The morning sun cast its golden light over the quiet town of Lithosmeyg, its rays filtering through the olive trees that lined the cobbled streets. A cool breeze carried the scent of blooming thyme and citrus from the nearby groves, mingling with the distant sound of birdsong. Known as the "Little Trade Road," Lithosmeyg occupied a crucial mountain pass, connecting major routes across the region. Yet despite its strategic location, the town remained sparsely populated, its soil too poor to attract many settlers.
The architecture here reflected the simplicity of ancient Greek provincial towns—whitewashed buildings with wooden beams, more timber than limestone, devoid of the elaborate decorations found in grander cities. In the bustling marketplace, merchants hawked their wares: bolts of finely woven linen, amphorae of wine and olive oil, glazed pottery, and carved wooden furniture. Though crowded, the market never felt oppressive, save for the occasional throng near the bakeries, spice stalls, and guard posts.
At one particularly busy spice stall, a young girl in white stood out among the vibrant crowd. This was Pherodaro, a 16-year-old Hiereia (priestess) of Hestia. With her short, softly curled hair and delicate features resembling a classical Greek statue, she moved with an air of quiet grace. Her plain white robes, devoid of any ornamentation, marked her as a servant of the hearth goddess.
As she tried to extricate herself from the jostling crowd, Pherodaro found herself trapped in a sea of merchants and shoppers. The cacophony of haggling voices and clinking trade goods overwhelmed her senses. Just as she began to panic, a firm hand parted the crowd—a town guard in polished bronze armor had noticed her distress.
"Make way for the priestess!" his commanding voice cut through the noise. With practiced ease, he guided her to the edge of the marketplace.
"Thank you for your kindness," Pherodaro said, offering the traditional priestess blessing. The guard simply nodded with a smile before returning to his duties.
Crossing the main thoroughfare required careful timing—carts and chariots rumbled past continuously, most heading toward the prosperous port city of Ophiomer. The increased traffic had brought unexpected prosperity to Lithosmeyg, evident in the new merchants setting up stalls and the lively street performers along the roadside. A poet recited Homeric verses near the fountain while children gathered around a puppet show depicting the labors of Heracles.
Pherodaro didn't linger. As she ascended the hill toward the temple district, the sounds of commerce faded, replaced by the whisper of wind through cypress trees. The contrast between the two major temples became immediately apparent—to her right stood the magnificent Temple of Zeus, its marble columns gleaming in the sunlight, surrounded by throngs of worshippers bearing lavish offerings. To her left, the modest Temple of Hestia stood quiet and nearly forgotten, its wooden portico strewn with dried leaves.
Pushing open the cedarwood doors, Pherodaro entered the cool interior of Hestia's sanctuary. The statue of the goddess greeted her with its perpetual gentle smile, the stone eyes seeming to hold centuries of quiet wisdom. No other priestesses were present—just the eternal flame flickering in its bronze brazier and the faint scent of sacred myrrh lingering in the air.
After carefully storing the spices in the storage alcove, Pherodaro took up a broom and began sweeping the temple grounds. Through the open doorway, she could see the colorful banners of Zeus's temple fluttering in the distance, their festive appearance a stark contrast to Hestia's humble abode. The rhythmic swish of her broom against stone was the only sound in the empty sanctuary.
Her chores complete, Pherodaro moved toward the rear courtyard where the sacred flame was maintained. There, she found her older sister, Pheropyr, kneeling before the fire pit in an attitude of intense concentration. The 18-year-old senior priestess was doing something extraordinary—reaching bare-handed into the ashes to retrieve several pitch-black stones, each about the size of a quail's egg.
"Sister, haven't you given up on this yet?" Pherodaro sighed as she approached.
Pheropyr didn't look up from her examination of the strange stones. "Aren't you curious at all?" Her fingers traced the unnaturally smooth surfaces.
"Our elders and teachers refuse to speak of them. Surely they have good reason," Pherodaro countered, folding her arms across her chest.
"I disagree," Pheropyr said firmly, finally standing to face her sister. Though identical in their plain white robes, the elder sister carried herself with an almost regal bearing. Her long, night-dark hair cascaded over her shoulders, framing a face of classical perfection—high cheekbones, a straight nose, and piercing gray eyes that seemed to see through illusions. "They're hiding something, especially our teacher. Did you notice how his hands shook last time we mentioned them?"
Pheropyr clenched one of the black stones in her fist. "I'm going to ask at Zeus's temple. Someone there must know—"
"Maybe..." Pherodaro interrupted. "We should consult our teacher again first. Persist until he answers."
After a tense silence, Pheropyr relented. "One more attempt. But if he refuses again..." She opened her palm, revealing the enigmatic stone. In the sunlight, its surface absorbed light rather than reflecting it, creating a disturbing void against her skin.
Pherodaro frowned. "Doesn't it burn you? Even from the sacred fire?"
"Not at all," Pheropyr replied, passing the stone between her hands. "They're always cold, no matter how long they sit in the flames. It defies all natural laws."
"You don't think... maybe I'm performing the rituals incorrectly?" Pherodaro ventured hesitantly.
Pheropyr shook her head. "I've tried every variation. If we were making mistakes, our teacher would have corrected us immediately." Suddenly, her stern expression softened, and she reached out to tousle her sister's hair. "What's this? Losing confidence? There's barely any difference in our skills."
Pherodaro made a face. "Now you're just lying to make me feel better."
As the sisters bantered, neither noticed the faint red lines beginning to pulse beneath the surface of the stones arranged near the fire pit—lines that matched the rhythm of Pheropyr's heartbeat. Outside, the wind carried a fragment of song from Zeus's temple, the cheerful melody at odds with the mysterious atmosphere in Hestia's quiet courtyard.
The black stones remained motionless on the stone bench, silent witnesses to secrets older than the temple itself.