Chapter Text
The spear that pierced Cleisthenes' chest had been particularly rude, he thought. Not only had it interrupted his morning symposium—where he'd been explaining to fellow Athenians why allowing more citizens to vote was actually a good idea—but it had also ruined his favorite chiton. The crimson spread across the white fabric as he collapsed onto the marble floor of the agora, his last thought being that at least he'd die in a public space, democratically accessible to all citizens.
"Μαλάκα," he wheezed—bastard—at his assassin, before darkness claimed him.
Death, as it turned out, was surprisingly bureaucratic.
Cleisthenes found himself floating in an endless void, face to face with what appeared to be three elderly women sharing a single eye between them. The Moirai, the Fates themselves, were hunched over what looked suspiciously like a cosmic filing cabinet.
"Cleisthenes of Athens," the first one said, not looking up from her paperwork. "Says here you invented democracy."
"Well, I wouldn't say invented—more like refined the existing—"
"Close enough," the second Fate interrupted. "Do you know how much extra work you've created for us? Every citizen getting a vote means exponentially more fate threads to weave!"
"I... apologize?"
The third Fate snorted. "Τι μαλακίες λες—what nonsense. Look, we're sending you somewhere else. Consider it a working vacation. There's this place called Terra, specifically a region called Minos. They could use someone with your... particular set of skills."
"But I just died! Surely there must be fields of Elysium, or at least—"
"No time! Deadline's coming up. Literally." The first Fate stamped something on a golden form. "Congratulations, you're being reincarnated. Try not to invent anything that makes our jobs harder this time, ναι?"
Before Cleisthenes could protest, the void collapsed inward, and he found himself falling through colors that didn't exist, past concepts that shouldn't be, and finally
He gasped, drawing his first breath in a new world.
The woman staring down at him had horns. Not metaphorical horns of cuckoldry or the poetic horns of a dilemma, but actual, physical horns protruding from her head. She was speaking, but the words were strange—Greek, but not quite the Greek he knew. It was as if someone had taken his language, thrown it in a pot with several others, let it simmer for two thousand years, and served it with a garnish of linguistic evolution.
"Είσαι καλά; Φίλε, είσαι καλά;" Are you alright? Friend, are you alright?
Cleisthenes sat up slowly, his head spinning. He was in what appeared to be an open-air amphitheater, though the architecture was... different. The columns were there, yes, but they seemed to pulse with a faint inner light. Strange blue crystals were embedded in the marble, glowing softly. And the people—θεοί, gods, the people—they all had horns. Or tails. Or both.
"Τι... που είμαι;" What... where am I? he managed to croak out.
The horned woman—a Forte, his new brain supplied, though he had no idea where that knowledge came from—helped him to his feet. "You're in Athenus, friend. The capital of Minos. You collapsed during the morning assembly. Too much wine at last night's symposium?"
Athenus. Minos. The words were familiar yet foreign, like looking at your reflection in disturbed water.
"The assembly," he repeated slowly. "There's an assembly?"
"Of course! Every citizen has the right to participate in the Boule. Though between you and me," the woman leaned in conspiratorially, "most people just come for the free wine and olives. The priests do most of the actual governing. Priest Stavros is about to speak about the border situation with Sargon."
Cleisthenes' eye twitched. Priests. Running. The democracy.
"Excuse me," he said carefully, "but why exactly are priests making governmental decisions?"
The woman looked at him as if he'd asked why water was wet. "They're the representatives of the Twelve Heroes, of course! Who else would lead us? The heroes saved us from Sargon's occupation. Their priests carry on their will."
"And these priests... they're elected?"
"Elected?" She laughed. "No, no, they're chosen by divine providence. The previous priest selects their successor based on visions from the Heroes."
Cleisthenes felt a migraine coming on. This was democracy in the same way that a fish was a bird—technically they both moved through fluid mediums, but that was where the similarities ended.
"Παναγία μου," Holy Mother, he muttered, then paused. Why had he said that? He didn't even believe in... wait, did he believe in gods now? The theological implications of being literally reincarnated by the Fates were giving him a headache.
The assembly hall was filling up. Citizens of all sorts were filtering in—those with horns, those with unusual ears, and even some who looked almost normal if you ignored the slight blue tinge to their veins. That last group, his new knowledge supplied, were Infected. In Athens, they would have been ostracized, sent beyond the city walls. Here, they sat among the others, participating in the democratic process such as it was.
At least they got that part right, Cleisthenes thought grudgingly.
A priest in elaborate robes stood at the center of the amphitheater, raising his staff—an ornate thing covered in those same blue crystals. "Citizens of Athenus! We gather today to discuss the ongoing border raids by Sargonian clans. The Heroes speak through me—"
"Excuse me!" Cleisthenes found himself standing before his brain could stop his mouth. "Quick question about this whole 'Heroes speaking through you' situation."
The entire amphitheater turned to stare at him. The priest's expression went from serene to slightly constipated.
"Yes, citizen...?"
"Cleisthenes. Just... Cleisthenes. I was wondering—how do we verify that the Heroes are actually speaking through you? Is there a system? Some sort of divine auditing process?"
Someone in the crowd snorted. Several others began murmuring.
The priest's face was now definitely constipated. "The priesthood has served Minos faithfully for generations since the liberation. Our connection to the Heroes is beyond question."
"Oh, I'm not questioning the connection," Cleisthenes said cheerfully. "I'm just wondering about the practical aspects. For instance, what if two priests receive contradictory messages from the Heroes? Is there a voting system among the priests? Do the Heroes have a spokesperson? A divine press secretary, perhaps?"
"The Heroes speak with one voice—"
"All twelve of them? That must get confusing. Do they take turns? Is there a schedule? 'Mondays are for Hero number three, Tuesdays for Hero number seven'—"
"SILENCE!" The priest's staff flared with blue light. Originium Arts, Cleisthenes' new knowledge supplied helpfully, right before the magical energy slammed into him and sent him tumbling backward.
He lay on his back, staring up at the sky—which, he noticed, had two moons. Fantastic. Not only had he been reincarnated into a world with broken democracy, but it was a world that couldn't even get the number of moons right.
"Perhaps," the priest said coldly, "this citizen has had too much wine. Someone should escort him out."
"Actually," a new voice spoke up, "I'd like to hear what he has to say."
Everyone turned to look at the speaker—a young woman with ram's horns and an expression of barely contained amusement. She wore simpler robes than the priest but carried herself with an authority that made people step aside as she walked forward.
"Priestess Sophia," the first priest said through gritted teeth. "This is highly irregular—"
"So is using Originium Arts on an unarmed citizen asking questions in the Boule, Priest Stavros," she replied smoothly. "Unless we've abandoned the pretense of democracy entirely?"
Cleisthenes pushed himself up, brushing dust off his chiton—when had he started wearing a chiton again? This reincarnation business was confusing. "Thank you, Priestess. I was merely suggesting that perhaps the citizens should have more direct involvement in decision-making. Novel concept, I know."
Sophia's lips twitched. "And how would you propose we do that, citizen Cleisthenes?"
"Well," he said, warming to his theme, "we could start with actual elections. Let the people choose their representatives. Create a council of citizens drawn from each district—we could call them the βουλή, the boule, except it would be a real council, not just an audience for priestly pronouncements."
"Preposterous!" Stavros sputtered. "The common people lack the wisdom—"
"The common people," Cleisthenes interrupted, "managed to survive Sargonian occupation. They fought alongside the Twelve Heroes. They rebuild this city every day with their labor. Are you suggesting they're wise enough to die for Minos but not wise enough to have a say in how it's run?"
The murmuring in the crowd grew louder. Several of the Infected citizens were nodding. A Forte blacksmith near the back shouted, "He's got a point!"
"This is borderline heresy," Stavros warned.
"Is it?" Cleisthenes asked innocently. "I'm simply saying we should honor the Heroes by following their example. They were ordinary people who rose to greatness, weren't they? They didn't wait for divine appointment—they acted. Perhaps we should trust ordinary citizens to act as well."
"You speak of matters you don't understand, stranger," Stavros said, his voice dangerous. "You don't even know our ways—"
"I know that twelve heroes saved this nation," Cleisthenes shot back. "Twelve. Not one divinely appointed king. Not a single all-powerful priest. Twelve different people working together. Sounds almost like... dare I say it... a committee?"
Someone in the audience actually applauded. Stavros looked like he was about to have an aneurysm.
Sophia stepped between them. "Perhaps we should table this discussion. Citizen Cleisthenes raises... interesting points that deserve consideration. But first, we should address the Sargonian raids, as planned."
"Of course," Cleisthenes said, bowing slightly. "Though I can't help but wonder—when you say 'we should address' them, who exactly is 'we'? Will there be a vote? Or will the priests simply decide and inform us of our opinions afterward?"
Stavros' eye twitched. "The priesthood will deliberate—"
"In private?"
"As is traditional—"
"Ah yes, tradition. The last refuge of those who can't explain why they do what they do." Cleisthenes smiled pleasantly. "In Athens—I mean, in some places, such decisions would be debated openly. Citizens would vote. Novel concept, I know. Probably wouldn't work here. After all, you'd need to trust people to make informed decisions about their own lives."
"You dare—"
"I dare suggest that if the Heroes trusted the people enough to die for them, perhaps the priests should trust the people enough to listen to them," Cleisthenes said. "But what do I know? I'm just a citizen who asks inconvenient questions."
The amphitheater had gone very quiet. Even the Originium crystals seemed to pulse more slowly, as if the very architecture was holding its breath.
Finally, an elderly Infected man in the front row stood up. "I'd like to hear more about this 'voting' idea."
"As would I," said a Forte merchant.
"And I," added a young Liberi woman.
Sophia's expression was unreadable as she watched the crowd's reaction. Stavros looked like he'd swallowed a particularly sour olive.
"The Boule is concluded for today," Stavros announced abruptly. "We will... consider these matters."
As the crowd began to disperse, arguing animatedly among themselves, Sophia approached Cleisthenes.
"You've certainly made an impression," she said dryly. "Though I'm not sure if it's a good one. Stavros will remember this."
"Δημοκρατία," Cleisthenes said with a shrug. "Democracy. It's messy, it's argumentative, and it's incredibly inefficient. But it's better than the alternative."
"Which is?"
"Letting someone else decide your fate while you sit quietly and pretend you have a voice."
Sophia studied him for a long moment. "You're not from around here, are you? And I don't just mean from another Minoan city-state."
Cleisthenes considered his response carefully. "Let's just say I've had... unique experiences with governance."
"Hmm." She turned to leave, then paused. "There's a symposium tonight at my villa. Informal. Just a few citizens discussing philosophy and politics. You should come."
"Will there be wine?"
"This is Minos. There's always wine."
"Then I'll definitely be there. Though I should warn you—I have opinions about everything."
"I'm counting on it," she said with a slight smile. "We could use someone who asks uncomfortable questions. The Heroes know Stavros needs someone to challenge him before he declares himself the thirteenth hero."
As she walked away, Cleisthenes looked around at the city of Athenus—his new home, apparently. The architecture was familiar yet alien, the people were literally horned, and the democracy was more of a theocratic oligarchy with democratic window dressing.
He'd reformed Athens once. How hard could it be to do it again?
A pigeon landed near his feet. It had four eyes.
"Γαμώτο," he muttered. Damn it. "This is going to be harder than Athens, isn't it?"
The pigeon cooed at him. It sounded suspiciously like laughter.
Cleisthenes made his way through the streets of Athenus, marveling at the contradictions. The city was simultaneously ancient and advanced—marble columns stood next to structures powered by Originium technology, classical Greek architecture merged with impossible geometries that hurt to look at directly. And everywhere, those blue crystals, pulsing with their own inner light like trapped stars.
He stopped at what appeared to be a taverna, though the sign above it read "Symposium of the Satisfied Stomach" in letters that kept trying to rearrange themselves when he wasn't looking directly at them.
Inside, the patrons were a mix of races that his new memories identified as Forte, Liberi, Aegir, and others. At one table, an Infected man with crystalline growths on his arms was arm-wrestling a healthy Forte woman while onlookers placed bets.
"Newcomer!" the tavern keeper called out, a robust woman with goat horns. "You're the one who gave Stavros heartburn at the assembly! First drink's on the house!"
Cleisthenes accepted the cup of wine gratefully, though he noticed it had a slight blue shimmer. "Arts-infused?"
"Just a touch," the tavern keeper winked. "Helps with the flavor. And the mild hallucinations add character to political discussions."
"Naturally," Cleisthenes said, taking a careful sip. It tasted like regular wine mixed with lightning and regret. "Tell me, what do people really think about the priesthood?"
The tavern keeper glanced around, then leaned in. "Between you and me? Most folks respect the Heroes, truly. But the priests... well, they're just men and women wearing fancy robes, aren't they? Stavros especially. Man thinks because he can throw around some Arts, he speaks for the divine."
"But no one challenges them?"
"Who would? They control the military, the temples, the festivals. You challenge them, you're challenging the Heroes themselves. That's social suicide. Or," she paused meaningfully, "sometimes actual suicide. Funny how critics of the priesthood tend to have 'accidents.'"
"Ah," Cleisthenes said. "That kind of democracy."
"Still better than Sargon," the tavern keeper shrugged. "At least here, the Infected can walk free. My nephew's Infected—contracted it during a Catastrophe. In Sargon, he'd be dead or enslaved. Here? He runs a pottery shop."
That was something, at least. Cleisthenes filed that information away. Any reform would need to preserve what worked while fixing what didn't.
A commotion at the door drew his attention. A young man burst in, breathless and wide-eyed. "News from the border! The Sargonian raids—they've escalated! Three villages burned!"
The tavern erupted in angry voices. Someone shouted for military action. Another called for negotiations. The Infected arm-wrestler slammed his fist on the table, cracking it. "The priests will dither while people die!"
"And what would you have us do?" Stavros' voice cut through the chaos as he entered the tavern, flanked by temple guards. "March to war without divine guidance?"
"I'd have us do something," the arm-wrestler shot back. "My cousin lives in one of those villages!"
"The Heroes will provide wisdom—"
"When?" Cleisthenes found himself asking. "Tomorrow? Next week? After more villages burn? How long does divine wisdom typically take to arrive? Is there an expected delivery time?"
Stavros' glare could have curdled wine. "You again."
"Me again," Cleisthenes agreed cheerfully. "Just wondering about the practical timeline for divine intervention. I assume the Heroes have a lot on their metaphysical plates."
"Mock the faith at your peril, stranger."
"I'm not mocking faith. I'm questioning bureaucracy dressed up as divinity. There's a difference." He stood, addressing the crowd. "In the time it takes for the priests to commune with the Heroes, interpret their will, debate among themselves, and finally act, how many more will suffer? Why not let the people decide now, today, what to do about their own defense?"
"Because the people are emotional! Reactive! They lack the wisdom—"
"The people," Cleisthenes interrupted, "are the ones dying. I'd say that gives them a pretty compelling interest in making good decisions."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the tavern. Even some of the temple guards looked thoughtful.
Stavros stepped forward, his staff beginning to glow. "You speak of sedition."
"I speak of sense. But if sense is seditious, then perhaps your system needs examining."
The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a bronze knife. Then, unexpectedly, someone laughed. It was the Infected arm-wrestler.
"You know what? The mad bastard's right. When's the last time the priests asked us what we wanted? They tell us what the Heroes want, but the Heroes are dead! Have been for generations!"
"Blasphemy!" Stavros roared.
"Is it?" the arm-wrestler stood, his crystalline growths catching the light. "Or is it just inconvenient truth? The Heroes were people, like us. They didn't wait for divine permission to fight Sargon. They just fought!"
More voices joined in. The tavern keeper added her own: "My grandmother remembered when the priests were advisors, not rulers. When did that change?"
"When the people forgot their duty—" Stavros began.
"Or when the priests forgot theirs," Sophia's voice came from the doorway. She entered, her simple robes a stark contrast to Stavros' elaborate vestments. "The Heroes served the people, not the other way around."
"You would side with this... this agitator?"
"I side with Minos," she said simply. "And Minos is its people, not just its priesthood."
Cleisthenes watched the crowd's reaction. The seed was planted, but it would need careful tending. Athens hadn't become a democracy overnight, and neither would this strange, horn-filled version of it.
"I propose something simple," he said, cutting through the arguing. "A trial. Let the border villages elect representatives. Let those representatives decide their own defense, with priestly advice, not commands. If it fails, return to the old ways. If it succeeds..."
"If it succeeds, it proves the people can govern themselves," Sophia finished. "An interesting experiment."
"Heretical experiment," Stavros corrected.
"The Heroes were heretics to Sargon," Cleisthenes pointed out. "Sometimes heresy is just another word for progress."
The crowd was buzzing now. The idea was taking root, spreading like wine spilled on white cloth. Stavros must have sensed it too, because he turned abruptly and left, his guards trailing behind.
As the tavern erupted in debate, Sophia approached Cleisthenes. "You've just made a powerful enemy."
"Η δημοκρατία έχει πάντα εχθρούς," he replied. Democracy always has enemies. "The trick is making sure it has more friends."
"And you think you can do that?"
Cleisthenes looked around at the arguing, passionate crowd—Infected and healthy, Forte and Liberi, all engaged in the messy, beautiful chaos of political discourse.
"I've done it before," he said quietly, then louder, "Besides, what's the worst that could happen? I die?"
He laughed at his own joke. The Fates, he was certain, were laughing too.
As night fell over Athenus, Cleisthenes made his way to Sophia's villa, his mind racing with plans. The building was modest by priestly standards but would have been considered luxurious in ancient Athens. It was built into the hillside, with a view of the entire city below.
The symposium was already in progress when he arrived. About twenty citizens lounged on cushions, drinking wine and arguing about everything from the nature of Originium to the best way to prepare lamb.
"Ah, our revolutionary arrives," Sophia announced. "Everyone, this is Cleisthenes, who today suggested we actually practice democracy in our democracy."
"Radical thinking," a young Liberi man said sarcastically. "Next you'll suggest water should be wet."
"I save my truly controversial opinions for the third cup of wine," Cleisthenes replied, accepting a cup from a servant. "Though I do have thoughts about whether water is actually wet or merely makes other things wet."
That earned him a laugh and several invitations to join various conversation circles. He chose one discussing the Sargonian situation.
"The raids are getting worse," an elderly Forte was saying. "My son trades with the border villages. He says the Sargonians aren't just raiding anymore—they're probing for weakness."
"Testing our responses," agreed a middle-aged woman with scales instead of skin—a Pythia, his memories supplied. "Seeing how quickly the priests react."
"Not very quickly, as it turns out," the Liberi man added bitterly. "Three days to respond to the last raid. By then, the Sargonians were long gone."
"What would you do differently?" Cleisthenes asked.
The group exchanged glances. Finally, the elderly Forte spoke: "Local militias. Armed citizens who know their own territory. But the priests say that's too dangerous—armed citizens might get ideas."
"Gods forbid citizens get ideas," Cleisthenes said dryly. "They might start thinking they deserve a say in their own governance."
"You joke, but that's exactly what Stavros fears," Sophia said, joining their circle. "An armed populace that doesn't need priests for protection might start wondering what else they don't need priests for."
"Σοφία," Cleisthenes said, using her name's meaning—wisdom. "Your name suits you. But tell me, why do you, a priestess, support limiting priestly power?"
She was quiet for a moment, swirling her wine. "Because I actually read the histories. The Heroes didn't create a theocracy. That came later, gradually, as priests claimed more and more authority in the Heroes' names. My grandmother was a priestess too—she remembered when we were guides, not rulers."
"And Stavros?"
"Stavros believes the people are sheep who need shepherds. He's not evil, just... paternalistic. He genuinely thinks he knows better."
"The worst tyrants usually do," Cleisthenes observed. "They sleep soundly, convinced they're saving people from themselves."
The conversation continued deep into the night, ranging from practical matters of governance to philosophical debates about the nature of authority. Cleisthenes found himself oddly at home among these horned, scaled, and crystallized people. They yearned for the same things the ancient Athenians had—dignity, agency, a voice in their own fate.
As the symposium wound down and guests began leaving, Sophia pulled him aside. "That proposal you made in the tavern—were you serious?"
"Deadly serious. Though I admit, I might have been a bit dramatic about it."
"Drama works in Minos. We're all descended from theater lovers, after all." She paused. "If you're serious about this, you'll need allies. Stavros has the orthodox priests, the temple guards, and the traditionalists. That's significant power."
"And what do we have?"
"We have you asking uncomfortable questions. We have citizens tired of being told what they think. And," she smiled slightly, "we have me."
"You're choosing a side?"
"I'm choosing Minos. The real Minos, not the fossilized version Stavros is preserving." She handed him a scroll. "A list of citizens who might be sympathetic. Start with them. Build your coalition."
Cleisthenes unrolled the scroll, scanning the names. Merchants, artisans, farmers, even a few military officers. "This is... comprehensive."
"I've been thinking about this for longer than today," she admitted. "You just provided the catalyst. The voice to say what many have been thinking."
"In my experience, being that voice often ends with hemlock. Or," he touched his chest where the spear had pierced it in his previous life, "pointed objects in vital organs."
"Then we'd better make sure history doesn't repeat itself."
As Cleisthenes walked back through the streets of Athenus, the two moons hanging overhead like mismatched eyes, he reflected on the strangeness of his situation. He'd been given a second chance at his life's work—creating democracy. But this time, he had the benefit of knowing what had gone wrong the first time.
Athens had fallen, eventually. Democracy had been corrupted, abandoned, rediscovered, and corrupted again in an endless cycle. But the idea had survived. The concept that people could govern themselves had endured across millennia.
Now, in this strange world of Originium and Oripathy, of Heroes and priests, of raids and political intrigue, he had the chance to plant that seed again. To nurture it differently, perhaps. To build in safeguards against the corruption that had destroyed it before.
A figure stepped out of the shadows—one of Stavros' temple guards.
"The High Priest requests your presence," the guard said. It wasn't a request.
"How delightfully ominous," Cleisthenes replied. "I suppose refusing isn't an option?"
"You suppose correctly."
"Well then, lead on. Though if I mysteriously disappear, people will ask questions."
"People always ask questions. They just don't always get answers."
As he was escorted through the night streets toward the temple complex, Cleisthenes wondered if the Fates were watching. Probably, he decided. And probably laughing.
Μαλάκες, he thought. Bastards.
But then again, he'd asked for this, in a way. He'd wanted democracy to survive. He just hadn't expected to have to build it twice.
The temple loomed before him, all marble and Originium crystals, divine authority made manifest in stone and strange blue light. Whatever Stavros wanted, it wouldn't be pleasant.
But Cleisthenes had faced worse. He'd faced the dissolution of his life's work, the spear that ended his first life, and the cosmic horror of being processed through divine bureaucracy.
How bad could one power-hungry priest be?
He was about to find out.