The news that the grand army of Croton had fallen in battle swept through the city like a plague, leaving shock and disbelief in its wake. Within the city hall, an emergency council was convened, and the chamber immediately descended into a storm of fierce debate. Milon, the strategos protos, paced the floor, his voice raw as he cursed the treachery of Amendolara’s sneak attack and the utter incompetence of Melanthius. He demanded they assemble a new army at once, to march on Amendolara and restore the tarnished prestige of Croton.

But Lysias rose to challenge him, his words cutting through the chamber’s clamor. He argued that it was Milon’s own brutal order to burn Thurii to the ground that had sown such deep unease among their neighbors, turning simmering distrust into open hostility. Now, in the shadow of a catastrophic defeat, was not the time for more bloodshed. To raise their swords again would be to invite a siege from a coalition of vengeful city-states—Locri, Tarentum, Amendolara, and who knew how many others.

Each man had his supporters, and the council fractured, the arguments raging without resolution.

Then, after half a day, fresh intelligence arrived, deliberately spread by the newly formed Thurii-Amendolara Alliance. The news was a litany of Croton’s losses: the Alliance held over five thousand Crotoniate prisoners, a thousand more from their subordinates in Asprustum and Sybaris on the Traeis, and another twelve hundred from Crimisa and Castiglione. Beyond the soldiers, more than a thousand freemen and slaves had also been captured. For the grieving citizens of Croton, this devastating news paradoxically carried a sliver of hope. They massed outside the city hall, a tide of desperate humanity, their voices rising in a single demand: pressure the council to ransom their kin. As if to seal the matter, a final report came in—the Thurii-Amendolara Alliance had just forged a formal defensive pact with Tarentum.

The weight of this new reality was too much for Milon’s pride to bear. He finally fell silent. After a tense deliberation, the council reached its decision. Lysias would go to Thurii as Croton’s emissary to negotiate the ransom of their people and, if the opportunity arose, to sign an armistice.

Lysias and his delegation set sail for the north. A favorable wind filled their sails, carrying them to the mouth of the Crati River in less than half a day. What greeted them there was a sight of such astonishing vitality that it took his breath away. A veritable forest of masts choked the river’s mouth, the countless merchant ships packed so densely they resembled great wooden walls upon the water. From the gaps between these floating barriers, vessels periodically sailed forth into the open sea, while a constant stream of new ships converged from all directions, drawn to this burgeoning hub of commerce.

But Thurii was burned to the ground, Lysias thought, a deep sense of confusion settling over him. How can there still be so many ships flocking here to trade?

His question was soon answered. A simple fishing boat broke away from the teeming mass and approached them. “Hey!” a man at its bow shouted across the water. “Are you here to trade, or on official business?”

At a subtle gesture from Lysias, an attendant called back, “And who might you be?”

“See the emblem on the sail?” the man replied, his voice ringing with pride as he pointed upward. On the sail, a striking design was painted: black hair, like writhing flames, coiled around a gleaming, two-pronged weapon—the bident, the symbol of the King of the Underworld. “In case you didn’t know, our Archon, Lord Davos, is a descendant of Hades himself! The name’s Secrian. I’m a pilot, appointed by the commerce official, Lord Marigi, to keep the shipping lanes clear. Now, you’ll have to state your purpose, or I’ll have to ask you to move along. You’re blocking the channel for the ships behind you.”

Lysias weighed his options for a moment before making his decision. “We are emissaries from Croton!” he called out, his voice firm. “We have come to negotiate with the Thurii-Amendolara Alliance!”

There was no flash of anger, no shouted insult, none of the hostility Lysias had braced himself for. Instead, the pilot, Secrian, remained perfectly calm. He merely nodded. “You Crotoniates certainly took your sweet time getting here. The envoys from Castiglione, Crimisa, and Sybaris on the Traeis arrived ages ago!”

A thought stirred in Lysias’s mind, but one of his attendants, unable to contain his curiosity, blurted out, “Why aren’t you angry with us?!”

“Angry? Why would I be?” Secrian shrugged. “Just because you’re from Croton? You burned down Thurii, true enough. But I’m no citizen of Thurii. I’m just a freeman. In fact,” he added with a wry grin, “I’m actually quite grateful to you Crotoniates.” A mysterious smile touched his lips. “But there’s no time for that now. Follow my boat. Let’s get you out of the main channel.”

Secrian’s fishing boat guided Lysias’s grander vessel into the Crati River, and they began their journey upstream. Lysias studied the northern bank of the river mouth. Faintly, he could discern several simple wooden docks that had been hastily erected. A steady stream of goods was being unloaded from merchant ships and transported by pack animals to a large, earthen enclosure built not far from the water’s edge—on the very site, it seemed, of the old, ruined city of Sybaris.

A frown creased Lysias’s brow. The council’s initial decision to send an envoy to question Thurii for breaking their treaty had been unanimous. He had supported it. But he had vehemently opposed the subsequent call to dispatch an army for vengeance. In his view, accepting Thurii’s apology and a handsome compensation would have served Croton’s interests perfectly. War was a waste of lives and resources, a gamble fraught with unforeseen risks. And now, in the humiliating aftermath of their defeat, Croton’s opinion no longer mattered. Thurii was free to act as it pleased, and it was clear they were wasting no time in redeveloping the strategic grounds of old Sybaris.

“You still haven’t told us why you’re grateful to Croton!” one of the envoys shouted from the bow of their ship, his curiosity getting the better of him.

Secrian shouted his reply over the sound of the water, “Isn’t it obvious? If you hadn’t burned Thurii, Amendolara would never have allied with them, and Davos would never have become our archon! He may be a descendant of Hades, a man of the highest birth, but he truly cares for the common people. He shows no prejudice against us freemen or even the slaves. He treats us all with a kindness you’d expect only for a citizen! Have you heard of the Amendolara Immigration Act? Lord Davos proposed and passed it himself. Oh, I suppose it’s called the Thurii-Amendolara Alliance Immigration Act now.”

The Crotoniates stared back blankly and shook their heads.

Secrian shot them a look of pitying condescension. “Lord Davos announced that as soon as the first phase of Thurii’s reconstruction is finished, the act will take effect,” he explained, his voice swelling with excitement. “Any freeman who wants to become a citizen and has proven his good character can apply for registration with the census officer. They say that once you become a preparatory citizen, you can join the army and get your own plot of land! My friends and I are working ourselves to the bone, wishing we could finish building the city by tomorrow. Mark my words, the next time you visit, I might just be a full citizen!”

Seeing Secrian’s rapturous expression, a Crotoniate envoy couldn’t resist a sneer. “I have never heard of a city-state that would grant citizenship to outsiders so easily. That so-called law is likely a fiction, a lie concocted to trick you fools into working yourselves to death for their benefit!”

“Shut your mouth! Don’t you dare speak such filth!” Secrian’s face contorted with fury. “Lord Davos announced that law himself, standing before every last one of us freemen and slaves! How could it be a lie? Do you have any idea what kind of man he is? When Thurii threatened him, he chose to sever ties and paid from his own coffers to free the runaway slaves he had given his word to! When your army was at his gates, he chose to fight you rather than abandon his allies in occupied Thurii! Lord Davos has proven, with his actions, that he is a man who keeps his promises. I believe him. We all believe him! If you weren’t an emissary, I’d toss you in this river to feed the fish right now!”

The Crotoniate’s face flushed a deep crimson, and he opened his mouth to unleash a torrent of insults, but Lysias raised a hand, silencing him.

From his boat, Secrian watched them with a cold, hard glare. Seeing the confrontation fizzle out so quickly, he looked almost disappointed. With deliberate contempt, he turned and spat loudly into the river, then pointedly ignored them for the rest of the journey.

Lysias was lost in thought. By his own estimates, Thurii had no more than three thousand citizens left, and Amendolara at most four thousand. Croton, in its main city alone, had over thirty thousand, not to mention its subordinate territories and allies like Caulonia. The gap in strength was insurmountable. And yet… if this new Alliance could truly harness the loyalty and labor of the tens of thousands of freemen and slaves in this region, they would become a power that demanded serious attention. But was it wise? To so hastily turn foreigners from every corner of the world, each with their own ambitions, into citizens? Could their loyalty ever compare to that of men whose families had been citizens for generations? Lysias was deeply skeptical. He gazed out at the river, his eyes tracing the paths of the many fishing boats, their sails emblazoned with the bident, all of them bustling with an incredible sense of purpose.

When the high, imposing walls of the city finally appeared on the riverbank ahead, Lysias knew their journey was almost over. His gaze drifted to the twin towers flanking the river entrance. In the past, a great iron chain had stretched between them, a spectacular and formidable defense. When enemy ships approached, the chain would be raised, sealing the waterway. But Melanthius, with the help of a traitor, had bypassed it entirely, attacking the southern wall and rendering the grand chain useless. It was gone now, likely cut down and cast into the river. The thought of Melanthius brought an unexpected pang of sorrow. Though they had never been allies—their political ideals were polar opposites—Lysias felt a wave of grief for the man’s gruesome end, beaten to death by a Thurian mob until he was nothing more than an unrecognizable ruin of flesh and blood.

Secrian’s boat pulled up to a pier within the city’s harbor. He disembarked first, hurrying over to a squad of soldiers on duty to report their arrival. The squad, led by its captain, immediately marched in their direction, moving with a crisp discipline that caught the Crotoniates’ attention. Even within the safety of the city walls, they maintained a perfect formation.

“General, we should disembark,” an attendant prompted, pulling Lysias from his thoughts.

Lysias gathered himself and took in his surroundings. He had been to Thurii several times in its glory days. The harbor had been a vibrant, chaotic place with dozens of piers of stone and wood, home to a thousand ships. The port district had teemed with warehouses, inns, and homes, all crowded together in a prosperous jumble. Now, only a few solitary stone piers remained, stark and lonely amidst a landscape of charred devastation. This ruin, of course, was Croton’s handiwork.

With a placid expression, Lysias stepped onto the dock. The soldiers, their own faces just as composed, inspected the delegation. Once they confirmed the envoys’ identity, one soldier mounted a horse and galloped off to inform the Senate, leaving the Crotoniates to wait under the watchful eyes of the others.

Secrian returned to his fishing boat. He stood for a long moment, staring at the imposing figure of the patrol captain on the shore, a strange, dazed look on his face. He remained that way until a companion clapped him on the shoulder.

“Secrian, it’s time to leave the dock!”