reason to tear off my fingers.

 

Nothing moved inside. For one breath, I thought she had died, and my chest went tight. Then two golden-brown eyes opened in the dark.

 

I exhaled so hard my whole body sagged. “You’re still here,” I whispered in relief.

 

Her lips curled back, revealing those small, sharp teeth.

 

“Right,” I muttered dryly. “Still angry too.”

 

I unpacked the food slowly on a flat stone just inside the net: first the figs, then the bread, and the watered milk. I carefully held the clay cup, not wanting to give her more blood.

 

She observed every move. I quickly realized that fast motions made her hiss, getting too close made her claws dig into the dirt, and looking directly at her wing made her pull it tighter, despite its injury.

 

So I stopped looking at the wing. Mostly.

 

The feathers were beautiful, even streaked with blood—brown at the top, fading to tawny gold, like autumn leaves after rain. The injured one was at a crooked angle, making my shoulder ache. I wanted to fix it, but wanting and knowing were different beasts, and I wasn’t strong enough for either.

 

“I brought figs,” I said, because silence felt too large. “They’re from the tree near the southern wall. Theron says they taste like dirt and bee spit, but he eats six at a time, so he’s a liar.”

 

She stared.

 

“Theron is my brother,” I added awkwardly. “One of them. I have three. It’s awful.”

 

Her gaze flicked to the figs.

 

Progress. Tiny, claw-footed progress, but progress.

 

I backed away and sat in the dirt, careful to leave space between us. “Damon is the oldest,” I continued. “He’s good at everything. Theron is loud enough to scare birds out of trees. Lykos hears everything—everything, which is deeply unfair when someone is trying to sneak bread to a harpy.”

 

Her eyes narrowed at the word harpy.

 

I swallowed. “Sorry,” I said quickly. “Is that bad? I don’t know what else to call you.”

 

She did not answer. I had not expected her to.

 

Still, I kept talking, because the sound of my own voice seemed less dangerous than the silence outside.

 

“Everyone thinks I’m nothing special,” I admitted, picking at a piece of straw near my knee. “They’re probably right. I can’t lift what Damon lifts. I can’t fight like Theron. I can’t hear like Lykos. I don’t even have power.”

 

The hatchling shifted, slow and stiff, dragging the nearest piece of bread closer with one claw.

 

I froze.

 

She froze, too.

 

Then I looked down at my hands and pretended not to notice while she ate. It was a terrible little plan, but it worked.

 

So, I kept talking. “My mother calls me little fish,” I said quietly. “Don’t laugh.”

 

She didn’t. Of course, she didn’t.

 

But somehow, in the dim of the old shelter, with a wounded hatchling eating stolen bread three arm lengths away, it felt like she was the first creature in Olympus who might understand why I hated being treated like something too fragile to matter.

 

The sound of snapping brush ruined it.

 

I went still, and so did she, but not the tiny stillness of fear from before. This was a hard, wild stillness that made every feather along her good wing lift, her claws digging into the dirt while the bread sat forgotten beneath her hand.

 

“Zeno?” Lykos called from somewhere beyond the shelter, his voice drifting through the weeds. “Are you down here?”

 

Of course, it was Lykos. Of all my brothers, it had to be the one with ears sharp enough to hear secrets growing roots.

 

The hatchling looked at me, eyes wide and bright with terror. I lifted one finger to my lips, then hated myself for it because she already knew it. Quiet was all she had.

 

“Zeno?” Lykos called again, closer now. “Father said if you’re hiding down here to get out before he sends Theron.”

 

Panic clawed at my throat like a wild animal trying to escape. If Lykos took just two more steps forward, he would surely notice the tightly woven net hidden in the shadows. With three steps, his sharp eyes would fall upon the crusty loaf of bread resting nearby, a subtle beacon amidst the dirt. But if he ventured even four paces, he would uncover her—a sight I desperately needed to protect.

 

In a rush of adrenaline, I sprang to my feet, the urgency causing me to rise too quickly. My foot caught on the edge of the clay cup, sending it skittering away from the net. It tumbled across the gritty soil, glinting in the harsh sunlight as it rolled, a careless beacon that gave away our secret.

 

Lykos appeared between the weeds just in time to see it. His brows lifted as he asked, puzzled, “Why do you have Mother’s milk cup down here?”

 

My mind emptied, a vast, useless blank. Then I did the only thing I could think of.

 

I threw myself sideways into the irrigation trench. The water was only knee-deep, but I went in hard enough to send mud and water splashing everywhere. My elbow struck a stone, my hip hit the bank, and pain burst bright and stupid through me.

 

Lykos stared for a heartbeat, then burst out laughing. “What the hell are you doing?” he asked, delighted.

 

“I slipped,” I said, pushing myself upright and shaking mud from my hair, my tunic plastered to my chest.

 

“Oh, really? You slipped sideways?” he pressed, incredulous, raising an eyebrow at my explanation.

 

“Yes,” I replied, trying to sound more convincing than I felt.

 

“Into a trench?” he continued, his skepticism evident in his voice.

 

“Yes,” I confirmed, a hint of annoyance creeping into my tone.

 

“After bringing milk to the reeds?” he asked, somehow even more incredulous.

 

I glared at him, my frustration boiling over. It was easier than looking back at the shelter. “Maybe the reeds were thirsty,” I shot back, defending my unusual errand.

 

Lykos laughed so hard he bent over, hands braced on his knees. “Theron needs to hear this,” he said between breaths.

 

“No,” I blurted.

 

His grin sharpened. I grabbed a fistful of mud and flung it at him, and it hit his tunic with a wet slap.

 

For one perfect, terrible second, Lykos stopped laughing. Then his eyes narrowed. “You’re dead,” he said, almost gleeful.

 

I bolted. He chased me up the slope, shouting threats and laughing again, and I let him. I let him because every step took him farther from the old goat shelter. Every insult, every splash of mud, every humiliating stumble made him forget the cup, the food, the broken net, the frightened eyes watching from the dark.

 

By the time he tackled me near the barley, I was bruised, soaked, and smeared with mud from chin to sandals. Lykos pinned my shoulders and grinned down at me. “You are the strangest person alive,” he declared.

 

I spat muddy water away from my mouth. “Good.”

 

He laughed and shoved off me, already running toward the yard to tell Theron.

 

I stayed on my back in the dirt, chest heaving, staring up at the sky. Then, slowly, I turned my head toward the old shelter. Through the weeds, I could barely see the shadow of her eyes.

 

She had seen. She knew. And for the first time, she looked at me like I was not just another thing that might hurt her.

 

When I finally limped back, I expected the shelter to be empty. I expected claw marks in the dirt, scattered bread, a gap in the weeds where she had fled from the stupid boy who brought danger with him. But she was still there.

 

Her eyes followed me as I crouched near the net, closer than before. Not close enough to touch, never that, but close enough that she did not hiss.

 

“I’m weak,” I whispered hoarsely, still tasting mud. “Everyone knows it.”

 

Her head tilted.

 

Then, in a rough little voice, she said, “Weak boys run.”

 

I stared.

 

Her claws curled around the bread.

 

“You didn’t,” she added quietly.