Euenios takes a deep breath, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword. This is it. He's going to get the help he needs, or he'll die trying…
The Guard taps his sword with his and he sheepishly hands it over before entering the Forum. These Forums are open daily anyway, where patricians meet, mostly a playground for the elite.
"Lysandra stay here."
…
He strides into the chamber, his eyes scanning the room. The council of Thessaly sits before him, a mix of curiosity and skepticism etched on their faces. He's seen this look before – it's the same one the council in Corinth had given him. But this time, he's not alone. He's armed with something more than just his words and his dreams.
The members of the council are indeed old and rich, their eyes filled with the cunning of men who've survived wars and political intrigue. They're dressed in fine linens and their fingers glitter with rings, each one a symbol of their wealth and power. They sit in a semi-circle, their chins resting on their hands, watching him with a mix of amusement and impatience.
Euenios approaches the podium, his footsteps echoing in the vast chamber. He greets them with a formal bow, his movements fluid and precise, a reminder of his royal lineage.
"Gentlemen of Thessaly, I come to you not as a prince seeking aid, but as a son of Macedon, a fellow heir to the legacy of our great founder, seeking kinship in these troubled times," he says, his voice resonating with the gravity of his words.
The old men look at each other, some with raised eyebrows, others with pursed lips. They've heard this before – a prince claiming kinship to win their favor.
There's nothing new but since he's born of purple and black, they have to hear him out anyway.
"I have an offer for you gentlemen, one you might listen to. There have been rumors of treasure out west, in Iberia. If you provide the ships and the men, I will lead them to safety and claim that treasure in the name of Macedon!"
The room falls silent, and for a moment, all that can be heard is the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner. Then, one of the council members, a man with a thick mustache and a belly that suggests a life of indulgence, leans back in his chair, stroking his chin.
"Treasure, you say? And what makes you think we should believe you, young prince (where the hell is Iberia)?"
"Treat it as an investment. Think of it, if this is true, we'd be rich!"
The council members murmur among themselves, their expressions unreadable. Euenios can feel the tension in the room, his heart pounding in his chest. This was his last hope. If they didn't believe him, if they didn't help, he didn't know what he would do.
"Very well," the council leader says finally, his eyes narrowed. "We will consider your proposal. But we require proof of this treasure. A map, a relic, anything that can validate your claims!"
…
Prince Euenios storms out of the Forum, forgetting to even take his sword with him.
He's met by Lysandra, her eyes full of worry.
"Your Highness, are you okay?" she asks tentatively.
He turns to her, his face flushed with anger and frustration. "They want proof! Can you believe that? After everything I've seen, everything I've told them, they want more!"
As they turn a corner, he sees a familiar face, his heart sinking. His older brother Gyros, the crown prince of Bylazora, stands before him, a smug smile playing on his lips.
"Well, well, if it isn't the little prince with the big ideas. Did the council laugh you out of the room, brother?" Gyros says, his voice filled with malice.
Euenios clenches his fists, his eyes flashing. "This is none of your concern, Gyros!"
Gyros laughs, a harsh, grating sound. "Oh, but it is. You see, I've heard whispers of your little escapade. And I must admit, I'm quite entertained by the whole affair. Look, I'm the heir, and you, you should be content staying in Corinth, governing the city, staying in your lane."
The tension between the brothers is palpable, the air thick with their animosity. Euenios thinks Gyros is a snake, always eager to undercut him, to prove his own superiority. But he can't let him win. Not now, not when so much is at stake.
"I'm not asking for your help, Gyros. I never have. I'm doing this for our people, for our father's legacy!"
"What legacy! Look around you-" Gyros clicks his tongue. "You know what just go, go!"
Euenios leaves with heavy steps, behind him, Gyros rubs his temple with his fingers.
…
Back in the palace, Euenios is brooding, staring out of the window into the night sky. The stars look distant, almost mocking him with their cold indifference. Lysandra enters the room, her steps soft and tentative. She approaches him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"Your Highness, you must eat something. You're too weak to continue like this," she says.
There needs to be a change of approach, mercenaries exist, but the money to hire them… Money…
…
Waking up in the morning, before the sun is even up, Euenios heads out alone, to the outskirts of town with just his personal guard.
The air is crisp with the promise of a new day, but it does nothing to lift his spirits. He's running out of time and options. The council's demands for proof feel like a noose tightening around his neck.
As he rides through the countryside, his eyes scan the horizon, looking for any signs of mercenaries. His heart races at the thought of finding them, of convincing them to help him.
The landscape is rugged and unforgiving, a stark reminder of the battles that have been fought here. He can almost hear the echoes of clashing swords and the cries of the dying. It's a place where men live and die by their strength and their wits.