The salt air stings your cheeks as you grip the ship's railing, watching the coastline of ancient Greece shrink in the distance. Three weeks since you led the slave revolt. Three weeks since you killed men for the first time. The memory still haunts you - warm blood on your hands, the sickening crunch of bone beneath your improvised weapons.

You turn to glance at the mismatched crew you've assembled: Dio sharpening a stolen sword with obsessive focus, his young face twisted in a scowl that doesn't quite mask the fear in his eyes. Ranga and Faigel mending nets, heads bent together in quiet conversation. Blanda and Bingyan arguing over navigation, their voices carrying across the deck.

They're your responsibility now. Your family, for better or worse.

A shout from the crow's nest interrupts your thoughts. "Ships! Three of them, approaching fast!"

Dio is on his feet instantly, sword raised, eyes glowing faintly red with bloodlust. "Finally! Some action!"

Bingyan squints at the horizon, her face paling. "They're military vessels. Greek triremes. And they have our heading."

Your hand drifts to your wrist, where the manacles from your time in slavery still hang, bent and misshapen but unremovable. Your powers are returning slowly, but not fast enough for a direct confrontation with trained warriors.

The crew looks to you, waiting for orders. The decision is yours: fight, flee, or try to talk your way out of this.

The ships grow closer, their hulls gleaming in the afternoon sun. You can make out the glint of bronze weapons now, the整齐 rows of oars cutting through the waves with military precision.

Time is running out.