Ἀνδρῶν γὰρ ἐπιφανῶν πᾶσα γῆ τάφος.
"For illustrious men have the whole earth for their tomb."

- Θουκυδίδης (Thucydides)

Chapter One

He would never forget the thunder.

He would never forget how it made the very earth tremble, or the sea cower at its might. How it struck down his friends, his comrades, his fellow men; how it grinned with bright teeth and puffed its black cheeks. He would never forget how it bellowed and cursed his name—and how when the thunder was done, he wasn't sure what that name was anymore.

He didn't know he would soon long to forget the sound.

That he would pray to be cleansed of its imprint as much as he would yearn to remember himself. He didn't know; no-one ever did of their future.

No, he wouldn't remember any aspect of today by the end, though it started like most others. At least, how his days had usually went at sea.

The sky woke purple, softly dry and faintly stained with pink. The gulls were sulky, feeling restless and tricked by unbothered sailors; they'd receive no handouts yet from similarly peckish men. Land was close, yet not so close as to spot with a mortal eye. It dampened spirits to go too long without a reminder of its existence, he knew, but seeing what was to be passed without visit could often be worse. Shore was kept out of sight for now.

The boat sullenly rocked as it strove forward. The vessel was simultaneously bored by its long journey and unsettled by unfamiliar waters; it showed in the creaks and silent hymns of a weathered ship. He felt the same. Exploring new territories was a bitter shot of poorly diluted wine, the burn of a sweetly satisfied yearning for adventure tempered with an unease of the unknown.

Of course, he would yank out his own spleen by way his throat before admitting any of that.

At the first sign of light that morning, he stationed himself where he always was: planted at the very back, with the entire vessel in his sights. He could relax into his familiar rigidity. His signature, waiting stance welcomed him like bones popping back into place; warmth curled under his skin. He was always ready, waiting, taut. Yet, there was something easy about it despite the strain. A spring left primed for years was still ready to release at the smallest flinch, sensible to shifts, but it found comfort in its usual pressed curves. It was an ease born from expertise. He was always on edge, always anticipating a battle, yet he was simultaneously unbothered. He knew himself and his skill—no matter the circumstances, it would all end the same way. He was fated to win.

Such clashes of self weren't new to him. Contradictions were comfortable. He wore vigilance and nonchalance in unison, a feat that should've been impossible, yet wasn't; it unnerved others how well he wielded it. Gods, there wasn't much he couldn't wield with ease.

He breathed deeply after getting into position. Forcing air between each rib, through every internal cavern, down to all bottom crannies and flooding every nook. He even enjoyed the gritty barrage of the journey's familiar smells: the salt, the rust, the smell of iron still pervading the boat from their last skirmish. The tell-tale scent of a storm.

Above them, and a little ways out, was the lightning that caused said shift in the air. Its stark hues interrupted the rest of the calm sky. Yet, it appeared distant, so far up in the clouds it didn't spare a thought to the ground below. Each flash lit up the shadows of a magnificent wall of atmospheric peaks, savagely containing the storm hundreds of meters above the waves. Yet, the wind was anxious. It hurried and hid in every open space of his ship and cloak, as if fleeing. The storm was contained for now, but perhaps the wind knew the fickle nature of the sky.

Still, he felt no fear. Not at first.

He wasn't the type to fear weather. He had faith in his crew, in the sturdiness of his vessel, and of course, an abundance of faith in himself. No, he had no reason to worry, he thought. He was wise enough to acknowledge that perhaps the sky didn't look quite right; that the sea wasn't heaving like it should've been; that the winds were picking up as if to bring the storm upon them—but he shook it off with that observant indifference of his.

He'd never been to this part of the sea. As odd as the environment's reactions to the storm were to him, he had no basis to go off of; for all he knew, it was a daily occurrence. He'd have to ask at their next stop. He thought about what the scholars back home would say if he told them about the odd symptoms on display from the storm. They'd surely babble on with elongated nonsense. Undocumented eccentricities of unknown areas, and their corresponding surprises, are part of the journey, they'd probably spout. He wouldn't be surprised if he got an earful when he returned for not taking meticulous documentation of all aspects of the voyage.

The water was becoming slightly choppy by then, lapping against his boat as if watching the storm with him. He could see the very heart of it now. It was certainly getting closer, with a speed he hadn't expected.

It didn't matter. He'd be ready when it hit.

Turning his resigned gaze to his ship, he did a quick survey of his crew. Some of his sailors were still dreary, infected with morning grays. Many others were glancing up. Of those, most seemed unbothered by the sight of the simmering sky—as confident in the lack of danger as he was—yet others pouted as they accepted the oncoming spoil of a beautiful day. It'd be another long day at sea, lashed with whipping pelts of rain, tugging slippery ropes with hands bloodied raw from ripped callouses... no, it wasn't a preferable turn of events. Especially when the morning had first seemed hopeful, soft. He sighed and glanced back up with a grimace.

How had the storm descended so fast?

As soon as the thought landed, he heard the rush of footsteps, the rattle of wood under the press of wind, the surprised, annoyed grumbling of his men.

The shout of his kybernētēs reached his ears. "Oy! Looks like it's going to be a rough day, my friend!"

He turned, his mouth opening to respond with orders, or joke at his longtime friend's expense, but—

The thunder boomed, right overhead, and he didn't get the chance.

At the sound, he suddenly realized that for all the lightning he'd seen that morning, all the time he'd considered the storm, that was the very first time thunder had made itself known.

And then he heard his name. No, not how it was yelled by his sailors when the storm entirely fell out of the sky. No, not how it whistled through the teeth of the lightning, or how the wind plucked notes through the upheaval and torment of great, sloshing waves. It was different. Unknown. Folded among the rumbles, tucked into the reverberations, lurking in the clench of the sky's dark jaws, that voice was... feminine. Soft in the base of his skull. A bloom of a sound—gods, how uncomfortably gentle it was—and yet... it sounded a little angry. It wasn't the first time a woman's wrath was because of him, nor directed at him, or even on his behalf, but it was the first time he felt... guilty. Guilty, in that split second of open air and opportunity. For a sliver of a moment, something was open to him, a channel that wasn't supposed to be, and the voice had reached him.

Then, the yells of his crew were sucked into the rattling collision of a thunderous clash.

He pushed it all away. The voice, the surprise, all of it. He bent his knees and readied himself again. He was ready for any new trial thrown his way—or so he thought.

In fact, he wasn't ready. Not at all. He wasn't ready for the crack of lightning that split his very mind.

In that moment, when the sea met the sky, and the wood splintered beneath him, the skies were violet and gray. The storm descended with a strike so powerful he felt the very clouds themselves try to welcome him. His voice turned hoarse as it was ripped from his throat, his body suddenly left the boat, and the salt on his tongue threatened a soggy demise.

The swirl of color swiftly became too much; he lost his bearings, his consciousness, even his mind.

He wasn't on the boat anymore.

And when he woke, and for weeks after, he wouldn't remember being on one at all.

The first thing he realized was how quiet his own head was.

His senses were silent; it was only the pulse in his skull and the darkness of his eyelids to greet him. How strange the quiet was. He'd never had such undisturbed rest.

The next thing he realized was how dry his mouth felt. His tongue was nestled firmly into the groove offered above it; his throat protested movement as it flared in desperate gasps. Air wasn't gracing him with its sacrifice. Reprieve wasn't plunging into his lungs for his consumption, no matter how much he begged. Gods, how he begged. And when it finally did, it tore him apart. His chest spasmed at the onslaught of ripped vessels, air forcing him open like the hands of a butcher prying ribs from a hog. He wasn't sure what was worse: finally getting air or dying without it.

With every passing moment, more and more feeling was waking beyond simply his head. It was a spread as obvious as ruby wine spilt on marble floors, trickling down each of his vertebrae as if they were steps. His senses were waking from their forced slumber, and with it, so was the pain. The confusion. The spin of a mind sprawled in a skull not quite attached how it should be. His bones were splinters shoved into soft flesh. His insides were either splayed around him or blended to a damaged, misplaced mess, ballooning his gut; he was sure of it. He felt how aggravated the very connections keeping him together were, joints twisted like wrung cloth then whipped through the air. He could hear how fast his pulse was as it panicked, how unsteady it wobbled. He could feel how his legs throbbed, his arms, his chest, his very hair and nails.

Something smelled burnt.

Gods, he hoped it wasn't him.

Something told him it was.

The next thing he realized was how damn annoying the light was, flooding behind his closed eyelids. He scrunched them tighter. He had to grit his teeth to keep from gasping at how the skin crackled and pulled on his face. His nose was gone, he was sure. It felt like he was one large, gaping wound.

It didn't matter. He was no stranger to pain.

Or... he didn't think he was.

Was he?

He didn't get a chance to think on it. His head was splitting again from someone yelling, voice yanking him back into painful awareness, like hands in his hair, dragging him back. Whoever was shouting was far from him, he could tell—but why were they so loud? The yelling was just constant, blunt trauma; it pushed down on him without pause. There was another roar in his ears too, but that sound tugged and pulled, giving and taking.

"Don't, Amalfi! You don't know what it is!"

Something was gritty beneath him. Something else was wet by his feet, his legs, his back. It was making the burning worse. It tickled, like a knife digging in his palm.

"Amalfi!" the voice shrieked, closer.

With a deep breath, he forced himself to crack open an eye. Scowling, he immediately snapped it back shut when the sun was the first to greet him. How impossibly bright it was, and for no good reason. It was peering down at him like scholars looked down at the corpses they studied. He didn't like the feeling.

He could hear other sounds now: water, birds, the damn screaming that wouldn't stop. Stop, he screamed in his thoughts, now! I command it!

"Amalfi, please. He could be dangerous! Leave him, I beg you!"

He roared, furious, or tried; he made no sound other than a heavy burst of air through burning nostrils.

"He appears dead already; if not, he will greet it soon!" the voice continued to reason.

Yes, he decided, he hated that voice. He forced himself to open his eyes again, partly out of defiance. Half dead? The thought was humorous to him, but he wasn't sure why. He felt half dead. He squinted and blinked at the blue above him, but the brightness of the sun was not easing his sight back into use.

"He's not," a new voice said nearby, much quieter than the first.

It sounded close. Too close. With a grunt, he tipped his head to the side to try to find the source. A shadow fell over him, a small mercy from the sun.

His mercy was blurry.

Bewildered.

Beautiful.

Her gaze was narrowed like his, yet he doubted hers was from the sun. The more likely cause was the smudges of caution gracing her features. She knelt beside him, peering down with guarded eyes and an anxious frown. When she saw he was awake, surprise filtered through her, like sunlight seeped through canopies.

Gods.

He stared.

No, he clearly wasn't dead—or he was—and the Erinyes, the Underworld's goddesses of vengeance known for their fury, were much more alluring than he'd heard tell of. Her finer details still eluded him, but he was truthfully captivated. His vision struggled to take her in.

He was grateful as more focus was granted with every passing second.

Until, finally, he could see her. Or at least, as best as he'd be able to given the circumstances. Through the haze of pain and near-death, he could see her. The soft curves of her loose curls draped above him, hanging down from her dipped head as if gently reaching for him. Her angled chin jutted out from how she craned her neck, and her cheeks were pulled tight from her steely evaluation. The bold brow, the sharp eyes, the grim expression hardening her to a resigned, waiting blade. The curiosity that gleamed as bright as her. She was Elysian.

Behind her, a bird flitted. No, not a bird. Another woman, seemingly terrified and nervous, as she bobbed beyond the first's shoulder. She was all angles and fear, a different kind of ethereal than the woman beside him. She was still squawking. "Is he dying? Is he armed? Gods, Amalfi, we need to go!"

"Quiet, Pistacia," the woman above him commanded. She was still eyeing him, intrigued and concerned. The woman, apparently named Amalfi, leaned a little closer, letting her gaze swoop over his prone form. It was quick, calculating. He felt how it hovered ever so slightly on his hands, his hip. He was unarmed. Now they both knew it. "Where are you hurt?"

He was still staring. He jolted when he realized she was looking at him expectantly. What was the question?

Forcing himself to sanity, he tried to speak, but found himself wincing again. He grunted when it felt like there was more sand than tongue in his mouth. He couldn't form words. His head throbbed, his throat tightened, and he was abruptly shoved into a barrage of coughs. Gods, they slashed his lungs, seizing him as he jolted and thrashed. He tried to sit up, but his ribs disagreed, his legs, his hips, his spine. What was wrong with his spine? Something awful had happened.

Strong hands found his heaving body, forcing him onto his side as he was violently wracked with coughs. He couldn't sit up, but being turned helped; he greedily accepted a sliver of air every time he gasped. One of those hands, flat in the center of his back, kept him steady. Her palm felt so small. With fingers spread like vines, she offered him support while he wheezed and groaned scarlet onto gray stones.

After a minute or two, the spasms slowed. His lungs opened just enough for a few floods of needed air, and he looked over his shoulder, ready to thank her.

A guttural screech sounded before he could.

At first, he thought it was that awful woman again. Except, Amalfi's head shot up, looking at something beyond him, and the woman behind her wailed, blanched, and swayed as she stared beyond him, too. She was shaking so hard he could see how she wavered, like an illusion, hazy around the edges. Then, the avian woman leapt forward. She dug her hands into Amalfi's shoulder and attempted to yank her back.

"Leave him!" she shouted, eyes darting from Amalfi to whatever horrors waited, somewhere in the direction the rest of his body faced. "We must go!"

The hair rose on the back of his neck. A fierce chill joined the spill of pain down his body as yet another roar rocked the ground. At the sound, the unknown woman abandoned her pursuit with a yelp, turning and running, abandoning Amalfi without another moment's wait.

Amalfi hadn't moved. She was still watching whatever it was. He could see how fast her brain was working, how her lips pursed and creased, how her eyes didn't blink. Amalfi glanced behind her. She looked from the retreating form of the woman, then to him, then again to whatever was closing in. She didn't falter. He still hadn't looked himself to see what beast had voiced such ragged fury; he stayed in the dark. His mind was sluggish, and his gaze was only on her. Determination was making itself known on Amalfi's features: her tight eyes, her now flattened mouth.

"You're going to be okay," she said.

Her voice was strong and unmarked by fear.

Brown.

Her eyes were brown. Light, gentle brown, the color looking as if it'd harmonized with some shade of gray. It was a woodsy brown; that's what it was.

Then, Amalfi was gone, leaping over him and heading towards whatever lurked. His spine screamed as he turned, finally correcting the twist in his neck and facing whatever had terrified the other's cowardly nerves.

If he could've summoned the strength, curses would have poured from his tongue as soon he set eyes on what called. He recognized the beast immediately.

He couldn't remember whether he'd ever seen one before, but he knew what it was; its massive size was usually the first aspect to catch the eye. It could challenge a bathhouse in size. It was bulky and furious, a pure dark mark on an otherwise serene landscape. Its prominent forehead was viciously adorned with three horns, all as long as his arm, dark as ink from tip to base. The rest of its head was similar to that of a horse, though much wider. A thick neck sat on a solid block of torso. Its legs were stocky; a restless tail flicked behind it. It lacked any hair or fur. He knew if he touched it, its skin would be moist, and smooth, yet inconceivably rough to the touch. He wasn't sure how he knew that. Yet, he did. And he knew it wasn't a beast defeated alone. It required an army; it would cause losses numbering in the dozens. Yes, it was fearsome enough to make most heroes quake in their armor, no matter their mettle. Even from a hundred meters away, he could see the blood-thirst in its beady, red eyes.

As if angered by his gaze, it tossed its head back and let out another ground shaking rumble. It was staring directly at him; all three horns faced forward in a straight shot to where he laid limp.

Somehow, the beast itself didn't scare him. His helplessness did. Somehow, he knew if he wasn't sprawled on the sand, feeling like a sack of stretched flesh and loose bones rather than a man, he would've been able to stand his ground. Something told him he might've even enjoyed it. The battle surely would've been worthy of a tale! He didn't know what made him bold enough to think it, but perhaps he wouldn't have even needed an army to fell the beast.

But, he was currently helpless—and he didn't know for sure, but he had a feeling the unpleasant experience was a first for him.

As he grappled with the realization, Amalfi sprinted further away from him. Further, directly toward the beast. Further and further, until she caught its notice, and the monster swung its gaze from his broken body to her barreling form. He tried to call her back, but he couldn't, and it was too late.

The odontotyrannos snarled with a beastly grin.

Author's Note: Welcome!

This is my third book. I know, I can't believe it either. If you've read my other two books, you know I like to challenge myself. I'm on Wattpad trying new things and honing my skills to hopefully publish a book someday. For this book, I'm asking myself "Can I write in third person?" and "Can I write with a dual focus?". We'll see how it goes. Bear with me. I welcome any and all constructive criticism, feedback, thoughts, theories, reactions, comments, messages, etc (any and all does not include hate, spite, or bullying—if you feel the urge to do any of those, you are not mature enough to be reading this book).

This book is mature. My other two books are not (although, I'm considering whether they should be marked as such). I haven't decided yet exactly how much this book will be mature or how far it will go, but it will go further than TSAWW and have some violence in it. So please be warned and be mindful.

If you're one of my readers who've read TSAWW already, I actually briefly wondered if you now have an advantage over other readers—because you know me. You know my writing is pretty darn straightforward from the beginning when you know what you're looking for. If you've read my other work, you might already know what to look for. Or maybe it's not an advantage at all, and in fact even the opposite! If you haven't read TSAWW, but choose to reread Amalfi one day, I think you'll understand this message, too.

I hope you enjoy "Amalfi". It's very, very loosely based on various mythology and folklore I found (some of which actually seems to be lore created for tourists or marketing ploys rather than based on actual stories, but oh well). It also doesn't entirely match history; the regional names used would have been introduced much closer to modern time than this book is set. Regardless, I hope you like it! This book will be a journey for me as much as you, and I'm excited to get started.

- H

P.S. If anyone is good at making covers, please take mercy on me.