The island was called Saria, a speck of rock and olive trees in the southern Aegean, too small to matter to anyone except the fishermen who used its harbour and the traders who stopped there for fresh water. It was not a place where kings met. That was the point.
Lysander arrived at dusk, the galley slipping into the harbour as the last light faded from the sky. The port was nearly empty—a handful of fishing boats pulled up on the shore, a single trading vessel anchored at the far end of the pier. No soldiers. No banners. No sign that anyone of importance had ever set foot on this island.
Ampelos's contact was waiting at the end of the pier—a thin man in a plain cloak, his face weathered by salt and wind. He introduced himself as Doros, a name so common it was almost invisible. He asked no questions about who Lysander was or why he had come. He simply led him up a winding path through the olive groves to a small stone house on the hill above the harbour.
