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Chapter 1. Golden Palaces and Darkening War Drums

Thousands of years before the Christian era, the island of Atlantis lay radiant and imperial in the wide Atlantic. Midsummer rested upon this land like a warm, golden veil, its gardens glowing deep green, its palaces gleaming with tri-colored stone, and its temples burning red against the sapphire sweep of the sea. The whole island was a vision of beauty and power.

Around Cleit, the royal city on the stream Luith, there was unusual excitement and movement. On this day, one of the most ancient customs of Atlantis was to be observed—the king and the royal rulers were to receive the principal captains of the nation. Sleek galleys, their prows carved and polished, sped from every direction toward the harbor, and the people, dressed in their brightest holiday attire, thronged to the palace grounds in eager anticipation. Among them moved the young captain Hellan, his dark eyes searching for Electra, whose presence always turned the air around him electric, and Electra herself, luminous and graceful, pretending not to look for him while her heart beat faster at every glimpse of his figure.

When the great silver gong sounded noon, the captains formed their line and filed along the marble pathway, followed by the cheering crowd. The palace rose before them—a majestic yet simple construction of rectangular wings set around a vast court, two-storied, with columns of marble and orichalcum covered in intricate inscriptions and sculptures that caught the light. Deucalion, seasoned and strong despite the silver at his temples, walked with measured steps, feeling Pyrrha’s gaze on him from the edge of the crowd, her eyes full of quiet pride and unspoken devotion.

The captains mounted the grand portico, passed through the narrowing portal guarded by winged bulls, and entered the state chamber—a great and glittering hall with an arched ceiling of ivory and bronze, walls paneled in ivory overlaid with silver, and a pavement of blue and white marble that reflected the glow of torches. At the farther end stood the golden throne and the ivory chairs of rulers, priests, and nobles, each seat occupied by figures whose beauty and bearing matched the splendor of the room.

With arms folded and heads bent low, the captains advanced before King Atlano, who sat high on his dais. Around him ranged the royal rulers, and below sat the priests and nobles. Atlano’s presence was striking—broad-shouldered, dark-haired, his features finely cut, his eyes sharp and commanding. Though his expression was often harsh, even cruel, there was a powerful magnetism about him that made it difficult to look away.

The chamberlain made the sign, and the captains bowed low until he said, “You may rise.” The king lifted his scepter, and the priests and nobles intoned a formal welcome, their voices echoing through the chamber like a solemn chant.

Atlano was handsome in the finest Atlantean style, though his expression remained hard and severe. Yet he softened somewhat at the sight of these brave captains, men and women whose beauty and strength reflected the glory of Atlantis, and he allowed a faint smile to touch his lips as he addressed them.

“Captains, your king gives you greeting.”

They responded in unison, their voices rich and reverent, “O most gracious of kings, Atlano, long may your great presence thus shine upon your captains!” Hellan’s voice blended with the others, but his thoughts flickered to Electra, imagining her hearing the echo of his loyalty and courage.

The invocation to the gods followed, led by the aged high priest Olto and his son, the chief priest Oltis. Olto’s face was lined with years, yet his eyes still held a quiet fire, while Oltis, younger and smooth-faced, watched the assembly with a calculating gaze. Then the rulers, priests, and nobles sat down, their garments flowing around them in rich folds, their beauty and poise lending the chamber an almost unreal perfection.

The captain general reported first, speaking of sailing around the country of the Afrites, where they had established trade relations for gold, ivory, incense woods, nutwoods, ebony, apes, and greyhounds. His words painted distant lands in vivid color, and as he spoke, Seladin—known in Pelasgia as Prince Pelasgus—was silently remembered by those who had heard rumors of his charm and brilliance across the sea, and by Aeolia, who had once seen him from afar and never quite forgotten the way his smile had lit the deck of his ship. Other captains reported voyages to Chimu, to the green island in the north, and to lands beyond the western seas, each tale threaded with danger, discovery, and the quiet longing of those who left loved ones behind.

Then came the captain of the Paero with troubling news. “A people across the Middle Sea, to the north of Khemi, cause concern. It is not long since they passed over from the far east, and now they rule the sea. Their land is Pelasgia. They are called Pelasgians. Their king is Pelasgus.” The name hung in the air, carrying with it whispers of a young ruler whose beauty and strength matched his rising power, and whose heart, some said, was already entangled with a girl named Aeolia.

The king’s indifference vanished. His eyes sharpened, and his posture straightened. “Do they know how to wage war?”

“They are fond of peace,” the captain answered, “and think mainly of trade and tilling the ground.”

The captain who had retreated from the Middle Sea stepped forward, his face still shadowed by the memory of what he had seen. “Then it was the vessels of this people that troubled us. Nothing like them have I seen for size and strength.” His words carried a reluctant admiration, and in the back of the hall, Pyrrha’s fingers tightened around the edge of her seat, sensing the shift in the air and thinking of Deucalion, whose wisdom and courage might soon be tested again.

The king turned fiercely to his nobles. “Do you hear this?”

Senil, the most venerable of the rulers, rose slowly, his bearing dignified, his features still handsome despite his years. “We hear, and it seems a threat to our dominance.” His voice was calm, but his eyes held a glint of concern.

“We will confront them!” Atlano declared, his voice ringing through the chamber. “It shall not be said that any power holds the sea unchallenged by Atlantis!” His words were bold, and yet beneath them lay a fierce pride and a desire to prove that Atlantis remained unmatched.

The last captain reported from Shaphana: “Of late, their vessels come within the harbor. Thus far Pelasgia thinks not of war, but of trade. Her vessels are marvels of strength and speed.” The mention of Pelasgia stirred quiet thoughts of Prince Pelasgus, whose charm and beauty were said to rival his ships, and of Aeolia, whose heart beat faster whenever his name was spoken.

The king stood and addressed all assembled. “Rulers, Priests, Nobles, Captains, Leaders, People—let us consider this carefully. Let it be our united purpose to prepare our defenses and make clear our strength to this Pelasgia. What say you?”

Senil answered, “We will as you will.” The other rulers echoed him, their voices blending in agreement, though some hearts already felt the weight of what such a decision might bring.

Phiro, a young noble, rose. His features were fine, his eyes bright with ambition. “If it pleases you, let those who are for strengthening our fleets bend the knee.” His gaze swept the room, lingering for a heartbeat on Hellan and Electra, whose shared glance betrayed their fear and their fierce loyalty to Atlantis.

Then every soul bent the knee while the high priest asked for blessing on the undertaking. The hall seemed to hold its breath as the prayer rose, and in that silence, hearts whispered their own private vows—Hellan silently promising to return to Electra, Deucalion thinking of Pyrrha’s steady love, Aeolia imagining the distant face of Prince Pelasgus, and Atlassia, far away in her bower, feeling a chill of dread. When the king rose, he declared, “It is one voice. Here let us make the vow to secure our seas and make known our power. Swear!”

Every right arm pointed heavenward. “We swear!” The cry was strong and unified, yet beneath its force lay threads of fear, hope, and unspoken longing.

The king addressed the leaders, who wore close-fitting tunics and high boots, with bronze belts inscribed with their office. Their bodies were strong and graceful, their faces striking, each one a living emblem of Atlantean pride. “Leaders, you know your duty. This day you begin measures for strengthening our forces.”

On their knees sank the leaders. Their spokesman answered, “Your leaders know well their duty. They will set to it this day.” His voice carried conviction, but his eyes flickered briefly toward the crowd, where his wife watched him with a mixture of fear and admiration.

The king addressed the rulers: “You will hasten to your cities and give orders. Before the coming moon is old, gather your vessels within this harbor. Then onward, to make our position clear!”

The assemblage echoed, “Yes—on—to secure our seas!” The words rolled through the chamber like a wave, and for a moment, the beauty of the people, their shining eyes and proud faces, made the vow feel almost glorious.

Thus ended the gathering of the captains, and all passed out to spread the news. Hellan moved with the others, but his thoughts were already reaching for Electra, imagining her reaction when she heard. Deucalion walked with steady steps, feeling Pyrrha’s presence like a quiet warmth at his back, and somewhere across the sea, Prince Pelasgus and Aeolia would soon feel the distant tremor of Atlantis’s decision.

From the state chamber, the king hurried to the queen’s bower room. This large apartment testified to the industry and grace of the queen and her ladies, with delicate embroidery upon the hangings, intricate plaiting upon the floors, and flowers festooned from the walls in fragrant clusters. Three sides opened upon the private garden, where sunlight fell in soft patterns and the air carried the scent of blossoms.

Queen Atlassia was tall, gracious, and exquisitely lovely. She was the daughter of a powerful noble house of Khemi, given in political marriage to Atlano to strengthen the alliance between their kingdoms. Her complexion was a warm blend of olive and peach, her eyes large, soft, and lustrous, her hair black and gently waving over her shoulders. Her robe was of fine white linen, embroidered in buff, drawn in at the waist by a golden girdle that emphasized the elegance of her figure. Despite the weight of her crown, there was a quiet tenderness in her gaze whenever she looked at Atlano, a love that had grown slowly and deeply over the years.

“With joy I greet you, Atlano,” she said softly, her voice low and full of affection.

He took her hand, feeling the familiar warmth of her touch. “With the same feeling do I greet you, Atlassia.” For a brief moment, the hardness in his eyes eased, and the bond between them shimmered like a fragile thread of light.

“You seem happy,” she said, searching his face. “Have you come from the meeting of the captains?”

“There were the same old speeches of cargoes taken out and cargoes brought back,” he replied, a hint of weariness in his tone. “How tired I grow of it all. But one thing I heard stirred me.”

“What did you hear?” Her fingers tightened slightly around his, her heart already uneasy.

“We have heard something that will require us to prepare for conflict.”

“For war?” Her voice trembled, and a faintness passed over her, as if the word itself had stolen the air from the room.

“Yes. A new power shows itself to the north of Khemi. It aims to hold the Middle Sea. We go to make our strength clear.” His eyes flashed with determination, but Atlassia saw beneath it the fierce pride that sometimes blinded him.

She grew pale. “They cannot harm us if we seek understanding. Spare them, Atlano. Seek peace first.” Her love for him made her bold, and her fear for their people made her desperate.

“Much would it cost us should they grow too strong,” he answered. “I will show them that Atlantis still has being, still holds power.”

“Atlano, I beg you,” she said, her voice breaking slightly, “seek first to understand this people before any action. Do not rush into war.” Her eyes shone with tears, and in them was not only concern for Atlantis, but a deep, aching love for the man before her.

“Atlassia, we are to prepare our forces,” he said firmly. “And now I have done with it.” He turned slightly away, as if closing a door between them.

“So be it—prepare for war,” she whispered. “But I warn you, it is one thing to prepare for conflict, another to control its outcome.” Her words carried the weight of intuition, of a heart that sensed danger long before it arrived.

“Do not cast an evil eye upon it,” he replied. “You are in troubled temper today. It is best that I go to the temple and talk with Oltis.”

“Why are you ever with Oltis if you do not trust him?” she asked, frustration and fear mingling in her tone.

“I like to draw him out, to make him believe I think as he does,” Atlano said. “He is a toad.”

“Think,” she said quietly. “You just called him a toad.” Her eyes searched his face, trying to understand how he could despise a man and yet keep him so close.

“I mean, were you not so troubled of mind,” he answered, brushing off her concern. “Oltis never says no to me.”

“Do not go to Oltis,” she pleaded. “I fear him. He will do you harm.” Her voice was thick with emotion, her love for Atlano making her willing to stand against anyone she believed might hurt him.

He laughed and bent to kiss her, but the kiss was careless, a brief touch that did not match the depth of her feeling. Then he drew away from her restraining hand and went out, leaving the room colder in his absence.

Atlassia was left to weep, her tears falling for her husband, for her people, and for the uncertain future that now loomed before them. Before night, many anxious hearts on the island joined the queen’s. The wives of high and low degree fell to worrying, their beauty shadowed by fear as they thought of husbands, sons, and lovers who might soon be called to war. When some took courage to hint of possible danger, they were met with such scorn they retreated to their chambers.