Picking Up the Moon

Silence crept into the massive chamber as every royal, noble, and priest sat frozen.

Breaking the stillness, a group in the section reserved for the clergy stood up. The group was one of the smallest factions among Italys' various religions. They wore plain white robes with basic silver jewelry. 

The group was made up entirely of women. All of whom shared long, athletic features, with bows of varying sizes levitating beside them.

The Temple of Artemis was one of the least powerful in the Italian pantheon, due to their goddess not doing much to foster the Temples' growth.

Compared to the tremendously powerful Temple of Zeus, or even those of Ares or Athena, the Temple of Artemis was insignificant. Still, the Temple represented a goddess who could destroy Naples with a single pull of her bowstring, so they commanded respect.

With a glow of their enchanted sandals, the priestesses leapt from their places in the crowd, bowing to King Tacitus before addressing the assembled nobles.

The head priest, a tall woman with a huge, golden bow levitating beside her, stepped forward.

She spoke in an unperturbed voice, directly addressing King Tacitus as if they were the only two people in the room.

"This arrow is clearly divine intervention from our glorious Lady Artemis. The boy," the woman said the word 'boy' as if it were a rotten fruit that had somehow made its way onto her plate, "Marcus Arium, shall come with us to the Temple, where we can investigate these... unusual circumstances.

Marcus didn't understand what was going on: he had closed his eyes, awaiting his death, and when he opened them, the executioner was dead. But the young man was ready to cling onto any hope of survival.

The massive Black Drake behind King Tacitus exhaled two puffs of smoke, reflecting the feelings of its master.

"Italy honors the Temple, Priestess," the King replied, "However, the alleged 'divine intervention' is unlikely. Lady Artemis has never blessed a man. Marcus's crime still stands. He will await a retrial, and you may argue in his defense."

Taking in the new information, Marcus weighed his two options: trust the Temple to get him out legally, or attempt to flee with Drakon and Nubia.

Seydas' previously confidant expression was broken by a deep frown. He recognized that look, it was the same one she wore when they were getting chased by city guards or when she was caught stealing a piece of bread when they ran out of money.

Seyda was analyzing the situation, thinking of the best moves to get her way. If she was willing to kill his parents, Marcus knew that she wouldn't be satisfied until he was dead. He still didn't understand why she had betrayed him, but he knew he wouldn't have time to figure it out.

I need to escape.

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An iron door slammed shut behind Marcus. He was back in the cage-prison, hanging thousands of feet in the air. 

"Marcus! You're not dead! Welcome back!" Drakan said with a wide grin.

Marcus didn't respond. He retreated to the corner of his cell, and tucked his head into his chest, pulling his arms around his knees.

With his face hidden, tears began to flow, as deep, penetrating sorrow barged its way into Marcus's soul. 

Drakon looked at the boy, deciding to give him some space. 

Hours slipped past, and Marcus's sorrow cooled.

Something formed within his heart: a tight sphere of emotion, fueled by the deep rage caused by what he just suffered. Marcus wanted revenge. He wanted to kill everyone who watched his parents be executed.

"Drakon, you said we could escape?" 

"Well. Er. Yes. But are you in the condition to do that? Mentally I mean? We can wait a bit longer," The warrior responded.

"We need to get out of here as soon as possible. During my trial, Tacitus said that you two would be next."

Drakon, sighed, muttering to himself, "I wasn't supposed to go this way." He cleared his throat before explaining his plan.

"Well Marcus, Nubia and I are locked in enchanted chains that suppress our power, but you aren't because, well, you don't have any abilities. So I'll just have to teach you!" 

"But I don't have any divine blood. I can't use magic." 

Drakon clicked his tongue, "See, that's the problem with you Italians, you're all convinced your own style is the only way."

Nubia spoke up from the far cell, "Listen Marcus, there are hundreds, probably even thousands of ways to harness the arcane forces of the world, we just have to find one that works well for you." 

The way Nubia spoke soothed Marcus, she seemed confident that he could learn a form of magic. Her tone was warm, and much brighter than when they first spoke.

She seems like a good leader.

The Princess and Spartan spent the rest of the day cycling through different forms of magic. They started with breathing techniques, before moving on to elemental forms.

When they found Marcus had no affinity for any of those styles, they moved on to more obscure techniques, like channeling the suns' energy, manipulating shadows, and using summoning circles.

Drakon sometimes let Marcus ramble through obscure incantations for an hour before deeming the style not suitable, and he sometimes determined Marcus' talent for a particular style within seconds.

"Come on kid, you just need to make a tiny cut in Drakons' chains and we'll do the rest," Nubia said as Marcus pushed all of his willpower into attempting telekinesis. 

It had been dark for several hours, and Marcus had still not found a suitable style. He felt like a failure, and he felt stupid, like a child desperately trying to cast spells using his imagination before realizing that's not how the world worked.

"Lets call it a night, Marcus," Drakon said, crossing his arms over his chest.

As they had tried more and more techniques Nubias' former enthusiasm seemed to wane. She gradually lost hope in Marcus saving them.

Within minutes, Marcus's two companions had fallen asleep.

Sleep also beckoned to Marcus, who stared down through the bars at the Bay of Naples. 

Huh. Full moon.

The young man reached down towards the moons' reflection on the bay, motioning as if he was reaching down to pickup one of his dogs' bones.

When Marcus opened his hand, a small, silver sphere of light softly floated above his palm.

It appeared effortlessly, a sharp contrast to the day of complete concentration on different magiks.

Am I hallucinating?

He wasn't. 

Scared that the glowing sphere would go away, Marcus hurriedly shoved the ball of silver light into on of Drakons' chains.

A clank echoed through the chamber as the chain split in half.