The gods. The gods must have abandoned you.
That's the only thought you can cling to as the colossal shadow descends, consuming your cart, your two anxious horses, and the very world around you. The sun, once a benevolent eye in the Aegean sky, is abruptly blotted out as if Athena herself has turned her great bronze shield against you. The air, moments ago warm and bustling with the scent of olive groves, grows impossibly heavy, pressing in on your chest, stealing the breath from your lungs. You don’t even have time to whimper, let alone scream, before the sound comes.
BABOOOOOOOOOOOM!
The earth beneath you doesn't just tremble; it leaps. It shudders with an impossible force that throws you forward, sending a blinding jolt up your spine. A deafening, tearing crack rips through the air, followed by the agonizing shriek of wood splintering, the hollow, sickening crunch of your cart's wheels collapsing like brittle bones, and the squelch – an utterly nauseating sound – of your carefully packed fruit bursting like overripe hearts under an unimaginable weight.
You hit the ground before your mind can even register the fall, your cheek scraping against rough, sun-baked dirt. Your ears ring with a shrill, ceaseless whine, a tinnitus born of cataclysm. Your tongue tastes blood, coppery and hot, from where you must have bitten it. Around you, your horses rear and scream in sheer, unadulterated panic, their hooves thrashing wildly at the ruined harness. The sharp, animal smell of their fear mixes with the sticky, cloying sweetness of crushed figs, bursting oranges, and pomegranates – a sickening perfume that stings your nostrils.
You push up onto shaking elbows, your vision still swimming, and when you turn your head, your eyes wide with terror and disbelief, you see her.
Not a Cyclops from your grandmother's fire-side tales. Worse. Far, far worse.
A sandal.
A woman's sandal – but massive, incomprehensibly vast, easily larger than your entire ruined cart. Its thick leather sole is pressed deep into the wreckage, pulverizing what was once your means of survival. Leather straps, as thick and sturdy as the mooring ropes of a trireme, bind a foot that could crush you flat with the slightest, most absent-minded twitch. Bronze shin-guards, gleaming dully despite the dust, rise above it like ancient, weathered pillars, stretching endlessly upwards. Dust, fine and yellowish-brown, clings to the sandal’s edges, stirred by the impossible movement. And through a flap of her crimson and gold skirt, which billows and swings far overhead like a colossal sail, you catch the faintest, most tantalizing glimpse of the sky once more.
Your heart seizes in your chest, a frantic bird trapped in a cage of ribs. Instinct takes over before reason can even begin to formulate a coherent thought. You stagger to your feet, your muscles screaming in protest, your teeth bared in a desperate snarl, your hands trembling with a furious, untamed terror. Your rattled mind can grasp only one thing – you attack.
You hurl yourself forward, a tiny, insignificant pebble launched against a mountain. Your fists, pathetically small, hammer against the colossal ankle. The flesh and bone are harder than any stone wall you’ve ever struck, unyielding and vast. The skin is warm beneath your knuckles, slicked faintly with sweat, carrying the musky scent of leather and salt that now fills your nose. The mighty leather straps creak and groan, tightening imperceptibly as the giantess above you shifts, barely acknowledging your frantic blows.
A guttural scream tears from your throat, raw and desperate. You draw the small, sharp knife from your belt, the blade glinting wickedly in the sudden sliver of light, and with all your remaining strength, you drive it into a narrow strip of exposed flesh where the monumental leather strap meets her skin.
For the briefest, most exhilarating heartbeat, you feel the blade bite. A definite resistance, then a tiny yielding.
Then the world explodes.
The colossal foot jerks, a movement so swift and powerful it creates a miniature gale. A gust of hot wind blasts you backwards, churning up a cloud of dirt and debris. You're flung through the air, tumbling violently, your ribs jolting, fresh bruises blossoming with each terrifying bounce. The knife is ripped from your grasp, vanishing into the swirling chaos. Your vision spins—earth, sky, earth again—until you land, sprawled and coughing, your entire body afire with pain.
And then comes the voice.
“WHAT THE HELL?!”
It’s not a shout; it’s thunder. A deep, resonant boom that shakes your bones, rattles the teeth in your skull. You squint up against the blinding sun, straining your eyes, and there she is: Kassandra.
A face, enormous, is framed by a wild, untamed tangle of dark hair, tied back but still falling in thick, heavy braids that gleam with sweat. Eyes, sharp and a fierce golden-brown, narrow at her ankle, where your tiny knife still juts like a ridiculous thorn. Lips – full, sun-cracked, and flushed with heat – purse in irritation before parting slowly, revealing teeth the size of roof tiles, perfectly white and terrifyingly strong. She pinches your knife between fingers as thick as tree beams and plucks it free with a casual, terrifying precision.
Her gaze, now free of the knife, flicks from the small, blood-stained blade to you.
You freeze.
A droplet of bright red blood wells on her ankle, stark against the tanned skin, and trickles slowly beneath the leather strap. You see the rage ignite in her eyes when she finally notices it. Her jaw clenches; the muscles in her cheek ripple like storm clouds. The sandal lifts, wood crunching beneath it as splinters of your cart rain down.
BOOOOOOOOM.
She steps closer.
Heat radiates from her colossal body, the air thick and heavy with the musk of oiled leather, sweat, and road dust. The ground quakes as her shadow envelops you whole. You can’t breathe. You can’t think. You feel warmth spill in your tunic – humiliation mixing with terror as your body betrays you.
Her face lowers, massive and intent, eyes boring into you like a pair of flaming arrows. Rage flickers… then shifts. Shock. And then – worse – amusement.
Her lips peel back slowly, revealing a grin like a row of marble slabs.
“Well… what do we have here? You’re rather small for an assassin.”
The sound chills your blood.
Your throat cracks. “N-no! Not an assassin! A merchant! Athenian!”
Her eyebrow lifts—the arch of a mountain—slowly and dramatically. Her cheeks flush faintly as she chuckles, low and dangerously. “I’ve met plenty of Athenians. Frail, arrogant. But none as…” She tilts her head, her gaze raking over your cowering form, every detail analyzed. “…as small as you. What are you really? Some trick? A distraction before the real blow?”
Your knees threaten to buckle. “M-Miss, I swear! I’m an Athenian merchant! This is… it’s a misunderstanding!”
“Oh?” Her tone sharpens, mocking disbelief. She twists the knife between her fingers, inspecting the blood on its tip. “And what misunderstanding makes you bleed my ankle?”
“I… I only wanted your attention!” you blurt out, words tumbling over themselves in a torrent of desperation. “I was angry! Frightened! I thought—”
“You thought stabbing me was a good idea.” Her laugh this time is sharper, a bark that vibrates the air, stinging your ears. She shakes her head, sending thick strands of hair swaying like ship’s ropes. “By the gods. You’ve got nerve, little one. I’ll give you that.”
Her eyes narrow again, suddenly serious. "Kassandra," she says simply, tapping her chest with a finger. The name is a blade in the air, heavy and sharp. "And you?"
"P-Penelope."
Her grin stretches wider, a breathtaking, terrible sight. "A fine name. Shame you wear it so poorly. You carry a blade, yet cry like a goat.”
You stammer something—anything—about your cart, your livelihood, your fruit. About how she crushed it first. About damages. About fairness.
Kassandra glances over her shoulder, sees the ruin beneath her sandal, and laughs again, a sound that shakes your ribs. She turns back, her gaze dropping to you cowering before her toes. “So I did. But it felt like stepping on a rotten branch.”
Her sandal lifts just enough to flex, and the enormous toes spread, joints cracking like distant thunder. Dust and sweat glisten in the crevices between them. Your eyes are drawn helplessly down, captivated by the sheer, overwhelming size. The musky, salty scent of her feet is now the only thing you can smell.
“Coins won’t fix this,” she says, her voice darkening, low and dangerous. Her shadow looms larger as she bends closer, every line of her colossal body exuding raw, predatory menace. “Fortunately, I hear Athenians are good with their mouths.”
You gape. Your voice dies in your throat.
Her grin hardens into something crueler. “Put that tongue to work, little Athenian. Kiss my foot, and maybe I forget you stuck a knife in me.”
Your eyes shoot up in horror. “What—?!”
“Do it.” Her other foot rises, hovering above you like the lid of a tomb. The sole is a dark, rough wall blotting out the sky, specks of dirt and sand drifting down around you. The musky, salty scent grows stronger, wrapping around your head like a shroud.
Her toes curl once, slowly, deliberately. “Do it… or I scrape what’s left of you off with the ruins of your cart.”
The shadow deepens. The air goes hot and heavy. Every instinct screams at you to run, but your legs won’t move. Her sandal sways above you, waiting, daring.
The gods have abandoned you.
Now there is only Kassandra.
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