Lion Head Mesa Krýo

Arsenio’s smile slipped from his features. The auburn man lowered his head to his paws, drawing his tongue across his nose and lips until they were free of mucus.

Tamar wished to know of the seaside village he had talked about. The Greek man found it difficult to say anything regarding the homeland he had concocted for the sake of his story, to spare him the prying gaze of the Pharaoh. The mercenary did not wish to lie to her, or to spin a story for her that would come from nothing. Arsenio also did not want to tell her anything of his true home. The herbs had softened his resolve. The softness in her breath had created a crack in his defenses.

I am not from the warm waters, but a perilous mountain called Rhamnus Peak, which sits as a palace beside the beach. It is a place for Gods and for men who wish to be Gods. When I was no more than a boy, my father threw me from the mountain and into the water below, Arsenio said to her in a quiet voice. His eyes were faraway, his lips were drawn in a tight line. I have not seen the peak since that day.