《Virtuous Sons: A Greco Roman Xianxia》 Alpha and Omega The 8th Olympic Century is nearing its end and the Mediterranean is as peaceful as it can be. The free city-states have not engaged in all out war with one another in decades, and at times their relations can even be called friendly. Crops are bountiful and trade thrives. The barbarian nations of the far east and west are as they ever were, snarling beasts fighting for scraps at the foot of Olympus Mons. The life of a free citizen is a decadent existence. Naturally, it is not enough. The climb to the peak of the divine mountain is one wrought with ruinous tribulations, yet men climb it all the same. Wealth and pleasure in outrageous quantities are all too often cast off like dead weight from a man¡¯s back as he reaches, perilously, for the next handhold. It is a mad thing. It is utterly against the will of the Fates. It is cultivation. And it is what separates men from beasts. Our story begins in the city-state of ¨¢likos on the coast of the Ionian Sea, home to the Rosy Dawn Cult of greater mysteries. At its heart is the vast personal estate of the Rosy Dawn¡¯s kyrios. His name is Damon Aetos, and he is the father and head of the cult. On this night his honored son is throwing a party, a dazzling symposia with some of the cult¡¯s most promising initiates in attendance. The night sky is clear and bright with starlight, a half moon bathing the courtyards in its silver glow. Spirit wine flows freely and laughter fills the halls of the estate. The young men of Rosy Dawn Cult are in high spirits. Our story begins with a slave fighting for their entertainment.
The Young Aristocrat I accepted a fresh skyphos of spirit wine from a coyly smiling hetaira, reclining with my head resting on one hand while my cousin traded blows with a slave. Jeers and taunts flowed freely from those in attendance, each of them initiates of the Rosy Dawn Cult and sons of respected citizens besides. The chambers were just small enough to see the whites of a man¡¯s eyes from across the way, an intentional design for nights like these - the young men of the cult lined all four walls. As such, we all had a clear view of the spectacle in the center, as my cousin swung with all his might and missed his mark again. The slave ducked and thrust forward boths hands clasped in a single fist, driving them into his gut and knocking the wind from him. He pressed his advantage, bludgeoning my cousin with the manacles affixed to each of his wrists. A chain linked the wretch''s manacles together. He couldn¡¯t pull his hands far enough apart to throw a real punch, and yet Heron was the one spitting blood. I drank deeply of my spirit wine, savoring the taste and the sensation of it flowing down my throat and seeping into my core, where it mingled with my pneuma. ¡°Do you think this is the learning experience he had in mind?¡± the hetaira asked mirthfully, seating herself behind me and threading her fingers through my hair. A particularly vicious blow to the side broke bone, sending my cousin staggering sideways. ¡°Somehow, I think not.¡± ¡°A lesson is learned regardless.¡± The fool had no one to blame but himself. His pankration was atrocious, the time he spent toiling between the legs of whores instead of the gymnasium made plainly apparent. In an ideal world this would serve as a wakeup call. But I had known him too long to hope for that. Heron¡¯s supporters had been the first to fall silent while the rest of the initiates and their companions heckled and cheered, but as the brutality mounted even the drunkest of the lot grew quiet. The sound of my cousin¡¯s grunting filled the chamber, along with the dull noise of the slave striking his flesh. Finally my cousin¡¯s patience reached its limit. He swung furiously, forcing the slave back, and then held an open hand out. Palm up. My eyes narrowed. ¡°Arrogant filth,¡± Heron snarled, baring blood-stained teeth. ¡°You think you¡¯re fit to trade blows with an initiate of my stature? You were called on as a joke.¡± Light bloomed within his palm. That rosy glow crept, slowly but inevitably, to the tips of his fingers. ¡°But so be it. If you want to act like an initiate, I will treat you like one!¡± My worthless cousin lunged forward, striking at a slave with the Rosy-Fingers of Dawn. Had it connected as it should have, I may have taken him to task myself for the insult. It didn¡¯t, though. It didn¡¯t even come close. The slave lunged beneath my cousin¡¯s grapple with unreasonable speed, diving into his legs and sending them both to the marble. Those rosy fingers never found purchase, the slave riding him through every tumble and roll with undeniable alacrity. And then it was over. The slave took his back and wound the chain around my cousin¡¯s throat, hauling up and choking him. Silence gave way to shouts of outrage as Heron scrabbled at the chain, his most ardent supporters among the cult coming to their feet. The slave ignored them all and wrenched harder, standing and dragging Heron up with him. My cousin¡¯s eyes bulged. ¡°That¡¯s enough.¡± For a moment the slave did not respond. My pneuma rose. Heron collapsed to the floor, staining the marble red as he heaved for breath. ¡°You dare!?¡± ¡°Insolent trash-¡± ¡°You¡¯re tempting the Fates!¡± My eyes rolled. The young men of the Rosy Dawn blustered and spat at a lonely bonded slave, no doubt feeling quite righteous about themselves. It took an embarrassing amount of time for one to pluck up the courage to actually approach him, and only then with the company of two others. The slave shifted his feet, hands flexing. ¡°I said that¡¯s enough.¡± The three mystikos froze in their tracks, looking my way. I waved them off. ¡°He¡¯s learned enough from my cousin, don¡¯t you think?¡± The heteira in attendance tittered and laughed, and only a few of the other initiates kept their silence on my cousin¡¯s behalf. The trio hastened back to their lounges and the comforting hands of their hired companions. The hetaira that had hitched herself to me chuckled softly, reclining further so that her thighs were pressed against my back and her bosom rested over my head. Bold, even for a whore. Heron recovered soon after, thunder in his eyes. His pneuma, pitiful thing that it was, roiled with murderous intent. I smothered it beneath my own, meeting his glare with dull amusement. For a moment it almost looked like he would make something of it, perhaps call me out, but no. That would be too manly of him. Instead he found his feet and stalked back to the lounge beside my own, shoving his prostitute from the bench and reclothing himself in stony silence. The chatter of drunken young men and women soon filled the chambers. The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. ¡°It was a valiant effort,¡± I offered my cousin. His jaw clenched. ¡°You¡¯d surely have won if his legs were bound too.¡± He held silent, and that was the only credit I¡¯d give him. The fool deserved the loss in standing. I drained the last of my cup until all that remained was the impure lees, closing my eyes and tracing the essence of the spirit wine as it coursed through me. The hetaira¡¯s stroking hand stilled. I opened my eyes to find the slave standing in front of me. Looking at me. Looking down at me. My pneuma flooded the symposia chambers. Mystikos choked on mouthfuls of spirit wine while hetaira trembled and hid behind them. The whore behind me did not move, did not breathe. Even my cousin¡¯s rage gave way to immediate unease. I raised an eyebrow at the bonded man who had dared to place himself above me. He was unphased. ¡°How may I serve the Young Aristocrat?¡± His tone, his bearing, his expression. They were all utterly unacceptable. ¡°I should kill you where you stand,¡± I told him honestly. ¡°If that is your wish.¡± I considered him. He was worn and tattered, but not how you would expect of a lifelong slave. His body was muscled in the sculpted way of thinking men, and his skin was only lightly tanned. A product of conquest, then. His duties had not yet turned his body grotesque, made leather of his skin or warped his frame. His eyes were defiant. I lashed out with a hand and he did not flinch from it. The chain connecting his wrists parted like a strand of silk. ¡°It is not my wish,¡± I decided. ¡°Leave us. You¡¯ve had enough fun.¡± The slave dipped his head just enough to not offer insult. Then he turned and strode out of the chamber on bare feet.
Hours later I stepped out into the courtyard, the midnight breeze a more than welcome reprieve from the symposia chamber. I inhaled deeply, and then sighed, exhaling my frustration and impatience into the open air. I could only entertain the other mystikos for so long before their sophistry began to grate. It was a duty that I couldn¡¯t ignore as the first and only son of the Rosy Dawn Cult¡¯s kyrios, and that was the only reason I suffered it. They were so dull. Their ethos, their discourse, and especially their cultivation. They were so far from Olympus Mons that I doubted they could even see it. ¡°Even you must be better company, slave.¡± The slave who had no business being in my father¡¯s courtyard did not look up from his work, though to call it that was a stretch. He was tuning a lyre. It was a crude thing, the arms and crossbar made of twisted reeds and the tuning pegs of carved bone. Certainly nothing that a member of the cult would have paid to have made. I moved to get a closer look. Our courtyard was of the same scale as the rest of the estate- that was to say, massive in every way. Where the average citizen might take pride in a small pavilion in the center of their home, we enjoyed a vast expanse of vibrant green gardens and marble statues carved with divine precision in the likeness of the Aetos family¡¯s past fathers, each standing proudly in a pool of crystalline water. The slave had sat himself on the edge of one of those pools to do his work, and had even gone so far as to dip his feet into its pure waters. Being in the courtyard like this for his own pleasure was already cause for a severe lashing, but that? That was cause for execution. Had anyone else found him, he would already be dead. It was clear that he didn¡¯t care. ¡°How may I serve the Young Aristocrat?¡± he asked again, as unperturbed as before. I was leaning against a pillar covered in winding vines before I knew it, looking over his shoulder while he tuned his crude instrument. Each plucked string sounded sweeter than the last. ¡°Play for me,¡± I decided. He did. Minutes that had dragged on torturously slow in the symposia chamber flowed like water in the courtyard while he plucked his strings of sheep¡¯s gut. It was an instrument crafted from a slave¡¯s materials, but it was not a slave¡¯s hands that made it sing. For the first time in hours I found myself smiling fainty. ¡°You¡¯re skilled,¡± I told him during a lull. He only nodded, as if my praise was to be expected. Perhaps it was. A suspicion that had been seeded in my mind earlier, the moment he arrived with the other slaves to deliver food and spirit wine, took firm root. Fortunately it was a simple thing to confirm. ¡°Tell me, slave,¡± I said, looking up at the celestial glory. ¡°Were you born in this city?¡± ¡°No.¡± ¡°Where do you come from, then?¡± ¡°The greatest city in the world.¡± ¡°Ho? Those are fighting words.¡± My arms crossed as I considered. ¡°Go on, then. Let¡¯s hear the name of the great city.¡± The slave¡¯s jaw clenched. ¡°Rome.¡± I knew it. The slave¡¯s music stopped, his shoulders tensing. He watched me from the corner of wrathful gray eyes. I was smirking, I realized. It hadn¡¯t been my intent. Yet even so, I found myself going a step further and voicing the first thought that had come to my mind. ¡°I don¡¯t know any city by that name. Only a salted ruin.¡± The peasant¡¯s lyre shattered to pieces against the marble pillar where my head had been leaning a moment ago, the tortoise shell flying apart from the force. I spun from my crouch, putting the pillar between us as the slave surged out of the pool. I inhaled deeply, feeling my pneuma race through my body. From the first blow, Heron should have recognized his mistake. He was a fool, but even fools had eyes. But he had insisted on treating his opponent like a bonded slave, even after his body felt the truth of the matter, and he¡¯d paid for it. This slave was no slave at all. Clenched fists lashed out with deliberation and speed, each a potentially debilitating blow if landed. I weaved through them, tracking the motion of his hips as he drove me furiously back. Even outraged as he was, his movements were deliberate and brutal. His anger was cold. His pankration was not. Pankration, the bonded art of striking and grappling, had as many styles and faces as there were stars in heaven. It was the first thing a cultivator learned and the last thing he mastered. It was not flashy, and it could not, by design, withstand an armed phalanx or a cavalry¡¯s charge. It was a simple art, yet it was infinite in its little complexities. I caught a jab on raised forearms and lowered my shoulders, driving forward and throwing us both into the pool. At some point, my smirk had become a wild grin. The realm where pankration truly shined was in single combat. One man against another. There, it became something divine. My pneuma flared and wound its way through my body, strengthening my muscles and enhancing their flexibility as we wrestled for control in the clear waters of the pool. It had been clear to me from the start that there was something off about this slave, something unique from the others. His performance against my cousin had just made it obvious. Pneuma was the vital force that gave men their strength, the circulating breath that facilitated all life. It was present in all living things, even those that didn¡¯t breathe in the traditional sense. Only a select few could control their pneuma. Even fewer could focus it, concentrate it, and bid it to multiply. A slave once bonded in chains could not even control his own destiny. How could he possibly control his pneuma? I drove a forearm up under the slave¡¯s throat and flipped us both, winding one leg around his own and bracing the other against the bottom of the pool. I applied pressure that no common citizen could match, enhanced by my own vital life force. The slave twisted and bucked like a bull, snarling, until the slick marble at the bottom of the pool betrayed me and my footing slipped. We rolled, water filling my nose and throat. I was laughing. In the end, there could only be one word to describe that unique quality. That formless thing that had caught my cousin¡¯s eye, compelled him to call out a slave for a row in full view of his peers. That special characteristic that allowed a man chained and robbed of all control of his life to lunge fearlessly at a far stronger opponent. To disdain me with his eyes, and strike my face with his clenched fist. ¡°The audacity!¡± I exclaimed in purest joy, and struck him right back.
We sat side by side, leaning back on our hands as we heaved for breath beside the filial pool. Its waters were tinted red. ¡°What¡¯s your name, slave?¡± I asked him. He grimaced and spat blood. ¡°Solus.¡± Of course. What else could it have been? ¡°King of nothing. King of no one. I¡¯ll call you Sol.¡± I said, letting my head hang back. I was bruised and bleeding. I¡¯d never felt better in my life. ¡°Call me Griffon.¡± Chapter 0.2 Chapter 0.2 ¡°Tell me again, but truthfully this time.¡± I stifled a yawn. Suffering my father¡¯s attention was ever an unpleasant experience, but doing so half asleep and stiff from a fight was a special kind of torture. I¡¯d been roused from a dead sleep at the break of dawn, only a couple hours after Sol and I had parted ways, and informed by a nervous ve that my father required my presence in the courtyard. His expression upon my arrival made his mood all too clear. I¡¯d known there would be consequences for the mess we¡¯d made, but I¡¯d hoped to get half a night¡¯s sleep first. Hell, I was still half-drunk on spirit wine. ¡°I¡¯ll tell you again, father, I was the first to leave the symposia. How am I to know what those burdens to the earth did with their whores in my absence?¡± My father gave me a look. Nearly every ve doing morning maintenance of the gardens suddenly realized they had forgotten a crucial tool or alternative task that took precedence, and hurried back into the estate. Feh. Cowards. ¡°Those burdens to the earth are your sworn brothers. And within these walls, they are your responsibility.¡± My father¡¯s pneuma swept down on me, tightly controlled and utterly dominant, like an eagle with talons spread. I winced as a migraine started to form. Damon Aetos was imposing by any standard, and that was while in a good mood. Even seated with legs and arms crossed, his stature was imposing. At his full height he stood head and shoulders taller than the average philosopher within the cult, who themselves were head and shoulders taller than the average citizen. His pristine white tunic with its scarlet trim did little to hide his powerful tanned build, a perfect match to any one of the sculptures within the courtyard. His beard was full, distinguished. His eyes were sky blue. My father was a harsh man, but fair. My furthest memories of him were lessons taught and re-taught until properly learned. Swift punishment for failure - and for sess, new lessons. Every action he took was heavy with intent. To hear the elder philosophers of the cult tell it, it was his work alone that had pulled the Rosy Dawn Cult up from the brink of ruin decades ago, and his vision primarily that drove it forward each day to greater heights. It was easy to believe them, when Damon Aetos was a philosopher in the Realm of Tyrants. ¡°You didn¡¯t deny what I called them,¡± I pointed out. Unfortunately for my father, I was his son. If I cowered at every sharp look or scowl he sent my way I¡¯d have never left my room as a child. ¡°Only a fool denies that the sun rises.¡± He snorted. ¡°And only a fool feels the need to point it out. The difference between you and the rest of the initiates is already clear. What do you think constantly referencing it will aplish?¡± ¡°I enjoy their reactions,¡± I said honestly. ¡°Finally a true statement.¡± The talons of his pneuma released me, and I sighed in relief as the pressure behind my eyes rxed. ¡°Let¡¯s see if you can manage another. I¡¯ll ask onest time. Who dared to defile our filial pools with their bloodst night?¡± ¡°It¡¯s a mystery, father.¡± And so it was. We¡¯d both been beaten bloody by the end of things, but who was to say when the bleeding had started and whose had stained the clear waters red? Could have been mine, could have been Sol¡¯s, could have been both. Truly a mystery worthy of the Rosy Dawn. Damon Aetos was spectacrly unimpressed. ¡°Ignorance is your answer, then. So be it.¡± He stood and regarded the statue within the tainted pool. They were of a height with one another. ¡°You¡¯ll clean this pool yourself. And all the rest, while you¡¯re at it.¡± Son of a bitch. ¡°I should have hung you out to dry,¡± I snarled, dunking a bucket into the soiled pool and dumping its contents into arger y jug. The ves that had fled my father¡¯s presence had yet to return. That left me alone with the one ve that had been audacious enough to continue working in close proximity to a displeased Tyrant. Sol shrugged, filling his own jug. Maintaining the courtyard was a daily ritual. The filial pools were drained and that water was used for the gardens. The marble pools were then thoroughly cleaned, each and every one, and refilled from the rivers that wound throughout the Rosy Dawn Cult¡¯s estatends. It was a time-consuming process that was normally attended to by several sets of hands. It was also ve work. Literally anything else would have been a better use of my time. I could have been asleep. ¡°Pain in my ass. All because I pointed out that your city¡¯s a pile of salted ash-¡± A y jug filled with water shattered against my head, drenching me. I looked up, wide eyed. Sol hummed a soft tune as he went about his work sans jug. My bucket soared on eagle wings. ¨¢likos, the scarlet city, was a vast expanse of civil engineering that wound like a serpent through the valley gap between two mountain ranges in the southernmost reach of the Mediterranean. The city¡¯s wealth was reflected in its architecture, even the poorest sections boasting stone-walled homes with the distinct scarlet-baked y roofs that gave the city its name. Rivers ran like veins through the valley, dividing the city into districts bridged by stone arches. The wealthiest districts of the city radiated outward from a central point - the Scarlet Stadium. It was a massive edifice, a half dome carved into the earth that could seat tens of thousands of spectators. Gymnasiums, bath houses, and wealthy estates alike rippled out like waves around it, each one built on smooth stone foundations and supported by columns of scarlet stone. Be it for business, recreation, or simple living, every citizen coveted proximity to the grand venue where the city¡¯s finest gathered topete. Throughout the valley city, and especially on the banks of the rivers that cut through it, life flourished. Olive and fig trees abounded. Bird song was thick where the trees grew closest together, and cows, goats, and sheep weremon sights, especially at the edges where the city brushed up against the mountains. At the peak of the western mountain range, where the sun touched the earth as day turned to night, the Burning Dusk Cult¡¯s estate rose gaudy and proud on pirs of twilight stone. It sprawled across the top of the mountain, and in the moments before the sun vanished fully from the sky its rooftops glowed like fire. Perched atop the opposing eastern mountain range was the Rosy Dawn Cult. It was, naturally, superior in every way. Regardless, it was still on top of a mountain. The rivers were not. ¡°Tell me, ve-¡± ¡°Solus.¡± ¡°Right. Tell me, Sol.¡± His eyes rolled. ¡°Who taught you how to fight?¡± I adjusted the yoke over my right shoulder. Eight y jugs full of water swayed back and forth as we scaled the mountain path leading to the main estate. With any luck, it would be ourst trip from the river. ¡°... My father, at first,¡± Sol eventually said. He had a yoke of his own slung over his left shoulder. ¡°Later, when I was ten, the legions.¡± ¡°That young?¡± I asked, surprised. ¡°I wasn¡¯t serving at first. My father was called up and chose to bring me with him. The legionaries thought I was amusing - they would offer to show me techniques and spar with me while my father was busy.¡± There was something fond and wistful in his eyes as his eyes gazed upon something I couldn¡¯t see. It made him look like a different person entirely. ¡°By the time my mother made it out to our camp the next summer and demanded that I return home, I had already decided the ranks were where I belonged.¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t realize the legions knew how to fight,¡± I mused. Then, before the touchy ve tackled me down the mountain, I amended, ¡°Properly, I mean. Unarmed, man to man.¡± ¡°The legions are roaming cities that exist to do war. Why would single unarmedbat be a priority?¡± There it was, that disdainful gaze. Like looking in a mirror. ¡°Lack of need does not equate tock of ability. There were always at least a few men looking for a brawl during leisure hours. Only, they didn¡¯t strip down and ther themselves in oil first.¡± ¡°Ho, is the Roman looking down on me? My body is chiseled from marble and it was my own hands that did the work. Why should I be ashamed of it?¡± ¡°Pride is a vice.¡± ¡°Pride is virtue if your heart is true.¡± Sol frowned pensively. We scaled the mountain in silence, the midday sun beating down on our backs. I had missed two meals and a private morning instruction with one of the elder philosophers of the cult, but I found myself not caring all that much. Tending the pools and gathering water was ve work, but it was rigorous and thepany was good. Honestly, I might have preferred it this way. The more we spoke, the more I was convinced that Sol was not just another cultivator from a far-flung barbarian culture. The way he carried himself, his upbringing, they painted a vivid picture. Our origins rhymed. This ve was no ve at all. He was a young patrician. When we had nearly reached the top of the mountain where the rough stone merged seamlessly with marble steps, Sol finally spoke again. Gray eyes narrowed in confusion. ¡°But why the oil?¡± Chapter 0.3 Chapter 0.3 Days passed. It was amusing, the ces you crossed paths with someone. At dawn, ducking into the kitchens for a morsel and encountering a surly Roman applying altogether too much force to the bread dough he was kneading, to the dismay of the ve girl trying to teach him. ncing into an open bedroom on the way to the courtyard to see him fitting a sheet over a featherbed with meticulous precision. Paying the youngest of the initiates a visit during their leisure hours, and finding them gleefully ying one of his legion dice games. And here he was again, attending in the Rosy Dawn¡¯s gymnasium while mystikos of varying ages trained their bodies and minds under the gymnasiarch¡¯s watchful eyes. Sol, for his part, stared sightlessly ahead. Cloth towels were draped over one of his arms, and a jug of olive oil was cradled in the other. His disgust with the situation was inly apparent as I approached. ¡°Be honored, Sol,¡± I told him, shucking my tunic and tossing it over his shoulder. His upper lip twitched. ¡°It isn¡¯t every day a barbarianys eyes on our divine cultivation in motion.¡± ¡°Where is it?¡± he asked tonelessly. ¡°All I see is bare ass.¡± ¡°Lust is a sin,¡± I chided him. He sneered fully. ¡°Turn your eyes to the pestra and try to control your urges, you just might learn something. Ah, first though.¡± I spread my arms wide, nodding to the jug. He didn¡¯t hesitate. ¡°Never.¡± ¡°The Young Aristocrat demands it.¡± ¡°Allow this one to assist the Young Aristocrat!¡± A man in ve garb interjected. Sol¡¯s teeth clicked together, though I could guess as to the words that had almost left his mouth. The older ve¡¯s frantic movement and tightly controlled terror as he rubbed me down with olive oil spoke volumes. He¡¯d known it too. ¡°Next time,¡± I said, amused, and left him to his work. To reach the pestra, the marbled octagon where pankration was practiced and refined, one first had to pass through the central za where young men gathered to socialize and trade discourse. Mystikos called out cheerfully to me as I passed, some attempting to coax me over to talk or participate in whatever gymnastics they happened to be practicing. Most knew better, though. I epted friendly ps on the shoulder and exchanged greetings with initiates as I passed, but my sights were set. I stepped onto the raised octagon and rolled my shoulders, surveying the current match. No, that wouldn¡¯t do at all. ¡°Cease!¡± The two initiates froze. They were each younger than me, but not by much. They¡¯d been locked in the ground game when I spoke, therger of the two struggling to submit his opponent with a leg wrapped around his neck and an arm pinned to his side. ¡°Old Perdix takes time out of his day to watch you two roll, and this is what you give him?¡± I waved a hand and they hurriedly disengaged from one another, taking a knee in front of me. Each of them heaved for breath, sweat mingling with oil on their bodies as they awaited judgement. I supposed I couldn¡¯t fault their effort. Their form, though? Hells. Old Perdix watched on in amusement just outside the octagon. He was one of the cult¡¯s elder philosophers, a respected cultivator of advanced rank as well as the cult¡¯s gymnasiarch. The daily physical and mental training of the cult¡¯s young men was his responsibility, and within the gymnasium¡¯s walls his word was second only to my father¡¯s. I waited until he inclined his head, and then I went to work on the initiates. ¡°Aktis and Sinon, correct?¡± The two nodded silently. ¡°The pestra is for pankration. If you¡¯vee here to rub up against one another like needy whores, the baths are over there.¡± I hooked a thumb to the pools in question on the opposite side of the za, where a dozen mystikos were currently ying a ball game. ¡°We¡¯re here to fight!¡± The smaller of the two insisted. His partner nodded firmly. ¡°So you say. But are you here to learn?¡± Their eyes lit up. Cultivation. It is said that there are as many paths to cultivating virtue as there are ways to climb Olympus Mons. Every path, followed with a clear mind and a virtuous heart, leads to the same ce - the peak of the divine mountain, where men be gods and the Fates weave their threads. It is a simple progression. Of course, the climb is rarely straightforward. There are four cardinal realms, each standing on the shoulders of those preceding it. At the very base of Olympus Mons is the Civic Realm, where the vast majority of Mediterranean citizens live their lives. While ascension to the Civic Realm is a requirement for citizenship in every city-state, it is not a particrly difficult bar to clear - provided you are a free man, and not a ve. Ascending past that, however, is a different story. From birth until death, it is not at all umon for a citizen of the Scarlet City to never advance past the third rank of the first realm. It is called the Realm of Citizens for a reason. Harnessing the power of one¡¯s own pneuma, their invigorating breath, and bidding it to multiply is the deliberate work of a lifetime. Cultivation is a race to heaven. It is the refinement of the tripartite soul, an ever precarious bncing act between the three elements of self - cold reason, burning emotion, and ravenous hunger. It ismitment to a life spent tempting heaven¡¯s wrath. It is no surprise that most choose to tend farms or sell wares instead. For those that choose to tempt the Fates, and are talented enough to do so, there exists a second realm above the first. The Sophic Realm, where sophists toil. It is widely agreed that this is where the climb truly begins, and it is where the vast majority of cultivatorsnguish until their dying days. The Realm of Philosophers is where government officials and military officers are groomed and selected. Within the Rosy Dawn Cult, every elder is a philosopher of advanced rank. There are even a few prodigies, too young to be true elders but sophists in their souls, who have ascended to the coveted second realm. The third realm is one that themon cultivator never reaches. At this state of being the soul bes an entity of its own, immune to the ravages of time and dazzling in its brilliance. Only men of the highest virtue and the most egregious audacity ever set foot in this hallowed realm. Generals, revolutionaries, and hunters of monsters. It is the Heroic Realm, and its members are the subject of epics. Above the third realm, where the heavens obscure all mortal sight with storm clouds and wrath, there is a fourth. For after all, the general is still a soldier following orders. The revolutionary is often put down. The monsters sometimes win. The Tyrannic Realm is the pinnacle of enlightened cultivation. It is where rulers of men reside. It¡¯s where I¡¯ll be someday. But cultivation is not the work of a single day, or a single act. It¡¯s a thousand virtuous steps, and each one is a refinement of the body and the mind. It is impossible to have one without the other. A schr is learned. An athlete is robust. A cultivator is both. And as this wisdom was passed on to him, so is it his duty to pass it on. Sinon grunted in agony as I pulled him over my shoulder and mmed him to the stone. He had tried to take me on while standing, but his striking form was as pitiful as his ground game, and I¡¯d easily grappled him. Aktis had alreadymitted to a running tackle by the time I turned, but the fool had lowered his head to avoid my fists. I mmed a knee up into his nose and sent him skittering back across the octagon. The sickening crunch of cartge echoed as he quickly forced it back into ce, eyes watering. They were both in the fifth rank of the Civic Realm. The difference between us was already absurd without factoring in their utterck of technique. The former I excuse, as it was only natural that my cultivation surpassed their own. Thetter, though? ¡°Reinforcement is not good enough,¡± I snapped. They wore their pneuma like armor and trembled behind it just the same. ¡°We are not soldiers! We cultivate virtue, and virtue is performative excellence!¡± Sinon regained his feet and rushed me, knowing better than to stop fighting just because I was speaking. I leaned away from a straight cross and pped a right hook contemptuously aside, headbutting him viciously. He fell t on his ass, dazed. I stalked towards Aktis. He feinted a jab and then swung his other elbow at my temple. I caught it in one hand and threw it wide, sending him off bnce. I jabbed him once in the kidney and swept his feet out from under him. Hey on his back and wheezed. ¡°I¡¯m not using any more pneuma than you two right now, and yet look at the difference between us.¡± I hadn¡¯t even started to sweat. ¡°What have you been doing with your time here?¡± ¡°Perhaps they¡¯ve been focusing on more relevant forms ofbat.¡± Who dared? I turned and beheld an initiate approaching the octagon, naked but for a belt with a sword strapped to it. He was tall, nearly as tall as me, with long curly blond hair and sharply defined features. There was an eager smirk on his face. His pneuma rose. Civic Realm, eighth rank. Castor. I knew him all too well. ¡°You must be lost, junior brother,¡± I said blithely. ¡°This is where initiates practice truebat. The sword ring is over in the southwest corner.¡± ¡°Senior brother is never there,¡± Castor returned, unbelting his sword and rotating it in his grip. It was a medium length and had an edge on both sides. A duelist¡¯s de. ¡°It¡¯s been weeks since ourst bout. Can you me me for seeking your guidance?¡± ¡°Come, then,¡± I invited him. Even stepped aside, so that he could climb up unobstructed. ¡°Drop your sword and step into the octagon.¡± He made no move to do so. ¡°Ah, but pankration isn¡¯t my path. That was made clearst time, I¡¯m sure senior can agree. This lowly sophist seeks guidance in his sword forms.¡± ¡°I am not carrying a sword,¡± I pointed out. However, instead of procuring another one as I¡¯d expected, he only smiled brightly. ¡°That is fortunate. I was hoping to practice against an unarmed opponent.¡± Aktis and Sinon stared at him, aghast, and they weren¡¯t alone. The pestra naturally drew spectators within the gymnasium, especially when I was in the octagon. Dozens of initiates had already been watching my impromptu instruction of my juniors. Now they were waving over others in the za, hurriedly spreading the word. ¡°Excuse me?¡± I said quietly. ¡°It¡¯smon knowledge that the Young Aristocrat reigns supreme in the octagon,¡± Castor said deferentially. ¡°And in your own words, pankration is the pinnacle of martialbat. Is that not so?¡± ¡°It is.¡± ¡°Then there should be no danger for you to humor this junior initiate in his attempts to broaden his understanding of the sword. Is that not so?¡± Castor looked to the gymnasiarch, who up until this point had pointedly not said a word. The old philosopher leaned against the side of the marble octagon, considering us both for a moment. ¡°If the Young Aristocrat deigns to ept, I will moderate,¡± he eventually said. Ah, now I understood. I was being called out. I hated politics. Through the press of the growing crowd of spectators, I spotted a sh of white cloth. A clothed figure in a sea of naked bodies. Sol remained in the same ce I had found him upon entering, but he was no longer staring dully at the far columns of the gymnasium. His head was turned, looking to the crowd. Looking at me. ¡°Come then,¡± I said. Aktis and Sinon scrambled off the octagon while Castor ascended, an eager smile on his face. ¡°I thank you, senior brother.¡± I scoffed. ¡°Take notes.¡± Castor¡¯s pneuma roared like a me, and in an instant he was beside me. His swordshed for my throat. I rolled my shoulders, waving off hollers and cheers as I crossed the za and grabbed myself a towel. It was poor form to enter the baths while covered in blood. ¡°You¡¯ll want to head over there once the crowd has thinned,¡± I informed the ve. ¡°I made a mess.¡± Sol hummed thoughtfully. ¡°He wasn¡¯t very good.¡± ¡°Few are,¡± I agreed, scrubbing the oil and sweat from my hair. ¡°I¡¯d have beaten him in chains.¡± Augh burst from my lips against my will. I raised my hands to heaven, stretching and relishing in my victory, and onlyughed harder when I saw Castor staggering out of the gymnasium with the assistance of two other mystikos. ¡°Ah, that felt good,¡± I said, feeling light with mirth. ¡°I¡¯m ready for a bath. Care to join me?¡± ¡°No.¡± Unfortunate, then, that he was standing where he was. I kicked him into the pools and dove in after. Chapter 0.4 [The Caged Dove] Chapter 0.4 [The Caged Dove] The Caged Dove Life in the Rosy Dawn Cult was terrifying. Athis knew it was an ungrateful fear. She knew that her fortune had been immeasurably good to be chosen for service in Scarlet City¡¯s premier cult of greater mysteries. It was said that a ve answered only to their master, but the reality of things was that ves answered to whoever could freelymand them. Forced to choose between insulting a stronger cultivator or parting with a ve, a weak master would always make thetter choice. Fortunately, there was no man within the Scarlet City stronger than Damon Aetos. Unlike many female ves, she would never be snatched off the streets in the midst of her work. No man was mad enough to spit in the face of the Rosy Dawn. But that did not mean she was safe. It did not mean she could rest easy at night. The reputation of the Rosy Dawn¡¯s kyrios protected her from external dangers, but it could not protect her from the cult itself. ¡°It¡¯s alright,¡± Pervica whispered, peering out into the halls surrounding the courtyard. ¡°They¡¯re gone.¡± The faint jeering andughter of young men echoed in the stone. Athis shivered. She had been a ve for three months, and she had learned all too quickly that she existed to Damon Aetos only as a tick on a ledger. If she was stolen or damaged by some external source, he would retaliate the same way he would if any trinket or possession of the cult was tampered with by an outsider. If it was one of his own, though? Well, that was all too easy to overlook. ¡°Let¡¯s go, before someone elsees by.¡± Pervica tilted her head and slipped out of the empty bedroom, and Athis hurried behind her. They raced silently down the halls, clutching woven reed baskets filled with wool to their chests. Once they made it to the women¡¯s quarters they would be safe, and with any luck they would be busy spinning and weaving for the rest of the day. Moments like these were the most terrifying by far. Traveling alone, without any higher authority to protect them from wandering eyes. Utterly exposed to the whim of any cultivators that might happen upon them. ¡°What¡¯s this? You¡¯re pretty for a ve.¡± Athis had been a ve to the Rosy Dawn Cult for three months, but it had only taken a week for her to see what happened to a bonded girl that caught an initiate¡¯s eye. She¡¯d never forget it. Pervica raced up the stairs to the second floor of the estate, shoulder-length golden hair flying behind her. She was hardly panting at all, while Athis was struggling just to keep up. Pervica had been a ve within the Rosy Dawn for over two years. She¡¯d had much time to learn the ways of the estate. To learn how to navigate its halls, and train her body to do so with speed. Athis didn¡¯t know where she would be if the other girl hadn¡¯t taken her under her wing. Likely nowhere good. They rounded a corner, so that the gardens and pools of the courtyard were on their left. The women¡¯s quarters were at the end of the hall, a short sprint even for her. They traded relieved smiles, racing forward. Two mystikos emerged from one of the rooms halfway down the hall, chatting animatedly with one another. Athis¡¯ heart sank. They should have been at the gymnasium with the rest. Yet there they were. Pervicas knew the halls better than most, but even she couldn¡¯t ount for bad luck. Her friend smoothly transitioned from a dead sprint to an unassuming walking gait in the space of two steps while Athis skittered to a stop before hurriedly approximating a more natural pace. It was a pointless effort, of course. Pervicas knew it just as well as she did. These were cultivators, citizens who had won membership within a cult of greater mysteries. Their only hope now was that they wouldn¡¯t care to stop them. Athis¡¯ heartbeat thundered in her ears as they approached one another. She didn¡¯t recognize either of them, and if Pervicas did it didn¡¯t show on her face. Her expression was serene. Had she not been looking for it, Athis would never have noticed the bead of sweat on her brow. The initiates were discussing some recent lessons as they passed. She wasn¡¯t in the right state of mind to truly listen. One of the two nced her way, and for a moment her heart stopped. Then his gaze slid past her and they crossed. Athis sighed, shoulders sagging in relief. ¡°What¡¯s this?¡± Oh, no. Pervicas looked back at her with wide eyes. ¡°Turn around, girl. Let me get another look at you.¡± Oh please, no. Athis forced herself to turn. The other initiate, the one she hadn¡¯t locked eyes with, was staring at her spectively. His eyes trailed up and down her body, and she bit her lip as terror and memories from not too long ago of another girl in a simr position assaulted her. She forced herself to take a breath and speak. ¡°How may I serve, honored mystiko?¡± she asked, voice tremoring only slightly. ¡°I can think of a few ways,¡± he said. He nced sidelong at his fellow initiate, raising an eyebrow suggestively. The other initiate shrugged. ¡°Not my type.¡± ¡°You always did have poor taste,¡± he said wryly. The other initiate scoffed. Against her will, Athis found the image of the man burning itself into her mind¡¯s eye. He was taller than her by several palms, his body powerfully defined as cultivators tended to be. His hair was coarse and brown, the dark shadow of a beard tracing a strong jaw. His leering eyes were hazel with kes of gold in the irises. Objectively, he was an attractive man. Athis felt her hands start to shake. ¡°Am I going alone, then? Make a decision,¡± the other initiate said impatiently. Go with your friend, Athis silently begged him. Their eyes met. She saw his decision as he made it. ¡°Go on-¡± ¡°What are you two doing?¡± Athis spun around, heart in her throat. A man was stalking down the hall towards them. She was saved. She was saved! It was only when his eyes roved from Pervicas to her and no further, did she realize this was not a superior member of the culte to chastise the two mystikos. Then she took him in fully. The state of his clothes, ragged and worn, without any of the cult¡¯s distinctive scarlet trimming. This man was far less than even a citizen. He was another ve. In fact, she recognized his face. He was a new arrival, even more recent than herself. What had his name been? Sabas? No¡­ Pelonus? Not quite. It was¡­ ¡°Solus?¡± Pervicas whispered, confused. Solus. That was it. ¡°The others have been waiting for that wool,¡± he said, tilting his head towards their destination at the end of the hall. ¡°Enough talking. Go on. Make haste.¡± Athis exchanged a bewildered look with Pervicas. Solus had never spoken directly to them before this moment. As far as she knew, he¡¯d never spoken to anyone. But she wasn¡¯t going to look twice at good fortune. Athis hurried to follow themand, Pervicas at her side. s. Some things were too good to be true. ¡°Hold it, ve,¡± the initiate with the leering hazel eyes snapped. Athis froze. ¡°Who gave you the right to interrupt a conversation between mystikos? Do you have any idea who you¡¯re dealing with?¡± Finally, Solus looked at the two cultivators in the hall. To her astonishment, there was no fear in his eyes. He did not quake with the sudden realization of the insult he¡¯d just offered a sworn initiate of the Rosy Dawn. He merely eyed the initiate up and down, and then shrugged. ¡°I do not.¡± The hazel-eyed initiate¡¯s lips peeled back in a snarl. Hispanion sighed. ¡°Of course he doesn¡¯t know you, Xuthus. He¡¯s a ve. He doesn¡¯t know anything.¡± She wished he hadn¡¯t said his name. It was so much harder to forget a face when it had a name to match it. Xuthus scowled, striding up to Solus until they were finger lengths apart. Solus was taller than him by several inches. It only seemed to worsen his mood. Without looking, the cultivator reached out and ripped the reed basket from her arms, shoving it into Solus¡¯ chest. The taller ve didn¡¯t budge, though he did wrap an arm around the basket so it wouldn¡¯t fall. ¡°Carry the basket yourself. I¡¯ve decided I want somepany for the night.¡± ¡°There are brothels in the city,¡± Solus said blithely. ¡°These two are needed on the looms.¡± The other initiate whistled. Xuthus¡¯ face twisted in outrage. Pervicas grabbed her by the shoulder to turn her away. Thest thing she saw was Xuthus¡¯ arm rearing back and thenshing forward to backhand the intrepid ve. Athis didn¡¯t see what happened next. She heard it, though. There was a piercing, shattering crack. And then Xuthus screamed. When she looked back she could hardly believe her eyes. Xuthus had staggered several steps back and fallen to one knee, gripping his right wrist tightly. His right hand, the one that he had used to presumably backhand the ve¡¯s head from his body, hung limp and misshapen, bone bulging against the skin in several ces. Somehow, impossibly, Solus hadn¡¯t moved an inch. There was nothing to show for the p except a faint red mark on his right cheek. The mystiko had shattered his hand against Solus¡¯ face. Xuthus¡¯ friend crouched beside him, looking between his mangled hand and Solus with wary confusion. ¡°What was that? What did you do to him!?¡± he demanded. Xuthus groaned through clenched teeth. ¡°Nothing,¡± Solus said. ¡°I¡¯d suggest a trip to the medico before the brothel. Would you like help getting there?¡± They didn¡¯t. ¡°How did you do that?¡± Athis asked wonderingly as the two initiates fled down the hall, epting the reed basket when he offered it back. Solus considered her. His gray eyes and dark features that she had found so intimidating the first time she¡¯d seen him seemed, oddly, less so now. He shrugged again, something faintly amused in his expression. ¡°My mother always said I was hard-headed.¡± ¡°Why did you do that?¡± Pervica asked, perhaps more prudently. ¡°You know what could happen to you, don¡¯t you?¡± Solus considered that for a moment. But only for a moment. ¡°I know his type,¡± he said. Then he was gone, striding down the hall towards whatever business he had been taking care of in the first ce. That was her first experience with Solus. It wouldn¡¯t be thest. Absurdly enough, it wouldn¡¯t even be the most memorable. She found herself crossing paths with him more and more, after that. Or perhaps she was just more aware of it. Doingundry, preparing meals, tending to the children. Each time she found herself noticing some new little detail, some quirk she had been too wary to see before. His wrists were shackled, like many of the ves within the Rosy Dawn. Pervicas exined that it was what one did to a ve that had already entered the realm of cultivation. The shackles prevented them from controlling their pneuma. It was odd, though. She had seen many ves within the estate with shackles of cold iron around their wrists, but she had never seen them chained together like his were. Pervicas wasn¡¯t sure as to the reason either. If theck of mobility bothered him, it didn¡¯t show. He performed his duties easily enough. Especially when it came to tending the children. Child care was generally delegated to the women within the ve ranks, but at times a firm touch was required. It turned out that Solus was adept at entertaining young, rowdy cultivators. He taught them games she had never heard of, showed them how to carve bone dice, and allowed them to practice on him the techniques they had seen their older brothers and sisters utilizing within the gymnasium. He bore it every time with that tolerant amusement of his. It was during one of those asions, when they were both minding a group of young cultivators, that he revealed he was a musician. Athis closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the trunk of an olive tree, idly stroking a young girl¡¯s hair while Solus lulled her and the rest of the children to sleep with the soft sounds of a lyre. One of the boys had brought it with him at his mother¡¯s behest, and after a few minutes of tuneless plucking had dered it broken and cast it down in disgust. Solus had picked it right up and shown him otherwise. An idea blossomed in her mind¡¯s eye as she listened to him y that afternoon. Pervica thought she was mad for it, and insisted up and down that she would have no part of it, but when Athis slipped away during water gathering the following day to catch a tortoise it was Pervica that helped her kill the animal and clean out its shell. Assembling the rest of theponents was the grueling work of days in-between her usual duties as a ve, and the final product was nothing close to the fine ivory and bronze instrument the young cultivator had so carelessly disdained. Even so, it yed fine, and her heart swelled with pride when she presented it to him. ¡°I¡¯ve wanted to thank you for a while now,¡± she said. She¡¯d grownfortable with him since that time. In a way, she felt almost as safe with him around as she did in the women¡¯s quarters. Even so, she felt shy as he carefully epted the lyre, his expression unreadable. ¡°You made this?¡± he asked, running a finger across the sheep¡¯s gut strings. ¡°I had help,¡± she admitted. ¡°But¡­ the way you yed, I thought it would be a shame to never hear it again.¡± Those stony gray eyes crinkled at their edges. It was a small, barely seen thing, but he smiled for her. Her heart raced. ¡°I¡¯ll y it tonight,¡± he told her. ¡°After dinner.¡± She couldn¡¯t wait. Dinner came and went, but Athis never got to hear him y. The Young Aristocrat had decided to gather the Rosy Dawn Cult¡¯s finest young initiates for an evening symposia, and Solus had been conscripted for the dinner service. Pervicas and the rest of the girls were already settling in for the night when the party began, and she could onlyy awake, waiting, for so long. She drifted off to sleep disappointed. The crooning of a lyre woke her up. It was faint, drifting through the cracks between the doors like smoke. Shey still, holding her breath and listening intently. No, she wasn¡¯t hearing things. He was ying. Athis carefully slipped out from under wool nkets, stepping silently over Pervicas and the rest of the girls between her and the door. She eased it open and peered out, making sure the halls were empty before stepping out. It was only a few steps to the rail that looked down over the courtyard with its shadowed gardens and filial pools, and she crouched beside it, looking down. The pools all but glowed with reflected moonlight, clearly illuminating the two young men lounging by one of them. She recognized them both. For a moment Athis couldn¡¯t breathe. That Solus was in the courtyard alone for no legitimate purpose, that he had dipped his feet in a filial pool, was shocking enough. But what made her heart clench was the other young man leaning against a pir and watching over his shoulder as he yed. He was as unmistakable to her as Solus. Everyone within the Rosy Dawn knew the Young Aristocrat¡¯s face. But as the ve continued to y and the cultivator made no move to stop him, it became clear that Solus wasn¡¯t in trouble. At least not for the moment. Athis watched them through the gaps in the railing, but as the minutes passed and her anxiety for him eased, the music began to take precedence in her thoughts. He really was talented. Even her pitiful lyre sang like sweet doves in his hands. Athis leaned against the railing, closing her eyes and allowing the melody to fill her senses. Her awareness drifted. A crash jolted her awake. Athis whipped her head around, looking up and down the halls, but they were empty. Then, realizing where she was and what she hade out here for, she looked down to the courtyards. Terror overtook her as she watched Solus and the Young Aristocrat crash into a filial pool. Her hands flew up to cover her mouth as they struck each other over and over. She nearly screamed when the Young Aristocrat wound arms and legs around him like a serpent and wrestled him down into the water. She couldn¡¯t believe her eyes. This couldn¡¯t be real! Athis stumbled to her feet and rushed back into the women¡¯s quarters, just barely making it back to her spot on the floor without stepping on any of the other girls and curling into a tight ball beneath her nket. I just watched a man die. She didn¡¯t sleep for the rest of the night. The next morning Solus gave her a nod as he passed by, carrying a yokeden with water jugs. The Young Aristocrat walked in-step beside him with a matching load slung over his shoulder. Carrying water and chatting away like he was just another ve. Athis turned and watched them go, having stumbled to a dead stop at the sight of him. Alive and well. After striking the Young Aristocrat. He was- Ah. She¡¯d dropped theundry. Chapter 0.5 Chapter 0.5 ¡°Am I boring you, young Aetos?¡± an old man asked me. He was a philosopher, eighth rank within the sophic realm, with a beard that hung down to his chest and bushy white eyebrows. He was in the midst of sorting a book¡¯s worth of loose papers spread across the table between us, each sheet covered in numeric equations and geometric formations. He was the cult¡¯s resident master of the pythagorean virtues and had been a tutor of mine since I was a boy. He was also, yes, boring me. ¡°You are,¡± I told him freely. ¡°I think I¡¯ve had my fill of you for today.¡± For a man of such advanced cultivation, he was easy enough to read. He resented our time together. I¡¯d known that much since I was a boy. He suffered from the same delusions that many of the cult¡¯s elders did- that they continued to exist for any reason other than my father¡¯s mercy, and that they would ever contribute anything to the world that my father had not already mastered and internalized. It made it hard to take any of them particrly seriously. This one was particrly surly about the private instruction my father demanded all his elder philosophers give to his son, to the point that he made even otherwise interesting topics miserable. ¡°Your father expects these forms to be finished by dinner,¡± the elder warned. As much as I knew he¡¯d love to send me on my way, within these walls the word of Damon Aetos was absolute. ¡°Naturally.¡± So I swept the papers into a messy stack and rolled them up, utterly ruining the sorting he¡¯d been doing. His expression tightened. His pneuma flickered, ever so slightly. s, he held his tongue. ¡°I¡¯ll deliver them myself.¡± ¡°If the work is not properly done-¡± ¡°It will be on my head,¡± I finished, standing from the table and turning my back on him. ¡°As always your instruction has been invaluable. Truly, I had eyes before today, but now I finally see.¡± ¡°The pleasure is mine,¡± he said, a model of restraint. They were all so dull. ¡°ve, with me,¡± I called without breaking stride. A dozen heads whipped around at the sound of my voice, but I trusted they had enough sense to know I wasn¡¯t talking to any of them. I continued on down the hall, pondering the best ce to finish my busy work and enjoy the sun while it was still bright in the sky. Why did I not hear footsteps? I stopped and looked behind me. There were a few initiates chatting with one another, leaning against the rails looking out into the courtyard, but no one else. I frowned, doubling back to the kitchen entrance. ¡°ve.¡± Once more a dozen ves looked up from their work in unison, radiating confusion and anxiety in varying amounts. All but one, stood over a table in the back with a mound of dough in his hands. Beside him, the same ve girl that I¡¯d seen teaching him to knead dough the other day tugged frantically at his sleeve, eyes wide as she looked at me. He brushed her hand off absent-mindedly and drove his palms into the dough. Men and women scrambled to get out of my way as I entered the kitchen. The girl watched me approach with naked terror. ¡°ve,¡± I said, softly, standing directly beside him. ¡°Are you ignoring me?¡± ¡°I¡¯m making bread,¡± Sol responded. ¡°And that takes precedence over me?¡± I asked curiously. ¡°Evidently.¡± The girl sucked air through clenched teeth, looking for all the world like she wanted to leap past me and p her hands over his mouth to silence him. The rest of the kitchen¡¯s staff stood frozen in their work, eyeing me like a goat eyes a mountain cat. I considered him. ¡°Fair enough,¡± I decided, sweeping the rest of the table¡¯s contents to the floor and tossing down my papers. The girl and another ve scrambled to gather the materials up while I sat myself on the tabletop, picking a sheet at random and ncing over it. ¡°What do you know of the quadrivium?¡± I asked him, pulling a slotted stick of reed from behind my ear and filling in the papyrus sheet. ¡°Rome has discovered numbers by now, hasn¡¯t it?¡± ¡°We prefer to use our fingers.¡± I snorted, picking up another sheet of papyrus. More arithmetic, this time couched in the logistics of a supply chain between ¨¢likos and the Rosy Dawn. It was nothing I didn¡¯t already know. The elder knew that, which meant my father knew it too. Yet here I was wasting my time with it anyway. ¡°It¡¯s all the same work,¡± I said, exasperated. ¡°Work orders, internal disputes, negotiations with city vendors. Day in and day out. What lesson am I supposed to learn from endless repetition, other than that the life of a kyrios is miserably dull?¡± ¡°Strong foundations build tall cities.¡± ¡°And many hands make light work.¡± I flicked a few sheets over his way. He continued kneading his dough, but I was patient. Sol could act as stoic as he liked, but at the end of the day a cultivator needed more stimtion than a lump of dough and endless chores. Soon enough he was leaning against the table, poring over a papyrus sheet with that same focused intensity he¡¯d applied to making bread. ves cast furtive nces to us every now and then, especially the girl with the dark braided hair, but none of them spoke. The scent of fresh fruits and baking bread hung heavy in the room. ¡°This is light work,¡± Sol mused, tapping the second reed stick I¡¯d brought with me rhythmically against a papyrus sheet. ¡°All arithmetic, as well. When do you do practical work?¡± ¡°When it pleases me,¡± I said, setting aside another finished sheet. Sol rolled his eyes. ¡°Better a ve than father to a Greek.¡± There came a crash and a panicked curse as someone dropped a dish. I only grinned. ¡°Enlighten this lowly sophist,¡± I said mockingly. ¡°What was your sublime cultivating regimen?¡± He considered me out of the corner of his eye for a moment, then flipped the sheet he¡¯d been working on and began writing on its nk side. A soldier¡¯s regimented schedule came to life on the page, down to the absurd portioning of time for things like maintaining armor and stretching before exercise. He may as well have been drawing a picture of a cell on the page. ¡°Numbers require theoretical and practical application in bnce with one another,¡± he said, as he went. ¡°The quadrivium is worthless if its four points aren¡¯t given equal attention. Musical practice in the afternoons, astronomy after dusk. Drills hone the body¡­¡± ¡°I think I¡¯d rather be a ve,¡± I admitted, watching him portion narrower and narrower blocks of time. Hm. I leaned forward, tapping a block simplybeled ¡®dice¡¯. ¡°And how does this bnce the soul?¡± We went back and forth like that. Dinner came and went, discussions of daily routines and the benefits of tightly scheduled leisure turned to the topic of military life in general. We ate at that table, and when the girl with the dark braid nervously asked if the Young Aristocrat would like anything else for the night I waved her out with the rest of them. It was nearly dawn when Sol tly informed me that he had work to do in the morning, and was too busy to entertain me all night and day. I dropped the work forms off in my father¡¯s study as the rosy-fingered dawn breached the heavens. They werete. My tutor had surely been reprimanded for his negligence the night before. A tragedy, to be sure. My bed was soft, the sheets cool and inviting, but I was still too invigorated for sleep. ¡°... too busy for me, eh?¡± I gave up and went looking for my ve. Chapter 0.6 Chapter 0.6 ¡°You said we were going monster hunting,¡± Myron, my littlest cousin, grumbled, petntly swiping wheat stalks out of his face. ¡°You¡¯re a liar. Lio the Liar.¡± Spring had turned to summer, and we were traversing one of the Rosy Dawn¡¯s many farms. Located on the other side of the eastern mountain range from the city, the cult¡¯s agriculturalnds stretched nearly to the coast on the horizon, where the Ionian Sea loomed. Fields of barley and wheat and vast olive orchards made up the bulk of the cult¡¯s yearly crops, though there were small fig orchards scattered throughout thendscape as well. Thend was practically swarming with ves and had been for weeks now. It was harvesting season, and this year was shaping up to be a plentiful one. Idly, I smacked the back of my cousin¡¯s head for his cheek. He yelped and went stumbling into the stalks. ¡°My virtuous heart won¡¯t tolerate such insults,¡± I informed him seriously. He pouted, shaking wheat seeds out of his curly blond hair. ¡°Especially when the monster I promised you is just up ahead.¡± He looked eagerly to where I was pointing, palming the little dagger he carried on his belt, only to groan. ¡°That¡¯s just a ve,¡± Myronined. In the distance, a crouching ve carved methodically through stalks of wheat with a sickle. A tall reed basket sat beside him, which he deposited the stalks into as he went. ¡°What did you think I meant by hidden monster, little cousin?¡± I asked, amused. His nose scrunched up as if I had just served him a great indignity. ¡°Something dangerous, like a harpy or a chimera or-¡± I waved a hand. He¡¯d list every nightfire story he¡¯d ever heard if I let him. ¡°You don¡¯t think he¡¯s dangerous?¡± I asked. By this point, we were close enough for even Myron to sense if there was anytent pneuma in the air. He focused intently on the ve, who either hadn¡¯t heard us approach or didn¡¯t care to acknowledge us. Myron¡¯s expression twisted in disdain. ¡°He isn¡¯t using any pneuma. I knew he was just a ve.¡± ¡°Ho, then by all means, strike him down. I¡¯ll see that you aren¡¯t punished for it.¡± I waved a hand invitingly. Myron, for all his faults, was not his older brother - Heron wouldn¡¯t have hesitated, but he eyed the ve with sudden uncertainty. ¡°Kill him?¡± he asked. ¡°If you can,¡± I said obligingly. ¡°Unless a ve is too frightening an opponent for you.¡± He scowled. ¡°I don¡¯t need to kill him to prove you¡¯re a liar. Watch me!¡± With that, he dashed forward. Pneuma within the sixth rank of the civic realm propelled my littlest cousin across the earth at breakneck speed. The ve had paused in his harvesting to stand and stretch, and he turned at the sound of pounding feet just in time for Myron to leap with all the grace of an olympic long jumper, bronze dagger whipping like a snake¡¯s fang towards the ve¡¯s shoulder. It wasn¡¯t a fatal blow, even with the strength of a cultivator behind it. And then it wasn¡¯t a blow at all, as the ve struck the de from my cousin¡¯s hand with his sickle. Myron didn¡¯t have time even to voice his shock, because the ve then palmed the boy¡¯s face with his free hand and dunked him into the tall reed basket. We both watched silently as the boy¡¯s pale legs kicked wildly. I nced at the hidden monster. ¡°Sol,¡± I greeted. ¡°Griffon.¡± ¡°How goes the harvest?¡± ¡°Well.¡± Myron howled in outrage, muffled by all of the wheat stalks he¡¯d been stuffed into. I wondered why he didn¡¯t just tear his way out of the basket. It wasn¡¯t as if it would require any particr effort on his part. He was a cultivator, after all. I kicked the basket over, spilling my cousin and a sizable amount of wheat onto the ground. ¡°What was that act for?¡± I asked him, genuinely curious. Myron hacked and spat, ring mutinously at me while he fruitlessly tried pping his tunic clean. ¡°I wasn¡¯t acting,¡± he said hotly. ¡°I couldn¡¯t pull myself out!¡± ¡°Was the reed basket too strong for you? Couldn¡¯t break through?¡± He rolled his eyes. ¡°He¡¯s stronger than me. Why would I break his things?¡± ¡°Wise,¡± Sol said approvingly. ¡°He¡¯s a ve,¡± I chided my littlest cousin. ¡°His things are our things.¡± ¡°But you said he was a hidden monster! He countered my attack!¡± ¡°Those things are also true,¡± I agreed. ¡°But he¡¯s still a ve. Don¡¯t be afraid to treat him like one.¡± ¡°Who is this?¡± Sol asked, ignoring my words with ease that came from months of practice. He knelt and gathered the scattered stalks back into the basket, then returned to work with his sickle. ¡°My youngest cousin, Myron Aetos,¡± I introduced him, patting his shoulder. ¡°I¡¯m minding him for the day. You met his brother at the symposia.¡± Sol acknowledged that fond memory with a grunt. ¡°Myron, this is Solus. He¡¯s worth more than most of the other initiates herebined, but feel free to bother him if you¡¯re ever bored.¡± ¡°He¡¯s what?¡± ¡°Someone trusted you with a child?¡± Sol asked doubtfully. ¡°Naturally. He¡¯se up against a block in his cultivation recently. My uncle asked me to help him through it.¡± I went from patting his shoulder to patting his head, deftly avoiding his attempts to swat my hand away. ¡°And if I must suffer this, I see no reason why you shouldn¡¯t suffer it too.¡± ¡°Where does he stand?¡± Sol asked, and though he didn¡¯t look back there was a note of interest in his voice. ¡°Civic Realm, sixth rank,¡± Myron dered, frustrated. For a boy his age, only nine years old, it was an absurd level. But for Myron it was not nearly enough, and it was especially not enough now that his growth had finally slowed to something resembling normal cultivation on the precipice of the seventh rank. ¡°What¡¯s your path?¡± Myron looked down, fists clenching. ¡°I don¡¯t have one.¡± Sol froze. He looked incredulously back at me. Unfortunately, the truth really was that ludicrous. Men cultivated virtue, that they might cast off destiny¡¯s threads and ascend Olympus Mons. Each virtue was itself a path that a cultivator walked, a stairway to heaven that they built with their own heart and soul. If cultivation was the journey, then virtue was the guiding light of constetions in the night sky. In theory, it was possible to set sail beneath a starless sky and arrive at the intended shore. In practice, though? It was a miracle that Myron had progressed as far as he had in such a short life. That he would eventually hit a block had been inevitable. The only question was whether he would be allowed to ovee that block in his own time, the natural way, or whether my uncle would step in. Sol shook his head and stood, wiping sweat from his brow and running fingers through damp ck hair. For some odd reason he always kept it short, shorn on the sides nearly to the scalp and barely a finger¡¯s length on top. He shaved his face entirely. Romans. ¡°No wonder, then,¡± he said, tossing his sickle underhand. Myron caught it deftly, eyeing the farming implement curiously. He switched his grip on it a few times, attempting to gauge the sublime technique that Sol had used to so easily disarm him. ¡°It¡¯s just a sickle. Not a particrly good one, either. Nowe here.¡± Myron looked to me for confirmation, and I shrugged. He hesitantly approached the ve, who crouched back down and motioned for him to do the same. ¡°You¡¯re young. No older than ten, I¡¯m guessing?¡± Sol asked. Myron nodded, reaching out and grasping a few stalks of wheat and hacking at them with the sickle. Sol plucked the tool from his hand and demonstrated the proper form, then gave it back to him. ¡°When I was around your age my father brought me to the legions, and I began to learn the way of the world in a way that I had not been capable of inside the protective walls of our vi at the city¡¯s edge.¡± He took the sickle, demonstrated a faulty twist of the wrist in Myron¡¯s technique and then the correct form, before again handing it back. ¡°There are an infinite number of things that a man can do to advance his cultivation, but there is a chaotic way to do things and there is an ordered way to do things.¡± ¡°What do you mean?¡± ¡°Think of cultivation as a naval journey,¡± I said,ying down on my side with an arm propping my head up while they worked. ¡°Your undying soul is the ship and you are its captain. You can rig your sails to catch only the favorable winds and man your oars with the finest men, and chart the stars at night to track your path. Or you can disdain the oars and let the sails fly free, sleep soundly through the night and trust the gods to deliver you to heaven.¡± ¡°A cultivator follows virtue the same way a captain follows the stars,¡± Sol exined. ¡°When I was introduced to the legions, and witnessed thousands of men following thousands of different virtuous paths, I was eager to join them. They were awe-inspiring, powerful and determined in the way I had always wanted to be. But they would not teach me what I wanted to learn. ¡°Instead, they taught me how to y their games. They taught me how to properly maintain my body, how to hone my mind with discipline. They broadened my experiences, but they would not advise me in my cultivation. Not a single one.¡± ¡°Why not?¡± Myron demanded, horribly frustrated. His experience had been much the same within the cult. I saw the thrust of Sol¡¯s point, though, and so threw my own drachma down on the table. ¡°There is a saying that the elders are quite fond of,¡± I mused. ¡°A young man is like a puppy that only ys with an argument. He¡¯s easily convinced into and out of all opinions, until eventually he believes nothing at all.¡± ¡°Your father won¡¯t guide you onto his own path, will he? Even though you¡¯ve asked him many times.¡± Sol didn¡¯t need to wait for Myron to nod. He already knew he was right. ¡°He isn¡¯t trying to stifle you. It¡¯s the opposite. Philosophy is the study of virtue, and it is a poison to the mind if you don¡¯t have the life experiences to give it proper context. Your father doesn¡¯t want to stifle you by exposing you to these things before you¡¯re ready to decide your true path.¡± ¡°Then what am I supposed to do?¡± Myron asked. ¡°I can¡¯t progress anymore. I go to the gymnasium every day, I attend extra hours with the instructors, and it isn¡¯t good enough anymore! What am I doing wrong?¡± ¡°You¡¯re doing the same things you¡¯ve always done,¡± I said. Sol nodded, correcting Myron¡¯s posture as his frustration bled into his harvesting. ¡°It¡¯s a miracle you¡¯ve made it as far as you have, but this was bound to happen. You¡¯ve been sailing without oarsmen or stars to guide you, cousin. Be thankful the winds have merely stopped blowing.¡± ¡°The legionaries could not, or would not, stifle me by exposing me to paths I wasn¡¯t ready to walk. But they introduced me to new things. New aspects of life that I had never experienced before. Virtue is performative excellence. And there is excellence to be found in every action.¡± Sol took the sickle and swiped it once, cleanly, through a bundle of wheat stalks. Myron blinked, sky blue eyes widening. ¡°You¡¯ve made it this far by achieving excellence in the tasks you were given as a young aristocrat. Now you need to try something new.¡± ¡°We can¡¯t give you the answer,¡± I said, amused. ¡°But you can add a few oarsmen to your ship, and start rowing until the winds return.¡± Chapter 0.7 [The Young Miss-tocrat] Chapter 0.7 [The Young Miss-tocrat] The Young Miss-tocrat There were only so many indignities she could be made to suffer. Surely, at some point, the nightmare had to end. ¡°Absent again,¡± Castor observed. Her brother, younger by a year, reclined on a couch to the left of her own, frowning as he rolled an olive between his fingers. ¡°He really is shameless.¡± ¡°I tell you every time,¡± Heron said, on his own couch across the table. ¡°He lost what little sense he had when that ve showed up, and it¡¯s only getting worse with time. Lio would rather spend time with garbage than us, his own family.¡± His gaze was thick as olive oil on her skin. His motives were as obvious as they¡¯d ever been. So tactless. ¡°That¡¯s too harsh,¡± Myron said, stirring a chunk of bread in his spirit wine. His older brother nced sharply at him but he red mutinously back. Since he¡¯d broken past his cultivating block weeks ago, ascending to the same seventh rank that Heron currently upied, he had grown far bolder during their nightly dinners. Though, perhaps his cultivation wasn¡¯t the only thing to me for that. ¡°What does it matter if he eats elsewhere? It¡¯s not like any of you went out of your way to invite him. Besides, I like Solus-¡± ¡°Do not!¡± Myron¡¯s mouth shut reflexively, and though he tried to hide it behind a pout, his hands trembled at the weight of her pneuma bearing down on him. He may have been a nigh unprecedented prodigy for his age, but he was still only a boy. And while his cultivation was a match for his older brother, it was not at all a match for hers. ¡°Do not say that name in this room,¡± she said. Her voice brooked no argument. She waited for his sullen nod, and only then did she release her pneuma. Madness. Even here, it was seeping through. It had long been tradition for the three pirs of the Rosy Dawn Cult to take their dinners together, and it was the same for their children. For as long as she could remember, the young pirs of the Rosy Dawn had shared evening meals in a private chamber separate from the other initiates. It served as an oasis away from the mob, a reinforcement of their status above it. They were the young aristocrats of the Rosy Dawn, elite among elite, and in time they would be the ones that held the sun in their rising palms. No matter what trials the day brought, she could always look forward to nights with her family. It was a time and a ce where she could fully rx and indulge in the little things. Things like teasing her younger siblings, exchanging discourse with her cousins, and flirting with her fiance. Yes, even though she was only recently fifteen years old, she had known her fiance her entire life. Lydia Aetos had been promised to Lio Aetos the moment she was born. And now, as their promised wedding date loomed less than a year away, he was drifting away from her. From all of them, really. The boy with the wild grin and unstoppable vitality that had so enchanted her when they were children had slowly changed as years passed, and every one of the younger pirs were forced to grow into the roles their fathers hadid out for them. The wild grin had dimmed, reced by a leonine smirk that matched his mane of blond hair and rumbling tenor. His boundless energy and insatiable curiosity had gradually given way to thezy grace of a predator that knew its ce within its domain - above all the rest. It showed in the way he spoke to them - all of them, not just the unrted initiates. It showed in his actions, the flippancy with which he treated subjects that had received his full focus in the past. These changes by themselves were far from unattractive, in her unbiased eyes, but they were only symptoms of arger issue. Lio Aetos had paced around the Rosy Dawn Cult like it was a cage for years. Watching, waiting. All those years she had wondered fruitlessly as to what he was waiting for, what she could do to satisfy him. To revitalize him and return that excitement to his eyes. She still didn¡¯t know what it was, exactly, that he¡¯d been waiting for. What she did know was that he had found it in a ve. ¡°Perhaps Myron is right.¡± Lydia turned, dismayed, to her younger sister. ¡°Even you, Rena?¡± Rena Aetos winced, looking down into her cup. She ran the tip of one slim finger around its rim. ¡°I don¡¯t think Lio dislikes us. I think he just doesn¡¯t realize how much we miss hispany.¡± Heron scoffed at that, and Castor sneered, but she pushed on. ¡°If we invited him to join us I¡¯m sure he¡¯de.¡± ¡°He would!¡± Myron agreed at once. Lydia frowned fiercely. It was absurd that they even had to ask. Family was family, was it not? She was his future wife, was she not? That they would seek each other¡¯spany should have been a given. Yet here she was, swallowing her pride anyway. When it came to Lio, she was truly hopeless. ¡°Fine,¡± she sighed, taking a vine of grapes from the table and settling back onto her lounge. ¡°Tomorrow, I¡¯ll extend an invitation.¡± Tomorrow arrived along with its indignities. Lydia walked the mountaintop peaks with a retinue of the cult¡¯s most promising young women in tow. There was an electric, excited energy amongst the girls, and for good reason- the harvest season was reaching its end, and the Rosy Dawn was beginning to turn its attention to the processes of the cult¡¯s annual initiation. The initiation rites of the Rosy Dawn were a tradition that traced back all the way to the cult¡¯s beginning, when its founder rose to greet the first dawn and passed down his virtues to his children and his sworn brothers-in-arms, drank spirit wine from the same vessel and contemted the greater mysteries of the rising sun. Every year that followed, new blood climbed the eastern mountain ranges of the Scarlet City and submitted themselves to the Rosy Dawn, seeking enlightenment to one of life¡¯s greatest mysteries and membership within the strongest group of cultivators in the region. Beyond admittance of new members, it was also a method for current mystikos to elevate their standing within the cult, andpete for a chance at being sent to the Daylight Tournament within the Scarlet Stadium,e summer¡¯s end. Naturally, this was what excited the current initiates most. During this time the gymnasiums flooded with eager men and women hoping to advance their cultivation onest time before the rites, torches burned within the cult¡¯s libraries long into the night, and the mountaintop estates abounded with families from the city hoping to win their children a spot on the roster. Lydia waved a hand, halting her fellow initiates while she moved forward, stepping deftly through perilous outcroppings of rock and tracing a path that only a few had walked over the years. There was always something to be done, whether one was a ve or an honored elder philosopher. Even she had struggled to slip away from her duties to track down her fiance and ask him to dinner. It made it all the more galling to find him here, lounging in a depression carved out of the mountain¡¯s face by hand, such that you could be shaded while looking down upon Alikos in all its glory. She had known to search this ce despite its istion from the rest of the estate for a simple reason. They had carved it out together, all of the cousins, years ago. It had been a secret location for them to gather during the day, when they were too impatient to wait for dinner. Now he shared it with a ve. Her blood boiled. It was an insult that her virtuous heart could not stand. ¡°Lio,¡± she said, her voice deceptively mild. ¡°What do you think you¡¯re doing?¡± ¡°Cousin,¡± he greeted, looking up at her. Normally her heart raced when he looked at her with those scarlet eyes of his, so sharp a contrast from the sky blue that the rest of the family bore. But not now. She was too furious to be smitten. ¡°How dare you defile this ce with that garbage?¡± She jabbed a finger at the ve. The wretch didn¡¯t even acknowledge her. He sat beside her fiance with his legs crossed, back against the mountain, and his miserable eyes shut. He looked for all the world as if he hadn¡¯t heard her, hadn¡¯t felt her pneuma sweep down and attempt to wring the life from his cursed neck the moment she saw him. ¡°That judgement is hardly fair,¡± Lio chided her. Amusement made his eyes shine. ¡°He hasn¡¯t even introduced himself. Go on, ve. Say hello to my cousin.¡± ¡°Another one?¡± the ve asked, eyes still closed. He opened gray eyes, regarding her neutrally. ¡°My name is Solus. How can I serve the Young Mistress?¡± ¡°You can die,¡± she hissed. ¡°As you wish.¡± Before her disbelieving eyes, he stood and walked to the alcove¡¯s edge. ¡°By that,¡± Griffonmanded, reaching up and grabbing a fistful of the ve¡¯s ragged tunic. He yanked him back from the edge. ¡°Worthless Roman. No one thinks you¡¯re funny.¡± Roman? ¡°If you must know,¡± he told her, ¡°we were contemting the celestial mystery.¡± It was amon form of meditation within the cult, one that Damon Aetos himself was said to often practice. The sun was just now descending from its zenith, still a vibrant gold. The view of it from the alcove was breathtaking. ¡°Why is a ve contemting the mysteries when there is work to be done?¡± she demanded. The ve nodded, eyes once more closed as he resumed his meditation. ¡°I agree.¡± The impudence of this man. ¡°Did I ask your opinion, ve?¡± ¡°No,¡± he said. ¡°But you received it.¡± ¡°Haa?¡± Lydia Aetos¡¯ frayed patience finally snapped. She¡¯d had enough of barking dogs. She threw forth a rosy palm, her pneuma lighting up the alcove with its terrible splendor as her technique surged from her virtuous heart to the tips of her fingers. She would put an end to this herself. Something about this ve had blinded her cousin, but she would help him see. He belonged by her side, he belonged with his family, not here in their old ce with that miserable, cursed- Griffon caught her wrist and pulled her tight to his chest. Her divine technique fizzled and died in her hand. She found herself staring up into curious scarlet eyes, unable to breathe. ¡°Why are you here, Lydia?¡± he asked her. Ah. Right. ¡°Will youe to dinner tonight?¡± she asked, voice small. ¡°Of course,¡± heughed, and she fell in love again. ¡°We¡¯ll be there.¡± Rage. Chapter 0.8 Chapter 0.8 ¡°I told you to focus! Look at what you¡¯ve done- a block of the Rosy Dawn¡¯s finest marble is wasted!¡± There was something profoundlyedic about watching a nine year old boy so grantly berate a boy older andrger than him, and for that older,rger boy to cringe as if death itself was hanging over his head. There was sense to it, of course. The nine year old may have been younger and smaller, but his cultivation was also advanced beyond most initiates double his age. The older,rger boy, was hardly a cultivator at all. Certainly, he was no mystiko. It was the final day of the qualifying week that prefaced the Rosy Dawn Cult¡¯s annual initiation rites, and hopeful cultivators of varying ages had beening in droves from far and wide to test themselves before their would-be seniors. ¡°What do you have to say for yourself?¡± Mryon demanded of the boy, who looked to be a few years older than him. Stout and muscled, he¡¯d honed his body well. s, his cultivation evidently left much to be desired. ¡°Well? Speak! I, your father, will decide your fate!¡± The would-be mystiko shook, eyes darting frantically as he struggled to find an answer that would save his life. In the distance, amidst the crowd of parents and other rtives, his father took his sobbing mother into his arms and turned them both away. Myron¡¯s pneuma rose as the silence grew long, expression darkening with affected rage. ¡°Ho, the young kyrios is fierce,¡± I said, nting a hand on my littlest cousin¡¯s head and ruffling his hair vigorously. I smothered his pneuma beneath my own, and the young applicant gasped in a breath. ¡°Lio!¡± he cried, embarrassed. ¡°You¡¯re interrupting!¡± ¡°Is it not a senior initiate¡¯s imperative to advise his junior when he errs?¡± I asked rhetorically. Ah, the boy was still here. ¡°Begone,¡± I said, and he went sprinting back to his parents. ¡°I wasn¡¯t erring,¡± Myron said, crossing his arms and ring petntly at the failed applicant¡¯s retreating back. ¡°That¡¯s how father said seniors are supposed to handle failures. I was even letting him exin himself first.¡± My uncle had surely been thinking along a different path than my littlest cousin. In his own way, Myron had been attempting to help the would-be initiate by giving him a chance to exin himself. I could easily imagine him procuring a second marble block for the boy if he¡¯d managed to exin his first poor performance. Unfortunately, my cousin underestimated the effect he had on his juniors. ¡°Have a seat, cousin,¡± I told him, and he reluctantly obliged. ¡°Who would join the Rosy Dawn?¡± I called, and the crowd of hopefuls at the edge of the pavilion roiled and heaved. Another young boy was spat out, urged forward by his parents. He approached with visible anxiety. I snapped my fingers. ¡°Marble.¡± Sol dropped a block of marble the size of a man down in front of the applicant. The boy flinched as stone mmed against stone. ¡°You¡¯vee here to pursue one of life¡¯s greater mysteries,¡± I dered. The applicant nodded as if it had been a question. ¡°The Rosy Dawn Cult has neither the time nor the inclination to polish every filthy scrap of bronze that presents itself to us. Lay your hands on this marble block and chisel it in your image.¡± He forced himself to meet my eyes and knew I found him wanting. ¡°Let us see your soul.¡± The boy grit his teeth and stepped forward, pressing both hands t against the block and sying his fingers out wide. His pneuma rose and pierced the stone, suffusing it from edge to edge. The boy eye¡¯s clenched shut as he focused, whispering soundlessly to himself as he manipted his life¡¯s essence. ¡°You didn¡¯t ask for his name,¡± Myron whispered crossly. I blinked, confused. ¡°Why would I want to know it?¡± The stone groaned and cracked, hairline fractures appearing on its surface and spreading like the veins of a lightning strike. The applicant gasped, eyes flying open, and all at once a portion of the marble block simply fell away. Chunks and shards littered the ground around what now stood where before had been a formless pir. A statue of the applicant jutting proudly from the earth, the only immediate difference from the boy whose pneuma had carved it being that it was naked. Its expression, as well, was far more confident and assured, marble eyes staring wantonly up to heaven. It stood, back straight, one hand on its hip and the other clenched into a fist at its side. It was a strong pose, well conceptualized. There were small inconsistencies, issues of refinement. The nose was not quite the right shape, and the right ear was chipped at the tip. The muscture was off in several ces. That being said, it was far better than the mangled wretch that the previous applicant had managed. ¡°Crude,¡± I observed, and the boy¡¯s shoulders fell. ¡°But I suppose I¡¯ll ept it. Your fate is in the elders¡¯ hands, now. Take your spirit marble and go find someone who looks too old to be alive, tell them the Young Aristocrat sent you.¡± The boy¡¯s face lit up and he frantically thanked me before heaving the spirit marble over his shoulder with some effort. He moved deeper into the pavilion in search of a philosopher. In the crowd, his mother jumped up and down in joy while his father epted sped hands and words of praise from the other men around them. The pavilion that the qualification trials took ce in was the central point of the Rosy Dawn Cult, from which its gymnasiums, bathhouses, and various estates branched out along the mountaintop. It was built in the same style as the grand agora within the Scarlet City where citizens gathered each day to do the majority of the city¡¯s business, and was of aparable size despite seeing far less daily traffic. Pristine stone steps on each side led up to a massive baster za, framed by pirs in the shape of the cult¡¯s greatest heroic cultivators, each one gazing longingly up to heaven. Within the center of the central pavilion was a grand fountain that gushed crystalline water from the open palm of a faceless man. On an average day there might be a few dozen initiates and merchants scattered around the grand agora, but today it was packed nearly full. ¡°Did you see the difference between us?¡± I asked my littlest cousin. He was watching me intently. ¡°The senior initiates ridicule and threaten applicants because they can, and because they were ridiculed and threatened when they were applicants. It¡¯s an assertion of what small renown they¡¯ve gained since then.¡± ¡°It¡¯s also an application of pressure,¡± Sol observed, having stayed back to watch. He had that distant look in his eyes, reliving some memory or another. ¡°There are parts of a man that you¡¯ll never see unless you push him to his breaking point.¡± I scoffed. ¡°The Rosy Dawn isn¡¯t the legions, and these children are no soldiers.¡± He shrugged, conceding the point. ¡°The trials are pressure enough as it is,¡± I said. Myron nodded. ¡°And you are a pir of the Rosy Dawn, whose cultivation speaks for itself.¡± Another, pleased nod. ¡°So why are you barking like a dog?¡± ¡°I¡¯m not! I¡¯m just¡­¡± He frowned. ¡°Copying the other initiates, who are beneath you in every way,¡± I finished. ¡°But Heron does it this way.¡± I raised an eyebrow. Myron looked away, chagrined. ¡°There is a reason why senior initiates are enlisted to screen applicants,¡± I exined, sitting down and picking up a stray chunk of marble the size of my head. I exhaled, permeating it with my pneuma. ¡°It eases the burden of numbers on the elders, but not by much. The true purpose is to introduce future juniors to current seniors.¡± A fine stone powder drifted off the marble chunk as my pneuma wore it down. Within moments I held a fierce marble eagle in my hand, its wings spread wide. I tossed it to him. ¡°Today is the day that future initiates will pass judgement on your character,¡± I told him. ¡°So, since you are their superior in all things, act like it. Leave the barking to the dogs.¡± ¡°And leave the preening to your cousin.¡± Sol offered his opinion, unprompted as usual. I sneered. ¡°Fetch us another block, ve.¡± He snorted, but obliged. Myron brushed down his cult attire and gathered himself. ¡°I¡¯ll do my best,¡± he dered. ¡°I know you will,¡± I said, ruffling his hair fondly. I wandered off, and I heard him clearly as he called out to the masses. ¡°Who would join the Rosy Dawn!?¡± By dusk, thest of the year¡¯s applicants had been epted or rejected and processed ordingly. Sessful applicants were given time to bid their families a joyful farewell and then ushered into one of the outer estates where they would be living as fresh initiates. The beginnings of many sworn brotherhoods would be forged in those first few hours as soon-to-be initiates excitedly spoke to one another about the rites toe. The rites began in the dead of night, hours before the dawn. The men and women of the Rosy Dawn, however, began preparations much earlier than that. It was an event that every single member of the cult took part in, from the lowliest junior initiates to the pirs themselves, Damon Aetos and his brothers. Every cultist had a role to fulfill as the sun dipped below the western mountain range. Many took to the mountain trails in their ceremonial robes with ornate y jugs in their arms, racing through harvested wheat fields towards the sea. Others lined themselves along the peaks of the eastern mountain range, torches burning brightly in their hands. The challengers, junior initiates looking to ascend to senior rank, gathered in a crowd amongst each other and exchanged barbs in tense anticipation. The estates were alive with shadowed motion and excited whispers. The ritessted for two full days, ending as the sun dawned on the third. Due to the confidential nature of the initiation they were two of the most restful days a ve would experience in service to the Rosy Dawn Cult. Every single servant was confined to quarters for the entirety of the rites. Most of them, anyway. Dozens of men shouted and flinched as I kicked down the door to their quarters, woken from what had no doubt been blissful sleep. I grinned brightly, stalking across the room towards the one man who had the audacity to re at me. The ves in my path hurriedly threw themselves out of the way. ¡°What is this?¡± Sol demanded, voice rough from sleep. I dropped a leather sack over his head and cinched it tight, and then I threw him over my shoulder. ¡°Don¡¯t fight it!¡± I told him cheerfully. Traditionally, the qualifying trials were a prerequisite for initiation to the cult. However, the pirs of the Rosy Dawn enjoyed the unique privilege of being able to sponsor one initiate of their choosing each year, regardless of cultivation or status, so long as they personally saw them through the rites. They could choose anyone. Even a ve. Chapter 0.9 [The Rites Pt.1] Chapter 0.9 [The Rites Pt.1] The mysteries. Greater or lesser, they were the foundation of enlightened society as the Mediterranean knew it. The phenomena that eluded all exnation and drove men to maddening heights of cultivation in pursuit of an exnation. No man, no matter how sublime his cultivation, had ever found a satisfying answer to even the least of the divine mysteries. They were the questions that had gued humanity for as long as there were written histories. But we pursued them anyway. It was our hubris that drove us. Our fundamental audacity, that we could look upon the deepestplexities of creation and decide that they were within our understanding. To be incensed that there were things in this life that were not already known to our collective conscious. Cultivators were nothing more and nothing less than stargazers reaching desperately up to heaven, trying to catch divinity in our hands. It was the only way to part the cosmic veil. The only way to know. Whaty at the peak of Olympus Mons wasn¡¯t something mortal eyes could see. We stole the new initiates from their rooms as the moon fell out of the sky, covering their heads with leather sacks and coaxing them down the far side of the mountain range. More than a few panicked, stumbled, even tripped and fell. A senior mystiko was always close by to catch them, though they received an earful for the trouble. It was a chaotic process, meant to disrupt and disorient the new blood. Several mystikos carried drums that they pounded as the new initiates staggered past, and a low chant was carried from the peak of the mountain all the way down to the harvesting fields. The chaos centered them. Forced them to focus on the rites, here and now, and not whatever delusions of renown they had been dreaming of after passing the qualification trials. We walked them down the mountains and through the fields, until the smell of soil and livestock gave way to the salty tang of the Ionian Sea. A line of fire stood out on the beach, senior initiates patiently waiting with torches in hand and y jugs filled to the brim with seawater. Their eyes were bright, underscored with scarlet paint. I dumped Sol into the sand, rolling my shoulder while he cursed. One of the senior initiates approached us, walking out of the ocean shallows and offering me their torch. I epted it, kicking the back of Sol¡¯s knee when he tried to rise. He snarled another curse. The senior mystiko, a man a few years older than me with scarlet-painted hair, hesitated. His eyes locked onto the manacles around Sol¡¯s wrists, the severed halves of the chain that had connected them coiling in the sand. He looked askance at me. ¡°Why is the morning tide sacred?¡± I asked him. His expression firmed. ¡°Because it is the first to greet the dawn,¡± he said, and tore the leather sack off of Sol¡¯s head. The irritated Roman hardly had time to blink before the senior¡¯s jug of salt water was upended over his head. He coughed and spat, shaking seawater from his eyes. ¡°Son of a-¡± ¡°Repeat after me-¡± ¡°- whore.¡± ¡°Repeat after me!¡± the senior initiate snapped. ¡°I have fasted.¡± Sol red at him. ¡°Say the words, ve,¡± I ordered him. ¡°I didn¡¯t carry you down that mountain for nothing.¡± ¡°I have fasted.¡± ¡°I have drunk the kykeon,¡± the senior initiate continued, procuring an animal skin from the folds of his ceremonial attire and holding it out. Sol considered it dubiously. I sighed, plucking it from the mystiko¡¯s hand and taking a long pull from its contents. The spirit wine was sweet and potent, heavily spiced. I tossed it Sol¡¯s way and he reluctantly drank the rest. His pupils dted. ¡°I have drunk the kykeon.¡± ¡°Then prepare to greet the dawn,¡± the mystiko intoned, and led us into the sea. A man¡¯s first experience with spirit wine was always a memorable one. Doubly so if he had the mixed fortune of experiencing it during the rites. Sol knelt in warm waves, transfixed, along with all the other new initiates as the scarlet sun breached the far horizon. He¡¯d drunk all but the impure lees at the bottom of the wine skin, and I knew from experience that his every essence was alive in this moment, his pneuma coursing through his veins in a way he had never felt before. It was a powerful resonance even to the most undeveloped of cultivators. For someone on his level it was something truly profound. It was a shame about the manacles. I could only imagine how infuriating it must have been to feel his pneuma in such a state, begging to be unleashed, and having no way to reach it. The dawn broke fully through the waves. The rites had begun. ¡°What makes you think I want to join your cult?¡± Sol asked,ter, as juniors and seniors alike hiked back up the mountain. Rising clear-eyed with the dawn. His pupils were still dted but he had shaken off the haze that came with overindulgence of the spirits. He was lucid enough to sneer. ¡°What makes you think you have a choice?¡± I countered. ¡°Be thankful. It¡¯s by my grace alone that you¡¯ll witness one of heaven¡¯s greatest mysteries.¡± He frowned, looking back and raising a hand against the rising sun. ¡°What are we expected to do for two days straight?¡± ¡°The first day is more about the established members of the cult than it is about you.¡± I withdrew my own wine skin from the folds of my ceremonial robes, dyed entirely red with white trim along the edges. The kykeon burned pleasantly down my throat. Sol eyed it warily, shaking his head when I offered him a pull. ¡°You¡¯ve witnessed your first rosy dawn. Now we return to the pavilion, where you¡¯ll observe the cult¡¯s finest cultivators seeking renown before their peers. A truly inspiring sight,¡± I said wryly. ¡°There are three trials a junior can advance by, one for each element of the tripartite soul.¡± Trial by logos, thymos, and eros. Reason. Spirit. Hunger. ¡°What are these trials?¡± Sol asked as we crested the mountain. I waved a hand. ¡°See for yourself.¡± He stopped short and stared. The Rosy Dawn was at war. There was no other description for the chaos that had overtaken the mountaintop while we were out greeting the dawn. Hundreds upon hundreds of mystikos, from the young prodigies to the fully grown seniors, were locked in a riotous melee that had originated in the central pavilion and quickly spilled out onto the pathways that connected the estates. Fine ceremonial tunics and robes were marred with dirt and blood as mystiko battled mystiko with furious zeal. Two factions warred at the center of the mayhem. Sixteen men, eight on each side, heaved and pulled with all their might on a rope as thick around as their forearms. Helkustinda, the pulling war. The men of both teams snarled and gnashed their teeth, muscles straining visibly as each team struggled to pull the other¡¯s furthest member past the central point of the pavilion - the faceless fountain statue¡¯s open palm. They were surrounded by a roaring crowd armed with jugs full of kykeon. When a man began to lose steam, the crowd doused him in spirit wine so that he might rally his pneuma. Meanwhile, man-to-man brawls raged along the pavilion¡¯s edges. Already, its pure gray stone was slick with blood and wine. ¡°This is mad,¡± Sol said, wide eyed. ¡°This is trial by spirit,¡± I corrected. ¡°Every mystiko within the Civic Realm is wee to take part and test themselves against another cultivator of civic rank. The elders are watching, obviously. Advancement to senior status is decided by martial prowess, strength of will, and stamina.¡± Up on the pavilion, a gging member of the pulling war¡¯s western team shouted in furious determination. He threw his head back, mouth open wide, and his fellow mystikos were more than happy to oblige him with a deluge of spirit wine. He gulped down as much as he could and shook himself like a dog. Eyes zing, muscles flexing. His efforts redoubled. Off to our left, a junior mystiko came hurtling through the air, iling wildly with a dagger in each hand. Sol moved, snatching him out of the air and mming him down on the stone steps. The boy choked clutching his side in agony. ¡°That was hardly necessary.¡± ¡°He approached me,¡± Sol said, prodding the boy with a foot. The mystiko groaned and rolled pitifully away from it. I raised an eyebrow. ¡°He was thrown.¡± ¡°He approached me,¡± Sol repeated. He watched the other brand new initiates stream past, rushing after their senior chaperones in search of safety from the chaos. ¡°What of the other two?¡± ¡°You!¡± And so he was answered. ¡°Trial by hunger,¡± I supplied, amused, as Heron stormed through the press ofbat to reach us. He was as of yet untouched, his ceremonial attire pristine. Though perhaps not for much longer. His pneuma rose precipitously as heid eyes on Sol. ¡°ves are confined to quarters,¡± he snapped. ¡°Arrogant wretch. I shouldsh the skin off your back.¡± ¡°That¡¯s no way to speak to a new initiate, cousin,¡± I chided. Blue eyes widened in rage. ¡°You can¡¯t possibly be serious. You would taint your father¡¯s Rosy Dawn with this filth?¡± Heron jabbed a finger into Sol¡¯s chest. The Roman didn¡¯t move, and he had no ability to flex his pneuma, but the look in his dted eyes made clear his intent. My dear cousin was tempting the Fates. ¡°Are you out of your mind, Lio!?¡± ¡°I thought you¡¯d be pleased,¡± I said mildly. ¡°With this, you can say it was a future mystiko that savaged you in chains.¡± Atst, my cousin found his manly side. His face hardened. His hands burned brightly as he assumed a pankration stance, disdaining the ve entirely. ¡°There are certain privileges that a member of the Rosy Dawn is afforded as they gain renown,¡± I exined for Sol¡¯s benefit, shrugging my shoulders out of my ceremonial robes. A belt of white cloth around my waist kept them from falling awaypletely. ¡°Certain benefits. Certain affections.¡± Heron¡¯s expression didn¡¯t change, but his pneuma red wrathfully. ¡°It¡¯s a man¡¯s nature to desire what he does not have. That is the trial by hunger. During the rites he can take it by force. If he¡¯s able.¡± I grinned savagely, throwing my arms out wide for my cousin. ¡°You want this status? Come try and take it.¡± Chapter 0.10 [The Rites Pt.2] Chapter 0.10 [The Rites Pt.2] The Rosy Dawn was a cult that pursued the mysteries of heaven. Its purpose was wholly divorced from issues of blood-based hierarchy; by its nature, it valued performative excellence over filial ties. And yet. Heron gagged as I buried my fist in his gut. My father¡¯s line reigned supreme. ¡°You¡¯re familiar with the concept of social standing, yes?¡± I asked Sol, leaning away from a burning right cross and shifting my feet. I jabbed through my cousin¡¯s guard, breaking his nose with a sharp crack. ¡°Even animals recognize hierarchy, surely Rome hase that far.¡± Sol squinted at me, no doubt weighing the pros and cons of joining the fight on my cousin¡¯s side. ¡°I¡¯m familiar.¡± ¡°Then you know that within every society, civilized or not, there is social order. When one man stands above another it¡¯s only natural that his word carries greater weight.¡± Heron exhaled a seething breath, his pneuma spiraling around his right fist. Predictably, it was only a feint to draw my attention away from a left hook. I ducked the left and lunged in before he could turn the right into a true strike, nting my shoulder in his gut and lifting him off his feet. ¡°The Scarlet City is built upon the backs of four social sses,¡± I exined, wrapping both arms around my cousin¡¯s head and twisting at the hips, mming him to the stone. ¡°ves are the lowest of the four, obviously. Freedmen are technically their betters, upying the third rank. Metics, foreigners that have won citizenship, are second ss. And then there are the true Alikons, the natural-born citizens.¡± Heron found his feet quickly, pneuma zing as he advanced his virtuous technique to a higher level. Ho, that looked lethal. Striking your own cousin with those shining hands? How cruel. ¡°The ve covets the life of a freedman. The freedman covets the life of a metic, who covets the life of an Alikon. We¡¯re all united by terrible ambition.¡± ¡°Stop talking!¡± Heron snapped, advancing with a flurry of punches that zed likeets. They were burning hot as I diverted them. ¡°But there is division within the sses, too. A metic that works for an Alikon is lesser to the metic who peddles his own wares, is he not? A ve who works a trade to pay his freedom price is naturally above the ve thatnguishes in worthless duties, is that not so?¡± ¡°And a nephew to the kyrios is lesser to the son,¡± Sol finished for me. I grinned, sweeping my cousin¡¯s feet and kicking him down the steps when he tried to catch his fall with a handstand. ¡°The citizen is lesser to the noble, and the noble is lesser to the heir,¡± I agreed. ¡°My cousins upy a leading ss within the leading ss. The Aristois. Did your tutor ever teach you that word, ve?¡± Sol sneered. I¡¯d take that as a yes. ¡°I exist on a level even higher than that. Heron covets that space and resents me for upying it. It consumes him.¡± ¡°Difficult to me him,¡± Sol mused while I deflected Heron¡¯s zing charge up the steps. His rosy cultivation had spread from the tips of his fingers all the way to his elbows now, and seared any eye that looked upon them. ¡°Bad enough that you were born to the ruling brother by chance. That you¡¯re insufferable on top of it? I¡¯d be furious as well.¡± I barked augh, catching burning fists that would have shattered and immted the body of any cultivator below the fifth civic rank. Our fingers interlocked as Heron strained against me with everything he had, soul zing. I looked him in the eyes and tightened my grip. ¡°You misunderstand,¡± I told Sol, without breaking eye contact. ¡°Aristois is a word with two meanings. Best by birth, yes. But best by virtue just the same. My father was the oldest son of my grandfather, but he was also the strongest of the four. That¡¯s why he leads today.¡± Heron roared in impotent rage, and then in pain as my grip tightened past the point his body could bear. He fell to one knee, straining against me with broken hands and flickering, dying light. ¡°The reason I exist above you is not that I had the good fortune of being born, cousin.¡± I pressed down. His rosy light faded, and I told him the truth. ¡°It¡¯s because I am better than you.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t even want it,¡± Heron hissed, defeat in his eyes. ¡°Any of it!¡± I raised an eyebrow. ¡°What does that matter?¡± Finally, his body gave out. He bitterly conceded and the trial by hunger ended. His cultivator¡¯s soul starved. Sol was pensively silent as we moved on to the next stage of the rites. The third ascendant trial was the least physical, but most arduous by far. The trial by spirit was a simple test of will and brute force, judged holistically by the elders and easy to pass. This was how the vast majority of junior initiates rose to senior status. The trial by hunger was brutally decisive, won and lost without any input from the ruling ss. This was how personal vendettas and greed were settled. The trial by reason was a test of virtue conducted by the pirs of the Rosy Dawn themselves. It was not a holistic process. There were correct and incorrect answers, made evident by the manifestation of virtue that was a cultivator¡¯s pneuma. The elders were known to favor certain initiates over others, and those biases were reflected in their judgements. My uncles had no such weakness. Fotios and Stavros Aetos, the twin eagle pirs of the Rosy Dawn, were men that other men paid to hear stories of. Built in my grandfather¡¯s image, they shared my father¡¯s massive frame as well as his dark curls, and their skin was burnished bronze. Their eyes burned an unearthly blue, their virtuous spirits lighting them from within. There was an unmistakable gravity that apanied them, conveyed through their every word and motion. They were both captains of the heroic realm. Legendary cultivators so far beyond the average cultivator that they were a separate existence entirely. It was said that even the lowest hero was beloved by the Muses and reviled by the Fates. They were yers of monsters, champions of humanity. That these two had returned from their epic journeys alongside my father, two decades ago, and subjugated themselves to their brother in service of the cult only added to Damon Aetos¡¯ absurd renown. On any other day my uncles would have had far more pressing concerns than the business of mystikos, but during the rites they were the arbiters of virtue for those who sought ascendancy through reason. Mystikos gathered in the hallowed gymnasium, normally reserved for Damon Aetos and his brothers alone, and presented their souls for judgement. Unlike the trial by spirit, there was no upper limit to how high a member of the Rosy Dawn could ascend through reason. This was how honored philosophers were born. Every respected elder within the Rosy Dawn had at some point gathered in the kyrios¡¯ gymnasium andid bare his soul. For this reason, and because meeting the twin eagles and being found wanting was in many ways worse than death, only the cult¡¯s absolute finest had gathered within the filial gymnasium to test their fate. ¡°What is the first virtue?¡± Fotios intoned. ¡°Justice.¡± ¡°And what is justice?¡± Stavros prompted the mystiko. ¡°Justice is the providence of strength,¡± the man said, back straight and proud as he stood before the twin eagles. ¡°It is the unshakeable foundation upon which enlightened civilization is built. It is the unspoken contract between virtuous men. Vengeance against vice, light in endless night. Justice isn¡¯t something the eyes can see, but it can be felt in every corner of the soul.¡± The twin pirs closed their eyes in solemn contemtion. In reality, I knew my uncles well enough to know that they were restraining the urge to p the young man across his face. It hadn¡¯t been a particrly good answer. Fotios reigned his irritation in first, and spoke. ¡°Show us your justice, then.¡± The hopeful ascendant¡¯s pneuma rose, denser and more vibrant than any of the younger generation by orders of magnitude. Sophic realm. He held out his hand, palm up, and his pneuma spiraled into it. A ball of light formed, invisible to the eye but easily felt even on the fringes of the gymnasium where Sol and I were observing. The mystiko inhaled sharply. The ball rippled and split apart into four shards, each warped and chaotic. He grit his teeth, sweat beading on his brow. My uncles watched impassively. He exhaled, and his intent turned the four writhing shards of spirit light into des. They fanned out around him, hanging in the air. Unseen, but lethally sharp. The mystiko gestured and each de flew through the room, following its own distinct trajectory as it weaved through pirs and initiates alike. The mystiko¡¯s body jerked as the spirit des were ripped from his control in an instant. My uncles, having plucked them from the air with their own heroic pneuma, considered them briefly before dismissing them. They shared a nce, wordlessly exchanging profound judgement that could likely be vocalized as ¡°these worthless children¡±, and made their decision. ¡°The Rosy Dawn recognizes your virtuous heart, senior mystiko,¡± Fotios said. He smiled faintly, a forced gesture. ¡°You are not yet ready to join the ranks of the elder philosophers, but wemend your effort. The cult is d to have you.¡± It was a kinder judgement than Stavros would have rendered. Hells, it was a kinder judgement than I would have given. The trial thus ended, the mystiko immediately dropped to one knee and gave thanks to the twin eagles for their consideration, struggling to contain his dejection. Respects paid, he rose and fled the gymnasium with as much grace as he could manage. It wasn¡¯t much. Another senior initiate swiftly approached. ¡°What is the first virtue?¡± my uncle asked. ¡°Courage.¡± ¡°And what is courage?¡± And so it went. ¡°What do you think, ve?¡± I asked hourster as we left the gymnasium. Precious few of the ascendant prospects had received favorable judgement, and for good reason. My eyes had zed over more than once, listening to some of those sophists speak. I was more than ready for the feasting and celebration. Those that had ascended by each of the three trials would revel in their hard won renown for the night, telling stories to the new blood and basking in their starry-eyed praise. It would carry us through the night and into the dawn. Then, tomorrow, the initiation of the new members would truly begin. ¡°What do I think of what?¡± Sol asked. There had been something on his mind since I¡¯d beaten down my cousin. Even now, he had that pensive air about him. ¡°What is the first virtue?¡± I prompted. Unsurprisingly, he didn¡¯t hesitate. ¡°Freedom.¡± I snorted. ¡°So says the ve.¡± He shrugged. ¡°There are four cardinal virtues,¡± I said, ticking four fingers off one by one. ¡°Justice, courage, wisdom, and temperance. In every story worth telling of every man worth remembering, at least one has been present. Is that not so?¡± ¡°It is.¡± ¡°But you say freedomes first?¡± ¡°It does.¡± ¡°Can a ve not be wise? Can they not be bold?¡± I asked. ¡°Can your eyes not see justice while your wrists are shackled? If I offered you a cup of wine would you not be able to restrain yourself from drinking it?¡± ¡°I¡¯m capable of all of those things,¡± he said evenly. ¡°And yet you are not free.¡± The ve tilted his head. ¡°Neither are you.¡± I¡¯d never heard such an absurd thing in my life. My pneuma rose. ¡°Excuse me?¡± He was as he had always been. Since that very first day, in that courtyard under the stars. He weathered my wrath without hesitation, meeting my eyes without fear. ¡°What is the purpose of a man?¡± he asked. ¡°To climb Olympus Mon,¡± I answered at once. ¡°To challenge the Fates and win.¡± ¡°When a man is born, the Fates weave his future and swaddle him in it,¡± he recited. It was amon saying among the cults, the foundation of one of the greater mysteries. ¡°Men cultivate virtue so that they can cast off that swaddling weave.¡± ¡°If the Fates are defied, who else can tell a man to die?¡± I finished his thought. ¡°A man that other men tell stories about can be wise, brave, tempered, or just. He can be all of these things at once. Or he can be none of them.¡± His dark brows furrowed. ¡°None of it matters if he can¡¯t control his own destiny. Glory is the product of action. Action requires agency. ¡°If you decided to leave this ce, here and now, and never return, would you be able to do it? Would your father allow it? Would your status allow it?¡± I stared at him, silent. ¡°No. It wouldn¡¯t, and you couldn¡¯t. Because you exist within this hierarchy just like everyone else. Your status doesn¡¯t matter. Renown is worthless alone.¡± Sol disdained me with his eyes, and finally spoke the words he¡¯d been thinking since the day we met. ¡°I may be a ve. But you aren¡¯t any more free.¡± Chapter 0.11 [The Rites Pt.3] Chapter 0.11 [The Rites Pt.3] The night passed in a blur of celebration, good food piled high on symposia tables and cups overflowing with spirit wine. This ordering of events was deliberate for the new blood. A salt water shock to the senses to prime them, an introduction to the spirit and vigor of their senior initiates and the martial prowess that was expected of them, and now a night of reveling for those triumphant. Life in the mystery cults of the Mediterranean was vibrant. But it was also intensely dangerous and cared little for those who couldn¡¯t handle the rigors of cultivation. The first day of the rites was a gut check. More than a few new initiates had withdrawn meekly down the mountain when they thought no one was looking, unable to handle the intensity of the trials. They were seen, obviously, but the mystikos let them go. Better they leave on the first day. After the second there was no going back. ¡°Mystikos!¡± A philosopher hollered, voice easily carrying across the pavilion. He looked to be in his twenties but wore the attire of an honored elder. He cast a hand to the east and all eyes followed. ¡°Rise and greet the dawn!¡± Hundreds of mystikos all across the mountaintops rose and cheered as the sun breached the far horizon, throwing cups of spirit wine and all manner of olives, figs, meats and cheeses into the air. Nearly to a man they were all roaring drunk. It wasn¡¯t a state of being that the elders would normally tolerate. Today, though, it was encouraged. Kykeon was an elevated spirit wine, a cultivator¡¯s drink, but it was still wine. It overpowered the senses in excess. The definition of excess, however, changed depending on one¡¯s familiarity with it. A tolerance could be built up to the more intense cognitive influences of the spirit wine with enough exposure. For that reason, among others more obvious, it was a heavily restricted luxury. Only on nights like these were initiates allowed to truly indulge themselves. The absence of a built up tolerance made the experience all the more spectacr. I considered the dawn, sat at a long cypress table with a cup of kykeon in my hand. Sol sat across from me. His eyes were lidded and fatigued. The night hade and gone, and we hadn¡¯t exchanged another word. Drums began to pound as the rosy fingers of dawn reached across the sky. A low chant was taken up at the edges of the central pavilion, philosophers and senior initiates that hadn¡¯t taken part in the festivities advancing into the final stage of the rites. The new blood looked around in drunken bewilderment as their intoxicated senior brothers began shouting and mbering from their seats in excitement. It was time. A new initiate cried out in terror, pointing up at the sky. Eyes followed, the new blood shocked and disbelieving while those who had lived through this day before watched in anticipation. A meteor was falling from heaven. The new blood, ranging from boys my littlest cousin¡¯s age to young men nearly grown, spilled out of the pavilion in a panicked tide as the ball of fire fell. The intoxicated juniors and seniors in attendance made way as well, but there was no fear in their eyes. The meteor hurtled down through burning clouds, and soon its low roar overtook the drumbeats and chanting of the philosophers. Sol watched it fall in stunned wonder. I tilted my cup back, spirit wine spilling down my chin. The falling star struck the central pavilion like the fist of an angry god. ¡°We¡¯re going,¡± I dered once the world had stopped shaking. I stood from the ruined table, blown to shrapnel and shards save for the small section that I had reinforced with my pneuma. Idly, I brushed marble dust and small debris off my ceremonial attire. ¡°Going where?¡± Sol asked incredulously. He looked pointedly around. The Rosy Dawn¡¯s central pavilion had been utterly devastated. The stone steps were shattered, the tables and benches blown clear off the mountain by the force of the impact. The pavilion itself was a cratered ruin, its once wless stone crushed to pieces small enough for use in a mosaic. The only structures left standing, miraculously so, were the marble statues of the heroic cultivators that lined the outer edge of the pavilion. They stood as they always had, proud and tall, gazing up as if tracing the path of the fallen star back to heaven. ¡°Into the mountain to finish your rites,¡± I informed him, striding towards the heart of the crater. Where there had once been a grand central fountain with a faceless statue of a man standing in its waters there was now a yawning chasm. The falling star had punched clean through it and the mountain both, leaving a tunnel of stone that spiraled down through the mountain. Emanating from its depths, impossible for the eye to clearly see at this distance, a rosy glow illuminated the stone. The rest of the initiates would be close behind us. Already, the sober mystikos and philosophers were herding the new blood and their drunken seniors into a manageable crowd, preparing them for their descent. It was a chaotic press of terror and excitement, but cultivators were experts at imposing order on chaos. We reached the edge of the chasm. The meteor had seemingly struck the mountain at an angle, providing a steep but navigable slope down. Sol peered dubiously into it. ¡°Scared?¡± He snorted. ¡°You Greeks are mad.¡± Together we traversed the depths. The rosy glow had long since faded, leaving us in pitch ck with only the distant sounds of the initiates at our backs and our cultivators¡¯ eyes to guide us. The benefits of cultivation allowed us to see, even in oppressive darkness, but only just. We felt our way along the walls as we descended, the stone miraculously cool to the touch. Eventually, a new light appeared. This was the dull orange flickering of torch light, seemingly emanating from the walls of the mountain themselves. It wasn¡¯t until we got closer that their true source became apparent. Stone hallways, carved out of the mountain on either side of the tunnel. Torches mounted to the walls illuminated their paths, winding and curving at a shallower decline until they both eventually turned corners out of sight. In contrast to the main tunnel which continued seemingly endlessly downward, these were clearly man-made. ¡°All of that to open a path that was already here,¡± Sol said. I hummed, confirming his suspicion. ¡°A locked door would have sufficed.¡± ¡°No,¡± I said. ¡°It wouldn¡¯t have.¡± I grabbed a torch from off the wall and continued down the main tunnel. Eventually, the dim noise of the drums and chanting behind us faded entirely as the initiates and their minders split off to follow the hand-carved halls. ¡°The initiation rites exist to convey something that¡¯s impossible to directly describe,¡± I said, crouching and sliding down a particrly steep path of slick rock. ¡°Think, ve. They¡¯re called mysteries for a reason. How could I exin the terror of drowning to you if you had no need to breathe? How could I exin the beauty of a woman if you had no eyes to see?¡± ¡°Indirectly,¡± he realized. I nodded. Even my father couldn¡¯t truly describe whaty at the heart of these mountains, or how they came to be here. The greater mysteries of heaven were something even a Tyrant couldn¡¯t wholly grasp. He could show us, though. And so he did. ¡°The halls we passed wind through the entire mountain range,¡± I exined. ¡°The mystikos will be walking them for the rest of the day and through the night. It won¡¯t feel like it, because they¡¯re all blind drunk on spirit wine and the rest of the cult is inside the mountains with us, carrying on the show.¡± ¡°The show?¡± Sol echoed. ¡°The falling star was only the beginning,¡± I said. ¡°The walls of those man made tunnels are iid with mosaics that visually approximate the genesis of the Rosy Dawn. There are staging caverns carved into the stone at intervals throughout, where initiates are waiting to act out the events for the benefit of the new blood. Members of the cult spend months perfecting virtuous techniques in preparation for their performances.¡± ¡°Then why aren¡¯t we following those paths?¡± ¡°Because they¡¯re worthless,¡± I answered easily. ¡°There is value in my father cracking open this mountain like a tortoise shell. It imparts a sense of scale if nothing else. The acting and the wall art, though? The song and dance? It doesn¡¯t matter.¡± He grunted, annoyed. ¡°What does?¡± he asked. I smirked and tossed my torch down the path. Sol watched it careen down the mountain vein, nonplussed, and was about to speak when it suddenly plunged into a massive opening and vanished. In that moment, that split second before it was snuffed out, something was illuminated that stole his ability to speak. In the silence that followed I could almost hear the hammering of his heartbeat. My own was a rolling thunder in my ears. We crept like thieves towards that gaping precipice. Tension and something else, something thick and overpowering, permeated the stone as we approached. When we finally reached its edge, looking down into a massive cavern that glittered with sourceless light, Sol hesitated. I mmed a hand down on the back of his neck and dragged him with me into the abyss. The cavern was warm, the stone itself seeming to radiate heat. Those bizarre lights that we had seen from the edge of the tunnel were embedded in the cavern¡¯s floor and walls themselves, stones that I had no name for and had never seen above the surface. They converged in a spiraling pattern towards the center of the cavern, towards- ¡°What,¡± Sol breathed, ¡°is that?¡± A bisected corpse. Sprawling, almostnguidly, across a dais of shattered stone. It was a sight I had seen exactly seventeen times before. One for each year of my life. And from the first to thest, each memory was as distant as the one that came before it. Indistinct, nearly formless. There were nights that I woke up and wondered if this ce was a dream, an borate delusion. And then the rites woulde, and I¡¯d delve into the mountain, and I would remember. But even here and now, crouched beside a shell-shocked ve, the details were slipping away from me as I observed them. My eyes traced the body but it was utterly featureless. The face- Tan skin. Chiseled jaw, a high and defined cheekbone. Blond curls the color of the sun and an eye that burned- - was eerily t, smooth like the demolished statue within the pavilion¡¯s central fountain. The body- Leanly muscled, perfectly sculpted. A constetion of stars tattooed across the chest, severed- - was the same. Not a single defining feature. The corpse had been severed cleanly down its center, from crown to groin. The right half was nowhere to be seen, though I suspected I knew where it could be found. The innards, in defiance of all natural forces, remained perfectly contained within their half of the corpse. Somehow, the organs- - half a brain that crackled and shed like the center of a lightning storm. A spine that had fractured as if it were made of marble, trailing threads of sensory veins that almost floated in the air, reaching. Something in the liver, written or spoken, or both or neither. And the heart- I realized, with a start, that the cavern was suddenly full of people. All of the initiates, new arrivals and juniors and seniors, honored elder philosophers, my uncles and cousins. How much time had passed? How long had we been staring? They all looked upon the mysterious entity in the center of the cavern. My iprehension was reflected in their own eyes. None dared approach. None but my father. Damon Aetos stood over the bisected corpse of the fallen sun god. He was speaking, had been speaking for some amount of time that I couldn¡¯t possibly name. But I only now heard him, as he looked across the cavern at me. Me and my ve. ¡°Rise,¡± hemanded. We rose. All of us, the Rosy Dawn. ¡°Initiates old and new. For the third and final time, rise and greet the dawn.¡± And there, within the corpse¡¯s palm, light bloomed. The sun rose. Chapter 0.12 [The Littlest Kyrios] Chapter 0.12 [The Littlest Kyrios] There was something wrong with his cousin. Objectively, Myron knew that Lio had always been an agitator. His earliest memories of his cousin were acts of defiance- Lio had a bad habit of giving credit only when credit was due, and that naturally grated on some of the older mystikos. It had led to more than one senior attempting to educate the Young Aristocrat in the early days when he was still refining his virtue, unerringly to their detriment. But his attitude had always been tempered by a noble restraint, an unspoken acknowledgement that he was the one and only son of Damon Aetos and with that came responsibilities. Lio did what was expected of him. He excelled. And he knew that he could get away with things that others couldn¡¯t as a result. Since the initiation rites, though, something had changed. It was a small thing. If asked, Myron wouldn¡¯t know how to describe it. But it was there. And it was growing by the day. ¡°Your mind is wandering.¡± The cousin in question poked his forehead. Myron flinched. He hated when he did that! ¡°It is not!¡± he denied, though it surely had been. They were meditating in the courtyard, among the filial pools and the statues of the cult¡¯s past kyrioi. Lio had offered to give him a few pointers, seemingly on a whim, the day before. Myron had made a big show of deliberating heavily on the offer, not wanting to be teased for his excitement, but something told him he¡¯d been seen through. Even without the allure of advancing his cultivation, Lio knew he¡¯d never let slip an opportunity to spend time with his older cousin. ¡°Perhaps we¡¯ve been at it too long,¡± Lio mused, ncing up. The sun had been newly risen when they started. It was at its zenith now. ¡°Let¡¯s call it a day-¡± ¡°No!¡± Myron flushed, cursing himself for the outburst. Lio considered him with that scarlet-eyed amusement that all of his cousins despised. It was a look that made you feel like an ant making demands of a lion. It was a look backed by arrogance that, somehow, had not once been humbled in seventeen years of life. It was also, ording to Lydia, maddeningly attractive. She¡¯d always been a little strange when it came to him. ¡°I can keep going,¡± Myron said, firming his posture and inhaling deeply. Lio chuckled, resuming his own meditative stance- though calling it that was an insult to the elders, really. He¡¯d simply draped himself over the stone rim of one of the filial pools, head resting on the crook of his elbow as he circted his pneuma. Pneuma was the vital life force that fueled cultivation. It was virtue made manifest, and ultimately, its refinement was what drove cultivators. Each realm of cultivation, from civic to tyrannic, further refined the soul into something approaching divinity. Each realm revealed to the cultivator a new aspect of their soul, something always known but from birth forgotten. The refinement of that new element was key to ascending to the next realm. And so it went. To enter the Civic Realm one had to first be aware of their soul. Manipting your pneuma was impossible if you couldn¡¯t see it, feel it, or sense it in your blood. While every living thing possessed pneuma, that knowledge alone was not enough to make one aware of their own vital breath. Myron had discovered his pneuma while riding on his father¡¯s shoulders, watching his oldest cousin set sail across the Ionian Sea with tears in his eyes. The Aetos family had all been present at the docks to see him off, even Lio and Uncle Damon. In that moment, the salty sea breeze filling his lungs and sorrow making his heart clench, Myron had realized exactly what the Aetos family was. He¡¯d realized, dimly, the space he upied within it. And that had been enough. Once a cultivator was able to sense their pneuma, they were able to exercise it. The challenge of the Civic Realm was consolidation and fortification. A man could chisel himself a divine body with calisthenics andbat, and he could broaden his mind with philosophy and learning, but he could not bid his pneuma to multiply unless he did both. And even then, it was not always that simple. Myron had reached the seventh rank of the Civic Realm after only three years of active cultivation. His tutors and peers called it an absurd feat. His mother cooed and called him her little prodigy. It was his father and his uncles that Myron gauged his sess by, however, and they had only ever been satisfied. Never impressed. Never joyful. Only ever content with his progress. He knew why. At his age, nine years old, his eldest cousin had already long reached the Sophic Realm. And here was little Myron,nguishing in the Civic Realm without a virtue in his heart. It vexed him. It made him want to try harder. So he did. Every day his pneuma grew. And every day he utterly exhausted it, until he fell into bed without a spark of energy left. Some of the mystikos said it was counterintuitive to exhaust his reserves as he was trying to build them, but Myron was an Aetos. He knew the truth. The soul was a muscle like any other. It had to be broken down before it could be built back up. It was nearly evening when Lio decided he¡¯d had enough. Myron followed him through a brief series of stretches, pondering the best way to broach the topic that had been on his mind for days now. When it came to Lio, direct was almost always the best approach- at least, it was the only approach that had a chance of getting an answer. But something, some gut feeling, told him that this wasn¡¯t the time to be direct. Instead he asked, ¡°Have you started training for the games?¡± Summer was nearing its end, and that only meant one thing to the mystikos of the Rosy Dawn. The Scarlet City¡¯s Daylight Games were nearly upon them. Now that the initiation rites were concluded it was all that was talked about among the cult. Who would be chosen to represent the Rosy Dawn this year, who would be sent by the Burning Dusk Cult, and who was favored to ultimately win it all. The Scarlet City¡¯s annual games were a spectacle like none other, and while, by their nature, they couldn¡¯t match the profound wonder of the initiation rites, they were still an incredible experience. Both the Rosy Dawn and the Burning Dusk pooled their resources with the city each year to throw a city-wide celebration for the winner, and during the games themselves there were vendors of every kinde from far and wide to peddle their exotic wares. It was a non-stop spectacle, and without a doubt Myron¡¯s favorite time of the year. ¡°Training for the games?¡± His cousin repeated, rocking back and forth as he stretched out his hamstrings. ¡°Why would I do that?¡± Myron gaped. He couldn¡¯t be serious. Even he had limits! ¡°You¡¯re representing the Rosy Dawn! You¡¯re our top contender!¡± ¡°And?¡± Lio prompted him, as if anything else had to be said. ¡°You have to win!¡± Lio tilted his head. ¡°Why?¡± ¡°Because-¡± Myron struggled to formte an answer to a question that should have beenmon sense. He was being teased, wasn¡¯t he? That was just like Lio. Still, he answered. ¡°Because you¡¯re the Young Aristocrat! You represent the Rosy Dawn, but more than that, you represent Uncle Damon. If you lose it¡¯ll look bad on him.¡± ¡°Why should my father¡¯s reputation matter to me?¡± Lio asked curiously. There was an undercurrent of something in his voice. Myron frowned, uneasy. ¡°Because you¡¯re his son.¡± He didn¡¯t know how else to exin it. ¡°I¡¯m his son,¡± Lio mused, running a hand through his wild blond mane. It had long been a subject of gossip that the Young Aristocrat shared none of his father¡¯s defining features. Damon Aetos¡¯ dark curls and blue eyes were nowhere to be seen in Lio. His stoic re was something his son had never cared to mimic. But every so often, the heir to the kyrios did something that left no doubt as to his parentage. And as Lio turned away from him to look upon the statue of their ancestor, standing in its filial pool, his stance was its mirror image. ¡°I am his son,¡± Lio said, almost to himself. ¡°And I am a part of the Rosy Dawn, aren¡¯t I?¡± ¡°We all are,¡± Myron said hesitantly. His cousin hummed. ¡°I suppose I have no choice but to win.¡± Myron clenched and unclenched his fists. He wasn¡¯t sure what to say. It didn¡¯t matter. Whatever Lio had been deliberating on, he found his answer. Myron watched, stunned, as his cousin stepped into the filial pool and walked through its sacred waters. He stood nose-to-nose with the marble statue, looking it up and down. And then he reached up around its neck and undid the sp of its golden chain ne. The pendant, a radiant scarlet gem, shed where the sunlight touched it. ¡°What-?¡± Myron whispered in horror. His cousin sped the ne around his own neck and strode out of the pool. He looked pleased. ¡°I won¡¯t be training for the games, cousin, but worry not.¡± Lio ruffled his hair, and for once Myron didn¡¯t have the presence of mind to shake him off. The Young Aristocrat grinned fiercely. ¡°I¡¯ll win them regardless." Chapter 0.13 Chapter 0.13 It ismonly known that there is a gap between birth and the first conscious thought. During this infancy one simply exists, entirely at the mercy of the elements. Then there is a singr event, a spark of true thought, that every man and woman can recall as the moment the veil was lifted and they could finally see. The moment they ascended from the realm of animal instinct and into humanity. The inception of a cultivator is much the same. A spark, a lifting of a veil, and pneuma is revealed. I experienced both in the same moment. I was three years old when I first witnessed the initiation rites of the Rosy Dawn. My father was holding me in the crook of his right arm, calling down heaven¡¯s wrath with his left. It was the impact that shook awake my sleeping soul. He held me in that arm as we descended alone into the depths of the Scarlet City¡¯s eastern mountain range. He held me as he approached the bisected corpse of the fallen sun god. My father held me as the corpse reached up andid its palm over my face. ¡°This is justice,¡± he told me. ¡°Remember its face.¡± But I never could. I¡¯d decided to show Sol the city. It was as good a time as any for it. The streets of Alikos were alive with citizens, metics, freedmen and ves all bustling around in preparation for the games. Foreigners abounded, leading carts and waving cloth and ornaments enticingly to passing citizens. They were like a flood, streaming in from every no-name vige within the geopolitical orbit of the Scarlet City. Despite the press of bodies, Sol and I were given aparatively respectful berth as we walked the street. I was well enough known among the citizenry that deference was a given, and Sol¡¯s freshly issued mystiko attire caught the eye long before his ve manacles did. Naturally, he found reason to criticize it anyway. ¡°This isn¡¯t practical in the slightest,¡± he grunted, yanking the trailing edge of his tunic out from under the feet of a passing Alikon. We were given more space than most, but in the narrower streets at this time of year there was only so much that could be done. The female citizen fell to the street, already shrieking in outrage, only for it to die in her throat as she spotted the distinctive uniform of the Rosy Dawn. ¡°Wearing it properly is a skill,¡± I said airily. The furthest edges of my cloth were pristine, unmarred even by the dust of the roads. He scowled as I shifted just so, avoiding a passing metic with careless grace. ¡°You¡¯ll learn eventually.¡± He shifted his next step just enough to catch the edge of my tunic. Unfortunately, I¡¯d known him well enough to expect it and he missed by a finger¡¯s width. His scowl deepened. ¡°You Greeks make everything moreplicated than it needs to be.¡± ¡°Yes, because a toga is so much more practical,¡± I said, rolling my eyes. ¡°It¡¯s easy enough to criticize, but don¡¯t act as if you¡¯re any better. Half your city¡¯s greatest cultural achievements are the product of Greeks that happened to be passing through, and that¡¯s being generous.¡± ¡°The best parts of Rome have never been touched by Greek hands,¡± he said. It was likely amon saying among the legions. They had to tell themselves something to maintain morale, after all. I sneered. ¡°The best parts of Rome are salt and ash.¡± His expression darkened. Luckily for the public order, we¡¯d just reached our destination. I slipped into a thermopolium, and with nothing in his hands to throw, the ve initiate had no choice but to follow me. He entered with eyes zing but was immediately distracted. Thermopolia weremercial developments, glorified bars where work-weary metics and freedmen could gather to drink and gorge themselves on poorly made food. A well to-do citizen wouldn¡¯t be caught dead in one, and for that reason they were ideal havens for scum and all manner of assorted criminals. If an elder were to discover a member of the Rosy Dawn had been patronizing such a venue, they¡¯d be given a sublimeshing. It was that sort of ce. And this one, in particr, was even worse. It wasn¡¯t just full of low ss wretches and conniving thieves. It was also seething with foreign cultivators,e to challenge the mystery cults of the Scarlet City in the games. ¡°What are we doing here?¡± Sol asked in a low voice, assessing the room. More than a few unfriendly eyes were doing the same. Our attire was rather distinct. ¡°I told you. We¡¯re here to eat.¡± They were the usual suspects. Men from low-born viges on the edges of enlightened civilization, clothed in rags just a step above what our own ves wore. Too far from the free city-states of the Mediterranean to regrly benefit from their patronage, but arrogant enough to think that they could challenge us in spite of that. The hue of their skin tended towards leather more than bronze. Their hair was often worn in locks or shorn off entirely. They were the children of poor farmers and fishermen, uneducated in all but the most inly apparent matters of natural philosophy. Their cultivation reflected this. And their pankration was invariably atrocious. ¡°Grab us a few bowls of stew,¡± I bid my ve and junior brother, nodding towards the masonry counter at the far corner of the establishment. ¡°I have a hunger.¡± He eyed me, still simmering over myment, but nodded once and split away. I walked up behind a seated cultivator and set both hands on the back of his chair. His fellows across the table red murderously at me. They all wore wind-worn cloth, a faded yellow dye winding over their torsos in the symbol of whatever hovel they had sprung from. The two across the table wore their hair in locks. The one beneath my hands was shaved bald, with a powerful build and weathered skin that spoke to a life of hardbor. ¡°You¡¯re in my seat,¡± I told him simply. He tilted his head back to look up at me. ¡°I don¡¯t see your name on it.¡± The audacity of these country dogs was something else. ¡°What does that matter? You wouldn¡¯t be able to read it if it was.¡± The dog bared its teeth. ¡°Go to the crows.¡± I swept the chair back, spilling him from it and stomping him down when he tried to rise. His sworn brothers shouted and lunged across the table at me, one tossing a half-full bowl of fish stew at my face while the other pulled an obsidian dagger of all things and threw it at my chest. I leaned away from the flying stew and flicked the broad side of the knife, embedding it in the far wall. With my other hand I caught the neck of the faster of the two and swung him viciously into his sworn brother, striking their skulls together hard enough to daze a bull. They both crashed through a nearby table and copsed bonelessly. The residents of that table started shouting and drawing weapons over their spilled drinks. Off to my left, a group of what looked like regr patrons were eyeing me with vile intent. My pneuma rose and everything stopped. ¡°I¡¯ll spare your dog life this once,¡± I told the man beneath my foot pleasantly. The whites of his eyes were inly apparent, filled with that wild fear of cornered prey. ¡°Because even if you could read, you wouldn¡¯t have been able to see my name from here. You¡¯d have to climb the nearest mountain and look down to see it written across this whole city.¡± It¡¯s said that as a man progresses through the stages of his cultivation, it is only natural that his renown and his hubris grow in equal proportion. Tribtions are heaven¡¯s way of reminding men that for all that they covet the stars, they will never stand among their number. Vice is as inherent to a cultivator¡¯s lifestyle as his virtue, and attempting to avoid it outright often leads to even worse retribution than the norm. I¡¯ve lived what most would call a privileged lifestyle. I enjoyed a position of power and influence that the vast majority of even enlightened citizens would never experience in their entire lives, even with the longevity that cultivation provided. That I coveted more on top of that? That I had chosen to trawl through dive bars in the city and scope out challengers to harass rather than prepare for the Daylight Games the correct way, the virtuous way? That was cause for correction. A man in a hooded cloak lunged from a shadowed corner of the room, pneuma zing as heshed out with a technique that I didn¡¯t recognize, could not predict the effects of. His cloak had obscured the color of his tunic underneath, the same faded yellow of the men I¡¯d singled out. The intensity of his pneuma was such that his technique, many-times magnified, was far too dangerous to block. I shifted on my feet, only for the cultivator I¡¯d stepped on to wrap himself around my leg with a vindictive grin. I watched what might have been my death approach. It is the way of heaven to strike down those who revel in hubris. It is an inescapable truth that men were born mortal, and die mortal. The peak of Olympus Mons was nothing more than an ever-distant fantasy. The cultivator¡¯s eyes were a cold grass green. Sol appeared in the empty space behind the cultivator and mmed his head through the stone table. He spasmed once and went limp. Of course, we defied the heavens anyway. It was what one did. ¡°Ho, took you long enough,¡± I said, stomping viciously on the bald cultivator¡¯s throat. He gagged and heaved, scrabbling at his windpipe. I righted the chair and sat down. Sol sat across, setting down two bowls of stew that he¡¯d bnced in his other arm. I''ve lived my life by the terms of the cult. Where were the edges of those boundaries, my father''s will and that of heaven? How far could I push them? When would my tribtionse? It was time to find out. Chapter 0.14 [The Caged Dove 2] Chapter 0.14 [The Caged Dove 2] The rtionship between Solus and the Young Aristocrat was something that no one really understood. It was perhaps the only matter in which the lowly ves and the honored mystikos of the Rosy Dawn stood equal. Equally bewildered. Athis had slowly eased into her position within the cult since those first few terrifying months, and Solus had been arge part of that. Pervicas, who¡¯d been a ve in the cult¡¯s service far longer than her, hadn¡¯t seen anything like him before. He was undoubtedly a ve, but the way he carried himself and the way others responded to him, instinctively, was evocative of an honored citizen far more than a bonded man. He was kind to the rest of them, if distant. Since their first meeting Athis had done her best to ovee his intimidating aura and had soon realized that while he was peerless in certain realms, he was far from perfect. He¡¯d never cooked a day in his life. He had little interest in maintaining the gardens, and regrly took on disproportionate work from other ves to avoid the task. Athis had taken it upon herself to teach him what few things she could. Pervicas could crack jokes and make eyes at them all she wanted, but it was really just her way of giving thanks for everything he did for them. Truly. Solus existed as a silent pir within the enved ss of the Rosy Dawn¡¯s brutal hierarchy. He was a bulwark against the whims of the mystikos, a safe haven for any females caught outside of their quarters and a supporting hand to any males struggling beneath the weight of a day¡¯s punishing work. What hecked in affability he more than made up for with strength of character. He was inexhaustible and utterly fearless. Unfortunately, Athis was not the only one to notice this. For weeks after that night in the courtyard, Athis had been terrified for her fellow ve. For a ve to speak out against an initiate was cause for severeshing. To speak out against an honored philosopher was grounds for execution. To go beyond that, toy hands upon the son of the kyrios, Lio Aetos himself? She had been utterly convinced that his fate was sealed, and that all of the Young Aristocrat¡¯s interest in him was nothing but a long, drawn out execution. Yet he lived. Months passed, and he continued to defy the social order. The Young Aristocrat did not grow tired of him like Pervicas had worriedly suggested he might. In fact, on the rare asion that a mystiko had the temerity to strike him for some slight or another, Lio Aetos himself would suddenly arrive at the opportune moment to rebuke his junior initiate and whisk Solus away on some little adventure or another. It was almost as if they were friends. But that was impossible. It was more likely for lions to mingle with wolves than for an Alikon to make friends with a ve. And more than that, there was something about the way they interacted the few times she¡¯d seen it in motion. Like predators sizing one another up. Like dogs about to fight. Athis wished he would stop. Whatever it was he was doing to draw the Young Aristocrat¡¯s eye, she wished with all her heart that he would stop it. They all did. It seemed like every day one of them had a story to share at dinner about some mad thing Solus had done, or would have done had they not rushed to stop him. He¡¯d quickly upied a cherished space in their sorrymunity. It terrified them to see him tempt the fates with such grant disregard. After all, a ve suffered tribtions just as well as a Tyrant. But there was little they could do when each day only seemed to bind Solus and the Young Aristocrat more tightly together. ¡°Where do we sit?¡± Athis whispered, nervously brushing down her dinner attire. The cloth was soft and pure white, of a quality she¡¯d never experienced in her living memory. It made her feel anxious just wearing it. The braids they¡¯d done each other¡¯s hair in onlypounded the feeling. She felt like an imposter. There were many holidays that the Scarlet City celebrated, and even more that the Rosy Dawn Cult celebrated on top of that. The vast majority were days like any other to the ves of the cult. If anything, some brought extra work. The initiation rites were a rare exception, a two day respite that every ve relished. The Kronia was another. It was a day of festival and celebration, and it went a step further than the rites. ves were not merely excused from their duties for the day. They were given fresh clothes of the cult¡¯s own make and allowed to run wild among the estates and recreational buildings. Ande dinner, they were served by their masters and allowed to eat alongside them as equals. It was a day that Pervicas and the rest of the senior girls had been speaking of excitedly since the rites had ended. When it finally came, it was almost as if Athis had woken up from a nightmare that had been guing her for years. She donned clean,fortable clothes and walked outside freely. She enjoyed a rxed morning, exchanging pleasant conversation with her fellow female ves and even some of the honored daughters of the cult. She watched and cheered that afternoon as the boys among their number started an impromptu series of games, and cheered even harder when a few mystikos joined in and Solus handed them their heads. Now it was time for dinner, where ves would eat meals prepared by cultivators and dine with them shoulder-to-shoulder. It was a prospect that worried and excited her in equal measure. The pavilion had been prepared in much the same way it had for the initiation rites. The horrifying damage that had been done to the central za had been repaired by the joint efforts of ves and junior initiates in the days following, and the elder philosophers had worked such wonders on the finer details of the space that it looked as if it had never been damaged to begin with. Long wooden tables and benches filled with chattering ves and mystikos abounded. The heroes of the cult stood their same vigil on their outskirts, and the faceless statue jutted up proudly in its fountain, sparkling waters gushing from its extended palm. Already, initiates in fine scarlet and white robes were emerging from the kitchens with tters of food in their hands. They had to choose a spot, and quickly, before the choice was made for them. Equals for the day or not, Athis had felt more than a few sets of eyes on her during the day. She had no desire to find out who they belonged to. Pervicas, who had been assessing the pavilion, suddenly lit up and waved her arm in the air. ¡°Solus! Hey, over here!¡± The man in question, easily spotted among even the cultivators of the cult due to his size, cocked his head their way and waved. Another ve was walking in step with him, a mess of red hair and a lush beard marking him as Tasos. He was older than them by a few years, and had taken to apanying Solus on certain tasks when he could. Or minding him, as he would say. Athis and Pervicas hurried through the crowds to reach them, and Athis flushed as Tasos looked them both up and down admiringly. ¡°Those suit you,¡± he said. Pervicas scoffed, but she was clearly pleased. Athis snuck a quick nce at Solus, but he was surveying the tables, looking for an open space for the four of them. For some reason that disappointed her, just a bit. ¡°Thank you,¡± she said to Tasos. Then, shyly, she ventured, ¡°You wear those well, Solus.¡± The attire of the Rosy Dawn¡¯s mystikos, pure white with scarlet trim, really did look all too natural on his imposing frame. It had been a terrible shock to see him wearing it the day after the rites ended. Even though the male ves had insisted up and down that it was the Young Aristocrat himself who¡¯de and stolen him away in the night for the ceremony, she¡¯d still been worried sick those first few days that some mystiko would take offense to a ve wearing their colors and strike him down. It had yet to happen, though. Storm gray eyes nced her way, and though he didn¡¯t admire her like Tasos had, he did favor her with a faint smile. ¡°Thank you. It¡¯s a skill I had to learn.¡± A skill? Athis looked to Pervicas, confused, but she only shrugged. ¡°There¡¯s a space,¡± he dered, striding forward. Throngs of ves and initiates alike parted, most without real conscious acknowledgement of having done so. It was just what happened when Solus was around. Athis had long gotten used to it. They sat together on the same bench, Pervicas nudging her meaningfully towards the empty space on Solus¡¯ left. Tasos sat down on his right, and Pervicas took the space to her left. There were already tters of olives, dates, goat cheeses and other morsels scattered across the table. Solus and Tasos wasted no time, grabbing handfuls of everything and digging in ravenously. Athis, for her part, took a vine of grapes and popped a couple in her mouth, savoring their sweet tang. They spoke idly of the games, the ones they¡¯d yed earlier and the true ones toe, and of the dancing and festivities that would carry on into the night after dinner. They savored good food and the goodpany of friends without obligation. Once again, the feeling of being awoken from a long nightmare suffused her. Her elbow bumped Solus¡¯ as they reached for the same hunk of cheese. He smirked lightly, offering it to her. This was how life should always be. s, all good things end. A tanned, muscr arm came between them, holding a tter of roasted swordfish filets. It smelled divine as it was ced in front of them on the table, but Athis abruptly found herself without an appetite. On this day, it was the duty of the masters to serve the ves. That did not mean the pirs of the Rosy Dawn were to cook food and carry tters themselves, though. They sat as a family at a central table in the pavilion, perpendicr to the rest, and entertained their personal servants with wine and food prepared and served by the rest of the cult. To expect anything more was pure absurdity. So why, oh why, was the Young Aristocrat serving them fish? ¡°Only the finest for our diligent ves,¡± he said, setting down the tter in his other hand. This one was overflowing with mouthwatering bs of goat¡¯s meat, seared andthered with fragrant spices and herbs. ¡°Now, allow this humble sophist to join you for a meal.¡± Lio Aetosid scarlet eyes upon her, and Athis couldn¡¯t breathe. Terror locked her limbs up. Those eyes pierced through her, judging her and finding her hopelessly wanting. She had to get out of the way. She couldn¡¯t get out of the way. She couldn¡¯t breathe- ¡°That seat is taken,¡± Solus said tly, tearing off two chunks of fresh bread that another mystiko had just ced down and putting a b of goat meat and cheese between them. Those scarlet eyes flickered away from her, dangerous and amused. ¡°Ho, you¡¯d deny me a ce at your table? Does your audacity know no limits?¡± ¡°Today, ves are equal to masters,¡± Solus replied simply, taking a bite of his sandwich. He closed his eyes, savoring the taste. Some distant, less terrified part of Athis wondered how long it had been since he¡¯d eaten red meat. ¡°So they are, but you forget-¡± The Young Aristocrat leaned on Solus¡¯ shoulder. Pervicas¡¯s hand gripped hers under the table, and Athis squeezed it until her knuckles bled white. ¡°You aren¡¯t just a ve anymore, Sol. A junior initiate pays respect to his seniors, don¡¯t you know?¡± ¡°You¡¯ve never paid anyone respect.¡± ¡°Naturally not,¡± he said easily. ¡°As I have no seniors. Now move, girl, or be moved.¡± Solus¡¯ eyes narrowed. Oh no. ¡°This seat is open!¡± Lio Aetos raised an eyebrow as Tasos sprung from his seat, hurriedly excusing himself from the table. Athis watched him quickly move to another table, weathering jeers and catcalls from mystikos that had been watching, and wondered if she pitied or envied him. She had her answer when Pervicas hissed, flicking her eyes at the central table. The Young Miss, Lydia Aetos, peerless marble beauty of the Rosy Dawn, was ring furiously their way. Her brother and sister, Castor and Rena Aetos, were casting worried looks between her and their elder cousin. She looked like she was debatinging over andshing them all. Then the youngest of the cousins, Myron Aetos, who had been boredly picking at his food until that moment, finally noticed the trajectory of their gazes. The young prodigy¡¯s eyes lit up and he immediately excused himself from the table, making a beeline towards them. Then, to Athis¡¯ horror, it got worse. The Young Miss herself mmed her palms to the table and stood, stalking after her little cousin. ¡°You eat like an animal,¡± Lio Aetos was saying, gathering olives and figs in one hand while he sorted through the tter of swordfish in search of the best cut. ¡°You realize you won¡¯t be getting food like this again anytime soon. You should be savoring it.¡± Solus grunted, taking anotherrge bite of his sandwich. ¡°Work makes a man hungry. You wouldn¡¯t understand.¡± Athis saw the mystikos at their table wince, expecting the worst. And why shouldn¡¯t they? If any other ve had said something like that to the Young Aristocrat, they¡¯d have been dead. If any other initiate had said something like that to the Young Aristocrat, they might have been dead. Yet Lio Aetos simplyughed, flicking an olive at Solus¡¯ face and cackling when he turned and caught it in his mouth. They acted like belligerent brothers, and the effect was onlypounded when the young prodigy made himself known, squirming into the space between them and grabbing eagerly for a pile of figs. The Young Aristocrat moved them just out of his little cousin¡¯s reach, a mischievous smirk on his lips that forced even Athis to admit that the whispers and gossip about his looks were more than warranted. ¡°Excuse me.¡± Athis looked back, heart hammering, and found the Young Miss looking down on her with piercing blue eyes. Up close like this, she really was ethereally beautiful. From her thicklyshed eyes to her full lips and the royal slope of her neck, she looked like someone had spent the best years of their life chiseling her from a block of marble. Not to mention the, ah, fullness of her figure. Athis felt her the tips of her ears burning as she realized she was staring. Lydia Aetos didn¡¯tment on her roving eyes, though they¡¯d certainly been noticed. Instead, she looked pointedly at the narrow space between her thighs and Solus¡¯ on the bench. ¡°Could you make room?¡± she asked politely. Athis hurried to oblige, shimmying sideways against Pervicas who hissed at the next ve down to move as well. They managed enough space for the Young Miss to sit, though their thighs were touching. It felt almost sinful. ¡°Lean back, junior, I can¡¯t see my cousins,¡± she immediately demanded of Solus. He wordlessly obliged, offering her a tter of fresh bread. She gave him an ugly look, but took a loaf and joined in on the conversation that Lio was having with Myron. Athis traded a look with Pervicas. In the end, there was nothing they could do but grab themselves some meat and bread. They had dinner in thepany of kings, going back and forth over wine and good food as if it was the most natural thing in the world. For Solus, it simply was. Chapter 0.15 Chapter 0.15 Summer hade and gone. The Daylight Games loomed on the horizon of tomorrow¡¯s dawn. It was the privilege of those that wouldpete to spend the day before the games resting and basking in the encouragement and adtion of their peers. Legends would be made tomorrow, and a new champion would don theurel wreath. I¡¯d chosen to take a bath. The Rosy Dawn¡¯s gymnasiums contained baths, as all proper establishments of its type did, but just as the pirs of the cult enjoyed a private gymnasium of sublime quality, so too did they enjoy an unparalleled bath house. The myriad pools, ranging from scalding hot to frigidly cold, had been carved out of the rock face of the mountain itself. The warm side of the grand corinthian building was perpetually cloaked in steam, emitted from the mountain¡¯s own natural hot springs. It was empty but for myself, my ve, and my littlest cousin. No one but an Aetos would dare pass through its hallowed pirs. I hummed, elbows propped up on the cool stone of the hot spring¡¯s rim as I unwound. My head hung back, a warm cloth draped over my eyes. For all that it chafed, the life of a Young Aristocrat came with undeniable benefits. ¡°Tell me, ve,¡± I murmured. ¡°Did they have baths as good as these in Rome?¡± ¡°The baths at the forum were better,¡± he said, somewhere off to the right. Myron, who had gotten bored soon after entering and started sshing around, paused in interest. ¡°What wecked in natural springs we made up for with ingenuity. The greatest of them had rooms for steam as well as baths heated by hypocausts, mosaic floors, and fine marble walls. They were open to anyone with two denarii and on holidays they were free.¡± ¡°Sounds filthy,¡± I said. ¡°This ce is for cleansing. Why should I share bath water with every wretch that has two silver bits to rub together?¡± ¡°You would understand if you spent time in your own city.¡± He sighed. ¡°There¡¯s pneuma in every living thing, and there¡¯s virtue just the same. The baths are one of a thousand ways to expose yourself to new aspects of life. Even the lowest of men can be wise.¡± ¡°Like you,¡± Myron dered. ¡°The young kyrios is too kind.¡± Myron squawked at the teasing nickname. ¡°The only thing I know is that I know nothing at all.¡± I lifted the corner of the cloth covering my eyes. There it was. That distant, wistful look. ¡°Tell me more.¡± He blinked. ¡°More of what?¡± ¡°You said the baths were one of a thousand ways,¡± I said. ¡°You may not be wise, but you¡¯re worldly, aren¡¯t you? Tell me about your life. I want to hear it.¡± He looked surprised. Ho, how insulting. Surely I wasn¡¯t that bad. ¡°So do I!¡± Myron chimed in, kicking off from the far side of the spring and paddling over. ¡°What were the legions like? How¡¯d you get so strong? How many ces did you conquer-¡± ¡°One at a time, cousin,¡± I said, flicking a jet of water in his face. He shouted and sshed me back, only for Sol to dunk him when he wasn¡¯t looking. ¡°The legions,¡± Sol said thoughtfully, while Myron coughed and spluttered. ¡°I was young when my father was called up, everything seemed so muchrger than life. I¡¯d only ever been to the forum a few times by that point, and always under supervision. I lived my life ensconced in our vi until that day.¡± ¡°Your father had some influence,¡± I said. I¡¯d known it, but saying the words gave them new weight. ¡°Legionaries don¡¯t bring their sons to war.¡± Sol considered me. He knew. He¡¯d known from the start, just as I had. Our origins rhymed. ¡°He was a captain,¡± he finally said. ¡°An infantryman from the moment he could hold a sword. When I was young he¡¯d tell me stories of his time in the ranks. The first century he was ever assigned to, the first men that he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with inbat.¡± He smiled faintly. ¡°The first centurion that handed him his head. He used to say that those were the cruelest years of his life, but also the best.¡± ¡°He married into money, then,¡± I mused. ¡°He did,¡± Sol acknowledged. He ran a hand through his hair, frowning. ¡°It was like most marriages of its kind. Politically driven. Loveless. My father had gained enough renown in his service to warrant the match, but my mother¡¯s family and friends never let them forget his roots. It made her bitter. ¡°But it allowed him to climb the ranks. And that was what mattered.¡± ¡°Where did he stand?¡± Myron asked eagerly. Amon question, when it came to cultivators. Where did he stand, among heaven and earth? Sol hummed. ¡°By your standards, he was at the peak of the Sophic Realm.¡± What? ¡°Oh,¡± Myron said, failing to fully conceal his disappointment. The cloth covering my eyes hit the surface of the pool. I realized I¡¯d sat fully up. ¡°Sophic Realm,¡± I repeated, incredulous. ¡°Your father?¡± It didn¡¯t make any sense. The son was built upon the foundation of the father. To be at his level, at his age, with such a worthless father? It defied reason. ¡°My father was a good man,¡± Sol said firmly. ¡°He lived his life for Rome, and for the legions that raised him.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not questioning your father¡¯s character,¡± I said, waving an impatient hand. ¡°I¡¯m questioning-¡± ¡°He was a man that other men respected,¡± the audacious ve continued, speaking over me without care. ¡°Renowned for his tactics in war and his generosity in victory. Men followed him without question.¡± ¡°So you learned from him?¡± Myron pressed, curious as I was to know how a man of such subpar cultivation could produce a son like Sol. Myron¡¯s father was a peerless Hero. Damon Aetos was Damon Aetos. It only made sense that we would excel. But Sol? The ve and junior initiate was silent for a moment too long. Ah. So that¡¯s what it was. ¡°I learned many things from my father,¡± Sol seemingly confirmed. I settled back onto the rim of the stone pool, propping my head upon one hand. ¡°Until the day he died, he was always teaching me.¡± I watched Myron¡¯s excitement crumble. It was too easy, sometimes, to forget how young he was. Only nine years old. Excitable and easy to tease, yes, but learned far beyond any of his peers. Still a child, though. All this time, and he¡¯d likely never once seriously considered what circumstances could have brought Sol here in chains to begin with. It was a child¡¯s naivety to expect only the best for those close to them. And Sol was someone close to him. I doubted it was a conscious decision he¡¯d made, to make friends with a ve. At some point, my littlest cousin had simply been pulled in by his presence. He was far from the only one. ¡°Did he teach you to shave the hair off your face?¡± I asked. Myron looked at me in shock. He was young. He had yet to learn that the only men who desired pity were the ones that didn¡¯t deserve it. Sol eyed my challenging smirk. He scoffed. ¡°Of course. A clean face is the mark of a civilized man.¡± ¡°A clean face is the mark of a boy,¡± I said mockingly. ¡°Or a ¡®man¡¯ who can¡¯t grow a proper beard.¡± ¡°Any pleb can grow a beard,¡± Sol said, sneering. ¡°What differentiates men from beasts is our ability to refine ourselves.¡± ¡°A beard is natural.¡± ¡°So is shitting.¡± I frowned. ¡°I suppose it¡¯s understandable that a Greek would prefer a luscious beard,¡± Sol mused. ¡°They hide a weak jaw rather well.¡± Myron looked between us, wide eyed. Gray eyes met mine. ¡°You¡¯re tempting the fates, ve.¡± Slowly, I smiled. ¡°Myron, fetch me a knife.¡± He hesitated. ¡°Lio-¡± ¡°Now.¡± He leapt from the pool and was out of the bath house in seconds. I considered the audacious Roman across from me. ¡°Back then, when you first met Myron, you knew exactly what ailed him because you¡¯d experienced it yourself. A terrible ambition, restrained by a father who cared.¡± I spoke casually. The humor in his eyes immediately died. ¡°You told him it was a father¡¯s love that stayed my uncle¡¯s hand.¡± ¡°I thought that sounded right, but I personally have no experience in such an upbringing. From the moment I was born, the path that I¡¯d walk to heaven was already decided.¡± I raised a hand from the water, palm up, and light bloomed between my fingers. ¡°Justice.¡± Sol stared at me, silent. ¡°But the odd thing was,¡± I continued, in the very same tone, ¡°You spoke of the consequences of premature virtue with just as much confidence. You warned him off the way a ruined drunk warns a boy off his first cup of wine. And that, I did have experience in. So tell me ve, because my knowledge of your legions is admittedly deficient. Who stands above the captain?¡± He didn¡¯t speak. His eyes were haunted. ¡°My father forced justice upon me,¡± I said, walking through the water until I stood nose to nose with him. ¡°Who forced you, and upon which path? Who made you what you are today?¡± Myron chose that moment toe rushing back in, bare feet pping against stone tiles in quick step. He slid to a stop beside the pool, panting lightly, with something like fear in his eyes. There was a sheathed de in his hands. The kind used by members of the cult for ritual sacrifice. ¡°He was just teasing you, Lio,¡± Myron tried onest time, desperately. ¡°You don¡¯t have to do this.¡± How cute. ¡°No, cousin. I¡¯m afraid I do,¡± I said, pulling the de from its sheath. I flipped it in my grip and held it out to Sol, handle first. They both stared at it in bewilderment. ¡°I have an important day tomorrow, and I would hate to look anything less than divine,¡± I said pleasantly. ¡°Shave me.¡± Sol took the knife, turning it over in his hand. ¡°You can¡¯t be serious.¡± My silence spoke for me. There would be hell to pay, of course. The Rosy Dawn¡¯s Young Aristocrat arriving to his first Daylight Games with a shaved face? That was an embarrassment that couldn¡¯t be ignored. My uncles would be absolutely furious, and Lydia may well fall out of love with me. The elders would surely suffer deviations in their cultivation, or at least their daily bowel movements. It became harder to care with every dawn. The knowledge that there was another world out there, shaping men like Sol from the basest materials while Inguished up on this mountain? It made me wonder. It kept me awake. I was stagnating while others thrived. It was enough to drive a man mad. Enough to make demons of his soul. My virtuous heart would not allow it. Chapter 0.16 Chapter 0.16 We awaited glory in the silence of the night. The pit sand was cool beneath our feet. Pre-dawn breeze crept across our naked bodies, raising bumps on our skin. We breathed slowly and deeply, each searching for our tranquil center. No one spoke. No one moved. Daylight broke over the eastern mountain range and fifty thousand spectators erupted in cheers. The stadium steps had been filled to capacity since the night before, of course. Admittance to the games was firste, first served, with only the usual vagrant provisions enforced. I had no doubt that more than a few up on those steps had been holding their seats for days. Beyond, at the rim of the massive crater in the earth that was the Scarlet Stadium, thousands more stood looking down, mingling with food carts and merchant stalls. The residential rooftops of those citizens influential and fortunate enough to havend close to the stadium were likewise packed with wealthy viewing parties. And I knew that somewhere, up in those mountain ranges, the initiates of the Rosy Dawn and the Burning Dusk would be watching eagerly while their elder philosophers provided narration. The pirs, naturally, enjoyed pride of ce within the stands. This respect was afforded to both premier cults of Alikos, although the Rosy Dawn was the only one of the two that truly deserved it. Nheless, there at the western edge of the stands, on the fourth tier of the steps, the kyrios of the Burning Dusk sat with his arms crossed. He was nked by his wife and three of their four children. The fourth was down in the pits with me. On the eastern side of the great oval steps, Damon Aetos sat the fourth tier with his brothers and all five of my adorable cousins. I raised a hand against the sun¡¯s re, smiling brightly up at my family. Naturally, my uncles were furious. Uncle Fotios was without a doubt the more kindly of the two, and even he looked like he wanted toy a few good smacks across my newly shaved cheeks. Uncle Stavros looked simply murderous. Heron wasn¡¯t far behind his father, face turning scarlet with the sun. Castor was stunned, and Myron sat consoling a mortified Rena, who¡¯d buried her face in her hands. Lydia stared at me with wide eyes, lips parted in shock. Damon Aetos raised an eyebrow as we locked gazes. As ever my father was unimpressed, but I¡¯d expected as much. Not every war could be won in a day. The rion cry of a salpinx split the air. The cheers of the masses redoubled. The Daylight Games began. The Daylight Games were an institution that had existed for over seven hundred years within the Scarlet City. They were a series of trials that any man or woman couldpete in, should they meet the qualifications set by the city, testing every element of human athleticism. From sprints, to discus and javelin throwing, all the way to martialbat of every type. Every year, men and women tested the limits of their virtuous souls in pursuit of thaturel leaf crown. Of course, these games were only an approximation of the real thing. Each of the eight sovereign city-states of the free Mediterranean hosted their own yearly games, but these were only substitutes for the truepetition. The event that drew men and women of sublime cultivation from the furthest reaches of the Greek Isles topete beneath the eyes of gods and men for supremacy. One per year, for three years, the eight cities sharpened their citizens to a fine edge with local games. But on the fourth, they all paid their respects to the supreme crucible of virtuous men. Among heaven and earth, the Olympic Games were king. But these games were not those, and the stakes were far lower. Rather than humanity¡¯s renown and power overwhelming, men and womenpeted in the Daylight Games for things such as citizenship, political influence, and most of all, bragging rights between cults. Certainly, they dressed it up as filial duty and harped upon the economic implications of the Rosy Dawn losing standing to the Burning Dusk, but none of it mattered. The Burning Dusk had not been a relevant threat since the day my father returned home from his journeys. On that day, he¡¯d subjugated Alikos in its entirety beneath the Tyrant¡¯s fist. Just as the sun rose in the palm of a bisected corpse god, in my father¡¯s palm rose the Scarlet City. So long as Damon Aetos drew breath, no game would ever change that fact. It made it difficult to truly care about the reputations at stake. So I didn¡¯t. I¡¯d watched these games seventeen different times from the vantage of those stone steps. This time, I wasn¡¯t going to be watching. I was going to bepeting, and I was going to enjoy every minute of it. ¡°Oil,¡± I called, and three separate civil volunteers came rushing over with jars of olive oil. I disdained their attempts to rub me down themselves, taking a handful of the spirit oil and massaging it into my skin. The games were run sequentially, beginning first with the sprints. The vast pitted track thaty at the center of the Scarlet Stadium wasrge enough for even the strongest Sophic cultivator to heave a discus from one side and never hit the other - provided there was no pneuma involved - but that did not mean it wasrge enough to conduct every game at once. There were dozens upon dozens ofpetitors, and games spanning all pursuits. The equestrian events alone would have dominated most of the track. The sprints were conducted tournament style, in heats of eight, whereupon each heat¡¯s victor wouldpete in a champion¡¯s heat. And on it would go, until a singlepetitor stood out above the rest. Already, the first heat was being assembled. Naturally, thepetitors from the Rosy Dawn and the Burning Dusk were given pride of ce, just as their spectators were. I wouldpete in the first heat, and the Young Aristocrat of the Burning Dusk wouldpete in thest. The rest of our two cults¡¯petitors would be evenly spread between us. It was undoubtedly an unfair advantage. But it was one that the city had no choice but to award us. ¡°You know,¡± I said idly, as I passed a certain initiate of the Rosy Dawn. He was nestled amongst citizens and wealthy metics alike on the first level of the stairs, at eye level with thepetitors. ¡°Citizenship is granted to any man who wins aurel crown. Tell me, ve. How would you like to be free?¡± The chaotic noise of the stands was such that none of the nearbypetitors or spectators heard me. But he did. I could tell. While wealthy citizens shouted and reached out to touch me,vishing me in praise and words of encouragement, he sat stock still. Speechless. ¡°It¡¯s not toote,¡± I said, holding a hand out. He stared at it like it was a living snake. The war trumpets sounded for the first heat. Themencement speeches had ended. For a long moment, I stayed exactly where I was. Even as the spectators began to panic, urging me to go take my ce at the starting line, I watched the storm gathering in those gray eyes. There would be real consequences if we did this. Tribtions. I realized I couldn¡¯t care less. Those eyes flickered away. For the first time since I had known him, Sol avoided my gaze. My outstretched hand clenched into a fist. ¡°Coward,¡± I snarled, and walked away. Seven men crouched beside me in the sands. The sun rose behind us, beating on our oiled backs. Rage made my blood thunder in my ears, stole from me my senses. I didn¡¯t hear the call to run. I only saw seven men tear off in a dead sprint, gaining four steps before I finally had the presence of mind to go. An insurmountable lead. I moved. ¡°Lio Aetos!¡± Thunder. ¡°I¡¯ve been waiting for this, Aetos,¡± spoke the Young Aristocrat of the Burning Dusk Cult. Gianni Sc, son of Yianni Sc, crouched beside me among six other victors. The knuckles of his fingers bled pure white as he pressed them to the sands. Every muscle in his body was taught, begging to move. ¡°Have you?¡± I asked, distracted. I was still furious. My mind kept wandering back to those shifting eyes. I had known. I hadn¡¯t believed it, hadn¡¯t wanted to believe it. But I had known. That fucking coward. ¡°You¡¯ve coasted on your father¡¯surels your entire life and no one has denied you it. You even came here with a shaved face. Insulted everyone in attendance! But no longer.¡± He bared his teeth, burning determination in his eyes. ¡°Today the Burning Dusk retakes its scarlet throne!¡± ¡°Fool.¡± None of this mattered. Nothing would change. The officials raised their gs. ¡°Lio Aetos!¡± Ovation. After the sprints came the discus. ¡°Lio Aetos!¡± After the discus came the javelin. ¡°Lio Aetos!¡± The horse races. ¡°Lio Aetos!¡± Jumping. ¡°Lio Aetos! Lio Aetos! Lio Aetos!¡± The officials cried out my name again and again. They may as well have been up in the stands with the rest of the city. Athletes all over the pits gnashed their teeth and pounded the sand with their fists. Cultivators from the Burning Dusk to the furthest reaches of the city¡¯s outskirt viges watched in hateful envy as I took from them what they¡¯d spent their entire lives dreaming of without any particr effort. Without any particr care. Why hadn¡¯t he taken my hand? Bronze trumpets let fly their rion calls. The sun had reached its zenith. The athletic games were over, and now came the martial trials. Myron came charging out onto the sands with a wrapped de in his hands. He offered it to me with the same concern that he had offered the ritual knife the day before. A nce up to the stands showed that he wasn¡¯t the only one. ¡°Are you well, Lio?¡± My littlest cousin asked quietly. I closed my eyes. Inhaled deeply. What is the first virtue? ¡°I will be,¡± I said, and epted the de. First, the armed trials. ¡°Lio Aetos!¡± Then, pankration. Chapter 0.17 Chapter 0.17 ¡°It isn¡¯t fair,¡± Gianni Sc said bitterly, circling me in the pit. His de, a finely wrought bronze that shimmered in the setting sunlight, hissed quietly through the air. ¡°Why should heaven reward you for disdaining all that you¡¯ve been given? You treat this life like a joke, you always have, and you¡¯re rewarded for it at every turn!¡± As the Daylight Games had progressed, the Young Aristocrat of the Burning Dusk had fallen further and further into despair. He was a diligent student of his cult¡¯s teachings. A fierce athlete. Had I not been present, he would have dominated nearly every single event. But I was present. And so he lost, and kept losing. My jumps, both long and high, were superior. My discus and my javelin, superior. My sprints and my horse races, superior. In every way that mattered, I was superior. We were the perfect reflections of our fathers. I grimaced and spat. ¡°We are filial sons!¡± He kept on. ¡°It¡¯s our duty to bear the torches of our fathers!¡± Despair had all but taken him, but still he attempted to distract me with self-righteous scolding while he searched desperately for an opening. The martial trials were entities in and of themselves within the games. Triumphing here would bring him more than enough renown. We had each conquered three opponents in armedbat to reach this final match. Gianni, to his credit, had not suffered a single scratch. de work had always been his specialty as far back as I had known him. As well as I knew that, he knew that pankration was mine. He had no hope of victory in the unarmed events toe. This was his final chance. He surged forward, having apparently found his mark. His de caught the light of the falling sun and erupted in blood-orange mes as he swung down, from heaven to earth. It was an obvious truth that not all cultivation techniques were created equal. They were manifestations of a man¡¯s virtuous soul, shaped by his unfaltering will and the experiences that had molded him throughout his life. Intent and execution were the dual forces that determined a technique''s overall quality, but it was also possible for the origins themselves to be a contributing factor. It was a well-kept secret among the two premier cults of the Scarlet City that our foundational techniques were tied to our mysteries. The Rosy-Fingered Dawn was a technique that waxed and waned in strength as the sun zed its way through heaven. It was strongest at the dawn, when the sun¡¯s first rays breached the far horizon. At the zenith of midday it was as weak as it could be. Because at that point, the Burning-Edged Dusk began to gain in strength. That the nonbative events had been portioned for the first half of the day, when the Burning Dusk Cult¡¯s foundational technique was at its weakest, was no coincidence. The Burning Dusk had long enjoyed a position of disproportionate influence within the Scarlet City, and the structure of its Daylight Games reflected this. Could Damon Aetos have changed these orders, restructured things in favor of the Rosy Dawn? Without question. Such a thing was well within his power. He¡¯d simply chosen not to. The Burning-Edged Dusk was at its strongest when utilized with a falling strike, in the light of the setting sun. Gianni brought his de down upon me with every ounce of strength in his body, steam seething through his clenched teeth. My own de rose up to meet it. The Rosy-Fingered Dawn was strongest when it climbed, in the light of the rising sun. At this time of day, I could only fulfill one of those two conditions. Unfortunately, a technique could not triumph on origins and mysticism alone. Triumph was the providence of tyrants. Execution was king. Damon Aetos had not bothered to alter the city in pursuit of cheap advantages because he had no need for them. My waning de of dawn struck his sword and shattered it. ¡°Lio Aetos!¡± ¡°Have you ever left this city, Gianni?¡± I asked, idly rolling my shoulder. My rival,ughable as that statement was, red silently as we circled one another. The games were nearly at their end, now. After armedbat hade wrestling and then boxing, both of which the heir to the Burning Dusk had abstained frompeting in. In average circumstances it would have been a terrible loss in standing to do such a thing as his cult¡¯s leading athlete, but I doubted anyone would hold it against him, given his inevitable opponent. It was understandable that he¡¯d save his body for the final event, the only one that mattered. Pankration. Perhaps unsurprisingly, I had found myself slowly unwinding as I progressed through the wrestling and boxing trials. They soothed my raging soul, provided a balm to my heart. Unarmedbat had always been my style. How conflict ought to be. It was simple. It was profound. It was free. Gianni ducked and lunged forward in two quick steps, attempting to box me out of the ring. I blocked what could not be avoided, met his raised knee with my own and relished the crunch of bone striking bone. Gianni winced, faltering ever so slightly as he tried to pivot on that wounded knee, and I shoved him back with two palms to his chest. I could have done more, obviously. But instead I paced around him, wondering. ¡°I¡¯ll take your silence as a no,¡± I said. ¡°But surely you¡¯ve thought about it. Pretend for a moment the cults did not exist. If you could go somewhere, anywhere in this world, where would it be?¡± ¡°Nowhere,¡± Gianni spat. ¡°My ce is here.¡± This sanctimonious liar. ¡°You would go nowhere,¡± I repeated scornfully. ¡°You would see nothing? Where is your curiosity? Where is the passion of your soul!?¡± I struck him once, twice, a cross and a right hook to the kidney that folded him over my fist. The crowds screamed and raved, having known from the start how this would go. I swept his feet out from under him and rode him to the sand. He thrashed and kicked, flipping like a beached fish in an effort to escape my hold. His hands were alight, his foundational technique at the height of its power as the scarlet sun touched the peak of the western mountain range. It wasn¡¯t even close to the fight Sol had given me with shackles around his wrists. Ah, there was the rage again. I snarled and drove my right forearm into the back of Gianni¡¯s neck, pinning him to the sand. ¡°Have you never wondered what life is truly like? The real thing, not this caricature our fathers made for us. Don¡¯t you wish your first Daylight Games had been real? Apetition attended by real cultivators and not these handpicked dregs? You know as well as I do that we were the only athletes that mattered today. You know that it was by design, not by virtue!¡± He struggled out of the press and flipped himself onto his back, wound both legs around me, attempting to put me in a counter hold. It was sloppy. It was weak. I smashed my forehead into his nose, breaking it. ¡°I pity your father,¡± Gianni wheezed. ¡°That you are his son.¡± I sneered. ¡°And I pity the ve that praises his master.¡± This time, I didn¡¯t allow him to escape the press of my choke. He struggled and spat until hisst conscious breath, but he had never had a chance. The Fates had decided things for him long in advance, and he¡¯d thanked them for the privilege. ¡°LIO AETOS!¡± The noise was deafening. I stood up, tall and triumphant in thest light of the setting sun, and looked up at my family. Grudging approval from my uncles. Vibrant cheers from Myron and Rena, nearly enough to bring a smile to my face. Lydia was nearly aglow with pride. Even Heron and Castor could do nothing less than apud me. I locked eyes with my father. Damon Aetos nodded once. Nothing more. There was no pride, no joy. After all, I had only done what was expected of me. I stood there and epted the praise and adoration of fifty thousand men, and more beyond the stadium¡¯s rim. I eptedurel leaf crowns, one for every event that I had won, which was all of them. I yed along to the crowd, piled each of them on top of the other until they toppled off my head and into the sand. I offered them to the second and third ce athletes of various events, and when they stiffly declined, I shrugged and wore them around my neck, my biceps, everywhere they would fit. Dusk finally slipped into night, and torches were lit up and down the aisles of the Scarlet Stadium to illuminate the closing ceremonies. Their flickering light made shadows of the spectators, fifty thousand faces obscured and featureless. I realized that it made no difference. I basked in their orchestrated worship. And I understood. They were all ves. Every single one of them. And so was I. This city was the chain. My pneuma rippled and burst inside my soul, expanding past the limits that had constrained it for the past year of my life. That nearly forgotten rush of ecstasy pounded through my veins, filling me with joy. My virtuous heart swelled in my chest. I ascended from the ninth rank of the Civic Realm to the tenth. My cousins went wild in the stands. The spectators were even worse. I strode out of the victor¡¯s circle clothed inurel leaf crowns, head held high and proud, like the good little heir that I was. I passed a thousand grasping hands, each one reaching out from the torch-thrown shadows to touch my oiled skin. To catch triumph with their worthless fingers. ¡°That¡¯s it?¡± A ve asked me as I passed, his dark features illuminated by the torch in his hand. He looked how I felt. Lost. ¡°I guess it is,¡± I said, and kept on walking. Chapter 0.18 [The Young Miss-tocrat 2] Chapter 0.18 [The Young Miss-tocrat 2] The Young Miss-tocrat Lio Aetos was returned to them. For weeks Lydia could hardly believe it. She¡¯d been certain that his victories in the Daylight Games would only drive him further away from his family, deeper into thepany of his favored ve. Yet there he was. Back as sudden as he¡¯d left. Eating dinner with them, night after night. Attending sessions in the gymnasium and engaging properly, as he used to. Spending time with her as a fiance should. It was as if she had been awoken from a nightmare, and every day that followed was bliss. Castor had been the one to propose an exnation after the third night in a row that Lio had shown up for dinner. As soon as it had been said, Lydia berated herself for not realizing it sooner. It made perfect intuitive sense. Lio Aetos had been stuck at a bottleneck in the ninth rank of the Civic Realm for over a year. Interacting with the Roman had been his way of breaking through that bottleneck. A radically different life experience to broaden his cultivation. Now that he had broken through, there was no need to continue humoring the ve. It was easy to forget that Lio could struggle with his cultivation as much as any other mystiko within the cult. He had harnessed his pneuma at an unprecedentedly young age and ascended to the upper ranks of the Civic Realm at a breakneck pace, cementing himself early on as a prodigy, but he had never reached their eldest cousin¡¯s heights. That his progress had slowed to such a degree would normally have been cause for great concern. Indeed, had Lio Aetos not been Lio Aetos, her father may have called his status as heir into question himself. But Lio was himself. It was said that strong foundations built tall cities, and Lio¡¯s foundations were perhaps the strongest of all. It was an absurd prospect in all but the most niche circumstances for a citizen to triumph over a philosopher, whether inside the marble octagon or the symposia chambers, and yet Lio¡¯s was an absurd existence. He did not hesitate to punch above his station, and he never, ever lost. Whether it was an exceedingly keen eye that allowed him to pick only the battles he knew he could win or some higher providence, no one knew. But his results spoke for themselves. So yes, it was easy to forget that for all his triumphs, her fiance had beennguishing in the ninth rank of the Civic Realm for an untenable amount of time. That didn¡¯t mean it had not been bothering him, though. She only wished she¡¯d known it sooner. It had resolved itself in the end. He stood now as a captain of the Civic Realm, the tenth and final rank before ascendance to the Sophic Realm. Champion of the Daylight Games. Summer turned to fall, and fall turned to winter. It was as if the Roman had ceased to exist to him. Things made sense again. ¡°They¡¯re losing their minds,¡± Lio said, amused, as ves ran wild through the central pavilion. They were walking back from their hidden ce, the alcove in the mountain¡¯s face that the seven of them had carved out so many years ago. They¡¯d spent the afternoon watching light snows fall across Alikos, just the two of them. ¡°It was rather short notice,¡± Lydia said, watching with bubbling excitement as the Rosy Dawn¡¯s servant ss rushed to prepare the estates for a celebration the likes of which had not been seen in over a decade. Damon Aetos had given the word to his brothers a month ago, who had passed it onto their children. It was all they could talk about since. A young pir of the Rosy Dawn was getting married. The prodigal son of the Aetos line had found himself a girl in the course of his journeys and was returning home to properly introduce her to the family that had raised him. Then, with his uncle¡¯s blessing, he would wed her. Nics Aetos wasing home. ¡°My, my. Look at you,¡± A heroic beauty murmured, leaning against the archway that connected Lydia¡¯s room to her younger sister¡¯s. Her mother looked her up and down, something nostalgic and wondering in her eyes. ¡°What about me?¡± Lydia asked archly, checking her appearance in a polished bronze mirror. She¡¯d chosen a white silk dress for the asion, bound at the shoulders by carved bronze eagles, and a scarlet sash was draped diagonally across her chest as a symbol of her status. Her hair had been finely braided by a pair of ves and wound into a bun at the nape of her neck. It was the color of spun gold, a trait she¡¯d inherited from her mother. Chryse Aetos crossed the stone tiles and took Lydia¡¯s hair in hand, touching up the braids with deft fingers. Those fingers could - and had - cave in full bronze te with little effort, but they were gentle and unerringly precise as they undid and redid the braids in her eldest daughter¡¯s hair. ¡°You went and became a beautiful woman while I wasn¡¯t looking,¡± Lydia¡¯s mother said. ¡°Who is this marble swan that¡¯s taken the ce of my little ugly duck?¡± A tinklingugh spilled from her lips as Lydia swatted at her. ¡°Wasn¡¯t it only yesterday that you were begging me to attend lessons in the gymnasium with the boys?¡± ¡°Perhaps if you spent less time behind closed doors it wouldn¡¯te as such a shock,¡± Lydia said, with no real heat. Nheless, her mother feigned a wounded expression, reflected in the bronze mirror. ¡°My daughter inherited her father¡¯s cruelty. Truly, I am reviled by the Fates.¡± Lydia rolled her eyes, fighting a smile. ¡°If anyone is reviled it¡¯s father. He received you for a tribtion, after all.¡± She yelped as her mother sharply twisted her ear. ¡°You¡¯re still far too young to be getting cheeky with me,¡± her mother chided her. Her sea green eyes glowed merrily, backlit by the mes of her heroic soul. Chryse Aetos was a woman whose presence captivated and intimidated in equal proportion. Lydia had inherited most of her defining traits from her mother, sans the color of her eyes, and it showed in their bronze reflections. Chryse was taller than her by a forearm¡¯s length, taller than most men, the product of a pristine bloodline and her own advanced cultivation. But they shared the same long, lusciously powerful legs. The same smooth skin, the color of polished marble despite the years her mother had journeyed beneath the Mediterranean sun. Her mother¡¯s arms were muscled in a way that hers weren¡¯t, one of the few signs that she had lived an entire life before her daughter. They could have passed for sisters, standing there before that bronze mirror. Timelessness was a given when one reached her mother¡¯s level of renown. Lydia had always been awed by her mother. She was gorgeous, yes. Ethereally so. But she was powerful, too. She was no coy maiden or cringing wallflower. She was married to one of the most powerful men in the Scarlet City, one of the more powerful men in the known world, and she stood by her father¡¯s side as an equal. They had traveled the Mediterranean together. They had cultivated virtue together. And they had triumphed, as one. Together. She¡¯d long admired her mother, and it was for that reason that her opinion was the most difficult to ask for. Still, though, Lydia had never been a coward. She swallowed her fears and raised a hand to grasp her mother¡¯s fingers, lowering them from their work. She stared at her mother¡¯s curious reflection in the bronze. ¡°Mother,¡± she said, slowly. ¡°Am I¡­ ready?¡± The fire in her mother¡¯s eyes flickered. But when firm hands turned her around, Chryse Aetos was smiling with pride. ¡°More than I ever was,¡± her mother said, rubbing her thumbs tanderly across the knuckles of Lydia¡¯s hands. ¡°Already, you are more than that boy will ever deserve.¡± ¡°Mother!¡± she eximed, pushing away. ¡°I¡¯m serious!¡± Her mother pulled her back with strength that could not be denied and wrapped her up in a tight embrace. Lydia resisted valiantly, but she may as well have been fighting against the ocean tides. Finally, she huffed and surrendered herself to it. ¡°So am I, my ugly duck,¡± Her mother whispered. ¡°So am I.¡± It was not her wedding day, not yet, but it felt nearly like it as she walked through snow-covered fields to join her fiance at the docks. Lio greeted her with a faint smile and did not question her when she slipped her hand into his. His hand wasrge, tan and calloused. She squeezed it once, searchingly, and her heart leapt in her chest when he squeezed back. She smiled brightly up at him and he chuckled. ¡°Our wedding won¡¯t be long from now,¡± she said casually, as the rest of their family gathered at the docks. The pirs were all in attendance, her mother and aunt chatting animatedly about the uing wedding while her father and uncles stood at the edge of the dock, towering symbols of the Rosy Dawn¡¯s might. The rest of her cousins had yet to arrive. ¡°Not long at all,¡± Lio agreed, gazing wistfully at the sea. They were all eager to see their eldest cousin again after all these years. ¡°We might as well make it a dual affair. Get both marriages out of the way while things are set up.¡± Lydia smacked his arm, and heughed. ¡°Our wedding will be about us,¡± she said imperiously. ¡°And it will be better than Nico¡¯s wedding in every way, or you will feel this mommy¡¯s wrath. Do you understand?¡± Lio looked fondly down at her, his features somehow more pleasing than they had been before he started shaving. The tips of her ears burned. That, Lydia had decided, was one habit he¡¯d picked up from the ve that she would allow. ¡°Of course, cousin,¡± he said. ¡°Anything you want.¡± Lydia nodded firmly, doing her best to conceal how warm she felt, and turned to watch the horizon with him. Soon enough, a ship appeared on the horizon. The prodigal son returned. Chapter 0.19 [The Young Miss-tocrat 3] Chapter 0.19 [The Young Miss-tocrat 3] The Young Miss-tocrat Niks Aetos disdained a gangway, didn¡¯t even wait for his ship to near the docks, before leaping from the deck at an absurd distance andnding adroitly before the three pirs of the Rosy Dawn Cult. ¡°Uncles,¡± he greeted warmly, arms spread wide. A truly amazing sight followed. Lydia¡¯s own fatherughed, breaking formation with his brothers to wrap his nephew up in a tight embrace. Uncle Stavros was not far behind, wrapping him up and pping his back with a fierce grin and a rib about his nephew¡¯s slender frame. The ever stone-faced twin eagles radiated joy. And then something even more unbelievable happened. Damon Aetos himself stepped forward and sped forearms with his nephew, a fond smile on his lips. In her living memory, Lydia couldn¡¯t recall ever seeing such an expression on her uncle¡¯s face. ¡°Wee home, nephew,¡± spoke the kyrios. Niks returned the smile, crinkled eyes burning sky blue with the light of his virtuous soul. He stood tall, of a height with Lydia¡¯s father and Uncle Stavros, and rippling with muscle despite her uncle¡¯s jokes. His hair was cropped short at the sides, ck as night, and his skin was heavily bronzed. He bore a burnished chest te over a red tunic and stylized greaves as easily as he would a silk robe. His pneuma rolled off of him like heat from a me. If his eyes hadn¡¯t been a clear enough sign, the intensity of his presence left no doubt. Their eldest cousin had left as an unprecedented prodigy with an indomitable determination to win glory. He had returned to them as a Hero. Watching the four of them trade greetings was an eerie thing. Lydia wasn¡¯t the only one to notice it, either. Her mother and aunt stood entranced by the sight. Niks Aetos looked like he belonged among his uncles. For a moment, it was if the fourth Aetos brother had never died. It felt that way, too, when his gaze moved past his uncles and settled on them. It was a powerful sensation, all too simr to the one she felt whenever her father or uncles felt the need to flex their presence. But all thoughts of pressure and intimidation fled her mind when she saw that familiar shining grin, the one she remembered from her childhood. ¡°Look at you two!¡± Niko eximed, striding excitedly past his uncles. Lydia wanted to rush forward to meet him, but she couldn¡¯t bring herself to pull her hand from Lio¡¯s. It didn¡¯t end up being an issue. Niko swept them both up in his arms, squeezing them tight. ¡°Who told you to grow while I was gone!? Where did my baby cousins go?¡± Lio snorted, pping his cousin¡¯s back. He was nearly as tall as Niko, his feet still firmly on the docks while hers dangled in the air. Lydia, for her part, wrapped her free arm around her eldest cousin¡¯s neck and returned the hug with all her strength. ¡°Who told you to leave?¡± Lio returned wryly. ¡°You¡¯ve missed all the fun.¡± ¡°Without a doubt,¡± Niko agreed, lowering her back to her feet and giving them a conspirator¡¯s grin. ¡°But the wider world has its own appeal, too. It¡¯s one thing to hear the stories, and quite another to live them for yourself.¡± Lio smiled lightly. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t know.¡± ¡°You will,¡± Niko promised, gripping his shoulder. He nced her way mischievously. ¡°Provided you keep our little swan happy, of course.¡± They exchanged a few more pleasantries before Niko¡¯s aunts descended on him, the marble beauties of the Rosy Dawn cooing and fawning over their eldest nephew while he tried valiantly to maintain his heroic bearing. The other cousins were soon to follow, Heron and Myron pounding down the docks with Castor and Rena not far behind. It was a joyous reunion. Even if it was only a temporary thing, the Aetos family was whole again. Lydia watched fondly as Niko swung a giddy Myron through the air, marveling at how much he¡¯d grown. She squeezed Lio¡¯s hand again, ncing up at him. His head was tilted to the side, scarlet eyes looking back at the approaching ship. No, not the ship. The sea. Niko had arrived a week ahead of his wedding. He used that time to re-familiarize himself with the cult and all that he¡¯d missed in his absence from it, to catch up with old friends within the ranks of the mystikos and the honored philosophers both, and especially to make the rounds and introduce everyone to his blushing bride-to-be. Iphys Rosi, soon to be Iphys Aetos, was a rose worthy of her name. She wasn¡¯t as tall as Lydia¡¯s mother or her aunt, but she was no less striking for it. She wore her hair in a long braid the color of harvested wheat, tied with multiple strips of blue silk. Her eyes were a kind hazel flecked with gold, even as her Heroic soul lit them like a me. Rena had immediately found a kindred spirit in the woman, and it had warmed Lydia to her immensely to see them interact. More than even that, though, Niko had done his level best to spend as much of his time as he possibly could before the wedding with his cousins. They ate all of their meals together, attended the gymnasium together, and shared stories long into each night. Somehow, Niko was as eager to hear their banal tales of life in the cult as they were to hear about his heroic adventures. To that end, he insisted that for every story he told, each of them told one in return. Myronined that such a ratio was far from fair, but there was little he could do to persuade a heroic cultivator. Besides, Lydia knew that he enjoyed the praise that their eldest cousin heaped upon them. He was just too proud to show it. The only one truly reluctant to share was Lio. ¡°Come now, cousin,¡± Niko finally insisted, three days before the wedding. ¡°How can the Young Aristocrat stay silent while his cousins take all the glory? I¡¯ve been here four days and I don¡¯t know you any better for it.¡± They sat around a fire in the shadow of the eastern mountain range, telling stories after dark. Iphys was up in the main estate with her new aunts and a bevy of ves, undergoing preparation for the wedding. Lydia¡¯s father and uncles were handling their own preparations, though they¡¯d stolen Niko away more than once over thest few days to discuss things that Niko wouldn¡¯t speak to. ¡°There¡¯s little to say,¡± Lio said. He wasid out across the fire from his eldest cousin, head propped up on his palm while he gazedzily into the mes. ¡°We¡¯re all familiar with life in the Rosy Dawn. I¡¯m more interested in hearing about thends across the sea.¡± ¡°I¡¯m familiar with my life in the Rosy Dawn,¡± Niko said, leaning forward. ¡°I want to hear about yours. Surely you have a few tales to tell. I refuse to believe Uncle Damon¡¯s son has not been living an interesting life.¡± Lio smiled faintly. Something about it made Lydia¡¯s stomach lurch with unease. It bid her to speak. ¡°Lio won the Daylight Games.¡± Niko blinked, surprised. An unspoken tension in the air suddenly eased. ¡°He did? Which event?¡± ¡°All of them,¡± she said, pride warring with her concern. ¡°He went undefeated.¡± ¡°And it wasn¡¯t even close,¡± Myron added. ¡°They gave him so manyurel crowns that he had to wear them on his arms!¡± ¡°He was incredible,¡± Rena said softly. ¡°He could have done worse,¡± Heron grudgingly admitted. Castor, sitting beside him, chuckled and draped an arm across his shoulders. ¡°Now, now, it¡¯s alright to be honest. Our senior brother brutalized thepetition.¡± ¡°Is that so?¡± Niko asked. Lio hummed, neither confirming nor denying it. ¡°You cheeky brat, I only won three events when Ipeted, and you mean to tell me you swept the whole lot? Tell me all about it!¡± For some reason, Lio didn¡¯t puff up with pride as any of them surely would have. The knowledge that he had triumphed so absolutely where even their prodigal cousin had struggled didn¡¯t seem to fill him with any particr joy. His eyes only narrowed. That faint, gnawing dreadpounded. ¡°Wepeted in different games, cousin,¡± Lio finally said. Modestly, almost. Since when had Lio be modest? ¡°You¡¯d have won just as easily. More, even. Even back then, your cultivation was far beyond what mine is now.¡± ¡°Nonsense,¡± Niko said, waving a hand. Myron and Rena exchanged nervous looks. ¡°The Lio I remember was never too far behind me. He wasn¡¯t modest about it, either. Where do you stand now, fifth rank? Sixth?¡± ¡°Tenth.¡± Niko¡¯s eyes flickered in honest shock. ¡°Captain of the Sophic Realm? Already?¡± Lydia¡¯s eyes clenched shut. ¡°Civic,¡± came Lio¡¯s mild reply. Silence. ¡°... Ah, I see. So it¡¯s like that.¡± Niko sighed, leaning back. ¡°You know, you have nothing to be ashamed of. Captain of the Civic Realm at your age is impressive by any metric. Especially under these conditions.¡± Please stop talking, Lydia silently asked. ¡°What do you mean by that?¡± Heron asked. Stop. ¡°Well, there¡¯s only so much you can do on top of a mountain, no matter what the elders say,¡± Niko reasoned. ¡°My time abroad has exposed me to things I had never even heard of in my childhood days here. Our uncles provide the best education they can, and I can¡¯t think of anywhere else I¡¯d have liked better to grow up, but at a certain point an eagle has to spread its wings and fly.¡± Enough. ¡°Some men feel the itch worse than others. We call it wanderlust,¡± Niko said, winking and nudging Myron with an elbow. ¡°But you¡¯ll all get a chance to scratch it soon enough. The business of a cult like the Rosy Dawn is endlessly demanding. I¡¯m sure Uncle Damon is just waiting until you hit the Sophic Realm to send you out, Lio. How long have you been at the tenth rank?¡± ¡°Four months.¡± He didn¡¯t wince. He didn¡¯t have to. ¡°Soon enough, then. How about we exchange a few pointers before I leave? I may be able to offer you some insight.¡± ¡°Of course, cousin,¡± Lio said. He smiled, scarlet eyes glinting in the firelight. ¡°Now, I think it¡¯s your turn. Tell me about your time in the north.¡± Niko epted the cue for what it was, and the storytelling continued onte into the night. Slowly, one by one, they each drifted off to sleep. Myron was the first to go, his age asserting itself as he syed across Rena¡¯sp. The poor girl wasn¡¯t far behind, and after a few more hours of valiant struggle Heron and Castor gave in as well. Lydia was thest to drift off, wrapped up in Lio¡¯s arms with her back to his chest. Thest thing she saw before sleep imed her, ncing up, was his eyes. Raptly focused on Niko as he spoke. Growing colder with every word. Chapter 0.20 Chapter 0.20 The eve of Niks Aetos¡¯ wedding arrived with snow flurries and songs. Spirit wine flowed freely and freshly butchered meats abounded. Mystikos spent the morning conducting their own mock games for the entertainment of our guests, while the honored philosophers traded discourse with the young heroes in the afternoon. When evening came they all gathered to enjoy a feast with my elder cousin¡¯spanions. This entire day was itself a celebration in preparation for the ceremonies tomorrow. The only portion of the cult not present for the pavilion feast was the Aetos family itself. Instead we were to wee the newest addition to the family with a grand symposia, hosted in the main estate. I¡¯d cleansed myself in the bath house with my cousins and donned my finest cult attire for the asion. The quiet p of my bare feet against the marble floors of the hall were the only sound to be heard as I made my way to the symposia chambers. The pavilion feast was already well underway. My own would begin soon enough. Then, tomorrow, the wedding. After that, farewell to Niks once more. Then¡­ I paused. In the low light of the sunset, I saw something truly ludicrous taking ce in my courtyard. My legs carried me into the gardens and pools of their own volition. ¡°What are you doing?¡± I asked the ve tending to one of my ancestors¡¯ filial pools. ¡°What does it look like?¡± Sol asked. I tilted my head. ¡°It looks like you¡¯re draining the pool with a spoon.¡± And so he was. As I watched incredulously, the ve dipped a shallow silver spoon into the filial pool and deposited its meager contents into the y jar beside him. There were seven more jugs off to the side, and three of them were full. How long had he been doing this? ¡°Why are you doing this?¡± I asked, when it became clear that he was letting his actions speak for him. He nced up at me, storm gray eyes flickering with something that was almost annoyance, almost amusement. ¡°Your cousin¡¯s orders.¡± I blinked. ¡°Heron?¡± Sol nodded, and I found myselfughing. Once it started it didn¡¯t stop. I gripped his shoulder as a brace, nearly doubled over in mirth. ¡°He made you use a spoon?¡± I finally gasped. ¡°He did.¡± ¡°And you¡¯re actually doing it?¡± This was too much. ¡°It was an order from on high.¡± He shrugged and dipped his spoon back into the water, depositing another few drops into the jar. ¡°Besides, what else is there to do?¡± Myughter died down to low chuckling, and then faded to a thoughtful silence. I considered the filial pool and its sunkissed waters. What else was there to do? ¡°Tell me something, ve,¡± I said, dipping my spoon into the pool. Sol hummed. ¡°How long do you n to suffer this?¡± ¡°Suffer what? Envement?¡± ¡°Obviously,¡± I said. He stared at me for a moment, lost for words. ¡°Has it not lost its lustre yet? Or is it the kiss of the whip that gives you pleasure? I knew Romans were deviants, but still.¡± ¡°You¡¯re still upset about the games?¡± Sol asked. I snorted, dipping my spoon. It really would have been faster to just use our cupped palms. ¡°What am I, a woman? No, I¡¯m genuinely asking. There¡¯s only so much a man can do to punish himself before it bes gratuitous. If you keep this up there won¡¯t be anything left of you for the Fates to torment.¡± His expression shuttered, right on cue. ¡°You don¡¯t know what you¡¯re talking about.¡± ¡°No, that¡¯s where you¡¯re mistaken. I¡¯m the only one who knows what I¡¯m talking about.¡± I grabbed one of the full jars and dumped it back into the pool. Sol red murderously at me, but hells, what else was there to do? ¡°Day in and day out, we¡¯re all just staring up at heaven. Waiting for the sun to rise and thinking to ourselves that this is the day we¡¯ll finally catch it in our hands.¡± I filled my spoon with water and deposited it in an empty jug, then grabbed another full jug and dumped it back in the pool. ¡°We cultivate virtue so that we can someday break bread with the gods, but what does cultivating virtue mean, really?¡± ¡°You¡¯re about to tell me,¡± Sol muttered. I bared my teeth in a grin and flicked a spoonful of water at his face. ¡°We exist, body, mind, and spirit. The philosophers preach that the tripartite soul is a bncing act, that we must restrain with reason the hunger in our souls if we are to ascend. Disdain our heart¡¯s natural passions in the pursuit of virtue. Why? For what purpose? Is it our filial duty to be dull?¡± ¡°Temperance is virtue,¡± Sol said. ¡°Virtue is performative excellence,¡± I corrected him. ¡°We agreed before that a man¡¯s purpose was to ascend the divine mountain and throw off his destined threads. Whatever path leads him there, by default, is a virtuous one. Isn¡¯t that so?¡± Sol eyed me. ¡°Results are all that matter. Cultivation is all that matters. If I strangled you here and now, drowned you in this pool, and in so doing ascended to the Sophic Realm, the act would be virtuous by default. Isn¡¯t that so?¡± ¡°No.¡± ¡°Exin yourself.¡± Sol tapped the fingers of his free hand against the pool¡¯s marble rim, his manacle¡¯s severed chain swaying to and fro. ¡°A man is more than just a number,¡± he said. ¡°More than just a rank,¡± I added. He ignored me. Continued to y dumb. ¡°It isn¡¯t enough to be blessed by heaven,¡± he said. ¡°Cultivation only makes us more of what we already are.¡± Thereiny the issue. There was a reason that some men rose to perilous heights on the shoulders of virtue while othersnguished in the lowest realms despite living as they should. Heroes and Tyrants were the product of epics. Beloved by the Muses and reviled by the Fates, they were all connected by amon thread. Wicked or kind, monstrous or just, they were interesting. Niks had given himself fully to this concept. Enved himself to it. ¡°My cousin would disagree,¡± I informed Sol. He only shrugged. ¡°Why should I care what a Greek thinks?¡± Iughed. ¡°Exactly! Who cares what they all think? Who cares what heaven has to say? We exist in three parts, and each of them is king inside our soul. Why should we disdain one for the other? Why should we cultivate virtue at the expense of our dignity?¡± He was the only one that understood. The rest of them were too deeply immersed in it. They¡¯d been born into this world, had never thought to wonder what existed beyond it. It was only natural they would respond as they did. ¡°My cousins think I¡¯m jealous,¡± I said, resting an elbow on the rim of the pool and fully facing the ve. ¡°They think I covet Niks¡¯ advanced cultivation. My aunts and uncles think I envy his circumstances.¡± ¡°Do you?¡± Sol asked. ¡°Do I envy him for having a longer leash than I do? Of course not. He¡¯s still a dog.¡± Silver spoons dipped into crystalline water. At some point the sun had given way to the stars. It was a dead moon night. ¡°My cousins pity me for my bottlenecks, as if they were the disease themselves and not merely the symptom. My aunts and uncles scorn me for my impatience, as if these token journeys my father hands out are what I actually want.¡± ¡°What do you want, then?¡± He paused in his own spooning, looking at me. For a moment even his faint, ever present contempt gave way to honest curiosity. ¡°I have no idea.¡± Sol rolled his eyes. ¡°My virtuous heart can¡¯t lie,¡± I told him, grinning. ¡°But I know that whatever it is, it¡¯s not something a ve¡¯s eyes can see.¡± ¡°Seems you¡¯ll never know, then.¡± Ho, how cruel. ¡°And what about you?¡± I asked. ¡°What does the son of Rome desire?¡± ¡°Nothing,¡± he said. ¡°Nothing at all.¡± I frowned, propping my cheek up on my free hand. I stirred my spoon idly in the pool, flicking small streams into an open jar with unerring precision. ¡°That right there. I despise that about you.¡± This was why he hadn¡¯t taken my hand in the Scarlet Stadium. This was why he suffered the daily indignities of a ve, never once bothered to sell his skills for coin. He had no intention of paying his freedom¡¯s price. He had no desire to be a citizen of the Scarlet City. Because even if he was, it wouldn¡¯t matter. ¡°Most ves only serve one master. But not you,¡± I said. ¡°Even if my father let you go, it wouldn¡¯t make a difference to you. Would it?¡± He shook his head once. ¡°You can¡¯t wallow forever.¡± I watched his fist clench, his jaw flex. Pathetic. He was so close. And yet here he was. Pathetic. ¡°You had aspirations before, didn¡¯t you? There¡¯s an entire world out there,nds that enlightened eyes have never seen before. Don¡¯t you ache to see them? To experience everything this world has to offer?¡± ¡°For what purpose? Why?¡± He demanded, frustrated not because he didn¡¯t feel that desire, but because he did. Because his hunger was at war with his spirit, and his reason was lost. He was drowning, but his tripartite soul would not let him die. ¡°Because this world exists.¡± I said simply. ¡°Because we can.¡± What other reason did a man need? We talked about the ces we would go, the things we wanted to see. We drained those filial pools with our spoons, and when the sun rose I left him to join my family in a joyous ceremony. My aunts and uncles were furious with me for missing the symposia, of course, and my cousins weren¡¯t far behind. But there were more important things to focus on. The wedding was beautiful beyond words. The bride and the groom joined hands around an ornamented de and sacrificed their first animal as husband and wife, to the cheers of theirpanions. A grand feast followed, with the men upying one set of tables and the women upying another, and after that came all manner of wedding games. When the time finally came to consecrate the marriage, to lift the lover¡¯s veil, the bride and the rest of my eldest cousin¡¯spanions were treated to the memorable sight of a star falling from heaven to earth. Their heroic pneuma nketed the mountaintop, virtuous hearts rising to confront the threat, but they needn¡¯t have bothered. Niks Aetos held his wife steady and watched fondly as Damon Aetos blew a hole in the eastern mountain range, revealing the path to the greater mystery of the Rosy Dawn Cult. It was only natural that an Aetos¡¯ wife would be inducted into the cult, after all. Niks swept his veiled bride into his arms and went charging down into the yawning abyss, calling for hispanions to follow him. They didn¡¯t hesitate, eyes zing with excitement as they descended into the abyss. My aunts and uncles followed suit. My father was thest to go. He sealed the chasm behind him, leaving the rest of the cult to their after party. I turned and left the pavilion, epting a jug of spirit wine from a mousy ve as I did. By the time I found him it was empty, and my pneuma was aglow. ¡°How would you like to be free?¡± I asked, and Sol looked up from tuning his lyre. Somehow, this one was even uglier than thest. ¡°Don¡¯t you have anything better to be doing?¡± he asked, annoyed. ¡°I don¡¯t,¡± I said confidently, and gripped his manacles in both hands. My pneuma drove into them, warping them, until they cracked apart. That was all it took. ¡°And now neither do you.¡± Sol stared at his wrists uprehendingly. The manacles were utterly ruined, joined only by the thinnest slivers of iron. All he had to do was take them off. ¡°From this moment on, your life is your own,¡± I told him. ¡°If you¡¯re still a ve tomorrow, it¡¯ll be because you chose it.¡± He woulde with me or he wouldn¡¯t. Either way, I wouldn¡¯t begrudge him his decision. My heart was singing. The ocean called. Freedom was a distant shore. Chapter 0.21 [Captain of Salt and Ash] Chapter 0.21 [Captain of Salt and Ash] I watched my father burn to ash. The salt of the sea coated my tongue. Fourteen years old. Too young to stand shoulder-to-shoulder within the ranks, to have been there to make a difference. Too old to ever forget the sight of him carried in on a bed of broken shields. Tears blurred my vision, smoke and sea breeze mingling unbearably on my senses. I refused to sob. The men bore it in grim silence, watching their captain and countless brothers burn to ash. I would do the same. Captains led from the front. It was the way of the legions, the first virtue of the Republic. It was the first lesson that my father had taught me, and he had matched his words to action time and again in his service. The men of the fifth legion loved him for it. They moved mountains for him because of it. And when he died and entered the great beyond, they followed him there too. The mournful bellows of the legions¡¯ war trumpets nketed the camp, legionaries breathing their souls into their horns for the fallen captain and his men. Some men wept silent tears. Others stared vacantly into the mes, their minds still in the thick of the fight. Most, though. Most were simply grim. ¡°Dry your eyes, young Solus.¡± Instinct moved me. I snapped to attention, dashing tears of grief, salt, and smoke from my eyes. A wave of sound swept through the ranks, hundreds of men mming clenched fists to their hearts in respect. Btedly, I did the same. The general of the western front dropped a hand onto my shoulder, and I staggered under the weight of it. It was not a physical thing. It was his presence alone that nearly drove me to my knees. The general looked upon the mass funeral pyre, with my father at its center. There was sorrow in his eyes. But no tears. ¡°We don¡¯t weep until the battle is won,¡± he told me. His resolve was a quiet thing. Yet it shook the earth beneath our feet. ¡°Your father epted death before defeat. It¡¯s up to us to honor that resolve with action. Dry those eyes until we¡¯ve swept his enemies into the sea.¡± The words were for me, but they carried as easily as the war horns. Legionaries shouted and hammered their fists to their breast tes, mmed the butts of their spears against the earth. It was the nature of a Roman general tomand unfaltering loyalty, but it was the providence of the man that led the western front tomand devotion overwhelming. No man in the entire Republic was so beloved. He turned me away from the pyre, away from the ash and salt, and urged me back to camp with his hand on my shoulder. I might as well have tried to resist the turning of the seasons. ¡°Your father was a fine husband to my niece, and a finer captain in my legions.¡± My great-uncle led me through the camp, with its weathered tents and siege materials. The earth beneath our feet had long been pounded to mud. ¡°What I owed him, I now owe you. A boy your age needs a hand to guide you. I¡¯ll have to suffice.¡± He parted themand tent¡¯s p and ushered me in. Inside were men that appeared to be no older than my father, but possessed the bearing and scars of men far older preserved by cultivation. The logisticos of the western legionsid eyes upon me, and the pressure of their notice nearly drove me to my knees. I grit my teeth and stood to attention, and though I had no breast te to strike, I mmed a fist to my heart anyway. They eyed me appraisingly. My great-uncle entered behind me, and those monsters rose and followed my example before the general of the west. ¡°At ease,¡± he said, allowing a legionnaire that had been waiting just inside the tent¡¯s entrance to remove his heavy crimson cloak. He kept his armor, taking his ce on a simple bench at the head of a wide sand table. The logisticos rxed, retaking their seats and returning to their prior discussion. One of them, though, nced curiously at me. I hadn¡¯t moved. Hadn¡¯t dared to leave the position of attention. ¡°Gaius,¡± the logistico said. ¡°Who is the boy?¡± My great-uncle nced back at me, and his expression made my heart clench in my chest. I¡¯d mastered the tears. But the taste of sea salt and funeral ash remained. ¡°This is my nephew, Solus,¡± he said. ¡°His father brought him here to show him how the virtuous men of Rome live. Now, I¡¯ll teach him how to lead them.¡± He gestured, and I joined him on the bench. The furthest western reaches of the Mediterranean were arrayed before us on the sand table, with all their armies. My eyes immediately sought out one set of pieces in particr. My great-uncle shook his head once. ¡°We have a long campaign ahead of us, nephew.¡± He pointed elsewhere. North. ¡°First we take the Gauls.¡± ¡°What is the primary quality that a man must have to lead?¡± my great-uncle asked me. It was a rhetorical question, like most he asked. His bright gray eyes swiveled across the field. Searching for something only he could see. ¡°It is not strength alone. Neither is it wisdom. A man doesn¡¯t need to be superior to those he leads in any particr manner, but for one.¡± ¡°What is that, uncle?¡± I asked dutifully, resisting the urge to roll my shoulders in the unfamiliar armor I¡¯d been issued. Still too young to stand shoulder-to-shoulder in the ranks, but neither could I ride at the general¡¯s side in in clothes. ¡°Men in general are quick to believe that which they wish to be true,¡± Gaius spoke. ¡°It is the burden of the Republic to shed light on every shadowed nation. We are besieged on all sides by barbarian states. In circumstances like these, a man desires a guiding light above all else. To make that man believe you are someone worth following into the screaming hordes, someone worth dying alongside. Worth dying for. That is the minimum that you¡¯ll need to lead.¡± His eyes burned as he found what he had been looking for in the press of battle. ¡°Watch me,¡± hemanded, and urged his horse into a sprint. The western legions were joined in viciousbat with the Gallic hordes. They had tried to hide behind the walls of their settlement, but Gaius¡¯ officers had shattered them with cultivation that shook my senses. The barbarians that spilled out were massive,rger than all but the greatest of legionnaires, and far more numerous. Thousands upon thousands hade charging out of the walls, and then the binators among the legions had raised their trumpets and sounded the rm as more came howling up the rear. We were caught in the middle. The only way out was through. I watched the general of the west run his horse headlong into the fray, and I watched the disrupted ranks of the legions reform themselves, as if by magic, where he passed. Shield walls mmed together. Century lines dug their heels into the mud and held, where before they had been pushed back. Legionnaires who had been shouting in anger and fear, or in simple exhration, went silent. Focused. Gaius shot through the lines like an arrow, and in his passing left them silent and dangerous as a knife. He plunged that de into the Gallic army¡¯s screaming throat. I gripped the dius at my side tightly, aching to join them. Every fallen legionnaire was a life I could have saved. A father that would burn on the pyre because I hadn¡¯t been there to cover him in the press. But I mastered the desire. I observed. And I promised myself that some day soon, I would be as my great-uncle was. The light that guided. Gaius drove through the Gallic tides and found his mark. The general of the west met the Gallic king and their sh rocked me off my mount. I scrambled for the reins while the war horse reared up and screamed its defiance to heaven. Even the beasts gave their hearts for Gaius. It was over as quickly as it had begun. The Gallic armies gave way like they were made of sand, a cascading retreat that started from both fronts and was soon spilling over to their furthest back lines. They were held up as precipitously by their king as the legions were by their general, and as Gaius drove the Gallic tyrant into the earth it was clear who stood greater among heaven and earth. The legions let fly their eagle standards, rion calls of war trumpets splitting the air. The Gallic king clutched a gaping wound in his side, and before the eyes of legionnaires and barbarians alike he slowly knelt. Lightning struck the general of the west. Horror stopped my heart. The bolt fell out of a clear blue sky, and was followed in the next instant by another. Then another. Dozens, in the blink of an eye. Hundreds. Barbarians caught too close were vaporized by the pir of light. Legion shield walls were raised in turtle formation as the general¡¯s men formed ranks against heaven. After what seemed like an eternity and yet no time at all, the lightning storm ceased. At the epicenter of its destruction knelt the Gallic king, a smoking ruin of a man. Still alive, still kneeling, but only just. Gaius sat tall on his horse. His pneuma unfurled like an eagle standard across the battlefield, and where it passed men fell to their knees. A rolling thunder of noise passed through the legion ranks, thousands of fists mming to armored chests in salutes. My legs shook with the urge to kneel. My basest instincts begged me to submit. But I stood tall and proud, a fist to my heart. And when my great-uncle looked back across the field at me, there was pride in his eyes. From that day on, my path was set. The general of the west returned home for his Triumph. The Gallic king was paraded around the great city, and for days Rome celebrated her favored son. It was a dizzying experience. I felt utterly out of ce in the city that I had once so arrogantly prowled like a hunting cat. My armor now felt more natural than the soft cloths and togas I¡¯d worn as a boy. My de was more familiar to my hand than any cup of wine. When my great-uncle presented me with a girl and dered her to be my wife, I had no idea what to do with her. But I was my father¡¯s son. I offered her my hand and she took it. Her skin was soft, the color of fresh cream. She looked coyly up at me through longshes. I decided I didn¡¯t like the schemes behind them. So I pulled her tight to my chest and kissed her soundly. The men of the fifth legion cheered andughed. When we parted her chestnut braids were disheveled, blue eyes startled. ¡°No games,¡± I told her. ¡°And I¡¯m yours.¡± Slowly, she smiled. I had just turned seventeen. The western front was a ruin. Crows ckened the skies and ash rolled like mist through the countryside. Where the enemy went, they burned and they salted. ¡°We have no choice,¡± my great-uncle said grimly. We were arrayed around the sand table, logisticos and officers of every legion gathered to hear the general speak. He moved ivory pieces through the sand, corralling a tide of obsidian stones. ¡°Our internal conflicts have weakened us, and the enemy allows us no time to consolidate. We split them here and drive them into the sea, or we are lost.¡± Officers were given marching orders each in turn, mming fists to hearts and striding out of themand tent to round up their men. The legions were weary. They were worn. But they were sons of Rome, and they would march until the fight was won. Soon only the logisticos remained. Gaius spoke to them for hours about thends thaty between us and the enemy, the advantages that could be manufactured for our forces along the way. I stood by his side all the while, eyes roving over the sand table. My armor was cold. Heavier than usual on my shoulders. ¡°What do you see, Solus?¡± he asked me, some timeter. ¡°We outnumber them,¡± I said. My fist clenched. ¡°Yet they ravage us like crows.¡± He nodded, taking an ivory piece in hand that stood taller than the rest. He rolled it between his fingers, contemting. ¡°Wars are won in the hearts of the men fighting them. Men have to believe they can win. Triumphing against greater numbers builds that faith.¡± He didn¡¯t exin what happened in the opposite case. He didn¡¯t have to. ¡°These stories we¡¯ve been hearing¡­¡± ¡°Don¡¯t matter. Our objective is unchanged.¡± He waved a hand, dismissing the logisticos from the tent. When they had gone, he brought that hand down and divided the ivory legions. He set his piece with the western forces. ¡°I¡¯m entrusting the fifth legion to you.¡± ¡°You can¡¯t!¡± It was an immediate response. Instinctive. The tyrant of the west raised an eyebrow at me. ¡°Sir, I¡¯m not ready. I¡¯m not strong enough-¡± ¡°What have I told you?¡± Bright gray eyes burned. They measured me, the same way they had measured every enemy to fall at the Republic¡¯s feet. ¡°Strength alone is not what matters. You are my nephew, who has cultivated my own virtue. The men of the fifth legion love you as dearly as they loved your father. You will lead them.¡± ¡°Is there no one else?¡± I asked, a heavy weight in my stomach. ¡°None that I can spare. You will have advisors and logisticos, and three thousand shining Roman souls to carry you through. All you must do is show them the way.¡± I inhaled deeply. My fist rapped against my breast te. ¡°I won¡¯t fail you, uncle.¡± ¡°Father,¡± he corrected me, smiling faintly at my confusion. From a fold in his robes he produced a roll of papyrus. He offered it to me. I unfurled the document, and read in growing disbelief. It was a deration of adoption. ¡°Fight, my son,¡± he said, rising and pping my shoulder. His gray eyes burned fiercely. ¡°Fight until thest man falls. I, your father, will handle the rest.¡± The enemy was unlike anything the fifth legion had ever seen. They surged across the battlefield like a midnight tide. Like a living nightmare. When they shed against our shield walls, their howls shook the earth. Within minutes our formations were shattered. They swept us away from our sister legions, the only sign as to their location being the wheeling murders of crows that darkened the sky. In the distance, lightning struck the earth over and over as the men of my adopted father¡¯s legions pitted their souls against the enemy and ascended. It was chaos. It was a nightmare that had no end. I¡¯d seen enough men die. I dug my heels into my horse¡¯s nk, and the midnight war stallion reared up and screamed defiance. ¡°Sir, you can¡¯t!¡± One of the advisors that Gaius had allotted me cried out, reaching for me. A life in the legions had sharpened the man¡¯s cultivation to a knife¡¯s edge. Without question, his life¡¯s essence was stronger than mine. But strength alone was not enough. My pneuma rippled out from me in a wave. Gaius¡¯ virtue mmed the man down into his saddle. ¡°A captain leads from the front,¡± I snarled, and my horse leapt into a gallop across the field. It was worse to see the enemy up close. They were an impossibility. A perversion of nature. Worse, they wore the armor of a dead nation. An empire that could not exist. Carthage had been burned and salted long ago. ¡°For Gaius!¡± I bellowed, charging into the nightmare¡¯s teeth with naught but a de and my defiant soul. ¡°For Rome!¡± ¡°Gaius!¡± The men of the fifth legion screamed. ¡°ROME!¡± I pierced the storm as the tip of the spear. ¡°Sir.¡± The first spear stood at attention. I had dismissed everyone else from the tent. The messenger eagle cocked its head, eyeing me curiously as I read its missive. Awaiting a reply that I could not give it, because there was no one for the bird to deliver it to. No where to return. ¡°The city of Rome is lost.¡± The first spear was an older man. Weathered and scarred despite the preserving nature of cultivation. He had been at war for longer than I had been alive. When I recited the news, he only closed his eyes in grief. I dropped the letter onto my cot. My hands were shaking, so I clenched them into fists. ¡°Do you have a family, first spear? A wife?¡± I asked. ¡°Aye, sir.¡± His voice rasped. ¡°And three boys your age.¡± I tried to recall the taste of my wife¡¯s lips. Funeral ash and sea salt were all that remained. ¡°Those dogs burned and salted the city of Rome,¡± I said. ¡°They scattered her legions to the four corners of the Mediterranean and backed us into hostilends. Tell me our options, centurion.¡± The first spear answered without hesitation. ¡°Fight and die, sir. Drag them down to tartarus.¡± I stood, and the first spear straightened to face me. His grief mirrored mine, but it was something he¡¯d mastered long ago. I would have to do the same. A captain leads from the front. ¡°What are you waiting for, then?¡± I asked, a fire building in my soul. ¡°Gather the men. Let¡¯s make them bleed.¡± The first spear mmed his fist to his chest. Fight. Until thest man fell. Carthage came for us in the night and we met them screaming. We set fire to our tents, that they might light the field. At mymand centurions bawled out the order to fire, and up and down the lines archers loosed their ming arrows. Their lights arched high and long, and were swallowed by the advancing horde. I led the charge with the first spear and the prime cohort at my side. We shed in thunder and blood. The warriors of Carthage raked us with wed fingers that parted bronze like spider silk. They howled loud enough to make men bleed from their ears, and snarled hatefully as they tore into us, and were torn into in turn. I drove my spear through a Carthaginian breastte and caught the retaliatory swing of a broadsword on my shield. The impact numbed my arm instantly. The enemy red at me with caustic yellow eyes as it died. They were wolves in the shape of men. The smallest of them taller than the tallest Gaul, walking upright on legs that were jointed like a hound. They bore the arms and armor of the fallen Carthaginian Empire, warped and stretched grotesquely over their monstrous frames. They were demons. They could cultivate. A whip crack of sound and light stunned the men of the prime cohort. Links of chain lightning ripped through our shield wall in the blink of an eye, locking up limbs and staggering men for precious moments. The dogs howled and dove into our ranks with heavy spears and bronze des. Men were torn apart, run through, and burnt out from the inside as the forces from Carthage drove lightning through their des. I grit my teeth and snarled against the lightning in my veins. I took my spear in both hands as three of the beasts lunged towards me, and mmed its tip into the earth. My virtue rocked the battlefield. Every arrow in the sky changed its course, careening through murders of shrieking crows to bury themselves in canine flesh. The wave of arrows drove back the first line of the dogs for precious seconds. I shouted up and down the line. The ranks reformed around the dogs that had pierced through our formations, and legionnaires of the prime cohort hacked them apart. It only gave us time. It wasn¡¯t enough. Couldn¡¯t possibly be enough. They had overwhelmed the best of our legions when we outnumbered them four to one. We didn¡¯t have the advantage of numbers anymore. And we didn¡¯t have the greatest general in the Republic, either. The fifth legion only had me. Centurions roared up and down the lines. The shield wall shifted as men moved up from the back to relieve the men up front, fresh blood to face the beasts of Carthage. I tore my spear from the earth and leveled it at the enemy. I panted harshly, my pneuma thundering through me. But they didn¡¯t throw themselves mindlessly into our shields and spears. They fell back, and they parted around a single beast. The creature stared at me with burning golden eyes. Its lips peeled back from stark white fangs, and it snarled once. A word. The vanguard dogs fell back, and hundreds more seamlessly took their ce. Practiced. I watched in dread as the new arrivals closed ranks with one another and raised massive shields affixed to tree-trunk arms. Shields joined with shields, and the demons of Carthage vanished behind thergest shield wall the Mediterranean had ever seen. A battle is lost the moment the men lose hope. I had known from the beginning that there was only one end to this fight. The first spear had known it. The officers. But the men of the rank and file, the infantry, had ced their hope in me. They¡¯d trusted in me as they¡¯d trusted my father, trusted my adopted father, to lead them through the bloody crucible alive if not whole. In all its years, the fifth legion of the western front had never once lost faith. In that moment they did. And the battle was lost. The captain of the Carthaginian demons snarled again, and their shieldwall advanced. I saw terror in the eyes of my officers. I saw men twice my age look desperately to me for somemand, some yet unseen miracle. I felt the cold breath of tartarus as it breathed down my neck, wrapping its fingers around my throat. A captain leads from the front. I hollered in fury and plunged into the shield wall. My pneuma exploded from my soul, shattering through the front of their line as I ascended. The world dissolved into the thunder of colliding shields, shing des, and snarling muzzles. I shattered shields with a spear that could have been used to pick their jagged teeth, driving through the beasts until I caught sight of the captain. It raised a man¡¯s hand, the skin thick and padded like a dog¡¯s paw, and lightning erupted between the tips of its wed fingers. I mmed my spear through the dirt, driving my virtue into its depths. Beasts howled and yelped, thrown from their feet in a wide circle around me. The captain nted wed feet and weathered it. ¡°You want my sons of Rome, dog!?¡± I shouted furiously. My pneuma was running wild, spirit and hunger overwhelming reason in the throes of my ascension. ¡°You can¡¯t have them! ¡®Til my final breath, I won¡¯t let you take a single one!¡± The captain spoke. ¡°Then in hunger, this dog of heaven shall devour you.¡± It pulled a de of obsidian stone from its sheath and coated its length with lightning. Then it moved, and I lunged forward to meet it. Fight. Fight. Until thest man falls. Fight. I drove my spear through a hound¡¯s yellow eye. Fight. I weaved my virtue through my fingers and crushed a dog¡¯s skull between them. Fight. I threw my spear with all my strength at the captain¡¯s retreating back, but a shield was raised against it. It pierced through the shield and the dog behind it, but not the one I wanted. And now I had no spear. Fight. Men died. In numbers I couldn¡¯t track. In magnitudes that made my heart ache. Men that had raised me. Men that had taught me how to throw dice, how to hold a sword. They screamed and they choked on their own blood as they died. The lightning took some. Swords and spears took others. Most, though, fell to sheer monstrous strength- fangs and wed fingers. Fight. I caught a beast¡¯s arm as it swung, twisted and mmed it over my shoulder. It arched up, and I stomped it to the earth. Its breast te caved and shattered, and so did its chest. I heaved for breath, steam billowing from between my clenched teeth. It felt as if I was in a chariot careening down a mountain. My pneuma wouldn¡¯t stop, couldn¡¯t stop. When it did, I would die. I felt it deep in my bones. ¡°Rome,¡± I breathed, catching a descending sword swing on my bare palms. The de bit into the bone but could not sever. I wrenched it out of the demon¡¯s grip and swung the pommel into its skull like a mace, shattering it. ¡°Rome!¡± No one answered the call. I looked around. I saw corpses and crows, hundreds of prowling beasts. The stares of dead men drilled into me. They used me. They judged me, and found me wanting. I was all that remained. Fight. A brassy cry split the heavens, and a sea of bronze struck the wolves of Carthage like a javelin. I stared, uprehendingly, as the beast legions were driven howling from the field by men in feathered helmets and shimmering bronze greaves. Their banners and tunics were scarlet. Rome¡¯s color. For a moment, I dared to hope. Foolish. They forced me to my knees before the Alikon captain. Shackled and chained my wrists. The man, tall and cruelly strong, rendered judgement upon me in the tongue of my childhood mentor. ¡°Son of Rome. Your life-¡± ¡°- is your own,¡± Griffon told me. In his scarlet eyes I saw the sun. ¡°If you¡¯re still a ve tomorrow, it¡¯ll be because you chose it.¡± My pneuma, locked away for so many months, seeped through the cracks in my manacles. It brought everything with it. Pneuma was the essence of the soul. It was joy. It was grief. It was three thousand men, dead because I couldn¡¯t lead them home. My eyes stung, and for the first time in a year I tasted ash and salt on the wind. Dry those eyes, young Solus. We don¡¯t weep until the battle is won. I grit my teeth and stood. Chapter 0.22 [PROLOGUE END] Chapter 0.22 [PROLOGUE END] Nothing was ever simple. ¡°Lio?¡± Griffon¡¯s youngest cousin stood just outside the room where I¡¯d hidden away to tune my lyre. Half-concealed by a marble pir, he stared bewildered at my ruined manacles. I¡¯d grown fond of Myron Aetos during my time as a ve. He was a powerfully gifted boy, yet still so young. Trusting. His sky blue eyes looked first to me, then his cousin. ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± he asked. ¡°Why¡¯d you leave the feast?¡± ¡°Sol and I are taking a walk,¡± Griffon said easily. Utterly shameless, as always. ¡°Care to join us, cousin?¡± Myron visibly rxed, suspicion giving way to curiosity. ¡°Where are you going?¡± ¡°Olympia.¡± It was cruel, forcing a boy into this position. He could have lied. It was well within Griffon¡¯s ability to give a usible excuse, send his cousin away. But that wasn¡¯t in his nature. His virtuous heart wouldn¡¯t tolerate such a thing. I rolled my wrists, considering my broken manacles. My pneuma was trickling in through their cracks, slowly, but not enough to manifest. I would have to tear them fully off. Salt and ash. I clenched my fists and dropped them. Myron looked like a deer before a lion. He backed up a single step. ¡°That¡¯s not funny,¡± he whispered. ¡°No,¡± Griffon agreed. ¡°It¡¯s not.¡± Myron took off running, feet pping against the marble floors of the junior mystiko estate as he fled. Griffon made no move to stop him. Only nced at me, raising an eyebrow challengingly. ¡°Well? It¡¯s now or never again.¡± He strode out of the empty room, content with the audacity of what he¡¯de here to do. I hesitated, ncing back at the room¡¯s bed and its mound of woven wool nkets. I lifted them carefully and met Athis¡¯ wide eyed stare. ¡°Are you going with him?¡± she whispered. My heart lurched in my chest. Three thousand dead men whispered through the cracks in my manacles. ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡± Yet, even as I said it, I was picking up the lyre that I¡¯d dropped and cing it on the bed. She reached desperately for my hand, her fingers slender and calloused by ve work. I squeezed her hand once and let it drop. Before I had consciously decided to do so, I was jogging down the hall to catch up with the arrogant Young Aristocrat of the Rosy Dawn. ¡°They¡¯ll never let us go,¡± I said. My pulse pounded. The estate was all but empty, save for the ves like myself and Athis that had disdained sleep but couldn¡¯t attend the party. ¡°Naturally. But tragedy of tragedies, my father and all my uncles and aunts are currently at the bottom of this mountain, inducting our honored guests into the greater mystery of the Rosy Dawn.¡± He flicked his right hand, shooting rosy streamers of light through the air. ¡°I trust you understand what that means.¡± Memories of glittering light and a bisected corpse with no face, not a single defining feature. Time slipping through my fingers like sand as I stared into the rising light held in its palm. The dawn. Every legendary cultivator on this mountain, and the patriarch himself, would emerge only after the rites were concluded. We had until the dawn. ¡°There are dozens of philosophers in this cult,¡± I warned him. The elders of the Greek cult were men that could have been officers in a typical Roman legion, or senior legionnaires in those led by the tyrant of the west. They weren¡¯t soldiers, of course. Not even close. But they had strength of heart to spare. ¡°Ho, are you scared?¡± Griffon asked jeeringly. My virtuous heart throbbed. ¡°Where¡¯s your courage? Where¡¯s that audacity? We¡¯re on the precipice of adventure and you¡¯re worried about a few old men?¡± It was the prerogative of a cultivator to tempt the Fates. And in return, it was the prerogative of the Fates to strike them down for their transgressions. ¡°Stop.¡± An elder cultivator appeared at the end of the hall. He was tall, ornately clothed inyered robes of philosopher threads. His beard was long, bone white, his eyes a dull blue that spoke to blindness yet intently traced every detail of us. His body was strong, if not tan or rugged. And as his eyes fell upon my manacles, his pneuma flooded the marble hall. ¡°Young Aetos,¡± he thundered. ¡°What have you done?¡± ¡°Nothing at all, honored elder!¡± Griffon called, never once breaking stride as he approached the philosopher. I felt a tension long-buried reassert itself in my soul. I heard the marching drums. ¡°This lowly sophist was just fetching his junior brother for the wedding festivities.¡± ¡°His shackles are broken!¡± The philosopher stalked towards me, thundering retribution in his steps. ¡°This is beyond audacity! There are limits, Young Aetos, even for you. Be assured that your father will be hearing about this, and as for you-¡± He wasn¡¯t given the chance to finish. Griffon lunged forward with pneuma ring, closing the remaining five steps between them in a single bound. Cultivation was an odd thing. Throughout the known world, there were nearly as many interpretations of man¡¯s rtion to heaven and earth as there were cities and kingdoms. The barbarous Gauls had their own primitive understanding of the virtuous realms that lead up to heaven, as did the Celtics and the Numidians across the sea. The Greek interpretation was in many ways simr to the righteous path of the Republic, but even then there were notable differences. I couldn¡¯t intuitively grasp the immensity of the gap between a captain of the Civic Realm and an elder several ranks deep into the Sophic Realm. These were not my cultural touchstones, despite the efforts of my old mentor. My tongue may have been fluent in their chosennguage, but my soul was not. Still. No matter the culture, some things were simply absurd. The elder reacted with speed far beyond the mortal limits of a man his age, and it was not enough. Griffon slipped his grasping hand with a snake¡¯s grace. His clenched fist rose, burning with the mark of his cult¡¯s foundational virtue, and drove up into the elder¡¯s gut. Audacity wasn¡¯t a strong enough word to describe it. The elder¡¯s gasped in disbelief as much as pain, and his pneuma exploded in a wordless virtue. Wind howled through the halls, his dull blue eyes shing as he drove an open palm down onto Griffon¡¯s outstretched arm. My sense for pneuma was still restrained, but through the cracks in the shackles I could feel the immensity of the force behind it. It was a blow that would shatter bone. It missed. Griffon had already withdrawn from the blow, already driven his knee up to meet the palm strike. An invisible thundercrack of force rocked the hall, rending the marble beneath their feet. The Young Aristocrat was no faster than the elder - if anything he was slower - but he moved as if their fight was choreographed. He stomped his raised leg down onto the elder¡¯s foot, pivoted to avoid his attempt at a grapple, andtched onto the elder¡¯s outstretched arm. He exhaled sharply, and mmed the philosopher over his shoulder. The old man¡¯s back struck the marble. Griffon fell with him, driving the weight of his body and soul into his elbow and smashing the elder philosopher¡¯s head through solid stone. For a moment no one moved. The elder because he was unconscious, maybe dead. Griffon and I because the immensity of what he¡¯d just done required a moment of proper appreciation. We locked eyes. ¡°Now we run,¡± he decided. Drum beats and the pounding noise of a thousand dancing feet hit us in a wave as we came charging out of the junior mystiko estate. Theyout of the Rosy Dawn Cult was such that we could have disdained the central pavilion entirely, skirted its edge or simply doubled back around the estate we¡¯d just left and descended the mountain into the city of Alikos. Griffon had other ns, though. He ran headlong into the masses, countless initiates celebrating the wedding that was being consecrated beneath our feet in the heart of the mountain. Flickering torchlight and stars lit the ruined mountaintop. The initiation rites had been outrageous enough the first time I¡¯d experienced them, but watching hundreds upon hundreds of men and women, young and old, dancing without care across a shattered pavilion that had been struck not an hour ago by the fist of a falling star defied belief. Greeks. I threaded through the crowds at a less frantic pace, tracking the Young Aristocrat as he speared through. He moved with confidence, and when grace failed him he adapted quickly. A woman in fine cult attire bumped into him as he passed, and he turned the collision into a graceful spin, twirling her into another initiate¡¯s arms and swiping her cup of spirit wine in the process. He downed it in one mouthful, scarlet liquid spilling past the corners of his mouth and trailing down his throat. He didn¡¯t once break stride. My waxing senses traced the initiates around me, but there were too many cultivators packed too closely together, and I was still too restricted by my shackles to meaningfully distinguish between them. I couldn¡¯t feel the ire of any approaching enemies, but that did not mean they weren¡¯t there. My eyes were drawn to the center of the pavilion where the falling star had struck. Where there should have been a yawning chasm, there instead was the fountain. Reconstituting itself stone by stone in a bizarre example of passive cultivation. A faint mist hung around it, moisture being drawn out of the air itself and into the basin of the fountain in thin spiraling threads. The faceless statue had yet to reform. Instead, the fountain was filled with dancing women. As the drum beats rose and the chanting wedding song rose to a new peak, they whirled and spun through its waters, kicking up waves. I counted nine before a shout drew my attention away. Griffon waved an arm from the edge of the crowd, lips moving silently. I read them easily enough. With purpose, ve. I burst out of the crowd, sprinting after him. ¡°Can you hear it!?¡± He called over his shoulder. ¡°The call to adventure screaming in your ear? It¡¯s deafening!¡± His mania was infectious. I opened my ears, casting out for such a sound. All I heard was howling. We sprinted through the mountaintop trails that connected the various estates to the central pavilion, pounding up the marble steps of the Aetos estate. Past its grand columns, the night horizon was slowly lightening to gray. Pre-dawn was giving way, the dead moon falling unseen from its peak. We were nearly out of time. ¡°Why through here!?¡± I shouted as we blew through the halls of the main estate. The courtyard with its gardens and pools shed by on our right, the past patricians of the Rosy Dawn standing timeless watch in their pools. ¡°I forgot something!¡± Worthless, thoughtless Greek. We ascended the steps to the second level of the estate and sprinted down the shadowed halls. Past the room that I knew to be Griffon¡¯s own quarters. Past the chambers of his male cousins, and those of his uncles. He nted his feet and slid across the marble as we reached a room with a heavy wooden door at the end of the hall, and as he reached it he reared back and kicked it off its hinges. The office of the cult¡¯s patrician, Damon Aetos, was militantly furnished. It evoked memories of Gaius¡¯ personal quarters while on campaign, those simple tents with their cots and unadorned trunks. Shelves were carved into the smooth pale stone of the wall, filled end to end with rolls of papyrus and y tablets. A desk of rich dark wood was central in the room, a dining table bnced on three legs and a reclining dinner couch next to it positioned in the far right corner, with an open terrace showing a view of the central pavilion. Tapestries hung on the walls, depicting battles andndscapes that I had never seen or heard of. Carved into the side of the desk itself was a scene of four men, three locked in furiousbat against one. Griffon disdained the desk and whatever its contents may have been, ignored the tablets and scrolls in their shelves. Instead he crossed over to the far wall, where a sheathed de was mounted between two tapestries. He lifted the de off its hooks and gripped the sheath in one hand, the pommel in the other. Gently, he eased it just slightly out of its sheath. I saw a sliver of bronze that burned even to my dulled senses, and then he mmed it back fully into the sheath and hooked it to his belt. The sound of running feet drifted through the broken doorway. ¡°It seems we are found out,¡± Griffon said, rolling his shoulders. He stepped up beside me, shoulder to shoulder. ¡°Is it time for the Son of Rome to show what he¡¯s made of?¡± I clenched and unclenched my fists. I couldn¡¯t bring myself to tear those shackles off. I dreaded what woulde next too much. Griffon snorted coldly. ¡°Perhaps he already has.¡± He walked past me. ¡°Lio!¡± The Fates were truly cruel. Myron hadn¡¯t simply run off. Of course he hadn¡¯t. He¡¯d known his limits well enough to understand he couldn¡¯t stop his older cousin alone, so he¡¯d enlisted help. The young generation of the Aetos family hade to stop their wayward cousin. Lydia Aetos¡¯ gaze slid from Griffon for a bare moment when I exited the patriarch¡¯s study, sky blue eyes shing hatefully. They refocused in the next instant. ¡°Lio,¡± she repeated, softer. ¡°Tell me Myron heard you wrong. Tell me the things he said were lies.¡± She stood in the middle of the hall back the way we¡¯de, with Myron and her younger sister, Rena. The other two, Heron and Castor, were currently sprinting around the other side of the rectangr second floor to prevent us from running the other way. Castor had his de, Myron¡¯s hands were fidgeting on his daggers, and the Young Miss herself held a spear longer than she was tall in one hand. Griffon tilted his head, amused. ¡°Seems you already know that¡¯s not the case.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t do this,¡± Lydia pleaded. ¡°You only have to wait a little longer. We¡¯ll travel the world like Niko did, like our parents did. Together.¡± ¡°Lio,¡± Heron seethed, skidding to a stop just a few feet behind us with Castor at his side. ¡°This isn¡¯t another one of your games. There¡¯s noing back from something like this!¡± ¡°Think of what you¡¯d be throwing away,¡± Castor urged. His eyes flickered, meaningfully, to his older sister. ¡°And for what? A privilege you¡¯ll be given anyway in a few years? All you have to do is be patient.¡± ¡°Who says I want to travel with any of you?¡± Griffon asked curiously. My eyes narrowed. The impact of his words was a visible thing. Myron flinched like a kicked dog. Rena¡¯s expression crumpled in grief. And Lydia¡­ ¡°You son of a bitch!¡± Heron lunged forward, but Castor caught him under the arms and wrenched him back. ¡°You don¡¯t deserve any of what you¡¯ve been given! None of it-¡± ¡°Enough!¡± Lydia snapped, pneumashing through the hall. Heron¡¯s teeth clicked together, even as he continued to re. The Young Miss sighed explosively, mastering herself into something resembling calm. ¡°Lio,¡± she said, onest time. ¡°I won¡¯t let you throw your life away for a ve.¡± ¡°For a ve?¡± Griffon echoed, confused. ¡°Don¡¯t be coy!¡± Lydia leveled her spear at me. ¡°You¡¯ve been obsessed with that wretch since he arrived here. I don¡¯t know what it is about him that fascinates you, and I don¡¯t care either. Whatever it is, it¡¯s not worth throwing us all away!¡± Griffon¡­ughed. ¡°You think this is about Sol?¡± He shook his head, untenably long hair waving with the motion. His shoulders shook with mirth. ¡°How could a ve have anything to do with it? I¡¯ve hated this city since I was a boy. I¡¯ve spent every day of my life watching the horizon and wishing I was on the other side of it, anywhere but here. ¡°I won¡¯t suffer another day with you. My virtuous heart won¡¯t tolerate it.¡± Griffon told the truth, as he always had, and in doing so he lied. I watched the shock, the hurt, and the fury rippled through the sons and daughters of the Aetos line in grim resignation. It was delivered with no particr heat, no emotion. Matter of fact. Spoken by the man that had ascended in cultivation out of pure spite for the city he lived in, and then chose to suffer that city for another four long months thereafter. The same man that had spent every waking moment of those four months in thepany of his cousins, in some way or another. That man told them the truth, that his cultivator¡¯s heart could not bear another moment of this life. But in so doing he lied. And they believed him. I¡¯d known from our first encounter that Griffon possessed a terrible charisma. His cousins moved as one. Heron roared a curse and rushed past me with fists of burning red, Castor¡¯s sword flying from its sheath as he leapt clear over my head. Myron rushed in low with his knives, teeth grit in frustrated grief. Rena moved in his shadow, her fingers curved like ws. Lydia came at him head on, without any attempt to feint. Her eyes were resolute, her spear zing with pneuma that whirled in a helix of light around the tip. Griffon didn¡¯t reach for his new de. His pneuma rose, his scarlet eyes zed, and he exploded into motion. Heron was the first to reach him and the first to be struck. Griffon whirled andid the heel of his foot across his cousin¡¯s face, staggering him against the wall. Heshed out with both hands, diverting Castor¡¯s descending de with the back of one palm and burying his other fist in the young man¡¯s gut as he fell, driving the breath out of him. He pivoted, gripping Castor firmly by his wedding attire, and mmed him down on top of Myron. Rena was just far enough back to avoid the tangle of limbs. Everything I had seen of the girl, shy as she was, spoke to the kindly nature of a mother. But that was all gone as she dove into Griffon¡¯s guard with - wed fingers, crackling with beast lightning - elongated nails enhanced by her pneuma. She swiped raked furiously at him, moving with a fluidity that could onlye with practice. With that same fluidity he deflected each and every swipe, turning her aside with a blow to the temple and then sweeping her feet so she fell on top of her brother and cousin. Griffon leaned sideways, and the cyclone of light and heat whirling around Lydia¡¯s spear singed a few golden hairs as it thrust past. ¡°Good!¡± He grabbed the spear and drove a knee up into Lydia¡¯s stomach. When she twisted her hips and blocked it with her thigh, he swung the spear and her with it, tossing her into Heron as he approached. The rosy light coating the young man¡¯s hands flickered and died out so he could catch her. The Young Aristocrat tilted his head to the right, dodging one thrown dagger and catching the other between two fingers. Myron was already midair as he did, body a blur as he spun into a roundhouse kick that Griffon had leaned his head directly into the path of. Scarlet eyes shed and Myron mmed sideways into the wall. ¡°Even better!¡± Griffon eximed, stepping through a whirling series of coordinated strikes between Rena¡¯s ws and Castor¡¯s de. He diverted one into the other,ying a kick into Castor¡¯s side when he yanked back to avoid skewering his sister. ¡°Show me what the young pirs are made of!¡± Griffon turned and backhanded Heron across his face, sending him spinning through the air. ¡°I won¡¯t suffer another day in this life, so take me by force!¡± He dodged back as Lydiaid into him with quick, shallow jabs. Not far enough for him to grab anything but the ming tip. She swept it from side to side, herding him back into the others. ¡°Give me all you have!¡± ¡°So be it!¡± Lydia snapped. Her pneuma rippled and red around the tip of her spear, a searing point of light gathering at its tip. The other four followed suit. She¡¯d herded Griffon into the middle of them, and as one their pneuma rose like a tidal wave. Five separate virtuous techniques red like the dawn, on steel des and clenched fists. They moved together. Griffon sucked in a breath. External maniption of pneuma is the mark of the truly advanced and the even more truly gifted. Shaping the vital essence of the self into a physical thing, something that can be touched and felt, is a lesson in frustration. A cultivator must catch their breath and mold it like y, must wrestle it into shape with their will alone, make order of it where it had once been nothing but formless chaos. When properly done, a man could manifest through intent alone a de, a spear, even arrows. The best could manifest many at once, and control each individually. Swords of Intent. Spears of Intent. Arrows of Intent. What a man chose to shape his soul into said as much about him as any words could. Griffon exhaled, and his Pankration Intent flooded the hall. Ten arms of purest pneuma burst from the sea of his soul, noticeable even through the haze of my manacles, and struck each of his cousins mid-technique. They grappled. They punched, pped, and elbowed. They gripped Lydia¡¯s spear and forced it up, where it discharged its pinprick of light in a beam that shot up to heaven. They struck the thinner bones of Castors wrists and shattered them, forcing him to drop his burning de. They locked grips with Heron, pushing him down the same as they had before, in the Trial by Hunger. Myron was wrestled down, and Rena¡¯s shining ws raked ineffectually at arms that could not bleed. Griffon walked out of the circle untouched, one hand on his hip and the other resting negligently on the pommel of his stolen de. His cousins struggled and thrashed in his wake, fighting against the manifestation of his unwavering soul. ¡°You can¡¯t keep watching forever,¡± he said. He nced back over his shoulder, a single scarlet eye leveling me with his contempt. A single arm of his intentshed out at me across the hall. I caught it in my hand and crushed it. ¡°So strong,¡± he said mockingly. ¡°I can feel your soul straining against those shackles. Desperate to run free. When will you allow it? For how long are you going to run from your failures? How much of your future will you throw away for your past?¡± I grit my teeth, fists clenching and unclenching. They were too heavy to raise. Salt and ash. Salt and ash. ¡°ENOUGH.¡± A hurricane pir howled up from the courtyards below, and on its winds rose four more cultivators. But these ones did not wear the tunics of junior mystikos, or even the fine scarlet clothes of seniors and favored children. They wore the philosopher threads of elders, every single one. From the eye of the hurricane emerged a fifth, the same one whose head Griffon had nted through the marble floor. His nose was a broken ruin. The man was livid. ¡°This ends here!¡± The elder philosopher roared, and the hurricane followed his voice as it carried down the hall. ¡°Your father was always too lenient with you. Come, vile boy, I will teach you the way of things in the real world you so covet! Attend.¡± The pneuma of all five elders flooded the estate. Griffon¡¯s eyes flickered back and forth, the hand on the pommel of the patrician¡¯s de tensing. He drew it, just a sliver, from its sheath. Then he snorted and mmed it back home. His cousins slumped and gasped as the arms of his pankration intent withdrew, whirling around him. Griffon nced back at me. ¡°So you were a ve after all.¡± He dismissed me, turned and advanced into the tide of rosy light and hurricane winds. What does it take for a man to lead? The children of Aetos, each in the process of recovering, mmed t against the floor. The marble groaned and cracked, spiderweb fractures fanning out across its length. What is it that calls others to him? The head elder¡¯s hurricane virtue guttered out, dispersed, and was reformed. It whirled, like a cyclone, around a new central point. What gives them faith? Griffon grinned victoriously as my shackles ttered to the stone. ¡°I knew it.¡± I raised an empty hand and clenched it. Gravitas. Five elder philosophers staggered beneath the gravity of the captain¡¯s virtue. Two of them fell entirely to their knees, unable to resist the pressure of my will. My pneuma did not rise. It did not pierce, or thrust, or harry. It fell like a nket across every shoulder, and pressed them all down. Three of the philosophers, and somehow Griffon himself, remained standing. But it was an effort. I cast forward my empty fist and opened it, like I was throwing a knife. Gravity changed, sending Griffon¡¯s cousins tumbling and driving the five philosophers back across the marble. Griffon nted his feet, ten arms of pneuma gripped every banner, column, and railing they could to hold him in ce. Heughed wildly. My virtue carried down the hall, past the philosophers, and struck the furthest wall. It groaned and cracked, and just barely held. I narrowed my eyes and flicked a finger. The eastern wall of the Aetos estate screamed as it flew apart. ¡°What-¡± Lydia gasped as I passed her on the floor. She struggled to rise against my gravity, shoving a trembling arm beneath her. A few feet away, Myron had managed toe to one knee, barely. ¡°What is this?¡± I kicked the end of her spear, flipping it up into my hand. ¡°This is virtue.¡± I raced down the hall, and Griffon threw himself into a sprint alongside me. He grinned like a madman all the while, as we weaved and leapt over and across one another in the press of the fight. His pankration intent was a storm of fists that shattered every guard, his own hands bloodied and scraped as they drove into the bones of men with bodies enhanced far beyond his own. I whirled my stolen spear with Gaius¡¯ virtue affixed to its tip, drawing virtuous techniques into it and away from us as it swept through their ranks. Scarlet light bloomed on the horizon, visible through the gaping hole I¡¯d blown through the wall. Griffon and I locked eyes, and words weren¡¯t needed for what came next. I nted both feet and reared back my spear. It was too long to be thrown like a javelin, unwieldy and poorly bnced. It didn¡¯t matter. I shouted and threw it with all my strength, and gravitas led it straight and true. It struck one philosopher and produced a shockwave that threw him into another. In the same moment, all ten of Griffon¡¯s pankration arms swarmed the final elder that stood between us and the end of the hall, dragging, beating, and grappling him through the air. Griffon cast him bodily over our shoulders, into the two elders behind us. And the path revealed itself. ¡°Lio, please! Don¡¯t go!¡± Lydia cried out. There were tears in her eyes. I was the only one that saw the moment he hesitated. But this choice had been made for him long ago. His cultivator¡¯s soul would ept nothing less. ¡°It¡¯s Griffon!¡± He shouted joyfully, and took off in a dead sprint. I matched him every step of the way. We reached the precipice together and leapt out without hesitation. The sun breached the Ionian Sea. The rosy-fingered dawn reached out across the heavens. Griffon spread his arms against the wind,ughing in pure and honest joy as we plummeted through open air, off the mountain entirely. His pneuma rippled and pulsed. His soul rejoiced, and in the light of the cresting dawn the wings of his pneuma flew wide for the first time. He ascended. My own pneuma rushed back to me in a flood, everything that had been locked behind chains since that day. I felt it all in excruciating rity. The memories. The funeral ash and the sea salt. The corpses. Crows. Three thousand menid hands upon me, wing, pulling, dragging me back to the mountaintop. Back to envement. I wouldn¡¯t let them. Not yet. The battle was yet to be won. Interlude 1 [Selene] Interlude 1 [Selene] ¡°Take care, cultivator. Your heart is not your own.¡± Selene cast off her golden veil, rising before a broken man. The whisper of shifting cloth and his own ragged breaths were the only sounds to be heard in the temple. Her shawl fell away from her shoulders, revealing an armored breastte of purest gold. An ornately crafted spear came to her hand, its shaft a bone-white wood iid with carved prophecies, and its head a glimmering bronze. The cultivator¡¯s fine tunic was drenched in sweat, his traveling cloak draped over his hunched body like a funeral shroud. He had attractive features, as most powerful cultivators did, but they were made grotesque by his anguish. His gold was scattered across the floor between them- he¡¯d barely had the strength to dump it out of his purse. ¡°I beg the Oracle,¡± he gasped, pupils quivering. ¡°I will pay any price. Just make me whole again.¡± In the beginning, when the first man was molded from y by a titan with no face or name that could be remembered, order was made of chaos. The titans and their children, the gods of Olympus, were the first ordered existence to emerge from the primordial sea. Humanity, then, was made in their image. An imposition of order on the earth mother¡¯s materials. To cultivate virtue was to make order of a chaotic soul. It was humanity¡¯s long march towards the light of enlightened civilization reflected in a single man¡¯s journey. Cultivators rose on the principles that had built the strongest empires of history, and they fell in just the same way. Internal strife had toppled more than one great empire. If she did not step in here, it would soon topple another. ¡°Have hope,¡± Selene told the cultivator, smiling softly. ¡°You¡¯re not alone anymore.¡± She drove her spear through his chest and dove into the sea of his soul. Virtue was a winding mountain path. A man could walk it in the light of day or the darkest night and never stray from it, and he could just as easily be lost. Or, if he was truly unfortunate, driven off of it. By wind, by rain, or by virtuous beasts. It was an easy thing to lose course in the slightest of degrees. Over time, those minute diversions might not amount to more than a few grains of sand slipping through cupped palms. But it was a cultivator¡¯s nature to seek greater heights and ascend Olympus Mons. With every ascending step, a cultivator became more of what they were. Their every essence grew exponentially. Those grains of sand became stones, and those stones became boulders. Even the greatest cultivator could only carry so much weight up the divine mountain. Souls deviated in those small moments. That is how heart demons were born. The souls of cultivators were said to be grand things, marble cities built by their unwavering souls. A soul gued by a heart demon, though, was a ruin. Selene stepped into the cultivator¡¯s soul and looked upon a devastatedndscape. Broken pirs and crushed marble were all her eyes could see. The parthenon of the cultivator¡¯s heart, the central edifice of his cultivation, had been torn down to its foundation and set ame. The demon of the cultivator¡¯s heart watched with satisfaction as it burned. ¡°You,¡± The cultivator said, suddenly at her side. Here, within the sea of his soul, he stood unhindered by the agonies that had incapacitated him in the waking world. Not for much longer, though. Even now sweat beaded on his brow. His hands faintly tremored. ¡°Me?¡± The heart demon echoed, turning away from the vast congration. He was a mirror image of the cultivator, save for a scar that ran from the bottom of his square chin to the corner of his right eye. It was a wound that his cultivation had long ago healed externally. Superficially. ¡°Demon of my heart,¡± the cultivator seethed. ¡°I¡¯vee to kill you.¡± ¡°Of course you have.¡± The heart demon sneered, strolling down the parthenon¡¯s broken steps on light feet. The smoke and miasma of the burning wreckage whirled and coiled into his palm, forming a de that matched the one in the cultivator¡¯s white-knuckled grip. ¡°It¡¯s what you do, after all. Man, woman, or child. The old men snap their fingers and you go hunting like a dog.¡± The cultivator bared blood-stained teeth. ¡°Vile imposter. A man of the cult does what he must. I refuse to ept that any part of me could be as cowardly as you.¡± ¡°And we are brave, aren¡¯t we?¡± the heart demon mused, whirling his dark de in hand. ¡°These hands of ours built such a fine monument. Any of the free cities would have been proud toy im to such a monolith. What a tragedy that it fell so quickly.¡± He smiled faintly. ¡°The foundations always were weak.¡± The cultivator shouted and leapt forward, locking des with the demon of his heart in the ruin of his soul. Before his deviation he had been a man of wide renown for his martial prowess. It showed in the ferocity of his dework, the intensity of his pneuma. But to call it an even fight would have been far too charitable. ¡°Here hees, the butcher with his de!¡± The heart demon taunted, parrying lightning quick strikes with horrible ease. ¡°It¡¯s been some time since you¡¯ve faced an opponent that could fight back, hasn¡¯t it? It shows!¡± The heart demonshed out, once, and opened up a gouge across the cultivator¡¯s face. From the bottom of his chin to the corner of his right eye, a perfect match to the heart demon¡¯s own. The significance of the wound staggered the cultivator as much as the pain of it. The memory likely hurt him more. ¡°Don¡¯t lose heart now,¡± the heart demon spoke, advancing with his grimacing smile. ¡°Remember your virtue, dog. Remember the path you made slick with blood. What was it the old men said?¡± The cultivator gripped his de with both hands and snarled, swinging with all his strength. The heart demon blocked it with one hand on his sword. With the other, he took the cultivator¡¯s throat in hand and lifted him from his feet. ¡°Courage,¡± the heart demon snarled. ¡°Courage, until the job is done-¡± The demon choked. He looked down at the bronze-headed spear buried in his gut, confused. For the first time, he seemed to see her. And then the burning light in his eyes faded, and he slumped over the bone-white shaft of her weapon. The cultivator fell to the ground, choking and clutching his face, while the demon of his heart slid slowly off her weapon. ¡°Is-¡± The cultivator coughed. The heart demon¡¯s grip had left bruises on his throat. ¡°Is it done?¡± Selene looked sadly down at the corpse. She shook her head once. ¡°Cast the body into the fire, cultivator. Else it will rot inside your soul.¡± He grunted and forced himself to his feet, dragging the twin corpse over his shoulder and trudging up the steps of the burning parthenon. The cultivator heaved the corpse of his guilt into the mes. ¡°There is nothing else I can give you? Truly?¡± The cultivator was on his knees before her, back in the temple that housed the Oracle. His eyes were shining with relief. ¡°This lowly sophist swears he¡¯ll fulfill any wish, no matter how steep!¡± It was terrible, watching them fall back into the same habits that had brought them to her. Selene only smiled and donned her shawl and veil of gold, obscuring her features more than the mists already did. ¡°Focus on the wishes of your own heart first,¡± she advised him. Most didn¡¯t listen, of course, but that didn¡¯t mean she would stop trying. ¡°Live so that I never have to see you again.¡± The cultivator bowed his head deferentially. Almost as an afterthought, he pulled another purse from the folds of his traveler¡¯s cloak and dropped it at her feet. It chimed, drachma against drachma, as it struck the marble. A small fortune, but to a cultivator of his renown it was hardly a day¡¯sbor. ¡°Then you have my undying thanks,¡± he said. He rose to leave, hair matted to his skull and still drenched with sweat, but already he looked stronger. Healthier. The onlysting remnant of his near death were the strangling marks around his throat, and the gouge across his face. Selene hoped he¡¯d let it scar. Some things needed to be remembered. The cultivator hesitated at the temple¡¯s entrance. She waited patiently for the question he was trying his best not to ask. ¡°... Honored Oracle,¡± he finally said. ¡°Have you seen my fate?¡± ¡°I¡¯m sorry, cultivator,¡± Selene said. ¡°You know the gods don¡¯t speak to us anymore.¡± The cultivator sighed, nodded, and left. Selene sat on the sacrificial tripod of the temple of the oracle and closed her eyes. The echo of the fallen sun god¡¯s death throes were deafening in her ears. The free cities of the Mediterranean had long forgotten the names and faces of the Greek pantheon, and the gods no longer whispered prophecies in their ears. But that didn¡¯t mean the oracles stopped listening. It didn¡¯t mean there was nothing left to be heard. That night Selene dreamed of a war that would shake the heavens, and a serpent with the sun in its mouth. Chapter 1.1 Chapter 1.1 The Son of Rome The Eos was a ship built for speed. Her hull was sleek and her scarlet sails caught the wind like eagle wings, driving her through the waves at speeds that belied allmon sense. It was a beautiful day for her to sail. It was my first time on an open sea. The taste of salt on the air was all too familiar, but the cresting blue waves, the vast empty horizons, and the steady rolling of the deck beneath my feet were all entirely new experiences. I¡¯d had my doubts when Griffon had suggested sailing, and in particr sailing this ship, but most of my concerns had quickly been put to rest. It was an exhrating experience. Still, there wereplications to consider. ¡°They¡¯re going to be furious,¡± I said, leaning on the rail at the bow. The Ionian Sea stretched out endlessly ahead, clear blue and shimmering in the sun. ¡°Will they?¡± Griffon asked behind me, and I could hear the roll of his eyes. ¡°I hadn¡¯t realized. What other profundities does the son of Rome have to offer?¡± He¡¯d stacked every single rowing bench on the ship into a bizarre approximation of a throne, and now lounged in it while the ship¡¯s oars and favorable winds steadily propelled us forward. I¡¯d allowed the absurd disy, as he was doing the hard sailing. His pneuma intent had grown alongside the rest of his cultivation when he¡¯d ascended, and where there had been ten arms before there were now twenty. Each arm of pure intent heaved on the oars of the Eos. ¡°More than they would have been if we hadn¡¯t stolen their ship,¡± I rified, turning to him and leaning back against the ship¡¯s rail. ¡°Why did you feel the need to p every face you possibly could on your way out the door?¡± The faint cries of sea birds and the rolling ps of waves against the Eos¡¯ hull hung between us while the former Young Aristocrat of the Rosy Dawn considered his answer. His right cheek rested on his fist, scarlet eyes glittering with the satisfaction of a lion that had just eaten its fill. He¡¯d slipped his scarlet and white robes off his shoulders early on into the voyage so that they hung down around his belt, leaving his torso bare. He looked utterly content. For now. ¡°Tell me something, Sol,¡± he said. ¡°Are you familiar with the hero¡¯s journey?¡± ¡°Vaguely.¡± Faint memories of an old man in weathered Alikon cloth, afternoons spent in the vineyards discussing everything under the sun. ¡°There are an infinite number of paths to the peak of Olympus Mons, but it¡¯s a fact of life that some are more often tread than others,¡± he exined. ¡°Every man likes to think he¡¯s unique, but all too often we¡¯re just echoes of those that came before us. We allbor within the divine framework. As such, there are certain constants that any man can expect to run up against in the race to divinity.¡± Griffonzily raised his free hand, lifting fingers one by one. ¡°Bottlenecks. Deviations. Trials.¡± ¡°Tribtions,¡± I said. Lightning falling from clear blue skies. Griffon inclined his head. ¡°It¡¯s the nature of the Fates to decide our lives for us from the moment we¡¯re born. As we draw our first breath, they know. Which among us will be tyrants, and which will be ves. It¡¯s why they hate men like you and me.¡± He smiled, something vicious in the quirk of his lips. ¡°They know that their only choice is to kill us in the cradle, because we will never, ever submit. ¡°To cast off destiny¡¯s threads a man must first live an utterly audacious life. No one is born a Tyrant and there are no shortcuts to the peak of the mountain. How is it, then, that men ascend at all? The Fates know us fully at the moment of birth. Intuitively, there are only two possibilities - that the Fates can be defied. Or that ascension is a lie, and we¡¯re all just dancing to our graves while heaven beats its drums.¡± Griffon shrugged. ¡°I choose to believe the former. And because I believe it, it is so. Until the moment I die my life is my own, and so I¡¯ll always be reviled by the Fates. Tribtions are inevitable. Why cringe away from them?¡± ¡°So instead,¡± I said incredulously, ¡°You wee them with open arms.¡± ¡°They¡¯re the best part of the journey, after all.¡± My heart and soul for apanion with sense. ¡°If that¡¯s the case, Olympia is where we part,¡± I decided. Heid a palm on his bare chest, eyes closing in mock hurt. I snorted. ¡°I have enough madness ahead of me without throwing you onto the pile.¡± ¡°Oh? What sort of madness? Is it the kind that howls?¡± For some reason that I still wasn¡¯t quite sure of, I¡¯d told him the story of my time in the legions as we ran through the fields of the Rosy Dawn towards the docks. I¡¯d told him as we rigged his cousin¡¯s ship and cut it loose, and as the sun fully rose to light up the Ionian Sea, I¡¯d seen in vivid rity the hunger in his eyes as he listened. ¡°It is,¡± I decided. ¡°And how is one son of Rome going to tear down an empire of demons?¡± Griffon asked curiously. ¡°Your legions are dead and gone.¡± My fists clenched and unclenched. ¡°How does any man stand against an empire?¡± ¡°And you call me mad.¡± Griffon chuckled. His arms of pankration intent withdrew into his soul all at once, the Eos coasting to a steady halt in the calm waves. ¡°How can a Roman ever hope to raise an army of Greeks against anyone but himself?¡± ¡°The legions of the Republic were the finest in the world,¡± I said, and before he could make a smart remark, continued, ¡°We triumphed over superior numbers and individuals of absurd cultivation as a matter of course. That those dogs drove us from our provinces, flushed us from our city, and tore apart our legions? With smaller numbers?¡± I snarled and spat over the side of the ship. ¡°They¡¯re dogs, but they¡¯re war dogs. They were built for this work. ¡°If they only wanted Rome, then fine. I¡¯ll climb that fucking mountain and bury them under the sea with my strength alone. But if they¡¯re the kind of animals I think they are, they won¡¯t stop at just one. They¡¯ll be at your father¡¯s door next, and then I won¡¯t have to raise the army. Damon Aetos will do it for me.¡± One way or another, I¡¯d tear that captain¡¯s throat out and eat his beating heart. ¡°That¡¯s my kind of n,¡± Griffon said approvingly. ¡°But there is one w in your reasoning, and as your blood brother I can¡¯t help but point it out.¡± I sneered. ¡°We aren¡¯t brothers.¡± ¡°Worthless Roman, we have been from the start.¡± He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His pneuma was alight. ¡°And as your brother, I must ask the hard questions. First and foremostly, what makes you think that these dogs of Carthage will pose a threat to my father? Just because they thrashed your glorious Republic? The same Republic that never once dared to war with our free city-states?¡± ¡°After Gaul, you were next,¡± I informed him simply. He smirked. ¡°I¡¯m sure we were. But even if I were to believe that, there¡¯s another w in your n.¡± I raised my own pneuma, flexing muscles that had gone unused for months on end. The waves around the Eos shuddered and pulsed. ¡°Enlighten me.¡± ¡°You¡¯re under a delusion,¡± Griffon informed me. ¡°That anything you do will make what¡¯s toe any less mad, any less ruinous. We were marked by the Fates from the beginning and you¡¯ve already begun to suffer their attention. Run from me if you¡¯d like. It won¡¯t make a difference.¡± I made to answer but was interrupted by the sound of beating wings. An eagle¡¯s cry split the air, and from the sky dove the predator itself, talons spread wide. I raised an arm, some instinct holding back my pneuma, and itnded roughly on my forearm. Its talons sank into my flesh, would have shredded it if not for the reinforcement of my cultivation. I stared, lost for words, at the messenger eagle of Rome. It tilted its head left and right, watching me expectantly. It had no scroll on its leg. ¡°The poets like to say that the Epic doesn¡¯t start until a man ascends to the Heroic Realm,¡± Griffon mused. The eagle cocked its head and whistled sharply at him. ¡°But the truth is, the winds have been blowing for a year now. The Muses are already watching. How can we do anything but give them a show?¡± On the horizon, a ship appeared. It was a light, shallow-bottomed vessel. Its sails were ragged, its oars pumping furiously against the waves. As it breached the far horizon and we became as visible to it as it was to us, its course changed at once. ¡°Pirates?¡± I whispered, watching ite for us. ¡°Heaven beats its drums,¡± Griffon said, rising from his throne and stretching. ¡°Are you ready to dance?¡± I stared at him for a silent moment. Gravitas. Griffonughed as the captain¡¯s virtue threw him from the ship. The eagle on my arm shrieked and took flight as twenty arms of pneumatched onto me and dragged me over the rail with him. Chapter 1.2 [Nikolas Aetos] Chapter 1.2 [Niks Aetos] yer of monsters. It was a title he¡¯d been given the day he ascended, a title most cultivators within the Heroic Realm received, sooner orter. A natural consequence of the lives they lived. He took pride in it, as he knew his wife and theirpanions did. The life of a hero was fraught with dangers, both internal and external, but that was what made it so rewarding. Celebrating sess was important. It wasn¡¯t always the case that the monsters lost, after all. He¡¯d seen that particr reality for himself. Lived it, since he was a boy. There were some monsters that even heroes couldn¡¯t y. Damon Aetos stood in the gaping entry to his office. His door had been kicked cleanly off its hinges. The force of the conflict that had taken ce in the hall had carried through the open entry, shattering the dining couch and table entirely. The contents of the wall-carved shelves were scattered around the room - some had been blown clear off the terrace, into the central pavilion outside. The Tyrant of the Rosy Dawn stepped into his office and righted his desk. It had been thrown up against the back wall, but unlike the other furniture it had weathered the blow. Lacking a proper seat, he leaned back against it, arms crossed. ¡°Enter.¡± Niko entered the ruined office with his bride at his side, a bracing hand on the small of her back. She was tense, understandably so. The initiation rites were an interesting experience, even to a cultivator of her stature, and the mystery at the bottom of the eastern mountain range baffled the mind no matter where you stood among heaven and earth. Niko had wondered, as they descended, whether it would be different now that he¡¯d reached the same realm as his aunts and uncles, if there would be any greater rity. But no. It had been just the same. Then they¡¯d exited the mountain, reeling from the mystery of the bisected corpse of the fallen sun god, and found the cult in chaos. It hadn¡¯t been hard to guess who was behind it. Niko¡¯s stomach sank as his cousins slunk into the office like beaten dogs. They had the marks to match their posture, too. Bruises, split lips, and ck eyes abounded. The entire right side of Heron¡¯s face was already darkening into an ugly purple bruise, leftover from a vicious backhand. Poor Rena¡¯s left eye was almost entirely swollen shut. Castor gingerly cradled a broken wrist, and Myron walked with a noticeable limp. Lydia was the worst by far. She had escaped with the least physical damage, but her expression was haunting. She looked utterly lost. As the five of them knelt in front of the kyrios, she was the only one who didn¡¯t look shamefully at the floor. She stared straight ahead. ¡°What happened here?¡± Damon asked. His voice was level. Iphys inhaled quietly, circting her pneuma. Niko shook his head. She nced at him, hesitated, but released it. If it came to that, it wouldn¡¯t matter anyway. ¡°I saw Lio leave the pavilion,¡± Myron said. The other three cousins that were paying attention to the conversation visibly rxed. ¡°He¡¯d been acting strange since Niko arrived, so I followed him. He went looking for Sol-¡± ¡°Sol?¡± Damon interrupted. Myron swallowed. ¡°The ve, uncle. The one that Lio sponsored for initiation.¡± ¡°Why do you know this ve by name?¡± Damon asked. ¡°We used to spend time together, the three of us,¡± Myron admitted. ¡°And why were you spending time with a ve?¡± It was asked with no particr inflection. Even so, the dread it invoked was palpable. Heron grit his teeth, warring with himself, but he was beaten to the punch before he could speak up on his younger brother¡¯s behalf. By Myron himself. ¡°He¡¯s skilled, uncle. I tried to ambush him when we first met and I couldn¡¯t touch him, even in chains. He¡¯s wise, too. He and Lio helped me get through my bottleneck over the summer. And¡­ Lio acted like he used to, when he was with Sol. It was fun.¡± Not for the first time since returning home, Niko marveled at the boy his youngest cousin had be in just a few short years. Only nine years old and already facing challenges that his elder cousins balked at. He was growing at a prodigious rate, and it was clear that it hadn¡¯t gone to his head. Though perhaps there had been another hand involved in that. ¡°I see,¡± Damon said. His nephews and nieces waited nervously. ¡°Continue.¡± Myron exhaled. ¡°He went looking for Sol. When he found him, he broke his manacles. I asked what they were doing, and he said¡­¡± ¡°Olympia,¡± Lydia murmured. ¡°He said he was going to Olympia.¡± Myron nodded miserably. ¡°I should have tried to talk him down, at least stall for time until the rites finished, but I panicked. I went and found Lydia and then we split up to get the others. I found Castor and Rena while she went after Heron. By the time we joined back up they¡¯d already made it here.¡± ¡°So you tried to fight him,¡± Damon stated. Nods. He hummed. ¡°Elders, a moment.¡± Five honored philosophers of the Rosy Dawn entered the kyrios¡¯ office with what dignity they could. For all that they dwarfed Niko¡¯s cousins in rank of cultivation, they had been savaged far worse in the escape. Three of them, philosophers Niko had not personally known before he departed from the cult, were covered in the inmed red skin ofing bruises. The fourth was cradling a broken jaw. He was a younger man that Niko remembered vaguely as being a senior of his back when he was a mystiko. Was it Dymus? Pollio, maybe? The fifth philosopher was a man Niko knew all too well. Old Chersis the uncharitable. The infamously surly tutor that every young pir of the Rosy Dawn had to suffer at some time or another. Niko had been the first to receive his wisdom, and it had not been a pleasant experience for either of them. Before he¡¯d left, Lio and Lydia had just started their lessons with the old philosopher. He supposed the broken nose summed up Lio¡¯s opinion of his tutor rather sinctly. ¡°Who did this to you?¡± Damon asked the wise men of the cult. Niko liked to think of himself as a virtuous man, on his good days at least, and his wedding day was better than most. Still, there was a not insignificant part of him that enjoyed every single moment of old Chersis struggling to exin how the little lion of the Rosy Dawn had thrashed him not once, but twice in the span of an hour. There was some pride there as well. It was aplicated feeling. When the story was fully told by all those involved, Damon closed his eyes in silent deliberation. Tense moments passed. He sighed. ¡°In summation, my son defeated the five of you alone and unarmed, simultaneously,¡± he said, addressing the children. ¡°Then,¡± he continued, ¡°He made a mockery of the elders that this cult holds in such high regard, that are showered with resources and renown in exchange for theirpetence and wisdom. Not once. But twice.¡± ¡°Lord Damon,¡± Chersis protested. ¡°I did not expect him to do something so...¡± ¡°Bold,¡± Niko offered. His old tutor looked sharply at him. ¡°Cheeky. I did not expect the son of the kyrios to so brassly strike at his own tutor. The second asion he was not alone.¡± ¡°Ah, yes,¡± Damon said. ¡°He had a ve.¡± ¡°He was no ordinary ve, Lord Damon,¡± one of the horrifically bruised philosophers insisted. ¡°His pneuma was in the Sophic Realm at least, and his virtue was incredibly potent-¡± ¡°Potent?¡± Ah, there it was. The tyrant¡¯s fist. Niko held his bride firmly to him, lest she crumple to her knees beneath the weight of Damon Aetos¡¯ pneuma. She reached back and grabbed his hand tightly. Her eyes were wide and intent, the way they always were before a fight, but her grip was white-knuckled with panic. Iphys was strong enough to know just how far beyond them the kyrios of the Rosy Dawn cult was. It was an all too familiar feeling for Niko. ¡°The ve¡¯s virtue was too potent for you,¡± Damon repeated. ¡°And those bruises, those were his work as well? He did that to you with his spear?¡± ¡°No, Lord Damon,¡± the unfortunate philosopher said through grit teeth. His head bowed, as surely as the sun set, before the kyrios¡¯ pressure. ¡°Who, then?¡± ¡°The Young Aristocrat,¡± Old Chersis bit out. ¡°It was a joint attack between them.¡± ¡°I believe I¡¯ve heard enough excuses,¡± Damon said quietly. The philosophers shut their mouths and awaited judgement, and in that moment they looked little different from the children kneeling on the floor. ¡°Return to your estates. Do not leave them for any reason until I¡¯vee for you myself. And, if you so choose, take this time to contemte tonight¡¯s events.¡± His smile was an executioner¡¯s de. ¡°It might be wise.¡± The philosophers fled the room, and the tyrant pulled back his fist. Niko inhaled slowly, marveling at the suddenck of pressure. How long had it been since a cultivator¡¯s sheer presence had driven his soul into such a corner like that? How long had it been since anything, monster or man, had filled him with such unshakeable dread? Since he¡¯d first ascended to the Heroic Realm, Niko had been walking on ss. He was still limating to the changes in his tripartite soul, still worried even when interacting with his cousins who were all deep into the Civic Realm. They still felt like baby birds in his hands. He couldn¡¯t trust himself to rough house with them like he used to, let alone truly spar. He¡¯d be far too strong in too short a time. Was that how a tyrant felt, to look at a hero? At what point did the entire world feel as if it was made of ss? ¡°Niks.¡± Niko straightened. There was something in his uncle¡¯s eye. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. He took your father¡¯s sword.¡± Iphys looked back at him, concerned. She knew the story, of course. He¡¯d told her. ¡°I see,¡± he rasped. ¡°That impudent child,¡± came a voice from the hall. The twin eagles of the Rosy Dawn and their wives entered the office. Niko¡¯s aunts went to their children at once, raising their faces and checking them for serious or disfiguring injury. Stavros Aetos ced a hand atop Heron¡¯s head, his expression a storm as he locked eyes with his brother. ¡°We warned you for years. Years, Damon! How many times has that boy spit on the name of the Rosy Dawn while you sat back and watched him fondly? How many times has he shirked his duties as heir? And now this?¡± Damon¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°You want to do this now?¡± ¡°He took Iskander¡¯s de.¡± Fotios Aetos stood beside his brother, rigid with outrage. ¡°He beat our children like dogs and discarded my daughter three months before their marriage! We¡¯re doing it now!¡± ¡°What would you have me do?¡± ¡°I want him disowned!¡± Fotios snapped. Niko had never seen him so furious. Watching Aunt Chryse attempt to console Lydia, still slumped on the marble floor, he found it hard to hold it against his uncle. ¡°Never,¡± Damon said immediately. Fotios¡¯ expression darkened, and Niko wondered if this was the day he¡¯d see a tyrant fight. But Stavros mped a hand on his brother¡¯s shoulder, stopping him before he could say something he wouldn¡¯t be able to take back. ¡°Disinherited, then,¡± Stavros said. When Damon didn¡¯t immediately respond, he went on, ¡°Look at our children, brother. Look at what your son has given them in return for their love. A kyrios¡¯ hands didn¡¯t leave those marks. This isn¡¯t justice.¡± Damon stared at his younger brother for a long moment. ¡°Chryse. Raisa. Take the children, please.¡± Niko¡¯s aunts looked worriedly between their husbands and their brother-inw, but ultimatelyplied. Niko whispered assurances to his cousins as they passed, squeezing Rena¡¯s shoulder and pulling Castor into a quick one-armed hug. Then it was only the pirs and them. Niko decided that was still two too many, and quietly ushered Iphys towards the door. ¡°Stay.¡± He looked back, confusion and a low dread in his gut. ¡°Uncle?¡± ¡°My brothers demanded we do this now, so we will.¡± Damon said. And then, simply, as if observing the weather, he dered, ¡°As of now, my son is disinherited. I have no other children, so the burden of the kyrios falls to the next best candidate among my nephews and nieces.¡± The dread rose. ¡°What does that have to do with me?¡± Niko asked, though he already knew. Damon smiled faintly. ¡°Congrattions, nephew.¡± Niko looked to his other two uncles for help. Both of them had sons, surely they¡¯d rather one of them take on the role? But no, while Stavros and Fotios were both scowling ferociously at the tant snub, when they met his eyes they only nodded in agreement. No, no, no. He didn¡¯t want their blessing! He didn¡¯t want this! In that moment, he understood perfectly what his little cousin had been feeling. And he decided he was going to do exactly the same thing about it. As soon as his uncles entered their closed door cultivation, he was going to jump in his ship and sail far, far- ¡°Niko!¡± Philon shouted, his voice carrying from outside. The fastest of theirpanions leapt up and through the gaping hole in the eastern wall of the Aetos estate, sliding down the hall in the blink of an eye and catching himself roughly on the door frame. He was heaving for breath, his eyes wild. The heroic cultivator held up a length of severed rope. ¡°They took the Eos.¡± Son of a bitch. Chapter 1.3 Chapter 1.3 The Young Griffon Twenty arms of pankration intent pulled me from the sea, a crawling mass of grasping hands heaving me up and over the bow of the encroaching ship. I spat sea water and raked a hand through my soaked hair, surveying the deck. The galley was a shallow thing, hardly fit for trade - a proper trireme would have dwarfed it. Even the Eos was a bitrger. It was a vessel built for speed and agility over deep waters and shallow coastlines both. A beautiful racing girl, despite her ragged sails and sparse oars. Her keel had beenshed by rough strokes of white and blue paints, and up at the front I could see her figurehead. No woman or beast. Just a single grasping hand. A shout went up and down the deck as my presence was noticed. There were ten men at the oars, five on each side, and all of them twisted and jerked on their benches at the sight of me. There was a pitiful mix of terror and hope on their grubby faces as they tried to get away. They couldn¡¯t move far, unfortunately. They¡¯d been shackled to their oars. The vers in charge of the vessel pounded down the deck towards me. I leapt fully onto it, rolling my neck and striding forward to meet them. The wings of my pneuma unfurled, nketing the vessel. The Eos was still a distant blot on the horizon. It was only just barely possible to make out the silhouette of a man crouching on the ship¡¯s figurehead. The Eos dipped sharply, rocking in the water, and the man was gone. ¡°Well now, this is hardly fair,¡± I said, spreading my arms wide. ¡°I don¡¯t even have a de!¡± Indeed, myte uncle¡¯s sword was still in its sheath back on my cousin¡¯s ship. I was utterly defenseless before these sea thieves. The pirate that had been closest when I boarded the vessel growled a curse in anguage not my own, a curved kopis in his right hand and a braidedsh in his left. He cracked the whip in an effort to disorient me, the edge of the cord kissing my nose, and swept in with his sword. The backs of twenty palms struck his cheek at one moment, throwing him spinning into the ocean. ¡°Have any of you been to Olympia recently?¡± I asked, continuing forward while the rest of the pirates staggered to a stop. They eyed me warily. ¡°I¡¯m on my way to visit and I want to make the most of it. Any suggestions?¡± Unfortunately for me, they didn¡¯t get a chance to respond. A shadow passed over the ship in that instant, and two of the pirates looked up just in time to be smashed t against the deck by a falling Roman. The ve galley rocked as Sol discharged his virtuous technique at the point of impact, arresting his momentum and driving the two hapless pirates cleanly through the wood. He stood, rolling his shoulders. ¡°My uncle said that two things were universal when it came to pirates,¡± Sol said, holding out an empty hand. His virtue called and a de leapt to his palm, courtesy of one of the thieves he¡¯d just ttened. ¡°They cheat at dice no matter what, and hunger endlessly above their station. One is a symptom of the other. The punishment for both is the same.¡± ¡°You kill people for cheating at dice?¡± I asked, confused. ¡°No. We crucify them.¡± The deck groaned and cracked beneath the weight of a gravity that had not been there before. The remaining vers, seven strong and armed to the teeth, fell to their knees. The ves slumped over their oars, unable to bring any pneuma to bear in defense against the Roman¡¯s virtue. Their eyes rolled wildly in their heads. ¡°You crucify people,¡± I repeated. ¡°For cheating at dice.¡± One of the pirates spoke furiously, struggling to raise his head. Sol frowned. ¡°What did he say?¡± ¡°Just bring your own dice and they can¡¯t cheat,¡± I reasoned. ¡°They said that?¡± ¡°No, I said-¡± Hngh. I looked down, surprised, at the bolt protruding from my stomach. Where had thate from? I touched it experimentally, wincing at the sharp stab of pain it invoked. It was real. I heard seven vers roar and lurch across the deck at Sol, hoping to overwhelm the lone cultivator while I was stunned. I squinted at the bolt. It had entered through my back. Behind me, a loose nk slid near soundlessly back into ce. I inhaled, eyes rolling back into my head. Ow. Twenty hands of pankration intent smashed through the deck of the ship, pulling a thrashing young boy from underneath. He wiggled like a fish, fruitlessly trying to kick and bite the arms of my soul. He was small, around Myron¡¯s age if I had to guess, and he was clutching the most bizarre bow I¡¯d ever seen. I pressed him to the deck and pped his face twenty times with my pankration intent, leaving him stunned. I took the bow in my hand, and when he lurched up with it like a barnacle I gave him another twenty ps. He fell back, clutching his face and moaning. Iid a kick into his ass for good measure, inspecting his weapon. It was a bow and yet it was not. It had been mounted to a shaft, and at the shaft¡¯s end there was a curved brace with wooden handles on either side. The string was attached to a sliding mechanism which the brace at the end of the handle was used to prime. I recognized the design. This was the first time I¡¯d ever seen such a thing in person, though. It was a crude, inefficient weapon for a cultivator. The Rosy Dawn cult had no need for such a thing. Though it clearly had its uses. I tossed it into the sea, ignoring the boy¡¯s protesting cry, and reached behind my back. I snapped the back of the shaft, took another breath, and pulled the arrow out from the front in one swift motion. The boy shrieked as my pankration arms rained ps upon his face. Wood shattered and the ship rolled dangerously beneath my feet, doing wonderful things to my wound. Worthless Roman. If you wanted to sink the ship, you should have just done so to begin with. I stalked across the deck, catching a pirate with pankration arms as he hurtled through the air and nting him through the boards next to the other two. Sol was either taking his time or was atrociously bad at fighting on a moving ship. He wielded the pirate¡¯s unfamiliar de with admirable dexterity, parrying and casting aside multiple des at once, but his opponents were wily on the deck. They moved between the shackled oarsmen, striking only with short, weaselly chops and stabs. They were all too susceptible to the Roman¡¯s virtue, but so was the ship. ¡°It urs to me-¡± I paused, coughing blood. Embarrassing. I seized a man that was inching towards Sol¡¯s blind spot and hurled him bodily over the ship¡¯s rail. ¡°We never asked these men what their intentions were, or if they were even targeting the Eos to begin with. For all we know they¡¯re perfectly friendly vers.¡± ¡°Beardless boy whore!¡± One of the pirates spat in their vilenguage,shing a whip at me. I caught it around my own flesh and blood arm, rolling my wrist and gripping it tight. The pirate had the good sense to let go when I yanked back, but it didn¡¯t do him much good. I whipped him with the handle¡¯s end and shattered his teeth, sending him tumbling into thep of an oarsman. I rolled my eyes. ¡°Never mind.¡± We wrapped the rest of them up in short order, and Sol promptly started breaking chains. I reclined on a bench, eyeing our captives. The man I¡¯d thrown overboard had mbered his way back onto the ship and been swiftly pummeled into submission, and I¡¯d caught the red-haired boy before he could jump off the ship in turn. It wasn¡¯t hard to guess his intent. He¡¯d been diving in the direction of the Eos, the cheeky wretch. The rest of our captives were either fully unconscious or near enough to it. I kept them in the corner of my eye anyway- I¡¯d already been given a kiss for my hubris. I wasn¡¯t eager for another. ¡°Who gave you that, by the way?¡± Sol asked, nodding to my wound. I¡¯d tied the excess cloth hanging around my waist about it, stymieing the worst of the bleeding. A little salt water to cleanse it and I¡¯d be healthy and whole tomorrow. My robes, though¡­ The pirate child iled as Iid a dozen pankration ps across his face. At this point his cheeks were about as red as his hair. ¡°A boy?¡± Sol asked. His lips twitched. ¡°A gastraphetes,¡± I corrected him sourly. ¡°The boy just happened to be holding it. He was hiding under the deck.¡± ¡°I see,¡± he said, taking another set of chains in hand and snapping apart the links. His expression was stoic. I saw the mirth in his eyes, though. ¡°Bad luck, I suppose.¡± I snorted, fighting my own smile. When thest of the ves were set loose, Sol crossed his arms and looked to me. I raised an eyebrow. ¡°I don¡¯t speak theirnguage.¡± ¡°And what do you want me to say to them?¡± I asked, curious. We¡¯d broken the back of the ving crew, and likely consigned them to death by releasing the oarsmen they¡¯d been whipping like bulls for who knew how long. As far as I was concerned, the work was done. Our path to Olympia was clear once more. Sol looked over the assembled oarsmen. They bowed their heads as his eyes fell upon them, murmuring thanks and prayers in a different tongue than the vers had been using. ¡°Tell them where we¡¯re going. Ask if they¡¯d like toe.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not taking my throne apart,¡± I informed him. ¡°They¡¯ll have to stand.¡± Sol rolled his eyes, waving me on. I obliged, raising my voice in their tongue. ¡°Hear me, ves. My brother and I sail for Olympia. Which of you dogs wants to be free?¡± Ten men were added to our number, and one struggling boy pirate. We left the vers with their ship- they wouldn¡¯t be rowing after us anytime soon. As we swam the distance between the ve galley and the Eos, my captive spluttering and cursing as my pankration arms dunked him beneath the waves more than was strictly necessary, I addressed the Roman swimming beside me. ¡°Over dice?¡± Chapter 1.4 Chapter 1.4 The Son of Rome ¡°Ego desoptron een, opos aee vlepis mi,¡± called an oarsman who was heaving at the sea. ¡°If only I could be a mirror, so that you would always look at me,¡± Griffon sang, his voice smooth and sweet as honey. Nine more voices rose in nearly as manynguages, belting out their foreign tongues in the same cadence. ¡°Ego heeton genimin, opos aee foris mae!¡± ¡°If only I could be a robe, so that you would always wear me!¡± Griffon sat upon his throne of piled benches, somehow tranting a Thracian sea song in such a way that every man on board could parse it regardless of their primarynguage. Including me. The oarsmen stood and pulled rhythmically, working with the practiced ease of men that had been forced to endure far more punishing paces for vastly longer periods of time. ¡°Idor thelo genesthe, opos se hrota looso.¡± ¡°If only I could be water, so that I could wash your skin.¡± ¡°Opos, opos, opos se hrota looso!¡± ¡°So that, so that, so that I could wash your skin!¡± Griffon leered at me across the ship while our new oarsmen echoed him in song. When I¡¯d asked him why he wasn¡¯t manning the oars with his pankration arms anymore, he¡¯d shrugged and asked why he should do such a thing now that there were proper sailors on the deck. Since then he¡¯d simply lounged in the sun, bare above his waist but for a golden ne with a scarlet pendant and a pair ofurel crowns that he was still, for some reason, wearing around his biceps. ¡°Are you not singing because you don¡¯t understand, or because you don¡¯t care to?¡± I asked the boy pirate beside me. Bundled up by rigging lines as he was, he couldn¡¯t do much but growl and spit in reply. ¡°I see.¡± The boy was exactly what I¡¯d imagined a pirate to be, only smaller in scale. My boyhood mentor had described red-heads as foxes and thieves, bereft of virtue and most often consigned to life at sea- because, of course, civilized society would not have them. My great-uncle had described pirates as irreverent vagrants, cheaters and sneaks. The boy was certainly guilty of all charges. Even after the thrashing Griffon had given him for his surprise attack, he¡¯d still struggled like a demon to escape overboard until long after his ve galley had disappeared behind us. Eventually he¡¯d switched tactics to mutiny. Unfortunately for him, all he got for his troubles were a few more ps and a swaddle of rigging rope. Since then, he¡¯d settled for sulking and making a nuisance of himself. I wasn¡¯t sure what had possessed Griffon to take him with us, but the former Young Aristocrat seemed content to smack the pirate around when he got out of line and otherwise let him stew. For now I¡¯d let it be. There were more pressing things, after all. Olympia loomed in the distance. The city was hardly more than ash of color on the horizon, now, but we¡¯d be upon it soon enough. Then the journey would begin in full. My days had been numbered since that day a year ago, but looking at the far shore it felt all too real. My fingers drummed along the rail of the Eos. I was leaning beside the ship¡¯s figurehead, a woman d in flowing wood-carved robes, with both hands cupping her own cheeks. We both contemted thendmass of Greece proper as we approached. ¡°Why don¡¯t you work those lungs of yours instead of brooding?¡± Griffon asked, leaning next to me on the rail. The red-haired pirate boy swore in anguage I didn¡¯t know and lurched sideways, snapping at his ankles. Griffon kicked him across the deck. ¡°We could use another baritone.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t sing.¡± ¡°Like fuck you don¡¯t sing. What kind of man knows how to y the lyre but doesn¡¯t sing?¡± ¡°The kind with a voice ill-suited to it,¡± I said wryly. ¡°It would mean a lot to Khabur,¡± Griffon prodded. He tilted his head at the Thracian, who was currently in the midst of belting out another verse. The rest of the oarsmen sang along, but without Griffon to trante they were just mimicking his words as best they could. ¡°Just look at him. His heart might well break if you, his father, don¡¯t join him for a verse.¡± ¡°Ke sandalon genimin monon posin pati mae!¡± Griffon snorted augh. I nced at him, but he only shook his head. ¡°Deviant old bastard,¡± he muttered, chuckling. ¡°How do you understand them all?¡± I asked, unable to contain my curiosity any longer. I immediately regretted it. Griffon smirked at me, joyous at knowing something I didn¡¯t. ¡°Never mind, I don¡¯t care.¡± ¡°None of that,¡± he chided. ¡°No man knows everything, it¡¯s nothing to be ashamed of.¡± I rolled my eyes. ¡°You¡¯re rying lines a Thracian is saying, and somehow every man on this ship understands you well enough to repeat them back in their ownnguage. I know for a fact it isn¡¯t Alikon, and I don¡¯t know any other tongues beside Latin.¡± ¡°How do you know I¡¯m not speaking Alikon?¡± Griffon asked, curious. ¡°I¡¯ve been trying to talk to the boy. He doesn¡¯t speak it. He¡¯s following along with what you¡¯re saying anyway.¡± Griffon nced back over his shoulder at the bound pirate, currently struggling to stand up on the rocking deck with his limbs all bound together. The oarsmen watched him with varying degrees of vicious amusement. None of them had tried to strike the boy as of yet, but that was likely because we were present more than anything else. ¡°Maybe the little asshole just didn¡¯t want to talk,¡± he offered. ¡°And maybe you¡¯re a liar,¡± I said. ¡°My virtuous heart won¡¯t tolerate usations like that.¡± ¡°Your virtuous heart can pound sand. Keep your secrets- it doesn¡¯t matter to me.¡± Griffon ran a hand through windswept hair, scarlet eyes intent on the far shores of Olympia. ¡°What do you really know of Greece, Sol?¡± he eventually asked. ¡°You had a mentor of some kind that spoke Alikon, but what did they teach you about this world you¡¯re about to strike out into? You say you¡¯ll split from me as if it¡¯s really so simple, when you can¡¯t speak the tongues and have no idea of where you¡¯re going. For someone who cultivates virtue to defy the Fates, you¡¯re trusting an awful lot to them.¡± For a long moment I didn¡¯t respond. It was easy to becent around the former Young Aristocrat, to fall into his irreverent rhythm and forget that behind the veil of casual arrogance was something resembling an astute mind. ¡°My mentor was from Olympia,¡± I finally said. ¡°He taught me what he could in the time he had, but my father took me to the legions before he could finish the work. I know¡­ enough. But if I can find him here-¡± ¡°- you can fill in the empty spaces,¡± Griffon said, nodding. ¡°And after that? Was your mentor so great a man that his full teachings will give you the strength to wipe out all of Carthage?¡± My silence was answer enough. ¡°Assuming this man still lives here, or is even still alive, what makes you think he¡¯ll have the time to tutor you as he once did? I assume he wasn¡¯t doing it for free back then.¡± I frowned. My fists clenched and unclenched. ¡°What will you do if he won¡¯t teach you, or you never find him? Join another mystery cult and leech off them for cultivation resources? Wander the free Mediterranean alone until you¡¯re miraculously strong enough to defy the heavens and strike down all your enemies? Join the local boy house, maybe?¡± ¡°And how are you any different?¡± I asked sharply. ¡°How is wandering in search of freedom any better? We¡¯re both vagrants at the end of the day.¡± ¡°Absolutely,¡± Griffon agreed. ¡°But I¡¯m a vagrant that¡¯s having a good time.¡± I scoffed. ¡°I asked you if you wanted to see the world back then,¡± he said. I remembered starlit pools, draining them with spoons and then dumping the water back in so we¡¯d have an excuse to keep talking about thends we¡¯d never seen. ¡°Now that you have the opportunity to, now that you have the chance to be free, you¡¯re throwing it away for duty to a city that no longer exists.¡± ¡°No.¡± He nced at me. ¡°Ho? I¡¯m wrong?¡± ¡°Not to Rome.¡± Rome had been the responsibility of men like Gaius, the tyrants of the Republic. Mine had been far smaller in scope. ¡°Duty to my wife, and to three thousand legionnaires.¡± Griffon blinked. ¡°You have a wife?¡± ¡°I had a wife.¡± Salt and ash. A tanned and muscled arm settled across my shoulders. I tensed, but didn¡¯t throw it off. My teeth grit, fists clenching and unclenching. Griffon didn¡¯t make any smartments, no allusions to freedom from a different sort of very as I¡¯d half expected him to. I think I¡¯d have torn the ship apart if he had. ¡°I¡¯ve been thinking about it since that day.¡± When I spoke, my voice was raw. How pitiful. The Greek lifestyle was getting to me, it seemed. ¡°Even in chains I was thinking about it. What I would do and how I would do it. But I¡¯m so weak.¡± I mmed a fist to the rail, the wood groaning even without the weight of my pneuma behind it. ¡°I have no family, no resources, norades in arms. My city is gone. I have one connection to this nation, and he may not want anything to do with me if I can even find him at all. I am alone in this world. I am lost!¡± ¡°No.¡± ¡°No?¡± I snarled, rounding on him. ¡°You were lost,¡± Griffon said simply. ¡°But I found you.¡± I stared at him, at three thousand different faces imposed over his own. Men that had trusted me, that I had failed. I couldn¡¯t do it again. I couldn¡¯t let another one down. I pushed his arm off, but Griffon only threw arms of pankration intent across my shoulders, bearing me down to the rail. My eyes narrowed, gravitas gathering in my hand. ¡°There¡¯s an entire world to the East,¡± Griffon said, scarlet eyes bright and intent as we drew ever closer to Olympia. Details were slowly emerging on the horizon. A mountain, and what looked like an oing storm. ¡°And just because I have nowhere I must go doesn¡¯t mean I have nowhere I n to go. I have a thousand thousand things I want to see, Sol. I want to learn everything I don¡¯t know, and once I¡¯ve done that I want to learn everything I never knew I didn¡¯t know. ¡°It¡¯s only natural that I¡¯ll be powerful in the process. It¡¯s simply justice that I¡¯ll gain unprecedented renown over the course of my life. And you¡¯ll be the same.¡± Griffon grinned boyishly at me. ¡°Son of Rome, your future is hopelessly grim. Why not enjoy your life before ites calling?¡± ¡°Monon, monon, monon posin pati!¡± Chapter 1.5 Chapter 1.5 The Young Griffon Olympia. The holy city, where heroes became champions and oracles came to die. The oarsmen eased the Eos into the city¡¯s dock town with careful precision. My cousin¡¯s vessel was sleek and agile, well-suited to just about any maneuvering, and coasted through bobbing forests of merchant vessels without issue. She slid smoothly up onto the beach sands and the oarsmen scrambled off the ship to start pushing her the rest of the way. I vaulted the rail andnded in knee-deep sea water at the stern of the Eos. Iid both hands upon her rear, and twenty hands of pankration intent joined me to heave the Eos fully onto the beach. The oarsmen whooped and hollered at the disy. ¡°What do we do about the ship?¡± Sol asked,nding adroitly in the warm white sands. He still had a conflicted air about him, but he¡¯d stopped brooding for the moment. ¡°Do?¡± I asked. ¡°We don¡¯t do anything.¡± The winter waters of the Ionian were deliciously cool, so I gathered them up in twenty pankration palms and flicked droplets at my body from every angle. Sol watched with furrowed brows as I basked in the refreshing shower. Envious, no doubt. ¡°It¡¯ll be gone in a day,¡± he finally said, ncing up at the Eos. She was a beautiful vessel, I¡¯d give her that much. From her scarlet sails to the sleek curve of her keel, she was a vessel fit for a heroic crew. A shame that we¡¯d stolen her. ¡°Surely we could pay to have her kept.¡± ¡°We could,¡± I agreed. ¡°If we had the funds. Tell me, Sol, did you bring your drachma with you? Any denarii from your final legion remittance? Myself, I didn¡¯t bring anything but the cloth around my waist.¡± I had a thought and called out to our crew. ¡°Dogs! Your father needs coin. Who among you is the richest?¡± Ten hands pointed up at the ship¡¯s deck. Ah, right. The child. Sol and I leapt back onto the deck, and while I wrestled the boy down the Roman went questing through the ship itself. The pirate boy spat in my face. Pankration arms spiked him into the shallows of the beach and I dove in after, dunking him mercilessly. ¡°Nothing,¡± Sol said,nding beside us. ¡°You said your cousin and hispanions were all in the Heroic Realm, yet the ship might as well be empty.¡± ¡°Of course it is.¡± The vile little red-head reared up out of the water, gasping. I dunked him back down. ¡°Cultivators at that level have other ways of storing their possessions. We¡¯re lucky one of them didn¡¯t store the Eos whole into a fold of their tunic.¡± ¡°What about the boy? What does he have on him?¡± I pulled the little pirate out of the water. He choked and gasped for breath, unable to put up more than a token resistance as I pped him down for coin. Predictably, the vagrant child didn¡¯t have a fleck of gold on him. I shook my head, tossing him up onto the beach. ¡°So we¡¯re utterly without funds.¡± ¡°We have a ship we could sell,¡± I pointed out. ¡°You told me your father and his brothers built this ship,¡± Sol said, incredulous. ¡°And you want to sell it?¡± I considered the Eos. She really was a pretty thing. ¡°Selling her would be cruel,¡± I mused. ¡°I suppose there¡¯s no choice. We¡¯ll have to return her to Alikos and find another way.¡± Sol sighed. Olympia was a gathering ce. It was the home of the Olympic Games, the cradle where champions of the Mediterranean were born and nurtured, and had been so for nearly eight hundred years. Throughout our most tumultuous eras it had stood as a beacon, untouched by war and universally coveted. It was where living legends came to test their might against one another. It was where epics began, and were mercilessly concluded. It was also home to the most powerful cult in the free Mediterranean. The Cult of Raging Heaven was an institution that every man and woman with even the faintest spark inside their soul dreamt of one day joining. Vastly influential and boasting heroic and even tyrannic cultivators in absurd numbers, the Cult of Raging Heaven was as much a ce of elite congregation as the city itself. The cult¡¯s influence over its host city, from what I had been taught, was nearly asplete as my father¡¯s own control over Alikos. There was a suggestion of separation, of course, a citizen ss that had nominal control through democratic rule. But the masses were easily swayed, and it was only natural that the best orators woulde from the strongest grouping of cultivators in the city. On the surface, Olympia and Alikos were vastly different entities. The former was the heart of the free Mediterranean, the ce that all Greek citizens with the means to do so flocked to during Olympic years. Thetter was a simple colony nation, isted from the rest of the enlightened world by the Ionian Sea and pressed up against the barbarian state of Rome. It was perhaps only natural that a cultivator of sufficient renown would take the Scarlet City in their hand to ensure its prosperity, with only the heartless sea and a horde of barbarians as their neighbors. That my father was one of only two Tyrants in the Scarlet City said enough about its strength rtive to Olympia, or even most of the other eight city-states. Still, something told me it wasn¡¯t quite so simple. That beneath the surface of the skin, the bones were all the same. That in the end, their offal smelled no better than ours. Perhaps I¡¯d been listening to my father for too long. Cynical old bastard. Regardless of any alleged political influence, though, the Cult of Raging Heaven had left an undeniable mark on the city. On the world entire. As the sun set on the sanctuary city of Olympia, Sol and I beheld one of the world¡¯s eight wonders. It was a statue, in so much as such a thing could be called a statue. Ensconced in an open-faced temple, beneath a sloping roof, sat an entity in the shape of a man. The statue wasrge beyond anything I¡¯d ever seen, lounging on a throne of ivory and gold and only just fitting beneath the temple¡¯s roof. Were it to stand, it would break through entirely. The statued man was carved from the same ivory as his throne, iid with the same gold, and the detail chiseled into his bare torso was utterly sublime. He wore around his waist a tunic of solid gold, decorated simply with gemstone roses. His legs were crossed at the ankles, ivory feet wrapped in fine golden sandals. The curls of his hair were ented with gold and a crown of emeraldurels sat proudly atop them. Every detail was so finely wrought, it made the statue¡¯s utterly nk face all the more jarring. Sol stared, awe-struck, at the statue as it glistened in the sunset lights. It was covered in olive oil- a precaution against the elements, among other reasons. As we looked upon it, that olive oil dripped off the giant in small streams into a square pool at his feet, surrounding the base of his throne. The pool was painted the deep blue of clear skies and its walls were iid with gemstone mosaics, depicting men and women dancing and frolicking without care. Each of them was without a face. ¡°Who is this?¡± Sol breathed. I smirked lightly. Only heaven knew the answer to that question. Still, I gestured for him to follow me and ascended the marble steps up to the temple. In the hour ofing dusk the temple was nearly empty. Metics and freedmen, noticeably poor, hovered in the gaps between columns and the corners of the temple, gazing reverently upon the seated king. But there was no press, and we were unimpeded as we approached the king¡¯s dias. A low whisper hung in the air as we drew close. Carved into the sky blue stone of the pool upon which he sat was the king¡¯s name. I, Your Father ¡°They say the founder of the Cult of Raging Heaven constructed this wonder alone over the course of eight years,¡± I said, my voice carrying low through the temple. ¡°They say he gathered its gemstones, its golden tes and its ebonies, all from the parthenon of his own cultivator¡¯s heart.¡± The chryselephantine king held a vast golden scepter in his left hand, nearly as tall as he might have been standing, topped by an eagle with folded golden wings. In his left hand, raised to eye level, stood a golden woman with ivory wings. Whether or not this woman had a face impossible to say. A smaller set of ivory wings covered it. ¡°This is¡­¡± ¡°Incredible?¡± I finished, gazing up at the great king¡¯s splendor. A single look from afar was all it had taken to take my breath away. This close, it was if all my earthly troubles were falling away. ¡°Well, yes.¡± Sol frowned, considering the king and his scoured face. ¡°But it¡¯s also familiar.¡± ¡°Ho, so you have eyes after all.¡± I chuckled and turned away from the king in heaven, bare feeting padding silently across the stone floors of his temple. Sol, after onest lingering nce, followed. ¡°What we saw during the rites,¡± Sol said in a low voice, his eyes troubled, ¡°That wasn¡¯t unique to the Rosy Dawn?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± I admitted freely. ¡°I¡¯ve never been within the walls of another mystery cult, let alone participated in their rites.¡± ¡°But what do you think?¡± he pressed. I smiled, barely restrained excitement making my heart and pneuma thrum. ¡°I think,¡± I said, drawing out the sound, ¡°That the cults of greater mysteries exist for a reason. I think they are a reaction to an event, or many events, and their aftermaths can be seen. Can be felt.¡± I lifted an arm and pointed, into the far distance, at the home of the Cult of Raging Heaven. As we¡¯d approached the coastal edge of Olympia earlier that day, it had appeared as if a storm wasing from the east. The truth was something far more bizarre. There was a storm, alright. A storm that the Raging Heaven¡¯s mountain wore like a crown, shrouding its peak in ruinously dark clouds. It did not bleed naturally through the heavens as a storm was meant to. It hung in the air above the Cult of Raging Heaven, tightly packed and seething with lightning. ¡°I think if what you¡¯re imagining exists, it¡¯s at the heart of the cult.¡± ¡°Is that why you wanted toe here?¡± Sol asked, gray eyes locked on the storm that never ceased. ¡°To see it?¡± ¡°Not at all.¡± Sol blinked and looked at me, surprised. ¡°For what, then?¡± Iid a hand upon the pommel of my uncle¡¯s de, running the other through my hair. There was a long trek ahead of us and night was nearly here. We didn¡¯t have a single chip of silver between us, and we¡¯d given our only other asset to a motley group of ves. Still, our spirits were high and our bodies were strong. We had all that we needed. ¡°How else do epics begin?¡± I asked rhetorically, striding for the city. I was here to see the Oracle. Chapter 1.6 Chapter 1.6 The Son of Rome ¡°You¡¯re an observant one, Solus.¡± ¡°Thank you, uncle.¡± ¡°I wasn¡¯t finished.¡± ¡°Sir.¡± ¡°A keen eye is a virtue, but only if you know where to look. What to look for. Some things won¡¯t reveal themselves to wandering eyes. And some things reveal themselves only through the observation of others.¡± ¡°Sir?¡± ¡°If you want the truest measure of a man, observe the world when he dies.¡± Gaius¡¯ Triumph was a ludicrous thing. It was decadence and ecstasy made manifest, a marching adtion that wound through every street in the great city of Rome. Impossible to ignore, and who would want to? The city entire had turned out for the celebration. Music and cheers were abundant, military buglers and musicians of the citizenry achieving a miraculous synchronicity. As if the Muses themselves yed through them. My great-uncle¡¯s pneuma swept through the streets in a flood, dering his return to all who had eyes to see and inexplicably revitalizing those of us in his procession. We marched as tirelessly on Rome¡¯s stone roads as we did the marshes and swamps of the western front. Legionnaires specially chosen for their valor in battle threw fistfuls of glimmering silver denarii into the crowds of plebs. There were more riches, of course. Far more. Gaius had his best tribunes parading them through the streets, precious metals and jewels the size of a man¡¯s clenched fist, enough to fill cart upon cart to their furthest limits. Triumphs were already events that every Roman, from pleb to patrician, anticipated as much as any holiday. They were city-wide celebrations thatsted long into the night, awarded only to those that shed the light of the Republic on shadowednds. A man could bask in the adtion of the great city only if he first added to its borders. Made it greater than it had been before. Today, Gaius celebrated his fourth Triumph in as many days. ¡°We know the men we lead,¡± Gaius said. He sat tall on his personal mount and nodded graciously to the masses. A chariot was traditional, but the general of the western front had opted for his warhorse. ¡°It¡¯s the least that can be expected of us- to know their names, who they are in their hearts. They¡¯re the de, after all. How can victory be possible if you don¡¯t know what¡¯s sheathed at your hip?¡± Walking beside my great-uncle¡¯s horse, at his hip, I considered the question. Rhetorical as always. ¡°You¡¯ll acquire this skill in time,¡± he said to me. Not an assurance but a fact, as if he could speak it into being. Maybe he could. ¡°For now, observe what happens when a good man dies.¡± Gaius whistled a high and clear note, and the triumphal banners rose. The vast sounds of the crowd rose higher as depictions of our efforts in the west were proudly presented on eagle-topped standards. Centurions of Gaius¡¯ favored legion carried them with stern faces, but their eyes were aglow. Four sets of banners to match four days of triumph. On the first day, the battles for the Gallds had flown to riotous apuse. On the second, the conquest of the savage Britons and their miserable ind. Third, the bloodied snow ins of northern Germania. Gaius paraded a toppled king around the city each day, one for every nation. They were warriors that could alone crush armies of lesser men with little effort, yet they weathered insults from patricians and plebs alike. They were spat upon by men that they could have killed with a cold snort, if not for the shackles around their wrists. And at the end of each day they were beheaded to resounding apuse. Today, though, there were no kings to mock. When the banners rose to depict the fourth and final triumph of the general of the western front, the rising tide was not of adtion. The people of Rome cried out in anguish. My wife¡¯s fingers tightened around mine. She pressed herself against my side as citizens and freedmen shouted. Hollered. Wept. An old woman up on her terrace wailed, wing at her own wrinkled face as if to draw it away from the many banners. I looked back at the leading banner, most gruesome by far. It was the first time I¡¯d seen it. I knew at once what it was depicting, the news that my great-uncle had received with such fury out in the field. In shades of cinnabar and vermilion, the Young Wolf tore out his innards while his son and servants fought him. ¡°The people of Rome know that I alonemand the western legions,¡± Gaius said, as if we were still sitting around the sand table in hismand tent. ¡°They know that I am more powerful than they could ever hope to be. My opinion of them matters. My status is a beast they can not afford to provoke. And yet.¡± The people of Rome called out against Gaius. ¡°This is the legacy of a good man,¡± he said, cool gray eyes sweeping over the citizens of the Republic as they grieved. There were many banners today. ¡°It doesn¡¯t yield. Doesn¡¯t cower. Among heaven and earth, his character is undeniable.¡± A memory. My great-uncle, hunched over his sand table. A papyrus missive crushed in his fist. I grudge you your death, as you would have grudged me your life. ¡°Why celebrate it at all?¡± I asked quietly. My wife looked fearfully at me, her grip on my hand crushing. It was madness to question the tyrant of the west. ¡°The first three days were celebrations,¡± he said. His eyes were horribly old. ¡°Today is a statement.¡± I looked upon a Republic in mourning. Understanding came, and with it dread. The people of Rome cried out in despair for their fallen sons. But they did not rise. ¡°You can be a good man, nephew,¡± he offered me. My jaw clenched. ¡°Or I can lead them.¡± Gaius nodded. ¡°Never both.¡± ¡°Something¡¯s wrong,¡± Griffon mused. He strode barefoot through streets littered with pulverized stone and all manner of detritus, one hand propped on the pommel of his stolen de and the other swaying at his side. It was an egregious understatement. The outer limits of Olympia were a ruin, homes and roads torn up and scattered to the four winds as if by a furious god. As we ventured further in, closer to that distant mountain with its perpetual storm, the damage slowly diminished. It was more to do with the quality of the architecture than anything else, though. The closer we drew to the heart of Olympia, the better her homes and monuments had been able to weather the apparent disaster. Yet even as devastated slums gave way to battered residential districts, and then to smooth streets of baked scarlet y, we hardly saw another soul. There were vagrants, yes. Urchins and ves as well. But citizens were few and far between, and the few we did see rushed out ahead of us with torches and wrapped bundles in their arms. ¡°It¡¯s fresh,¡± Griffon continued, scarlet eyes roving over the shadowed ruins. ¡°But the atmosphere is all wrong. The citizens are in a rush while the mongrels are loitering.¡± I flexed my right hand, near the naked de I¡¯d stolen from a pirate. It was an ugly, ill-wrought weapon, without even a sheath to house it. It was all I had for the moment. ¡°The free cities don¡¯t hold standing armies,¡± I said quietly. ¡°They conscript their citizens when they go to war.¡± ¡°Not likely.¡± Griffon frowned, tilting his head as if a different angle would reveal the answer to him. ¡°Olympia is the nexus of the free Mediterranean, a sanctuary state. Any city that decided to wage war with her would be torn apart by seven sets of teeth before they breached her walls.¡± Light bloomed in his swaying palm, the rosy fingers of dawn illuminating the path ahead. I tracked a female citizen¡¯s path as she leapt off her terrace, three floors up, andnded adroitly on the red stone road. She was dressed in fine indigo robes and had a wrapped bundle in her arms. She spared us a quick nce before turning and rushing down the street. Her sandals ttered with every step. ¡°It¡¯s not panic.¡± The stragglers were in a rush, but not frenzied. ¡°They have somewhere to be.¡± ¡°The whole city?¡± Griffon asked. ¡°At this hour?¡± ¡°Maybe the Raging Heaven is conducting its rites,¡± I suggested. Griffon scoffed. ¡°Don¡¯t be absurd.¡± ¡°Absurd?¡± I echoed in disbelief. ¡°Your father pulled a star from the sky, and you think a hurricane is absurd?¡± ¡°Onto his own cult, yes. He didn¡¯t level the whole fucking city.¡± I grunted, acknowledging the point. We continued on, and the closer we got to the heart of the city the grander its architecture became. Theaters, bathhouses, and all manner of grand residential estates abounded. Signs of cmity abounded, but the buildings themselves had weathered the storm without issue. And still the streets were empty of citizens. It wasn¡¯t until we saw the torch light that I finally understood. It was a distant glow at first, hardly brighter than the light in Griffon¡¯s palm, but as we drew closer it grewrger and brighter. It became a sea, bobbing waves of torch me streaming into the city¡¯s central pavilion. Thousands upon thousands of citizens gathered in the agora as the moon peered through the storm clouds wreathing the Raging Heaven¡¯s mountain. Eerie silence gave way to cries. To shouts. To mournful chants. And I understood. ¡°This is a funeral,¡± I said. Griffon¡¯s eyes widened as he made the connection. My mentor had taught me about death as the Greeks understood it. When a man died his vital essence left him in his final breath. Onest gasp, easily missed. This principle held true for cultivators just the same. But the scale differed. Cultivation makes a man more of what he already is. It enhances everything he does, for better or for worse. Olympia hadn¡¯t been attacked. It had suffered a natural disaster, but not in the traditional sense. The truth was written on every weeping face, and in every wrapped offering. The people of Olympia, cultivators from every corner of the Mediterranean, gathered in the battered agora to pay their respects. A tyrant had died. Chapter 1.7 Chapter 1.7 The Young Griffon Sooner orter in life, you ran up against the feeling of being unwanted. Some time, in some ce, by some person. It was only natural that man could not please every soul among heaven and earth. Even a man like me. Especially a man like me. It was a palpable sensation, something that could be felt if you had the sense for it. A formless de that could slip between your ribs alongside a smile and pleasant conversation. Humanity was infinitelyplex. Our little interactions with one another were the same. I didn¡¯t have to tell a man that I hated him for him to know. I didn¡¯t even have to strike him. I could do it with a nce. The conveyance of contempt was an art that every Young Aristocrat mastered early in life. As a prodigy of that art, I had a keen eye for the contempt of others. I knew when I wasn¡¯t wanted. I knew when someone was trying to hide that fact from me. But as Sol and I weaved through the crowds of mourning citizens, I noticed a distinctck of unwant. Most paid little and less mind to us as we moved past them, my Rosy Fingers of Dawn raised like one of the countless torches congregating in the city¡¯s agora. The eyes that did take notice of us lingered, but that only made sense. Sol stalked through the crowd like he was going to war, a storm in his eyes - never mind the fact that he was always like that. And I was myself. Drawing attention was natural, but theck of contempt was surprising. The uninvitation that I had expected wasn¡¯t there, and that told me a few things about the man that had died. I¡¯d connected the dots moments after Sol had. The sanctuary city of Olympia looked like it had been hit by a hurricane. But the docks hadn¡¯t shown any signs of such a thing and those would have been hit the hardest. The other possibility was a cultivator¡¯s work, but that was even less likely. To strike at Olympia was to strike at the heart of the free Mediterranean. There wasn¡¯t a dog nation on this earth with the courage to do that. But if the cultivator in question wasn¡¯t an invader? If he was inside the sanctuary city when he struck, and his attack was no attack at all? Any man¡¯s dying breath can stir the hearts of his family. Perhaps it can even scatter an anthill. A Tyrant¡¯s dying breath can stir the hearts of an entire city. And level it. ¡°It¡¯s easy to forget.¡± Slipping past a pair of crying women in purple slips of cloth, I noted the perfect affectation of their sobs. Their skin was lustrous in the torchlight. ¡°For all their strength and influence, for all the cities they scatter in their wake. Even Tyrants die some day.¡± ¡°Thus always,¡± Sol murmured. I nced at him in askance but he only shook his head, frowning. ¡°We need information,¡± he said instead, scanning the crowd. His eyes settled on a throng of men with youthful features and gray beards,miserating with one another. Their torches illuminated ornate tunics, glimmering rings and armbands. I caught him by the arm when he made to walk their way. Sol looked back at me, annoyed. ¡°Those aren¡¯t the men we want to talk to,¡± I exined, raising an eyebrow. ¡°Haven¡¯t you noticed? There¡¯s no one worth listening to out here on the fringes.¡± Several heads turned at that, ugly looks and whispered threats. Some of those ugly looks died as soon as theyid eyes on me. Citizens, no matter how wealthy or respected, knew they had no business even looking unfavorably upon an initiate of a greater mystery cult. Their clothing and ornaments were finer than mine, but a cultivator¡¯s tattered attire would always be worth more than a citizen¡¯s finest silks. The gaggle of vain old men and the sobbing sisters I¡¯d brushed past were reflected in a thousand faces, a thousand different styles. An important man had died, and every able body in Olympia with two drachma to rub together hade to im their ce in the spectacle. Like flies swarming a lion¡¯s corpse. It was the way of things. ¡°We can do better than flies,¡± I told him, flicking a rosy finger at a ring man with more ire than sense. He cursed and flinched back from the flying embers of my pneuma. ¡°If you want to talk to scavengers, at least find yourself a crow.¡± ¡°Cultivator or not, it doesn¡¯t matter,¡± Sol said, shrugging me off. ¡°I only want to know what we¡¯re walking into.¡± He moved through to the group of youthful graybeards. The crowds parted naturally around him as he did. It was faint, nearly drowned out by the press of so many different souls, but now I could feel that formless aura of his that caused it, whereas before I could only infer it. One of the benefits of my new standing. I waited patiently while he spoke to the old men. From the looks of it, they were all too happy to share their thoughts. ¡°You shouldn¡¯t be walking around like that tonight, young man. It¡¯s disrespectful.¡± I blinked, looking down at an old woman. She looked her age, all snow white hair and wrinkled, weathered skin. There wereugh lines around her eyes, though she was currently scowling. I tilted my head. ¡°Did I ask for your opinion?¡± Her pneuma rose andshed out like a serpent, striking my arm. She pped me with her soul. It was a pitiful thing, due as much to theck of real heat behind it as to the difference in our standing. For all her years, she was still only in the Civic Realm. Oddly enough, she didn¡¯t seem to care. I flexed my pneuma once. She scoffed. ¡°Rude boy,¡± she said, removing one of several embroidered shawls draped over her shoulders. ¡°So what if you¡¯re stronger than a crone. I¡¯d offer you aurel, but you already have two.¡± She pressed the pure white shawl with its fine gold embroidering insistently against my bare chest. ¡°Put this on. This is a funeral, not a bathhouse.¡± I considered the shawl. ¡°This isn¡¯t really my style,¡± I told her. She grumbled and pulled a couple more off her shoulders, each a different color, and presented them to me impatiently. ¡°Quickly now, take one. You¡¯re a strong young man, surely you can pick your clothes without your mother¡¯s help?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t have a mother,¡± I informed her. ¡°That exins it.¡± She squinted in the low light of the torches and my own rosy fingers. Then, nodding once, she took the white and gold shawl from my hands. She reced it with one that was entirely gold, though a shade darker than the embroideries on the first. ¡°This will suit you nicely. Make you look presentable, though there¡¯s nothing I can do for that arrogant face.¡± ¡°You¡¯re an audacious old woman,¡± I said, amused. The shawl, which had nearly touched the ground when she wore it, was justrge enough to cover my torso. The material was light andfortable on my skin, and it parted easily when I shifted my arms. ¡°I suppose I¡¯ll wear this. What do I owe you?¡± ¡°Some respect,¡± she said, reaching up and patting me firmly on the cheek. ¡°You boys always forget, this world isrger than any one man. Tonight is proof enough of that. Worry less about standing and other such nonsense, and more about your manners. They¡¯re a virtue too, you know.¡± With that, she wandered off into the crowd. I watched her go. ¡°You were right,¡± Sol admitted sourly, a trio of young citizens moving absently from his path as he returned. ¡°All they know is that a cultivator has died. They didn¡¯t have anything meaningful to say.¡± I hummed. ¡°No, I think I was wrong too.¡± Sol looked me up and down. Admiring my new shawl, no doubt. ¡°Who did you mug for that?¡± ¡°A crone.¡± ¡°No, really.¡± I smirked faintly, moving deeper into the crowd. Each stage of cultivation was an opening of the eyes. The Civic Realm was the first ascension, where cultivators initially perceived their pneuma and the pneuma of others. It was a crude sense, obviously. My father described it as a blind man sticking his hand into a fire to see that it was hot. It didn¡¯t allow for nuance. Though when I¡¯d asked what sort of nuances I was missing, my father had only brushed me off to my studies. Stepping into the Sophic Realm hade with several benefits, and one was a new depth of perception. I hadn¡¯t noticed it in the days that Sol and I spent alone on the Eos. I¡¯d felt the first wisp of it when we raided the pirate vessel, but I hadn¡¯t been able to fully grasp it then. It was only here, in this crowd of thousands, that I couldn¡¯t help but see. There was a new dimension to the pneuma I felt in the air. Before, as a Civic cultivator, I¡¯d been able to sense the quantity of a cultivator¡¯s pneuma and little more. The intensity, maybe. Now, I was sensing¡­ eddies. Like whirlpool tides, I could feel the brush of swirling wind as the pneuma of those around me reacted to my own. It was a passive, innocuous thing. Citizens parted around me as I advanced deeper into the crowd, but their pneuma moved first. Before they even noticed me, I could feel their pneuma reacting to mine, shying away. There was an addedyer to it when it came to Sol. Citizens moved only after they noticed me, oblivious to the eddies of my soul, but for Sol it was different. Men and women moved unconsciously from his path, stepping in synchronicity with their pneuma as it shied away. I¡¯d noticed it from the beginning, the way people gravitated to and from him without any conscious intention. Now, I could see the ripples of that formless quality in motion. ¡°I wonder,¡± I said, tracing the eddies of a few souls scattered around us. Advanced cultivators of the Civic Realm, and a few from the Sophic Realm. ¡°Will I always feel this blind?¡± I¡¯d always been able to distinguish between the Civic and the Sophic realms, and I¡¯d expected my Sophic perception to be a simple refinement of that. Instead, I noticed now that of the two advanced cultivators closest to my right - one at the eighth rank of the Civic Realm and the other at the third of the Sophic Realm - the junior cultivator¡¯s pneuma had therger presence. It parted the waves of vital energy more aggressively than the Sophic cultivator¡¯s pneuma despite the gulf between them. I had my ideas as to why, but that¡¯s all they were. Ideas. I could see more than I ever had before, but I felt twice as blind. ¡°My mentor used to tell me that no man really knows anything,¡± Sol said contemtively. ¡°All his years of learning just rified that fact to him. Maybe this is the same.¡± ¡°Maybe that¡¯s why all the gods have nk faces,¡± I mused, only half joking. ¡°They¡¯re the blindest of us all.¡± ¡°How profound,¡± a crow cawed. A Heroic cultivator¡¯s pneuma pressed against mine like a tide, urging me back. I observed it thoughtfully as it broke like waves against a rock. He was young, not much older than us if I judged it right. How much of that was true youth and how much was the boon of cultivation was always a coin flip, especially in the higher realms, but I was confident it was the former. It showed in how he carried himself. As he drifted our way through the crowd, he moved the same way Niks had in the days leading up to his wedding. Carefully, as if the people around him were made of eggshells. He wasn¡¯t used to his new standing. A newly minted hero, his control over his own strength was still unsteady. Sol shot me a warning look. In some ways, a fresh hero was more dangerous than men like my uncles. To a junior, anyway. They weren¡¯t very good at holding back. The Heroic cultivator nted his feet and stood before us, blocking our path deeper into the agora. He was slightly shorter than both of us, but that didn¡¯t stop him from looking down his nose at us. It would have been as amusing as when Heron did it, if not for the weight of his presence. An entire realm¡¯s difference wasn¡¯t so easily ignored. ¡°I admire your dedication, cultivating virtue even here, when Olympia has gathered to mourn,¡± he said, making it clear that he didn¡¯t. ¡°But there is a time and a ce for stretching new muscles. This isn¡¯t it.¡± ¡°Apologies, friend,¡± I said easily. ¡°It¡¯s difficult to tell where the symposia ends and the funeral begins.¡± The hero¡¯s expression darkened, looking past us to the masses of gossiping citizens and lesser philosophers. Something in his pneuma pulsed, pressing more insistently on those around him. Interesting. ¡°Shameful as it is, I can¡¯t disagree with that,¡± he admitted. Dark brown eyes shed as they turned back to us. ¡°A man has died, and most of the people here don¡¯t even know his name. They just know he was powerful, and that¡¯s enough for them to show. They can hardly even pretend to care.¡± ¡°What sort of dogs show up to a stranger¡¯s funeral uninvited?¡± Sol asked, without a hint of irony. The heroic cultivator studied us both for a moment. I carefully did not smile. ¡°You¡¯d be surprised,¡± he finally said, his stance rxing. He plucked irritably at the green-gray material of his cult attire, revealing a short de at his hip as it shifted. ¡°Even a dog can be loyal. These people, though¡­¡± He shook his head. ¡°But that doesn¡¯t mean we should sink to their level,¡± he continued firmly. ¡°If you¡¯re here to mourn, then mourn.¡± ¡°Of course,¡± I said, and threw an arm over his shoulder. The hero stiffened. Sol closed his eyes, resigned. ¡°But mourning is best done amongst friends, isn¡¯t it? Unless these new eyes of mine deceive me, it seems you¡¯re here alone.¡± ¡°... I am,¡± the cultivator admitted warily. I smiled winningly, striking the perfect bnce between sympathy and camaraderie. In my peripheral, Sol looked faintly ill. ¡°Tell me, who was he to you?¡± Chapter 1.8 Chapter 1.8 The Son of Rome ¡°... Truthfully, it¡¯s impossible for someone like me to have known a man like him,¡± the heroic cultivator said, winding down his somber recollection. ¡°In the end, all I can offer tonight is my gratitude for the kindness he showed me, in those few moments that we crossed paths.¡± Griffon made some polite noises, said a few empathetic words, but he was looking at me out of the corner of his eye. His pupil shook faintly. Was it excitement or tightly leashed fear? The former, knowing him, though thetter would have been a more sensible reaction. The Heroic cultivator had spoken only briefly about his connection to the man of the night, but it had been enough. Olympiaid more than just a Tyrant to rest tonight. The kyrios of the Raging Heaven Cult was dead. ¡°What about you two? How did you know him?¡± the hero asked, gathering himself. His brow suddenly furrowed, the mes behind his eyes flickering. ¡°No, before that. Forgive me, I¡¯ve forgotten myself. My name is Scythas.¡± His name was bestowed, not gifted - with an expectation of return. ¡°Griffon,¡± said the former Young Aristocrat without hesitation. Scythas¡¯ burning eyes turned to me. ¡°Sol.¡± ¡°Well met,¡± he decided. ¡°Agreed.¡± Griffon¡¯s arm was somehow still slung across the young hero¡¯s shoulder. He jostled him a bit as he waved between the two of us. ¡°As for us, our paths crossed with the kyrios the same way yours did.¡± ¡°Is that so?¡± Scythas asked, with interest and skilfully masked suspicion. His ploy had been clear from the start, describing his own circumstances here in Olympia in only the vaguest of terms. Even his acknowledgement of the kyrios¡¯ identity had been reluctantly given - and without a proper name. Something told me he¡¯d only given up that much because he¡¯d felt he had to. To prove himself. It was a gut instinct, but Griffon had clearlye to the same conclusion. Scythas was feeling us out. Testing our legitimacy while proving his own. But why bother validating himself? A hero had no reason to justify himself to a pair of uppity philosophers. The difference in our standing was clear as day. Unless it wasn¡¯t. ¡°Don¡¯t pretend you can¡¯t tell,¡± Griffon chided. ¡°It¡¯s written all over your face - a challenger recognizes a challenger. We¡¯vee to take part in the games, just like you.¡± It wasn¡¯t a lie. Griffon didn¡¯t tell lies. But that only made the statement more absurd. I clenched my right fist, the one not in the heroic cultivator¡¯s line of sight. What did he think he was doing? Scythas looked to me, searching. He didn¡¯t deny Griffon¡¯s guess. Not just a Hero, but an Olympic athlete in the making. Griffon cocked an expectant eyebrow. Unfortunately for him, he was no longer the Young Aristocrat of the Rosy Dawn, and I was no longer one of his ves. ¡°He is taking part,¡± I said, stressing the distinction. If he thought I¡¯d y along with his schemes forever, he was sorely mistaken. I only had a moment to savor Griffon¡¯s irritated glower. Scythas actually rxed a fraction after I answered, as if I¡¯d just cleared up a discrepancy in the story rather than openly contradicting it. Griffon noticed it, too, irritation turning to satisfaction in a split second. ¡°Sol is too modest,¡± he assured Scythas. ¡°He may not bepeting directly, but I wouldn¡¯t be here if it wasn¡¯t for him.¡± Worthless Greek. ¡°Your mentor?¡± Scythas asked, genuinely surprised. There was a wisp of sensation, that formless something that Griffon had been describing before Scythas interrupted us in the first ce. There had been too much happening when I ascended. Even looking back on it now, with my pneuma unfettered, it was impossible to separate any one sensation from another. Moments, seconds, minutes and hours. They all bled together. It had been a vague impression in the Rosy Dawn when the shackles fell away and I called upon the captain¡¯s virtue. I¡¯d felt its effect on the people around me more clearly than before. Now, I felt the brush of a heroic cultivator¡¯s influence against mine. Instinctively, I knew he wasn¡¯t gauging my pneuma. He¡¯d already done that from the start, and we¡¯d done the same. He was looking for something deeper than what that spiritual handshake could convey. I flexed the captain¡¯s virtue once, experimentally, and watched in fascination as the grasping hands of his influence mmed to the dirt. Scythas pulled back, staring at me. I was implicated in that moment. Griffon radiated victory, and all I could do was pretend that my actions had been intentional. ¡°Stare into the sun and you¡¯ll go blind,¡± I said mildly. Griffon chuckled. Scythas, for his part, shuffled in ce. He smoothed out his cult robes in a nervous gesture. It was madness for a mere Philosopher to masquerade as a Hero. The gulf that separated them was the difference between heaven and earth. Even so, I stepped towards him, appraising him as if he wasn¡¯t my senior in age and cultivation both. ¡°You haven¡¯t been here long,¡± I said, looking him up and down. The soft sounds of mourning enveloped us. Men and women alike sobbed or spoke in low, solemn tones to one another. The kyrios had passed too soon. What were they to do without him? ¡°This is your first timepeting.¡± ¡°And if it is?¡± His hair was too long. It curled around the nape of his neck, a shade of blond just darker than Griffon¡¯s. My officer¡¯s instincts stirred, buried beneath salt and ash, and rose to the surface of my thoughts. He was projecting all the wrong things. His hair, his posture, the state of his clothes. His pneuma didn¡¯t lie - he was a Hero. But he was failing to truly show it. I offered Scythas my hand and he didn¡¯t hesitate to take it. I held back a wince when he crushed mine in his - he thought he was the junior here, the underdog that needed to establish himself. It was only natural that he would show me his strength. I met his eyes calmly, and just before the fine bones in my hand broke, I invoked this new whisper-quiet version of the captain¡¯s virtue. Scythas jerked back. ¡°Apologies,¡± he murmured. ¡°I¡¯ve been in your ce before.¡± It was even the truth. I set my shoulders, nodding when he unconsciously mimicked me. ¡°Stand proud. You¡¯re strong.¡± His spine straightened and his spirit - the ever-present fire that burned in the eyes of all Heroic cultivators - red in pleasure. I knew immediately that he wasn¡¯t a man with many friends in this city. He reminded me of some of the younger legionnaires in the fifth, the ones who¡¯d joined up because they had nowhere else to go. In fact, if he cut his hair¡­ No. None of that. ¡°Why haven¡¯t I seen the two of you around the cult?¡± Scythas asked, lingering suspicion warring with genuine curiosity. He nced at Griffon, sizing him up as apetitor now where before he¡¯d been a potential¡­ threat? Imposter? Was this even an exclusive event? It seemed like every cultivator in the city had turned out for it. ¡°I couldn¡¯t stand my own cult¡¯s politics,¡± Griffon said, shrugging one shoulder. ¡°I¡¯d rather not trade one for another.¡± ¡°You- what!? Are you out of your mind?¡± ¡°He is,¡± I confirmed. ¡°In fact-¡± My nose wrinkled. Griffon said something in response to myment, feigning offense, but I didn¡¯t hear it. I inhaled slowly. What was that scent? It was faint, cloyingly sweet, like campfire smoke drifting on the wind. But there was something about it. I held my breath and pinched my nose, ignoring the looks Griffon and Scythas gave me. The permeating stench of city scum and sweat brought by the crowds vanished. The smell of sweet campfire smoke remained. I could taste it on my tongue. ¡°You don¡¯t smell like mint either,¡± Griffon told me, and this time he actually did look offended. Scythas turned his head discreetly, sniffing his cult attire. ¡°Is something burning?¡± I finally asked. It wasn¡¯t a funeral pyre. It tasted like burnt cypress. Griffon and Scythas shared a look. Scythas held up his torch. ¡°Never mind.¡± Griffon took it in stride, returning to the topic of the Raging Heaven Cult and his decision not to join its ranks. Scythas had already been led to believe that we¡¯d been offered initiate status but declined it, and Griffon was happy to follow him down that path. What resulted was a heated discussion about the pros and cons of the greater mystery cults. He was thoroughly caught up in Griffon¡¯s rhythm now. I listened with half an ear, responding to leadingments Griffon made about the Rosy Dawn but otherwise tuning the rest of it out. Scythas was as vague with the details of his home cult as he was with the Cult of Raging Heaven, though he was easing out of his wariness towards us moment by moment. Instead, I focused on that smoke, tracing it as it wound through the crowd. It didn¡¯t follow the breeze like true smoke. There was intent behind it, and that became obvious as I followed its path with my own senses. Where the smoke gathered, my Sophic sense grasped men and women of power. Smoke cycled around them in such dense clouds that I was surprised they could even breathe. It settled into their pores, leaving remnants of itself before moving on through the crowd in search of other powerful cultivators. When I reached for Scythas with my Sophic sense, I found nothing different about him. But the remnant of that scent was there. Not on Griffon, though, and not on me. Whatever this smoke was, it was marking Heroes in the crowd. Scythas stopped mid-debate with Griffon, ncing curiously at me. Ah. He¡¯d felt it. I¡¯d just tagged every notable cultivator within shouting distance. ¡°It¡¯s true that there are benefits to joining an institution like the Raging Heaven,¡± I said, carefully resisting the urge to start running. ¡°Socialization, for one. There are certain things a peer can teach you that I never could.¡± ¡°See? Your mentor agrees,¡± Scythas added, smirking victoriously at Griffon. I could feel the question Griffon wanted to ask me, but instead he tilted his head in acknowledgement. Scarlet eyes flickered in the light of his Rosy Fingers. ¡°I suppose getting to know thepetition wouldn¡¯t hurt,¡± he mused in mock reluctance. He leered at Scythas. ¡°What do you say, friend? Care to introduce this lowly sophist to the others?¡± ¡°No need,¡± I said. In response to their wordless confusion I let my Sophic sense, my new influence, settle on their shoulders like a pair of Griffon¡¯s pankration hands. It urged them both to turn west, and when they did they saw a woman pushing her way through the crowd towards us. Her otherwise wless skin was riddled with deep scars, like a master had sculpted her from a block of marble and then handed the chisel off to a child. Further beyond and further west was a man approaching at an even faster pace. He was massive, his stature alone clearing people from his path, and wore a skinned crocodile as a mantle and cloak over his cult attire. There were others, converging on us from every direction. Converging on me. ¡°I took the liberty of gathering them myself,¡± I said ndly,mitting to the act. My memories of the mentor that had done his best to make an upstanding man of an arrogant young patrician were faint, but I would never forget his tone. It was a hunch, but I was confident in it. They were Heroes, all of them, wearing cult attire of varying colors. Not native citizens of Olympia, and not afraid to shoulder past those who were. They were young, strong, and raring for a fight. After all the grief I¡¯d given Griffon, I was the one who¡¯d cast us to the wolves. Naturally, Griffon¡¯s expression lit up as he realized what I¡¯d done. Somehow, that made it worse. Griffon stepped forward to meet the scarred woman as she shoved through thest few Sophic cultivators between us, pulling Scythas along with him. The wariness that had all but faded from the shorter Hero was back in full force as they greeted one another. Whatever was said, though, was drowned out in the next moment by an echoing boom. The funeral drums began to beat. Chapter 1.9 Chapter 1.9 The Young Griffon The thunder of funeral drums drowned out all else. Around us, men and women of lesser constitution cried out soundlessly, gripping their ears and copsing in the streets. It was a pitiful sight. Idly, I dragged two fingers across my right ear, frowning when they came away bloody. ¡°This seems excessive,¡± I told Scythas. He looked at me like I was simple, waving his torch at his own ears and shaking his head. ¡°What sort of worthless cultivator can¡¯t read lips?¡± Scythas gestured at his ears again, frustrated. A calloused, marble-white hand nted itself against my chest, and the woman I¡¯d been in the process of greeting shoved me aside. I felt the stone of the street crack beneath my feet, Scythas sent staggering as I went skidding back. The cultivator walked right past us, mouthing something to Scythas. He couldn¡¯t read lips, of course. But I could. Out of my way, trash. I couldn¡¯t physically hear the crack of my pankration hand pping her face, but my imagination filled in the gap. The woman went deathly still, her face turned only a fraction to the side by a blow I had used to throw a pirate clean off his ship days prior. Scythas looked between us, leaning on his back foot and gripping his torch so tightly I could see the shaft of it splinter. The drums changed their cadence as if by my own design, rising to a kically charged pace. Boom, da-da, boom, da-da, boom da da da boom. You dare? The woman mouthed. Something told me even if the drums were gone, it would have been impossible to hear her. It was that sort of deadly whisper. The Heroine finally gave me her full attention. She was marred by deep scars, from her sandaled feet to the tips of her seemingly delicate fingers. They were a shade lighter than her skin, which itself was marble white, to the point that they looked nearly translucent. Each scar was a smooth line without any jagged edges. One, curving from the nape of her neck up to the bridge of her nose, was currently creased by a furious expression. I felt danger as she advanced on me. Her eyes were the color of desert heat, an earthen shade approaching orange that was backlit by the me of her soul. Her heroic spirit was raging. I strode forward to meet her. She tried subduing me with her presence alone at first. Two of my pankration hands struck out at the eddies of her influence, parting them like a swimmer parted the waves. The fire in her eyes rose and her left hand settled on the pommel of a de that hung naked at her hip, made entirely of bronze. No, I spoke, silent beneath the drums. Furious desert-me eyes read my lips. You dare. Laying your mongrel hand on me, as if you were worth the time it would take to kill you. Her grip on her sword shifted. The hairs on the back of my neck rose. You don¡¯t know who I am, do you? she asked. As if it was the most natural thing in the world that I would. We were close now, at her preferred sword striking distance if I had to guess. I leaned in, staring her down. I whispered an oath in the mad thunder of the funeral drums. You¡¯re the woman who ruined my favorite shawl, I told her. You could break your back working for the rest of your miserable life and it wouldn¡¯t amount to half this relic¡¯s value. The Heroine looked down at the golden shawl that an old woman had given me an hour ago. There was a small tear in the fabric where her nail had caught it while shoving me. She stared at it for a moment, and I felt the currents of her influence ripple around it, examining it. It¡¯s a rag, she said confidently. It only took her most of a minute to realize. I sneered. You have eyes. Tell me, then, where is Olympus Mons? I noticed Scythas backing away in my peripheral vision, his eddies pressing against me in a wordless warning. I shrugged it off as I had before. On the other hand, Sol¡¯s influence was not so easily shaken - more a riptide than a current. I forced it away with a few hands of pankration intent. Obnoxious Roman, I could handle myself. In the moment between drum beats, the Heroic cultivator drew her de andshed it at my face. I caught it with neen ovepping hands of pankration intent, and even so it almost killed me. My eyes crossed, heart hammering in time with the funeral drums as I watched the bronze edge quiver just short of my nose. My pankration arms couldn¡¯t be cut like true flesh, but the de bit into my soul. I tasted the blood that hadn¡¯t been spilled. A flicker of something other than rage appeared in the Heroine¡¯s expression. That same intense appraisal she¡¯d focused on my shawl she now focused on me. She considered me, not withdrawing her de or the force behind it. Her head tilted, chestnut ringlets of hair falling across her face. Is this your limit? she mouthed, the ghost of a challenge. Smiling, I pped her with my twentieth pankration hand. Several things happened at once. All eight funeral drums boomed simultaneously, with powerful finality. Every torch in the agora red up, from those held aloft like Scythas¡¯ to those guttering out on the stone streets, having been dropped by the weaker attendants when the drums first started beating. Smoke and embers whirled into the air, flowing in streamers overhead to coalesce in the center of the agora, only a short sprint away from us. We¡¯d gotten closer than I thought. At the same time that every torch in Olympia gained second life, so did the fire in the Heroine¡¯s eyes. That sense of danger doubled and redoubled, confirming what I¡¯d suspected the moment she struck me with her de. She had only been feeling me out before. Attempting to confirm or deny my standing among heaven and earth. I¡¯d performed well enough to throw it into question, and then I¡¯d pped her across the face and all but dared her to give me her best. And now she would do just that. It wasn¡¯t the brightest thing I¡¯d ever done. A wiser man would have ignored the perfect opening she¡¯d presented and deescted a violent situation with a clearly superior opponent. I am who I am. All twenty of my pankration hands fanned out in front of me, moving far too slow inparison to the technique the Heroine was preparing. In the rity of an instant, I knew that I wouldn¡¯t be able to predict the trajectory of her attack quick enough to react with full force. I also knew that even if it was only as powerful as the first cursory blow, I wouldn¡¯t be able to divert it with anything less than the full force of my pankration intent. Unbidden, I remembered something my father had once told me. An offhandment, made in that courtyard with its filial pools on an innocuous day of my childhood. I¡¯d done something ill-advised again, though I couldn¡¯t remember what it was now. In ce of punishment, he¡¯d passed on an old mentor¡¯s words to me - like a curse. There is no great genius without some touch of madness. I lunged into the Heroine¡¯s strike. Her sword, an uninterrupted de of forged bronze, weaved effortlessly through my pankration hands. She tied knots in the air with a single strike that took less than a heartbeat, and this time when the de found my face there were no pankration hands to stop it. But I still had two more hands. [The sun rises.] Searing heatshed through my right cheek. My true hands surged up, alive with the light of the sun, and struck the t underside of the de. In the dusk that precedes the dawn, with both hands ascending, the technique was nearly as powerful as it could be. It knocked the de up off its trajectory, tearing it out of my cheek before it could do more than cosmetic damage. The scarred Heroine easilypensated for the interruption, pivoting on her feet and bringing the de back around- [The dawn breaks.] Twenty hands of pankration intent became visible to the naked eye as the light of the Rosy Dawn ignited along their edges. The Heroine¡¯s eyes widened, desert-me flickering as she transitioned into a defensive technique. All twenty rosy fists hammered into her from different angles, and all twenty were deflected by shimmering bronze. The twenty-first hand, one of real flesh and blood, caught her sword as it whipped around. I grinned savagely when it only cut shallowly through the light of my technique into the flesh of my hand. I¡¯d watched her move through her defensive sword form and picked the motion with the least stability, the least power behind it. For a cultivator of her standing, it was like predicting where a raindrop would fall. But I¡¯d done it. And I¡¯d been right. I twisted at the waist and gave her the twenty-second palm. The palm strike hit her in the center of her chest, sending her skidding back. Her feet dug furrows through the stone. Her teeth grit, realization in those desert-heat eyes. I¡¯d given her first careless shove right back to her. Heroic pneuma rose. I inhaled deeply, blood thundering through my veins. Sol struck her with Gravitas, and through the lens of my new Sophic sense it was like a tidal wave simply washed her away. She went flying through the crowd, howling a curse that I suddenly realized could be heard in the absence of the drums. For a moment I didn¡¯t move, frozen in my stance. I felt eyes on me, but not as many as there might have been. The drums had stopped, but most of the people around us were still dazed in their absence. Overeager Philosophers and arrogant Citizens who had flown too close to the sun huddled on the ground, hands pped over their ears in agony. I straightened up, exhaling slowly. I felt good. I threw Sol a sly grin as he walked over. He had that storm in his eyes, the one that meant something exciting wasing. ¡°I thought I¡¯d have to twist your arm,¡± I told him, swiping a thumb across the cut on my cheek. It wasn¡¯t deep enough to scar. Somehow that was disappointing. ¡°But you¡¯re starting the fights for me.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not the one who pped her,¡± he said, annoyed. His gaze was distant, focused on things I couldn¡¯t see. ¡°For this next one, there¡¯s a new technique I want you to practice.¡± ¡°Ho? By all means, master. This lowly sophist is here to learn.¡± ¡°It¡¯s an ancient virtue, passed down to me from my father, and to him from his father.¡± Despite myself, I was interested. ¡°This one awaits your wisdom,¡± I said formally. Sol hummed, measuring his next words with that riptide gravity. ¡°It¡¯s called diplomacy.¡± I snorted, shoving him away from me. He nced at me with storm-gray amusement, before focusing fully on the cultivator currently approaching us. The Hero wearing the crocodile. I flexed all twenty-two of my hands. The two flesh hands stung, bleeding slowly from shallow cuts. The twenty of my soul¡¯s intent stung too, and I spat the taste of their blood from my mouth. ¡°You didn¡¯t draw your sword,¡± Scythas muttered. He was looking out over the crowd, in the direction the Heroine had been sent flying, but the words were for me. ¡°Of course not,¡± I said, ignoring the fact that I¡¯d almost died three times. Iid a bleeding palm on the pommel of my uncle¡¯s de. It hummed like lightning. ¡°She wasn¡¯t worthy.¡± The giant of a Hero emerged from the crowd, stepping over a cringing family of cultivators all wearing matching indigo tunics and huddling away from the lingering echo of the drums. His skin was lightly tanned, but weathered. His jaw was square, chest broad and strong. His hair was nearly as dark as Sol¡¯s, but longer and shaggier. He wore ocean blue robes beneath his crocodile cloak, bleached nearly white by the sun. Unlike the Heroine, he made no move to attack. He considered Sol and I, and Scythas beside us. ¡°It¡¯s rude to start fights during a funeral,¡± he finally said. Sol and I shared a look. He mouthed ¡®diplomacy¡¯, as if I¡¯d been the one to call them to us. ¡°Agreed,¡± I said, offering him a bloody hand. He took it. He was only about a head taller than Sol and I, but his hand dwarfed mine. And the strength of his grip matched the size. I matched him grip for grip, smiling cheerfully through the pain. ¡°My name is Griffon, and this is Sol. What¡¯s yours, friend?¡± A chant began in the center of the agora. The smoke and embers gathered there rose into the sky, taking the form of colossal fingers. An ashen hand reaching futilely up to heaven. The funeral entered a new phase. Chapter 1.10 Chapter 1.10 The Son of Rome If the chanting was any quieter than the funeral drums, it was impossible to tell. Eight voices carried as one from the center of the agora, at a volume that was difficult to believe. In all my life I¡¯d only ever experienced a few things as loud as that concert of voices. I couldn¡¯t understand a word they were saying, of course. For all that my childhood mentor had taught me the smallest intricacies of Alikoan, he had neglected to mention that the Greek cities each had their own dominantnguage, and within eachnguage its own varying dialects. Hadn¡¯t cared to mention it, or maybe just hadn¡¯t had the time. Whatever was being said, it waspelling enough. Griffon, Scythas, and the new arrival in his cloak of crocodile skin watched raptly as the funeral rites progressed. Their eyes traced the coalescent form of a smoking hand, reaching perilously for the heavens. Their gazes were hungry and wanting - whatever was being said, and whatever the hand was meant to convey, they valued it far more highly then the scrap that had just taken ce between Griffon and the scarred Heroine. A citizen of Olympia, resplendent in his indigo tunic and precious stone jewelries, cringed away from me as I knelt down. His hands were pressed against his ears, leaking blood the same as my own. If I¡¯d needed any further indicator that we were closer to this event than we had any right to be, the punishing volume of the funeral rites had been it. I grabbed the man¡¯s hands and pulled them away from his ears. There were tears in his eyes. He avoided my gaze shamefully. It was one thing to be struck down in a fight, but another altogether to be reduced to this by a simple drum beat. His family was beside him, his wife and two girls that couldn¡¯t have been any older than Myron, crouched in simr states of shock and pain. The younger of the two girls was sobbing loudly while the other rocked back-and-forth on the balls of her feet, shaking her head as if to dislodge the noise from her skull. ¡°This isn¡¯t the ce for you,¡± I told him quietly. His eyes followed my lips but there was noprehension there. Either he couldn¡¯t read lips or he didn¡¯t speak Alikoan. Regardless, there was anguage that every man understood. I pulled him to his feet, nodding meaningfully to his daughters. The noble-looking man grit his teeth and scrubbed his ears with sleeves of fine indigo cloth, clearing what blood from them that he could. Then he scooped his daughters up in his arms, shushing them and making for the thinner edges of the crowd. I picked his wife up, an arm under her knees while the other supported her neck. She was stiff in my arms. The father looked back, and there was something tragic in that look. Outrage, disgust, and a terrible eptance. The daughter that had been rocking back and forth saw me holding her mother, and she started to scream. It couldn¡¯t be heard above the thunder of the funeral chants. Something told me that it wouldn¡¯t have mattered anyway. The mother wept silent tears as she watched them go. I had always known there was a difference between those who cultivated strength and those who did not. But seeing the gap in motion was always unpleasant. I watched the father tuck his daughter¡¯s face against his shoulder so that she wouldn¡¯t see what was happening to her mother. He walked faster still, away from the agora, stepping over other suffering citizens as he went. This small family - merchants or politicians of some kind, not warriors of any renown - had shown up to attend what they thought was a simple state funeral. More likely than not they lived in the heart of the city already, and had walked out into the streets to observe with everyone else. It likely hadn¡¯t been an intentional power-y on their part the way it had been for Griffon,ing this close. Yet even so, they had been swept up in the business of cultivators. Caught the wrong eye. And now they paid the price. I followed swiftly after them. The father was terrified now. He had a hand on each of his daughters¡¯ heads, pressing their faces firmly into his neck. He thought I was going to take one of his daughters, too. Perhaps even both. A cultivator¡¯s appetite was insatiable, after all. His wife was shaking in my arms now, such was the force of her sobs. I stopped and set her gently on her feet. We were far enough now from the noise that I trusted them to make it out safely. Even the citizens of low cultivation had kept their feet at this distance. If and when the funeral drums returned, they¡¯d be alright. I inclined my head slightly to the father, and then to his wife. She was staring at me, frozen. As if a sudden movement would be the end of her. ¡°Take care,¡± I said, a warning in two parts. I turned and began retracing my steps, returning to my idiotpanion and his gaggle of new friends. With any luck they¡¯d all be dead by the time I got back. The drums returned. They melded seamlessly with the chants, a deafening dread coupling that assaulted the senses. I¡¯d stopped along the way to shepherd several other hapless citizens out of the immediate danger. Some had gratefully epted the guidance. Others had been too wrapped up in their own senses to notice. Most, though, had reacted in the same vein as that first family. With tightly leashed fear of the cultivator whose whims could not be predicted or denied. Unfortunately, Griffon and his friends were still there when I returned. The Heroine was back as well, and from the looks of it had tried to pick up where she¡¯d left off with Griffon. For whatever reason, though, the hulking cultivator in the crocodile skin had decided to step in. He was currently holding her back with a massive forearm wrapped around her throat. It wasn¡¯t a cruel hold, but try as she might she couldn''t break out of it. They''d even picked up a new addition. Standing on the opposite side of Griffon and Scythas, another of the Heroic cultivators that I had identally tagged with my awareness was staring up at the undting cloud of torch smoke. He was whipcord lean, dressed in robes of fuchsia and ebony trim, with a bow as tall as he was slung diagonally over his shoulder. He was the spitting image of every bowman I had ever known in the legions. The archer wore armor of nicked and faded bronze beneath his cult attire. The fine robes were worn almost as an afterthought, parted at the chest and only negligently belted around his waist. Worn because they needed to be, and for no other reason. He didn¡¯t seem aggressive, and as I approached he didn¡¯t pay me any mind. He was riveted on the smoking silhouette that hung over the agora. As the chanting reached an apex, Griffon and the Heroic cultivators winced as one. Even the Heroine stopped struggling just long enough to grimace up at the sky. ¡°What are they saying?¡± I asked Griffon, moving up beside him and speaking directly into his ear. He didn¡¯t look away from the smoke. It had changed its shape at some point - it was no longer a hand reaching futilely up to heaven. It was a towering de now, and its edge was ember mes. Griffon¡®s lips moved silently, but I read them easily enough. ¡°It¡¯s a eulogy. These were his final moments.¡± ¡°How did he die?¡± I asked. Griffon smiled wonderingly as the smoke changed shape one more time. A pair of smog-soot wings spread wide over the agora of the city of Olympia. Their feathers were ash and embers, and their wingspan stretched from horizon to horizon. They beat against the air once. The weight of tribtion fell upon my shoulders. ¡°He challenged the heavens." A bolt of lightning fell from a clear night sky and struck down the apparition of smoke and me. Citizens, Philosophers, and Heroes alike all flinched back from the heavenly tribtion. I saw silent cries of disbelief and horror ripple through the masses. I was sure we were all thinking along the same lines. Was the kyrios really dead? What was more absurd, a Tyrant faking his own death or the heavens taking offense to his funeral? What sort of man was so reviled by the Fates that they would spit on his eulogy? There had only been one bolt of lightning, if such a thing could be considered in terms of ¡°only¡±. The searing after-impression of light that it had left behind, burnt into my eyelids when I blinked, was the only evidence it had happened at all. Rtive silence settled like a nket over the agora. Screams and curses were smothered as people realized that the funeral rites had stopped. No, not stopped. The drums were still beating, and the men were still chanting, but the chants were now murmurs and the drum beats were bare thrummings now. In the ringing aftermath of the post-mortem tribtion, the Heroic cultivators surrounding Griffon and I seemed to suddenly remember why they¡¯d gathered here in the first ce. I met the challenging eyes of the archer in bronze and ruffled fuschia cloth. He looked me up and down, appraising me, but the tribtion had stolen most of the heat from the gesture. ¡°You''re the one,¡± he spoke into the yawning silence. ¡°Marking us all like that. Jerking us around like dogs. Either you¡¯re an idiot or you¡¯re out of your mind - why did you call me here?¡± I appraised him the same way he¡¯d appraised me, made a show of it, and then shrugged. It was an impossible question to answer, because the truth was that it had been a mistake. But to admit that now was to admit to at least one hostile Heroic cultivator that Griffon and I were pretenders. That we really were exactly as we appeared to be. That was uneptable. So instead, I took a page out of Griffon¡¯s book and spoke the truth in the most disingenuous way possible. ¡°I wasn¡¯t the one marking you,¡± I told the Heroic archer honestly. The smell of cypress smoke on his skin was faint now, but it was still there without a doubt. ¡°I only made you aware of it.¡± It was the right thing to say. The archer stared at me searchingly, and slowly paled when he found no deceit. ¡°What are you trying to say?¡± he asked. I didn¡¯t respond. Somehow, I knew that silence was the best answer now. ¡°Who are you two?¡± The Heroine demanded. ¡°You don¡¯t know?¡± Griffon asked her, as if it was the most natural thing in the world that she would. ¡°You¡¯re from the Rosy Dawn,¡± the man in the crocodile skin said. Somehow, the atmosphere became even more tense. It was understandable that they hadn¡¯t noticed until now. The ssic attire of the Rosy Dawn, the fine crimson and white robes that all initiates wore, had been thoroughly defiled by the time we came to shore in Olympia dock city. Griffon¡¯s scarlet robes were torn and bloodied, and he had used parts of them to wrap the puncture wound to his gut that the little pirate boy had given him. The faded golden shawl he¡¯d picked up about an hour ago only further confused his allegiance. For my part, I¡¯d long ago soiled my cult attire with the unpleasant duties of ve work. There were some stains that didn¡¯t wash out, and I¡¯d lost what little bargaining power I had within the cult when Griffon lost interest in me following the daylight games. A fresh set of robes hadn¡¯t been an option for me, and I hadn¡¯t cared enough to press the issue. ¡°You¡¯re from the Broken Tide,¡± Griffon returned. Therger cultivator inclined his head in acknowledgment. ¡°After all this time, they finally send apetitor.¡± The archer fingered the string of his bow, frowning. It was glossy in the torch light. Spun gold, I realized. ¡°And when they do, they sneak you in like thieves in the night. They douse your heart mes and smother your virtues.¡± ¡°Something stinks,¡± the Heroine said, a ferocious scowl on her lips. She tapped therge cultivator''s forearm twice and he let her go. She flicked her pure bronze de back through the loop on her belt. She wasn¡¯t raring for a fight now, but she looked even less pleased than she had before. Griffon shifted his stance, just slightly enough for his shoulder to bump mine. We shared a nce in the corners of our eyes, and it wasn¡¯t difficult to guess what the other was thinking. We¡¯d passed the point of no return about three Heroic cultivators ago. The only way out now was through. ¡°You can¡¯t possibly think they¡¯re connected,¡± Scythas protested. For all the good it did. Scythas may have been our superior in cultivation, but he was the runt of this particr group. The looks the Heroine and the archer gave him only cemented it. ¡°They wouldn¡¯t move now, not so soon. There¡¯s a limit to shamelessness!¡± ¡°Careful now,¡± the archer said, his tone an ufortable mix of airy and tense. ¡°They have eyes and ears that we can¡¯t perceive. Whether or not these two are involved, he said it himself. We¡¯ve been marked.¡± ¡°They wouldn¡¯t,¡± Scythas insisted. ¡°Not now. Not while the body is still warm.¡± Griffon realized something - I saw it in his face. I braced myself. ¡°The whims of tyrants aren¡¯t moved by such petty concerns as propriety or filial duty,¡± he said blithely. The cultivators surrounding us flinched. I tasted salt in the air. It coated my tongue, in the same manner as the cypress smoke. Someone was watching us. ¡°You haven¡¯t been here long, have you,¡± the cultivator in the crocodile skin said. It wasn¡¯t a question. ¡°You won¡¯t be for much longer,¡± the Heroine said. It wasn¡¯t a threat. ¡°Is that so?¡± Griffon asked, pearl white teeth glinting in the low light of his cultivation technique. ¡°What a shame. I think I¡¯m starting to like it here.¡± The taste of salt on my tongue doubled and redoubled. It became overwhelming, worse than any overseasoned ration that I¡¯d been forced to eat in the legions. There was sudden movement in my peripheral vision. A flurry of motion on the western edge of the crowd nearest to the agora, by the alleys that wound through one of Olympia¡¯s business districts. ¡°You¡¯re tempting the Fates,¡± the archer promised us both. ¡°Some things aren¡¯t meant to be said.¡± ¡°Ho? I thought it was our providence to be reviled by the Fates?¡± Griffon nted a hand on his hip, the other bleeding palm still negligently resting on the pommel of his stolen sword. ¡°Are you Heroes or not?¡± ¡°Enough of this,¡± Scythas snapped. He red, first at Griffon, then at his fellow Heros. ¡°The elders are the elders. This isn¡¯t the time nor the ce to guess at their motives. The kyrios is dead. Can we not set aside petty politics for a single night? In his memory?¡± His resemnce to the young soldiers of the fifth, and the truly frustrated grief in his voice, made me hesitant to speak up. But I couldn¡¯t ignore what I was seeing forever. ¡°It seems not,¡± I said. When he turned his re on me, I flicked my eyes to the western edge of the crowd. At the edge of the funeral, where the fringes of Philosophers and Citizens in low favor gathered, one of the presences I had noted earlier was being dragged into an alleyway by a pair of simrly monstrous existences. A Hero was being kidnapped. ¡°Crows!¡± Scythas snarled. He took off sprinting through the crowd. His fellow cultivators made no move to follow, nor to stop him. A sensible choice. No wise man ran full tilt into an ambush. Scythas raced into the alleyway and I followed at his heels. I am who I am. Chapter 1.11 Chapter 1.11 The Young Griffon Sol and Scythas vanished down an alleyway in pursuit of a kidnapping. A beat passed. ¡°You¡¯re not going after them?¡± The cultivator with the bow asked me. He was less cautious now, tension easing out of his posture in Sol¡¯s absence. I nced at the Heroine and the cultivator in the crocodile skin, and saw them rxing as well. My nose wrinkled in irritation. I¡¯d done all the work, yet in their eyes I was just anotherpetitor. Meanwhile, Sol was my perceptive and dangerous mentor. Twice the renown for half the effort. Worthless Roman. ¡°Why should I?¡± I asked, miraculously not spitting blood in my annoyance. ¡°I may be a western savage, but even I know that it¡¯s rude to leave a conversation unfinished.¡± ¡°This conversation never should have started in the first ce,¡± the Heroine dered tly. The desert heat in her eyes was only embers now. The tribtion, Sol¡¯s nebulousment, and the apparent kidnapping of another cultivator had thoroughly doused herpetitive spirit, it seemed. A shame. ¡°How cruel,¡± I said. I tilted my head, absently rubbing the cut she¡¯d given me on the cheek. ¡°You know, I still haven¡¯t gotten your name. You started a fight before I could properly introduce myself.¡± ¡°I started-?¡± A muscle in her scarred jaw throbbed, but therger cultivator ced a hand on her shoulder and she sighed, relenting. ¡°Elissa.¡± ¡°Griffon,¡± I replied in turn. ¡°Well met.¡± Elissa spat at my feet. ¡°And you, friends?¡± I asked the other two, ignoring her. ¡°Kyno,¡± said the man in the crocodile skin. ¡°Eleftherios,¡± said the archer with the gold-strung bow. ¡°Most call me Lefteris.¡± That was fortunate, because I would have shortened it anyway. I struck out with three hands of pankration intent, and to their credit all three of the heroic cultivators surrounding me reacted instantly. Heroic pneuma rose and heart mes burned as three warriors, each individually capable of wiping me from the earth, prepared to defend themselves from my attack. Each of my pankration hands pped against their own and gripped tight, giving them a firm shake. ¡°Friendship seals our fates,¡± I said brightly, savoring their reactions. ¡°So tell me, friends, what sort of games are at y here? What vile political maneuvering does the Cult of Raging Heaven get up to behind closed doors?¡± Or in the middle of crowded pavilions, as it were. ¡°Nothing beyond the usual,¡± Kyno said, when it seemed the other two would be too ufortable to speak. ¡°The strong wish to be stronger, and the weak are caught up in their schemes.¡± ¡°It was inevitable that there would be a¡­ question of session,¡± Lefteris said. ¡°The cults of greater mystery are institutions that shape entire generations. The opportunity to lead one and decide what that future will look like? That sort of renown is something cultivators work countless natural lifetimes to achieve.¡± ¡°Something like this could never be peaceful,¡± Elissa said, eyes shifting minutely as she surveyed the crowd. Looking for more thieves in the night. ¡°I don¡¯t know about never,¡± I mused. ¡°The Rosy Dawn¡¯s transition of power was fairly simple, I¡¯m told.¡± The three Heroic cultivators looked at me as if I¡¯d just said something incredibly dim. ¡°The Rosy Dawn is the Rosy Dawn,¡± said Lefteris. ¡°Damon Aetos is Damon Aetos,¡± Kyno amended. Ho, so my father had admirers even here. ¡°Then you¡¯re saying the fight for the throne has already begun.¡± I radiated disapproval despite not caring much at all, a skill I¡¯d developed early in life to keep my cousins honest. ¡°And before the funeral has even ended. Scythas was right. These elders truly are shameless.¡± ¡°Quiet!¡± Elissa hissed. ¡°Do you want to die?¡± ¡°Not particrly.¡± I continued on, finishing my thought. ¡°The question now is - which elder do you three answer to?¡± There was a moment of heavy silence, punctuated by meaningful looks shared amongst the three of them. ¡°We¡¯re here topete,¡± Lefteris said, as if that was answer enough. Admittedly, it may have been. My knowledge of the wider world wasn¡¯t yet what I wanted it to be. I knew precious little about the internal dynamic of the Raging Heaven Cult, or any of the mystery cults aside from the Rosy Dawn and the Burning Dusk. I didn¡¯t have any of the context that was taken for granted among my ¡°peers¡± in this circle. I knew that the Raging Heaven was unique among the greater mystery cults, in the same way that the sanctuary city of Olympia was unique among the free city-states of the Mediterranean. As the nexus of all civilized cultures, the cult¡¯s initiates were the finest of the finest, the most elite cultivators from all over the free world. I knew that among these elders, each of whom would be on the level of my uncles at the bare minimum, only a few would have been born and raised in this city. The majority of the candidates for the kyrios position were foreign-born. Men who had been born and raised in far flung city-states, with far flung priorities and ideals. It was only natural that they would disdain propriety in the pursuit of those ideals. Home first, Olympia a distant second. What I didn¡¯t know was how an Olympicpetitor¡¯s status fit into that. Kyno seemed to see my confusion, and borated in his rumbling tenor. ¡°Every four years, the entire civilized world converges in this city to witness people like uspete. For glory, for standing, and ultimately, for the title of Champion.¡± ¡°The Champion stands supreme above all other martial cultivators,¡± Lefteris said, as if reciting a prayer. ¡°The Champion is their own existence,¡± Kyno exined. ¡°Free from the trappings of filial obligation. Immune to any higher authority.¡± ¡°We crossed mountains and deserts and seas to catch lightning in our teeth,¡± Elissa said proudly. ¡°Why should we involve ourselves in the squabbling of politicians?¡± I knew I liked these people. ¡°Why involve you in this at all, then?¡± I supposed it wasn¡¯t necessarily the case that the cultivator being kidnapped was anotherpetitor, but it felt right. The way the three of them had been acting since they¡¯d arrived was all too telling. Even after Sol left, there was tension in their souls. He¡¯d confirmed something that they had been suspecting already, and it wasn¡¯t difficult to guess what it was. They were jumping at every shadow. And every pankration handshake as well. They were targets tonight, and they knew it. ¡°The Champion¡¯s aplishments are their own and can be no one else¡¯s,¡± Lefteris finally said. He frowned, eyes shifting towards the center of the agora. ¡°But there are some who im a portion of the glory regardless.¡± The crowd had rapidly thinned around us, all that remained being those powerful enough to withstand the sound of the rites. Through the diminishing haze of smoke and embers, I could just see an outline of some sort of raised tform. There was movement within, but it was impossible to discern anything further. Knyo¡¯s arms crossed over a broad chest. He was frowning darkly. ¡°It isn¡¯t umon for matters of promotion and other rewards within the cult to be predicated on the sess of a city¡¯s representative in the games.¡± ¡°And what greater promotion than to the mantle of the kyrios?¡± I asked rhetorically, nodding along. They were eliminating thepetition, sabotaging the athletic talents of the opposing home cities. It was just the sort of indirect attack that usually made me sick. Somehow, though, the execution made up for the intent. The funeral rites continued to sow chaos in the ranks of the citizenry, and the remnants of ember and smoke that had been struck down by the heavens circted through the crowd, obscuring sight and smell. In the confusion, I witnessed another kidnapping. The eddies of my Sophic sense brushed against their kicking feet like low tide waves. They were younger than me, wearing finevender robes and boasting the pneuma of a Sophic cultivator, fifth rank. For all the good it was currently doing them. I couldn¡¯t hear them scream, but the sight of them thrashing in the arms of two masked assants carried loudly enough. In a sh of motion they were gone, dragging into a residential building and condemned by a front door mmed shut. It wasn¡¯t just thepetitors being targeted, it seemed. ¡°This is vicious,¡± I said appreciatively. ¡°They¡¯re not even bothering to hide it.¡± ¡°Why would they?¡± Lefteris¡¯s lips twisted, working over a bitter taste in his mouth. ¡°They¡¯re all doing the same thing. And they know none of the others will dare to interrupt the funeral rites. They¡¯d be crippling themselves.¡± So it was the elders conducting the funeral. I¡¯d suspected it already, but having it confirmed was nice as well. A Tyrant seen off by Tyrants. A jealous affair, to be sure. I started walking towards the thinning miasma in the center of the agora. Elissa caught me by the arm. Her hand gripped tightly around theurel leaf crown I wore on my bicep, my own champion¡¯s token from the farce my father had put on for me. ¡°What do you think you¡¯re doing?¡± she asked in a quiet, deadly tone. ¡°Introducing myself to the wise men of the cult.¡± What else? ¡°Not now,¡± Kyno said. I cocked an eyebrow, but he only shook his head once, with solemn finality. ¡°Interrupting a man¡¯s funeral is cause for retribution. Interrupting a Tyrant¡¯s¡­¡± ¡°If the heavens opened up for a second time tonight and struck you down where you stood, it would be a mercy,¡± Elissa promised me. How sweet. She was concerned about my health. As if sensing the thought in my head, she scoffed and shoved me away. I smiled wryly, shrugging with twenty-two arms. ¡°I¡¯ll defer to my seniors.¡± I¡¯d still do it if the opportunity presented itself, of course. I had nothing to fear from the heavens. If I was struck by tribtion lightning for my hubris, I would simply not die. ¡°Are we to mourn while our fellow sophists are snatched out from under us, then? I have to admit, we handle the passing of friends differently in the Scarlet City.¡± ¡°The elders are the elders,¡± Kyno echoed Scythas¡¯ sentiment from before. ¡°The actions of others can have no impact on our duty tonight. No matter their standing.¡± ¡°A great man died,¡± Lefteris agreed, as if remembering. ¡°The greatest I¡¯ve ever known. To do anything less than mourn for the length of his eulogy would be to insult his epic.¡± ¡°You respected him quite a bit,¡± I observed. ¡°We respect him still,¡± Kyno firmly corrected me. ¡°Of course we do,¡± Elissa said, in that way of hers. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world. ¡°He was one of us. One of the best of us. A breaker of chains.¡± ¡°Leader of men,¡± Lefteris added. ¡°yer of monsters,¡± Kyno murmured. ¡°Olympic Champion,¡± I realized. They each nodded. ¡°Epics like his can¡¯t be told in a single story,¡± Lefteris said somberly. ¡°Among heaven and earth, it¡¯smon sense that men reign supreme over beasts. It¡¯s even more obvious that cultivators reign supreme over lesser men. But the kyrios. The kyrios stood above us all. His very existenceid siege to the heights of Olympus Mons.¡± I hummed. ¡°But he failed.¡± They didn¡¯t react as I expected them to. There was no outrage, no You dare!?¡¯s or You¡¯re tempting the Fates!¡¯, no blood spat. The mes in their eyes only dimmed, and their divinely sculpted bodies slumped every so slightly. ¡°He failed,¡± Kyno agreed. Elissa looked bleakly up. ¡°So what hope do we have?¡± In the aftermath of a great man¡¯s failure, while our fellow sophist¡¯s were pilfered in the night by the grasping hands of greedy old Tyrants, we considered the legacy of the kyrios of the Raging Heaven Cult. A great man, who, in the end, had been only that. A man. Chapter 1.12 Chapter 1.12 The Son of Rome In the time it took my heart to beat twice, Scythas had covered a distance that contained hundreds of citizens and lesser cultivators. I followed as fast as I was physically able to, but the difference in our cultivation was undeniable. Two more heartbeats passed, and I reached the mouth of the alleyway. Scythas was already rounding a corner, piercing deeper into the unlit bowels of the sanctuary city. I plunged into the darkness myself, the screams and wails of injured citizens and those still grieving fading to echoes that rebounded through thetticework of alleys. I followed the sounds of Scythas raging. ¡°Cowards!¡± he hollered. ¡°Unfilial sons! Rotten, scavenging Crows!¡± I heard a powerful impact, and then a suffocating sensation enveloped my senses. Hands in the dark, reaching insidiously for the tattered edges of my cult attire. Wearing it properly is a skill, Griffon¡¯s airy voice reminded me. I pivoted, stepping adroitly past the grasping hands and then leaping into the air. I caught the rail of a terrace on the third floor, jutting out over the alley, and swung myself up and over the limbs of shadow intent. The nameless technique, or perhaps simply the murderous intent of the Crows we were chasing, pursued me down the alley. The sounds of vicious struggle carried from around a corner, off to my right. I slid down the stone face of another building and bolted for the conflict. I nearly died in that moment. A man that stank of shadows lunged at me as soon as I rounded the corner. He had a filthy, rusted knife in his hand. The sounds of conflict I¡¯d been following vanished all at once. I¡¯d been tricked, guided into a trap by false sounds and his own vile intent. The knife - an assassin¡¯s weapon, all red rust and filthy, chipped edges - tickled the skin of my throat. Gravitas. The weight ofmand mmed him against the western wall, pressing his knife hand t against the stone. It onlysted a moment, the overwhelming heat of his Heroic spirit burning through the captain¡¯s virtue in the time it took me to nt my feet and lurch forward. I drove a fist into the Crow¡¯s gut. I¡¯d have been better off punching the stone wall behind him. The third knuckle of my right hand cracked nauseatingly against his stomach, and he wasn¡¯t even winded. The knife came back around. I only just ducked it before it could take my left eye. I drove a knee up into his crotch and viciously headbutted his face, and this time we both reeled. Even still, he managed to wrap five fingers around my throat like a vice. Gravitas. The pressure to lead drove the masked cultivator through the stone wall entirely, tearing his hand away from my throat in the process. A woman shrieked from inside, and as I bolted through the new entryway to the residential building I saw her scrambling for the door while the Crow pulled himself from the rubble. I didn¡¯t give him the chance. A Heroic cultivator¡¯s speed was too much for me, that much was clear. The only chance I had was to disorient and dispatch. Gravitas. The captain¡¯s virtue threw him sideways through the rubble, punching through another wall into a room filled with colorful threads and bolts of cloth, a loom in its center. Another woman, older than the first, cowered in the furthest corner of the room, visibly fighting the urge to scream. My foot missed its legion-issue boot as I drove it into the Crow¡¯s stomach. Silver threads of pain shot up my calf, but this time the cultivator gagged from the force of the blow. Even now he was faster than me, whipping around like a snake and letting fly his rusted assassin¡¯s de. Fortunately, I already had my pirate de in hand. I deflected the thrown knife- And my sword shattered. I didn¡¯t have time to gawk at the impossible interaction. The knife had been knocked off course, but now I was without a weapon and the cultivator was regaining his feet. So I returned his projectile with a projectile, viciously throwing the empty hilt of my broken sword at his face. He flinched back, just for a moment, and I pressed down on him with the captain¡¯s virtue. Gravitas. The Crow¡¯s skull hit the marble floor with an ugly crack. By the time he¡¯d regained his senses, a moment and an eternity, I had the loom in my hands - raised up above my head. Thedy of the house winced and covered her face as I shattered her loom on the Crow¡¯s face. When all was said and done my hands were a bloody, bruised mess, and my shoulders ached beneath the weight of so many consecutive uses of the captain¡¯s virtue. I picked the unconscious cultivator up and threw him over my shoulder. As an afterthought, I pulled the midnight hood off his head. I didn¡¯t recognize the man¡¯s face beneath, obviously, and wouldn¡¯t have even if it wasn¡¯t just as battered as my hands. Imitted his features to memory anyway. ¡°Apologies for your loom,¡± I told the woman crouched in the corner. She stared at me. Apparently she didn¡¯t speak Alikoan either. I sighed and left her home the same way I¡¯d entered. I¡¯d already fallen far behind Scythas, and now I¡¯d wasted precious moments fighting. The Crow naturally didn¡¯t have the courtesy to be light in my arms, either. I shrugged him into a morefortable position and raced down the opposite alley at my best pace. I followed new sounds of conflict that I could only hope were genuine this time. Shouts, flesh striking flesh, and the whistle of projectiles cutting through the air. Scythas¡¯ pneuma suddenly red like a beacon of light in the narrow corridor, and another hooded cultivator came hurtling out of the darkness. I twisted at the waist, heaving the unconscious Crow over my shoulder and throwing him at the airborne cultivator with all the force I could muster alongside the captain¡¯s virtue. The Crow flew out of my hands like a rock from a sling and hit the approaching cultivator with punishing force. My aim had been true. They both went flying through an open terrace into the apartment beyond. Panicked shouts and vitriolic curses sounded from inside. Scythas was next, flying out of the shadows and mming back-first into a stone wall a few feet away. The breath exploded out of him, and he sank to the cobbled street. He had another Hero in his arms. ¡°You took your time,¡± he gasped, struggling to regain his wind. ¡°There were two more, did you-?¡± ¡°They¡¯ll being back,¡± I said. I wasn¡¯t optimistic enough to think otherwise. Scythas nodded and spat blood, wiping his mouth with a grimace. ¡°That one is strong,¡± he said. That one, it turned out, was a rapidly approaching pneuma that reeked of blood and unkept promises. The kidnapped Hero grunted urgently, shaking his arms. A wad of damp cloth had been shoved in his mouth to prevent him from calling for help, and a deceptively thin metal cord had beenshed several times around his wrists. He didn¡¯t have the strength to break it. Bound by iron, his cultivation was suppressed. Scythas struggled with the cord, trying fruitlessly to find the leading edge of it. The hostage grunted with increasing panic as the bloodstained pneuma drew closer. Following an instinct, I pulled the rusted dagger that had shattered my sword from a fold in my cult attire and slid its edge between the Hero¡¯s wrists and the metal cord. He hissed in pain when it touched his skin, but the cord parted like silk when I drew up on it. The Hero immediately pulled the damp cloth out of his mouth and spat the taste of it onto the ground, scraping his teeth across his tongue in disgust. ¡°They took me by surprise,¡± he said gruffly, nodding to me in thanks. ¡°They won¡¯t have such an easy time of it-¡± Before he could finish his posturing, the third Crow exploded out of the shadows of the far alley. At the same time, the shadow intent of the Crow I¡¯d beaten unconscious along with another, unfamiliar pneuma of simr intensity exploded from the upper residence behind us. They were awake again, and they were ready to fight. I pointed a finger at the strongest of the three. Gravitas. Stone shrieked and flew apart from the walls and street both, but the Crow had already leapt back into the shadows the moment I made the gesture. ¡°Show me then,¡± I demanded. ¡°Take care of the subordinates. I¡¯ll handle this one.¡± Before I could actually think about what I was doing, I rushed forward into the darkness to meet the strongest of the three. Behind me, Scythas and the other hero shouted a challenge and leapt straight up, meeting the other two kidnappers midair as they vaulted the terrace. Rusted des shed in the dark. I couldn¡¯t see my enemy, but I could feel their breath against my face. I felt the hands of their influence gripping mine, pushing me back, sliding my knife away from theirs so they could punch it through my throat. I was as thoroughly outssed as Griffon had been against the scarred Heroine. The only difference was, I didn¡¯t have him here to bail me out of my fight. So I taunted them. ¡°You¡¯re not very good at this, are you? A real throat cutter is never seen unless they choose to be.¡± A flurry of shadow motion made my senses scream. I crouched, jerking our crossed des aside. Invisible knives buried themselves in the wall where my head had been. Dagger intent. Each one was dripping with poison that my eyes couldn¡¯t see, that had no corporeal form, but it was clear as day to my pneuma sense. Poison, synthesized by their soul. We exchanged a flurry of blows that I wouldn¡¯t have been able to visibly track even if there had been light to do so. I operated solely on instinct and my other senses, reflexes hammered into me by my mentors and by war allowing me to block and deflect most strikes. I caught a stab at my temple with a forearm, and bit down on a thumb attempting to gouge my eye out with full force. I felt a tooth crack before the skin broke. The blood of a Heroic cultivator was far too hot. It burned, literally, and when I spit it out it caught fire in the air. For just a moment I saw the cultivator¡¯s silhouette, before she bounded up the wall of the nearest building, vile green light ring from the mes behind her eyes. Her Heroic pneuma rose. Gut instinct told me I¡¯d die if I tried backtracking now. There would be no regrouping with the other two. There was no one here to help. But that was fine. Hopeless fights were the domain of legionnaires, against enemies of superior numbers, superior arms, and superior stature. To be expected, always, and good fortune if the gods granted you a fair fight. It was all business. The inferno of the Crow¡¯s poisonous green eyes lit up the alley, and I watched as an impossibility was writ bold on reality. The des of her dagger intent, coated in the poison of her soul, forced themselves into true existence. Real and corporeal. They whistled through the air, flying fast for my throat, and in their after images, new daggers of dagger intent spawned like fingers unfurling from a clenched fist. Three became twelve, twelve became forty-eight, until the entire alley was filled with her intent. I brandished my rusty knife, knowing it wouldn¡¯t be enough. I needed more. They say that in the Legions. They say that in the Legions! Three thousand dead men roared in my memories. ¡°The life is mighty fine.¡± It came through clenched teeth. I deflected the first of the corporeal daggers, the fastest of the three. The life is mighty fine! ¡°You leave your home for glory.¡± The first dagger went spiralling off to my right, spawning new des of assassination intent in its wake. Each one spun unerringly towards me, but unlike the daggers bolstered by the Crow¡¯s Heroic spirit, these were susceptible to my own influence. My new Sophic sense batted them away disdainfully. You leave your home for glory! Two more impossibly real daggers swerved at unpredictable angles on their approach. I didn¡¯t bother trying to deflect them. I knew I¡¯d fail. And I knew I¡¯d look weak in the attempt. In a ce like this, in a fight like this, with allies like these, appearing weak was worse than being weak. I couldn¡¯t fail to deflect them, and I couldn¡¯t be cut by them. Or could I? ¡°To Caesar you¡¯re assigned!¡± I called cadence, taking ash of poisoned intent across each of my shoulders as the two des flew by. I pped aside the dozens of pneuma des that followed, diverting their paths just enough to not be cut. To Caesar you¡¯re assigned! I stood stock still, frozen. The poison coating both des tore through my body in seconds, flowing likeva through the channels of my tripartite soul. Breathing became difficult first, the insidious poison targeting my vital breath first. Without breath, there was no cultivation. Without cultivation, there was no surviving an invasion like this. My muscles locked up next, clenching in sudden agony. My limbs refused to move, joints grinding like rusted hinges. Through the haze of horrible sensation, I felt as much as saw the Crow swooping down on me like her namesake. Descending for the kill. ¡°They say that in the legions,¡± I breathed. THEY SAY THAT IN THE LEGIONS! Gravitas struck her from the sky. The Crow somehow kicked off from the air itself, heart mes shing, and managed to avoid the brunt of the blow. It nced off her right shoulder and sent her spinning to the ground just ahead of me. If I could call cadence, I could breathe. If I could breathe, I could cultivate. If I could cultivate, I could march. And if I could march, I could fight. ¡°The meals are mighty fine,¡± I informed the cultivator trying to take my life. ¡°What?¡± she asked, baffled. THE MEALS ARE MIGHTY FINE! ¡°Eat leather if you¡¯re hungry,¡± I exined further. She lunged up at me with a de in each hand, ebony edges blending with the shadows cast by her eyes. She attacked head on, with the confidence of someone who knew that their target couldn¡¯t move to stop them. I had countered her dive, but I still couldn¡¯t move my body. My rigid posture spoke for itself. She could likely feel her poison winding through me, body and soul. Paralyzing me entirely. EAT LEATHER IF YOU¡¯RE HUNGRY! Unfortunately, she had failed to ount for one thing. ¡°Drink poison like it¡¯s wine!¡± I said sharply, and uppercutted her. Something as banal as lethal poison was no excuse for a legionnaire to stop marching. DRINK POISON LIKE IT¡¯S WINE! Breath exploded out of her from the force of the punch. Delivered in cadence, it struck her harder than anything I could have normally produced. She arched up above my fist, hovering in the air for a bare moment. I forced my body to move again before she could recover. Ished out with my other hand and grabbed the back of her neck. ¡°They say that in the legions!¡± I shouted, mming her to the stone. THEY SAY THAT IN THE LEGIONS! ¡°The pay is fine it¡¯s great!¡± I kicked her up against the wall, feeling a crack that was either my foot or her ribs breaking. Maybe both. THE PAY IS FINE IT¡¯S GREAT! ¡°For every coin you gather!¡± The kidnapper-turned-assassin recovered faster than I¡¯d have liked, nting her hands against the ground and throwing herself up into a backflip that brought a slipper-d foot a hair¡¯s breadth away from kicking my head off my shoulders. FOR EVERY COIN YOU GATHER! She twisted her body in midair andshed out with a rigid hand, pping the knife out of my grip. In response, I caught her by the ankle and swung her into a wall with all the remaining strength of my poisoned body, the captain¡¯s virtue, and my own furious influence. In cadence. ¡°The captain gathers eight!¡± For the second time in as many minutes, I threw a Heroic cultivator through a building. THE CAPTAIN GATHERS EIGHT! Eight poisoned daggers ttered to the stone at my feet, shaken free from the folds of her clothing. I heard a soft huff, the sound of a pouting woman, through the hole in the wall. Utterly disproportionate to this reaction, I felt a sickening wave of poisonous pneuma surge up and out of the rubble. It rushed towards me, grasping and ravenous. The sensation alone burned like acid on my skin. If it touched me directly, I¡¯d drop dead in seconds. Light and heat blossomed like the petals of a flower behind me, illuminating the alley in full. The short hairs on my arms and the back of my neck sizzled and curled, burning. Coiling streamers of me careened over my head, colliding with the wave of poisonous pneuma and erupting into a noxious cloud of steam that made my eyes water and my spirit gag. The Crow was gone when it cleared. I turned, every muscle in my body protesting the motion, to greet the Olympic athlete walking up behind me. I didn¡¯t let the pain show. A captain never did. ¡°So it was a wolf after all.¡± She hadughter in her eyes and a javelin in her hand. She wore the finely woven tunic-dress of yet another mystery cult, this one a pristine onyx that I had never seen before. She approached me silently on slipper-d feet, and her influence brushed over me in bare fingertip caresses. Careful, but inquisitive. They finally settled on each of my shoulders, where the poisoned daggers had cut me. The cultivator¡¯s touch was feather light, but it still felt unbearable on the wounds. ¡°I¡¯m sorry I didn¡¯te sooner,¡± she said, all feigned remorse and naked interest. She idly twirled her bloody javelin. ¡°I heard you howling, but I had my hands full at the time. What did you want to say to me?¡± I was too poisoned for this. ¡°My name is Solus,¡± I told her. ¡°I¡¯m hunting Crows.¡± The Heroine tilted her head, midnight ponytail falling sideways with the motion. ¡°Of course you are,¡± she said, a slow smile stealing across her lips. ¡°Shall I join you, then?¡± There was a mor of noise and movement on the opposite end of the alley as Scythas and the other Hero came rushing to my defense. Scythas stopped short when he saw us, and then saw the Crow-sized hole in the building beside us. I watched in real time as his estimation of me rose. Wonderful. ¡°Sol,¡± Scythas finally said, looking between me and the Heroine with poorly masked unease. ¡°She¡¯s-¡± ¡°A fellow hunter,¡± she said, beaming at the disgruntled look he gave her. ¡°You two seem to be in good shape. Still, would you like me to give you a look? Just to be sure.¡± ¡°Absolutely not,¡± the kidnapped Hero said without hesitation. Scythas only shook his head, looking faintly pale in the light of his own heart me. ¡°If you¡¯re certain.¡± The Heroine dismissed them from her notice, turning to me with anticipation. To my dismay, Scythas and his rescue followed suit. Three cultivators, each individually strong enough to wipe me from the face of the earth, looked to me for a cue. A familiar weight settled on my aching shoulders. My body ached so fiercely that I wanted to die. Every time I spoke and blood didn¡¯te out in ce of words, I was surprised. I wanted a skin of water, a hearty meal, and a dark room with a soft bed more than anything else in the world at that moment. If I was lucky, I¡¯d get the water. That was fine, though. Buried in every lie was a shade of the truth. I may not have been hunting Crows before, but there was a part of me that didn¡¯t mind the thought of it now. Those three, at least, had been kidnappers and assassins. Their tripartite souls had borne the stains of their work eternal. If the rest of their ilk were the same? Well, I could suffer a few more hours of poison and shadow stalking. After all, I had everything I neededid out in front of me. Every officer knew the only cure for an ill soldier was more marching. Chapter 1.13 [The Young Miss-tocrat] Chapter 1.13 [The Young Miss-tocrat] The Young Miss-tocrat She didn¡¯t know what to do. After Lydia¡¯s uncle dismissed them from the study, her mother and Aunt Raisa took the five of them back to Raisa¡¯s suite within the estate. The two Heroic women sat them down on lounging couches withrge painted cups of spirit wine, sweet and warm and heavily spiced. They asked them, gently, to go over the events of the night again, in greater detail. Heron, in contrast to when Uncle Damon had been asking, supplied most of the details. Castor and Rena added small details here and there, nursing their cups of wine. Myron didn¡¯t say anything more than he had in the office, shrugging his mother off when she attempted to pry into the times he¡¯d spent with Lio and the ve. No. Not Lio. Griffon. Lydia¡¯s mother did her best to coax answers out of Lydia. Anything at all, really. But she didn¡¯t know what to say. So she didn¡¯t say anything at all. After the debrief came the consoling. Castor¡¯s wrist required setting, though fortunately it was a clean injury. Their mother muttered furiously while she wrapped it, vowing that if Griffon hadn¡¯t been so lucky in delivering such a fine break, she¡¯d have hunted him down herself. Somehow, Lydia knew luck hadn¡¯t had anything to do with it. Lydia¡¯s mother moved on to treating Rena¡¯s swollen left eye as soon as the wrist was set. Meanwhile, her aunt was carefully prodding Myron¡¯s right leg, her expression darkening every time he winced. Heron sat beside his little brother, on the same dining couch, a wet cloth pressed against the ugly bruise on his face. Every so often he spat blood into a jar on the floor. Griffon had knocked out two of his back teeth. Of the five of them, only Lydia had escaped the encounter unscathed. She wasn¡¯t even bruised. Chryse and Raisa did their best to convince them that it wasn¡¯t their fault as they worked. It quickly turned from assurance to ranting, though. Griffon¡¯s actions were entirely his own, her mother assured her. They were only the natural result of a character that had been wed from the start. Weakness of spirit made manifest. Heron agreed emphatically, and surprisingly Castor did too. Rena didn¡¯t say anything, staring into her cup of spiced wine miserably. Myron only scowled and shook his head each time his mother, aunt, and male cousins tried to convince him that Griffon had always been selfish. They said some things to Lydia as well. Lydia didn¡¯t bother hearing them. Their fathers joined them. Uncle Stavros was furious, of course, but his anger couldn¡¯tpare to Lydia¡¯s own father. Fotios Aetos was a man of powerful restraint, but in that moment he looked fit to kill a man. He stopped only briefly to cup Reina¡¯s swollen cheekfortingly, and to inspect Castor¡¯s wrapped wrist, before kneeling in front of Lydia. ¡°He was a worthless boy from the moment he could walk,¡± Lydia¡¯s father spoke fiercely, taking her hands in his and gripping them tight. ¡°And now he¡¯s a worthless man. The world can have him. I¡¯ll find you a husband that¡¯s better than him in every way, I promise you that.¡± Her father pulled her into a tight embrace. Lydia didn¡¯t feel the tears as they fell, but when the hug ended there were damp spots on his robes where her face had been pressed. ¡°Of course you can do it!¡± Griffon assured her, a hundred feet up the rock wall, clinging to the steepest face of the eastern mountain range. Only eight years old and already fearless. He held out a hand as if she could simply reach up and take it. His scarlet eyes were bright. ¡°Where I go, you go. You¡¯re going to be my wife, aren¡¯t you?¡± She didn¡¯t want a better husband. They gave up trying tofort her after some time, moving on to their other children and nephews. When Heron sat beside her and tried to tell her that this might have been for the best, Lydia gave him such a poisonous re that he didn¡¯t say another word to her. When they left her aunt¡¯s suite, Lydia returned to her own room without a word. They let her go. She sat on her bed and stared at a small bronze mirror. Her reflection was empty, almost confused. How had it happened so quickly? Had he been acting the entire time? Since the Daylight Games? Since that ve had arrived? Or from the beginning. Had Griffon ever cared for her? For any of them? At some point the sun set and night fell. Castor and Rena brought her dinner and pulled up two dining couches next to her bed so they could eat with her. They picked at their food in silence after a handful of aborted attempts at conversation. Lydia didn¡¯t touch the te they¡¯d brought. They left it there with her. Later, in the middle of the night, the door to her room cracked open. A shadowed silhouette slid inside before shutting it silently behind them. Lydia was still awake, of course. She hadn¡¯t even bothered trying to sleep, instead dragging a dining couch out onto her terrace and contemting the heavens. She looked at her intruder, vitriol on the tip of her tongue. Leave me alone. The scathingment escaped her when she was who it was. Myron limped quietly across her room, sitting beside her on the bench and leaning his shoulder against hers. For a while they sat there like that, just watching the stars. Finally, he found his voice. ¡°I should have stopped him. I¡¯m sorry.¡± It was the most absurd thing he could have possibly said. He was the youngest of them all, and Lydia¡¯s junior in cultivation besides. To say nothing of how hepared to Lio- to Griffon. For her youngest cousin to take personal responsibility for something all his elder cousins had failed to do was beyond all reason. Lydia tried to tell him this, but all that came out was a choked sob. She found herself hunching over, burying her face in the crook between his shoulder and his neck, sobbing and sobbing. It hit her all at once, everything she¡¯d been trying not to feel. The grief, the agony, and the betrayal. Myron whispered soothingly to her all the while, forcing himself to stay strong for her sake. But his voice trembled with every word. Niko arrived the next morning. Myron jerked away at the creak of the opening door, falling entirely off her bed. They had both fallen asleep, thoroughly drained, just before dawn. Lydia looked blearily first at the newly risen sun, and then at her eldest cousin. There was some mirth in his eyes as he watched Myron just barely catch himself on all fours, but it was subdued. He¡¯d brought breakfast with him, three simply adorned tters bnced on his left hand, and a pitcher of fresh water in his right. He set it all wordlessly down on Lydia¡¯s dining table and set down to eat. Lydia considered telling him to leave, or perhaps rolling over and going back to sleep, but Myron made the choice for her by stumbling to his feet and joining Niko at the low table. Lydia threw her sheets aside. ¡°I¡¯m not hungry,¡± she said, just so he¡¯d know. ¡°Neither am I,¡± Niko said, popping an olive into his mouth. He washed it down with a long pull of clear water. Reluctantly, Lydia started to eat. The food was simple and filling. Niko spoke to them as they ate. ¡°Uncle Damon spoke to the eldersst night,¡± he said, leaning an elbow on the table. There was a different air about him without his usual travel clothes. For the first time since he¡¯d returned for his wedding, Niks Aetos wore the cult cloths of the Rosy Dawn. Specifically, he wore the predominantly scarlet style that Griffon had always worn. The attire of the Young Aristocrat. ¡°What did he decide to do with them?¡± Myron asked. ¡°Oh, nothing too severe.¡± Niko shrugged. ¡°A few of them will be losing their seniority within the cult. One tried making excuses to the very end, apparently, so he¡¯ll be getting a beating and some mandatory closed doors cultivation. As for Old Chersis, Uncle Damon decided the broken nose Lio gave him was enough punishment, and told him to let it heal naturally. You can imagine how pleased he was about that.¡± Myron cracked a smile at the mental image, but it was a fleeting thing. Lydia picked methodically at a vine of grapes on her te. ¡°Spection is running rampant through the cult, unfortunately,¡± Niko continued, giving up the attempt at humor. ¡°It¡¯ll be that way for a while. They weren¡¯t very subtle on their way out the door.¡± Lydia drank deeply from her cup, hoping it would wash the sour taste out of her mouth. It didn¡¯t. She tried eating a grape, but it only made it worse. She wondered if this was what a deviation felt like. ¡°I spoke to the others earlier this morning,¡± Niko said. ¡°Rena is taking it hard. Castor is still a bit shocked, I think. An injury like that is always frightening for a sword artist, no matter how easy it heals. Heron is putting on a show and acting d, but I can tell he¡¯s struggling as well.¡± ¡°It¡¯s not a show,¡± Myron muttered. He picked at a small block of cheese with his thumb, breaking it into crumbles. ¡°He¡¯s always hated Lio.¡± Niko frowned. ¡°You shouldn¡¯t think that of your brother.¡± ¡°It¡¯s the truth,¡± Lydia whispered. ¡°Our parents, too - they couldn¡¯t throw him to the wolves fast enough. Like they¡¯d waited years for this moment.¡± ¡°That much is probably true,¡± Niko admitted. ¡°But Heron is only taking cues from his parents. Don¡¯t be too hard on him.¡± Neither of them replied. Niko sighed. ¡°Uncle Stavros and Uncle Fotios told me the two of you were taking it the worst,¡± he said. ¡°I know it¡¯s still fresh, and it hurts, but you have to understand that this wasn¡¯t your fault. If anything, the me lies with me.¡± Lydia remembered the look in Griffon¡¯s eyes that night around the campfire, as she¡¯d drifted off to sleep in his arms. How cold they¡¯d been. She¡¯d never seen him like that in her entire life. And she¡¯d done nothing about it. Stupid. She was so stupid. ¡°I should have known that he was feeling the itch.¡± Niko ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. ¡°And I should have known better than to taunt him with stories of all the things he couldn¡¯t have. Patience has never been his virtue, and I should have known that. I knew it before I left. I got too carried away reminiscing with all of you, and I pushed him over the edge.¡± ¡°It would have happened anyway,¡± Myron said, looking far too weary for his age. Lydia reached over and took his hand in hers, squeezing it. ¡°Something happened to him after the initiation ritesst year. Ever since then¡­¡± He shook his head and repeated, ¡°It would have happened anyway.¡± ¡°Lio is-¡± Niko hesitated, considering his words. Finally, he decided to go through with them. ¡°Lio is a wanderer. I¡¯ve met his type, over the course of my travels. He was always a little thrill-seeker growing up. When I saw how subdued he was at the dock, I thought adulthood might have mellowed him out. But he¡¯s still the same Lio. Always chasing new experiences, even at the expense of himself and the people he cares about. It¡¯s who he is. ¡°Heron and Castor told me what he said to you, at the end. I want you both to know that he didn¡¯t mean it.¡± ¡°Lio doesn¡¯t lie,¡± Myron said at once. Niko smiled faintly, bitterly. ¡°He may not have lied, but he didn¡¯t tell you the truth either.¡± A fine sentiment, but it wouldn¡¯t allow her to forget. She¡¯d heard those words in her dreams. I won¡¯t suffer another day with you. ¡°Niko,¡± Lydia said, tracing a pattern in the wood of the table with her fingertips. ¡°Could you tell us another story?¡± ¡°Of course,¡± he said quickly. ¡°Any story you¡¯d like. What did you have in mind?¡± ¡°Tell us about Olympia.¡± His eager acquiescence vanished in a moment. Niko leaned back on his elbows, considering them both. ¡°You really want to know? Right now?¡± ¡°Not knowing is worse,¡± Myron said. Lydia nodded in agreement. ¡°What are they getting themselves into?¡± Against his own instincts, Niko obliged them. ¡°Olympia is the cultural epicenter of the Hellenistic world. It¡¯s the home of the Olympic Games, as you know, but even during off years it¡¯s a melting pot of Greek civilizations. Its poorest districts are far beyond anything we have here in the Scarlet City. ¡°It¡¯s known as the Half-Step City, or the teau, because it¡¯s the second-most divine ce in the world. Just short of Olympus itself. It¡¯s where our world¡¯s most powerful cultivators congregate, and it¡¯s where champions are born.¡± ¡°But only Heros canpete in the Olympic Games, right?¡± Myron asked. The obvious question in his mind was something Lydia herself had been thinking about all night. ¡°That¡¯s right,¡± Niko agreed, smiling wryly. ¡°Lio may be exceptional for his age, but even he can¡¯t pass as a Hero just yet. He won¡¯t bepeting this time around.¡± ¡°Then why go?¡± Myron pressed. ¡°Just to see it happen? Lio¡¯s never been a spectator. And why tell me in the first ce?¡± ¡°It may have been a misdirection,¡± Niko suggested. ¡°Something to throw any pursuers off their trail. He may not be headed there at all.¡± ¡°Griffon doesn¡¯t lie,¡± Lydia said, echoing Myron. Both of them looked at her nkly. ¡°What did you call him?¡± Niko asked, confused. ¡°It¡¯s¡­¡± Myron paused, ncing her way. ¡°It¡¯s what Sol calls him.¡± ¡°It¡¯s the name he chose for himself,¡± Lydia quietly corrected her littlest cousin. ¡°I see.¡± Niko sighed, processing that, and moved on. ¡°There are as many thing to do in Olympia as you could think of. They honor every holiday of every city-state, and more of their own making. It¡¯s an old joke that the citizens of Olympia holiday as often as the rest of the world works. The revelries are constant, and business is exceedingly lucrative no matter the trade. It¡¯s a city of abundance.¡± ¡°What are the people there like?¡± Myron asked. At this, Niko perked up despite himself. ¡°Incredible! By andrge, anyway. I¡¯ve met many good friends there, and even a couple of my currentpanions. It¡¯s a nexus for cultivators of every kind, you see, but especially for those of great renown. It¡¯s not at all rare to meet a Tyrant in the course of your daily errands. The city is teeming with outstanding people.¡± He leaned across the table, nudging Myron slyly. ¡°I met my Iphys there, too. People say there are as many fine marble beauties in the Half-Step City as there are stars in the sky.¡± ¡°I see,¡± Lydia whispered. Niko winced. ¡°Not that any of them could hold a candle to my beautiful cousins,¡± he quickly amended. ¡°I don¡¯t need your pity,¡± she said, unable to summon any real heat to the words. ¡°Why wouldn¡¯t he want a woman from such a fantastic ce? I¡¯m sure he¡¯ll find someone there who can stand beside him.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t say that!¡± Myron cried, pping the table. Such was his passion that when it split down the middle he didn¡¯t immediately apologize for thepse in his control. ¡°Lio cares about you. That¡¯s not why he left, and that¡¯s not what he¡¯s looking for.¡± Niko said nothing. The fact of the matter was, he¡¯d been gone for too long. He didn¡¯t know enough to say one way or another. Lydia scowled, ring at her littlest cousin. ¡°You don¡¯t know what you¡¯re talking about,¡± she said sharply. The anger was slow toe, but when it did, it burned. She felt her eyes grow hot again, but she refused to cry. Not in front of Niko. ¡°You¡¯re too young. You¡¯ve never experienced something like this before.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t have to be old to see Olympus when it¡¯s right in front of my face,¡± he shot back. ¡°Lio made a mistake in the heat of the moment. He got impatient, that¡¯s all! If we bring him back, I¡¯m sure we can make him see reason!¡± ¡°Bring him back?¡± Lydia asked, incredulous. ¡°How can we bring him back? He beat us like unruly children, all at the same time, and that was without the ve¡¯s help! We¡¯re too weak.¡± ¡°We can get stronger,¡± he insisted. ¡°You saw the difference between us,¡± Lydia said, her voice rising precipitously. ¡°He isn¡¯t going to be standing still while we rush to catch up!¡± ¡°So you just want to let him go?¡± Myron asked in disbelief. ¡°But you love him.¡± ¡°Of course I love him.¡± The anger and passion fell away from her in an instant. Lydia shook her head softly. ¡°But it doesn¡¯t matter. Loving him isn¡¯t enough. It never has been.¡± ¡°You¡¯re both too pessimistic,¡± Niko said. They looked sharply at him. He tilted his head, Heroic mes flickering behind thoughtful eyes. ¡°Catching up to him is far from impossible,¡± he exined to Lydia. Then, to Myron, ¡°And you won¡¯t be going after him alone.¡± ¡°Do you mean-?¡± Myron trailed off hopefully. The grinding sound of nails digging through wood alerted Lydia to the fact that she was gripping the table¡¯s edge hard enough to carve furrows into its surface. ¡°Can the two of you keep a secret?¡± Niko asked in return, leaning in. They nodded frantically. ¡°You can likely tell from what I¡¯m wearing, but your fathers both demanded that Lio be abolished as heir to the Rosy Dawn as punishment for his actions. Uncle Damon agreed, and made me the Young Aristocrat in his ce. ¡°I may not be as bad as Lio, but I¡¯m certainly not ready to stay here for the rest of my life. My time abroad has spoiled me too much, and I still have too many things that I want to do before I settle down. Gods know my wife would be furious, and I just got her. So in the interest of killing many birds with one stone, and possibly even reiming my ship, I intend to track him down myself. If the two of you are up for it, I can bring you with me.¡± ¡°You¡¯re telling the truth?¡± Lydia demanded, fearful that she would wake up at any moment. ¡°I am,¡± he said firmly. ¡°It will take time, but I¡¯ll find a way to convince our uncle to let me go. We¡¯ll bring him home, kicking and screaming if need be, and make certain he does things in the proper order for once in his life. I know the boy that he used to be, and I saw a glimpse of the man he is today. He may have been troubled here, but he didn¡¯t hate it, and he certainly doesn¡¯t hate any of you. He¡¯s at a turning point in his life and he needs guidance. Now more than ever.¡± ¡°When?¡± Myron asked, the only question that mattered. They both leaned forward, three heads huddled together over a broken table and three tes of forgotten scraps. ¡°Sooner thanter,¡± Niko promised. ¡°There are a few things I need to do if I¡¯m to get Uncle Damon¡¯s approval. They¡¯ll take me some time, but that will give the two of you time to get up to speed for the outside world.¡± ¡°How much time?¡± Lydia demanded. ¡°Months at the most, weeks if we¡¯re fortunate.¡± Niko poked her forehead. ¡°Rx. We¡¯ll find him.¡± ¡°Rx.¡± She grit her teeth. ¡°He¡¯s on his way to the most powerful city in the Mediterranean, we might not be able to follow him for months, and you¡¯re telling me to rx? Forget months from now. I¡¯m worried about him today.¡± ¡°You shouldn¡¯t be,¡± Lydia¡¯s eldest cousin chided her. ¡°Lio is many things, not all of them good, but he¡¯s always been resourceful. He knows how to conduct himself in a dangerous environment. And from what I¡¯ve heard, hispanion isn¡¯t half bad himself.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t know the new Lio,¡± Myron said, unable to help himself. ¡°It might already be toote.¡± Niko rolled his eyes, standing up from the table and stretching. The light of a new dawn was bright on the horizon. ¡°It¡¯s only been a day,¡± Niko said dismissively. ¡°How much trouble could they have possibly gotten into?¡± Chapter 1.14 Chapter 1.14 The Young Griffon I¡¯de to the sanctuary city of Olympia to convene with the Oracle. Instead, I found myself in a rowdy club, apanying my new Heroicpanions to an after-funeral drinking wake of sorts. As the first lights of the dawn peered through the bronze doors of the club, I decided I didn¡¯t mind. My fellow sophists shed the worst of their bleak mood once they had some spirit wine in them. The club was a more refined take on the thermopolia that Sol and I had visited the previous summer - the food on disy was obviously higher quality, elevated beyond the slops and stews that we¡¯d been offered in the Scarlet City. The kykeon itself was the strongest I¡¯d ever drank outside of the Rosy Dawn¡¯s initiation rites. All three of them treated it like piss water and drank it only under duress. It got them drunk enough, though. Kyno, Elissa, and Lefteris told stories of the kyrios around a table covered with broad, shallow kylixes. Others did the same throughout the club. I brushed my awareness curiously through the bar, finding cultivators of nearly every realm. Citizens mingled readily with Philosophers, and even with a few other Heroic cultivators. The usual hierarchy was only vaguely felt. This had the feel of a club frequented exclusively by cultivators, and if the abundance of indigo cult attire was any indication, by the Raging Heaven Cult in particr. Civic cultivators traded stories andughter and reminiscence with Sophic cultivators as junior and senior, not lesser and better. The atmosphere was a stark contrast to the funeral we¡¯d just left. Cultivators told stories and drank deeply from their cups in the dead Tyrant¡¯s honor. Watching them and listening to them talk, I found myself wishing I could have known the man myself. ¡°My grandfather met him once,¡± Kyno admitted after his third drink. Elissa leaned in while Lefteris smiled knowingly. ¡°They were hunting the same beast, a chimera made up of half a dozen heroic beasts. My grandfather found it first, and¡­¡± I finished my cup and ordered another. ¡°My master knew him before he left the Raging Heaven Cult,¡± Elissa confided,ter. Kyno and Lefteris were both visibly interested. This was a story neither had heard before. ¡°They¡¯d always been on friendly terms, but when my master decided he was leaving Olympia for good and severing all ties the kyrios offered him a wager. A single sword exchange, no pneuma involved, and if the kyrios won my master had to keep his faith. They squared off in an octagon of marble and gold¡­¡± At one point Lefteris got up and went to the marble bar along the far wall, iid along its edges with indigo inscriptions of drinking games. When he came back he had a terracotta jar of wine half his height tucked under one arm, and a game in the other. ¡°The kyrios loved games of all kinds,¡± he said, while Elissa rubbed her hands together gleefully and Kyno knocked back the rest of his cup in one shot, a haunted look in his eyes. Even his skinned crocodile mantle looked traumatized. ¡°This one was his favorite by far. He¡¯d offer every initiate at least one game with him during their time at the Raging Heaven, more if they were lucky. He believed its mechanics had ties to the Fates.¡± It was the sort of absurd statement that I enjoyed hearing. I watched Lefteris spread the carved stone tiles across the table, linking them end to end. A grid of two-by-three and a grid of four-by-three, connected in the middle by a bridge of two single tiles. ¡°What¡¯s it called?¡± I asked curiously. All three answered at once. ¡°Ascension.¡± ¡°The rules are simple,¡± Lefteris exined, distributing fourteen pieces, seven on either side of the assembled board. ¡°Yet profound,¡± Elissa interjected, with the air of someone telling a bad joke ahead of time. Kyno chuckled. ¡°Exactly right,¡± Lefteris agreed without shame. ¡°Each yer is given seven pieces, and the objective is in the name. Move all seven pieces from the beginning,¡± he tapped two of the blocks, one in each corner at the bottom of the board, ¡°to the end.¡± He tapped the two corners second from the top. ¡°First one out wins.¡± Each piece was cut from a different type of stone. When I picked one up, a smooth red jasper, certain portions of the stone caught the light of the oilmps and shimmered. The pieces followed a certain track on the board, which ovepped in the middle. The blocks that weren¡¯t in the middle were safe havens for one yer or the other, but those that did werebat zones where pieces could do battle. While inhabiting the upper or lower grids, outside the bridge, yers could choose to have their pieces avoid conflict as they ascended. But there was no getting through the bottleneck without conflict. If a piece was taken by an opponent, it was sent back to the pool of eligible pieces outside the board. A yer could have all seven of their pieces on the board at one time, or they could have as few as one - it was a question of strategic preference. Movement andbat were decided by dice. I was presented with two bone dice for the game, tetrahedrons with values carved into the corners of their faces. Lefteris offered me the first round as practice. The stories continued as we yed. ¡°When I first saw that cursed mountain I didn¡¯t think I¡¯d survive it. But do you know what the kyrios told me, that night before the rites?¡± It was folly to pack the board with all seven pieces at once. There wasn¡¯t nearly enough room to maneuver. ¡°I had just wasted a month of my life in closed doors cultivation only to achieve nothing at all, and who do I see when I open the doors?¡± Focusing on only one piece at a time wasn¡¯t much better. The elimination mechanic favored the yer with more pieces on the board. ¡°I¡¯ve taken the monster with me, because what else was I going to do, and so the entryway is covered in blood and offal. Elder Solon is furious, the junior is nearly dead and won¡¯t stop vomiting blood over my back, and just as I¡¯m about to lose my patience, who arrives but the kyrios?¡± The kyrios had lived a full life from the sounds of it. As they reminisced, drinking andughing, smiling wistfully in turns, we continued to y the game of Ascension. After my first couple practice games the victor¡¯s rule was imposed. The winner kept the board while the loser gave way to a new challenger. I cycled through a couple times, getting a feel for the rules and various y styles. Even among mypanions, Kyno, Elissa, and Lefteris all employed wildly different strategies. Aggression, prudence, and pure brazen luck were present in varying proportions among the three of them. Poor joke or not, it really was a simple game with a surprisingly profound strategic depth to it. And the introduction of luck as a mechanic meant that it could never be fully solved. I found myself enjoying it more than I thought I would. Once I had firmly grasped the rules and core ystyles, I slowly built out my own over the course of several games. After the first couple times that I was washed out, first by Lefteris and then by Elissa, I started to win. And I didn¡¯t stop. ¡°You said he tied the Fates to this?¡± I asked offhandedly, somewhere around my sixth game in a row. Another table of Raging Heaven cultivators had noticed us ying and wandered over, pitching in to the conversation as well as the rotation of games. I was currently ying another Philosopher, eighth rank. He wasn¡¯t very good. ¡°The kyrios was a firm believer in the Pythagorean school of philosophy,¡± Lefteris exined, watching us intently as we yed. ¡°Isopsephy as well, among others. Depending on the results of your rolls, when you roll them, where your piece ends up and if it¡¯s in conflict with an opponent, there are countless interpretations. Even which of your pieces it is. There are some whose entire cultivation journey revolves around the study of this game.¡± I couldn¡¯t think of a more boring life than one spent analyzing a board game. Still, it was fun to y. I nced wryly at Lefteris as I set my piece over my opponent¡¯s piece at the bottleneck, taking it. ¡°Ho? And what do these dice have to say about me?¡± I continued to y, and I continued to win. My control of the board was absolute, unchallenged among heaven and earth. Eventually Lefteris jumped back in as my opponent, and when he lost and another cultivator tried to take his ce he waved them off. The Civic cultivator protested for only a moment. Lefteris gave him a look that sent him scurrying to the other side of the club. ¡°You¡¯ve never yed this game before today?¡± he asked me suspiciously, resetting the pieces. ¡°Never in my life,¡± I said easily. ¡°Perhaps I¡¯m simply gifted.¡± ¡°The kyrios was like that,¡± Kyno mused. ¡°It was as if any craft he picked up was something he¡¯d been practicing for decades already, after only the briefest period of introduction. They say he only ever lost the game of Ascension once.¡± ¡°His first,¡± I guessed, rather than make the obvious joke. ¡°No,¡± Elissa said. ¡°It was a game he lost after centuries of y, less than two decades ago.¡± ¡°Is that so?¡± I asked, interested. ¡°Who beat him?¡± Elissa and Kyno shared a look across the table. ¡°Damon Aetos,¡± Lefteris said, and tossed me the dice. ¡°You¡¯re a liar and a cheat!¡± Lefteris used me, pping the table furiously and spilling our stone pieces off the board. Well, his stone pieces. Mine had already ascended. Kyno and Elissa watched in mixed amusement and disbelief. Wide cups of spirit wine and ivory marbles used for betting covered the table. We¡¯d drawn something of a crowd. As per the rules we¡¯d established early on, the loser of a given match had to down an entire cup of kykeon without pause. This was a fairly benign rule when the intention was for the loser to then cede the table to someone else, and not stubbornly remain to lose over and over again. For a Heroic cultivator, it would take several cups to make a dent in their prodigious tolerance. Lefteris had the deeply rosy cheeks and ssy eyes of a man that had had far too much to drink. The sun had risen fully through the dawn, and I had won quite a few games. I was on my third cup of wine at the moment. ¡°Careful friend,¡± I said, propping my chin on one hand and smiling wickedly. ¡°My virtuous heart won¡¯t tolerate such an usation.¡± ¡°I said what I said,¡± he said, doubling down. Lefteris looked to Elissa and Kyno for validation, ignoring the jeers and taunts of the cultivators standing around the table. They had drachma riding on these games and were obviously biased. ¡°He¡¯s doing something to the dice, I¡¯m sure of it!¡± Elissa hummed, twirling her finger through her wine and flicking a clump of the impure lees at a target on the far wall. It struck dead center and a cheer went up from a nearby table. She shot them a quick grin before answering. ¡°It does seem like something he would do,¡± she agreed, in such a way that made it clear she disagreed. Still a bit sore over our introduction, but she wasing around. Kyno just patted him on the arm. ¡°The only thing worse than a loser is a sore loser.¡± I came to a decision. ¡°Let¡¯s see, then,¡± I said, sweeping the stone tiles and pieces to the side of the table, leaving only the dice. ¡°Is it strategy and good fortune, or am I a fraud? We¡¯ll let the heavens decide. I¡¯ll even close my eyes.¡± Lefteris considered the dice doubtfully. ¡°If you¡¯d rather apologize, I¡¯ll ept it,¡± I told him graciously. The Heroic archer scowled and snatched up the dice, shaking once and letting them fly across the table. Snake eyes. Laughter rippled through our little audience. I closed my eyes and rolled. When I opened them, I saw Lefteris¡¯ furious re, and on the table - a one and a two. ¡°That¡¯s one,¡± I told him breezily. ¡°How many rounds would you like to try?¡± ¡°First to four,¡± he spat, sweeping up the dice. He rolled again. A four and a three, this time. There were three sets of numbers on each corner of the dice, each ascending by a factor of ten. In this case, a four, forty, or a four hundred apanied by a three, thirty, or a three hundred. The distinction hardly mattered here. I let the dice fly with azy flick. When I opened my eyes, I saw a three and a four. Tie. Lefteris shook the dice like they owed him money, Kyno and Elissa watching with poorly masked amusement as bone tetrahedrons bounced across the table. One and two. I rolled without fanfare and got the same result. Again. ¡°Impossible!¡± Lefteris snarled. I saw sweat beading on his brow. In a way, I supposed tying was more stressful than losing outright. ¡°It¡¯s the dice. There¡¯s something wrong with the dice!¡± ¡°Are you using the owner of giving us weighted dice?¡± I asked, raising an eyebrow. The owner in question shivered in quiet fear, hovering over by the bar. ¡°We¡¯ve been here countless times, Lefteris,¡± Kyno chided him. ¡°You know Timon wouldn¡¯t do that.¡± ¡°Something he¡¯s doing, then,¡± the drunk archer insisted. ¡°Or perhaps,¡± I said slyly, ¡°The Muses love me more than you.¡± It was a benignment, but with a challenging undertone - a thinly veiled way of saying that my cultivation was superior to his. It was a lessmon taunt among the lower realms, but still present. Undeniably, it hit harder once one reached the Heroic realm and their lives became the subject of Epics. When it became clear that Lefteris was too angry to roll, I took it upon myself to lead the next round. The dice ttered against the wood top, amidst cheers and calls for either my victory or Lefteris¡¯, depending on who was betting. Twin twos. I leaned back and watched as Lefteris made the most focused cast of his life. I knew as they fell that it wouldn¡¯t be enough. Victory was a certainty in my heart. Twin fours. I frowned. I took the dice again when he gestured, epting the change in order. A win to a win, and two ties. I let fly my dice and nodded when a four and a one resulted. Lefteris breathed deeply and cast again. Twin threes. Something¡­ I rolled one more time, the heavens yielding a three and a two. Lefteris was confident now. Twin threes, again. ¡°You¡¯re cheating,¡± I said with certainty. ¡°My mentor would crucify you for that.¡± ¡°Who¡¯s the sore loser now?¡± Lefteris asked smugly. ¡°I¡¯m throwing the same dice as you, fellow sophist.¡± ¡°You are,¡± I admitted. ¡°But you¡¯re not throwing them fairly.¡± ¡°It¡¯s unfair now that the winds are blowing my way, is it?¡± ¡°No. It¡¯s unfair because you¡¯re timing the dice.¡± It was the purest form of cheating among cultivators, utilizing the enhanced dexterity and perception granted by cultivation to manipte exactly how the dice would fall. Such was a Heroic cultivator¡¯s crity that he could do it blind drunk and be correct every time. In fact, it was only because he was so drunk that I picked up on it at all. Lefteris met my stare unflinchingly. ¡°You¡¯re wrong.¡± The crowd was quiet. The tension in the air became thick and cloying. ¡°Close your eyes,¡± I ordered. ¡°As I did.¡± Lefteris obliged without hesitation, confident in his innocence. Or confident in his ability to continue cheating. He held out a hand and I pressed one of the dice onto his empty palm, it¡¯s point jutting straight up. His expression remained serene. Then I ced the second tetrahedron directly on top of the first, bncing it precariously on the tip, and his smile vanished. Kyno chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. Heroic cultivators were existences far beyond anything a Philosopher like myself could imagine. I didn¡¯t doubt for a moment that Lefteris could feel the impressions of the marked dice against his palm, and I also didn¡¯t doubt that he could use that knowledge to time itpletely blind. But he couldn¡¯t cheat the second die. ¡°What will you do?¡± I asked him. ¡°You can fix one of the dice, but heaven will have its hand on the other.¡± ¡°What are you using me of, junior?¡± Lefteris asked me quietly, rather than throw. His eyes opened. Kyno and Elissa considering us both spectively. ¡°Who says I¡¯m your junior? I¡¯m using you of being shit at dice, and a sore loser besides.¡± ¡°It¡¯s like that then!¡± His heart mes ignited at the insult. ¡°I think it¡¯s time you and I exchanged discourse, Griffon!¡± ¡°I have a better idea,¡± I said, grinning fiercely. I mmed my elbow down on the table and offered him my open hand. ¡°The Muses have abandoned you. Let¡¯s see if your body has too.¡± The club devolved into hollering chaos as I arm wrestled the archer for all that I was worth. He pressed down on me with every ounce of strength in his Heroic body, but for all that he was stronger than me by an iprehensible metric in terms of our tripartite souls, it was not necessarily the same story when it came to our bodies. He was an archer, a ranged warrior. His body, though far beyond anything an archer in a lower realm could possess, simply hadn¡¯t been tempered the same way mine had. We were built differently. My body was superior. And admittedly, he was incredibly drunk. He cheated, of course, but this time so did I. As soon as I saw the mes in his eyes re up I seized his hand with all twenty of my pankration arms and drove it down onto the table. The club erupted with deafening cheers, and Kyno held Lefteris down while Elissa and I poured cups of spirit wine into his open mouth. Somewhere in the mayhem, the bronze doors of the club swung open and admitted a group of cultivators. There were six of them, and as I brushed over them with a casual eye I saw them staring directly at us. Two had the fires of Heroic cultivation in their eyes, while the other four were deep into the Sophic realm. Without hesitation, the sharper of the two Heros sauntered over to our table. Three Philosophers followed on his heels, while the other Hero and one of the Philosophers went to the bar. I saw the Hero¡¯s eyes flicker to our empty chairs, vacated while we held Lefteris down and administered his punishment for cheating. Sensing what was toe next, I grabbed the chairs with three hands of pankration intent and pulled them back before he reached them. Something ugly swept across the faces of his entourage. The Hero smiled faintly. Kyno cursed under his breath when he spotted them, righting Lefteris in his chair. Elissa turned cold, staring silently at the Hero and leaning on the table next to the bronze de she¡¯did across it. Lefteris sputtered and pped as much wine out of his robes as he could. ¡°Greetings, Philosopher,¡± the Hero insulted me. ¡°You¡¯ve taken my seats.¡± I felt a powerful sense of d¨¦j¨¤ vu. ¡°I don¡¯t see your name on any of them,¡± I replied. His eyes red, but instead of attacking or responding the way I¡¯d expected him to, he simply nodded at the chairs. ¡°See for yourself.¡± There was a name carved into the back of each chair that hadn¡¯t been there before. zon. Heroic cultivators were nothing but swagger and bad attitudes. ¡°I didn''te here to read,¡± I dered. Lefterisughed. Evidently too drunk for a proper cultivator standoff. ¡°My, the junior initiates are bold these days. Hardly in the Sophic realm and you dare talk back to a Hero?¡± zon¡¯s voice was deceptively mild, while his pneuma radiated threat. Was this what it felt like? No, I was far more fun than this, surely. ¡°My mentor always said I was a precocious child,¡± I said, only realizing as I said it that the three behind me would assume I meant Sol, and not the old man that had taught me the quadrivium. ¡°Amon affliction,¡± zon said understandingly. ¡°Fortunately, that is what senior initiates are for. Come, brother, allow me to guide you on your path to virtue.¡± He spread his hands invitingly, and a monstrous pressure swept through the club. The waves of zon¡¯s influence crashed against my own and only broke after some effort on my part. I smiled coldly. I could feel the difference between this one and Elissa. His temper was shorter, and his pneuma was even more densely vibrant. He wouldn¡¯t waste time on warning blows or choreographed moves. I could see the intent in the curve of his smirk. He intended to shatter my ego. And I wasn¡¯t strong enough to stop him. ¡°Enough of this,¡± Kyno said, stepping up beside me. His massive hands flexed threateningly, and- was the crocodile skin ring? ¡°We¡¯ve been here all morning, zon. Find another table.¡± ¡°Of course I¡¯d be happy to trade discourse with you as well, brother,¡± zon said obligingly. ¡°In fact, I¡¯m sure my juniors here would be honored to see your virtue in action. Perhaps you could advise them?¡± The three Philosophers with him fanned out around us, and in my peripheral I saw the other two returning with their drinks, coincidentally cing them behind us. ¡°Six on four is hardly fair,¡± I pointed out. ¡°Arguably, Lefteris is drunk enough to count against us.¡± ¡°Perhaps it¡¯s best you took him home, then,¡± zon suggested. Evidently tired of the word y, Elissa grabbed her bronze de and drove it through one of the chairs, splitting it down the middle and kicking both pieces across the floor. zon stopped one with his sandaled foot, letting the other skitter by and shatter against the far war. His expression shuttered, and the tension in the room crystalized. I inhaled. A cultivator¡¯s influence washed over the club. Every able body stiffened as the waves swept over them, examining them, urging them beneath its surface. It was a challenge to fight. A riptide pull. I started to chuckle. zon, who had whipped around to stare at the bronze doors, turned back to me just as quick. ¡°What are youughing at?¡± he demanded furiously. ¡°You.¡± Gravitas blew the bronze doors off their hinges and Sol stalked into the club, dragging a cultivator dressed in ck rags and a hood behind him. He had that storm in his eyes, and there was a dark weight to them that made him look twice and twice again more menacing than usual. From past experiences I knew that dark weight was exhaustion. He was all but dead on his feet. But they didn¡¯t know that. Three cultivators walked through the ruined entryway behind him, Scythas as well as a man and a woman I hadn¡¯t seen before. A cursory nce at their pneuma revealed that all three were of the Heroic realm. The hooded cultivator, too. Sol threw the struggling Hero down onto the floor and stomped them through it when they tried to rise. The woman in his groupughed lightly,ying a hand on his shoulder. There was a cut there, angry and red, and it was mirrored on the other side of him. ¡°Careful,¡± the Heroine said yfully. ¡°This is thest one. We need them intact.¡± ¡°I pay my respects to the kyrios,¡± he said, ignoring her. His voice was as darkly strained as the rest of him. ¡°For maintaining order in a cult full of animals.¡± Thest word came out as a snarl. The cultivator raised his arms up over his face, and Sol hammered them down with Gravitas. The man cried out in pain and fear. A Hero cowered at Sol¡¯s feet. The context, doubtlessly, was not as impressive as the image here and now. But that hardly mattered. I fought to contain my smile and lost. Worthless Roman, I really was going to have to pretend he was my mentor after this. ¡°Who are you?¡± zon asked, confused and wary. No doubt his senses were telling him the truth of things - that Sol was only a Philosopher, and barely at that. But his eyes were telling him something else entirely. And if nothing else, the status of the three Heroes nking him were undeniable. I couldn¡¯t resist. ¡°Master,¡± I greeted him cheerfully. ¡°Where have you been? You look terrible.¡± Sol looked, saw me standing by a table covered in cups of wine and a dice game, and his lips peeled back from his teeth. Lefteris¡¯ chair scraped loudly against the floor as he edged it back, away from my ¡®mentor¡¯. Elissa¡¯s hand tightened to a white-knuckled grip on her de. Kyno¡¯s jaw flexed. ¡°Your master?¡± Ah, there was the uncertainty. You tried to Young Aristocrat the Young Aristocrat, zon. It¡¯s only natural that tribtion would follow. ¡°I¡¯ve never seen either of you before.¡± ¡°We¡¯re new arrivals,¡± I exined truthfully. ¡°I came topete, and Sol came for a bit of culture before he goes back to fighting demons on the western front.¡± ¡°You¡¯re here for the Games?¡± The third member of Sol¡¯spanions asked, surprised. He nced at Sol. ¡°That¡¯s¡­ not what I would have guessed.¡± ¡°Seems almost too tame,¡± the Heroine agreed, twirling a bloody javelin in her hand. Steam drifted away from it as I watched, the blood superheated by something invisible to the eye. The waves of her influence were scorching hot as they brushed up against mine. ¡°Demons?¡± Scythas asked, edging in close. ¡°Is that true, Sol?¡± I could visibly see thest thread of his patience snap. The downed cultivator gagged as Sol picked him up by the throat and ripped the hood off his head. He would have been handsome, I was sure, and some of it could still be seen beneath the blood and swollen bruises, but it was difficult to appreciate now. He coughed and weakly spat, to his credit at least attempting to be defiant in the face of the storm. Sol headbutted him as hard as he could. The crack of their foreheads mming together and the way the Hero¡¯s head snapped back made it seem as if his neck had broken, just for a moment. The cultivator¡¯s eyes quivered, dazed. And settled, for just a moment, on zon. They moved on at once. But it was toote. ¡°You,¡± Sol snapped, throwing the cultivator to the ground and stalking towards the Young Aristocrat. zon took a step back, an unconscious reaction. It doomed him. ¡°Tell me how many there are and the names of their targets. Now.¡± For all that he had resisted my charade at the start, Sol was one hell of an actor. If he was acting, that was. I leaned back against our table, impressed enough to let it y out without any interruption. ¡°I don¡¯t know what you¡¯re talking about,¡± zon denied any involvement with the events that had sullied the funeral, of course. ¡°I don¡¯t even know that man.¡± Shadow politics were perhaps an inevitability in an institution like this, but being linked to those unpleasant dealings was something else altogether. zon¡¯s loyalpanions slowly distanced themselves from him, each trying very hard not to catch Sol¡¯s notice in doing so. Scythas and the other two were watching them intently, though. ¡°How cold of you, zon,¡± the Heroine with the bloody javelin said disapprovingly. ¡°I¡¯ve seen you and Alexios here exchanging discourse on more than one asion. Surely you recognize him - the bruises aren¡¯t that bad.¡± The captain¡¯s influence pressed down on everyone in the club. I held my breath. I could see how close Sol was to copse. If they called his bluff and attacked, we had enough Heros on our side to win the ensuing brawl. But he wouldn¡¯t necessarily survive it. Luckily, zon was something that I have never been, even in my days as Young Aristocrat of the Rosy Dawn. A coward. The Heroic Young Aristocrat exploded into motion, away from Sol and the rest of us, vaulting the bar and disappearing through the back of the establishment. The Heros that had been in the club but not taken any sides up until that point took off in pursuit of him, open collusion being the line that they apparently could not abide being crossed. The rest of zon¡¯s entourage tried to follow suit in escaping, but the Philosophers were swarmed by the other cultivators in the club and Scythas and his friend took down the second Hero of the group with punishing force. In the riotous haze of pneuma, heroic spirits, and virtuous techniques tearing through the establishment, I nearly missed that crow that exploded out of the robes of the cultivator that Sol had dragged in. The bird looked like it was made of squid ink instead of flesh, whirling liquid shadow in the shape of a crow rather than the creature itself. It shot through the air like an arrow from a bow, narrowly avoiding a dozen different techniques and shooting through the open doorway. It cawed mockingly as it vanished from view. Abruptly, that caw turned to an odd, whistling shriek. A Roman messenger eagle swooped into the club andnded on Sol¡¯s shoulder. The crow construct struggled weakly as the eagle snapped it down its throat one bite at a time. Sol approached our table in a controlled stagger, taking my seat and my cup of wine too, draining it in one pull. He ignored the chaos currently resolving itself in the club, the shouts and struggles of men individually capable of crushing stone and leveling buildings. He surveyed the table, and the game of Ascension clustered to one side of it. The Heroine with the javelin leaned on the back of his chair, stroking his eagle and cooing softly to it while it preened. ¡°You¡¯re ying dice?¡± he asked roughly. Elissa and Kyno shared a look, and slowly, slowly, sat back down in their chairs. Lefteris, having been too drunk to stand in the first ce, eased his back up to the table. ¡°We were,¡± I said, smirking. Lefteris paled. ¡°Before my new friend over here cheated.¡± Sol¡¯s eyes narrowed to slits. Chapter 1.15 Chapter 1.15 The Son of Rome I woke up and immediately regretted it. Remnants of the funeral drums echoed behind my eyes, an unbearable throbbing that turned my stomach. My body ached down to the marrow of my bones, and my mouth was drier than a day at the Senate. I shifted, grunting. Even the soft brush of silk sheets was intolerable. I cracked an eye open. Luxury. It was a sparsely decorated room, but what was there was of an undeniable quality. The floor was smooth stone that reflected the light of the sun, shot through with an electric bluepis. The walls were covered in hanging tapestries of Olympic scenes painted with the painstaking detail of an artist¡¯s life piece. A single ivory column, waist-high, stood central in the room, with a golden cradle for torch me perched atop it. A dining table cut from a fine, dark wood sat off in a corner. Each of its legs had been carved in the Corinthian style, with faux vines winding up their length. Large papyrus charts nketed the table in ce of food, gleaming with recently applied ink. Upholstered dining couches and bronze-backed chairs were scattered throughout the room, and while those that remained intact were of the utmost quality, most of them had been smashed to pieces. There were other things, personal items and keep-sakes that I couldn¡¯t be bothered to keep my eyes open for. Satisfied that I wasn¡¯t dead or imprisoned, I rolled over on the blessedlyfortable bed. Into Griffon¡¯s foot. I shoved the filthy limb out of my face. He jerked awake, scarlet eyes snapping open. ¡°What-¡± ¡°Get out of my bed,¡± I said hoarsely. Everything, including my own voice, felt unpleasant. I needed another three days of sleep at least. ¡°Your bed?¡± Griffon repeated, incredulous. ¡°Neither of us owns anything. It¡¯s as much mine as it is yours.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t care. Get out.¡± ¡°Denied.¡± He rolled over, using the crook of his elbow as a pillow. ¡°Be quiet, will you? I had a long night.¡± I knew he was smirking as he said it. It was why he¡¯d turned away. It was purely an attempt to get under my skin. It worked. Gravitas threw him from the bed, and twenty arms of pankration intent tossed me off the other side in turn. I came to my feet spitting mad, my head pounding and the taste of blood in my mouth. He rose up across the bed, looking far better rested and entirely too smug. ¡°I¡¯m going to kill you,¡± I told him. ¡°You¡¯re wee to try.¡± We both lunged for the bed. It was Scythas¡¯ room, as it turned out. The Hero in question returned to his room with food and drink in hand, just in time to see us shatter his bed with our wrestling. We both froze, Griffon¡¯s hands wrapped around my throat and my own pressing a pillow down on his face. Hazel-me eyes, flecked with golden embers, met mine. More than angry, he looked exasperated. ¡°We have halls for that,¡± he said, shaking his head and sweeping the papyrus off his dining table with one foot. Heid out three loaves of dark brown bread alongside a long, narrow b of stone covered with seared fish. A pitcher of water and another of sparkling white wine. ¡°At least eat something first. The two of you necked more kykeon in a day than most senior initiates drink in a week.¡± That exined a few things. I cursed my hubris. What sort of fool went binge drinking immediately after a night of brutal fighting? After multiple brushes with death? Men like me were why officers hated the infantry. ¡°Light work,¡± Griffon boasted through the pillow, smacking my shoulders in a tap. It was no coincidence that he found the lingering cuts the Crow had left me. A night of work had purged the worst of the cultivator¡¯s poisonous pneuma from my system - but it still stung like a bastard. I pressed down harder on the pillow. Pankration hands pped insistently at my shoulders. The bread was still warm, and the fish was coated in olive oil and richly seasoned with pepper and ginger. After I had forced down a cup of the sweet white wine and several cups of water, I even began to enjoy it. Griffon and Scythas made small talk while we ate, trading stories of the day before. Apparently I had lost an entire day to exhaustion and spirit wine. The sun was just now rising again, a full day after the kyrios¡¯ funeral. ¡°So this is the Raging Heaven Cult,¡± Griffon mused, licking a trickle of olive oil off his thumb and surveying the room with a critical eye. ¡°Are all of the initiates given private rooms?¡± ¡°Definitely not,¡± Scythas said, shaking his head. ¡°Junior initiates share rooms, four to a dorm for Philosophers and eight for Citizens. Heroic cultivators and those with seniority are given rooms like these. The elders each have their own estates scattered around the mountain, where their city¡¯s representative initiates tend to congregate.¡± He seemed to think of something and said to me, ¡°Naturally, there are more spacious amodations for honored guests. Elder Aleuas asked me to extend you an invitation to his estate, I¡¯m sure he¡¯ll be happy to amodate you during your stay.¡± ¡°Naturally,¡± Griffon echoed. I raised an eyebrow at him, but he only smirked faintly. Most young lords, whether they be aristocrats or patricians, would have chafed fiercely at the sudden reversal of our dynamic. Griffon, though, seemed amused by the novelty of it. ¡°See to it that he treats my master well,¡± he said imperiously. ¡°He went through much to get here.¡± ¡°You mentioned that before,¡± Scythas said, with sudden intensity. I had a blurred impression of an exchange from the morning before, like something out of a fever dream. The contents of it had been washed out by the alcohol and the exhaustion, but I remembered enough. Demons on the western front. ¡°What does your elder want with me?¡± I asked him, rather than answer the unspoken question. The food and the wine and the bed had improved my mood substantially, but not nearly enough to delve into that particr topic. Fortunately, the night beforest had given Scythas an overinted view of me. He epted the deflection for what it was and didn¡¯t pry further. ¡°Jason and I brought the Crow in yesterday while you were ying Ascension,¡± he exined. I nodded, distantly remembering a game of dice, and¡­ a cheater? A cheater. ¡°Cyril we turned over to Elder Gelon, as we couldn¡¯t prove that he was involved in the same way zon was. But it was enough that we had the Crow and testimony from zon¡¯sckeys. Elder Aleuas wants to thank you for assisting an initiate from his city and discuss the events of the night in person.¡± Somehow, I doubted that was all the good elder wanted from me. More importantly, though, what had been that cheater¡¯s name? ¡°What are these?¡± Griffon asked, picking up one of the papyrus sheets that Scythas had slid off the table. It was a star chart covered in fresh ink, a map of the night sky in winter. ¡°You don¡¯t remember?¡± Scythas¡¯ eyes widened in outrage. ¡°They¡¯re for my cultivation - you said you knew what you were talking about when you offered to help!¡± ¡°If I said that I knew, then I did,¡± Griffon assured him, scanning it with interest. ¡°I just don¡¯t remember it.¡± For a moment, Scythas was lost for words. He looked at me. ¡°Is he always like this?¡± ¡°He is.¡± ¡°How can you not remember?¡± he asked, nearly desperate. ¡°We spoke about this for hours.¡± ¡°His tolerance for wine has always been pitiful.¡± I didn¡¯t hesitate to condemn my student for forgetting such an important conversation. What that conversation had been about, I couldn¡¯t say, but it was surely outrageous that Griffon had forgotten it. The man in question shrugged one shoulder, shooting me an amused look, and spread another chart across hisp. He hummed. ¡°Ah.¡± It only took him a few moments to find what he¡¯d been looking for. ¡°You¡¯re on the hunt.¡± ¡°He remembers,¡± Scythas said, raising both hands in wonder. Griffon shook his head absently, wild blond mane spilling over his shoulder. ¡°No, I don¡¯t recall anything past the bathhouse.¡± Bathhouse? ¡°Oh, of course. You just took one look at the night sky in spring and realized what ails my soul,¡± Scythas said scathingly. Griffon didn¡¯t respond, grabbing another chart from the pile. ¡°... You¡¯re serious?¡± ¡°I always am,¡± Griffon said. I snorted. ¡°Be silent, master.¡± Astronomy had never been my primary focus, even as a boy. It was something my mentor had alluded to in the early days of my instruction but never delved fully into. I knew all of the constetions worth knowing, of course, and I knew how to navigate by them, but after I¡¯d left home to join the legions my education had be far more practical. I had learned to read omens from the night sky before a battle, and I was distantly aware of how to divine the seasons from their formations. But by andrge, cosmology was not a field I¡¯d had the luxury of exploring. Which meant those feverishshes of ink were Griffon¡¯s doing. I observed what looked to be a spear traced through the stars, a fist, and a hound with a snake in its mouth. The more I looked, the less it made sense. What could I have possibly contributed to this conversation, drunk and half dead? ¡°I can see where I was going with this now,¡± Griffon said, faintly amused. ¡°You want to cheat.¡± ¡°I do not!¡± Griffon could have pped him across the face, and I don¡¯t think Scythas would have been as offended as he was right then. ¡°And yet here you are, setting your sights on the Conqueror¡¯s Path,¡± Griffon said with no particr judgement. There was scarletughter in his eyes as Scythas jerked the charts from his hands. ¡°Forget it,¡± Scythas muttered sourly. His eyes flickered to me, chagrined, as if my opinion somehow mattered to him. How absurd. I reached over and pped him on the shoulder. I had to reach for it. The two of them wereid out on their dining couches in the indolent Greek style, an unpleasant reminder of younger days in Rome. I sat on my own couch like it was a bench. Old habits. ¡°You have nothing to be ashamed of,¡± I told him truthfully. Griffon had a way of getting under the skin. It was as much a skill of his as his pankration intent and his rosy fingers of dawn. But whatever it was that Scythas had asked our help forst night, I could tell that it was a difficult subject for him. It wasn¡¯t something he¡¯d shared lightly, even with the addition of alcohol. He rxed at the small gesture, nodding once. ¡°Thank you again,¡± he said quietly. ¡°I didn¡¯t stop to think when you pointed out those Crows. You probably could have handled it yourself, but I would have been in over my head if you hadn¡¯te with me. So thank you.¡± ¡°You handled yourself well. You all did.¡± It was a gross understatement. My recollections of that night were a blur of pain and single-minded focus, further muddled by potent spirit wine, but what I did remember of Scythas and the other two evoked memories of the best days in Gaius¡¯ legions. Heroic cultivators were impossible legends, myths made reality. I was reminded of that fact over and over again, in the aftermath of the kyrios¡¯ funeral, while we stalked the stalkers and chased them from their shadows. My contribution to the list of miracles performed that night was to somehow not die, not even once, and toe out of it with my reputation intact. Admittedly, that might have been the unlikeliest urrence of the night. Speaking of. ¡°Where are Jason and Anastasia?¡± I asked him. I remembered them surviving the night, but not much more than that. ¡°Jason¡¯s sleeping yesterday off, along with the other three if I had to guess.¡± He shifted on his couch. His faint green cult attire, a marked difference from the royal indigos of the sanctuary city, shifted with the motion. It fell away from tanned muscle and sinew. He had no scars. ¡°And Anastasia?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know and I don¡¯t care to, either.¡± His lip twitched towards a sneer, but he seemed to think better of it. ¡°She is¡­ not a woman I would associate with freely.¡± ¡°Ho?¡± Griffon leaned forward on his dining couch, suddenly invested. ¡°And why is that?¡± I vaguely remembered him grilling me in a private moment, while we¡¯d walked the streets of Olympia surrounded by rowdy Heroes, about the new additions Scythas and I had returned with. ¡°Where that one goes, disaster surely follows,¡± Scythas said darkly. ¡°She¡¯s an ill omen in silk robes and a widow''s veil.¡± The investment grew. ¡°Go on.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t be a fool,¡± Scythas snapped. Then, to me, ¡°Just keep an eye on her. You may be able to take care of yourself, but with her that isn¡¯t always enough. She has a way of¡­ tempting.¡± Ah. I smiled, in the distant way of my adopted father. ¡°I¡¯ll keep that in mind.¡± ¡°Right,¡± he said, averting his eyes. ¡°I think I¡¯ll pay her a visit anyway,¡± Griffon said, winking when Scythas red at him. ¡°My master often tells me I¡¯m a foolish man.¡± ¡°For all the good it does,¡± I returned wryly. ¡°I warned you,¡± Scythas said. ¡°What follows is on your head.¡± There came a crack, a mechanical crunch of sliding bolt locks being forced out of ce. Light red along the surface of Scythas¡¯ door, bronze script burning with a visible light that seared the senses, alerting anyone within view of an imminent breach. Then, as quickly as it hade, it flickered and went out as the door was forced open. Anastasia leaned against the mangled door frame, a vicious smile in her eyes. A massive Roman messenger eagle was perched on her right shoulder, which beat its wings and swept across the room tond on the curve of my dining couch, looking expectantly up at me. In lieu of a message, I offered it a scrap of fish. Scythas came to his feet, fists clenched. ¡°My, my,¡± the Heroine said. ¡°You three have certainly been busy.¡± Smoldering green eyes surveyed the mangled room, drifting past Scythas without truly seeing him. They lingered for a moment on Griffon, and the charming grin he reserved for strangers that didn¡¯t know him yet. But they settled, inevitably, on me. Chapter 1.16 Chapter 1.16 The Young Griffon Anastasia was what a charitable man would call dangerous. I¡¯d known from the moment I felt the searing heat of her influence, and again the instant I¡¯d seen the cruel amusement in her eyes while Sol battered a defenseless man in the club. She was the type to leave men pining endlessly for even the kiss of her heel. Fortunately she wasn¡¯t my type, and when lust was removed from the equation she became simply interesting. ¡°Sol is a brutal taskmaster,¡± I said in exnation of the broken bed frame. ¡°Hardly gave me a moment to wake up before testing my pankration. Wouldn¡¯t even let me stretch first.¡± It really was a shame. For Scythas especially. It had been afortable bed, feathered down and silk sheets. ¡°And the rest of the furniture?¡± Anastasia asked, arching a dark brow. Scythas grimaced, in part because of herck of care for him as she brushed past him, into the room, and in part because we truly had made a mess of the ce. Sol said nothing, matching the Heroine¡¯s smoldering stare and holding it as she approached him. Knowing him, the fool thought he was establishing authority. ¡°We may have had a cup too many,¡± I admitted. ¡°An understatement if I¡¯ve ever heard one,¡± she said, rolling her eyes. Sol exhaled, satisfied that he¡¯d won the ¡®staredown¡¯. ¡°I¡¯ve seen lesser men die from drinking in such excess.¡± The Heroine perched herself on the sloped headrest of Sol¡¯s dining couch, stroking his eagle from tip to tail feather while he fed it scraps of his breakfast. Evidently, I was the only man in the room with a voice. That suited me just fine. ¡°We¡¯re cultivators. It¡¯s our providence to exceed lesser men.¡± ¡°Even in your vices?¡± she asked, amused. ¡°Especially in our vices.¡± ¡°My master would call that hubris,¡± she murmured. ¡°Even children know that vice is the inverse of virtue.¡± ¡°Yet the heavens strike down virtuous souls like the kyrios while men like me run wild,¡± I said, leaning a cheek on my hand as I reclined. I retrieved with pankrations intent the charts that Scythas had taken from me, forgotten on his couch when Anastasia broke down the door. ¡°The heavens may not be prompt,¡± she countered, ¡°But their wrath is always felt in the end.¡± The fine details of her were dark and nearly menacing, smoldering green eyes and smirking red lips, framed by long midnight ck hair. The contrast with her marble pale skin was undeniably enticing. A fine aesthetic. I grinned sharply, meeting her gaze over an array of star charts. ¡°I hope so. The tribtions are the best part.¡± For a moment she was honestly thrown. ¡°What have you been teaching this one, Solus?¡± ¡°Not nearly enough,¡± Sol said tly. I snickered, flipping through papyrus sheets. Scythas finally made a decision, forcing the heavy bedroom door back into its frame with another painful crunch of breaking locks. ¡°Tell me, Anastasia.¡± The Heroine hummed invitingly. ¡°Did we trade life stories while I was drunk?¡± ¡°We did not.¡± ¡°Good. It would have been rude to ask twice.¡± She chuckled. ¡°My, my. Moving fast, aren¡¯t you? Some women enjoy the direct approach, but I prefer a bit of courting first.¡± ¡°You think far too highly of yourself,¡± I informed her pleasantly. ¡°I couldn¡¯t possibly be less interested in you as a woman.¡± For the first time since I¡¯d met her the Heroine truly looked at me. The eddies of her influence brushed against mine, caustic and searching. ¡°Are you calling me ugly, cultivator?¡± she asked me softly. She was nothing of the sort, of course, but it wouldn¡¯t do to give her that satisfaction. I was certain she got enough of that from her fellow initiates. ¡°I see a more attractive face than yours every time I pass a clear pool,¡± I replied instead. Scythas coughed, choking on a mouthful of white wine. Sol just rolled his eyes. Viridescent mes and caustic influence pressed against me,pping against the edges of my awareness. Then, all at once, it fell away. ¡°I like you,¡± Anastasia decided. ¡°But I like your mentor more.¡± ¡°Understandable,¡± I said. ¡°With a smile like that, who wouldn¡¯t?¡± Sol favored me with a gesture that surely meant ¡®Thank you, brother¡¯ in legion-speak. ¡°The two of you are an oddbination,¡± Anastasia mused. ¡°A wolf keepingpany with a lion. What could have possibly brought a Roman and a scarlet son together?¡± Scythas stiffened in my peripheral vision. ¡°Roman?¡± Very interesting. ¡°It¡¯s a funny story,¡± I told her. ¡°Tragic, too, as all the best ones are.¡± ¡°I¡¯m listening,¡± she said simply. I shared a look with Sol. I understood his intent without any words being said. This was neither the time nor the ce to be discussing our flight from the Scarlet City, and certainly Sol had no desire to share his personally tragic circumstances with two potential enemies of vastly superior cultivation. I nodded minutely, letting him know that I understood, and he rxed. ¡°We can trade,¡± I proposed, blithely ignoring the suffocating pressure of Sol¡¯s murderous influence. ¡°My cousin always said there¡¯s nothing quite like trading stories around a fire.¡± The rosy light of dawn crept from the cradle of my palm to the tips of my fingers, and I flicked a spark of my burning pneuma into a brazier mounted on top of a marble column. It caught the snow-white charcoal within and went up in a cheerful scarlet me. ¡°A question for a question?¡± she asked, notmitting one way or another. Scythas, having partly rejoined the group with forearms resting over the back of his lounge, didn¡¯t look any more eager to share. ¡°Exactly.¡± It was clear that they needed some convincing, so I continued, ¡°Let¡¯s make it interesting - a king¡¯s game. The winner asks the questions, and the losers answer.¡± ¡°How convenient. The one who never loses never has to answer questions,¡± Anastasia said wryly, tucking a ringlet strand of hair behind her ear. Scythas¡¯ eyes tracked the motion unconsciously. ¡°And I suppose you have just the game in mind.¡± I syed my hands invitingly. ¡°Take your pick.¡± The Heroine considered me for a moment. ¡°There is a game I wouldn¡¯t mind ying,¡± she finally said. ¡°But we don¡¯t have any knuckles.¡± Sol wordlessly dropped a handful of knuckle bones on the dining table. They scattered across the dark wood, over a dozen of them, each rattling loudly. ¡°... where did you get those?¡± I asked. ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it.¡± Hn. ¡°We¡¯ll need a drachma as well,¡± Anastasia said. Scythas reached for a pouch on a nearby wall-carved shelf. Sol beat him to it. A single drachma fell to the table, chiming as it struck. Sol leaned forward on his bench lounge with quiet anticipation. Of course, the offering of a game had convinced him easiest of all. ¡°The game is knucklebones. The figures are Under the Triumphal Arch and Aqueducts. Heads ends the round. Twelves decide.¡± With that said he took up the drachma and flicked it into the air, and all four of us exploded into motion. Knucklebones was an even simpler game than Ascension, won and lost on physical dexterity alone. A single jack, in this case a drachma, was thrown up and the knuckles were gathered in hand while it fell, through various means depending on the figure being yed. I¡¯d seen this variant a few times in the Rosy Dawn, when Sol had been teaching it to the children in his care. Each figure had its own rules and win conditions, but the first round to decide the order was always the same. Smash and grab. I snatched up three knuckles before Anastasia flipped the table with her foot and Scythas vaulted clear over his dining couch, heart mes raging as he blurred through the air. The golden coin ttered musically against the stone floor at the same moment the table shattered against the far wall. The drachma bounced and spun. Gravitas struck the coin and pressed it to the marble floor. Heads. ¡°What was that?¡± Sol snarled. ¡°Do they not y it this way in Rome?¡± Anastasia opened her left hand, smugly presenting four knuckle bones. Somehow, she¡¯d gathered them without rising from her seat. Scythas looked at the two in his hand with chagrin. ¡°It¡¯s hardly a challenge otherwise.¡± A game like knuckle bones, based entirely upon reaction time, required no particr effort from a cultivator past a certain point of advancement. It was hardly a game at all if each yer could grab every bone from the table before the jack started to fall. That being the case, an extra element of challenge was needed. ¡°Apologies for your room,¡± I told Scythas. He waved it off, having alreadye to terms with the damages. Surprisingly easygoing,pared to his usual temperament. ¡°Cheaters and thieves, all of you,¡± Sol said, disgusted, and dropped six knuckles onto the floor. Anastasia raised an eyebrow, impressed. Scythas stared uprehendingly. ¡°How often do you y this game?¡± I asked, amused. He sneered. ¡°I have the first question. Where do the good philosophers go?¡± ¡°Oh? So it¡¯s like that,¡± Anastasia mused. She stroked the messenger eagle¡¯s head thoughtfully. Scythas, for his part, crossed his arms in concentration, crouching by his dining couch. Scythas snapped his fingers suddenly. ¡°A philosopher is nothing but a man who can see the surface of all that he doesn¡¯t know.¡± ¡°Who told you that?¡± I asked curiously. The Hero looked at me strangely. ¡°Solus did,st night. Have you forgotten even that?¡± Sol looked about as confused as I felt. ¡°If a philosopher is simply the first blind man to know he¡¯s missing his sight, where does he go to see?¡± Anastasia posed, sounding the problem out. For the moment, any enmity between the Hero and the Heroine was forgotten as they pondered the question. ¡°I think he just wants to know where the Sophic cultivators spend their time here,¡± I said. I was rewarded with disdain, and two superior cultivators looking down their noses at me. Ah. So this was what it felt like. ¡°How pitiful,¡± Anastasia said. ¡°Do you take everything at face value?¡± Scythas added. ¡°Forgive me,¡± I demurred. By this point Sol had closed his eyes, solemn face a mask of deep consideration and weighty expectation. In reality, I could tell that he was trying not to snap. ¡°If it¡¯s a question of belonging-¡± ¡°Under the Triumphal Arch,¡± he dered, cutting them off and taking up the coin once more. He pressed the tips of his index and middle fingers against the blue-veined marble, forming an arch. We each followed suit, Anastasia leaning precariously over from her seat on the dining couch. The coin flipped and knuckle bones flew. The objective of Under the Triumphal Arch was to flick as many knuckle bones through the arch of one¡¯s fingers as possible before the jack fell. Depending on the cement of the bones from the previous figure, as well as the actions of the other yers and the trajectories involved, the difficulty of the game could change. Of course, for cultivators of Anastasia and Scythas¡¯ standing, it was hardly worth ying. Unless they cheated. I flicked a knuckle bone with one hand and sent it flying through the arch that my other hand formed. However, just before it could pass through, a whistling projectile struck it from the side and sent it flying off course. Another projectile struck a knuckle next to my arch before I could even attempt to flick it through. In an instant, the room became a whirling storm of flying bones. Anastasia smiled innocently at me, caustic green mes burning merrily in her eyes. ¡°I count twenty-three through mine,¡± she reported at the end. There were only twelve knuckle bones in total, meaning she was a liar or she had flicked multiple sets in the time it took a coin to fall. ¡°Eight,¡± Scythas reported sourly. I didn¡¯t bother vocalizing my null score. We looked to Sol, and beheld the sight of him silently flicking bones through the arc of his fingers while the golden drachma hovered just above the ground, spinningzily in the air. Anastasia and Scythas both lunged for the nearest knuckle, stabbing their fingers back to the floor hard enough to crack the marble. Sol released his virtue¡¯s hold on the coin and it fell cleanly with heads facing up. ¡°Forty.¡± ¡°But that¡¯s-¡± Scythas protested. Sol stared at him, daring him to finish the statement. He didn¡¯t. ¡°Where do the good philosophers of the Raging Heaven go?¡± he asked this time, leaving nothing to the imagination. It didn¡¯t help. ¡°So that¡¯s your game,¡± Scythas said, massaging his jaw. ¡°Juniors and seniors. The wandering philosophers of the free mediterranean versus the schrs of the Half-Step City. A physical ce, after all.¡± ¡°Nothing so simple as that,¡± Anastasia countered. ¡°The divide itself is the question. We may break bread in the light of the divine storm, but is it really the case that we are the seniors, and wanderers like Solus are the juniors? What makes a junior a junior and a senior a senior among philosophers? Age? Standing? Or perhaps virtue?¡± ¡°None of the above,¡± I disagreed, all too happy to further derail the question while Sol silently despaired. ¡°Among philosophers, rhetoric alone is king.¡± ¡°So it¡¯s a question of who among us has the best rhetoric.¡± Anastasia, still bent over the lounge¡¯s headrest, twisted and leaned one arm against the cushion beside Sol, resting her head on it as she thought. ¡°A dangerous question, especially now. The Raging Heaven Cult may soon be at war with itself. You never know who might be listening, or when.¡± ¡°There isn¡¯t anyone,¡± Sol said, his voice dull. Ah. He¡¯d given up. Anastasia looked up at him, startled. ¡°What?¡± ¡°Nobody is listening to us right now,¡± Sol repeated. ¡°I¡¯d smell it.¡± As before, at the funeral, a Heroic cultivator balked at something Sol had presented as a simple observation. Scythas, for his part, just shook his head in wonder. ¡°My, my,¡± the Heroine said softly. ¡°You¡¯re free to speak your minds,¡± I prompted them. Deep contemtion was the response. Free from the paranoia of another party listening in, they devoted their full attention to the prospect. ¡°The best rhetoric in the cult,¡± Anastasia murmured. ¡°Where blind men go to see,¡± Scythas continued. They both reached the same conclusion. ¡°The baths.¡± Sol swallowed back a mouthful of blood. ¡°Aqueducts,¡± was all he said, pressing the tips of his four longest fingers to the floor, creating three arches where there had only been one before. The aim of this figure was toplete as many sets as possible, one set being a knuckle flicked through each of the three arches of the aqueduct in sequence. The coin flipped up into the air, and pneuma flooded the room. This time, all three of us kept an eye on the coin to make sure it settledpletely to the floor, and Scythas unveiled a trick involving what I was certain was a maniption of the wind itself. Sol, having been thoroughly demoralized, didn¡¯t participate at all. The coinnded tails up this time, leading to another flip and an extended round. By the end of it Scythas had collected thirty-seven sets of three, while Anastasia had taken neen, and I had taken eight. Triumphantly, Scythas leveled a finger at Sol. ¡°I have to know, Solus! Where do you stand among heaven and earth?¡± I inhaled the heavy, expectant silence. Pneuma flooded my veins, coursing through my blood in spiraling threads and heating it nearly to the boiling point. My muscles shivered and tensed unnoticeably in anticipation. It had happened sooner than I¡¯d hoped, butter than I¡¯d expected. I supposed this charade was always doomed to fail. While I prepared myself for the fight of our lives, Sol calmly answered. ¡°Legate.¡± Ah. So that was what they called him. ¡°Legionmander?¡± Anastasia looked up at him through narrow eyes. ¡°How old are you really, Solus?¡± ¡°That sounds like another question.¡± Sol offered the golden drachma to Scythas, who after a moment took it. ¡°I have another question, so I¡¯ll be winning again,¡± he dered. ¡°The figure is Aqueducts, once more.¡± ¡°That¡¯s a mistake,¡± I saidzily. ¡°I never lose the same game twice.¡± The Hero scoffed and flipped the coin. My pankration hands filled the room. Fingers of my purest intent drove through the marble floor, five hands creating neen arches, each lined up end-to-end in a grand aqueduct that I immediately filled. The remaining fifteen pankration hands blurred across the floor, flicking and intercepting knuckle bones at every possible opportunity. Whistling blurs shot through the arches of my aqueduct, and were fired back just as quickly by pankration hands waiting on the other side. With my flesh and blood hand I caught the golden drachma and pped it against the back of my other true hand. Heads. ¡°Would you like to know how many that was?¡± I asked. Scythas spat on his own floor in lieu of reply. ¡°Anastasia?¡± ¡°No need,¡± she said, satisfaction in her eyes as they traced the invisible lines of my violent intent. ¡°I¡¯ve just had one of my questions answered.¡± ¡°Ho, is that so? Then it¡¯s only fair if you answer mine - you¡¯re here topete, aren¡¯t you?¡± ¡°I am.¡± ¡°In which event?¡± ¡°That¡¯s two questions,¡± she admonished me. ¡°And you already knew the answer to both. You have eyes, don¡¯t you?¡± The javelin, then. ¡°And you, Scythas?¡± ¡°That¡¯s three,¡± Anastasia said, with some real annoyance this time. I shrugged and flipped the coin. ¡°Twelves.¡± Sol flicked a finger, a pulse of his virtue sending all twelve of the knuckle bones flying into the air. He didn¡¯t move beyond that, still abstaining out of spite. This was the simplest figure - the goal was to catch as many of the flying bones on the back of your hand as possible. Twelve arms of pankration intent caught the bones while the rest pped aside Scythas and Anastasia¡¯s reaching hands. ¡°And you, Scythas?¡± I asked again, smiling pleasantly. The Hero scowled. ¡°The sprints.¡± ¡°Twelves,¡± I repeated, flipping. Heroic spirits red and wind and me raged throughout the room, burning furniture to ashes and tearing silk sheets to shreds. It was all in vain. ¡°The javelin, then,¡± I mused, returning my attention to the Heroine while my pankration hands rolled the knuckle bones around on the backs of their palms. ¡°But you fight with it as well, so which came first? Was the martial path a consequence of the athlete¡¯s desire, or were the games an escape from your troubled past?¡± There was less humor in her eyes now. ¡°Neither.¡± I raised an eyebrow. ¡°Twelves.¡± I felt phantom agony in fingers that I didn¡¯t truly have as the Heroic cultivators turned their pneuma upon my pankration hands in their frustration. They were petty strikes with no real heat behind them, but that was by a Hero¡¯s standards. Still, they lost. ¡°How did you know Sol was from Rome?¡± I pressed her. ¡°He was singing a Legion marching song when I found him.¡± Sol refocused on the conversation, looking narrowly down at her. ¡°When you approached me, you said that I was a wolf after all. You knew what I was from the moment I called out to you.¡± Anastasia was a much better actor than Scythas, that much was certain. But she wasn¡¯t better than me. I saw her frustration clear as day. ¡°If it wasn¡¯t the cadence, but the call itself,¡± I pondered, ¡°then what was it about my good master¡¯s influence that evoked thoughts of Rome? Past experience, perhaps? Something to do with that javelin of yours?¡± Anastasia stared at me, silent for a long moment. Finally she nodded, conceding. ¡°I was right to worry after all,¡± she said. ¡°How did you know which game I would pick?¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t.¡± Satisfied, I tossed the coin into the air and waved a hand invitingly. I poured myself and Sol another cup of wine while the two heroic cultivators fought over the airborne knuckles. It was sweeter than the usual affair at the Rosy Dawn, light and faintly tart on the tongue. ¡°What about you?¡± Anastasia asked, bncing seven knuckle bones on the back of her hand. Dark hair pooled around her head as she looked upside-down at me. ¡°Which golden frond do you desire, Griffon of the Rosy Dawn?¡± I leered at her over the rim of my drinking cup. ¡°Isn¡¯t it obvious? I want them all.¡± ¡°Every event?¡± Scythas asked in disbelief. ¡°Are you out of your mind!? Where do you stand?¡± ¡°That¡¯s two questions,¡± I admonished him, shing my most charming smile. ¡°I¡¯ve decided I like you less,¡± Anastasia said. I ced a hand over my heart, wounded. Sheughed. ¡°Much less.¡± The Heroine twisted and rose to her feet, brushing down her cult attire and giving the messenger eagle onest affectionate scratch. She was close enough to Sol that their noses would touch if he tilted his head just a fraction. ¡°That¡¯s enough games for me, I think. Shall I escort you to the ce where good philosophers go, Solus?¡± ¡°After you,¡± he said, unbothered by her close proximity. She looked into his eyes a moment longer, slowly smiling, before turning and heading for the door. ¡°I have another question,¡± I called, while Sol forced the door out of its broken frame. Anastasia nced back at me, raising an eyebrow. ¡°What is the first virtue?¡± Caustic green eyes glittered. ¡°Purity,¡± she said, and then to me, ¡°Where do you stand among heaven and earth?¡± ¡°You have eyes, don¡¯t you?¡± I asked mockingly. ¡°I¡¯m nothing more than a Philosopher of the first rank.¡± ¡°Liar,¡± she scoffed. Anastasia walked out the door and Sol followed her. Scythas, myself, and an eagle stewed in the silence they left behind. Eventually, Scythas set about salvaging what he could from the room, slipping items and articles of clothing inexplicably into the folds of his cult attire as he worked. I drank and shuffled through his star charts, gathering my thoughts. ¡°So. Anastasia?¡± Scythas threw his things down in disgust and stalked out of his own room. ¡°It¡¯s just you and I now,¡± I informed the great messenger eagle of Rome. It cocked its head at me. I offered it a bridge of pankration palms, and after a moment it fluttered up onto the first and hopped across them to my outstretched arm. Its talons curled easily around my forearm, and the kiss of their edges was sharp against even my tempered skin. ¡°You¡¯re no mere bird, are you?¡± I asked it. It looked at me expectantly. I offered it a scrap of my own meal, the skin of a swordfish. The eagle snapped it down. ¡°That¡¯s been clear since you found us on the Eos. Now, even more so. No mundane bird would be able to detect my pankration intent.¡± The virtuous beast ruffled its feathers, either unable to understand or unwilling to care. Perhaps it only spoke Latin. ¡°You¡¯re Sol¡¯spanion, that¡¯s clear as day, but that worthless Roman hasn¡¯t even given you a proper name. You¡¯re certainly worthy of that much.¡± My pneuma rose, washing over the bird and urging it to submit. Its talons dug painfully into my arms, drawing fine lines of blood, and it spread its wings wide in defiance. The virtuous beast shrieked in my face, unwilling to bend beneath my strength. Iughed. ¡°Sorea you shall be.¡± The lost eagle of Rome. I offered it a roll of papyrus that I had torn from one of Scythas¡¯ star charts and written a quick message on with a formless hand while observing the bird. Rather than offer a leg for me to tie the missive to, the virtuous beast simply darted forward and snapped the roll up in its beak, swallowing it without hesitation. ¡°Disgusting,¡± I said fondly, flicking my arm and dislodging the creature. ¡°Be gone from my sight, mongrel bird.¡± Sorea took flight through the balcony terrace with onest parting shriek, beating its wings and shooting up the mountain at a dizzying speed. I stood up from my lounge, stretching mightily. I sighed, relishing the myriad pops and cracks of my body unwinding. Pankration hands massaged and dug into the tight muscles of my shoulders and neck, coaxing the tension out of my flesh. Now then. Where was that Oracle? Chapter 1.17 Chapter 1.17 The Son of Rome The Raging Heaven Cult was a series of connected estates and valencemunities, growing like weeds around the foot of Kaukoso Mons. Simr to the Rosy Dawn in its construction, the various estates were connected by winding paths of stone carved into the mountain itself. Walking paths, staircases, and even arched bridges of stone could be found within its boundaries. In an inversion of the Rosy Dawn, the most influential members of the cult lived at the lowest points, where the mountain met the earth. The junior initiates lived in quarters further up the mountain, perilously close to the storm. There was an ever-present sensation of malice and threat hung over the cult. The low roll of thunder was constant. I felt it in my bones. The Storm That Never Ceased hung over the peak of Kaukoso Mons like a funeral veil, illuminating the mountain and its various estates at all hours of the day and night with shes of chain lightning. Walking along the carved stone paths and looking up the mountain at that writhing monument to heaven¡¯s fury, I wondered. What could the act of building an entire human civilization on the face of such an edifice be called, if not hubris? ¡°It never stops?¡± I asked, though the answer was in the name. I couldn¡¯t tear my eyes away. The clouds were impossible to see past, darkly foreboding. The crash of constant thunder was felt more than heard, most of its volume muted by something within the cult¡¯s structures themselves. Beyond the gates of the Raging Heaven Cult, though, it was deafening. ¡°How could it?¡± Anastasia asked, ncing up only briefly at it. ¡°The Storm That Never Ceases is a monument to the hubris of man, tribtion made manifest. Humanity tempts the Fates, and the thunder rolls. While one exists, the other must as well.¡± She stepped lightly up the mountain, disdaining the stone stairs in favor of hopping and skipping like a mountain goat. Simply because she could. ¡°Setting up camp under it isn¡¯t exactly a step in the right direction,¡± I observed. She nced back at me, swinging her arms and smiling mischievously. ¡°True enough, your student was right about one thing. Audacity is the providence of cultivation - it¡¯s what drives us to the ivory heights. And what could possibly be more audacious than forging our souls by the light of heavenly tribtion?¡± The architecture of the cults of greater mystery, as well as the cities in which they resided, seemed to follow a particr theme. Alikos was called the Scarlet City for a reason - its fashions, its architecture, and its great works of art reflected that. The sanctuary state of Olympia was much the same, taking a brush of indigo to itself in varying degrees. Electric blues and crimson reds abounded, mingling at points where roofs were shingled and robes were dyed to form a royal purple hue. The estates of the Raging Heaven followed a hierarchy of color that diverged from a vibrant indigo at the base of the mountain where the elders and core initiates resided, turning to distinct blues and reds as one progressed up to where the senior initiates and athletes did their cultivating, worked into the murals painted on the walls and the statues carved out of their pirs. Furthest up the mountain, where the juniors beat themselves bloody and ground down the stone steps day and night, those vibrant reds and blues rejoined to form imperfect shades of the elders¡¯ royal purple. I ran the tips of my fingers along a stone relief carved into the mountain beside our path, a man reclining in a vineyard drinking deeply from two cups. One in each hand. The twin streams of wine pouring into his mouth were veins of a muddled violet gem that glittered in the light of shing lightning. Precious stone sitting in open air, unharvested. ¡°The more I see of this culture,¡± I said, almost to myself, ¡°The less I understand it.¡± How many legionnaires would have given their lives in war for a bare sliver of these violet veins? ¡°Is it really so different in Rome?¡± Anastasia asked. She leapt from one outcropping of stone to another, a distance of over a hundred feet vertically up the mountain. Rather than trying to keep pace, I simply kept walking up the steps until I¡¯d reached her again. ¡°There was excess,¡± I admitted, thinking back to the days of my childhood, when everything had been wonderful and nothing had been enough. Precious gems, fine silks, and ornaments of gold had been standard provisions for my mother and distant family. ¡°But we could never afford to do the things I¡¯ve seen done in the free cities. I¡¯d like to hope that if we¡¯d had that wealth, we wouldn¡¯t have spent it so frivolously.¡± ¡°You would, would you?¡± she asked, hopping down and rejoining me on the steps. Her arms linked behind her back, the dark onyx robes of her cult fluttering in the gale winds of the Storm That Never Ceased. ¡°We don¡¯t have artists or poets in the magnitudes that your Greeks do, I¡¯ll admit, but I have yet to see a nation as virtuous as the republic. Our heroes are men of war, and of the fields. Not yers of monsters, but defenders ofw and order. Beholden to none but the Twelve Tables. Righteous.¡± My right hand clenched reflexively. ¡°And strong.¡± Anastasia considered me thoughtfully. ¡°I confess that I don¡¯t know much of the Roman mythos.¡± ¡°It¡¯s not as exciting as R¨ªastrad or the Seven Sages,¡± I said, eyes unfocusing as I trudged up the steps. ¡°Rome was only founded a few centuries ago. Younger than your kyrios.¡± And shorter lived. My teeth grit. ¡°Our men are our mythos, cunning generals and wise senators. One of our greatest heroes was nothing more or less than a man thatmanded the Legions when we needed him to, and returned to a life of quiet cultivation on his farm when we didn¡¯t.¡± ¡°Cincinnatus was the first dictator, the one that every Roman adores,¡± Gaius told me as his eyes roamed over the sand table. We were alone, and so he let his frustrations slip. But only for a moment. ¡°The heavens adored him, too. So much so that they ced all his enemies in front of him.¡± ¡°If we glorify contentment, how can we break past the boundaries of our mortality?¡± Anastasia asked quietly. Not directly opposing me, but closer now. ¡°Cultivation only makes us more of who we are.¡± It was a curse as much as it was a prayer. ¡°And not every culture follows the same trail up the mountain. Even the barbarians have their own paths to providence.¡± ¡°Is that the Roman way, then? Cultivating fields when you¡¯re not cultivating war?¡± I snorted in spite of myself. ¡°We also enjoy games.¡± She nudged me with her shoulder. ¡°You didn¡¯te to Olympia to y games, though.¡± Her eyes flickered, and she said, almost sadly, ¡°And you¡¯re not here to farm, either. Are you?¡± ¡°Everything that I am is the product of the men that mentored me,¡± I said eventually, remembering sunlit mornings in quiet vineyards, scorching afternoons in the sandpits and the surf, and cold, dark evenings in themand tent. Hunched over sand tables and inked dialogues. ¡°They did what they could with the materials they were given, but I¡¯m no hero. The good people of Rome are better than I could ever hope to be.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t think that¡¯s true,¡± Anastasia denied me with a smile. She didn¡¯t hesitate to do so. ¡°But even so, I think I¡¯d like to see this city for myself. See if itpares to my own Nkr¨ª. Maybe one day you could bring me there,¡± she said slyly. ¡°Maybe one day I will,¡± I said, restraining with willpower alone the reaction that her words nearly evoked. She didn¡¯t know. The baths at the Rosy Dawn had been works of native majesty, making use of the natural springs within the eastern mountain range of the Scarlet City to create soothing hot water pools and purifying steam rooms. They¡¯d been minimally decorated, by the Greek standard, meaning they were utterly luxurious by the standards of the average Roman. The Raging Heaven¡¯s baths, on the other hand, were absurd by any metric. There were as many bathing pavilions as there were estates on the mountain, all of them publicly avable to the mystikos of the cult, and no doubt there were dozens of smaller private bathing suites besides. The one that Anastasia took me to was anointed in baster and ruby veins, two massive basins ced on the mountain, rather than carved out of it. They were ringed by corinthian pirs holding up a ceiling that was painted in maroon and fuschia shades to mimic the night sky at false dawn. The baster tubs, each capable of fitting at least fifty men without any of them being forced to touch, were smooth and decorated with carved lines and rosettes that I realized represented the stars in the sky on two particr days - one pool for the winter equinox and the other for the spring. Their temperatures were regted by unnatural means, one of them so cold that thin flecks of ice floated on its surface, and the other hot enough to make the air above it shimmer and distort. It was a de facto way of separating the baths by rank, I supposed. At temperatures this extreme, even captains of the Civic realm would struggle to cope for more than a few minutes. I could only imagine how bad it was in the baths at the foot of the mountain. ¡°You don¡¯t seem to be enjoying yourself very much,¡± Anastasia observed,nguidly turning her head to face me. We sat only a short distance apart at one edge of the basin, the rest of the tub full nearly to capacity with Sophic cultivators. Men and women bathed together, naked as the day they were born, jostling and exchanging discourse without care. I abstained from the first answer that came to my mind, instead saying, ¡°We do it in the reverse order back home.¡± Anastasia blinked, small chips of ice fluttering from her eyshes with the motion. ¡°Hot bath, and then cold?¡± I nodded. ¡°That¡¯s barbaric.¡± I nced around the bathing pavilion, at the naked men and women mingling freely, and, in some cases, without any space between them. I looked to the pirs holding up the roof, each carved in the shape of a man or a woman engaged in debauched recreation. ¡°Barbarism is in the eye of the beholder,¡± I said, fighting a sneer. ¡°There are benefits to our way,¡± she exined, rather than take offense. ¡°Medical boons. These waters were gathered from blessed springs across the free Mediterannean, and each has its own unique properties. A frigid shock to the system followed by searing heat has a cleansing effect on the body, and the spiritual properties of the water have a simr effect on the soul.¡± That much, at least, I could not deny. My entire body was numb from the cold, and if not for the conditioning I had put it through in the Legions, I was sure it would be far past the point of difort. But the lingering, spiritual and bone-deep ache of the infected wounds on each of my shoulders had vanishedpletely as soon as I stepped in. ¡°Do they have many bath houses in Rome, Solus?¡± Anastasia asked me, curious. ¡°We do,¡± I said, something painful and joyous in equal measure about speaking of home in the present tense. ¡°Hundreds of them, each a work of human ingenuity in ce of natural fortune, fed by aqueducts that span entire countrysides and mountain ranges. Simple,pared to this, but finely built.¡± ¡°I would be surprised if they were as gaudy as these,¡± Anastasia said lightly. ¡°Even the baths where I live aren¡¯t like these. I would say they¡¯re closer to yours - reliably built, andfortable. We carve them from pewter and warm them in the heat of our ming mountains.¡± ¡°Do you bathe together there as you do here?¡± I asked wryly. Anastasiaughed. It was a pleasant sound, throaty and musical. ¡°Dual cultivation has its own benefits, you know,¡± she said slyly. I rolled my eyes in disgust. ¡°Besides, I told you already that these baths have medicinal properties, as all good baths do. Where better to exchange discourse than in such a ce, where your body and mind are at their best?¡± I eyed a pair across the pool, a man with long brown hair that floated on the icy surface and a young woman with pale skin covered in tattoos of whirling purple ink. They were whispering in each other¡¯s ears, the woman sitting on the man¡¯sp, both giggling every so often. ¡°I see.¡± ¡°Are all Romans as uptights as you, Solus?¡± Anastasia teased. ¡°Are all soldiers as tightly wound as you, husband?¡± I stood abruptly from the bath. The hot bath felt colder than the ice bath when I first stepped into it, but that soon gave way to an almost agonizing heat and a rush of tingling sensation on my skin, numbness giving way to warmth. I exhaled roughly, letting it wash over me. Air filled my lungs easier than usual, more fully, and my pneuma circted freely throughout my body. It wasn¡¯t nearly as satisfying as jumping into an ice cold pool after sweating for hours in a hot bath, but it was pleasant in its own way. ¡°I apologize,¡± Anastasia murmured, slipping in beside me. ¡°I meant no offense.¡± She had two cups of cool water in her hand, and she offered me one. I took it mechanically, staring straight ahead for all the good it did me. No matter where I looked, I saw degeneracy, and degeneracy saw me. The vile sensation of eyes roaming across my naked chest assaulted me from all sides. ¡°I¡¯m married,¡± I said, not trusting myself to say more. ¡°Is that so?¡± Anastasia hummed. ¡°What¡¯s her name?¡± I realized why I was so at ease with Anastasiapared to the others. Even Griffon, who had approached conversation with her as a challenge to be ovee. They had the same schemes in their eyes. ¡°Luna,¡± I said, and in the mirage heat of the baths, I could almost see her sitting across from me. Smiling in that way of hers. ¡°Is she back in Rome?¡± Salt and ash. ¡°She is.¡± ¡°A shame for her, then,¡± the Heroine mused, shifting just so in the water, so that I felt the waves. ¡°Your student had another point, audacious as he was in making it. We cultivators are greedy existences. We see something we want, and we take it. Even if it¡¯s off-limits to us. Especially if it¡¯s off-limits to us.¡± I nced sidelong at her. Schemes. Schemes and naked interest. Not subtle at all. ¡°You don¡¯t want me,¡± I said, because I¡¯d never had patients for scheming. ¡°Not for that.¡± Green eyes crinkled and the interest deepened. ¡°Don¡¯t be so sure,¡± she said lightly. She leaned back against the baster basin of the scorching hot bath, eyes flicking from one mystiko to another as she surveyed the pavilion. ¡°Either way, I¡¯ve brought you to one of the Raging Heaven Cult¡¯s bastions of rhetoric. Do you see what you¡¯re looking for?¡± ¡°No.¡± I¡¯d known that from the moment we arrived. ¡°Are you looking for anything in particr?¡± she pressed. ¡°Anyone, perhaps?¡± I considered deflecting or lying, but decided it didn¡¯t matter in the end. ¡°I¡¯m looking for my mentor. He used to live in this city, years ago.¡± ¡°Truly?¡± Anastasia asked, surprised. ¡°If I¡¯d known that, I wouldn¡¯t have taken you to a ce like this. The elders never venture this far up the mountain outside of the initiation rites.¡± ¡°He wasn¡¯t an elder,¡± I said, shaking my head. ¡°At least I don¡¯t believe so. Your elders are all Heroes and Tyrants, aren¡¯t they?¡± ¡°You¡¯re saying¡­¡± ¡°My mentor was a great man, but he was only a Philosopher.¡± I shrugged. Perhaps that was too much information for my cover, perhaps not. I¡¯d soon find out. ¡°Only a Philosopher,¡± Anastasia muttered, in the same tone that Griffon had used when I told him about my father, in a different bath in the Scarlet City. ¡°Well, the Raging Heaven Cult has no shortage of those. I¡¯m sure he¡¯s around here somewhere. And if he is, I can surely find him. What was his name?¡± she asked, drinking gracefully from her cup. I told her. The Heroine choked. Chapter 1.18 Chapter 1.18 The Young Griffon The Oracles were divine messengers, sent down to us lowly men from the heights of Olympus Mons. They transcribed the words of immortals, writrge upon the world, and gave them to us in a form we could understand. If their tongues were the thread, the words they produced were the tangled weaves of destiny itself. For time immemorial the Oracles have guided the greatest Heroes on their paths to glory and prophesied the fall of the vilest Tyrants. It was not enough to say that these women were heaven sent. Divinity was in their very blood. After all, how else could they understand the iprehensible tongue of the pantheon? Every champion¡¯s journey began with the Oracle. Women of prophecy existed in every culture worth mentioning, but it was an intuitive truth that the Oracle was a reflection of her patron deity. And of course, it went without saying that the Greek pantheon was superior to all others. Our Oracles were simply the best in the world. It was no coincidence that in the midst of the war for the Mediterranean, while the free city-states were fighting with all they had to expel his armies, the Conqueror had chosen to push through the bloody seas of hoplites and Heroes to speak to the Oracle. Alone, as vulnerable as he would ever be in his entire life, it was no act of madness that had driven him to the divine temple. It was a desire to know. The hunger. When the Oracle had spat upon him and refused to ask the gods for a foreign Tyrant¡¯s destiny, he¡¯d dragged her out of her holy domain by the hair and beat her in the streets before her people and the heavens themselves. Citizens and soldiers alike had thrown themselves at the Conqueror in outrage and despair, and all of them were cut down by his fury. In the end, it wasn¡¯t the people of Greece or the Oracle herself that broke. Her patron deity cried out with the Oracle¡¯s own mouth, and gave the Conqueror what he hade for in exchange for her life. It nearly cost him his life during the retreat back to his armies, and some said that the turning point of the wary entirely on his shoulders, in that moment. While separated from his forces, the phnxes were given their one and only chance to scour the enemy from our borders. And they took it. By the time the Conqueror rejoined with them, injured and near death, the Macedonian hordes were in full retreat. They never returned. My father, though, in the one time he¡¯d spoken of it, said that the Conqueror had hardly walked away from the incursion disappointed. And if the stories of what followed were true, he¡¯d found more than enough sess in other nations, on other battlefields. Perhaps the Oracle had been a part of that. Perhaps not. Regardless, the losses that he sustained that day were simply the price of admittance to the divine temple. Immortal insight was a boon that needed no exnation. Yet we were cultivators, were we not? In the end, our ultimate goal was to spit in the face of heaven and throw off its threads, was it not? What did it matter what the immortals had to say? Why should the supreme Conqueror care for the words of a being too cowardly to show its face while he savaged its chosen messenger? I was curious to see what the fuss was about, I had to admit. But I wasn¡¯t looking for prophecy. I wanted to meet the women that had been touched by divinity. Unfortunately, it turned out that gaining audience with such a woman was easier said than done. Since the first kyrios of the Raging Heaven Cult had consolidated the great powers of the Mediterranean within Olympia¡¯s walls, each of the Oracles now resided here at Kaukoso Mons. But this hadn¡¯t turned out to be the convenience I¡¯d thought it would be. I watched another initiate of the Raging Heaven beg admittance to a temple of an Oracle, and once more I watched an initiate face cold rejection. The third in as many hours. The mystiko, a wild-eyed woman with streaks of gray in her hair that belied her apparent youth, fled the entry archway in hysterical tears. The guards didn¡¯t even watch her go. The fires of Heroic cultivators burned dully in their eyes. It was to be expected that not every mongrel off the streets would be granted audience with a divine messenger, but I hadn¡¯t expected things to be quite this strict. Thus far, only one initiate had been granted admittance to the temple, and they had been a Heroic cultivator themselves. The Oracle¡¯s word was the beginning and the end of nearly every great epic, the bane of Tyrants the world over. Why would they waste their breath on anything less than a Hero? I¡¯d checked three of the nine temples since this morning, and the principle had held true for each one. The only question that remained was whether or not a Hero could bring a friend. I waved gaily to the guard on the right as his influence crashed against me, white-backed waves and dangerous intent. Onto the next. For every deity of the sublime pantheon, there was an Oracle to spread their word. One for each of the eight city-states, and two for the Coast. Their temples were spread out around the foot of the mountain, intermingling with the personal estates of the Raging Heaven¡¯s elders. Should another conqueror evere calling, from the wilds of Macedon or wherever else, they would have to contend with far more than their predecessor to reach their prize. It was folly for a junior initiate to even walk along these hallowed paths, of course. Spanning the distance between elders, senior initiates, and the dwellings of honored guests such as the Oracles, these were the roads that only privileged members of the cult were permitted to travel. There were main trails - staircases cut from the mountain¡¯s face so that initiates coulde and go from the cult. But these glittering walkways of indigo mosaics were not for the likes of juniors and outsiders to tread. If they were, I would have surely seen some by now. ¡°Where do you think you¡¯re going?¡± Instead, seniors alone trawled these roads. ¡°Good afternoon, fellow sophists,¡± I greeted the approaching trio. Three Philosophers, each noticeably younger than me, and wearing the deep indigo robes of the cult¡¯s privileged mystikos. Young prodigies, each and every one. The one that had called out to me, a young Philosopher of the eighth rank, stopped just short of colliding with me and drove a finger into the center of my chest. ¡°Where are your robes, mystiko?¡± he demanded. ¡°And why aren¡¯t you wearing them?¡± ¡°I haven¡¯t received any,¡± I answered, lifting my palms. What can you do? The young cultivator¡¯s expression darkened. ¡°No one passes through the gates of the Raging Heaven Cult without membership or a sponsor,¡± he said, a curious weight to the words that I felt in his influence. From one moment to the next it suddenly became heavier, more oppressive. Nothingpared to a Hero, however¡­ ¡°Where is you sponsor? Do you mean to tell me you¡¯re using them of negligence, to leave you alone without even a set of proper robes to wear?¡± The other two Philosophers with him, children of simr prestige and stylized robes, stepped threateningly towards me. Their lips moved silently, a habit I¡¯d noticed in some of our own Sophic cultivators back in the Rosy Dawn. Preparing some virtue or another. Best to defuse this situation before it came to that. ¡°Naturally, I¡¯d never use the Raging Heaven of such a thing,¡± I said catingly. ¡°They were simply too drunk to handle the small detailsst night.¡± Hn. Perhaps that wasn¡¯t the ideal way to put it. The young Philosopher went from poking my chest to gripping the golden fabric of my tunic tight and yanking me down to his eye level. Admirable strength for his age. He red at me, his eyes a furious terracotta brown. ¡°What are you ying at, cultivator?¡± he asked in a deadly tone of voice. He reminded me of Myron, during the preliminary trials of the initiation rites. ¡°Walking the roads reserved for senior initiates and honored elders, wearing whatever this is-¡± ¡°What are you wearing, anyway?¡± the leaner of the three demanded. He was the tallest of the bunch, in the midst of filling out into his adult frame. ¡°What sort of city wears those colors?¡± ¡°Oh, this?¡± I plucked the Philosopher¡¯s hand off my tunic and rubbed the material between my fingers. He stared at his own hand, and then at mine. ¡°An old woman gave me this at the kyrios¡¯ funeral. Said it was disrespectful for me to be walking around a dead man¡¯s wake with a bare chest.¡± They connected the dots quickly, looking to my cult attire what hung tattered and bloodstained around my waist. Disbelief, followed by derision passed through their eyes. ¡°The Rosy Dawn?¡± The third boy Philosopher asked incredulously. ¡°You¡¯re a new arrival from the Rosy Dawn.¡± ¡°Just sailed in the day beforest.¡± The lead boy broke into a slow chuckle, and soon that chuckle turned toughter. His friends followed suit. It was an ugly sort ofugh, the kind that promised pain, but they were still too young and small to put it off. So it just ended up making meugh, too. ¡°Shut up!¡± the leader snapped. ¡°Of all the stories you could have told, you chose the most grant! The Scarlet City has been shut off from the Mediterranean for nearly twenty years now. You think we wouldn¡¯t have heard if that had changed? How naive do you think we are?¡± What? ¡°A stranger wandering the same paths that seniors and honored elders tread,¡± the taller of the three said, his own influence rippling and expanding the same way the leader¡¯s had earlier. Magnifying. ¡°With no sponsor to im him, and false attire from a cult he couldn¡¯t possibly belong to.¡± ¡°Are you calling me a liar?¡± I asked, thoughts racing. Instinct. ¡°My virtuous heart won¡¯t ept that.¡± The lead Philosopher¡¯s leaps peeled back from his teeth. ¡°I¡¯m calling you a crow.¡± The trio exploded into motion. I realized instantly that these three weren¡¯t the same breed of Philosopher that I¡¯d be ustomed to back in the Rosy Dawn. They moved with speed and precision that spoke to long hours in the gymnasium, with coordinated that spoke to a strong bond of shared trust, and with power that spoke to their natural talent at cultivation. They reminded me of Myron even more, and even Niks in the days before he¡¯d left. More than that, their influence sang. Their pneuma cried out to me, to a sense that I hadn¡¯t had until two days ago, and I heard it in the crashing waves. Death to deceivers! The tall and lean Philosopher¡¯s influence cried usingly, wrapping around his body and pooling in his clenched fists. Root out the rats, the third Philosopher¡¯s influence hissed, surging up his legs as he leapt into a spinning kick. Cast the unworthy into the light, said the leader¡¯s influence, clearest of the three. It seeped into the roots of his hair, making the deep brown curls billow as he rushed into the press of battle. The trio assaulted me in utter silence, and it was deafening. So that¡¯s how it was. This heart can¡¯t lie! I dered in the voice of my soul, and lunged forward to meet them. Kyno opened the door to his chambers wearing nothing but his crocodile skin cloak. I raised an eyebrow at the sight, but he only grunted and tilted his head back. ¡°In.¡± I obliged, dragging my new friends behind me. They all groaned pitifully, nursing minor wounds as if they were on death¡¯s door. I rolled my eyes and let them drop. ¡°Dont be like that,¡± I scolded. ¡°I barely even hit you.¡± I spat a mouthful of bloody saliva onto the tall one, probing a loose tooth gingerly with my tongue. They were good for their age, I¡¯d give them that much. They¡¯d done more damage to me three-on-one than the Rosy Dawn¡¯s esteemed elders had done with five. ¡°What is this?¡± Kyno asked roughly, wrapping faded green robes around his waist to preserve some semnce of modesty. ¡°What are you ying at, Griffon?¡± ¡°Nothing at all, friend,¡± I said, waving a hand at the three child Philosophers. ¡°I needed to find you and these three were kind enough to direct me.¡± ¡°And you returned that kindness, did you,¡± he rumbled, looking over the bruises and burns, and in the case of the tall one, the broken jaw. ¡°I held back when I could,¡± I said, shrugging. ¡°They¡¯re better than they look.¡± ¡°I¡¯m sure they are,¡± Kyno said quietly. His dark eyes were piercing. ¡°And I¡¯m sure it¡¯s only coincidence that they inflicted as much damage to you as Elissa did, at the funeral.¡± That was more to do with the fact that she¡¯d hardly been trying at the time, and these three had given it their all. I smiled silently. Kyno grunted. ¡°I¡¯m too hungover for this,¡± he said. ¡°You. Get me food and water.¡± The leader of the three looked at his pointing finger, and then at him with wide eyes. ¡°You truly know him, honored Hero?¡± ¡°What did I tell you?¡± I asked, crossing my arms. ¡°My sponsor was drunk.¡± Kyno¡¯s influence roiled in displeasure, but there was little he could say. In a way, the newpanions Sol and I found were our sponsors. They¡¯d gotten us into the cult, for better and for worse. It had been drunk and unintentional, of course, but then all the best things generally were. ¡°Go,¡± Kynomanded. All three dashed out of the room as fast as their legs could carry them, casting fearful nces back at me as they went. ¡°Nice boys,¡± Imented. ¡°Bright for their age, too.¡± ¡°The Raging Heaven epts nothing less,¡± Kyno said, sitting down heavily on the edge of his bed and massaging his temples. When I tried to add my own pankration hands to help he only pped them away, ring at me. ¡°What do you want, Griffon?¡± ¡°I want to see the Oracle.¡± ¡°Then go see her.¡± He waved a hand vaguely east, towards the opposite side of the mountain. ¡°The Scarlet Oracle is that way.¡± ¡°I tried that,¡± I admitted. ¡°Unfortunately, Philosophers aren¡¯t allowed audience with the Oracle on their own.¡± Kyno stared silently at me with bloodshot eyes, his crocodile¡¯s eyes ring right along with him. ¡°I told you at the funeral that I have no interest in the games of politicians and Tyrants,¡± he said, finally. ¡°What makes you think I want to be a part of yours?¡± Ho? ¡°What do you mean?¡± Kyno spat on the floor, lips twisting at the taste of something foul. ¡°You want to pretend you¡¯re a junior, be my guest. But I won¡¯t be roped into whatever it is you and your master are nning.¡± Hnn. I was getting dangerously close to being in over my head. I¡¯d approached Scythas with only a vague n in mind at the funeral, and things had rapidly spiraled out of my control from there. This might be my only chance to withdraw before the situation was well and truly beyond my influence. On the other hand. ¡°What makes you think you aren¡¯t already implicated?¡± I asked, cocking an eyebrow. ¡°Juniors they may be, but there are three young prodigies that can attest to you not denying me when I called you my sponsor. No matter what happens, you¡¯ll be a part of whates next. In the eyes of the elders and the heavens above.¡± The Heroic giant went very still. The fine hairs on my arms and the back of my neck shivered and stood up. My pulse started to pound in mingled excitement and anticipation. ¡°We were all drunk.¡± Even as he said it, he knew it didn¡¯t matter. ¡°You dare ckmail a Hero?¡± I rolled my eyes. So dramatic. ¡°I¡¯m not trying to kill the Oracle. I just want to see her. Will you help me or not?¡± Kyno considered me. ¡°Why?¡± ¡°Why do I want to see her?¡± He nodded. I leaned back against his door frame, mulling over the question. There were several answers to that question. But in the end, there was only one appropriate response. ¡°They say that the Oracles are the blood of the pantheon,¡± I said, as if discussing the sun in the sky. ¡°Even if it¡¯s only the smallest fraction, they carry a piece of one of the divine existances that climbed Olympus Mons and made it their own, once upon a time.¡± ¡°The Oracles don¡¯t deliver prophecies anymore,¡± Kyno said. I shrugged, smiling wryly. ¡°That¡¯s fine. I don¡¯t care much for them anyway, prophecies. The Oracle herself is the prize.¡± His brow furrowed. ¡°You can¡¯t be nning to-¡± I waved the thought off, disgusted. ¡°Nothing like that. It¡¯s far more profound than that.¡± Kyno spread his hands expectantly. ¡°That fraction of divine blood is the end of the road that we¡¯re all so perilously rushing down,¡± I said. ¡°Sprinting with all that we have, careening hopelessly into the depths.¡± I leaned forward, and in his own eyes I saw the fire. I smiled. ¡°I want to see the end of the road, Kyno. Don¡¯t you?¡± The Hero groaned and stood. Chapter 1.19 Chapter 1.19 The Son of Rome Anastasia drew attention as a matter of course. It was a consequence of her status and appearance both - men couldn¡¯t help but steal what nces they could when she was nearby. But as she choked and coughed and hammered her chest, the other mystikos in the bath looked openly our way. She mastered herself quickly, setting her cup aside, but the damage had been done. After a night of hunting Crows and a full day of drinking the following day, it had been my old mentor¡¯s name that finally broke her steadyposure. It wasn¡¯t an encouraging thought. ¡°You-¡± she said, when the worst of it had passed, ¡°You¡¯re serious?¡± ¡°Why would I lie?¡± Ironic, perhaps. But valid in this case. ¡°I can think of a few reasons.¡± She shook her head, brushing damp hair out of her face. Her lips pursed as she mulled the knowledge over, green ember eyes flickering. ¡°How did youe to know him, if I may?¡± I frowned. Oddly enough, I didn¡¯t mind telling her. Maybe it was that poisonous nostalgia, or maybe she¡¯d managed to charm me while I wasn¡¯t looking. The result was the same either way. I was not, however,fortable with the rest of the bathing pavilion listening in. I reached out with my influence and smacked down every grasping hand that I could feel with my Sophic sense. Every single Philosopher in the pavilion flinched. The degrees varied, some recovering in a split second and carrying on their vapid conversations, while others jerked and kicked up ripples in the water. One and all, they retracted. Even here, the baths were nothing but viper pits filled with gossips. From Rome to Greece, everything under the sun was the same. ¡°You get used to it,¡± Anastasia assured me. ¡°It isn¡¯t as if they can do anything with the information. They¡¯re just children.¡± To a cultivator of her standing, perhaps. But I wasn¡¯t so far above these people, or above them at all. Many of them were older than me, their cultivation further advanced. That wasn¡¯t even the crux of the issue, though. I¡¯d thought my year in chains had ground down thest of my pride, yet here it was, rearing its head again. I¡¯d grown used to the respect afforded to me in the legions,e to expect it, even if I¡¯d never truly deserved it. ¡°A child doesn''t fear a me until it burns them,¡± I said, smoothing out a scowl. ¡°That was one of the first lessons he ever taught me. Said it was his duty to burn me himself, before I threw myself fully into the fire.¡± ¡°You were young,¡± she said, half a question. I leaned back against the marble rim of the basin, the cool stone a pleasant contrast to the scalding water. ¡°I was an arrogant child. My mother was convinced that the world revolved around me on a satin thread, and my father¡¯s duties kept him too busy to notice until the damage had been done. I¡¯d never been burned. Was convinced I never would be.¡± ¡°That sounds familiar,¡± Anastasia said, mirth briefly overtaking her tension. ¡°I was wondering what you saw in Griffon to take him on as a student. It was you after all.¡± In a way, she wasn¡¯t wrong. ¡°Griffon is better than I was,¡± I disagreed anyway. It was worth saying, though I¡¯d never say it to his face. ¡°I¡¯m the fruit of all my mentors¡¯bors. Griffon is what he is in spite of his.¡± ¡°For better and for worse,¡± she said wryly. I smirked faintly. ¡°For better and for worse.¡± ¡°How did he convince you to take him on?¡± Anastasia asked. That one was easy enough. ¡°His cousin challenged me to a fist fight.¡± Anastasia blinked. ¡°Where did he stand?¡± ¡°The seventh rank of the Civic Realm.¡± She winced. ¡°I assume Griffon didn¡¯t take his passing well.¡± I nced sidelong at her, frowning. ¡°I didn¡¯t kill him.¡± ¡°Truly?¡± Anastasia looked at me, as if in a new light. ¡°I didn¡¯t take you for a merciful man.¡± As if sparing a child that didn¡¯t know any better was mercy. Every time I forgot, the world reminded me what vile creatures cultivators could be. ¡°He wasn¡¯t a threat.¡± I shrugged. ¡°I could have beaten him in chains.¡± ¡°The fearsome Legate in chains,¡± Anastasia mused, reiming some of her smoke and teasing. ¡°That¡¯s a sight I wouldn¡¯t mind seeing.¡± I rolled my eyes and took up her cup, drinking deeply from it. The water was cool and refreshing. The rim of the cup tasted inexplicably of figs. Sweet. ¡°Griffon stepped in before I could do much to the boy, regardless,¡± I continued. ¡°He demanded that I stop. Told me that I¡¯d had enough fun.¡± ¡°You took him to task for that, surely?¡± I smiled faintly. ¡°I did.¡± That struggle in his family¡¯s filial pool had been the first time in months that I¡¯d felt truly alive. It had been the same for him, too, I knew. ¡°But he impressed you, and here you are,¡± Anastasia deduced. ¡°Here we are.¡± The conversation stalled, the Heroine hesitating suddenly. I offered her cup back to her, raising an eyebrow. We¡¯de this far. Might as well see it through. Anastasia took the cup, running her thumb along its edge. ¡°And what about you?¡± she finally asked. ¡°How did you convince your master to take you on?¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t.¡± At her nk look, I borated. ¡°I was in the forum with a group of my peers-¡± Not friends. Not really. ¡°-and we¡¯d just caught a pair of thieves our age attempting to pick us. We decided we¡¯d take the hands they¡¯d slipped into our purses as punishment, after we¡¯d properly shamed them.¡± The memory was the oddest sort of bittersweet. Shameful to look back on through the lens of my younger self, but warm for what it had ultimately led to. ¡°Looking back, I think they were brothers. The older of the two begged us to take both of his hands instead of one from each of them. We refused, of course, and so he tried something different and goaded us instead. Insisted up and down that we¡¯d do no better than him if put in his position and made to survive.¡± I sighed. ¡°The young patrician couldn¡¯t stomach such an insult, especially in front of my peers. So I offered him a wager.¡± Anastasia had turned to face me fully at this point, resting her crossed arms on the lip of the basin andying her cheek on them. There was a knowing glint in her eyes, and steady interest. ¡°Any rat can snatch a purse when no one is bothering to look at them, was my reasoning at the time. But for a young patrician to do so? That was a true test of skill. I bet him that I could pick five purses without getting caught a single time, and if I did I¡¯d take his thieving left hand and all five fingers of his right. One hand for justice, and a finger for every time I proved him wrong.¡± ¡°You didn¡¯t consider what would happen to you if you were caught, yourself? That you¡¯d share his fate?¡± Anastasia asked, terribly amused. I raised a hand, fingers spread wide. ¡°Young and arrogant. Failure wasn¡¯t even a possibility in my mind.¡± ¡°But if he was correct, and you did fail. What then?¡± ¡°Then he lived to pick another pocket, and his brother got to keep his hands.¡± I shook my head minutely, lost in the memories. ¡°I stole four purses without drawing a single nce. But on the fifth, an old man caught me by the arm as I was rummaging through his robes.¡± ¡°Fool boy. You should have stopped at four.¡± ¡°You stole from-?¡± Anastasia stopped herself, eyes wide. ¡°You and Griffon are a better fit than I thought.¡± ¡°I tried to steal from him,¡± I corrected her with dry amusement. ¡°He¡¯d seen me from the beginning, though. All the way back to the wager I¡¯d made with the plebs. And so he offered me a wager of his own.¡± Calloused hands and a stern demeanor. A ludicrous beard that I couldn¡¯t imagine him without, and finely kept robes of scarlet and white. I¡¯d never forget the look of him in that moment. The terror I¡¯d felt. ¡°Justice is quick, so you¡¯ll have to be quicker,¡± I recited, words that I¡¯d never forget. ¡°Unmake these crimes before they¡¯re found out, or I¡¯ll take that greedy hand.¡± ¡°Unsteal four purses,¡± Anastasia repeated with incredulous mirth. ¡°In the middle of the forum at its busiest hour, without any of them noticing,¡± I confirmed. ¡°To this day I¡¯m not sure how I did it.¡± ¡°And after you did? What happened then?¡± ¡°I turned tail and ran home as fast as I could. He was already there.¡± Discussing the terms of tuition with my father. As it turned out, the Raging Heaven took all aspects of hygiene quite seriously. By the time we left the baths and returned to the benches on the outer edge of the bathing pavilion, my Rosy Dawn attire was gone. In its ce was a fresh set of indigo robes. They were a more vibrant purple than what the Philosophers of the cult were wearing, and upon closer inspection I saw golden threads woven into the sleeves. Branching strands of lightning. A consequence of thepany I was keeping, it seemed. The ves had seen a Heroine apanied by a man they didn¡¯t know and decided to err on the side of caution, favoring me with the same privileged treatment that she enjoyed. Anastasia assured me that a ve would return my clothes to me once they¡¯d been thoroughly cleansed, and promised that she¡¯d find out whatever she could about my mentor¡¯s whereabouts. Then she left, to do whatever it was that cultivators in the Raging Heaven did. I found myself following a stream of mystikos up the stone-carved steps to an open teau. This far up the mountain, there were as many Civic cultivators as Sophic, and a cursory nce didn¡¯t reveal a single hero on the grand teau. It was furnished in the same style as the Rosy Dawn¡¯s various symposia rooms, lounging couches around its edges and tables in the middle, covered in drink and food and games of all types. Unlike the Rosy Dawn, the teau was utterly open to the elements, awarding a spectacr view of the sanctuary city below, and an awe-inspiring vantage of the Storm That Never Ceased up above. I¡¯d chosen a couch furthest from themotion of young men and women jostling for recognition and losing themselves to the delirious rush of alcohol and goodpany. There were games of all kinds being yed throughout the teau, some that even tempted me, but I contented myself with picking from a small tter of olives and waiting for my clothes to be returned to me. I watched the mystikos that I¡¯d followed herepete in mock games with one another, chatnguidly with friends, and drink themselves senseless. And as time passed, I watched as those same mystikos grew tired of drinking and fooling around and decided to soothe their fatigue with another bout at the baths below. How slow did time move in a ce like this? Did these people truly live like this, day in and day out? ¡°It¡¯s unfortunate, isn¡¯t it?¡± There was a woman standing next to me. I bit down on a curse, smothering my immediate reaction and forcing my fists to unclench. The young woman politely pretended not to notice. ¡°The indulgence,¡± she continued, her voice sad. ¡°The stagnation.¡± She sighed and sat down on the dining couch next to mine. ¡°Is this seat taken?¡± ¡°It is now,¡± I said, surveying her in my periphery. She looked young, from what could be seen of her. Around my age, if not less by a couple years. It was difficult to tell with the veil covering the upper half of her face, a golden sun weave that obscured her eyes and most of her blonde braids. She was slenderpared to Elissa and Anastasia, who¡¯d both been toned and chiseled bybat, but she didn¡¯t carry herself like the rest of the mystikos on the teau. She didn¡¯t dress like them either. In ce of indigo robes or any other cult attire that I¡¯d seen before, she wore a pure white tunic with golden sunray filigree woven into its fabric. She had a golden sash cinched around her waist, and another that hung loosely off her hips. Her skin was utterly free of blemishes and her nails were painted. I reached out a hand of my influence, and she took it in her own without hesitation. There was a powerful warmth to her presence. Like basking in the sun. ¡°I don¡¯t believe I¡¯ve seen you before,¡± she said. ¡°What is your name, cultivator?¡± ¡°Solus.¡± ¡°A pleasure to meet you, Solus,¡± she said, quietly genuine. A beat of silence passed. ¡°And yours?¡± I prompted her. She tilted her head. ¡°You don¡¯t know?¡± Somehow, the audacity of asking such a question was lost in her delivery of it. Rather than being irritated, I found myself smiling faintly. I held out a real hand filled with olives, offering her one. ¡°Enlighten me.¡± The girl in the golden veil took from me an olive and popped it into her mouth. She chewed slowly, savoring the taste, and smiled. ¡°It¡¯s Selene.¡± Chapter 1.20 Chapter 1.20 The Young Griffon It paid to have friends in high ces, after all. The temple of the Oracle was an eerie edifice. Frankincense and myr hung thick in the air, stifling the senses and making the eyes burn. Walking through the gilded archway, past the Heroic cultivators of the Broken Tide Cult that guarded the Oracle with their lives, I could hardly see a foot in front of my face. The winter winds of the Mediterranean were hardly worth mentioning for a cultivator of even the most pitiful ranks of the Civic realm, but inside this temple I had to fight my teeth not to chatter. The smoke from the torches lining the walls were somehow cold, and from one moment to the next smelled of frankincense, of myr - and of the Ionian Sea. The smoke clung like salt water to my skin, drenching me in a cold sweat not three steps past the archway. My pulse beat a quick rhythm in my throat. I swallowed down the instinctive urge to fight. I¡¯d never felt a presence like this in my life. ¡°Be mindful,¡± Kyno muttered. ¡°The gods are watching.¡± ¡°No, they¡¯re not,¡± I said, distracted. I peered through the smoke and seafoam. ¡°But she is.¡± The Oracle of the Broken Tide was an old woman, shrunken and frail. In contrast to Kyno, her teal attire was pristine, its colors vibrant, while the woman herself was washed out and grayed. Her hair, the pallor of her skin, and even her eyes. The blind woman stared unerringly at me, the wrinkles on her face creasing as she smirked. ¡°Someone is here that doesn¡¯t belong.¡± Her voice was as brittle and aged as the rest of her, a bare rasp that could hardly be heard over the crackle of sea salt torches on the walls. Kyno pped a hand on my shoulder, pulling me back a step before I could speak. He leveled me with a severe look, as if I¡¯d start firing off at a divine woman in the seat of her power for one snidement. I hadn¡¯t even introduced myself yet. ¡°Honored Oracle,¡± he said respectfully, bowing his head. ¡°These lowly sophists havee to pay their respects.¡± He nced my way again, and seemed surprised to see me bowing my head as well. Honestly, what had I done to give him such a low impression of me? ¡°I¡¯m sure you have.¡± The old woman beckoned us forward with a spider-thin hand. ¡°Come then, into the depths - if you can swim.¡± I stepped forward without hesitation, and her presence subsumed me. Depths had been the appropriate way to describe it. I felt myself sinking, falling endlessly into an existence that only got darker and colder the further down it went. Even as my feet padded silently across firm stone, I plummeted into the deep. The woman¡¯s washed out gray eyes tracked me as I approached. A reflex, I realized. It wasn¡¯t that she could see me, not with her eyes. It was that she knew where I was, and her eyes remembered to follow. ¡°How long have you been blind?¡± I asked the Oracle, stopping just within her reach. ¡°Since the day I was born,¡± she said, reaching out and grasping my face with a frail hand. Her skin was colder than the smoke, and smooth, utterly free of calluses. ¡°Since when could you see?¡± I considered it. ¡°Four months ago.¡± ¡°Cocky boy,¡± she chortled, pinching my cheek. ¡°The proper answer is perhaps tomorrow, if fortune favors me.¡± Kyno came to stand beside me, his posture rigid as the Oracle¡¯s presence washed over him. The mes in his eyes flickered and guttered, muffled beneath the waves. There was a slow, rhythmic quality to the motion of his chest. A breathing technique. ¡°And what about you, young Hero of the Broken Tide?¡± The Oracle turned those blind eyes on Kyno. ¡°What brings the great huntsman to my humble shrine?¡± ¡°We seek guidance, and offer our devotion to the tide,¡± he answered, his voice faintly strained. The Oracle wagged a finger. ¡°It should be in the reverse order!¡± Kyno grimaced and bowed his head. ¡°My apologies.¡± ¡°And what sort of guidance can I give you? A young man of your standing should know at least this much of how the world works. The gods don¡¯t guide us anymore.¡± ¡°That¡¯s all you¡¯re good for, is it?¡± I asked, idly observing the finer details of her. There were remnants of striking features, worn down by time - a royal nose, sharp cheekbones, and there, beneath the milk and mist of blindness, serrated pupils split into three segments. ¡°A lifetime of keepingpany with the world¡¯s finest men and women, legendary souls seeking you out at every opportunity, and you have nothing to say? I could spend a lifetime in a box with no holes and still have something useful to say at the end of it.¡± Kyno attempted to strike me, but he wasn¡¯t Sol. I knocked the blow aside with pankration intent, maintaining eye contact with the blind Oracle. He wouldn¡¯t dare exert himself enough to break past my hands. Not here. ¡°Wiser than you look,¡± the old woman said approvingly. ¡°But what makes you think you¡¯re worthy of my wisdom?¡± I scoffed. ¡°What makes you think your wisdom is worthy of me?¡± ¡°Griffon!¡± Kyno snarled, panicked and infuriated in equal measure. Ho. It seemed all I¡¯d needed to do to break through that rugged stoicism of his was involve his cult¡¯s divine messenger. The Oracleughed. It was the broken, hackingugh of an old woman on death¡¯s door, but it was also the waves crashing against the cliffside in Alikos, the roar of a hurricane tearing up the surface of the Ionian Sea. Kyno eased back a step, his chest rising and falling once more in the rhythm of a controlled breathing technique. I squinted through the sea spray, brushing salt from my eyes. ¡°Indeed!¡± The Oracle of the Broken Tide crowed. ¡°Just so! How can any of us know what lies beneath the waves unless we plumb their depths ourselves? How can we discern what¡¯s casting the shadows if we don¡¯t first step out of the cave?¡± She rose abruptly from the upholstered seat she¡¯d been sitting in, so oversized for her shriveled body, and lurched forward to seize my face with both hands. For all her age, her grip was undeniably strong in that moment. She looked deeply into my eyes, close enough for me to smell the grapes on her breath. She was more than just old now. She was ancient. Her pupils were tridents. ¡°What is it about you scarlet sons thatpels you to go where you¡¯re not wanted, to say what no one wants to hear, and to do what absolutely must not be done?¡± Somehow, I got the feeling the Oracle wasn¡¯t speaking to me, or even to herself. ¡°What is it within you that chafes at the suggestion of heaven? Why are you the way you are?¡± I smirked and made to answer, but she beat me to it. ¡°Because the tribtions are the best part.¡± ¡°I thought you couldn¡¯t see the future anymore,¡± I said, bemused. ¡°I don¡¯t need to see the future when the past is standing right in front of me,¡± the Oracle said, pping her hands against my cheeks and turning my head from side to side. Spearing me with those tridents. ¡°You¡¯re all the same. As above, so below.¡± Something inside of me spasmed. ¡°What are you talking about, old woman?¡± ¡°I¡¯m talking about you, fool boy. What are you talking about? You came to me for advice, didn¡¯t you? Or perhaps you¡¯re only here to gawk at what you hope to one day be.¡± With my head tilted back as it was, I couldn¡¯t quite look at her. But I made my intent known. ¡°I don¡¯t hope.¡± ¡°No, you don¡¯t, do you?¡± she mused, running bone-thin fingers along the veins of my neck and down, probing my torso. In search of what, I couldn¡¯t say. ¡°You act. So act, here and now. You have the Oracle¡¯s attention, so make use of it. Shall I check your heart for demons?¡± I scoffed. ¡°Please.¡± ¡°Physical therapy, then? Shall this old woman ignore her own aches and pains and tend to yours?¡± Her fingertips dug into the sensitive flesh beneath my ribs, sending lightning threads of sensation up my chest. Not quite pain, but certainly not pleasure. I took her hands in my own and pulled them away. ¡°There¡¯s nothing your hands can do for me that my own can¡¯t do better.¡± ¡°Not the spirit, and not the body either,¡± she said, unbothered. ¡°A question of the mind, then. Or rather, an answer.¡± I tilted my head. There was something in those eyes - aside from the milk of blindness, obviously. Something shifty and mischievous, utterly at odds with her age. The old woman pulled away from me and turned, rifling through the various stands and tables and shelves that surrounded her holy tripod. Finally, with a triumphant cackle, she pulled a false face from the clutter. It was a theatre mask, carved from cypress and painted in pale tones. A woman¡¯s face, pale and drawn and horrified. The mouth gaped open grotesquely, allowing space for the one wearing it to breathe and be heard. The eyes were wide and vacuous, the pits of them dted to allow for the wearer to see. The eyebrows were thick and brushed with gold, arching up in dismay. It was the expression of a woman that had seen a ghost. ¡°You came here looking for this, didn¡¯t you?¡± This? ¡°I don¡¯t know what this is.¡± The Oracle pressed the mask into my hands. It was smooth to the touch, and inexplicably warm. ¡°This is the answer to the question you refuse to ask,¡± the Oracle said. I looked sharply up at her. Her expression was light and devious. It made her look younger by half a century. ¡°I don¡¯te here for a mask,¡± I informed her. She simply smiled wider, baring her teeth. ¡°This isn¡¯t a mask,¡± she said, the words heavy with purpose. I realized she was still holding it, the knuckles of her gnarled hands bleeding white from the force of her grip. ¡°This is your future.¡± I jerked the mask out of her grip, turning it over in my hands. There was a word carved into its inner face. I read it once, and then I read it again. My heart hammered in my chest. ¡°Son of scarlet sin,¡± the Oracle whispered in a voice of low tide and shifting sands, ¡°You have the gall to intrude on a messenger of the Fates before your journey has even truly begun, to plunder them with your arrogant eyes in search of their divinity. There are a thousand thousand mysteries in this world. Did you really think you were ready to solve the greatest of them?¡± ¡°Who are you?¡± I murmured. The old woman curled her fingers, beckoning me down. I leaned forward and she whispered into my ear. ¡°My name is Melpomene. And I am the first of your tribtions.¡± I turned and stalked out of the temple. Kyno caught up to me about a hundred steps up the mountain, a thinly-veiled mania in his eyes. His crocodile mantle seemed tosh its tail as he bounded up the steps, such was the force of his charge. ¡°What was that!?¡± he demanded of me, his pneuma and influence a riotous wave. I frowned, turning the mask over and over in my hand. ¡°I have no idea.¡± But I was going to find out. Chapter 1.21 Chapter 1.21 The Son of Rome ¡°Is it always like this?¡± I asked the girl in the sun ray silks. I waved vaguely, epassing the entirety of the lounge pavilion. Her lips curled down, the only facial feature not obscured by her golden veil. ¡°To greater or lesser degrees,¡± Selene said, sighing softly. ¡°It usually isn¡¯t this egregious outside of holidays and celebrations. The death of the kyrios has left everyone on edge.¡± I watched a pair of bare-chested men hold a third upside down while a trio of women in sheer, see-through silks threw grapes into his mouth. ¡°Seems like it.¡± ¡°They distract themselves as best they can,¡± Selene said. ¡°The cult is not well and they know it. There is safety in numbers, and safety in the sun. Out here in the open, surrounded by their peers, they can rx without fear of scavengers.¡± Crows. My eyes narrowed, ire rising. I despised their ilk. Gaius had suffered from no end of rats in his time as general of the west, nipping at his heels and striking from the dark. It was why he never slept. ¡°Still,¡± I grunted. ¡°They could be doing better things with their time.¡± ¡°They¡¯re young,¡± Selene said, leaning back on the head rest of her lounge. ¡°And they¡¯re afraid. Uncertain. It¡¯s disappointing to see, but can you me them for seeking relief in simple distractions?¡± Yes. I could. Most of the truly debauched cultivators on this teau were older than me. I nced at Selene, though, smirking in faint amusement. ¡°Wise words for a fifteen year old.¡± ¡°Looks can be deceiving, cultivator.¡± There was an airy, mystical quality to her smile. ¡°They can be,¡± I acknowledged. ¡°Are yours?¡± ¡°They are. I may only look like I¡¯m fifteen years of age, but the truth is far different.¡± She waved a hand over her person, head tilting to reveal the slope of her sun-kissed neck. ¡°I¡¯m actually sixteen.¡± I snorted augh. Selene smiled indulgently. ¡°My mistake,¡± I conceded. ¡°What brings the wise woman to a ce like this?¡± Selene¡¯s head tilted further. The golden veil that covered her face slipped just a bit with the motion, exposing the gentle slope of her jaw. Her eyes remained shrouded, but I could imagine them gazing out over the mountain, and the sanctuary city below. ¡°There is strength in numbers,¡± she repeated, sadly. No matter where you went, scum would always be scum. ¡°These Crows,¡± I said slowly. ¡°Their maneuvering. Is it really that dire?¡± I was fighting myself as I spoke. I¡¯d already involved myself beyond any sensible mark two nights ago. If Scythas was to be believed, a Tyrant wanted to see me because of it. I couldn¡¯t afford to dig deeper. Yet even so. ¡°They¡¯re not the worst of it,¡± she said, shaking her head. ¡°They operate at night for the most part. It¡¯s the paranoia they invoke by simply existing. The suspicion. The elders have always had means ofpeting with one another behind closed doors - Olympia wouldn¡¯t survive any direct contention. But it was never this grant.¡± ¡°The kyrios kept them in line,¡± I guessed. ¡°He did. It was known thatsting harm, let alone death, was not allowed in his halls. There was maneuvering, there were power ys, but mystikos could walk the steps of Kaukoso Mons without fear at night.¡± ¡°But now the kyrios is dead,¡± I said, looking back over the pavilion with a more discerning eye. Whether I saw it now because I expected to see it, or whether it had always been there, I could see the tension now. Tightly leashed stress in every raving man, woman, and child. It drove them to excess. It robbed them of their senses. ¡°And no one knows who they can trust.¡± Selene nodded. ¡°Acting out in protest of the shadow game only makes you a target. Withdrawing from it entirely is an insult to your city¡¯s elder. The Raging Heaven was entirely unprepared for the death of the kyrios, and now it suffers because of it.¡± ¡°How long will this take to resolve itself?¡± I asked, the magnitude of things settling in. Cultivators were an elevated existence, capable of things that barbarian and ordinary man could hardly dream of doing. The higher up the divine mountain they went, the more stark this divide became. And two nights ago, I had seen Heroes hunted through the streets like dogs. Something told me it was only going to get worse. ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± Selene admitted. ¡°With regards to politics, I only have my father¡¯s word to go off of. Outsiders aren¡¯t told much of these things.¡± ¡°Outsider? You¡¯re not an initiate?¡± ¡°The Raging Heaven epts only the best,¡± Selene said, tilting her head to face me. ¡°Cultivators that have proven themselves to be exceptional beyond all conventional measures. Whether they be civic, sophic, or heroic, it is not enough to be simply powerful or well-connected. You must be significant - your story worth hearing.¡± ¡°But you live here anyway,¡± I mused. Scythas had mentioned amodations for guests, I supposed. My eyes wandered, as the rest of what she¡¯d said simmered in my mind. It sounded wrong. ¡°I can¡¯t say I¡¯m interested in hearing any of the stories on disy here.¡± ¡°That¡¯s because you didn¡¯t know them before they joined.¡± There was something powerfully troubled in her voice, some sorrow in the way her fingers caressed the golden filigree of sunrays woven into her tunic. ¡°The cults of greater mysteries exist for many purposes, and their prestige is undeniable, but ultimately, they are artificial institutions. And how can an aspiring Hero refine ivory from their soul without the proper conflict to drive them?¡± The sentiment was a familiar one. I¡¯d heard its like often enough during my time at the Rosy Dawn. ¡°You don¡¯t want to join this cult, even if you could,¡± I observed. Selene smiled wistfully. ¡°I love my father and my mother,¡± she murmured. ¡°But there are days that I can¡¯t help wondering what life is like when you live it yourself, and not vicariously. Now that the kyrios is dead, I fear I¡¯ll be suffering more and more days like that.¡± I frowned, dropping my olives back onto their tter. I¡¯d lost my appetite. ¡°You don¡¯t have many friends here, do you?¡± ¡°How cruel.¡± Selene ced a hand to her chest. ¡°What gave me away?¡± ¡°You wouldn¡¯t be talking to me. Also, every single person on this teau has been avoiding this corner since you sat down.¡± I flicked an olive across the pavilion. It struck the ear of a Philosopher that had been eyeing me earlier, sizing me up for a fight. The man flinched, but he did not turn. ¡°They¡¯re too afraid to even look.¡± Selene was silent. ¡°You may not be a member of the cult,¡± I said. ¡°But your father is. And he¡¯s prominent enough to extend his influence to you.¡± Piece by piece, I was assembling a mental image of this ce and its people. Different in every way from the Rosy Dawn on the surface. But the foundations? Those were all the same. ¡°You have eyes, cultivator,¡± Selene said softly. ¡°So tell me, where is Olympus Mons?¡± I looked back, meeting the shadowed silhouette of her eyes through the gossamer veil. ¡°Not here.¡± A sharp cry split the skies before she could respond, and mystikos of the Raging Heaven turned and craned their heads to see a shadow bolt shoot out of the sky. It spiralled and careened through the air in a blur, avoiding thrown cups and pneuma projectiles hurled up at it with contemptuous ease. I held out an arm and the messenger eagle of Rome swept down onto it with surprising force, talons wrapping around my arm with deceptive care. Sharp enough to draw blood, but steady enough not to. It snapped its beak, sharp eyes riveted on my discarded olives. I gathered them back up and offered my open palm to the bird of prey. It snapped them up in its beak one by one, each snap powerful enough to sever a man¡¯s finger, but it didn¡¯t once nick me. ¡°What is that?¡± Selene asked, astonished. ¡°A messenger from Rome,¡± I answered, running the back of my free hand along the ridge of its wing. The eagle ruffled its feathers, pleased with the attention. I smirked. ¡°You¡¯re from Rome?¡± I raised an eyebrow at the sudden hitch in her voice. ¡°I am.¡± ¡°I¡¯ve never met anyone from Rome before,¡± she confided, with barely constrained excitement. She leaned forward on her lounge, nting both hands on the edge of its upholstery. ¡°Clear across the sea! You must have seen so many amazing ces beforeing here.¡± I thought of Gaius¡¯ campaigns. The mountain ranges of the Gauls, treacherous heights and war-torn valleys, and the ck Forest that sprawled across entire nations. The frozen north, with their swirling Celt sigils carved into the stones and nted in their fields, squat viges clustered around the seas. Even the vile marshes and miserably damp ins of Brittania. ¡°You have no idea,¡± I told her. She lit up even further. It was odd, seeing the sudden shift in her demeanor. A bit endearing, but odd. I was distracted by a gagging sound, and turned in time to see the eagle vomit into my open hand. My nose wrinkled. But mercifully, instead of mashed olives and the breakfast I¡¯d fed it earlier in the day, a scroll of rolled papyrus fell into my palm. I stared at the missive for a moment, then back up at the bird. ¡°These are supposed to go around your leg.¡± The eagle trilled sharply, snapping its beak. ¡°Did it just¡­ scoff at you?¡± Selene asked wonderingly. I red at the bird. ¡°It did.¡± Miraculously, the message wasn¡¯t covered in bile despite where it hade from. I unrolled it, curious, and rolled my eyes when I saw the distinctive handwriting scrawled across a scrap of one of Scythas¡¯ star charts. Greetings brother, I pray this message finds you promptly and in good health, though I¡¯m not expecting much from a mongrel Roman bird. Assuming it has, though, meet me after dusk where the stars align and the heavens descend to earth. Come alone. We need to talk. The bird cane too, I suppose. His name is Sorea. I named him for you, since you couldn¡¯t be bothered to do it yourself. Worthless Roman. You¡¯re wee. Griffon I crumpled the letter in my fist. I was hardly even a novice when it came to stargazing, but I had a good idea of where to look. Based on the phrasing and the portion of the star chart he¡¯d used as canvas for the message, I could find him. ¡°Sorea,¡± I mused, considering the eagle. It cocked its head expectantly. ¡°Do you like that name?¡± Could it understand me at all? Sorea squeezed my arm, talons digging into my skin perilously close to drawing blood, and then he took flight in a burst of speed that far outstripped any mundane eagle. ¡°Was that a yes?¡± I called after him. He cried out sharply and was gone in the next instant. I stood from my lounge, rolling my shoulders and looking down the mountain. The sun would set soon, evening shadows cast by the mountain already covering most of the sanctuary city. The Storm That Never Ceased rumbled ominously overhead. Best get started now. I¡¯d have to get my clothes backter. ¡°Wait.¡± I looked down, surprised, at the hand gripping my indigo attire. Selene looked up at me, visibly bashful in spite of the fact that I couldn¡¯t see most of her face. ¡°I have to go see a friend,¡± I told her. She bit her lip. ¡°Solus,¡± she said hesitantly. ¡°You¡¯re not a member of the Raging Heaven either, are you?¡± I considered her and the question both. My first instinct was to lie. So was my second instinct. ¡°No. I¡¯m not.¡± ¡°Then could we speak again?¡± she asked. ¡°I¡¯d like to hear about the ces you¡¯ve been.¡± I sighed, and conceded. ¡°If you can find me.¡± Selene smiled brilliantly. ¡°I will.¡± My first concern had been leaving the cult, but it hadn¡¯t been an issue in the end. The guards at the gates, those closest to the city, recognized me at once. But rather than demanding to know my name or how I¡¯d acquired my indigo attire, they only grinned knowingly and told me to take it easier at the clubs this time. The benefits of having friends in high ces. I followed my intuition and the clue that Griffon had given me while the sun fell behind the ever roiling peak of Kaukoso Mons. I walked the streets of Olympia, ignoring the deference and hushed words of praise that her citizens heaped upon me. They thought I was an initiate of the Raging Heaven. Even so, this was more than even Griffon had gotten walking the streets of Alikos. Too much. I wandered, and the sun fell fully from the sky. Eventually I stopped in a nondescript street in one of Olympia¡¯s eastern residential districts. I looked straight up and saw the constetion Griffon had taken from the star chart, the Nemean Lion, the star of its tail curving in line with the sun¡¯s path of descent. This was it. Griffon was nowhere to be found, of course. Late as always. I sat down on a citizen¡¯s patio and resigned myself to a long wait. The muted lights of dusk gave way to true night. Still he didn¡¯te. Finally, I scowled and stood. ¡°Star maps and riddles,¡± I muttered, spitting in disgust. Just tell me where to go, worthless Greek. ¡°Sir,¡± a hesitant voice said. Behind me, a young boy peered out at me from the cracked door to his home. ¡°Do you need help?¡± Well, it didn¡¯t hurt to ask. ¡°Where do the stars align?¡± I asked him. ¡°At what point does heaven descend to earth?¡± The boy stared at me in bewilderment, and then he was gone. Pulled back by the shoulders, a man taking his ce in the entryway. His father inclined his head deeply to me, posture rigid. ¡°I apologize for my son, honored Philosopher, and beg for your understanding. He¡¯s only five years old this spring. We haven¡¯t yet prepared him for the rigors of philosophy.¡± He was tense, painfully nervous. I just wanted directions. Sorea cried out above our heads, a dark impression on the sky. He shot by like an arrow from a bow, flying low over the marble columns and shingled roofs of the city. It was better than nothing. I spared the frazzled citizen and his son a nod and took off after my eagle as fast as my legs could carry me. The eagle led me down a familiar path of scarlet brick roads and ruin, back the way Griffon and I had firste when we entered the city. As I ate up thendscape with my strides, I wondered if I was expecting too much from the bird, and if I was about to be led back into the sea. But before we could make it to the coast where Olympia¡¯s small port city resided, Sorea dipped left and spiraled down into the shroud of a familiar monument. One of the world¡¯s eight wonders, as Griffon had referred to it. A massive open-faced temple with an even more massive statue lounging beneath the shelter it provided. The temple of the father. I found Griffon inside, lounging on the edge of the raised tform that served as a dias and pool both, catching the thin rivulets of olive oil that dripped off the statue. The father was just as impressive to behold the second time as he¡¯d been the first. Titanic, gleaming in the light of torches and ming braziers that illuminated the temple at night. ¡°You¡¯rete.¡± ¡°I wouldn¡¯t have been if you¡¯d told me where to go.¡± Up above, Sorea perched himself on the father¡¯s shoulders, pping his wings expansively. I nodded my thanks. ¡°I did. If I¡¯d spelled it out and your bird had been intercepted, I¡¯d be in dire straits right now.¡± There was something in his voice. His bearing, too, now that I looked. I realized what it was at once. He was restless again. Thatnguid satisfaction that had been rolling off of him in waves since we¡¯d let fly the sails of the Eos was gone, and in its ce, the hunger had returned. Three days. It hadsted longer than I¡¯d expected, honestly. ¡°What happened?¡± I asked. He crossed his arms over his bare chest. The golden tunic that he imed to have taken from an old woman was wrapped around his waist now, serving as an impromptu satchel for some lump that I couldn¡¯t discern. ¡°I spoke to the Oracle,¡± he said, adding as an afterthought, ¡°of the Broken Tide.¡± I hummed. ¡°That was the big one¡¯s cult, wasn¡¯t it? Kyno, the one with the crocodile skin.¡± ¡°The same,¡± he said, jaw flexing. He wasn¡¯t angry. No, it was more focused than that. There was a dark hunger in him now. ¡°She threatened me with tribtion.¡± ¡°You¡¯re overdue for one,¡± I said, leaning against the raised dias. It was tall enough to rest my forearms on it without having to bend. The olive oil pool shimmered in the torch light, reflecting the inexplicable light of the stars etched on the temple¡¯s ceiling. ¡°What else?¡± ¡°She mentioned Alikos. You scarlet sons are all the same,¡± he quoted. ¡°And before that, I exchanged discourse with a few up-anding Philosophers of the Raging Heaven.¡± I snorted. I could imagine the sort of discourse they¡¯d exchanged. The kind that left bruises and broke bones. ¡°They told me something interesting about my humble home.¡± He told me, and my eyebrows rose. ¡°Shut off from the Mediterranean? How can that be? Your cousin has been off adventuring for years.¡± ¡°Not just that. Foreign dignitaries visit us in scores every year.¡± Griffon pushed off from the dias and began to pace. ¡°Moste from valence territories within Magna Graecia, true, but not all of them. It doesn¡¯t make sense.¡± ¡°Ask a member of the Rosy Dawn,¡± I suggested. ¡°This is the nexus of the free cities, isn¡¯t it? We may be the first delegates ¡®sent¡¯ for the Games, but surely there are long-term members of the Raging Heaven that came from your side of the Ionian.¡± ¡°Have you forgotten we¡¯re on the run?¡± Griffon asked, frowning deeply in thought. Invisible to the eye but bright as day to a cultivator¡¯s sense, his pankration hands massaged his temples and shoulders, alleviating tension as best they could. ¡°It¡¯s only been three days since we left,¡± I reasoned. ¡°They might not have heard.¡± Griffon shook his head. ¡°No. They know. We have to look into this ourselves.¡± ¡°And how do you intend to do that?¡± Fierce anticipation shone in scarlet eyes. ¡°How else? We¡¯re going to scavenge.¡± My lip lifted in a sneer. I should have known. ¡°I refuse.¡± ¡°Ho? Refuse what?¡± ¡°I refuse to skulk around like a Crow, picking at corpses and offal.¡± The quiet despair with which the girl in the golden veil had spoken, and the omnipresent anxiety I had seen in the mystikos of the Raging Heaven. It wasn¡¯t something I had any interest in contributing to. ¡°We have no choice,¡± he said, shrugging. ¡°We can¡¯t stay here under the usual terms. We¡¯ve drawn too much attention.¡± ¡°Because of you.¡± Griffon sneered. ¡°It wasn¡¯t my actions that put you in a Tyrant¡¯s line of sight. How was that meeting, by the way?¡± I red silently. ¡°That¡¯s what I thought. Do you think you can ignore an elder forever without them acting on the insult? Do you think we can continue to do as we wish in broad daylight, unmolested? Of course not. The higher ups are too busy to bother with us themselves, but they have other means.¡± ¡°We could get a room in the city,¡± I said stubbornly. ¡°Or stay outside of it, even. I¡¯m not afraid of sleeping in the dirt.¡± ¡°I¡¯m sure you aren¡¯t,¡± he said scornfully. ¡°But that won¡¯t work either. We¡¯re already targets, and because of that we can¡¯t afford to be passive. While the Crows are out, the only ce we can hide is among them.¡± Griffon stopped pacing, and all twenty of his pankration hands flexed in anticipation. He smiled ferociously. ¡°Starting now.¡± Thus exposed, two Crows exploded out of the olive oil pool. Chapter 1.22 Chapter 1.22 The Young Griffon It had to be said. For all of my des and for all of my majesty, for all that I was the only man that could ever be me, I was not perfect. I had my failings. And even more egregious than that, I was not all-knowing. In some respects, I was not even particrly well-informed. My father had always done things in his own time, and the Scarlet City had regted its pace to match his. For all that I was myself, I was no different in that regard. I cultivated the virtue that he forced upon me, I excelled in the tasks that he set before me, and I learned the lessons that he saw fit to teach me. And only those lessons. I sought out what I could, whenever I could, of course. But if Damon Aetos didn¡¯t want you to know something, there wasn¡¯t a single soul in Alikos who would dare to speak of it. If there was something he didn¡¯t want you to have, all the gold in Egypt couldn¡¯t convince an Alikoan to sell it to you. I¡¯d always known that my father was keeping things from me. But I hadn¡¯t quite grasped the scope of it until I¡¯d stepped foot into the sanctuary city. The Crows were each of the Sophic Realm, which meant that whichever faction sent them hadn¡¯t been pointed our way by our new friends. Otherwise, they would have sent Heroes. In the kyrios¡¯ absence, the Raging Heaven had abandoned all but the most surface level pretenses of unity. The various factions of the free Mediterranean had only just begun to pick each other apart trying to fill the chasm left behind, and division was the name of the game. Sol and I had implicated ourselves by associating with not one, but six Heroic cultivators in full view of various indigo initiates. This had been inevitable. Tirelessly, the Crow on the left promised in the voice of his soul. Forever at hand, the Crow on the right dered with unwavering resolve. I saw the confusion in Sol¡¯s eyes, soon overtaken by the storm. Gravitas rocked the temple, an inaudible boom that made my teeth vibrate and pounded the Crow on the right back into the olive oil pool. Sol lunged forward to trade blows with the Crow on the left, but the cultivator in ck deftly avoided him, ducking and pivoting on one foot andying a vicious kick into his right shin. It didn¡¯t sweep Sol¡¯s legs out from under him like the Crow had intended, but the Roman grunted and staggered sideways, pointing a damning finger at the scavenger. Torchlight shadow flickered around him and he blurred left, faster than any Sophic cultivator could possibly move. He avoided the invocation of Sol¡¯s virtue and caught my clenched fist with his gut. I savored the sweet sound of a man choking on air, hammering into him from every angle with pankration hands wreathed in the rosy light of dawn. [The dawn breaks.] Without pause, spoke the Crow, mming his forehead into mine. Starlight exploded in my eyes and my ears rang, the force of the blow unlike anything I had experienced from a Philosopher before. I bared my teeth in a grin and caught his hands as theyshed up. A thin line of blood trickled down from the point where his hooded forehead met mine, as the sounds of sshing and savage struggle sounded from the olive oil pool that served as the foundation for the chryselephantine throne. The Crow had no heart mes to illuminate his eyes behind his hood, but I stared deeply into them anyway. ¡°So this is a man of principle,¡± I mused, gripping his hood and the tattered edges of his midnight robes with the hands of my intent, ripping and tearing. His pneuma red. And he spoke. ¡°Sacrilege,¡± the Crow intoned, ¡°to fight in the temple of the Father.¡± And just as before, when those young Philosophers had stated their facts, the strength of his soul re-doubled. I abandoned the effort of unmasking him as the pressure on our joined hands became unbearable. Pankration hands chopped viciously down on his forearms, forcing him to release me. I leapt back across the tiles. Three boys, and now this. Not a coincidence - this was something fundamental. Something I should know. ¡°Starting a fight is far worse than ending it,¡± I replied, putting the weight of my pneuma behind it. I felt a hint of something, some weightlessness, but I was only imitating what I¡¯d observed as an outsider. I concentrated, while Sol jumped straight up to the ceiling in a spray of olive oil, the Crow on the right in close pursuit. My opponent turned to flickering shadows again, but he¡¯d already shown me the trick of it the first time. He braced himself first, taking the stance that he would emerge from the technique in. Chambering a right hook from fifty feet away. I leaned right, dodging it by a hair, and drove a knee up between his legs. As I did it, I condemned him. ¡°Ambushing your cult¡¯s own honored guests,¡± I denounced him, striking him twice in the kidney and five times across the face. ¡°On your city¡¯s own holy ground!¡± The Crow lurched back, shadows flickering as he attempted to escape me. I grabbed him with ming hands and reeled him back in. ¡°Among heaven and earth, you alone are the dishonored one!¡± And I felt it. A power that stirred above my eyes, pulsing through my skull and coursing down, down, ripping through me like an entire jug of kykeon and filling me with vital strength. The Crow stomped my bare foot and lowered his shoulder into my chest, charging. Lightning threads of pain shot through my foot, and my cultivation faltered as he knocked the wind out of me. He was my superior in cultivation, but that had been the case before with the children. But this cultivator was a grown man - his body had weathered years of intense conditioning. The strength of his body matched that of his soul. And then, the strength of his reason superseded mine as he lifted my feet from the floor and snarled. ¡°Fool. I am no one.¡± The inexplicable head rush left me as quickly as it hade, an ice bath that shocked the senses and stole the strength from my limbs. It almost killed me as the Crow took us to the ground, producing a hideous rusted dagger from a fold in his robes and stabbing it at my side. But even while my mind wavered, my intent remained true. Pankration hands caught the de and knocked it from his hand, even as its rusted edge cut into my soul. I spat blood onto his ck veil and swung my legs up, hooking them around his chest and twisting at the waist while we fell to the tiles. The assassin¡¯s de ttered to the hallowed marble floor, the sound of it all wrong as it skittered and spun across the tiles. The Crow lurched for it, kicking viciously at me, but it was toote. I had him. The Crow on the right red his influence, crying out in that soundless voice, and Sol responded in kind with a tidal wave of gravity that caught everyone within the temple. Myself included. My stomach flipped and my heart flew up into my throat as the entire world shifted onto a different axis, and I flew sideways as if I was falling out of the sky. Somewhere up above, Sorea shrieked and the Crow cried out in his real voice. A marble sentinel stood in the shadow of an archway, kneeling in deference as it faced the father. There were eleven others in the temple, each carrying a weapon and all of them without a face. This one had a trident in hand, brandished invitingly as we approached it. The Crow thrashed against my hold as our bodies lifted off the ground entirely, hammering into me with clenched fists and vile shadow techniques that burnt away at the touch of the rosy fingers. I nted an open palm t against the Crow¡¯s hooded face and shoved it sideways, twisting him around with the leverage of my leg lock as I did. The statued sentinel may have been nothing more than stone, but its trident was purest bronze. I mmed the Crow into it, and all three points of the trident erupted out of his chest. I pulled myself to the ground with pankration hands and turned, catching the second Crow as Sol¡¯s attack sent him flying my way. He immediately went wild, fighting me like a rat caught by its tail. Which, in the end, wasn¡¯t far from the truth. ¡°You¡¯re no one, are you?¡± I grunted, nting my feet and ignoring his impotent elbows and kicks as I heaved him over my shoulder. The head rush returned, blooming inside my skull and coursing through my limbs as I invoked what could only be the primary weapon of every warrior schr. ¡°As if I could ever lose to such a coward. My tribtion has a face.¡± Their rhetoric. I mmed the Crow to the floor and stepped back as Sol plummeted from the tip of the Father¡¯s ivory spear and stomped the poor bastard through the scarlet tiles. An invocation of Gravitas at the moment of impact caved the scavenger¡¯s chest in entirely. The sound of it was horrific. The noise the man made as he arched up was even more so. I caught his face with pankration hands and drove it back down, smothering him until he went limp. The Philosopher died and hisst, gagging breath exploded through the temple. Onest gasp, raging through the temple of the Father and extinguishing every torch in sight. Ensconced in sudden darkness, the true crow nearly got away. Sorea swept down with a triumphant cry and sank its talons into an avian mass of liquid shadow as it attempted to flee. Just as before, the manifestation of anonymity wailed horribly as it was consumed by the Roman messenger eagle bit by bit. ¡°What was that?¡± Sol asked gutturally. His indigo attire, pristine just a few moments ago, was now drenched in olive oil and torn at his stomach and his right thigh where the crow had cut him. Poisoned again, no doubt, though he was breathing steadily for now. ¡°Hard to tell,¡± I said sarcastically, swiping blood from my bare chest. ¡°But if I had to guess, I¡¯d say it was my point being proven.¡± Sol scowled, running a hand through oil-slick ck hair. ¡°Not that. What were they saying? And how were they saying it?¡± ¡°Ho, the great Legate doesn¡¯t know? I was going to ask you, master,¡± I said mockingly. A wave of his influence hit me, the riptide pull urging me off bnce. I set my stance and braced with pneuma hands, spitting blood at his feet in response. ¡°Just tell me,¡± he snapped. ¡°I¡¯m sick and tired of not knowing what¡¯s going on.¡± ¡°That makes two of us.¡± In the dark, with little but the wet sounds of a virtuous beast gorging itself and a Sophic cultivator struggling to force breath through punctured lungs, Sol and I took the measure of one another. I snapped my fingers and lit the scrambled torches of the holy temple with the rosy fingers of dawn, righting any that had fallen. Sol seemed utterly unsurprised to see me grinning. ¡°I suppose it¡¯s my turn to be the master again, since your worthless mentor taught you so little of our ways.¡± ¡°He taught me as much as he could,¡± Sol said, defending the man without hesitation. ¡°It isn¡¯t any fault of his that our time was cut short.¡± ¡°I¡¯m sure,¡± I said agreeably. Then, with the voice of my soul, I rendered judgement. ¡°But he still left you unprepared. He neglected your foundations, and now you¡¯re here, lost and without understanding. He failed.¡± Crouched over the broken corpse of a mangled Crow, bearing his teeth up at me in naked threat, I could see the wolf in him. I smirked, savoring the head rush of my rhetoric hitting home, and spoke to him again without moving my lips. Snarl all you want. You know I never lie. ¡°We are men of principle,¡± I told my Roman brother. ¡°Philosophers seeking wisdom and ultimate enlightenment. More than that, we strive to educate those around us in the same way that we have been educated ourselves. Would you say that your mentor was a wise man? A worldly, well-informed man?¡± Sol nodded grudgingly. I syed my hands. ¡°And thus, he failed you as a Philosopher, because he only passed on a fraction of those things to you. ¡°We understand the world around us as Philosophers - the rules of nature. But how can we impress that understanding upon others? How may we convince them that they may see?¡± ¡°Rhetoric,¡± Sol realized. I hummed in approval. ¡°The principles we live by are a power all their own.¡± Our ability to fight our baser instincts and our heart¡¯s desires in pursuit of a more perfect existence, that was where reason triumphed over spirit and hunger. That was where a Philosopher truly shined. Rhetoric, then, was our ability to impose the rules of nature as we understood them onto others. There was incredible power in living a principled life. There was even more incredible power in understanding the world, and in passing that understanding on to others. I internalized these concepts, slotting them into gaps that my father had intentionally left in my education. They fit seamlessly together. ¡°Why didn¡¯t the Heroes do this?¡± Sol wondered, troubled. He stood and began wringing what oil he could from his robes. ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± I admitted freely. ¡°But I have a few ideas.¡± ¡°And you said my mentor was a failure. You had a Tyrant for a father, and you¡¯re still not sure? What sort of father keeps his son in the dark?¡± ¡°What sort of father drags his son to war?¡± I returned. A tense moment came and went. ¡°My father wanted the best for me,¡± Sol said with utter conviction. ¡°So did mine.¡± Sol grimaced, shaking olive oil from his hair and looking at the corpse at our feet. ¡°I still don¡¯t like this. I¡¯d rather leave Olympia, go elsewhere.¡± ¡°It¡¯s toote for that,¡± I said, kneeling beside the dead Crow andying my hands across his body, all twenty-two of them. ¡°Our hands are bloodied now. Are you really fine with leaving things as they are? Leaving the Raging Heaven to consume itself, and allowing our friends to suffer?¡± His right hand clenched into a fist, and I knew I had won. ¡°Don¡¯t act like you¡¯re doing this for them. You came here looking for a thrill and you¡¯ve found it. It¡¯s for you, not for them.¡± ¡°Wrong,¡± I said. ¡°It¡¯s both.¡± I closed my eyes and said a short, silent prayer for the departed man. Then I started stripping him. ¡°Tell me, Sol. Did you find your mentor?¡± He shook his head. ¡°Did you find any leads?¡± I asked, considering the face of the dead man as the hood pulled free. I didn¡¯t know him. Sol remained silent, which was answer enough. ¡°Let me guess. You confided in Anastasia and she recognized his name. But she didn¡¯t give you anything concrete.¡± He grunted. ¡°You know what sort of existence a Heroic cultivator is, Sol. You¡¯ve heard the tales. If your war stories are more than just dust and wind, then you¡¯ve even seen it for yourself.¡± ¡°Get to the point.¡± I scoffed, but obliged him. ¡°You know as well as I do that a Hero¡¯s full strength can¡¯t be contained by a city, even if that city is Olympia. It doesn¡¯t fit down alleyways and corridors. It doesn¡¯t thrive in friendly spars and controlledpetitions. My cousin Niks had ns topete in the Olympic Games this year, did you know that? Hispanions, too. Yet they didn¡¯t wear indigo when they came back home, and he never once spoke of the Raging Heaven when he was telling his stories. Why do you think that is?¡± ¡°Because he never joined,¡± Sol said, frowning thoughtfully. ¡°Exactly.¡± I unwrapped the ck robes from the dead Philosopher and stood, moving over to the olive oil pool and dunking them in, scouring the blood from the cloth with pankration hands. ¡°Almost all of the athletes thatpete in the Games do so as outsiders. The mystery cults can not possibly hope to provide for a Hero seeking advancement. It simply isn¡¯t possible.¡± ¡°Even with Tyrants there to mentor them?¡± Sol asked. ¡°Cultivators are greedy existences, you know this,¡± I said, shrugging. ¡°There¡¯s only one type of man that a Tyrant will mentor.¡± His heir. Something slid into Sol¡¯s bearing, some nameless steel, and he crossed over to the Crow skewered on the sentinel¡¯s trident. I didn¡¯t see what happened, focusing on my scrubbing, but I felt the pulse of his will and heard the crunch of a man¡¯s skull caving in. My pankration hands cupped the torches protectively as the Philosopher¡¯sst gasp ripped through the temple. There was a pause and then a brief shuffling of cloth, and Sol appeared at my side, dunking his own set of ck rags into the olive oil. ¡°A Hero can¡¯t advance in a cage,¡± he said quietly, his eyes distant while he worked. Reliving a thousand different memories. ¡°So why are they here?¡± ¡°That¡¯s the question,¡± I confirmed, pulling my new robes from the pool and cracking them like a whip, spraying spirit oil across the Father¡¯s feet. ¡°A Hero can¡¯t be anything less than a significant existence. What could have led them here? What could possibly be worth their time within these walls?¡± What could they be running from? We worked in silence for a few moments, Sol scrubbing while I dried my robes with smoldering palms. Btedly, I added, ¡°Also, I want to see the Oracles.¡± Sol looked at me incredulously. ¡°Oracles? One wasn¡¯t enough?¡± ¡°Who do you think I am?¡± The Roman shook his head in disgust and pulled his own robes from the pool, passing them to me when I offered a ming hand. ¡°How do you n to blend in? We don¡¯t know who these two answered to. We don¡¯t have any idea how they allmunicate with one another. We¡¯ll be rooted out within a day.¡± ¡°Use that head of yours, Legate.¡± I waved a hand at the virtuous beast perched on a high arch, observing us with curiosity. ¡°They¡¯re called Crows for a reason.¡± Sol¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°Sorea. To me.¡± The eagle let fly an obliging cry and swept down from the arches,nding gently on the Roman¡¯s outstretched arm. Mongrel bird. The cuts it had given me still stung. The Roman brandished his open palm and said firmly, ¡°Spit it out.¡± Sorea cocked its head, and then its body heaved. The great messenger eagle vomited a pile of ink-ck bones into Sol¡¯s hand. Enough for two small birds. My nose wrinkled. ¡°Well. That¡¯s unfortunate.¡± Chapter 1.23 Chapter 1.23 The Son of Rome ¡°That went differently in your head, didn¡¯t it,¡± I said, eyeing the ink-ck pile of bones and bile that Sorea had vomited into my open palm. They were warm, warmer than they should have been. Scorching hot, even by a cultivator¡¯s standards. ¡°You just ate it,¡± Griffon said, addressing my bird with incredulous disgust. ¡°How did you digest the second one that fast?¡± My eyes rolled. ¡°It isn¡¯t a real crow. We have no idea what its flesh is even made of.¡± ¡°Pneuma, obviously.¡± He stalked over to the corpse of the assassin he¡¯d impaled on the stone sentinel¡¯s trident. He didn¡¯t hesitate to desecrate it, jostling the dead man from the restful position I¡¯d settled him in and twisting his head to and fro. He gripped his jaw and looked into his ck mouth, then the narrow passages of his nostrils and ears. It urred to me that this may have been the first life the Young Aristocrat of the Rosy Dawn had ever taken. ¡°There wasn¡¯t another crow in his robe?¡± he asked. At my negative response, he mmed a palm to the hollowed stone beside the corpse¡¯s face and pushed himself to his feet. He turned to pace across the tiles. ¡°What is a Crow without his wings?¡± Griffon murmured, nearly to himself, frowning ferociously. He spat. ¡°No one.¡± ¡°They may have only sent one for the pair of them,¡± I offered. Scarlet eyes turned balefully my way. ¡° ¡°Tell me then, master. How many Crows did youe across without their wings on the night of the kyrios¡¯ funeral?¡± I frowned, considering the pile of scalding hot cartge in my palm. My memories werergely a blur, but the cadence was always clear. The steady rhythm of the legions marched a vivid path through otherwise muddled memories. I followed that path, soundlessly mouthing the words, and in those crystalline moments I remembered the Crows. I remembered the way they¡¯d crumpled. The way they¡¯d skulked, the way they¡¯d scattered, the way they¡¯d screamed. Never in my life had Ie close to the baster heights of what the Greeks called the Heroic Realm - but then, it hadn¡¯t mattered much that night. I¡¯d led weaker men against greater enemies than them. With Anastasia, Scythas, and Jason at my side, they hadn¡¯t stood a chance. I remembered how they¡¯d fallen. And I remembered the sounds of beating wings in the shadows as they fled. ¡°Sorea,¡± I said. The messenger eagle flexed its great talons around my forearm, just enough to acknowledge me. ¡°Did you notice another?¡± Virtuous beast or not, it was still only a bird. Yet the look Sorea gave me in response to that question was utterly unmistakeable. ¡°That¡¯s a no.¡± ¡°Bastard must have sent it off when I arrived.¡± Griffon reimed his stolen rags and ran ming hands up and down them, grimacing at the trio of gaping trident holes in the cloth. ¡°Sol, trade me.¡± ¡°Not a chance,¡± I said without hesitation, dumping the ink-ck crow bones on the lip of the olive oil pool and brushing Sorea off my arm. He edged towards the bones, beak snapping softly. ¡°Leave them.¡± The bird shrieked indignantly but obeyed, taking flight out of the temple and vanishing into the night. I wrung out the robes of a dead man, watching what moisture remained fall into the pool, drop by drop. I contemted Griffon¡¯s reflection, the darkness of his expression as he turned his set of midnight attire over in his hands. ¡°You¡¯ve never killed a man before,¡± I said without judgement. For a moment, his eyes flickered. ¡°Wrong.¡± Lies built upon truth. ¡°You¡¯ve never killed a man before today,¡± I rified. His silence spoke for him. ¡°It shakes you. I know.¡± Frozen moments, memories of all the men I¡¯d stood shoulder to shoulder with when they took their first life. All the men I¡¯dmanded to bloody their unsullied hands. In the pursuit of a higher ideal, the men of Rome could bear that burden without regret. With the hand of Gaius guiding them, legionnaires struck down the enemies of the Republic without fear of the heavens above. But even so, and even then, that blood could drown you as surely as the sea. Salt and ash. I considered the reflection of my only truepanion in this barbarous world, and wondered how many dead men it would take to drown him. ¡°It isn¡¯t weakness to regret-¡± ¡°I don¡¯t.¡± My hands clenched around the twist of ck cloth, wringing a trickle of olive oil from it that struck the pool and distorted his reflection with ripples. I looked at him. His face matched his words. There was no regret in the set of his jaw, no grief in those narrowed eyes. Stripped of his usual good humor, what remained was the same foundation that had always been there. What I¡¯d recognized the day I met him. ¡°From the moment I was born, I¡¯ve known the worth of my soul.¡± The words were matter-of-fact. Without doubt. ¡°My life is mine. If someone tries to take it, I won¡¯t hesitate to take theirs first. I have nothing to regret.¡± I didn¡¯t argue. I knew the truth when I saw it. ¡°Mad Greek,¡± I said ruefully. He smirked faintly and belted the mangled ck robe around his waist, obscuring his Rosy Dawn attire and golden tunic turned makeshift satchel. ¡°You still want to do this?¡± I knew the answer already. I shrugged the dead man¡¯s disguise over my indigo robes. What had been a voluminous fit on the would-be assassin was just tight enough that I knew I wouldn¡¯t befortable fighting in it, so I didn¡¯t bother wearing it as it was intended. As a cloak, it would do. The seemingly mundane material blurred at the edges of my perceptions, fading into the shadows around us like ash of paint across canvas. Growing thinner and blending together. Like I was a piece of this ce as much as anything else. As I wrapped theyers around my body, I felt my own sense of self, the sensation of my own vital breath¡¯s cirction, fading into anonymity. It wasn¡¯t exactly the same, but it was closer to those iron manacles that it should have been. ¡°Of course,¡± Griffon said, pulling me from my thoughts. He had the crow¡¯s hood over his head now, obscuring his most striking features. He¡¯d even done something to his hair while I wasn¡¯t looking, preventing it from spilling down to his shoulders in its usual way. ¡°You noticed it too, didn¡¯t you?¡± ¡°The cloth conceals,¡± I said, and as the sheer ck hood fell over my face, thin enough to see through without issue, my voice changed as well. Not enough to belong to someone else. Just enough to not belong to me. ¡°What is a mask if not a tool of anonymity?¡± Griffin mused, leaning over the rim of the pool to consider himself. I noticed a somewhat ring w in his disguise. ¡°Worthless, when you¡¯re still half naked.¡± Oddly enough, it was more pleasing than unsettling to hear a stranger''s voice render judgment on his stupidity in ce of my own. For a moment, it was as if I wasn¡¯t the only sane person left in this world. Griffin shrugged, unconcerned. ¡°You wouldn¡¯t trade me, and I refuse to wear a tunic riddled with holes.¡± ¡°Anyone from the funeral will recognize you immediately.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t be so sure,¡± he said lightly, gathering up crow bones in his cupped palms and dipping them into the pool. A stranger''s pneuma, utterly divorced from Griffon¡¯s and yet his nheless, permeated through the pool and the bones in particr, wearing away at them the same way he had worn away a chunk of marble an eternity ago at the Rosy Dawn¡¯s initiation trials. Ink-ck flecks of bone whirled and dispersed in the olive oil, turning the pool ck. Forming storm clouds beneath the chryselephantine king¡¯s feet. Pankration hands that felt like nothing I had ever encountered before but could be nothing other than Griffon¡¯s own violent intent dipped into the pool one by one, cupping ink-ck olive oil in ethereal palms. I watched twenty hands trace across Griffon''s bare torso, along his shoulders and around his back. The lines they drew were seemingly random, whirling loops around his arms and jagged lines up and down the muscture of his chest. It was only once they¡¯d drawn back as one, pping against one another in apparent satisfaction, that I beheld the full picture. He looked like apletely different man. It was the ink as much as the cloth. ck olive oil tattoos, painted with shocking precision. He hadn¡¯t just obscured the distinct lines of muscle that any of ourpanions could have identified in an instant. He¡¯d framed them, traced them, and in the smallest of margins, he¡¯d brushed outside of those lines. Not enough to alert a casual eye. Just enough to suggest a slightly different definition. Focusing on any one detail, there wasn¡¯t much. But as a whole, the insertion of his muscles lookedpletely different. I couldn¡¯t see his face behind the hood, but the silent spreading of his hands was clear enough expectation. I grunted, and that was answer enough for him. He chuckled and swaggered over to the outer perimeter of the hollowed temple, towards the statue sentinels that waited in the archways. ¡°We¡¯re still blind,¡± I reminded him. He plucked a true bronze spear from the marble hands that held it, weighing it consideringly before shrugging and tossing it over his shoulder at me. I caught the surprisingly heavy weapon and spun it in my right hand. It was a good weapon. The best I¡¯d held in over a year. ¡°So we¡¯ll gather information. By force, if necessary. Though I can¡¯t imagine anyone being shy to confide in you.¡± He plucked a gleaming bow and a winged arrow from another faceless sentinel, held it for about a heartbeat, and then dropped it to the ground and moved on. It ttered deafeningly against the holy stone. The fine hairs on the back of my neck rose. ¡°This feels like the wrong approach.¡± Griffin took a broad axe from clenched marble fists and tossed it from hand to hand to pankration hand, nodding in satisfaction. ¡°Careful brother,¡± he said idly. ¡°There¡¯s a fine line between caution and cowardice.¡± ¡°What about audacity and insanity?¡± I returned, unbothered. The torch light caught a pattern in the haft of the spear as I spun it, shimmering trails of textured bronze that differed just enough to be aesthetic. ¡°You know precious little about the storm brewing here, and I know even less. And you¡¯re suggesting we dive into it headfirst.¡± ¡°Why are you here, Sol?¡± Griffin asked, contemting the featureless face of the looming sentinel. ¡°To find my mentor.¡± ¡°Why?¡± ¡°You know why,¡± I said, annoyed. ¡°All for power? All to kill the dogs?¡± He turned away from the statue, bereft of its axe. He lifted the hooded veil from his face and skewered me with a look. ¡°You think the easy path will lead you there?¡± My eyes narrowed. ¡°You¡¯re worried that you won¡¯t survive the conquerors path,¡± Griffon said. With a certainty that made my lip twitch up from my teeth. He advanced with that gleaming bronze axe in hand. ¡°You¡¯re worried that the schr''s path will take too long. And you¡¯ve convinced yourself that the champion¡¯s path is nothing but sh and thunder. You worry that you don¡¯t deserve to want it.¡± He stopped just outside the range of the spear he¡¯d tossed me. One of his pankration hands reached across that distance and lifted the hood from my face. He smiled a sharp challenge. ¡°Allow your brother to cleanse your heart of worries. I¡¯ll do it in your ce.¡± I sneered fully. His smile only grew. ¡°I¡¯ll take the foolish risks,¡± he promised me. ¡°I¡¯ll walk the treacherous roads and suffer the trails untread. When the dogse barking, I¡¯ll scour them from this earth in your name.¡± My sneer turned to a snarl. The hands of our influence mmed together in a deadlock struggle. Beneath the anonymous shroud of the crow¡¯s shadow, we strained against ideals in ce of each other. ¡°I¡¯ll return the city of Rome to you,¡± Griffon continued, and the fact that every word of it was his true intention only made me more furious. ¡°I¡¯ll fight all the battles that you can¡¯t.¡± ¡°What are you doing?¡± I asked him through grit teeth. ¡°Something different.¡± He advanced a step further, within the range of my spear. I stepped forward to meet him, into the range of his axe. In the low light of the vandalized temple, the father¡¯s shadow loomed over us both in ivory judgment. ¡°Does it anger you?¡± he whispered softly. ¡°The thought of someone else making right what your enemies made wrong? If Rome is all that¡¯s in your heart, it shouldn¡¯t. If your only wish is to see the dogs of Carthage wiped out, then this should be nothing but a relief.¡± Whatever he saw in my eyes, he seemed to like it. He continued, with that terrible satisfaction. ¡°You may doubt yourself, but you wouldn¡¯t dare doubt me. I swear that I¡¯ll do it. I absolve you of this burden. So if that¡¯s the only reason you¡¯re still here, if that¡¯s the only reason you¡¯re still alive while all of your men are dead, then go join them without regrets. Be free. And I¡¯ll take care of the rest.¡± ¡°Enough. Be silent.¡± ¡°I refuse.¡± Scarlet eyes danced. ¡°You can lie to yourself, but you can¡¯t lie to me. You¡¯ll never be satisfied with a victory you didn¡¯t seize with your own two hands. You¡¯ll never be able to rest until you tear those animals apart and eat their beating hearts. ¡°Your virtuous heart won¡¯t ept this world until you take it from them.¡± Gravitas rocked the father¡¯s temple, three thousand dead men pressing down on my shoulders, the weight ofmand far too heavy to bear. Always, forever too heavy. What else could I do but bear it? ¡°If I don¡¯t,¡± I whispered, ¡°Who will?¡± Griffin smiled brilliantly, standing unshaken while eleven stone sentinels crumbled beneath the captain¡¯s virtue. He surveyed the sphemous destruction with a keen eye. Pankration hands swept across the hallowed grounds and gathered up the bronze weapons left behind. ¡°We¡¯ll have to find a ce to keep these,¡± he decided, surveying each in turn. ¡°Leaving all but two behind would be far too obvious. And who knows? We may yet convince our fellow sophists to join us in our humble little adventure. In fact-¡± He paused at the sound of bones snapping. Blinked and stared at the fragment of ink ck bone I held out to him. A deep, vibrant red light burned blindingly at the center of the shard. ¡°What are you thinking?¡± he asked, with something like glee. ¡°We¡¯re blind without wings,¡± I said, dropping the broken bone. A pankration hand caught it as it fell. ¡°If we can¡¯t make use of these scavengers in life, the least they can do is serve us in death.¡± ¡°Seems dangerous,¡± Griffin said. He raised an eyebrow. ¡°Twelves to see who goes first?¡± Danger. Risk. Certain, inescapable death. Perhaps Griffin was right. It was time to stop pretending that it was dread that made my heart pound in this city of monstrous barbarians, and not anticipation. A captain leads from the front, I told him in the voice of my soul, and sucked the starlight marrow from the bone. Interlude 2: ??? Interlude 2: ??? You are nothing. Liquid purpose burns a trail down your throat, melting through fragile linings of tissue and sinew. You¡¯ve always been proud of your constitution, in those quiet moments of honesty you believed yourself to be truly strong, but your body can do nothing but give way to this force. The marrow burrows through your body, following channels that do not yet exist in your unrefined body. What can not be found is created instead. You fall to your knees, choking. You hack and spit, and when that does nothing for you, you jam your fingers down your throat. You gag. You heave. But nothinges up. You reach desperately for yourpanion, but toote. He took the marrow into himself a mere instant after you did, and now he stumbles back, falling into the soiled pool beneath the feet of the thunderer. You try to rise, but the marrow is in your spine now. Your limbs lock up and you fall, fall, fall. Thest thing you notice is the smoke. Cypress, dilute but unmistakable. You hold on to that sensation, desperately, reaching for the apanying meaning, but your thoughts slip away from you like that self same smoke. The marrow courses up your spine and into your brain. In the end, your own thoughts slip away from you. The Rein-Holder takes you in hand. [The cawing crow lives for nine generations of men in their prime] You are no one. The marrow makes a domain of your semnce. It rises through porous skin, bubbling up inside the lines of your newly painted tattoos. Spirit olive oil with its midnight tint gives way to shining crimson script. The olive oil burns away entirely, clouds of steam billowing up around you. Yourpanion reaches desperately for you, but the pain has already knocked you back. You fall through the stone dias at the feet of the cloud-gatherer, the stone as porous as your own flesh, and into the olive oil pool. It sh boils in an instant. You bare your teeth in naked threat, though no one is there to see it, and focus your strength inward. You scour your own blood, turning your vital breath against your body. You burn away arteries, vital organs, and inevitably, you turn upon the branching paths of light within your spine- But the marrow has beaten you there. You stop breathing. Your pneuma howls and fades. You try to snarl, but you don¡¯t have the control for even that. You track the marrow as it winds up the contours of your spin, unable to do anything but hate it, and then it¡¯s in your brain and you¡¯re unable to do even that. The Rein-Holder brings you to heel. [The cawing crow serves nine generations of tyrants in their domains] You are nothing, king of no one. The city of Rome has fallen, and demons did the work. You remember the snarling faces of the wolves that salted your city. You remember how they fought, impossibly, like men in formation. You remember their tactics. You remember they can cultivate. You remember that your father- Your father. You remember your father. You remember Gaius. Yourst mentor, the first being- You remember your first mentor. You remember his rhetoric, and the years that he walked the streets of Rome. You remember that he taught you thenguage of the Alikoans, which served you well when you were¡­ bound. Bound in very. Bound to Greece. You remember that Damon Aetos¡¯ men drove back the demons. You remember that Damon Aetos took you into his estate. You remember that Damon Aetos knows of the threat, and he has not spoken of it. The Rein-Holder beckons you. [The cawing crow serves nine generations of tyrants and their purposes] You are no one, king of nothing. The Cult of the Rosy Dawn has finally rid itself of you, and you did the work yourself. You remember the scowling faces of the aunts and uncles that hated your existence. You remember how they spoke to you, poisonously, when no one was around to hear them. You remember their contempt. You remember their resentment. You remember their fear of you, their fear of your resemnce to your father- Your father. You remember your father. You remember Damon Aetos. Damon Aetos is your father. Starlight marrow flickers for a bare moment, and then it explodes through your brain and back down your spine, the tree of your life, and it burns all that it touches. The Rein-Holder condemns you. [The cawing crow eats nine generations of men in their passing] Yourpanion is condemned. Rise. Your legs are unsteady, but they are stronger than before. The marrow has burnt new channels through you, connected points of light within you that had until now sat as inds in the dark. You are stronger than you were a moment before. A moment from now, you¡¯ll be stronger still. You step through the gemstone mosaics that decorate the pool. You see yourpanion, dying in the boiling olive oil. The tattoos he¡¯d painted on himself are blood red where before they were ck, and they seethe with a visible heat that vaporizes any oil that touches them. His face is closed off from you by his midnight veil. In a way, he¡¯s already dead. This is simply mercy. You raise your celestial spear and drive it through his heart. ¡­ You raise your celestial spear and drive it through his heart. You raise your celestial spear- Listen to me. [The cawing crow dies] You are condemned. The marrow spreads through every inch of you, and it burns. It melts and it sears. Your blood boils within your veins. The marrow alights upon the fine threads that spread like roots from your spine, burning them away one by one. Your gut, your heart, and your brain are encircled. Your stomach dissolves, devoured by its own biles. Your heart bursts. Your brain shuts down, thought by thought, until all the lights in the sky of your soul have flickered and gone out. You were the son of Damon Aetos. Now you are dead. ¡­ Now you are dead. Now you are-! [The cawing crow-] You stab yourpanion. You stab yourpanion who you¡¯ve always despised. You stab yourpanion that had the gall to lecture you about your city. You stab the son of the man that enved you. You stab him. You stab him. You stab him. Kill him. [The crow-] You stop moving, and you die. Youy back down in the pool, and you die. You stop smiling. You die. You die. You die. [...] YOU STOP EATING ME [The raven grows old in the lifetime of three seers] The tomb of the father is silent but for the haggard breathing of two young men. Cloaked in shadow and shrouded by sin, they have no faces to look upon. No voices to hear. And yet, they are more than simple crows. The hungry ravens catch their breath. For a moment, all is still. Something silent passes between them. A beat. They vanish into the night. Chapter 1.24 Chapter 1.24 The Young Griffon One of the better indicators of a person¡®s character was the way they treated their juniors. The hunger for standing was a natural element of every human soul, and the temptation to abuse that standing ever with us. Not always for its own sake, perhaps, but all too often opportunities presented themselves just out of reach, and all too often there were other people, subordinates or friends or even family, positioned just right to act as stepping stones so you could close that distance. For many, it was a question that almost didn¡¯t warrant asking. When it was nothing more than glory or fortune on the line, the temptation was strong enough. But for cultivators, those who coveted divinity¡¯s distant star, existences that gained years of extended life for each small advancement? Well. For them, it wasn¡¯t a question at all. The path to heaven was only wide enough for one man to walk it at a time. My tutors had hammered that into me at an early age. In the end, we were all alone when we challenged the Fates. The only uncertainty was how many lesser men we stomped down on our way up. Eventually, a cultivator ced all beneath them. It was only a matter of when. We called it the Tyrannic Realm for a reason, after all. Still, there were those that understood this fact and epted it as a necessary consequence of defying what the fates had nned for them - good and bad. And on the other hand, there were those that hid behind it like a shield, cringing away from all responsibility. I was pleased to find that Elissa was the former of the two. ¡°What did I say? It isn¡¯t a matter of force or finesse, it¡¯s your grip,¡± the Heroine said sharply. The scars on her marble skin turned an otherwise stern frown into something truly vicious. The boy she was lecturing, a tan youth that looked to be somewhere between Heron and Castor¡¯s age, stood to like he had been struck, quickly shifting his grip to something that looked lessfortable for him, but better overall. His de was a fine thing, simply crafted with impable materials. wless iron, and a wavering line of bronze traveling through its surface like a serpent, or a sun ray. Looking at it and the boy that held it, nervous and eager and hopeful, his Raging Heaven attire neatly folded and set aside in a way that spoke of his care for it, I got the impression that they were together a product of simpleborers and backwater settlements. For him to have qualified for admittance to the Raging Heaven at his age, the indigo jewel of the Half-Step City, he must have been truly talented. His pneuma, firmly in the Sophic Realm, spoke to this as well. Still, even among prodigies, there were those who stood above. While the boy and four others brandished naked iron, Elissa held only an olive tree¡¯s branch and her loose grip. It was more than enough. Desert-heat eyes scoured the boy¡¯s form until, satisfied, she made ae-hither gesture with her free hand. All five took a different approach, some lunging low and others taking wide, sweeping strikes. Her olive tree branch whipped out with improbable speed, not only taking strikes from weapons that should have severed it with ease, but knocking them aside without care. She pivoted - pranced, really - moving through them with the grace of a dancer at a symposia. Without looking, she whipped her branch around to meet the knife edge of my descending palm, scowling as the Rosy Fingers of Dawn lit her impromptu weapon on fire. Five young Philosophers of the Raging Heaven leapt back, rmed and shouting. ¡°What do you want, Griffon?¡± Elissa asked irritably. I smiled and shrugged, pivoting on one foot and driving up with my other hand. [The sun rises.] I didn¡¯t manifest any violent intent, and my attack wasn¡¯t particrly quick. In an instant the Heroine figured out what I was doing and scoffed, but nheless twisted with a simrlynguid motion and swept her burning branch at my hand, forcing the strike aside. ¡°This lowly sophist heard that a Heroine was dispensing wisdom to her juniors. What else could I do but seek some out for myself? For a newly minted Philosopher, such a fortuitous encounter might onlye once in my life.¡± As I spoke, I led her through something that was as much a dance as it was a fight, a nameless game of choreographed violence that I had often yed with Niks when I was younger. ¡°Newly minted Philosopher,¡± she repeated as we moved, almost offended in her skepticism. In response, I flexed my Pneuma. It was undeniably of the Sophic Realm, first rank. Elissa didn¡¯t believe it for a moment. But the boys did. ¡°Junior!¡± ¡°Without even asking!¡± ¡°The audacity!¡± The boy with the shoddy grip rushed me with his de poised. He was older than the trio of boys I¡¯d pped around the day before, closer to his physical prime, and that made his superior cultivation far more dangerous. A pankration hand yanked him back by the white cloth hanging around his waist. When he jerked around to strike at it another two hammered up between his legs. The boy choked and fell to the dirt. ¡°I¡¯ve noticed a trend among the initiates of this cult,¡± I said conversationally, sying ten more hands in a burning ring around us, warding off the other philosophers. They eyed me warily while their fellow gagged on the ground. ¡°I don¡¯t care.¡± There had been a bare flicker of something fatally sharp in those desert heat eyes, an instant of protective rage. It was gone as quick as it came, when she realized I¡¯d only given the boy something convincing to think about. ¡°Yes you do,¡± I said easily, continuing our dance without missing a step. It was a game as much as any of the others I¡¯d yed thest couple days, a lighthearted representation of a fatal encounter. We tookzy, almost sloppy swings at one another, but the strikes they represented were a murderous blur in my mind¡¯s eye. This was not a game won by increments. The first to falter lost. As her branch represented a de, and my fists were only that, I was at a firm disadvantage. In theory. But I had been smacking down live steel since I was a boy. And this game was entirely a question of tactics. Elissa¡¯s swordy was some of the best I¡¯d ever seen, but it had been Niks Aetos that taught me this game. ¡°Tell me, then,¡± she demanded, focusing intently as the de of my left hand met the tip of her branch and gently burnt it away. I could almost see the image in her head, of ten thousand pankration hands mming against her de with ruinous heat, breaking it at its imperfect points. As far as she was concerned, we had both only been feeling one another out when we shed at the funeral. She thought I had far more to give. I nced at the young men ringed around us. Outrage and jealousy abounded, and it was easy enough to see why. I hadn¡¯t inserted myself into her impromptu lesson immediately, after all. In observing, I¡¯d spent as much time taking the measure of her juniors in rtion to her as I had of her rtion to them. It was fortunate enough for a cultivator in the Heroic Realm to give you a moment of their time. It was doubly fortunate when they were a beautiful woman and you were just discovering your body¡¯s earthly desires. These five had sought her out on this jagged peak within spitting distance of the Storm That Never Ceased because she was by far the best swordsman that would give them the time of day. ¡°They¡¯re all soft.¡± But more than that, they¡¯de to bask in her attention. Five Sophic cultivators seethed at my disdain, their influenceshing out impotently at my pankration hands. Their egos broke against the Rosy Fingers of Dawn without resistance, closer to sea spray than any true wave. ¡°They¡¯re young,¡± Elissa reproached me. Ho, there was real anger in that desert heat. How surprising. ¡°Children are young,¡± I dismissed, ducking a sharp jab at my eyes and thrusting a palm at her kidney. She twisted artfully, fuschia silk shifting across her sculpted skin. I snorted as five sets of eyes stared. ¡°Cultivators are only ever unrefined.¡± ¡°It isn¡¯t enough to say things that sound meaningful,¡± Elissa replied, striking. ¡°It has to actually mean something, too.¡± ¡°How cruel.¡± Advance, feint, step back. ¡°But you know, it isn¡¯t enough to act like you¡¯ve disproven something, either.¡± Above our heads, the undying storm rumbled. ¡°You still have to prove me wrong.¡± Elissa scowled and suddenly shifted the rhythm she¡¯d kept thus far, adopting a new style. The transition was so smooth that I almost didn¡¯t notice in time. I leaned away from the next three strikes, raising an eyebrow. She caved. ¡°Soft in what way, then?¡± ¡°I have a cousin,¡± I said, and the pankration hands surrounding us turned their palms inward. Two went rigid and t like daggers, and were seized by two more in turn. They began to dance through the air in a series of sharp jabs, shes, and cuts. For all that he had harbored absurd shame over hisck of manifested virtue, the littlest kyrios had never allowed himself to wallow and shirk his martial pursuits. The five young Philosophers watched with reluctant fascination as I illustrated Myron¡¯s dagger forms. One boy in particr, with delicate features and thin fingers, traced the motions with intense focus. He¡¯de here to learn the sword, ostensibly, but knives were clearly his true interest. ¡°You have a cousin,¡± Elissa repeated tly. ¡°Several, actually. But the youngest is nine years old, and already his foundations are packed tighter than anything I¡¯ve seen on this pretty mountain. Compared to these boys his cultivation may be lesser, but he is the better man. When discourse turns to dispute, he possesses the only thing that truly matters. The element that these boysck.¡± One of the two pankration suddenly twisted and threw its makeshift dagger-hand. It drove through the stone behind the sunray swordsman, just missing his head. He flinched sideways. ¡°An edge.¡± Elissa said nothing. She was surprisingly kind to her juniors, that was the truth. She was surprisingly tolerant of their obvious motives, that was the truth as well. She was even, most surprising of all, a bit protective of her junior mystikos in spite of the way she¡¯d treated myself and Scythas at the kyrios¡¯ funeral. But in the end, there was one aspect of her that was not surprising at all. She was a Heroine, and she knew what distinguished those that ascended from those that did not. She bore its mark all over her body. And she knew that these children didn¡¯t have it. ¡°What am I missing here, honored Heroine?¡± I pressed her quietly, closing the distance and drawing her into the final exchange. ¡°This is the Half-Step City, isn¡¯t it? This is the cult that only epts the finest souls of the free Mediterranean, isn¡¯t it? So tell me, why are they all so soft?¡± I knew why, of course. I felt it in my bones, in the new marrow that shot through them like ruby veins. But some things were too important not to confirm. Our exchanges became frenzied, though the speed never changed. Elissa¡¯s burning eyes darted this way and that, tracking burning fists that didn¡¯t exist. In my own mind¡¯s eye, I waded through a storm of bronze. Iron sharpens iron, she spoke in the voice of her soul, a clear chime to my Sophic sense. And so in asking one question, I was given three answers. Her burning branch halted beside my right ear. The Heroine snarled in frustration and threw down her weapon. I tapped her chest a second time, directly over her heart. One of the boys made a disbelieving sound and was quickly hushed by his fellows. ¡°borate,¡± I invited her, stepping back and inclining my head. She mirrored me, grudgingly. ¡°Iron sharpens iron,¡± she said out loud. There was something there, a contempt for someone other than me. ¡°A strong foundation requires strong opposition.¡± ¡°Naturally,¡± I agreed. I waved a hand at the young Philosophers. ¡°So then, you¡¯re saying these shining gems of the free Mediterranean didn¡¯t experience any true hardship on the road to the Raging Heaven Cult?¡± It was rather sad, watching them throttle their indignation before Elissa could notice it. As if they could hide anything from her. She pretended not to see it anyway, for their sake. ¡°You know I¡¯m not.¡± ¡°I do.¡± ¡°Then why-¡± She shook her head. Disgusted with me, no doubt. ¡°The initiates here are all exceptional cultivators, the best of the best. It isn¡¯t their fault that this ce is the way it is.¡± ¡°Who¡¯s fault is it, then?¡± I asked. It had been a gut feeling, a supposition built upon small observations and simple intuition, but here and now, as one of the stronger existences in the enlightened world stared at me silently, unwilling to speak, I knew it was the truth. Tyrants. ¡°You grew up in a nowhere nation, separated from the enlightened world by an entire ocean,¡± she finally said. I nodded because it was true. ¡°If you decided one day that you were going to beat a rival of yours to death, who could punish you for it?¡± My father. ¡°The kyrios of the Rosy Dawn.¡± ¡°Damon Aetos,¡± she said, and the immortal storm roared above our heads. ¡°Did he make a habit of intervening directly in the affairs of his younger initiates?¡± I snorted. Elissa nodded, taking that for the answer that it was. ¡°Then if not him, who? The elders?¡± ¡°If they noticed.¡± ¡°Exactly.¡± Her jaw, slender and refined and marred by deep scars, flexed. ¡°There are limits to the perceptions of Philosophers and Heroes. Lapses in awareness and simpleck of care. It is not in a Philosopher''s nature to ignore life¡¯s greater mysteries in favor of tending to children. It is not in a Hero¡¯s nature to ignore life¡®s greater threats in favor of small disputes.¡± She exined the problem to me the only way she could. By exining everything else instead. It was not within the capabilities of Philosophers and Heroes to track everything that took ce in their vicinity. Nor was it in their nature to care overly much about what those beneath them did. To subjugate them at every perceived slight. But Tyrants were a different existence altogether. ¡°Eight kings, but only one crown,¡± I mused. The rm that took hold of her in that moment was as sharp and immediate as it had been the night of the funeral. Lightning shed above our heads. ¡°Must you always tempt the Fates?¡± she whispered furiously. I tilted my head to regard the five frowning philosophers. At a certain point, they had started to understand the difference between us. They regarded me as prey regarded predator. As they should have from the start. ¡°My senior brothers,¡± I said, and smiled as they leaned in, unconsciously, to listen. ¡°You came here for wisdom, so listen for a moment. You are surrounded, and you are watched, that is true. It¡¯s entirely possible that no matter what you do beneath this curtain of tribtion, you will be angering a lion. But that doesn¡¯t mean you shouldn¡¯t act.¡± Without looking, I picked up the discarded olive branch with a pankration hand and offered it to Elissa. She eyed it like it was a real de after all. ¡°Neutrality won¡¯t protect you forever,¡± I promised them all. ¡°The higher ups may only be watching for now, but they¡¯ll get hungry eventually. And when the lion is hungry, he eats.¡± The young woman, once a crow but now unmasked and someone again, choked as the hungry raven on the right gripped her by the throat and mmed her against a marble pir. Chains rattled and went taut, binding her to the stone and throttling her cultivation. ¡°She wasn¡¯t wrong,¡± The hungry raven on the right mused in a voice of shifting sand. ¡°Cowards you may be, skulking around in the dark, but you¡¯re the only ones getting anything done around here. A cat¡¯s paw is still dangerous, isn¡¯t it?¡± The young woman grit her teeth and thrashed against her binds. The raven chuckled. ¡°Which king do you serve?¡± Her small part of providence urged her not to speak, to give nothing away. As if she would have. The young woman kept her silence. The hungry raven on the left drove its bronze spear through her thigh, and she choked back a scream. ¡°Where is the man who knows everything?¡± The hungry raven on the left demanded. ¡°I asked first,¡± cawed the other. ¡°We¡¯re not doing this.¡± ¡°Anonymity isn¡¯t an excuse to be rude.¡± The hungry raven on the left ignored its bare-chested counterpart, leaning down until its face was level with hers. By its build, it was almost certainly a man. And while before she had been nothing but shadows and unseen malice, she was now Harmodias of Kr¨®kos. A woman, her wrists bound to the marble column by chains. At their mercy. She closed her eyes and leaned away from it all. ¡°What do you know of the man who knows everything?¡± he asked again. ¡°Nothing,¡± she whispered. He twisted the spear¡¯s head in her thigh. She winced and shivered. ¡°Nothing.¡± He considered her silently, while the other raven waited impatiently, resting his weight on the shaft of a ludicrouslyrge bronze war axe. Finally, he sighed and drew back. She could feel the end approaching. After all this time, all that Harmodias had given in pursuit of the heights, this was where she sumbed. In the dark, with no one to mourn her passing. It was too cruel. It was simply too cruel- The raven on the left broke the chain that bound her, and without another word threw her off the side of Kaukoso Mons. ¡°Worthless-!¡± she heard the raven on the right begin to shout, before the whistling winds stole it all away. Her small part of providence suddenly came alive within her unseen shadow, cawing and pping its wings furiously as it burst out of a fold in her clothes and took flight. It would return to its source, and they would know what had taken ce here. Who had killed her, and what they were after. If nothing else, she could take somefort in that. Her death wouldn¡¯t be entirely without meaning. Thest thing she saw was an eagle cutting through the sky like an arrow. It overtook her crow in an instant, sinking its talons into ink-ck flesh and careening back up the mountain. Harmodias opened her mouth to scream and promptly mmed through the sloped roof of one Olympia¡¯s nicer bathhouses. Chapter 1.25 Chapter 1.25 The Son of Rome As much as Griffon had tried to rope me into it, I had never been a member of the Rosy Dawn. Not truly. There were certain duties that a ve simply could not ignore, no matter the attire they wore or thepany they kept. As much as Griffin was the Young Aristocrat of the cult, second only to one in many ways, he was second. I only ever met Damon Aetos twice. The second time during the initiation rites that his son had dragged me through, in the impacted cavern where the bisected corpse of the fallen sun gody in eternal rest. As rosy light had bloomed in that corpse¡¯s palm, the sun rising, the kyrios¡¯ eyes had drifted from his son to me. And though I hadn¡¯t sensed anything at the time with my senses dulled by iron shackles, I had known then, as I had known from the beginning, that every breath I drew within the Scarlet City was a breath that he had allowed me. The first time I met Damon Aetos, my wounds were still bleeding and my ears were still ringing from the thunder of war. He¡¯dmanded his captain and soldiers to leave, and then his brothers. Then he sat silent, while I knelt on that marble floor, patiently waiting. Night fell, and the moon rose. Sounds of conversation andbat and simple life drifted through the open terrace of his office. He didn¡¯t fidget. Didn¡¯t move. Finally, as the dawn broke over the eastern mountain range, the Tyrant of the Scarlet City spoke to me for the first time. ¡°You failed.¡± For a moment, I didn¡¯t realize the words had been spoken out loud. They¡¯d been echoing in my mind for hours already. I finally looked at him, then, and he gazed upon me without pity nor contempt. Nothing at all but expectation. He wasn¡¯t surprised in the slightest. ¡°The city of Rome has fallen,¡± he continued, unbothered by my vacant stare. ¡°Her legions are scattered and gone. You are all that remains.¡± He stood from his desk, and he towered. His stature was reminiscent of the hulking Goths of the western front, sans their hulking frames and grotesque features. He could have stood eye to eye with the demons of Carthage. Rounding his desk, he walked out onto the terrace and watched the light spread through his city. ¡°Your provinces won¡¯t mourn your passing,¡± he told me. ¡°Those conquered won¡¯t weep for the conqueror. All that you are, all that your ancestors have wrought, will be gone in a decade. Nothing will remain. And the children of Aeneas die with you.¡± And so I spoke my first words to him. ¡°I know that. I know all of that.¡± My fists clenched, unable to grasp the captain''s virtue. As if it would have mattered. It hadn¡¯t then, and it wouldn¡¯t now. I mmed my fist into the floor anyway. The marble cracked. ¡°Your cloak was white, once,¡± he said, as if I hadn¡¯t spoken. The filthy rag miraculously still clung to my shoulder, but it had long since been stained an earthy red by blood and muck over the course of the campaign. Even so, it remained what it was. The mark of a Roman legion¡¯s seniormander. I snarled and tore it off my shoulder. ¡°It¡¯s toote for that.¡± He rendered judgement without hesitation. Blind as I was to Pneuma and virtue, I still felt it as it mmed down on my head. Forced it to bow. ¡°You epted that mantle and you failed the men that it ced beneath you. There¡¯s no escaping that.¡± A Tyrant''s judgment was absolute. Blood sprayed from my clenched teeth, marring the Tyrant''s spotless floor. I heard the rush of thunder in my ears and saw the darkness creeping in from the edges as I forced my eyes up. Up. Damon Aetos turned from his terrace and met my eyes again. Expectant. ¡°I never deserved it,¡± I said, every word forced out into the open air, every syble exacerbating the wounds that those dogs had given me. If I kept talking beneath the weight of his influence, I would die. ¡°I failed them. My men. My mentors. Rome. I don¡¯t deserve to call myself a legionnaire, let alone a captain. Nothing you say could possibly make me hate you more than I hate myself. No judgment of yours could ever be as brutal as what I deserve.¡± Damon Aetos considered me for a long moment. Then he nodded, and the weight of his judgment fell away from me. I snarled again and mmed both mangled fists against the marble. ¡°Anybody can be angry. That much is easy.¡± Two broad, calloused hands wrapped around my wrists, tighter and far more unyielding than the iron manacles. The kyrios dragged me to my feet. ¡°But to be angry with the right person and to the right degree, and at the right time, and for the right purpose?¡± He pressed without particr force, and I mmed down into a chair. He leaned back against his desk, obscuring three of the four warriors carved into its front face. ¡°That is not within everyone¡¯s power,¡± he told me. ¡°And it is not easy.¡± My strength was fading. The echoes of the fifth were growing louder by the minute. I¡¯d be joining them soon. ¡°What is your name?¡± I stared vacantly at the light on the horizon. ¡°Solus.¡± ¡°Thest son of Rome,¡± he mused. ¡°King of salt and ash. I suppose this is all that remains.¡± The kyrios snapped his fingers and a man that bore his age with tempered grace entered the office immediately. ¡°Mend him,¡± Damon Aetos decided, ¡°and put him to work.¡± The old man bowed his head at once, but then raised it, and asked the Tyrant, ¡°As a ve, Damon? Are you certain?¡± I wouldtere to know this old man as the first among servants within the Rosy Dawn, oldest by far. But to this day, I still didn¡¯t know how he¡¯d had the gall to question a Tyrant where all others would have bowed their heads in supplication. More than that, I didn¡¯t know why the Tyrant had allowed it. Damon Aetos hadn¡¯tshed out in anger at the ve¡¯s audacity. He had only turned away, dismissing us both as he returned to the business of ruling the Scarlet City. ¡°Whatever he may have been before, Carthage took it from him. He¡¯s nothing now.¡± For all that Griffin had tried to include me in the daily life of a true initiate, for all that he had sponsored me himself through the rites, his word came second to his father¡¯s. And Damon Aetos had decided from the very beginning that there was no ce for me within his domain. I¡¯ve never been a peer amongst those seeking answers beneath the mysterious light of dawn, that was the simple fact of things. But I had worked among them and observed the things they did. The people of Greece were in many ways exactly as my childhood mentor had described, and in many ways they were more. More vibrant, more academic, more boisterous and free spirited, more arrogant and frivolous in their pursuits. They were as alien to me as the Goths, the Britons, and the Celts. In more ways than one, I didn¡¯t know what it truly meant to be an initiate of a Greek mystery cult. But I knew where to start. The stone steps carved into this particr section of Kaukoso Mons served as a half theater, it¡¯s surface crowded by mystikos of the Raging Heaven cult. Boys, girls, men and women, they gathered as individuals and in small groups both with tablets and empty rolls of papyrus in hand. Nearly a dozen varying shades of indigo and itsponent colors abounded in their attire. At the foot of the steps, on a circr tform that jutted out over the southern face of the mountain, a philosopher conducted his lectures. He was a young man in appearance, broad shouldered and tan, only the bare wrinkle of crow''s feet around his eyes and the gray hairs on his chest giving lie to his apparent age. His hair was still full and dark, his beard thick and curly. He spoke with the weight of years and the confidence of someone that knew they were the smartest in the room. Philosophers lecturing junior initiates had been amon urrence in the Rosy Dawn. It was the primary method of advancements for those too young and weak to challenge their peers in the octagon or on the track. The early years were the most formative, as well, and so the young ones especially were presented with as many ideas and as much knowledge as they could fit in their heads. All too often, the virtue that a man pulls from the sea of his soul was not the work of any one mentor. It was an amalgamation of a thousand different moments, words, and impressions. It was the natural way. The right way, many would say. It was a question I couldn¡¯t answer myself. The topic being covered here this afternoon, high up on the southern face of the mountain where junior initiates without experience abounded, was numerology. Pythagoreanism specifically. It was amonly known fact that the mystery cults of the free Mediterranean were some of the finest institutions in the world, and if Griffon and Anastasia were to be believed, the Raging Heaven stood above even them in the quality of its instructors. As I reclined with my elbows propped up against the stone steps behind me, listening, I found it somewhat hard to believe. ¡°Within nature there is a guiding principle, a thoughtful design which makes itself apparent to anyone who cares to seek it out,¡± the Philosopher lectured, brandishing a hand and pointing two fingers up to heaven. ¡°The observance of these designs allows us to fill in the empty spaces that have been left behind in the natural world. We use numbers to represent concepts beyond traditionalprehension, and in so doing we pave the way for understanding of our future. Something as monumental as the passage of stars can¡¯t be predicted intuitively. But it can be distilled down to numbers. And numbers can always be predicted.¡± The Philosopher led his audience through a primer, something I remember learning about when I was still too short to punch a man in his jaw without jumping. Some of the gathered initiates seemed equally disinterested, but others were scribing with focused intensity. The Philosopher transitioned after a while into specific examples, ticking the fingers of his other hand off, one at a time. ¡°Before the maniption of numbers, there is meaning in the numbers themselves. The Broad¡¯s model of the soul tells us that we exist in three parts. We ascend through four mortal realms, and within each we take ten ranks upon ourselves. There is meaning in every number, as there is meaning in every de of grass and every shifting grain of sand.¡± He looked up at us all with patient expectation. ¡°Somebody tell me the significance of the first number, ¨¦na.¡± ¡°Victory,¡± called a girl in dark maroon robes. The Philosopher inclined his head in eptance. ¡°Another.¡± ¡°Survival,¡± a young man in a soft purple-blue tunic proposed, only for one of his fellows sitting beside him to immediately suggest the exact opposite. The Philosopher cut in before an argument could ensue. ¡°Both equally correct answers- and bothcking. You could all suggest a different meaning, and each would contain a portion of the truth, but none would be fullyplete, because above all ¨¦na is-¡± ¡°Unity,¡± spoke a voice from above, and every mystiko in attendance turned to watch a new arrival descend the stone steps. ¡°One is the origin of all things. It is to numerology as numerology is to nature. All aspects of the world can be broken into numbers, and all numbers can be broken into ¨¦na.¡± ¡°Exactly right,¡± the Philosopher said, annoyance at the interruption warring with a visible fondness for the young man hopping down the steps. ¡°Come again to steal my students from me, Jason?¡± ¡°Oh, I wouldn¡¯t dream of it,¡± the Hero said, to the quiet disappointment of most in attendance. He winked at a group of particrly vocal young initiates nearby, hopping down the steps three at a time with the eerie grace all advanced cultivators moved with. ¡°I just thought you might like an assistant. It never hurts to have a second set of-¡± Burning blue eyes met mine and Jason stumbled. A pair of girls with flowers braided into their hair cried out as a Hero twice their size stepped into them and sent them sprawling to the level below, into theps of a group of boys. ¡°Jason?¡± The Philosopher asked, pneuma rising in concern. ¡°My mistake,¡± the Hero said, catching himself in the next moment and offering both girls a hand. He lifted them back up to their seats and apologized to both of them, smiling indulgently at their starstruck expressions. ¡°Actually, I think I¡¯ll sit in for this one. I suppose I have been acting the mentor too oftentely. I¡¯ve still got plenty to learn, eh?¡± With that he leapt back up the steps. He somehow managed tonnd in a casual sprawl that covered three levels as if they were a cushioned lounge, iming for himself one of the many empty spaces in the rows most distant from the lecturer. It ced him only a few scant feet away from me. ¡°What are you doing here, Sol?¡± he murmured, once the Philosopher had returned to his lecture and Jason had shooed the mystikos¡¯ wandering eyes away from him. ¡°Learning,¡± I said blithely. Jason snorted. ¡°Right, and I¡¯m the king of Egypt.¡± ¡°Far from home,¡± I observed. His lips twitched towards a grin, but he muscled it down. ¡°But really,¡± he said, ¡°is this about the other night?¡± The Philosopher gestured down on his tform and conjured wisps of me the color of honey, carving into the air as if it was a y tablet. He traced geometric shapes in the wind,beling their sides with exacting and espousing the meanings behind their pairings. ¡°I came here for him,¡± I said, and it was even true. I hadn¡¯t had the privilege of personally attending lectures at the Rosy Dawn, but I¡¯d caught enough in passing and remembered enough of my mentor to know that they were my best chance at piecing together the Greek style of cultivation. I was here to find my mentor, that was true above all. But I had to acknowledge the possibility that I wouldn¡¯t find him here. Until I knew one way or another, I had to make the best of my time here. I¡¯d seek him out as soon as I knew where to go. Whether that was across the city or across the continent, it would be done. For his part, Jason¡¯s heart mes redoubled behind his eyes, and his lips parted in understanding. ¡°So he is conspiring with zon. I suspected, but I should have known.¡± I quietly sighed. ¡°Don¡¯t jump to conclusions,¡± was all I said. Jason nodded fractionally, eyeing the Philosopher below with carefully masked suspicion. ¡°Of course, we¡¯ll have to y this carefully. But if you¡¯re right, and I think you are¡­ we could prove beyond a doubt that zon was involved that night.¡± I resigned myself to this new reality, frowning at the implication of what he¡¯d just said. By my vague memories of the funeral, I remembered a young man cast from the same mold as Griffon, but forged from inferior materials. A young aristocrat without the grit to back up his gall. Scythas had told Griffin and I the following day that he¡¯d been implicated by the Crow we captured. He¡¯d all but admitted to it himself, the bastard, running off like he had. But it seemed he¡¯d made a convincing case for himself. Or, perhaps more likely, someone had made it for him. ¡°What about you?¡± I asked quietly. Jason blinked, adjusting his robes a bit and looking faintly embarrassed. ¡°These lectures¡­ Depending on who¡¯s giving them, they have a tendency to drift.¡± I raised an eyebrow. Jason coughed into his fist. ¡°The initiates are still impressionable this far up the mountain,¡± he exined. ¡°Still na?ve and dazzled by the sanctuary city and it¡¯s grand teau. Many of them still barely know what rhetoric is, let alone how to steel themselves against it.¡± My eyes widened as I realized what he was getting at. I watched the philosopher craft meaning out of thin air, carve it into the air with the shimmering me, and watched the mystikos in attendance drink it in like a desert oasis. It made sense when I thought about it. Rhetoric was a tool like any other. A Philosopher could use it to convince as easily as they could to exin. If Griffon had been right in the temple of the father, resisting its influence could even be a question ofparative cultivation. ¡°They¡¯re recruiting the children.¡± Assembling factions. Turning them against one another. Jason nodded, a dark look in his eyes. ¡°These are the moments that are meant to provide for new cultivators,¡± he said quietly. ¡°Many of these initiates are so exceptional that they gained admittance to the cult before cementing their virtue. Lectures like these provide a wider foundation for them to draw upon when the momentes. When they¡¯re delivered in good faith.¡± More maneuvering. My eyes narrowed. ¡°So you offer your assistance in lecturing as their senior in cultivation.¡± ¡°An impossible thing to refuse,¡± he agreed. ¡°And if I happen to steer things away from one particr topic or another, who¡¯s to say there¡¯s any intent behind it?¡± Because using him of such a thing would mean implicating themselves. ¡°Spitting in their eyes and daring them to blink,¡± I said without any particr inflection. Jason smiled bleakly, tilting his head back and gazing up at the ceaseless storm. ¡°What can I say?¡± he murmured. ¡°Defying Tyrants is a Hero¡¯s virtue.¡± The scent of burnt yew assaulted me. It whirled around Jason, marking him, as he¡¯d been marked the night of the funeral. I was beginning to understand now. The Crows were targeting Olympic contenders as the elders angled for influence within the cult, but that wasn¡¯t the whole of it. ¡°Where¡¯s your room?¡± I asked him, and Jason answered without hesitation. Too trusting. I swallowed down the bile in my throat and looked back at him with heavy intent. ¡°Stay there tonight. We¡¯ll talk tomorrow, at the agora.¡± Jason smiled fiercely. Three crows came in the night for the Hero of the baster Isles. Each of them was a lesser existence to the great Hero, but they hadn¡¯t been tasked with extraction. Tonight, they were the rusted des in the dark. If they shattered, it wouldn¡¯t matter. So long as they buried their poison in the Hero¡¯s heart first. Death was an eptable consequence, so long as it imed all parties. Two of the Crows crept through the cerulean-veined halls of the Hero¡¯s quarters, while the third scaled the mountain up to his window. The hungry ravens fell upon the two in the hall before they could scream, and the third Crow crested the edge of the Hero¡¯s terrace only to find him waiting inside, blue eyes burning in the dark. Jason caught the crow by its throat and dragged it inside. Chapter 1.26 Chapter 1.26 The Young Griffon ¡°Ho, so the young aristocrat slipped away from punishment after all,¡± I mused, walking through the streets of Olympia. ¡°Leaving his subordinates to suffer the full consequences. How surprising.¡± The markets were stirring to full wakefulness as the dawn broke, society¡¯s undesirables crawling back down their holes. For our parts, Sol and I had changed back into our daywear after a thorough cleansing at one of the city¡¯s many public baths. The streets of Olympia were like home in many ways ¨C at least, home at its heights. Each day in the Half-Step city was a festival by the standards of Alikos, every street overflowing with enterprising merchants, musicians ying sweet songs, and of course, men both young and old hotly debating politics on every corner. Each street was a new experience, and that alone was worth the trips up and down Kaukoso Mons. ¡°With all the issues these Tyrants are causing, the least they could do is their jobs,¡± Sol muttered darkly, tossing an apple in his hand as he perused a merchant¡¯s wares. His nose twitched, and he absently brushed a thumb across it. ¡°Favored by one should mean reviled by seven.¡± ¡°That would make too much sense.¡± I clicked my tongue, thinking of all the worthless sophists thatnguished underneath the Storm That Never Ceased. Perpetually too fearful of a Tyrant¡¯s reprisal to fully test their limits. Abruptly, I wondered how many initiates of the Raging Heaven had actually suffered an elder¡¯s wrath, and not merely the threat of it. ¡°Power and its privileges¡­¡± Sol took a bite out of his apple, dismissing the merchant and turning down the road. ¡°zon was a Hero, I remember that much. Strong enough to confidently challenge three peers and an unknown cultivator with only one other Hero and a handful of Philosophers at his back. Well-connected enough to do it in the middle of a club.¡± ¡°He was a real asshole,¡± I agreed. Gray eyes flickered my way. ¡°I was going to say he reminded me of you.¡± ¡°What a coincidence,¡± I said pleasantly, tilting my head towards an old vagrant bundled in filthy rags, sitting vacantly on a street corner while men stood around him arguing over the next assembly¡¯s vote. ¡°I was just about to say the same of him.¡± Sol snorted and took two more bites of his apple before flicking the core at my head. ¡°At any rate, it¡¯s safe to assume he has friends in high ces,¡± I continued, deftly avoiding it. ¡°-He¡¯lle back to haunt us sooner orter, I¡¯m sure. More importantly, how was the lecture itself? Insightful?¡± ¡°The first number, ¨¦na, is the origin of all things,¡± Sol recited dully, pping a boy¡¯s hand away from an oblivious citizen¡¯s coin pouch. The boy scowled in outrage, saw our cult attires, and promptly took off running down a side alley. ¡°The second, thio, is the feminine principle. Third, tria, masculinity. Fourth-¡± ¡°Tessera.¡± I snapped my fingers and the light of dawn rose to the tip of my thumb and caught fire. ¡°Perfect natural symmetry. Justice.¡± Sol hummed in agreement. ¡°The wise philosopher had arger point to make, surely? Even Romans can count to four.¡± Sol ticked off three fingers on his hand and then paused, eyebrows furrowing. I chuckled and threw an arm over his shoulder, gesturing with the other into the distance. Beyond the eastern limits of Olympia was a vast expanse of unconquered life, stark mountains and lush valleys that could be seen sprawling into the far horizon. ¡°There is purpose in all things, young sophist,¡± I said grandly. ¡°From their cement to their posture, their organization and all of theirponent parts, how they proliferate and how they cease to be. Natural philosophers are those that dedicate their lives to unearthing these purposes and advancing humanity¡¯s fundamental understanding of creation. Surely a man of that caliber ispetent enough to teach multiple lessons with only one lecture ¨C one for the children, one for the students, and one for the schrs.¡± Sol started to raise his fourth finger, hesitated, and lowered it again. I grabbed the bent finger and forced it to fully extend. His eyes widened. ¡°You¡¯re not funny,¡± I informed him. ¡°And neither are you,¡± he said easily, brushing my arm off his shoulder. ¡°-----It did feel like he was building towards a greater point, admittedly. He referenced past lectures a few times as well. It was almost like the entire lecture was an extended tangent.¡± ¡°I wouldn¡¯t doubt it,¡± I said. ¡°Past a certain point of advancement, even the seemingly simple techniques are vast amalgamations of smaller pursuits.¡± ¡°How so?¡± ¡°Consider the man that gave you his virtue,¡± I said. ¡°Picture in your mind¡¯s eye the greatest feats that he aplished with it, and now imagine how you would recreate them.¡± I gave him a moment, just long enough not to lose himself. Then I prompted him, ¡°Now do it.¡± ¡°I can¡¯t,¡± he admitted. He clenched and unclenched his hands, a considering look in his eyes. ¡°But not for the same reasons that you can¡¯t copy your father.¡± I flicked the lingering me off my thumb and briefly weighed the odds of my sessfully pulling down a star from heaven. Not today. Tomorrow, maybe. ¡°Humor me, then,¡± I said. ¡°Every Hero and every Tyrant was once a Philosopher. To progress past the Sophic Realm a cultivator must internalize a thousand-thousand truths, the rules of nature that will serve as the framework for their cultivation going forward. ¡°When a Hero stands against a terrible horror and strikes it down with a sword made of iron, every truth of the world as they know it is behind that swing. It¡¯s more than just a flick of the wrist. When a Tyrant decides he has no more use for a mountain and it suddenly ceases to be?¡± I gestured back the way we¡¯de, in the direction of Kaukoso Mons and its storm crown, but we both knew I was referring to the Rosy Dawn¡¯s initiation rites. ¡°The same principle applies. So tell me, Sol, how does Rome differ?¡± I was honestly curious. My understanding of the Roman system of cultivation was even less developed than his understanding of ours. I had only ever heard disparaging spection from Alikoans, and strayments from Sol himself made during idle conversation. I waited patiently while he considered the scenario, eyes drifting back to the home of the Raging Heaven Cult. Finally, he said, ¡°A Hero cuts down a great enemy with one strike. But that one strike is the product of a thousand-thousand truths.¡± Storm gray eyes flickered to me seeking confirmation, and I nodded. ¡°So then, if a Hero can swing a de with the same force as a thousand-thousand men, it¡¯s fair to say that each one of those truths represent a single swinging de. A Tyrant is the same, but on arger scale.¡± ¡°For the most part,¡± I agreed. ¡°One Greek arms himself with the rules of nature and uses them to do the work of many. A Hero swings a sword like he¡¯s a thousand-thousand menyered over one another in a single skin and smites the monster. A Tyrant presses down on a mountain like he¡¯s a million-million men and crushes it to dust.¡± ¡°And what does the Roman do to strike down the monster?¡± I asked, intrigued. ¡°How does he topple the mountain that¡¯s in his path?¡± Sol hummed, remembering, and the riptide currents of his influence whipped out around him, buffeting me and those around us. I let it wash over me, but a pair of women walking our way suddenly stumbled towards him, dropping the bundles of food in their arms. He arrested their fall with the captain¡¯s virtue and we walked on without breaking stride. Eventually, he smiled wryly. ¡°The Roman tells five hundred good men to go to work, and the monster falls to the prime cohort¡¯s fury.¡± ¡°And what about the mountain?¡± I asked, amused. ¡°What about the mountain?¡± ¡°How would you topple it?¡± He shrugged. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t.¡± I nearly objected. It was a terrible response, and worse than that, it didn¡¯t tell me anything about the Roman cultural zeitgeist. I opened my mouth to say that, in admittedly less polite words, and then I paused. Closed it. On the surface, both answers said nothing at all about cultivation. There was strength in numbers, that wasmon sense. And yes, rather than do something, it was also possible to not do it instead. But he¡¯d specified five hundred men, and not a thousand-thousand. And as for the mountain- I sighed. ¡°You¡¯d go around it.¡± ¡°I¡¯d go around it.¡± The literal answer, the tactical answer, and the strategic answer, all wrapped up in one. I supposed that was what I deserved for myment before. I filed away my new insight into the military mentality of a Roman cultivator forter consideration. And then I spat at his feet. ¡°You could have just said you¡¯re boring,¡± I said sourly. Sol nodded, simple satisfaction in the quirk of his lips. ¡°And you could have just said you¡¯re Greek.¡± Chapter 1.27 Chapter 1.27 The Son of Rome Griffon and I made our rounds through the streets of Olympia, seeing what there was to see and bncing political intrigue with simple curiosity. The Half-Step City was a sharp contrast to Rome in almost every way. Especially when it came to the tongues spoken. My mentor had taught me the Alikoan dialect well. I hadn¡¯t had much use for it in the legions, but my time as a ve had seen my grasp on it perfected. But that was only onenguage. There were dozens of tongues being spoken in the Half-Step City, at least three at any given time on any given street. It was fascinating and disorienting in equal measure. I had grown used to hearing everything there was to be heard years ago, one of many skills that Gaius had hammered into me. That awareness worked against me now, made it hard to think straight. It would¡¯ve been hard to focus regardless. What conversation I could understand was conducted at blistering paces, about topics of politics andw that I had no frame of reference for as a foreigner. Childrenughed and shrieked, running about naked or in simple genderless tunics. Figs, grapes, turnips, pears, apples, honebs, chickpeas, and myrtle berries abounded. Periodically, Griffon would snatch a handful of something with a pankration hand while the Metic selling it wasn¡¯t looking. asionally, he even offered me some. The fruits were all incredibly sweet, decadent beyond belief. In general, that was probably how I would describe this ce. With its grand public buildings and massive, riotous agora. And that was before taking into ount Kaukoso Mons, the gemstone-lined mountain that served as a monument to all of man¡¯s excesses. I would give the Greeks one thing. In their virtues and their vices, they held nothing back. ¡°Well, this is my stop,¡± Griffon suddenly said, alighting on something that deserved his extended attention. I caught him by the arm before he could fully step away. Theurel leaf crown wrapped around his bicep was curiously warm to the touch. ¡°Not yet,¡± I told him, ncing meaningfully towards the greater mayhem of the agora. We¡¯d been traveling side streets for the most part, just in case. Griffon raised an eyebrow. ¡°Ho, is that whatst night was about?¡± ¡°What do you think?¡± Griffon smirked and pulled his arm free. ¡°Fine then, give me a moment.¡± That said, he turned and walked confidently into a residential building with no defining characteristics that I could see. It was a squat, almost ugly thingpared to the splendor of the public constructions. I closed my eyes and focused on breathing while he did whatever it was he was doing. Counting today, it had been four days since I slept. Three days since Griffon and I had met at the eighth wonder of the world and consumed the starlight marrow of a crow. Sleep was something that a cultivator of sufficient advancement didn¡¯t really need, and it was something that a soldier of sufficient rank could rarely afford. I was out of practice, ironically, my days as a ve having been far more restful than my time in the legions, but some things were never truly forgotten. If anything, my advancement¡­ at the end, had made it even easier to keep moving with the sun and the moon. The marrow helped as well, in a nebulous, unsettling way that I still hadn¡¯t pinned down. But even so, the mind needed a moment from time to time. I focused on breathing in the steady rhythm of a proper cadence, allowing my ns, my doubts, and my fears slip away for just a moment as I unwound. Griffon wasted no time ruining my short peace, leaping out of the second story terrace of the unassuming home with pankration hands zing around him. I inhaled sharply, calling the captain¡¯s virtue to my hand as I expanded my senses through the building in search of the threat. I found it at the same moment that a wooden dining table came hurtling out of the building after Griffon. The former young aristocrat deflected the projectile furniture with his violent intent, sending it spiraling into another building where it exploded into shrapnel upon impact. Hended adroitly behind me, leaning back-to-back with his elbow propped up on my shoulder ¡°Give me a hand, will you?¡± ¡°You have enough,¡± I said tly. He clicked his tongue, utterly unashamed of himself. The scarred Heroine, Elissa, mmed open the door on the first floor, murder in her desert heat eyes. They went first to Griffon, seething annoyance in them that I fully empathized with, before settling on me. The Heroine sighed explosively. ¡°Solus. This lowly sophist would like to offer your student some guidance.¡± A pankration hand dug its middle and index fingers into the small of my back, the heat of the Rosy Dawn¡¯s mes growing steadily hotter. ¡°I can think of nothing better for his development,¡± I said, and was promptly jabbed by several more burning fingers. ¡°Unfortunately, we have somewhere to be.¡± Elissa scowled fully, resting a hand on the bronze de at her hip. She wasn¡¯t wearing her usual cult attire, I realized. She wasn¡¯t even wearing the finery of a normal citizen of Olympia. She was dressed like a Metic, in drab white cloth with only a sash around her waist that held her sword, and a ne of simple iron thread around her neck. She looked about as unassuming as a cultivator of her standing possibly could. ¡°So you came into my home, drank my wine, for what? Just to ruin my day?¡± I nced back at Griffon. He shrugged. ¡°I thought you might like to join us¡± ¡°Why would I-¡± Elissa stopped short, looking at me closer. Warily. Her eyes flickered up and down the street and all its people. ¡°Now?¡± Griffon smiled pleasantly at her over his shoulder. ¡°Would you rather wait until dinner?¡± The Heroine snarled a curse. S We found Jason sitting on the lip of a fountain that was as wide around as the entire bathhouse that Griffon and I had made use of earlier that morning. It wasn¡¯t a fountain in the same sense that Rome had fountains. It was not acts of engineering that made this water flow. The water within the fountain simply fell up. It streamed into the air as if the whole world was upside down, and the sky above was as the ground beneath our feet. Past a certain point, some thirty or forty feet in the air, those streams spiraled out in every direction and suddenly returned to normalcy, falling back into the pool below. It made for a dazzling sight. And it also obscured everyone on the other side of the fountain from view. The sound of rushing water obscured most small sounds. For all that Jason was lounging with a young woman at his side, exchanging pleasant conversation without a care in the world, he had chosen his spot with care. He noticed me shortly after I noticed him, his expression lighting up in a more genuine sense. Without looking, he ced a hand on the face of the woman beside him and pushed her back into the fountain. She shrieked as the odd currents of the structure carried her away. ¡°Solus,¡± he called, raising that same hand and greeting. Then his eyes slipped past me and noticed who I had brought with me and all that excitement fell away. ¡°You.¡± ¡°Him?¡± I asked, ncing back at Griffon. ¡°Me,¡± he agreed. ¡°Not him,¡± Jason said, waving impatiently. ¡°Her. What is she doing here?¡± Elissa stepped past us both, eyes burning with contempt as she looked down on her fellow Hero. ¡°I was invited. What are you doing here, craven?¡± Jason didn¡¯t react physically, but his pneuma zed around him, nearly a visible thing. He¡¯d chosen a nice, secluded area of the agora, hiding in in sight, but I supposed it was inevitable that no Greek could keep quiet for long. ¡°He¡¯s meeting me,¡± I said. Somehow, maddeningly, that was enough for them to break eye contact and subside. Elissa stepped back and crossed her arms. Jason grimaced. ¡°Did you have to bring her?¡± I nced back at Griffon, and saw the certainty in the quirk of his lips. ¡°She¡¯s involved.¡± I chose to stand while Griffon sprawled across the stone lip of the fountain and dipped his hand into it, watching with interest the rivulets of water that streamed in odd ways through his fingers. ¡°Would you have preferred Anastasia?¡± Jason¡¯s grimace deepened. ¡°Fine,¡± he said at length. ¡°As long as she pulls her weight.¡± Elissa scoffed, but made noment. ¡°So, we have our merry band of insurrectionists,¡± Griffon mused, visibly relishing in the difort those words caused the Heroine. ¡°All we¡¯re missing now is a king to kill. Which one first, you think?¡± ¡°Are you out of your mind?¡± Jason snarled. ¡°Likely,¡± he said easily ¡°Acting is one thing,¡± Elissa said, just as tense as her fellow Hero but less shocked by Griffon''s words. ¡°But there¡¯s audacity, and then there¡¯s stupidity. I know you know the difference.¡± Griffon inclined his head, raising a cupped palm of water out of the fountain and overturning it. The water fell up through his fingers and around the sides of his palm. He smiled as he considered it. ¡°There are several deaths a cultivator can suffer,¡± he said, twisting his fingers around the rising strands of water. ¡°A Tyrant especially. The body may die, yes, and so may the soul. But the death of a man¡¯s ego is no less severe, nor the death of his curiosity, his spirit, his hunger.¡± ¡°His influence,¡± I finished, and Griffon¡¯s smile turned to a vicious smirk. Elissa frowned. ¡°How could you possibly undermine¡­ one of them? They¡¯ve had decades, centuries to establish their domains. Each and everyone has a city¡¯s full backing.¡± ¡°The crows,¡± Jason said, with quiet anticipation. ¡°That¡¯s it, isn¡¯t it?¡± I considered the question. What he was suggesting, what Griffon had led him into thinking was my n, was a line that could not be uncrossed. Spitting in a Tyrant''s face like that, undermining their reach no matter how indirectly, that was the sort of thing that we had crucified men for in Gaius¡¯ legions. It was a mad, unnecessary thing And yet. I took a breath, as I had taken a breath before while Griffon was antagonizing Elissa. As I had taken many breaths since consuming that starlight marrow, and I traced my pneuma as it flowed through entirely new paths in my body. I felt stronger today than I had ever before in my life. I had felt the same way yesterday, and the day before. Each night since that assault in the Father¡¯s temple, Griffon and I had hunted crows and sucked the marrow from their bones. And each time, it had made us stronger than before. I still hadn¡¯t found a trace of my mentor, or anyone that could speak of him with any knowledge or authority. Anastasia, if she had found anything, had yet to seek me out and tell me. The Greek ways of cultivation were as opaque as ever, the Roman ways closed off to me. As things stood¡­ ¡°It is,¡± I answered Jason¡¯s breathless question. I would continue to live this lie, the same lie that I had forced to be true the night of the kyrios¡¯ funeral. ¡°The Raging Heaven is in no rush to answer the question of session, that much seems clear. In the meantime the mystikos are suffering. Children are being coaxed into opposing factions. Men and women huddle together in the light of day, too afraid of the dark to leave their rooms at night.¡± ¡°Sol isn¡¯t a fan of politics,¡± Griffon confided to the two Heroic cultivators. I sighed and forced my fists to unclench. ¡°Men worry more about what they can¡¯t see than what they can,¡± I said tiredly. ¡°If they want to posture, fine. But I have no patience for scavengers.¡± Jason and Elissa both considered me silently. The dull roar of the fountain and general tumult of thousands of people streaming through the agora was all that could be heard for a long minute. ¡°Who are you, really?¡± Elissa asked, finally. ¡°Who are you that you think this is something you have to do?¡± ¡°That night, at the club,¡± Jason said, nearly inaudible beneath the surrounding noise. He tilted his head at Griffon beside him. ¡°He said you came here from the west for a bit of culture. Where are you from, Solus?¡± And why are you here, he didn¡¯t ask. But I heard it nheless. I considered them both, and Griffon besides. There was a part of me, arge part, that wanted to take it all back, to cut my losses and make good on what I had said on the Eos. Leave Griffon to his mad adventures and find my mentor, gather what strength I could and return to the ashes of Rome. Take down as many of those godforsaken dogs as I could before my body sumbed. There was another part of me - smaller, but far more insistent - that said some things just weren¡¯t worth tolerating. No matter whose country this was. No matter how long I had been here. For all of the lives the legions of the Republic had taken, for all the atrocities her soldiers hadmitted, that part of me still believed in the core conceit of the Republic. That where all sons of Rome went, they spread the light of righteous civilization. The ideal of the soldier within me had long lost its patience for traitors and back stabbers. The Raging Heaven Cult wasn¡¯t my ce. But I had doomed myself to it by extending a hand to Scythas. By saving Jason. By sharing a bath with Anastasia. By drinking with all of them, ying dice and trading discourse. I couldn¡¯t think of them as faceless Greeks anymore. And if I had to acknowledge them, I had to acknowledge the rest. The children that Jason was doing his best to save in the small moments. The innocents in the cult, suffering the consequences of their elders¡¯ greed. I knew all too well what happened when Tyrants shed. ¡°I¡¯ve lived this conflict before,¡± I said, resigning myself to what inevitably came next. Griffon hummed in satisfaction. ¡°When men like these cross swords, there¡¯s only one way it can end. Session through a proxy victory in the Olympic Games is a fantasy. Men like these are who they are because when they want something, they take it.¡± Jason and Elissa shared a look, without malice for one another. With mutual unease. ¡°You¡¯ve lived it,¡± Jason repeated. ¡°Where? With who?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know anything about either of you. Not really,¡± Elissa said, but her suspicion was tempered by a careful consideration as she spoke to me. ¡°And you don¡¯t know me.¡± ¡°Or me,¡± Jason said reluctantly. ¡°A fair concern,¡± Griffon allowed, propping his head up on one hand. His scarlet eyes glittered. ¡°What do you want to know?¡± Chapter 1.28 Chapter 1.28 The Young Griffon As a child grew old in body and soul, walking that crucial transitory bridge between adolescence and adulthood, the first iteration of their identity finally cemented itself. In those formative years a human beingid the foundation for who they would be in their highest highs and lowest lows. Just as the bridges between realms were the most crucial for a cultivator¡¯s development, so too were those formative years critical for the mundane growth that every human being experienced. Body and soul. The body¡¯s growth was self-evident. Bone and muscle grew into their adult frames, cherubic faces turned lean and angr. Human beings were made in the image of the divine. It simply took time for our worthless y selves to take the proper shape. The soul¡¯s growth was less easily observed. In my formative years the development of my body had seen to itself. I¡¯d chiseled it from marble a little more each day, testing myself against all that would stand and fight me. Progress could be measured in practical terms. It could be seen in the definition of my body. But my soul¡¯s development was not so straightforward. Reason, spirit, and hunger. It was no easy thing for a lion to grow old in a cage. Perhaps a wild childhood wouldn¡¯t have been any better for me, but I doubted it. Growing up within the sterile halls of the Rosy Dawn estates, I had no choice but to refine my burgeoning soul through abstraction. Adventures half-lived through others. Tribtions that I could not undergo myself, lessons that I had not personally suffered in order to learn. It wasn¡¯t ideal, but I made do with what I was given, as I always had. Just as I chiseled my body from marble, so too did I forge my soul from purest gold. I created myself in the image of those who came before me. I devoured stories of Heroes and Tyrants, drew from them the principles of a virtuous life, and with each and every one the mes of my spirit were fanned higher. I understood the anatomy of an epic better than most. A story worth telling. For each and every one, the beginning was always the same. Even the Muses needed someone to sing of - before the vile monsters, before the triumphs and the tragedies, you had to prepare your audience for what was toe. You had to set the stage. ¡°You say you¡¯re from the Rosy Dawn,¡± Elissa said, not hesitating to question me. She stepped closer, shoulder to shoulder with Sol, and lowered her voice so that no one else in the agora could overhear. ¡°The Raging Heaven Cult hasn¡¯t seen a fresh face from across the Ionian in nearly two decades. I checked. What¡¯s changed?¡± I raised an eyebrow. ¡°Aside from the obvious?¡± The Heroine took that about how I expected her to. Beside me on the lip of the odd fountain of rising water, Jason cursed under his breath. The death of the kyrios still hung, like a funeral shroud, over every interaction within the Half-Step City. Reconstruction efforts could be seen on every residential street, the Tyrant¡¯sst gasp putting countless families out of their homes. There was a profound grief, a bleak pessimism, that permeated every interaction if you looked close enough. It was only natural that our Heroic friends would think first of his passing upon hearing such a suggestive question. After all, what were the odds that Sol and I had just happened to set sail for Olympia on the day of the kyrios¡¯ passing? Long odds indeed. ¡°You said that Sol was fighting demons on the western front,¡± Jason said, choosing to set aside that particr suspicion for the moment. The Hero that Sol had snatched back from the shadows looked searchingly at him. ¡°How far west? And what sort of demons?¡± Sol stared at him in silence. That storm shed in his eyes, his influenceshing out in every direction. It was an unconscious reaction, I knew, but they didn¡¯t. Both Heroic cultivators visibly tensed. Jason set his jaw and leaned forward. ¡°If you want me to follow you, I have to know where we¡¯re going. And I deserve to know who¡¯s leading me there. Who are you, Solus?¡± For a long moment, even I wasn¡¯t sure what he¡¯d say. I wouldn¡¯t lie for any existence on this earth, not even him, but I wouldn¡¯t force him to tell the truth either. Thankfully, he chose to do so himself. My brother, for all his traumas, was no coward ¡°There are demons in the city of Carthage. Wolves in the shape of men. They walk on two legs and fight with arms and armor, and they can cultivate. A year and a half ago they consumed the city of Rome. In another year and a half, they¡¯ll have consumed everything west of the Scarlet City.¡± Elissa was immediately skeptical. Jason, on the other hand - I saw the sudden fear in his eyes, and the rage, before he overcame both and hid them from view. Ho? ¡°Monsters of that caliber, in those numbers, and the Scarlet City didn¡¯t see fit to warn her sister cities?¡± Elissa asked. ¡°When¡¯s thest time the colonies told us anything?¡± Jason responded. Elissa inclined her head grudgingly. He continued, almost hopefully, ¡°But if this wasn¡¯t enough for Damon Aetos to break his silence, then he must not consider it a threat to those of us east of the Ionian. Toppling a few barbarian nations is one thing. But a free city-state built by the children of Helen? A monster¡¯s primitive approximation of cultivation simply can¡¯tpare. They¡¯re only wolves.¡± Sol¡¯s influence rippled. ¡°You¡¯ve made two assumptions, just now,¡± I informed the Hero, before my brother snapped. I nced Elissa¡¯s way. ¡°Both of you.¡± Jason frowned. ¡°Enlighten me.¡± dly. ¡°You asked why the Scarlet City hasn¡¯t sent word of theing threat,¡± I said first, savoring their realization. I gesturedzily. ¡°And yet here we are.¡± ¡°And the second?¡± Elissa pressed. ¡°You assumed that when I said the demons of Carthage could cultivate, I was exaggerating. You decided that I was referring to the unrefined strength of monsters and animals.¡± Sol said coldly. ¡°I wasn¡¯t.¡± Silence. ¡°Something like that,¡± Elissa finally whispered. She was unable to vocalize the rest. ¡°If that¡¯s the case,¡± Jason picked up for her in a strangled tone, ¡°Why are you telling us here, like this? Why not¡­ someone¡­¡± I chuckled. ¡°In power?¡± Elissa¡¯s knuckles were white around the hilt of her de. ¡°Enough games. What are you here for?¡± What could I do but tell them the truth? ¡°A good time.¡± My virtuous heart would ept nothing less. ¡°You really are mad,¡± Jason said wonderingly. My eyes rolled. Always the same. ¡°Of course I am. What sane man looks upon all the gods have given us, all the bounties of nature and its earthly pleasures, and decides that they are not enough? What is a cultivator if not a madman? Where Ie from, we don¡¯t make any excuses for our behavior.¡± I tilted my head to face Sol¡¯s little legionaire, so small in spirit despite the grandeur of his soul. How was it that a Hero, the subject of an epic all his own, could be so pathetic in the face of overwhelming danger? ¡°Until death or divinity, while those who came before us plummet to the earth on melted wax wings, we are all flying perilously into the sun. What could possibly be more insane than that?¡± I¡¯d felt the same instinctive revulsion when I saw zon turn tail and run from Sol in that club, only moments after he¡¯d so confidently staked his im on the ce and all those within it. Another Hero. Another shining soul acknowledged by both the Muses and the Fates. Another coward. How dare hey im to the same heights as Niks and the greats? How dare these Heroic cultivators cringe away from the wrath of Tyrants, when liberation was their central creed? How dare they act weak when they were strong? ¡°The two of you aren¡¯t who you are by mistake,¡± Sol said. Theytched onto his quiet intent like a lifeline, making the unfortunate assumption that he was the saner of the two of us. ¡°You each have something that drives you forward in the face of adversity. Something that even tribtion, heaven¡¯s lightning wrath, could not take from you. A Tyrant¡¯s retribution is nothingpared to that. Is that not so?¡± Both Hero and Heroine nodded. ¡°For us, this is one of those things. The free Mediterranean is meant to be a paragon of enlightened virtue. The city of Olympia is meant to be the jewel in that crown. And yet, I¡¯ve walked the steps of your mountain cult, chased the shadows down your halls, and seen such acts of wicked vice that it would make your kyrios weep if he was still alive to see them.¡± ¡°After twenty years the rosy fingers of dawn have stretched themselves across the Ionian Sea once more, and what is the first thing they¡¯ve found?¡± I asked quietly, adding my weight to Sol¡¯s subtle rhetoric. ¡°Injustice.¡± ¡°There are certain injustices in this life that a hero won¡¯t ever stand for, is that not so?¡± Sol asked. Slowly, reluctantly, both nodded again. Sol considered them both for a long moment. Then, almost gently, he said, ¡°This is one of them.¡± Jason shook his head. ¡°This sort of thing¡­ I know what I said before. And I do want to help. What you¡¯re trying to do¡­ it¡¯s righteous. It¡¯s heroic!¡± Elissa sighed and finished his thought. ¡°But most tragedies are at the start.¡± The mask of my tribtion burned on my hip, opposite my uncle''s sword. ¡°What about you two?¡± I asked. ¡°Us?¡± ¡°There is no us,¡± Elissa said shortly. I waved an impatient hand. ¡°Yes, yes, I get it, you aren¡¯t friends. I¡¯m asking what it is that makes the two of you tick. Where is your line in the sand? What are you here for?¡± The two heroic cultivators shared a look. The heroine with her scars answered for both of them again. ¡°We¡¯re here topete.¡± ¡°We haven¡¯t lied to you,¡± Sol said. The message was clear. Don¡¯t lie to us. ¡°It¡¯s true,¡± Jason insisted. ¡°We¡¯re here for the Olympic Games. All of us are here looking for glory.¡± ¡°Just because something is not a lie doesn¡¯t make it fully true,¡± I said, ignoring the look that Sol shot at me. ¡°Allow me to refine the question, then. Why are you here topete? What is it you hope to find in aurel leaf crown?¡± ¡°What are you running from?¡± Sol asked. Enlightened thinkers ced such emphasis on cultivation, on the quantification of the soul, that we often forgot even the greatest among us were made of the same flesh and blood as the least. They had the same minds, the same hearts and desires. A Hero could be swayed as easily as a Citizen, as easily as a mortal, even, under the proper conditions. Sol and I struck out with our rhetoric in the most mundane sense, both of us from different angles, and in that moment two Heroic cultivators faltered. I knew it as soon as I saw the first stone fall within them. Sol saw it too, I was sure. We had them. We were all here for our own reasons, true enough. But there was a thread that connected us all, and Sol and I had pulled it taut around their throats. ¡°¡­ Say that you seed in this,¡± Elissa finally said. ¡°And say that we help you dew the cats¡¯ paws. What have we aplished, then, aside from angering greater powers?¡± ¡°Take away their shadows and they¡¯ll have nothing left but the light,¡± I answered simply. ¡°They want to fight for the title of kyrios? So be it. Let them fight like men, without proxies, and to the strongest goes the crown.¡± ¡°The strongest fighter,¡± Jason realized. ¡°The strongest leader of men. Not necessarily the strongest politician.¡± ¡°In times of peace, a good politician is a great thing,¡± I agreed. ¡°But in times of war¡­¡± Elissa half-recited, frustration clear in her bearing. Remembering some past lesson, and hating the fact that it rang true. ¡°What then? You¡¯ll force the issue? How will you ensure that the¡­ proper candidate¡­¡± Jason and Elissa both looked at Sol. What could we, two mysterious cultivators with no established spheres of influence, have to gain from orchestrating such a conflict? In a conflict between Tyrants, it was self-evident that only a Tyrant could possibly emerge victorious. So what were we ying at? The audacious youngpetitor and his master of unspecified power? In that moment, they teetered on the edge of an utterly outrageous assumption. Unwilling to believe it, but unable to fully dismiss it either. I smiled secretively, leaning in. ¡°The privileges of an Olympic Champion are surely grand, I won¡¯t deny it. But it¡¯s not often the kyrios of the Raging Heaven Cult owes you a favor.¡± In the end, even Heroic cultivators were still just that. Cultivators. And cultivators, at their core, were entirely selfish existences. Sol and I reached out and pulled them up onto the stage. Chapter 1.29 Chapter 1.29 The Son of Rome We parted ways after the immediate ns had been made for sundown, Griffon and Elissa heading back to the ruined residential streets while Jason and I made for the Raging Heaven. For the most part, Jason was quiet. Every so often he would ask me a question that I had no desire to answer, and so I wouldn¡¯t. Questions about the demons of Carthage, about the campaigns against them, and about my role in those campaigns. I had offered both of them as much of the truth as I could stand to tell. Eventually, he took my silence for what it was and subsided into solitary contemtion. We passed through the gates of the Raging Heaven Cult unchallenged. Jason exchanged pleasantries with the men on guard, armored by bronze tes that clung to them like second skins, chiseled muscture carved into the metal itself. Their eyes followed me curiously, but they made noment. We were climbing the stone-carved steps up to the secondary levels where the respected initiates and futurepetitors kept quarters, when Jason finally asked the question he¡¯d wanted to ask the whole time. ¡°These demons¡­ They took something from you, didn¡¯t they? Personally.¡± I closed my eyes and quietly sighed. ¡°Would it matter if they did?¡± ¡°Of course it would!¡± he said, affronted. ¡°Why?¡± ¡°Why? Why? Because there¡¯s a difference between doing what¡¯s right for its own sake, and doing the right thing only if your heart demands it. What you¡¯re nning here and now, would you do it even if your own feelings weren¡¯t involved? Is it the right thing to do, or is it the right thing for you to do?¡± Was I doing the right thing for the right reasons? Was my anger focused on the right thing, at the right time, to the right degree? I didn¡¯t know. But Jason¡®s life could depend on the answer. ¡°They took my city,¡± I finally said. ¡°They took my wife.¡± I¡¯d told Anastasia. How could I not tell him? Jason exhaled explosively. Overhead, the Storm That Never Ceased howled. ¡°I came here topete in the Games, I wasn¡¯t lying about that,¡± he said. I nodded, epting that. ¡°But the glory is secondary. The political influence, the money, it¡¯s all nice. But that¡¯s not why I¡¯m here. That¡¯s not why I have to win.¡± I stopped, realizing that he¡¯d fallen back three steps ago. He leaned against the stone face of the mountain, gazing up at the storm. I knew that look in his eyes. ¡°Have to?¡± I echoed. He nodded. ¡°Ie from the Coast, Solus. I¡¯m a sailor by breed. It¡¯s what drives me, what¡¯s always driven me, since I was a boy who couldn¡¯t even tie a proper knot. It¡¯s how I rose through the ranks of cultivation so quickly. I was born for the sea.¡± ¡°So why-¡± ¡°Why am I here? Up on this mountain, closer to heaven than high tide?¡± he asked bitterly. From the folds of his pale yellow and blue tunic he pulled a length of rope, and began tying it into knots. Rome was never a maritime nation, and I¡¯d never bothered to learn more than the bare basics of the naval arts. Watching Jason¡¯s fingers nimbly fasten a dozen different knots in the span of a minute, each moreplex than thest, I was struck by the absentmindedness of the motions. I fastened my armor the same way. With the surety of a thousand past experiences. Thoughtlessly. His hands were shaking. ¡°When I turned twenty I was a captain of the Sophic Realm, captain of my own ship, and I decided to sail further south than I had ever ventured before. Against the warnings of my father. Against the heartfelt wishes of my mother. I was young, I was strong, and I was on the precipice of the realm of legend and myth. Every day, the wanderlust called out to me louder than before. And why not indulge it? I was invincible on the open sea, with my sworn brothers and sisters beside me.¡± I reached out and gently took the rope out of his hands. It was a ruined ball of knots and strangled threads. Jason pressed shaking hands to his forehead, his eyes distant. Ocean blue mes flickered. ¡°Monsters in the shape of men,¡± he said, with as much reluctance as I had. ¡°Demonic cultivators. We never found that far flung shore. But something found us. ¡°Maybe Griffon is right. A few years ago, I would have been the first to agree with him. All the world''s greatest heroes are and have always been audacious souls. That much is undeniable.¡± His jaw clenched. ¡°But that doesn¡¯t mean that every audacious man bes a great hero. ¡°I was audacious once,¡± he said, a quiet admission, and an even quieter entreaty to me. ¡°That¡¯s why I¡¯m here. Those waves doused me. I seek the Olympic me, because it¡¯s the only thing I know won¡¯t ever stop burning, won¡¯t ever go out¡­ And I¡¯d rather die than sail again.¡± ¡°So die.¡± zing blue eyes snapped up to meet mine, too shocked to be offended. So, this was what it was like from the outside looking in. How pitiful. ¡°They took your crew from you,¡± I said. Dered it, because I could already tell. ¡°They took your closest friends, and they should have taken you. But they didn¡¯t. And you ascended, even so.¡± Jason stared at me. ¡°The heavens are never fair,¡± I said furiously, reciting the words of my first mentor. ¡°Justice is the responsibility of mortal men. What happened to your crew, was that justice? Did they deserve what was done to them?¡± The rage that came over his face at the mere suggestion was answer enough. ¡°Do they deserve justice?¡± I pressed. Watched that fury turn inward, upon himself. That familiar loathing. How fucking pitiful. ¡°Do they deserve to rot at the bottom of the heartless sea, forgotten and unavenged?¡± ¡°No.¡± ¡°No to what? Justice, or oblivion?¡± Jason mmed a clenched fist against the mountain behind him, and the amethyst veins of jewels running through its stone face shed bright as the sun for a moment before fading to their usual lustre. ¡°No! They don¡¯t deserve what I lead them into! They don¡¯t deserve what happened to them, what should have happened to me. The captain is supposed to go down with his ship!¡± A captain leads from the front, I spoke to him in the voice of my soul, and his eyes flew wide open. ¡°You-¡± ¡°We are who we are,¡± I told him, my own resolve hardening with every word. Some things were just too painful to ept unless they were staring you in the face, and some of those things didn¡¯t show up in a mirror¡¯s reflection. They could only be seen in others. ¡°What we want is inconsequential. What we fear is even less so. Until we¡¯ve burnt our enemies to ashes and salted what remains, how can we do anything but keep moving forward?¡± ¡°You¡­¡± he said again, ¡°you¡¯re not like Griffon at all, are you?¡± I smiled mirthlessly. ¡°Griffon pursues the heights because they¡¯re what he¡¯s always desired. I pursue them because there¡¯s no other way.¡± Jason¡­ snorted. He shook his head, and he chuckled. It was a bleak, hopeless sound, but his hand no longer shook as it covered his face. ¡°Of course you do. Of course you do. Heroes chase their passions until they have nothing left. But men like you¡­¡± The Hero of the Coast straightened and pped his hands together, the sound booming. His expression turned fierce. ¡°Fine then! I understand! For as long as you¡¯ll have me, until I meet my story¡¯s end, I¡¯ll stand with you against the night. This lowly sophist offers his greetings to the master.¡± I stared at the legendary Hero and former pirate captain. ¡°I don¡¯t know what you didst night, but I know those old men wouldn¡¯t have sent just one Crow after me, especially one that weak,¡± he exined, inclining his head respectfully. ¡°Including the night of the funeral, I owe you my life twice over. And now I owe you my heart, too, for showing me that I¡¯m not alone. That even men like you can suffer the consequences of hubris. So I¡¯ll repay you however I can. Until the scales are bnced and for as long as you need me, I¡¯ll stand faithfully by your side.¡± The soft apuse of a solitary spectator saved me from having to respond to that. I looked back down the mountain path and saw a familiar face, inviting dark features and burning green eyes. Anastasia smiled deviously as she ascended the steps behind us, pping all the while. ¡°A moment like that belongs on a stage,¡± she said when she¡¯d drawn close enough to tease, withughter in her eyes. ¡°I wonder, will Griffon be jealous? He doesn¡¯t strike me as the sharing type.¡± ¡°Good morning, Anastasia,¡± I sighed. ¡°Jason-¡± When I turned back, I saw him sprinting up the steps, already halfway up the mountain. Faithfully by my side, eh? ¡°I have that effect at times,¡± Anastasia admitted without regret. I rolled my eyes and gestured for her to walk with me. ¡°Do you have anything for me?¡± I asked quietly, beneath the cover of thunder. ¡°I think I might,¡± she hedged, procuring her javelin and twirling it as she walked. ¡°But in exchange, I want the truth.¡± I nced at her and her whirling javelin, silent. Her eyes danced. ¡°You¡¯ve been hunting, haven¡¯t you, Solus?¡± ¡°I have.¡± ¡°And you haven¡¯t invited me once,¡± she said with utter despair. ¡°After all we¡¯ve been through, and all that I¡¯ve done for you since that tender bath we shared-¡± My influence flicked against hers and she abruptly giggled. ¡°This isn¡¯t a game,¡± I said, as if I was her elder in anything at all. ¡°Of course not.¡± Her smile grew. ¡°But I still want to y.¡± As crows flew freely through the Raging Heaven Cul, searching for the hungry ravens that had been devouring their fellows, four Heroic cultivators were stolen from beneath their sheets. They each resisted, but only for a moment. All of them had known what to expect, and even so, they were unnerved. ¡°You said you were hunting the crows,¡± Elissa said, voice hushed and using as she knelt beside her peers in the light of the moon. She watched mistrustfully as the raven on the right paced around them, unfastening coils of iron thread from their wrists and pulling dark hoods from their heads. ¡°We are,¡± spoke the raven on the left. Distant and unsettling. ¡°Could have fooled me,¡± Kyno murmured, rubbing at his wrists. ¡°If it looks like a crow, and it talks like a crow-¡± ¡°It¡¯s a raven.¡± ¡°It¡¯s not a bad look on you,¡± Anastasia mused, tilting her head as she regarded both ravens. Smoldering green eyes trailed along the crimson lines of the bare-chested shadow¡¯s tattoos, and the eerily undting cloak of his partner. ¡°Not at all in line with a proper crow¡¯s uniform. I like it.¡± ¡°So you¡¯ve put us through the song and dance,¡± Jason muttered, edging away from Anastasia once his hood was pulled free. ¡°What¡¯s next? Going to put us through the rites?¡± ¡°Something like that.¡± That said, each of the hungry ravens reached into their shadows. Four Heroic cultivators watched, wide eyed, as their arms plunged into the ether, and pulled from it tunics and hoods of midnight cloth and weapons of burnished bronze. ¡°I didn¡¯t know crows could do that,¡± Jason whispered. Kyno frowned. ¡°They can¡¯t.¡± The Heroines each reached for a weapon presented by murky pankration hands, and the Heroes hurriedly followed suit. Four Heroic cultivators and two hungry ravens gathered beneath the light of the rising moon. In the distance, an eagle cried. ¡°After you,¡± the caustic crow invited. The hunt began. Chapter 1.30 [Scythas] Chapter 1.30 [Scythas] Hero of the Scything Squall yer of monsters. Champion of humanity. Scythas hadn¡¯t been either of those things in a very long time. These days, he hardly remembered what it felt like to be that man. The Tyrant Aleuas, as a venerated elder of the Raging Heaven Cult, enjoyed the privileges of his own estate at the foot of Kaukoso Mons. A winding series of cobblestone buildings with sloping y-shingled roofs that red out at the edges, with several courtyards and natural pools carved out of the mountain where its indigo gem lines were thickest, it spanned over a mile. Citizens and ves alike that hade to Olympia from the City of Squalls abounded in this estate, serving the elder in Olympia as faithfully as they would the kyrios of the Howling Wind Cult himself. It was impossible to mistake the ce for anyone else¡¯s domain. As Scythas stepped over its boundaries, he felt the weight of the Tyrant¡¯s influence settle on his shoulder like a heavy hand. It pushed, urging him down a singr path. Servants and citizens nodded deferentially and offered their greetings as he passed. Scythas tried to smile in reply. He failed. At a certain point he was challenged, as all who encroached on Aleuas¡¯ personal quarters were challenged. Two of the elder¡¯s own men, both deep within the Sophic Realm, held out their hands to stop him. They wore the arms and armor of the Howling Wind with pride. The Tyrant¡¯s influence swept them aside before they could speak, and Scythas stalked into the elder¡¯s home. On his way to the central, beating heart of the estate, he was spotted by a young woman that looked like she¡¯d just stumbled out of a hurricane, her hair a mess of windswept curls and her fine silk dress riddled with tears and damp spots. Her eyes were the color of harvest wheat, a hazel so bright it was nearly gold, and freckles swept across the bridge of her nose like a summer breeze. Surrounded by fussing women both younger and older than her, she nheless picked him out as he passed by the adjacent hall. Holding a hand palm up, she softly blew something invisible his way, her eyes holding his. ¡°Good morning, brave hero,¡± he heard her, clear as day from across the hall. As if she had whispered it directly into his ear. Gooseflesh erupted up and down his arms. ¡°Good morning, princess,¡± he murmured back in the same way, sans theatrics. She smiled warmly before her minders pulled her around the corner and out of sight. Brave hero. Scythas swallowed back bile, pressing forward to his destination. The Tyrant¡¯s estate was a reflection of the Howling Wind Cult that he had once ruled over as kyrios, and his personal chambers were a reflection just the same. The former lord¡¯s personal entricities, from what he had been told, had not changed overly much in the centuries since his discement from the City of Squalls to Olympia. Windchimes hung from the ceilings, the banisters, and the furniture all throughout the room, each swaying in a breeze with no readily felt source. Chimes of hollow wood that whistled, chimes of gold that resonated as they struck one another, and even chimes of the Raging Heaven¡¯s own tribtion amethyst that shed and hummed as the breeze took them. The cumtive effect was a low, rolling song that urged all that heard it to be at ease. Scythas set his shoulders and stepped fully into the room, following a narrow path through the swinging chimes and falling to one knee in front of an ornate curtain of viridian silk. The curtain spanned from wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling, effectively cutting the room in half. ¡°Scythas,¡± spoke the Hurricane Hierophant of the Howling Wind Cult. The curtain of sheer viridian rippled in the breeze. ¡°Thank you foring.¡± Scythas stared straight ahead, consciously choosing not to track the shadows that shifted behind the curtain. ¡°Sir.¡± He nodded once. ¡°You called for me?¡± ¡°I did, I did,¡± he said, and the curtain bulged and shifted from side to side, as if a hand was waving dismissively through it. Despite the fact that the shadowed silhouette of a man was ten feet to the right. ¡°Tell me, how goes your training?¡± A loaded question, to be sure. When was thest time he¡¯d felt at ease in his own body? ¡°Well enough,¡± Scythas said. ¡°Is that so,¡± Elder Aleuas murmured. Where the wind ended and the Tyrant¡¯s influence began was almost impossible to discern. So when the breeze threaded through Scythas¡¯ hair, tickling the back of his neck, he shivered as if it was the Tyrant¡¯s own hands stroking his head. ¡°Then humor this old man, would you? Let¡¯s hear a whistle.¡± In that moment, as every visit to the windchime chamber had a moment, Scythas knew that he was about to die. As surely as he knew that the sea breeze blew cold, Scythas felt his death writrge on the world in that moment, alongside all the other rules of nature. And so he stoked his heart¡¯s me and defied them. Urania, he invoked, a silent plea. He inhaled in ragged relief when he felt her arms settle around his shoulders, felt the cool touch of her cheek press against his as she faced the Tyrant by his side. As always I am with you, hero, she whispered fondly. And as always, you ask of me something my sisters would be better suited giving you. Her crown of stars brushed against his temple as they revolved around her head, warm and inspiring. She was the Heavenly Muse, the charter of stars and higher mathematics. Indeed, nearly every one of her sisters would have been better suited to this task, Calliope best of all - but Urania was what he had. And so, as always, he would be grateful for what he¡¯d been given. And he would make do. Scythas let slip his held breath, the vital essence of his body, and his pneuma went with it. A clear, piercing whistle split the cascading song of windchime. At once, a vortex of howling wind enveloped him head to toe. It took only a moment. And it was nearly too slow. Less than a heartbeat after Scythas sealed himself in his howling vortex, the Hierophant dropped a hurricane on his head. Steady, Urania urged him, and Scythas eyes narrowed as he shifted the pitch of his whistle. His own gale winds were nothingpared to the tyrants, and naturalw dictated that they would be broken and swept away immediately by the stronger currents, but Scythas let his heart¡¯s me rage and defied that simple truth. His pneuma persisted, and it struck out against the viridian curtain as Urania reached out and traced a path through the stars. Constetions that only he could see burned in the open air, each star a turning point in the Tyrant¡¯s currents, each shining line a shift in pitch that he would have to adjust to. The Heavenly Muse could not teach him how to carry a tune- Scythas had learned that long ago. But she could chart the notes, and guide him through the stars. Scythas whistled against the hundred chimes and their hurricane winds, and just as they had all but beaten down his cloak of currents, had all but extinguished his heroic mes, the Tyrant¡¯s song faltered. Urania pressed her free hand against his other cheek, eyes wide and intent as she bid him to follow her path. He did, as he always had, and for a bare moment the song changed and Scythas took the hurricane in his hand. The viridian curtain whipped and red, buffeted such that the other half of the room behind it was revealed for a fraction of a moment, the lounging form of a man too tall to be mortal, too perfectly sculpted. The Hurricane Hierophant held out a hand just before the rising curtain revealed his face, and Scythas swallowed his whistle. The song ceased, every wind chime in the room fell still, and the curtain settled between them once more. Urania turned and pressed a kiss against Scythas¡¯ temple before departing to wherever it was muses went, and silence fell in the elder¡¯s chambers. A single note of a tingling chime broke the frozen moment, emerald bells swaying behind the curtain. Aleuas chuckled, and Scythas felt it in his bones. ¡°Well done, boy. You¡¯ve improved,¡± his mentor congratted him. Scythas nodded mutely. ¡°Only one note, to be sure, but a profound one. Have you been studying like I told you?¡± He had not. Of course, he had tried, but in the days since they¡¯dst met, when Scythas had been presenting him with a creature rooted out of the shadows, he hadn¡¯t been able to focus even for a moment on the lessons that the Tyrant wanted him to learn. His mind had been elsewhere. In the stars, mostly. ¡°Yes sir,¡± he said, simply. Because the truth would be his end. ¡°Good, good,¡± Aleaus said, and then, slyly, ¡°though I¡¯m sure your fortuitous encounter deserves a portion of the credit too, hm?¡± Scythas grit his teeth against the pressure. ¡°As you say, sir.¡± ¡°So it is,¡± he mused. Then, as if he had just remembered, he said, ¡°You know, that Solus has yet to grace my humble estate with his presence. You passed my invitation along, didn¡¯t you?¡± ¡°Yes, sir.¡± ¡°You said he came from the Rosy Dawn. Fighting, what was it-?¡± ¡°Demons.¡± ¡°Demons, yes. On the western front.¡± The distant howl of his wrath betrayed the mild words, made the floor shake and the walls groan. ¡°I spoke to old ¡®Zalus after you left, thest time, to convey my thanks to him for keeping you safe. But it was the oddest thing. He said this Solus and his Young Griffon weren¡¯t any men of his. And more than that, he denied any knowledge of any demons in the west.¡± ¡°And now,¡± he continued, his voice utterly calm in the way that preceded the storm, ¡°my influence is under siege. I am not the only one suffering, to be sure, but an unkindness equally shared is an unkindness nheless. What do you make of these creatures that haunt my shadows, Scythas?¡± It was utterly mad to spite a Tyrant in his own domain, no matter what your standing among heaven and earth was. But there were some things that a man just couldn¡¯t tolerate. For Scythas, the scavengers that stalked the Raging Heaven were one of those things. ¡°It seems to me, sir, that they''re simply doing what Crows do. Scavenging and harassing. Making the world a darker ce.¡± The shadows behind the viridian curtain went still. Scythas wondered if he was about to die. ¡°Cannibalism,¡± Aleuas finally said, his voice weary and furious in equal measures. ¡°You¡¯ve made it clear what you think of how we old men conduct ourselves. Now step outside of that, and tell me: what sort of crow eats its own kind? Hunts them and no other?¡± There was only one answer. ¡°No crow at all.¡± ¡°Ravens,¡± he concluded, murder in his mouth. ¡°Outsiders in our ranks. Two of them, just days after your fortuitous encounter. Would you call that a coincidence, Scythas?¡± ¡°I might.¡± ¡°You might,¡± he repeated. The pressure doubled and re-doubled. Scythas burned his heart¡¯s blood and forced his head not to bow. He pursed his lips. Prepared a whistle. Aleuas sighed and released him from his grip. ¡°Whoever they are, find them. Bring them to me, dead or alive by any means necessary.¡± ¡°Sir¡­¡± ¡°Enough.¡± Scythas¡¯ teeth clicked together. ¡°You dislike these things that we do in the dark. Fine. I dislike them even more. But you have to understand the way of the world, boy. You have to understand how precarious our position is. All of our positions. ¡°We are all frozen in ce. Each of us holds a knife in our teeth while the other seven press down upon it, and these gluttonous ravens have taken that opportunity to gouge my eyes out.¡± Good, Scythas didn¡¯t say. Once upon a time, when he was still a yer of monsters and a champion of humanity, he would have shouted it. ¡°I understand, sir.¡± ¡°I knew you would. Be safe, boy, and be swift.¡± Scythas epted the dismissal for what it was, standing and inclining his head before turning and walking back the way he¡¯de. As he passed through the outermost halls of the estate, Aleuas¡¯ voice drifted to him on the wind. ¡°And before you go, give my daughter a proper greeting, will you? She misses her fianc¨¦.¡± yer of monsters. Champion of humanity. Scythas hadn¡¯t been that man in a very long time. Perhaps he never had. Chapter 1.31 [An Unkindness] Chapter 1.31 [An Unkindness] An Unkindness ¡°Violence is an art.¡± The Heroic huntsman, d in his midnight ck rags, twitched and looked over his shoulder. As he did, he palmed another man¡¯s head as easily as one would an apple. The hunting crow regarded the hungry raven on the right, lounging above, in a dip between two conjoined archways. The raven reached up, twisting his hand as if to grasp the moon the same way the hunting crow had grasped his unfortunate prey. As if to pluck it from the sky, like an apple. The markings on the raven¡¯s bare torso glowed blood red, a muted, seething source of light. ¡°As much as sculpture, as much as any poem or song, violence is an expression of inspiration. Violence is the oldest art, in fact. The first of them all. Back when the pyramids did not exist and men had fewer thoughts in their heads than fingers on their hands, violence was our first expression of self.¡± ¡°What-?¡± The crow¡¯s prey asked, bewildered, before being mmed face-first into the dirt. ¡°What?¡± The hulking crow asked, his voice like tumbling stones. Even beneath the cover of darkness his annoyance was clear. The hungry raven chuckled and rolled off his leisurely perch, falling- Another figure of rust and shadows speared through the darkness of the archways, utterly silent and blisteringly quick. The hulking crow tensed and released his prey, raising both hands to catch the assassin¡¯s lunging stab. The raven fell upon the new arrival with unlikely force, crushing them t to the ground and raising his knee up before bringing it back down three times in a vicious sequence. Between each crack of the knee, the shadowed assant twisted and thrashed like anded fish, and each time the raven expertly countered their attempts to grapple. On the fourth and final knee the would-be assassin arched up and let loose a breathy scream as their spine audibly snapped. They slumped, going abruptly limp. ¡°It¡¯s easy enough to forget our grim origins,¡± the raven continued, hoisting the crow up and pulling the hood from their head. A young man with pale, rugged features was revealed. He was still alive, his eyes rolling helplessly in their sockets. ¡°While we lounge in cleansing baths, wearing our silks and ornaments, exchanging our thoughtful discourse. These kind luxuries drive us further from our roots, closer to civilized existence. ¡°But,¡± the raven whispered, the sound like shifting sands. He leaned in, his veiled face inches from the paralyzed assassin. ¡°Even so,¡± the young man¡¯s eyes, the only part of himself that he could still control, quivered as they stared into the shroud. ¡°All that we are, and all that the unwashed barbarians of this world are not, was built upon a foundation of inspired violence. We are free to be more, because our brutal ancestors murdered all those that would have made us less.¡± ¡°What¡¯s your point?¡± the hunting crow asked impatiently, unmasking his own captured scavenger and shaking his head at what he found. ¡°My point, friend, is that I worry for you and ourpanions,¡± the raven said softly, his shifting veil brushing against the pale man¡¯s nose. ¡°I worry for you too, little scavenger. For everyone on this mountain.¡± The hunting crow bit. ¡°Worry about what?¡± ¡°I worry that you¡¯ve forgotten the rules of nature now that you can defy them,¡± he told the Hero disguised as a crow. ¡°Where is your spark? Where is your creativity for violence? You walk around Olympia like your wrists are bound simply because you can¡¯t leverage the full weight of your soul. What does it matter if you can¡¯t use everything that you have against a lesser opponent? What does it matter if you can¡¯t fight a greater opponent at your fullest strength, even, so long as you are better than them?¡± The hulking crow looked silently down at the cuts he¡¯d endured thus far in the night. Nothing more than small cuts and abrasions, but they wept tainted blood, marred by poison. ¡°Violence is an art like any other,¡± the hungry raven repeated. ¡°You heroes have grown so used to being the loudest voices in the choir that you¡¯ve forgotten what it¡¯s like to be silenced. What it¡¯s like to be outmatched in every aspect except for the one that you can control.¡± The distant, victorious cry of an eagle split the night. Theirpanions had found their marks. ¡°I consider these nights a return to form,¡± the raven said, tightening his grip on the paralyzed assassin''s neck until his eyes rolled up in his head. Mercifully unconscious. ¡°A crow can¡¯t be anything more than what it is - a scavenger. While you¡¯re here, unable to fight with any of the gifts that make you truly unique in this world, focus on what every man has had from the moment we were shaped from worthless y. ¡°With the proper refinement, even a crow can kill a king.¡± A bird of midnight ink exploded out of the unconscious assassin¡¯s robes, taking off in the opposite direction of the eagle¡¯s cry with desperate speed. The hulking crow lunged for it, twisting and curling his fingers with obvious intent, but whatever would have happened in the light of day was lost in anonymity. A massive celestial axe struck the crow cleanly out of the air, spinning end over end and pinning it to the nearby cliff face. It died before it could make a sound. ¡°And if the muses are kind,¡± the raven murmured, dropping his charge to pry his axe from the stone. ¡°Why shouldn¡¯t a hero be able to topple a tyrant?¡± The hulking crow and his captured scavenger watched, aghast, as the raven tore the ink-ck bird apart and sucked the starlight marrow from its bones. ¡°You aren¡¯t used to fighting like this,¡± the hungry raven on the left observed, parrying the attacks of two separate crows with wide sweeps of his celestial spear. ¡°Constrained.¡± Behind him, two Heroes disguised as crows nursed bleeding wounds as they fought off their adversaries. A murder of the Tyrants¡¯ assassins had taken the initiative, finding before they could be found, and baited them with easy targets separated from the flock. As soon as they¡¯d taken the bait the night had exploded with bloodthirsty scavengers. Both heroic cultivators had sustained cuts that would have killed a lesser existence in the opening moments. That they were who they were was the only reason they could still fight at all. They were chafing against the bonds of anonymity, that much was clear to see. And the crows capitalized on that inexperience with vicious intent. ¡°Why would I ever fight like this?¡± the Sword Song Heroin snarled behind her veil, gripping her bow like she wanted nothing more than to club her opponent over the head with it. She nocked an ordinary arrow to its golden string and let fly, cursing when her opponent dove under it and stabbed at her ankles. ¡°Moments like these,¡± the raven replied without hesitation. ¡°I don¡¯t intend on being in this situation twice,¡± the disguised Hero of the baster Isles said dryly, weaving through the press of two other crows. Three more idled around the edges of the conflict, taking shots at the raven and his heroicpanions as the opportunities presented themselves. ¡°You will be,¡± the raven said simply, halting a sweep of his spear mid-motion and jabbing it back into a surging crow¡¯s gut. It was a short, ugly strike, and it took the attacker utterly by surprise. The crow yanked itself off the spear¡¯s head and staggered back, clutching their bleeding wound. ¡°What will you do when you encounter a force that¡¯s greater than yours? What is your only recourse if an enemy beyond your strength attempts to strike you down?¡± A pulse of nameless force struck another crow. They abruptly fell sideways as if plummeting off a cliff, mming into their fellow and sending both to the ground. ¡°What will you do if not submit?¡± ¡°I¡¯ll get stronger,¡± the Sword Song dered, shifting her grip on her celestial bow and mming it over a crow¡¯s head. Then, while they were staggered, she lunged into their guard and struck down with a hammer blow, burying an arrow into the juncture between their neck and shoulder in lieu of firing it. ¡°You don¡¯t have time,¡± the raven dismissed. ¡°Say the Tyrantse for you tonight. What do you do?¡± ¡°We fight together,¡± spoke the Hero of the baster Isles, pivoting and heaving his warhammer in a two-handed blow at a crow as it leapt at the Sword Song¡¯s back. It mmed home, audibly shattering ribs, sending the scavenger into and through a statue in the nearby grotto. One of his opponents took the opportunity to hurl their rusted dagger at his back, and an invocation of hissed rhetoric saw the shadows themselves leaping up to tangle his limbs. An arrow struck the dagger midair, and the Sword Song appeared by his side, viciously kicking the crow¡¯s knee out from under it. ¡°You fight together,¡± the raven agreed, banishing another crow into their waiting blows. ¡°A man that can fight with the strength of a thousand-thousand men is an incredible force. But five hundred men that can fight like they¡¯re one is even better.¡± ¡°It¡¯s been some time since I studied the quadrivium,¡± the Sword Song admitted through gritted teeth, visibly correcting herself as her body attempted to make certain instinctual motions,bat tricks ingrained over the course of a lifetime. ¡°But I don¡¯t think that math adds up.¡± ¡°It doesn¡¯t add, no,¡± the raven said, his footwork taking him slowly but surely back to them, until the three of them formed a triangle facing outward. The two Heroes had taken cuts, but the enemy was feeling the worst of the confrontation. They paced in a loose ring around them, vanishing and reappearing in the shadows of the grotto¡¯s swaying almond trees. ¡°Five hundred good men fighting as one don¡¯t add up to a man with the strength of five hundred. It isn¡¯t an additive property.¡± The two Heroes disguised as crows stiffened as that nameless pressure settled upon them, adjusting their posture in a dozen small ways, orienting them towards their opponents. They could feel it. Their next steps would be like running downhill, with the raven¡¯s own influence behind them. A tailwind urging them into the mix. ¡°Left.¡± Both heroic crows nted their left feet and shot forward like arrows from a bow. Their opponents reacted with admirable speed, moving to block or counter with daggers and chains and whips of woven hair. ¡°Your left.¡± Both heroic cultivators dipped their bodies to the left, dodging counterattacks and slipping through guards. ¡°Your left, right, left.¡± The Hero of the baster Isles hammered a left cross into a crow¡¯s face, followed by a right hook and a left uppercut. The Sword Song slipped past a stab aimed at her left breast, over her heart, then spun right andshed out with her left elbow, shattering a crow¡¯s orbital bone and sending them sprawling bonelessly to the dirt. ¡°Your mother was home when you left!¡± The Hero of the baster Isles looked sharply back at the raven. ¡°You¡¯re right!¡± ¡°Your father was home when you left!¡± The Sword Song spun and said usingly, ¡°You¡¯re right!¡± ¡°Your sister was home when you left!¡± Your right! The crows flinched and whirled around them, caught on the precipice of violence and indecision. ¡°Your brother was home when you left!¡± Your right! One assassin tried to flee. The raven¡¯s celestial spear took them in the back of the knee and sent them tumbling into one of the grotto¡¯s pools. The raven reached out a beckoning hand, and the spear flew obligingly back to his palm. He inhaled. ¡°Your mother, your father, your sister, your brother, the ves, the ruses, the Fates and the Muses, they all were there when you left!¡± ¡°You¡¯re right!¡± The Heroes disguised as crows cried out. ¡°And that¡¯s the reason you left!¡± YOUR RIGHT! The raven sang his legion song. ¡°When I left Rome!¡± WHEN I LEFT ROME! ¡°My mama cried!¡± MY MAMA CRIED! They surged forward, three acting as one, and the murder of crows fell to pieces in their hands. Soon enough the two Heroic cultivators were rounding up the unconscious bodies and binding them with the same iron threads that had cinched their own wrists earlier that night. ¡°Cooperation inbat is an exponential force,¡± the raven exined, wiping the blood from his celestial spear. Where the cloth of his undting cloak passed blood vanished, but the material never grew damp. ¡°True cooperation, that is.¡± ¡°And what does fighting with our hands tied behind our backs have to do with cooperation?¡± the Sword Song asked, but her confrontational words were betrayed by her tone. Her heart still pounded to the beat of the legion¡¯s crude cadence. ¡°Fighting together isn¡¯t necessarily fighting as one,¡± he said patiently. ¡°A group of Heroes can fight side-by-side easily enough, but if they¡¯re each fighting to the tune of their Muses, how can they possibly move as a single unit?¡± ¡°Cultivators are unique existences,¡± the Hero of the baster Isle realized. The raven nodded. ¡°You Greeks adore the thought of standing alone,¡± he said without any particr judgment. ¡°Your cultivation reflects that, I think. The problem with being the Hero of your own story is that it is yours and no one else¡¯s. How can you coordinate properly if you''re the only one that can possibly fight the way you fight?¡± ¡°Practice,¡± the Song Sword muttered. ¡°Practice and time, more of each the higher you climb.¡± ¡°Exactly. On the other hand, there are some things that any soldier can do. The bare basics of war. The ugly foundations that you cultivators race to cover up with towering coliseums of shining virtue.¡± The raven clenched his fist, and his influence pressed every one of the crows they had captured t against the dirt. ¡°But those ugly foundations are firm. They can carry the weight of a man without question.¡± ¡°At a certain point what¡¯s lost must outweigh what¡¯s gained by falling in line,¡± the Sword Song protested. The raven shrugged one shoulder. ¡°Maybe so. But you aren¡¯t there yet.¡± The raven rose suddenly, and both heroes tensed as he looked south up the mountain. ¡°I found someone sneaking out,¡± their caustic crow sang. ¡°I found yet another scout!¡± Bounding down the mountain hundreds of feet at a time, she had a young woman thrown over her shoulder, ankles and wrists tied with iron thread. She was wearing ck robes and a threaded ck veil, visibly finer than the rags the others had been sporting thus far. Their fourthpanionnded adroitly among them, presenting her capture with a flourish before dumping her on the ground. The young woman grunted softly, evidently still conscious. The raven knelt to pull the hood off her head. ¡°Where is the man that knows every-¡± He went abruptly still. The caustic crow¡¯s high spirits vanished at once. The Hero of the baster Isles hissed through clenched teeth, while the Sword Song viciously cursed. The raven tilted his head, regarding the young woman as she blinked burning eyes up at him. ¡°Selene?¡± As one, every single ink construct that the would-be assassins were harboring exploded out of their robes, cawing madly and streaking off each in different directions. Above, Sorea shrieked victoriously as he swooped down from the heavens to give chase. Selene smiled, the scarlet mes behind her eyes flickering merrily. ¡°I found you, Solus.¡± Chapter 1.32 Chapter 1.32 The Young Griffon ¡°So, you just happened to cross paths after the funeral, and just happened toe to an ord on the topic of insurrection out of the goodness of your hearts,¡± Elissa said skeptically, throwing a wet towel at Kyno. He didn¡¯t bother opening his eyes, reclined as he was at the edge of the hot bath, only grunting as the towel pped against his face. ¡°To think that you marked us all from the start,¡± Jason murmured, shaking his head. He had disdained the hot bath entirely, back stroking idly through the cold pool after a quick cleansing. ¡°How did you know we¡¯d all be open to this insanity?¡± Sol, upon realizing that the question wasn¡¯t rhetorical and that I wasn¡¯t rushing to answer it for him, paused his vicious scrubbing to think up an answer that sounded appropriately ominous. ¡°One of your elders marked you all that night,¡± he said, finally. Anastasia, from her ce close by him, blinked and paused with her own olive branch scrubbing, visibly putting the pieces together. She hadn¡¯t been there when Sol had dered the presence of a greater cultivator¡¯s attention. ¡°That¡¯s why you called out to me,¡± she said, caustic green eyes flickering. She then affected a pout, leaning sideways into his personal space. ¡°And here I thought it was my beauty that had caught your eye.¡± Sol sighed and shoved her back. ¡°One way or another, you weren¡¯t going to suffer these maneuverings for long without acting,¡± he said tly. ¡°Not without losing a part of yourselves. Or, if the crows got to you first, having it taken from you.¡± ¡°You say that¡­¡± Kyno murmured, peeling the towel back from his eyes to look gravely at Sol. ¡°But there were six of us that night that you called, and now there are only four.¡± ¡°Five,¡± Anastasia corrected idly. I raised an eyebrow, fully opening eyes that had been half lidded for most of our time in the bath house ¡°Ho? Did you make another friend, Sol?¡± I asked, curious. Sol and I hadn¡¯t had a chance to exchange a private word since the previous night¡¯s festivities had given way to the dawn. Our newpanions had done more than enough chattering for the both of us after we¡¯dmandeered an unopened bath house. The ce was closed indefinitely for reconstruction, not because of thete kyrios¡¯ final breath, but because an unfortunate soul had recently plowed straight through the roof and copsed a portion of the building. It had happened a few nights back, it seemed, and the viins responsible had yet to be found. ¡°Just a girl in over her head,¡± he dismissed, though there was a pensive frown there. Of course, I didn¡¯t fail to notice the tense looks that Jason and Elissa shot my brother at his casual statement. ¡°You say that,¡± Anastasia murmured, ¡°but the two of you seemed quite familiar. And she was determined to tag along.¡± ¡°Where is she now?¡± I asked. ¡°Back on the mountain where she belongs,¡± Sol said, shaking his head. ¡°We spoke briefly after the kyrios¡¯ funeral. She¡¯s just a child with a powerful father, looking for an escape from her sheltered life.¡± ¡°How immature,¡± I said disdainfully, and Sol snorted, lips quirking in amusement ¡°That is¡­ certainly one way to describe her,¡± Anastasia said, amusement warring with genuine uncertainty. ¡°The two of you just happened to run into one another?¡± ¡°After you and I split up,¡± he said, nodding. ¡°Unbelievable,¡± Jason muttered. ¡°How many of the aristois do you have tucked away in your tunic?¡± Elissa pressed, epting a jug of olive oil from Anastasia and dumping a generous portion over her shoulders and arms. Jason¡¯s eyes flickered, towards the trailing streams of oil that wound their way into the small dips of her scars. ¡°The aristois?¡± Kyno muttered, lifting his head fully and, with something like dread, asking, ¡°This girl. How powerful is her father, exactly?¡± At that, three sets of eyes flickered Sol¡¯s way. Seeking permission to speak, for all of Anastasia¡¯s teasing and Elissa¡¯s surly demeanor. He nodded, ncing my way, and I realized after a moment that he didn¡¯t know the answer to that question any more than I did. But they did. Elissa took his permission, and said shortly, ¡°It was Selene.¡± Kyno stared at her for a long moment. He looked then, to Sol, seeking confirmation. Sol nodded. The Heroic Huntsman of the Broken Tide tossed his head back, striking the stone lip of the pool hard enough to crack it. ¡°¡®Zalus¡¯ daughter,¡± he breathed, pressing two massive hands to his face, palms digging into his eyes. ¡°You¡¯ve brought Zalus¡¯ daughter into this.¡± ¡°I haven¡¯t brought her into anything. She isn¡¯t a part of this.¡± Zalus, I mused. I wondered why that name sounded familiar. Old Zalus, I heard in someone else¡¯s distant voice, a faint memory. ¡°She isn¡¯t a part of this, yet she joined you on your hunt? She took up arms against the ruling factions of the Raging Heaven? And she isn¡¯t involved?¡± Kyno pressed, rubbing insistently at his eyes. I offered him a few pankration hands to help, and he batted irritably at them, sshing me with scalding water. I dashed wet hair from my eyes, frowning faintly. Old Zalus, that memory mused. The name was spoken with contempt. ¡°She didn¡¯t take up any arms,¡± Sol said, returning to his scrubbing. ¡°And she won¡¯t be in the future. Not with us.¡± Anastasia cupped a palm beneath a trickle of olive oil and overturned it on his back, adding to his scrubbing with her own olive branch. She smiled innocently when he turned t gray eyes on her. ¡°And yet she promised to find us again tonight,¡± the caustic Heroine put forward. Old Zalus, my father said, in a child¡¯s vague memory. My eyes lit up. ¡°You¡¯ve caught the eye of a Tyrant¡¯s daughter,¡± I used him delightedly. He mastered himself as he always had, revealing nothing to ourpanions, but I could see the sudden dread as his worst suspicions were confirmed. ¡°Not only that, but the eye of our own scarlet Tyrant''s daughter! You sly Roman dog!¡± ¡°You¡¯re not supposed to say that,¡± Jason despaired, ceasing his backstroke and floating miserably in the water and as he stared up through the gaping hole in the ceiling. ¡°You¡¯re supposed to tell us that you¡¯re acting with the Rosy Dawn¡¯s blessing.¡± ¡°Who said we aren¡¯t?¡± I asked, unable to contain my smile. Elissa pped her branch against the surface of the pool, kicking up a spray of steaming water. ¡°As if he would consent to his daughter¡¯s involvement,¡± she hissed. Desert heat eyes burned with a fearful wrath. ¡°You may think we¡¯re fools, but we¡¯re not! Involving her in these games is madness, and not the kind that you adore. He would never allow it.¡± ¡°The question was,¡± I repeated slowly, with purpose, ¡°who says we aren¡¯t acting with the Rosy Dawn¡¯s blessing?¡± I relished the looks, the tension. ¡°Is Old Zalus the Rosy Dawn?¡± ¡°No,¡± Kyno said, darkly resigned. ¡±Who is?¡± I asked gently. ¡°Damon Aetos,¡± Sol said, when it became clear that no one else would. ¡°This is a fine line you¡¯re walking,¡± Anastasia warned, though even in her seriousness she continued to caress and poke at Sol with her olive branch. ¡°Even for someone like you. The elders of the Raging Heaven are in conflict now, that¡¯s true, but an outsider is still an outsider. If we prod them too hard, too fast, they may just decide to act as they should and band together to purge you from the ranks.¡± ¡°And us with you,¡± Elissa added. With something like disgust for herself, she said, ¡±We¡¯ve thrown our lot in with you two. Don¡¯t go dragging us down to Tartarus with you.¡± That one affected Sol, hit him somewhere raw and painful. I inserted my own voice before the others could pile on. ¡°Of course we won¡¯t. How could we, when we have no intention of going there ourselves?¡± I chuckled. ¡°Not until we¡¯re ready for a dip in the Styx, at least.¡± ¡°So if the elders turn against us instead of each other,¡± Kyno said. ¡°You can take them all?¡± Allow me to be clear. Sol and I had amassed something of a myth between ourselves since arriving on the shores of Olympia. Something small and infirm, but no less powerful for the people that it touched. These cultivators surrounding us in this bath were true heroes and heroines. They had cut their teeth on monsters and viins, and been acknowledged by the Fates and the Muses both for their struggles. Compared to their full splendor, Sol and I just weren¡¯t enough. Their capacity for cultivation dwarfed ours by several factors, a question of exponents rather than multipliers. In a just world, they would outstrip us in every metric. But they were afraid. And for reasons that Sol and I had only just begun to unravel, they were, each of them, haunted by distant troubles. They had an obligation to right what was wrong as heroes, and because they were not fulfilling their divine imperative, because their very essence told them that they were not living their lives the right way, Sol and I had stepped in to fill that void. But that did not mean we were delusional. Sol and I were destined for great things, and I intended to grasp even greater things than that, but a Philosopher was still a Philosopher. A Hero was still a Hero. And a Tyrant was still a Tyrant. Our newpanions had just about convinced themselves of an absurd estimation of our rtive strength. But even then, trying to im that we could take on all of the elders of the Raging Heaven alone was a step too far. Even implying it would be an outrageous lie. So I told him the truth. ¡±Of course not. We¡¯re scavengers snapping at the heels of powerful beasts, hoping they¡¯ll turn their irritation on their rivals before theye for us. A single mistake could be the end of us all.¡± ¡°We put on that performancest night for a reason,¡± Sol added, contributing to my point as naturally as if it had been his own, just the student parroting what his master had designed. ¡°As far as your elders are concerned, you were kidnapped in the night. Go back now, fabricate a passing story of your escape, and wash your hands of this.¡± We would have to flee the city, of course, and that would be a shame. But the Oracles weren¡¯t going anywhere. The Olympics woulde again in four years. And there were other ways to grow strong without devouring the starlight marrow of Tyrants. If these Heroic cultivators truly feared death more than they despised the yoke of a tyrant, then there was nothing we could do for them. ¡°Dammit,¡± Jason said quietly. ¡±Dammit. I said I was with you, Solus. I won¡¯t let you make me a liar.¡± Elissa¡®s jaw clenched, but she shook her head once when I nced her way. Kyno, likewise, resigned himself with a low sigh. ¡°You have usted,¡± Anastasia said, propping her chin up on one hand. ¡±If you say that Selene and her stark father won¡¯t be an issue, I¡¯ll choose to believe you for now. But the good hunter raises a fair point. Scythas and the archer are notable in their absence. Have you approached them yet? Will you?¡± ¡°Lefteris has been doing his best to avoid us since he incurred my master''s wrath,¡± I said, amused. ¡±But I¡¯ve kept an ear out, and if the Fates are kind I should be able to find him before sundown.¡± ¡°And if they aren¡¯t kind?¡± Elissa asked, in the suffering tone of someone who knew what the answer would be before she asked her question. I smirked. ¡°I¡¯ll find him anyway.¡± ¡°And what of sweet Scythas?¡± Anastasia pressed, watching intently as Sol dipped his head down into the scalding bath, rising back up and running his fingers through coarse ck hair. ¡°Scythas will find us,¡± Sol said with certainty. Anastasia hummed, epting that without protest. ¡°We¡¯ll have toy low for the time being,¡± Jason mused, pulling himself from the bath and grabbing a towel. ¡°Kaukoso Mons is off-limits for now. We can¡¯t exactly be kidnapped every single night, after all.¡± ¡°We¡¯ll have to find neutral ground,¡± Kyno agreed and rose at the same time, shifting aside the tail of the crocodile skin that he¡¯s been wearing the entire time to wrap a towel around his waist. ¡°I have a ce,¡± Elissa said simply, wringing the moisture from her hair. As we filed out of the baths and into the light of day with towels over our heads to partially cover our faces, under the guise of drying our hair, Jason eyed the awakening streets of Olympia¡¯s eastern district warily. ¡°We¡¯re already tempting the Fates, being out like this,¡± he said in a low voice. I snorted, tilting my head at our rapt audience. To our left, a pair of women were hollering at one another from their adjacent balconies about some spat or another from the day before. On the streets themselves a handful of children raced around in a game of tag, and a couple stray hounds sniffed around an old vagrant in filthy rags sleeping fitfully in the shade cast by the damaged bathhouse. By the standards of the Half-Step City, it was deserted. ¡°I think they¡¯ll keep this to themselves,¡± I told Jason,ughing as he jabbed at me with an elbow. ¡°You think so, do you?¡± I nced down at the vagrant in his rags. The old man had cracked an eye open, and now he stared balefully up at me. in brown eyes with no mes behind them. The eddies of my influence brushed against him and found nothing of particr note. Just an old man sleeping on the street. Sol and ourpanions regarded the vagrant warily, looking to one another and exchanging silent words of intent. The Heroic cultivators among us shifted their towels just so, hiding as much of their defining features as they could. For Kyno and Elissa, whose stature and scars betrayed them regardless, it was a fairlyical sight. ¡°Grandfather,¡± I greeted respectfully, inclining my head. ¡°These lowly sophists were in dire need of a bath. Please forgive our indiscretion.¡± ¡°I¡¯ve forgiven you for more than that,¡± he said, surly and gray. He propped himself up on an elbow and shifted his rags, drawing them tighter around himself. It was still winter after all, and the sun had only just arisen. For someone without an advanced cultivator¡¯s constitution, it was ufortably cool here in the shade. ¡°You young cultivators are all the same. It wasn¡¯t enough that you vandalized this bathhouse, rendered it unusable for the citizens it was built to amodate. You had to add insult to injury, return and make use of it while the rest of the city couldn¡¯t.¡± I blinked, and slowly, asked the man, ¡°Who said we vandalized this building?¡± ¡°I did.¡± The vagrant cleared his throat and spat phlegm on the street beside him. Kyno ced a massive hand on my shoulder, pulling subtly, urging me back. I shrugged him off. ¡°It was like this when we got here this morning,¡± I informed the vagrant. He sneered. ¡°You¡¯re a terrible liar, boy.¡± Sol inhaled deeply. ¡°My virtuous heart won¡¯t ept such an insult,¡± I said very quietly. ¡°Not even from an old man.¡± ¡°A truth told with false intent is a lie like any other,¡± he said, waving me off. The audacity of this homeless wretch. ¡°Every man in the Half-Step City knows how to twist his words and make them pretty. What makes a man shine is not rhetoric alone. It is substance.¡± Sol stepped forward, suddenly keenly interested. ¡°Who are you to say that? Are you a philosopher?¡± His influence rippled out to test the man the same way mine had, and found just as little oing by the frown on his face. ¡°Philosopher,¡± the old man echoed, and spat again. ¡°No, boy, philosophers are men in the business of knowing things. Look at me. Do I look like a man that knows anything at all?¡± ¡°Your definition of a philosopher is different from mine,¡± Sol said, that storm gathering in his eyes. I muscled down my annoyance and forced myself to look past it, deeper. ¡°By all means,¡± invited the vagrant. ¡°Enlighten me.¡± ¡°Sol,¡± Jason murmured, edging up beside him. His eyes continue to shift behind the edges of the towel, watching as more and more people trickled out of their homes and businesses onto the streets. ¡°We should go.¡± ¡°In a moment,¡± Sol said, distracted. He knelt in the front of the living bundle of filthy rags, Anastasia kneeling down beside him with curiosity and a vague puzzlement in her eyes. ¡°I was taught that a philosopher is a man that knows only one thing, and that is the fact that he doesn¡¯t know anything at all.¡± The old man snorted. ¡°How pretentious. You might as well call them fools, if that¡¯s all that distinguishes them.¡± Sol didn¡¯t respond for a long moment, searching the old man¡¯s face for something. ¡°Truth told with false intent is a lie,¡± he finally said. ¡°What would you call an opposed opinion that you present as your own?¡± ¡°I¡¯d call that disingenuous.¡± ¡°And I¡¯d call you a liar,¡± Sol said with something like triumph. ¡°You know what it means to say that a philosopher is a man who knows he knows nothing. It¡¯s an admission of man¡¯s limitation. It¡¯s the crystallization of a mindset.¡± The old man tilted his head. ¡°Who taught you those words, boy?¡± Sol leaned forward, eager now, but I saw the puzzlement in Anastasia turn to something deeper. Troubled. She was racking her brain for something crucial, just out of reach. I frowned, manifesting three pankration hands behind Jason, Kyno, and Elissa, tapping between their shoulder des with gentle rosy heat. We settled into postures not visibly threatening, but ready nheless. ¡°My mentor,¡± the Roman said with rising purpose. ¡°He guided me as a boy. I owe a portion of my best traits to him. Have you heard of him? Better than that, have you met him?¡± ¡°How would I be able to tell you when you haven¡¯t given me a name?¡± Anastasia¡¯s eyes suddenly widened. I inhaled sharply through my nose. ¡°In my city, he was called the man that knows everything,¡± Sol confessed. ¡°My other tutors called him the Father of Rhetoric. ¡°But his name is Aristotle.¡± Anastasia stared at the old man in abject terror. ¡°Foolish,¡± the old vagrant sighed. And he rose, shedding his soul''s disguise. For a single endless moment, I stared withoutprehension at the space where he had been, reclining fitfully on the road, and where he stood now, palming Sol¡¯s head where he knelt. For that moment, as the old man¡¯s formless veil of inconsequence fell away from him, and that same terror in Anastasia¡®s eyes spread immediately to all of the mythical Heroes in our group, I was as paralyzed as them. But it was only a moment. [The dawn breaks.] Twenty fists of pankration intent zed as they crossed the distance between us, reaching, wing, striking. I leveraged the full weight of my pneuma and lunged forward, reaching for my brother where he knelt. [Dawn gives way to dusk.] intoned the old man¡¯s soul. The fire in my palms guttered out, and I felt the jarring shock of bare fists mming into an utterly unyielding surface as they hit him. The old man¡¯s filthy rags shifted beneath my assault, the only reaction he gave, and fell away to reveal a body like twisted iron. ¡°Arrogant child,¡± he said,shing out with a backhand that I caught on crossed forearms, mming me back across the street with force enough to dig furrows in the dirt. Gravitas rocked the street, sending citizens and children that had not yet noticed the confrontation tumbling. Screams rose into the air on ck wings. But try as he might, Sol could not rise against the hand on his head. The storm roiled in his eyes. ¡°Turning justice upon me like I have anything to fear from it,¡± the old man said to me contemptuously. ¡°Citing your heart¡¯s virtue while you skirt around a lie. You have no concept of virtue. Where is the excellence in your soul?¡± ¡°You¡¯re¡­¡± Anastasia breathed. ¡°That¡¯s-¡± Jason bit. ¡°I am nothing,¡± said the vagrant, dismissing each of them in turn. He nced down at Sol, watching him struggle. He inclined his head, acknowledging, ¡°I am a learning man. A philosopher. And I know what I know.¡± These cowards. These worthless mongrels. Why weren¡¯t they fighting? I leapt straight up, twisting and reaching into my shadow, pulling from it the raven¡¯s broad celestial axe and wreathing it in rosy me. [The sun rises.] The vagrant didn¡¯t even look up. [Night falls.] I fell out of the sky and mmed back down to earth in a crouch, heels driving through the dirt. I exhaled sharply and rose again. My senses continued to tell me the same thing they¡¯d been telling me since he shrugged off his unremarkable veil. His pneuma, without question, was that of a Philosopher. No more. And yet. ¡°No student of Aristotle would have made such a mess in such short order,¡± the old man said, shaking his head. Sol red up at him as best he could. ¡°You¡¯ve only been here for, what, a week? Five days? You¡¯re lying to me, or else that young fool did you a grave disservice.¡± I gathered my pneuma andid a hand on the pommel of my uncle''s de. I felt my blood begin to boil. Sol snarled. ¡°He did the best he could with what he was given.¡± ¡°Then he failed. And as his master''s master, I have no choice but to make right what he left unfinished.¡± Without looking, without turning his dull, unassuming eyes my way, the old man waved his hand, as if to brush a fly from his shoulder, and I blinked as rubble and ruined stone rained down around my head. I realized that I wasn¡¯t standing poised to attack, as I had thought I was. I was crouched in the entryway to the bathhouse, having plowed straight through one of its pirs. Four Heroic cultivators watched, frozen, as the old vagrant raised my brother up and met him re for re. ¡°Aristotle has evidently failed to prepare you for this world. I, your grandfather, will teach you the way of things.¡± And then he crouched as if to hop over a puddle and exploded upward, sailing clear over the Half-Step City towards the looming edifice of Kaukoso Mons and its immortal storm crown. He took Sol with him. For a long moment no one said a word. Citizens, those that had made it off the streets or never left their homes in the first ce, peered out from behind tted windows and cracked doors, curiosity warring with rational fear. In the distance, the howling of dogs drifted hauntingly on the wind. One by one, the four heroic Cultivators looked back at me. Whatever it was they saw, it didn¡¯t do much for their unease. ¡°That¡¯s quite a face, Griffon,¡± Anastasia whispered, a faint attempt at humor. I didn¡¯t smile. Chapter 1.33 Chapter 1.33 The Son of Rome We flew. There was no other way to describe it. The old man in his rags of unassuming filth held tight to my hair and pulled me up to heaven, faster than sound could travel. The city of Olympia grew small beneath us in the blink of an eye. No man can ever truly fly, of course. That had been hammered into my head long ago, as it had into every cultivator. It was the core conceit of those that pursued divinity. A natural desire, one felt anytime you looked up at a cloudless sky, or down at a sprawling valley. It almost seemed a natural step along the path of advancement. After all, why else would man cultivate virtue if not to im the heights that his father couldn¡¯t reach? On more than one punishing campaign, camped out beneath the Republic¡¯s siege works, I had gazed up at a city¡¯s stubbornly kept walls and longed to simply vault them like a garden fence. And why not? The men of Gaius¡¯ legions were surely powerful enough for such a maneuver. s, my father had soon corrected me of that delusion, and my uncle hadter enforced the lesson. Our hunger was something no man could escape. For as long as we had looked up and seen, we had desired the climb - for no other reason than that we could. But there were some ces that even a cultivator couldn¡¯t go. There were some domains that even the mightiest Tyrant didn¡¯t dare trespass. Heaven was one such domain. What the man who imed to be the master of my master¡¯s master did was not flight - more of an absurd hop - but in that moment before freefall, while we hung weightless in the air, I felt the weight of heaven¡¯s notice. It was no cultivator¡¯s sense or legion instinct that allowed me to detect it. Any man could hear the thunder. And it was made all the more apparent by the fact that we were hurtling directly towards the Raging Heaven¡¯s tribtion crown, the Storm That Never Ceased. I finally regained the breath that had been knocked out of me by our rapid ascent and shouted a curse, calling upon the captain''s virtue with force enough that the air itself groaned, a subsonic vibration that would have shattered stone walls if we had been around any. The old vagrant¡¯s rags might have pped a bit more insistently than they already were in the wind, maybe, but that was the only reaction I got for my efforts. The man himself didn¡¯t even twitch. Just tightened his grip on my hair, and then without warning twisted and heaved me down at a small chasm in the mountain, just below the storm. It was like being shot from a bow. I flexed the captain''s virtue desperately, but I wasn¡¯t in the business of using it on myself, and so all I could do was clear a few particrly painful looking rocks from my path before I plowed into the cave, my vision shing white as I crashed through stone and kept going. A bare, filthy foot came down on my back, stopping me abruptly. My head whipped forward and then back, cracking against the stone with the momentum, and I red blearily up. The vagrant philosopher stepped off of me, shrugging out of the soiledyers of cloth he¡¯d built his aura of anonymity out of, until he stood over me in a simple white toga. He crossed his arms, and as the weight of his expectation came down upon me, crushing me to the stone as I tried to rise, I came to a realization. The reason that Griffin and I had experienced such sess in our subterfuge since arriving at the Half-Step City. The reason why Scythas, Alyssa, Kyno, Lefteris, Jason, and Anastasia had so readily epted our posturing and vague implications despite only being philosophers. It wasn¡¯t that we were spectacr actors. It wasn¡¯t even that we were particrly special. The master of my master¡¯s master waved a hand, and the overpowering thunder of the Raging Heaven¡¯s perpetual storm vanished into mist and whispers. No, it was more than that. As the whish ringing faded from my ears, I understood that all of the background noise of nature, the ever present hum that existed even here on this mountain, was suddenly gone. Like it had never existed in the first ce. Heroes greater than us were willing to believe our lies, because men like this existed in the world. ¡°?¦Í ¦Ï?¦Ä¦Á ?¦Ó¦É ¦Ï?¦Ä?¦Í ¦Ï?¦Ä¦Á h¨¨n o?da h¨®ti oud¨¨n o?da.¡± ¡°¡­ What?¡± I asked. A truly wrathful expression overtook him. I tensed, and my blood thundered in my ears, but he mastered it in the next moment, scoffed and spat on the cave floor. ¡°He didn¡¯t even bother to teach you a thinking man¡¯s tongue? I¡¯ll throttle that boy the next time I see him.¡± ¡°He did,¡± I protested, this time in the Scarlet City¡¯s tongue rather than the Latin I had been defaulting totely. ¡°Alikoan,¡± he said with distaste. ¡°The ugliestnguage in the Greek Isles, to match her ugliest city. Why would he teach you that tongue over his own?¡± I thought back. Many of Aristotle¡®s teachings were more impressions than they were true recollections, overshadowed by years on campaign, years at war, and a year of shellshocked very. But this one stood out. It always had. It had been cemented in my memory the moment the shackles were affixed to my wrists. ¡°He told me that I would need it,¡± I said quietly. ¡°He told me it was the most importantnguage I could possibly know.¡± I spent more than one sleepless night as a ve wondering how much Aristotle had suspected. How much he could have possibly known. And I had wondered how much more he knew - it was why I was here, searching for him. It was why I¡¯d been found. ¡°That boy,¡± he muttered, running callused fingers through a long white beard. The man was built like a siege weapon, sculpted in the way of the Greek heroes we had been keepingpany with, but with more overt signs of his age. The color of his hair, washed out. Crows feet at the corners of his eyes. And deep, thinking lines carved across his forehead. ¡°You said Aristotle was your student¡¯s student,¡± I said. He grunted, eyes distant as he thought. ¡°Do you know where he is?¡± ¡°West.¡± My heart sank. Alikos. I should have known. For a year I¡¯d assured myself that he couldn¡¯t possibly be back in the Scarlet City, that he surely would have sought me out if he was. I should have known that was a child¡¯s delusion. He wasn¡¯t my friend. He was my mentor, and my father wasn¡¯t alive to pay him his due anymore. He didn¡¯t owe me anything. ¡°No.¡± I blinked. ¡°No?¡± ¡°No,¡± the old philosopher repeated. ¡°Further.¡± Further west? ¡°Impossible.¡± Somehow, the silence grew even quieter. The very air between us seemed to hold its breath. The philosopher looked down upon me, and in a deathly quiet voice he asked, ¡°What did you just say?¡± ¡°That¡¯s impossible,¡± I repeated. ¡°I¡¯ve seen what¡¯s west of the Scarlet City. If he¡¯s still out there, he¡¯s dead.¡± ¡°You think so, do you?¡± I matched his re in defiance, and with memories of howling thunder informed him, ¡°I know.¡± The philosopher kicked me in the gut, and I gagged as dust and shattered stone filtered around my head. Secondster, my senses caught up to the rest of me and I realized that I had been buried in the far wall of the cave. ¡°You know?¡± the old philosopher said, advancing on me. ¡°You know nothing. In fact, you know even less than that. Was Aristotle such a failure that he couldn¡¯t nt a single thought in that thick Roman skull of yours?¡± He grabbed me by the neck and pulled me out of the stone. I snarled and spat in his face. The spittle halted a hairsbreadth from his eyes, and then abruptly whipped back into mine. Worthless, sanctimonious Greeks. ¡°What is it that you think you¡¯ve been doing since you darkened these shores?¡± he demanded. ¡°What have you aplished, and to what end?¡± Contrary to his demand for answers, his hand only tightened further around my throat. I forced the words out, even as I scanned our surroundings in my peripherals. It was a cave like any other, but with the bare echoes of habitation to show for the philosopher¡¯s presence. A bedroll off to my left, a small set of cups and tes to my right, along with a small mountain of rolled up papyrus and various tablets. ¡°I came here looking for Aristotle,¡± I choked. ¡°Is that what you call this?¡± The old philosopher demanded, and reached for my shadow. The darkened silhouette, already undting wildly in the scattered lights of the storm outside the cave, darted inexplicably away from his hand. Moving with its own intent. ¡°Inserting yourself into a political struggle that you have no stake in, no influence over, for no reason at all other than to cause mayhem? Because you believe you can? What are you thinking?¡± ¡°I think,¡± I hissed, ¡°that scavengers are eating this ce alive.¡± ¡°So you decided to join in, take a bite for yourself?¡± ¡°No. I decided to take a bite out of them.¡± Gravitas rocked the cave, and though it didn¡¯t move the old philosopher, the stone that I took hold of with the captain¡¯s virtue and mmed into the back of his head certainly did. He staggered forward a step, against me, and I mmed my forehead into his nose. It was like headbutting Kaukoso Mons itself, but I forced down the nausea and thrashed free while he was stunned. My shadow offered up the celestial bronze spear and I gripped it tight, turning and whipping its tip up with all my strength. The philosopher caught it by the shaft and struck me once with his free hand. I lost another few moments, and when I came to again I wasying on my back just outside of the cave, staring up into the storm. Dew droplets trickled down my face, mingling with the blood of a broken nose. Lightning shed a thousand times in rapid session, vast branchingworks of lights that were swallowed up by storm clouds in the next instant. In the distance, I heard a familiar shriek. The philosopher grabbed me by my foot and dragged me back into the cave. ¡°I won¡¯t be lied to, boy,¡± the philosopher said as if nothing had happened. ¡°And I won¡¯t be sweet-talked either.¡± If he had taken anysting damage from my suckerpunch, I couldn¡¯t see it. He dropped me in the middle of the cave and sat beside me, legs crossed, one hand on a knee while the other propped up his chin. I stared mutinously up at the stone ceiling for a long moment, beforemon sense got the better of my pride. This wasn¡¯t what I had been looking for, but it was an opportunity that I wasn¡¯t likely to get twice. And he had said that he was going to teach me the way of the world. Either I had found myself a new mentor - been found by, more like - or I was about to die. One way or another, I had to make the most of this. ¡°I came here looking for Aristotle,¡± I said again. ¡°I¡¯d just broken through in my cultivation and I was exploring one of my new senses at the kyrios¡¯ funeral. I identally tipped off half a dozen Heroic Cultivators in the act, made them think I was looking for a fight. What could I do but pretend I was more than I am? Make myself seem too dangerous to fight?¡± ¡°You could have exined your mistake and apologized for it.¡± I lifted a shoulder in a shrug, not bothering to sit up. My head and nose were throbbing incessantly in time with one another. The ground wasfortable enough for the moment. ¡°I¡¯m a foreigner in a strange, barbarousnd. How was I to know that one of them wouldn¡¯t take offense to my wasting their time? Who would punish a great hero for stepping on an insolent young philosopher?¡± ¡°I would.¡± I nced at the master of my master¡¯s master. He met my gaze steadily, and after a moment I nodded. ¡°I believe you. But I¡¯d still be dead.¡± ¡°Justice would be served,¡± he pointed out. ¡°Not good enough. I have things I need to do before I die, whether it¡¯s justice or not.¡± The old man considered that for a long moment, and then he asked, ¡°What is the first virtue?¡± ¡°Freedom.¡± The old philosopher looked at me like I had grown another head. ¡°Are you out of your mind, boy?¡± I raised an eyebrow. ¡°This is the free Mediterranean, is it not?¡± ¡°Aristotle truly did you a disservice,¡± he said, disgusted. ¡°It¡¯s a question of your soul, boy, not just your beliefs. It¡¯s a matter of foundation.¡± Foundation. ¡°What does it take for a man to lead?¡± ¡°Gravitas,¡± I answered, properly this time. The old philosopher grunted. ¡°And what is gravitas?¡± I forced myself to sit up, turned my head and spat as much of the blood out of my mouth as I could. I inhaled deeply, tracing my vital breath through the channels old and new inside my body. And I forced myself to remember. ¡°Gravitas is three thousand men sprinting into Tartarus at yourmand,¡± I said, each word like broken ss in my throat. ¡°It¡¯s four hundred and eighty shields at your back while you plunge into the enemy¡¯s open mouth. It¡¯s three hundred screaming horses crashing headlong into the sea. ¡°It¡¯s weight.¡± ¡°Weight?¡± The philosopher echoed. I nodded once, staring past his shoulder, into the distant past. ¡°Every man is a world unto himself. He¡¯s a city, a family, a wife and children, friends and enemies andrades. He¡¯s hopes and dreams, aspirations of changing all that he can change. He¡¯s all of these things, and he is heavy. ¡°Gravitas is the weight of three thousand such men. It¡¯s three thousand worlds, three thousand lives that could have been, borne on your shoulders. ¡°It is salt,'''' I rasped. ¡°And it is ash.¡± For a long moment, the cave was silent but for the memories. And then a strong, calloused hand gripped my shoulder. ¡°How old are you, boy?¡± he asked me. ¡°Twenty.¡± ¡°An age of child tyrants,¡± he said, and sighed. ¡°These demons in the west. You¡¯re certain they weren¡¯t human? The world is a vast ce, full of odd people.¡± I thought of snarling fangs and slitted eyes the color of tribtion lightning. Whatever he saw in me at that moment, the philosopher didn¡¯t press the point further. ¡°A handful of lost heroes won¡¯t be enough tobat a force like that,¡± he said, shaking his head and rising to his feet. He pped down the wrinkles in his tunic. ¡°If it¡¯s demons you¡¯re after, you¡¯ll need more. You¡¯ll need to be more.¡± Sorea shrieked again, far closer this time. ¡°How did you know about the demons?¡± I asked, and then pressed, ¡°How did you know we were responsible for what happened at the bathhouse? That we¡¯ve been hunting crows?¡± The old philosopher snorted. ¡°I don¡¯t know anything, boy. I listen, and I learn. It¡¯s astounding what a man will say when he thinks there¡¯s no one important around to hear him. It¡¯s even more astounding what a man will say when he thinks it won¡¯t hurt to let a few things slip.¡± He flexed the fingers of his hands and rolled his shoulders, turning to squarely face the cave¡¯s entrance. ¡°And most astounding of all,¡± he said with powerful disdain, bracing his feet, ¡°is what a fool will say when he wants to be heard.¡± Sorea shrieked a third time, just below, and the sun dawned twice. [Dawn arrives upon its throne.] Griffon exploded through the entrance with blood on his face and fire in his fists. And just before the master of my master¡¯s master could p him out of the air, I lunged up and drove my shoulder into the old philosopher¡¯s back, knocking him off bnce. It onlysted a fraction of a moment. It was enough. Griffon struck him like aet. Chapter 1.34 Chapter 1.34 The Young Griffon When I was seven years old I called upon Niks to face me in the marble octagon. He was exactly twice my age at that time, and his cultivation was exactly one realm above my own. A Citizen of the fifth rank, challenging a Philosopher of the fifth rank. It was utterly absurd, and everyone involved had known it. Niks¡¯ peers and his followers hadughed and urged him up. It was all a game to them, of course, a y fight between the elder and junior pirs of the Rosy Dawn. The gymnasiarch, a famously no-nonsense man, had evidently felt the same way, because he¡¯d allowed it. But when Niks gave in to the heckling and climbed up onto that marble stage, when he met my eyes and we sped forearms, I knew he saw the truth of it. And though he asked me in a private whisper if I was sure, he did not hesitate to oblige me. There was a reason I admired my cousin. When the gymnasiarch gave the call to fight, my cousin came at me with the full force of everything he had as a cultivator, and I met him with the same force in turn. It was over in seconds. I lost horribly, of course. The gymnasiarch was furious, and even Nics¡¯panions within the cult weren¡¯t sure what face to show him. It was understandable. After all, my elder cousin had never treated them with the same ferocity that he had served me in those few brutal seconds. But it was exactly what I¡¯d needed. In that moment, as my face struck the edge of the marble octagon and two of my teeth were knocked into the back of my throat, as my right elbow loudly broke, I saw for the first time the difference between heaven and earth. And I knew, without a doubt in my heart, that it was not an impossible gap to bridge. I never fought my elder cousin seriously again. There was no reason to. I knew myself and I knew him well enough to understand that I wasn¡¯t ready, and before long my father bundled him up on a ship and sent him out into the world, leaving me to take on the role of young aristocrat in its full scope. But that was fine. I had gotten what I wanted. The greatest men knew their limits better than anyone else. The vagrant philosopher raised one hand against me, three fingers tucked in and two pointing up to heaven. A lecturer¡¯s pose, as he prepared to educate me on the vast distance between us once more. Unfortunately for him, Romans make for horribly impolite students. Sol surged up from the ground behind the philosopher and tackled him, a furious grimace on his face made utterly vicious by his broken nose. I struck the old man like a falling star, hammering his face with twenty zing hands and using the instability that Sol had provided for me to knock him off his feet. Gravitas hit me like a tidal wave, and this time I allowed it to wash me away in its current, flying backwards as if I was falling out of the sky. The philosopher¡¯s counterpoint, something wordless and unseen, reached out for Sol in my ce. I disdained that with twenty pankration hands, dragging my brother after me. The entrance to the cave copsed in on itself before we could make it fully out, an unfortunate coincidence I was sure. Gravitas struck the falling stone but was somehow dispersed, leaving us trapped inside. I nted my feet and pulled Sol up to stand beside me. The vagrant philosopher snorted, annoyed, and brushed off his tunic as he stood. Without looking I reached over and gripped Sol¡¯s nose, setting it back properly with a nauseating crunch. He cursed, and at the same time gripped a finger of mine that I hadn¡¯t noticed dislocating and popped it back into ce. Silver threads of lightning sensation shot up my hand, and we were good as new. ¡°Let¡¯s try this again, old man,¡± I said gaily, shifting into a proper pankration stance. Fists loosely clenched in front of me, the majority of my weight braced on myunching foot. ¡°My name is Griffon and this is Sol. Who do you think you are toy your ragged hands on my brother?¡± He appeared unimpressed, but he answered. ¡°My name is Socrates. I am who I am.¡± When I was seven years old, my elder cousin taught me what it was like to fight an opponent that I could not possibly ovee. I never forgot that lesson. And here, now, I reaped the bitter rewards of it. With ourpanions it might have been possible. But alone? Oh well. I hadn¡¯t asked for it to be easy. ¡°Let¡¯s exchange discourse,¡± I proposed. ¡°If we must.¡± The three of us exploded into motion. ¡°I¡¯ve asked the Roman already, but I¡¯ll ask it again. What is it that you think you¡¯re aplishing here?¡± Socrates asked, parrying my openingbination with short, efficient chops and blocks. He turned sideways as Sol lunged past me with his bronze spear, avoiding it by a whisper. ¡°Here?¡± I caught a straight left punch with five pankration hands oveid on one another, and swallowed back blood at the shockwave impact it sent through my soul. ¡°I¡¯m reminding an old man that experience is no substitute for vigor.¡± ¡°More deflection,¡± he said, catching a flurry of punches on raised forearms, protecting his temples and the sensitive juncture between his jaw and his neck. We each raised a knee at the same time, bone mmed against bone, and I winced as something in me cracked. Sol struck out with the butt of the spear, catching Socrates in his kidney and forcing him back a step. The philosopher took the spear in the exchange and Sol didn¡¯t fight him for it, instead adopting his own loose, roughshod boxing stance. ¡°Deflection,¡± Socrates said again, scornfully. He tucked the bronze spear - inexplicably, all ten feet of it - into a fold in his tunic and crossed his arms. ¡°Doublespeak, half truths, and implication. You progressed to the second realm and think that people calling you Philosophers makes it true.¡± Socrates tilted his head as if to urge us out the door, and in the eddies of his influence I felt the bare flicker of something crucial, something profound. I would have missed it entirely if I hadn¡¯t been looking directly for it already. I blinked, startled, as Sol reached both hands under my arms and pulled me bodily to my feet. At some point, somehow, I had been driven to my knees. Lights flickered along the walls of the cave despite theck of any readily seen source. Shadows danced across the stone, resolving themselves into vague shapes that I couldn¡¯t quite decipher. Socrates advanced forward a step. ¡°All too often,¡± he said, ¡°young men mistake sophistry for sophisticated thought. It is not enough to be convincing.¡± And then he was abruptly gone. I frowned, wary, and nced around. Sol did the same beside me, casting out with his riptide influence in search of the vagrant philosopher. ¡°It is not enough to win the argument,¡± an old man said, walking up to us. ¡°Not now, grandfather,¡± I said, waving a distracted hand as I ran the incorporeal fingers of my violent intent across the walls of the cave, searching for a crack or a crevice, something the philosopher could have escaped through. Wait. Sol shook it off a moment before I did, reaching across my body to catch an uppercut that would have lifted me cleanly off my feet. I saw the tightly controlled agony in his face, heard the crack of his hand breaking. Socrates leaned back and kicked him into the far wall for his troubles. ¡°You see? Distraction is not enough,¡± Socrates said. ¡°Whether in a fight or a conversation. You need fundamentals.¡± I inhaled sharply and closed to engage. I sought to enhance myself with the principles of my soul, but he countered each and every one as I invoked them, just as he had outside the bathhouse. What remained was pure technique, and the conditioning of our bodies. Fundamental qualities. ¡°What is rhetoric if not the art of convincing others?¡± I countered, with words and with clenched fists. ¡°A philosopher is above all else a wise man. And I say that a wise man knows what he wants. I say that a wise man knows the value of his time! Why shouldn¡¯t I use the tools at my disposal to get what I want?¡± Inded a blow to his ribs and took two on the chin for my troubles, but Sol came rushing in before I could be fully put down. He swung with quick and ugly intent. I could perfectly imagine him in a camp filled with rowdy soldiers, brawling and knocking out fellow legionnaires to blow off steam. ¡°A wise man knows what he wants,¡± Socrates repeated. ¡°And yet when I ask you what you¡¯re here to aplish, you y glib and dance around it. What are you here for, boy?¡± ¡°I¡¯m here for a challenge,¡± I said, and my heart sang the truth of it. ¡°Looking for a challenge, or looking to be challenged?¡± I smirked faintly and whipped my body around with my right heel as the pivot point, striking at his temple with a roundhouse kick. The philosopher caught it by the ankle and pped me across the face. ¡°Word games,¡± he scolded me. ¡°Life isn¡¯t apetition to see who canyer more meaning into a single phrase. Give me rity.¡± Soltched onto the arm holding my leg and drove his shoulder up into Socrates¡® chest, pivoting and attempting to pull him over. Gravitas rocked the cave, scattering the shadow silhouettes on the walls and reforming them into orderly ranks. Toy soldiers marching across the stone. Whether it was because of proximity or negligence on the philosopher¡¯s part, Sol¡¯s virtue was able to reach him this time. Briefly. The philosopher fell up, into the air, and then mmed down as Sol¡¯s virtue spun the axes of the world. Sol brought him back down to earth with punishing force. ¡°Speaking with rity,¡± my brother mused, leaping back from the philosopher¡¯s formless retaliation and escaping the brunt of it, only grimacing as something struck his right shoulder with an audible p. ¡°Something like that would surely deviate his cultivation.¡± I looked sharply at him, and he found it in himself to smirk. ¡°My virtuous heart can¡¯t lie.¡± ¡°That¡¯s my principal,¡± I said, betrayed. ¡°Ah, true.¡± ¡°This is a game to you, is it?¡± Socrates said, addressing Sol as he rose once more. It didn¡¯t escape my notice that he looked no worse for wear then he had back at the bathhouse. By contrast Sol and I were bruised and bleeding, broken in several ces. ¡°Your city is a smoking ruin and here you are, in another ce on the brink of a simr fate. It¡¯s funny to you, is that it?¡± What small joy my brother had found tucked away in his heart vanished from his face. I scowled. ¡°I¡¯m here for a challenge, and I¡¯m here to be challenged,¡± I said, striding forward and flexing my pneuma. ¡°I¡¯m here to see the Oracles, and I¡¯m here topete in the Olympic Games. I¡¯m here to meet interesting people, powerful people, and match myself against them. I¡¯m here to learn all of the secrets that you and your Tyrants don¡¯t want me to know.¡± ¡°Is that all?¡± Socrates asked. Thick gray eyebrows furrowed as he regarded me. ¡°You¡¯re too young to be this greedy.¡± I grinned fiercely. ¡°I am who I am. And I want it all.¡± And then I waved my hand, as if to brush a drifting ember from the air. ¡°It¡¯s in his pneuma,¡± the shadow that was the raven on the left whispered to my shadow that was the raven on the right, while the cultivator that was Sol pulled me to my feet. ¡°A philosopher builds a foundation of a thousand-thousand truths, that¡¯s what you told me. He¡¯s using those truths now. He¡¯s lecturing us.¡± Socrates hummed in surprise as I struck him with a in truth. Kronos leaves his mark. With agees gray hair, with gray haires infirmity. Just as I had before, in dealing with that trio of young philosopher boys, andter when fighting the Rein-Holder¡¯s two crows, I observed my pneuma¡¯s natural reaction to a force that I had no knowledge of, and I understood. I saw the flickering light, felt the rush of my influence surging out of me of its own ord. I felt the same thing that Sol has felt and conveyed to me through our shadows. A Hero distills the strength of a thousand-thousand different truths into himself, turns each and every one into pure power. But a Philosopher deals directly in these truths. He isn¡¯t yet strong enough to bend them entirely to his will. He can only guide them. The truth of old age struck Socrates and in my mind¡¯s eye I saw it do its unstoppable work. I saw it weigh down his posture, hunch his back, and drive into the segments of his fingers its aches and ruinous pains. I saw the hand of time press him down and make an infirmity of him. I saw the theory of it in perfect rity. Unfortunately, the reality of things was slightly different ¡°A gray hair can be a sign of many things,¡± Socrates said for my benefit, verbalizing the counterpoint that he invoked with his pneuma. ¡°A sign of age, yes. Or a poor diet. A deviation of the heart, also known as stress. Even a god given pigment at birth.¡± My attack, such as it was, slid off him like rainwater. But that was fine. I knew the trick of it now. And so did Sol. ¡°A young man can¡¯t teach another young man how to be wise,¡± Sol asserted, pacing along the edge of the cave, his pneuma catching the dispersed streams of my in truth and reforming them. ¡°You¡¯re the master of my master¡¯s master. A wise man, who taught a wise man, who taught a wise man. Old three times over.¡± ¡°Who says a young man can¡¯t be wise?¡± Socrates challenged. I answered instead. ¡°A young man is like a puppy with an argument. He can¡¯t truly understand it. One of the definitions of wisdom is experience, and experiencees with time.¡± ¡°You need wisdom to be wise,¡± Solpleted the thought. And together as one, we struck the old philosopher with the truth of his years. Socrates huffed something almost like augh. ¡°And yet here you are, trying to lecture the lecturer.¡± And that was all it took to brush us off his shoulder. I exchanged a look with Sol as he continued to circle behind the philosopher. ¡°Not the worst attempt, but certainly not the best. Age leads to infirmity, true enough, but in degrees. There are things that we can do, things that we must do as men of virtue, to preserve our strength and craft our perfect bodies. A cultivator is the same, but even more so.¡± Sol and I moved as one, closing the gap once again. ¡°But enough of that.¡± Something like one thousand flickering whispers in Socrates¡¯ influence were the only warning I got, and then I was outside the cave, my torso and head hanging over the edge of Kaukoso Mons. Upside down, the Half-Step City was truly dazzling in the early morning light. I blinked as I noticed a familiar silhouette up above, which was to say below, crouched in the shadow of a nondescript alcove simr to Socrates¡¯ own. Lefteris stared down at me, which was to say up at me, with wide-eyed intent. He had his bow in hand, its gold string pulled back taut despite not having an arrow nocked to it as far as I could tell. Who? he mouthed to me. Blearily, I watched the blood drain from his face as Socrates stepped out of his cave. ¡°These games you¡¯re ying, and the people you¡¯re ying them with,¡± he told me, ¡°the consequences are real. They''re severe. And they aren¡¯t yours to bring about so frivolously. You two have attracted remarkable people to you and roped them into something entirely unreasonable. Have you considered why they were willing to follow you? Have you considered what they stand to gain, or more importantly, what they stand to lose if things don¡¯t settle the way you implied they would?¡± Behind him, back in the cave, I saw Sol struggling to rise. His celestial spear had been returned to him, driven through the meat of his left thigh in such a way as to render the entire limb useless. ¡°I never lied,¡± I said defiantly. ¡°No,¡± Socrates acknowledged. ¡°You didn¡¯t. But neither did you tell the clear truth. You decided they didn¡¯t deserve it.¡± I bared my teeth and forced my body to move, sitting up from the edge. ¡°You don¡¯t know me.¡± ¡°You¡¯re right,¡± he admitted. ¡°But I¡¯ve experienced you. And I¡¯ve experienced your father.¡± My eyes widened. ¡°You scarlet sons are all the same,¡± the wise man said, bending down and gripping in his fist the golden shawl that I¡¯d been using both as a belt and as a satchel for my tribtion mask. He lifted me up by it, regarding me critically. ¡°You want to see all there is to see, do all that there is to do, and damn all of the natural consequences. You want to challenge, and to be challenged? So be it.¡± He turned, and the muscles of his arm bulged. ¡°Behold - tribtion.¡± And he threw me up into the storm that never ceased. Chapter 1.35 Chapter 1.35 The Son of Rome ¡°Bastard,¡± I snarled. ¡°Vile old wretch. Low lifetrine digger. I¡¯ll put you on a cross.¡± ¡°I¡¯m sure you will,¡± Socrates said, unimpressed. My vitriol did not slow his stride a single pace, nor loosen his iron grip on the back of my neck. We walked in lock step down Kaukoso Mons. Socrates had evidently decided against a repeat performance of our rapid ascent, and with nothing else avable I had no choice but to use as a cane the same spear that had crippled my left leg. Above, the immortal storm of the Raging Heaven Cult continued to roar. And Griffon was somewhere up there in it. ¡°If you¡¯ve killed him, I¡¯ll-¡± ¡°Crucify me. Yes, you just said that.¡± Ished out with an elbow but I might as well have been striking the mountain. Socrates didn¡¯t even flinch, just tightened his grip on the back of my neck until darkness crept in around the edges of my vision. ¡°What¡¯s up there?¡± I ground out, focusing on the stone-cut steps as we descended. One foot in front of the other. I¡¯d been beaten ck and blue, broken and crippled in several ces, and Griffon had not fared much better. I had no doubt that he had survived the impact, somehow, but I had no way of knowing what he was contending with up in the clouds. The peak of Kaukoso Mons was entirely closed off from sight by the eternal storm, a pir of wrath that rose all the way up to heaven. ¡°What do you think, boy?¡± Socrates asked. After a bit of silence, he shook me by the neck like a stray dog. ¡°That wasn¡¯t rhetorical.¡± I thought back to the first time I had ascended these steps with Anastasia. What she had told me about the Raging Heaven and its perpetual storm. ¡°The members of the cult call this ce a monument to hubris,¡± I answered, my unease growing. ¡°Which would make the storm a monument to tribtion.¡± ¡°urate enough,¡± he said, turning us off onto a winding path that continued down through a series of transnted grottos. Idly, he grabbed a wild pear from a sagging branch, inexplicably ripe despite the current winter season. He took a bite and chewed noisily, a considering look in his in brown eyes. ¡°But far from the full picture. You understand the basis of tribtion, yes? Aristotle taught you that much?¡± I scowled. ¡°Tribtion is heaven¡¯s punishment for man¡¯s hubris.¡± ¡°Go on.¡± ¡°When we reach beyond our station, there¡¯s always a greater force to remind us of our ce,¡± I said. ¡°When a man runs out of other men to remind him of his limits, Heaven steps in.¡± ¡°Artful, but not the path I was looking to go down.¡± ¡°What do you want me to say?¡± I asked, irritated. ¡°Tribtion Is tribtion. Past a certain point, a cultivator gets struck by lightning every time they advance.¡± ¡°Better,¡± he said, and I scoffed. His hand otherwise upied guiding me by the neck, the wiseman instead mmed my face against a nearby pear tree, cracking the bark. ¡°Discourse doesn¡¯t have to be an art form at all times. The world is full of wonders enough without trying to fabricate your own from delicatenguage.¡± A Greek suggesting utilitarianism to a Roman. Griffon had rubbed off on me more than I thought. ¡°You¡¯re saying the Storm That Never Ceases is more than just a storm,¡± I said. It was an obvious thing, something anyone could guess just by looking at the localized pir of clouds that never once drifted out of ce. But I had to know. I had to be sure of what Griffon was facing. ¡°It is, and it is not,¡± Socrates said. ¡°What distinguishes lightning from tribtion lightning?¡± ¡°Intent.¡± ¡°And what makes you think so?¡± I gave the question the attention it deserved. I thought back. ¡°Only during moments of ascension have I seen lightning fall from clear blue skies.¡± ¡°And that means it never does otherwise?¡± Socrates pressed. ¡°Do you see everything there is to see, in the past, present, and future?¡± I frowned. ¡°No, but-¡± ¡°But?¡± ¡°But lightning doesn¡¯t strike from a clear sky with no reason. That¡¯s ridiculous.¡± ¡°Life is ridiculous, boy. Until we discern the why and the how, the what will always be absurd. Amon mistake of cultivators is to draw a line in the sand between acts of nature and acts of cultivation, as if the two are clear and distinct from one another. As if there¡¯s any separation at all. How can you know that this is something unique to tribtion lightning?¡± We took another turn, back onto a stone-carved stairway, but these were oveid by marble without any jewel veins, and they lead into the mountain rather than up or down it. ¡°You imed that a philosopher was a man who knew his limits, that he knows nothing at all,¡± Socrates continued, with an odd sort of disdain. He sighed. ¡°Statements like that are pleasing to the ear, and not necessarily untrue, but theyck substance. Philosophers, in the end, are men that understand there are countless things in this world that we do not know. The field of natural philosophy, then, is a man¡¯s attempt to understand the rules of nature, in as many small degrees as he can before he dies. ¡°It is easy to prove a man wrong,¡± The old philosopher said. ¡°What¡¯s hard is proving him right. So I''ll ask you again. What distinguishes the light that strikes before thunder from the punishment of heaven? I inclined my head, grudgingly, and admitted, ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡± ¡°Good. An honest answer.¡± ¡°What¡¯s the difference?¡± I asked him, after a beat. Socrates shrugged. ¡°I¡¯m sure your friend will tell you if he survives.¡± ¡°What was the point of that if you didn¡¯t intend to tell me anything?¡± I asked, frustrated. Socrates nced sidelong at me. ¡°I¡¯m trying to see if there¡¯s anything behind your eyes, boy. If you¡¯re not satisfied with the answers you¡¯re getting, ask better questions.¡± I bit down on my tongue, stifling my vitriol. I thought hard. ¡°Has the storm always been here?¡± ¡°Nothing has always been anywhere.¡± ¡°Was the storm here before the city?¡± I amended. He grunted. ¡°No.¡± ¡°And what about the cult?¡± ¡°What about the cult?¡± I scowled, but rified, ¡°Which came first? The Storm That Never Ceases or the Raging Heaven Cult?¡± ¡°The storm.¡± My thoughts whirled. The city first, then the storm, then the cult. As Griffon had exined it to me, and as I had seen for myself back in the Scarlet City, the greater mystery cults of the free Mediterranean were established around natural mysteries. Entities, like the bisected corpse of the fallen sun god, that defied all exnation. That could not be understood by mortal minds. ¡°Is the storm the mystery?¡± I asked. Socrates inclined his head. ¡°It is.¡± ¡°Then that means it¡¯s a part of the initiation rites,¡± I guessed. ¡°It does.¡± ¡°So it¡¯s safe,¡± I pressed, willing it to be true. Socrates barked a short, uglyugh. ¡°No, boy. No, it isn¡¯t that at all. Tell me, what do you know of the Raging Heaven Cult?¡± ¡°It¡¯s a cultposed of other cults. A nexus for cultivators in the same way that the city of Olympia is a nexus for Greek cultures.¡± ¡°True enough,¡± he said. ¡°I assume, perilous as the act may be, that Aristotle at least touched upon Olympia¡®s political significance?¡± I nodded, as much as I could with his iron grip on the back of my neck. I had asked him often enough for stories about the Olympic Games, after all. ¡°It¡¯s called the sanctuary city because no matter what conflict gues the Mediterranean, each of her cities set aside their struggles toe together andpete in the games. Every four years, from the moment the olympic me is lit until the champion is crowned, there is peace in the Mediterranean.¡± ¡°For a given definition of peace,¡± Socrates said. ¡°But yes. The Olympic Games serve as a quad-annual armistice, an opportunity, slim as it may be, for unreasonable men to experience a moment of rity. The city of Olympia, as the host of the games, has taken on a sanctuary status as a result. Regardless of the alliances and feuds between the city states, Olympia remains a neutral entity. Because if nothing else, it needs to be standing for us to enjoy our games. And that is something even the most hated enemies can agree upon.¡± ¡°All the world for bread and circus,¡± I murmured, recognizing the sentiment for what it was. It was almost nostalgic, the reminder of my days before the legions, before Aristotle even. When all that really mattered was who won the chariot races that day. ¡°Some things are the same no matter where you go,¡± Socrates agreed. ¡°Now, in the same way that the city and its games serve as neutral territory, so too does the Raging Heaven Cult. A cultivator¡¯s solution to a cultivator problem.¡± My brow furrowed. ¡°I don¡¯t understand.¡± ¡°Of course you don¡¯t,¡± Socrates said, utterly exasperated. ¡°Why do you think I was so furious with the two of you? You have no idea the forces at y here. The Raging Heaven Cult is neutral ground for cultivators, and the greater mystery cults in particr. It is not coincidence that each of the cult¡¯s elders are Tyrants from different city-states. What does that tell you?¡± I considered it. The Olympic Games were a miracle of political maneuvering, but they only urred once every four years and for a short period of time. It was one thing for a man to set aside his grievances for five days. It was entirely another to do so indefinitely. And yet here were the Tyrants of each of the greater mystery cults, coexisting for centuries without any overt conflict between them. That alone was astounding, but there was something about it that gave me pause. Just before I answered, my teeth clicked together. I went over his question again in my head, examining every word. It is not coincidence that each of the cult¡¯s elders are Tyrants from different city-states. Tyrants. ¡°Cultivation makes us more of who we are,¡± I murmured. I didn¡¯t know much about the Greek style, but some things were universal. ¡°A Philosopher grows by acting as a philosopher. A Hero grows when aplishing heroic things.¡± ¡°And a Tyrant grows in acts of tyranny,¡± Socrates finished the thought. He waved his free hand. ¡°Go on.¡± ¡°A man doesn¡¯t be a tyrant by mistake, and a cultivator doesn¡¯t make it that far by chance,¡± I said, frowning. ¡°Why would someone like that ept a position in an institution like this? What is there to conquer in a city dedicated to neutrality?¡± ¡°Nothing at all,¡± Socrates answered. Still, he seemed expectant. ¡°Then why?¡± I pressed. ¡°Why are they here if they know it will stifle their cultivation?¡± Everything I knew of the Greeks, and their cultivators especially, told me that it didn¡¯t make any sense. Their tyrants were not loyal to their own in the same way that a Roman dictator was loyal to the Republic. They had no concept of hanging up theirurel crowns and returning to their humble estates. The ideal of Cincinnatus did not exist here. So why? ¡°What is here that¡¯s worth more than their advancement?¡± ¡°You¡¯ve made an assumption that you have no basis for,¡± Socrates said. I looked at him, confused. He borated, ¡°You assumed that they came here looking for something. More than that, you assumed that they chose toe here at all.¡± My eyes widened. ¡°It goes against a tyrant¡¯s nature to exist peacefully beside his rivals,¡± Socrates said with utter contempt, as we reached the bottom of the marble stairway and stepped through an amethyst archway. ¡°But it is perfectly within a tyrant¡¯s nature to break his rivals one by one and gather them beneath him. The elders of the Raging Heaven Cult are not here because they chose to be. They are here because the kyrios went out into the world and broke them, each in turn, and dragged their beaten bodies back to this city.¡± We stepped into thete kyrios¡¯ estate, into the heart of Kaukoso Mons. A facsimile of a courtyard awaited us, a grand cavern with ceilings high enough that it would have been impossible to see them if not for the amethyst veins that ran through the stone, emitting a faint but enduring light. Burning braziers lined the walls and torches jutted out from grand, towering pirs that rose from floor to ceiling. Eight pirs in all, and the torches affixed to each burned with a different colored me. The ce reeked of smoke, though the air was entirely clear. The walls of the courtyard inside the mountain were cut by a pythagorean¡¯s fine hand, cornered eight times. A massive octagon, and a pir for each side. The tip of my spear made an odd chiming sound as it came down to support my next step, and when I looked down I saw that the path beneath our feet wasn¡¯t simple stone, but instead a mosaic trail made of ivory and gold shards. It wound ahead of us into the octagonal courtyard, spiraling in the center to create a massive portrait of a man that I didn¡¯t recognize, before branching off eight ways towards each of the eight walls of the courtyard. Each mosaic path, as it left the ivory and gold center, drifted from those colors into other gemstone shades, until eventually they matched the color of the me burning upon that side¡¯s pir. Each path ended at a ceremonial tripod. At the moment, all of those tripods were empty. Except for one. ¡°Solus!¡± ¡°Selene?¡± I asked incredulously, watching her leap off of her tripod and rush towards us. ¡°You¡¯re hurt!¡± She eximed, stopping just a step away from me and leaning forward, her hands hovering over my most visible wounds. I couldn¡¯t see her eyes behind her golden veil, but now that I knew to look for it I could see the faint glow cast by her scarlet heart mes. It was easy enough to imagine those eyes flickering anxiously across my body. ¡°He¡¯s fine,¡± Socrates said gruffly. ¡°He¡¯s beaten half to death,¡± Selene countered. ¡°Who did this to him? Where did you find him-¡± Abruptly, she stopped and drew herself up to her full height. Which wasn¡¯t very tall, admittedly. ¡°Did you do this to him?¡± ¡°I did,¡± Socrates admitted without shame. ¡°Why?¡± ¡°You know why,¡± he said. He urged me forward, brushing aside the girl in the sun rays silks, though without particr force. She fell in step just behind and beside me, hands flickering out as if to steady me and then returning to her sides. ¡°If this one and his friends are to be believed, you saw firsthand what he¡¯s been doing.¡± ¡°That is that and this is this,¡± she said hotly. I felt a powerful sense of vertigo as the daughter of a Tyrant scolded one of the most powerful men I had ever met. ¡°He can barely walk.¡± ¡°He¡¯ll live,¡± Socrates dismissed. ¡°Or he won¡¯t. It¡¯s not worthining about.¡± ¡°What are you doing here?¡± I asked her, finally finding my voice. Socrates rolled his eyes. ¡°Where did you think the Oracles spent their time when they weren¡¯t in their temples?¡± I stopped short, and was promptly dragged off my feet when Socrates did not. The spear went out from under me and I copsed to the ivory and gold mosaic floor, staring at the young girl that immediately bent to help me up. ¡°You¡¯re an Oracle?¡± I asked her, stunned. Selene bit her lip. ¡°I am.¡± A few things suddenly made significantly more sense, and others made even less. Knowing that she was an Oracle, it only took me a moment to realize which Oracle she was. Her sun-stained attire was far from subtle, as was the fact that she had literally hopped off of a scarlet tripod to approach us. ¡°You¡¯re the Alikoan Oracle?¡± I said, epting her hand and allowing myself to be pulled back to my feet. Broken bones twinged and my leg continued to hang worthlessly beneath my body. ¡°Yes.¡± Socrates made an impatient sound, dissatisfied with how quickly I was regaining my bnce. Selene ducked under my arm, the one holding my spear cane, and shouldered the weight of my left side. Socrates continued on, and though I heavily considered making a break for it and trying to retrieve Griffon, I could hardly imagine making it to the foot of the steps before I was caught again. I took a painful step forward, and continued on with Selene¡®s support. ¡°I thought Oracles were meant to be crones,¡± I muttered. Selene dipped her head, and when she answered her voice was sad. ¡°They are.¡± Something else urred to me, and I nced around the courtyard, at its eight holy perches. ¡°Those tripods. They¡¯re more than simple stools.¡± ¡°Prophecies are delivered from the seat of heaven,¡± Socrates said idly over his shoulder, walking over the unfamiliar mosaic portrait in the center of the courtyard and continuing straight, following the ivory and gold path. ¡°But why are they down here?¡± I asked, confused. ¡°The Oracles have temples outside where they can take visitors. Why would they need them here-¡± And I understood. ¡°Go on, then,¡± Socrates demanded. ¡°Share your discovery with the room.¡± ¡°The kyrios is king in his domain,¡± I said, the piecesing together like a grand mosaic in my head. ¡°In a lesser cult, that might mean presiding over Heroes, Philosophers, and Citizens. But here, the kyrios reigns over Tyrants, too.¡± A tyrant among tyrants. And a hunger to match. ¡°He imed the Oracles for himself,¡± I said, looking around at the courtyard with new eyes. ¡°He used Alexander¡¯s assault on the free cities as an excuse, and he brought them here. He built a temple in his own estate, and he filled it with every Oracle under the sun. For himself.¡± ¡°You begin to see what power the Tyrant of Olympiamands,¡± Socrates said,ing to a set of ivory doors at the far side of the courtyard and pressing them open. ¡°This is what the elders of the Raging Heaven, each of them a Tyrant in their own domain, is maneuvering to seize for themselves. This is the struggle that you and your idiot friend have so brazenly inserted yourselves into.¡± I limped into the next room with Selene¡®s help, and beheld thete kyrios¡¯ quarters. Grandiose, yes. Ostentatious, absolutely. They were as different from Damon Aetos¡¯ personal office as was heaven from earth. Unfortunately, I didn¡¯t have time to properly appreciate the sight. Socrates had already thrown open another ivory door and stalked further into the bowels of the mountain. ¡°Where are we going?¡± I finally asked, unable to remain silent. ¡°And why?¡± For all that we had miserably failed, Griffon and I had assaulted the old philosopher with everything we had. Though it hadn¡¯t left anysting marks, we had struck him. And though he had consigned Griffon to the storm, he¡¯d acknowledged that it was a ce he could return from. Socrates hadn¡¯t killed him, and he had yet to kill me. Why, when he was so furious with what we had done? ¡°I told you already. I know you have ears, boy.¡± I have no choice but to make right what he left unfinished. Socrates threw open another door, the most ostentatious yet, and we entered into an utterly unadorned room. To call it a room at all was a stretch. Where the rest of the kyrios¡¯ subterranean estate was obviously man-made, painstakingly carved out of the mountain and filled with earthly treasures, this room looked like nothing so much as a small cavern. There were no mosaic floors, no pirs, and the walls were naturally rugged and uneven. The door shut behind us, and the only light in the room came from the amethyst veins in the walls. Just bright enough, with a cultivator¡¯s enhanced sight, to see whaty at the center of the room. ¡°Aristotle left you unfinished,¡± Socrates said, crossing his arms. ¡°And now I¡¯m faced with two options. I can let your fool choices lead you to their natural conclusions, or I can finish your education, and perhaps watch you live long enough to be a virtuous man.¡± ¡°What does this have to do with that?¡± I asked, staring at the stone b jutting up out of the ground, the only thing in the room with a clean, angr silhouette. It was a tablet the size of a man, and it was covered in chiseled script. ¡°A virtuous man is a worldly man,¡± Socrates said. ¡°And a worldly man must speak thenguage wherever he may be.¡± I thought back to the Eos, to Griffon¡®s uncanny ability to speak to several men who couldn¡¯t possibly understand his mother tongue, and how easily he had understood them. And I thought of all the cultivators that I had spoken to since arriving at the sanctuary city- That I had spoken to in Latin. I knelt, painfully, before the tablet. Selene settled beside me, the glow of her eyes behind her golden veil all the more apparent in the dark room. ¡°This is how cultivators speak to one another?¡± I asked. Socrates grunted. ¡°Allnguages are united by a singr purpose,¡± he exined. ¡°To convey, from one soul to another, and to be heard. The sounds may differ, but the intent remains the same. Every culture has a foundational myth, their first story worth telling. Each of those stories is written on this shard of Babylon, and every other shard in kind.¡± I stared at the tablet. Without a doubt in my mind, I knew that something like this did not exist in the city of Rome. ¡°Read it,¡± Socratesmanded. ¡°And be learned. I refuse to teach a man that only speaks barbarian tongues.¡± I traced over the script, each carefully carved line. The stone was covered from edge to edge, three sections neatly separated from one another, each in a differentnguage that changed as I looked at them. The text itself was cleanly carved. Easily discerned, even in the low light. And yet¡­ ¡°I can¡¯t.¡± ¡°You what?¡± I felt Selene tense beside me at the old philosopher¡¯s dangerous tone. ¡°Do you mean to tell me, boy,¡± Socrates said with violent intonation, ¡°that Aristotle did not teach you to read?¡± ¡°It¡¯s not that,¡± I said, annoyed and frustrated in equal measure. I could feel the beginning of a headacheing on in addition to all of my other injuries. ¡°It¡¯s¡­ it¡¯s a mess. Like two stories written over top of one another.¡± As soon as I verbalized it, I had an idea. I closed my left eye, and abruptly, half of the ovepping text vanished, and I could read the middle section. Begin our singing with the Heliconian Muses, Who possess Mount Helicon, high and holy, And near its violet-stained spring on petal-soft feet, Dance circling the altar of almighty -------. ¡°Why did you close your eye?¡± Socrates demanded, and I looked up, startled. ¡°I can read it now.¡± ¡°With only your right eye?¡± he pressed, sounding for some reason more agitated than he had at any point since our first encounter outside of the bathhouse. I looked back at the shard from Babylon and closed my right eye, opening my left. I sing of arms and of the man who first Came from the coasts of Troy to Italy And the Lavinian shores, exiled by fate. ¡°I see a different story with each eye,¡± I realized, recognizing both from childhood days. ¡°The Theogony and the Aeneid.¡± ¡°Oh,¡± Selene breathed. And as I continued to read both, alternately opening one eye and closing the other, I felt something inexplicable and profound winding into me through my eyes, through my skull and down the line of my spine. Something primordial, of the same association as what I had felt while I looked upon the bisected corpse of the fallen sun god. Something powerful. And I was interrupted again, as Socrates mmed a clenched fist against the stone behind him hard enough to shatter it. ¡°Two stories,¡± he spat. ¡°Two stories. I¡¯m going to murder that negligent son of three whores.¡± ¡°What?¡± I asked, utterly lost. ¡°You aren¡¯t meant to see two stories, boy. These tablets show you your culture¡¯s founding myth. What you see on that stone is a reflection of what you are. It¡¯s a marker of your culture. And you see Greece and Rome.¡± He struck the wall again. I coughed at the overpowering taste of smoke. ¡°Your foundation isn¡¯t just unfinished,¡± Socrates said with mounting wrath. Selene finished his thought, utterly fascinated. ¡°It¡¯s split in two.¡± Chapter 1.36 Chapter 1.36 The Young Griffon What is the nature of tribtion? Back when I had leapt from the top of the eastern mountain range with Sol at my side, in the throes of my ascension to the Sophic Realm, I had experienced a moment of perfect weightlessness, freedom in the truest sense. And then, when reality had asserted itself - as it always did - my stomach had risen up into my throat, a giddy and exhrating sensation in its own way. It was enough to put a smile on my face whenever I thought back on it. When Socrates threw me at the sun, my breath was mmed out of me as if the sky itself had punched me in the gut. I spun madly, without control, the world little more than a revolving blur of mountain and city and skies above. Then, I reached the storm and plunged into the wrathful crown of the Raging Heaven Cult. At once, I was drenched from head to toe. The clouds were shockingly cold and alive with dancing threads of lightning, spreading like grasping hands through the moisture in the air. I struggled to right myself, twisting and throwing out my arms. I had just begun to regain control when I saw the face of the mountain rushing forward to greet me. [Dawn shines forth with rosy fingers.] Twenty arms of pankration intent struck out, some grasping me and others reaching out for the mountain¡¯s jutting ridges. The same way that I had helped my younger cousins learn how to flip and contort their bodies in the air as children, by tossing them up and guiding them back down with steady hands, my pankration intent did the same for me. I flipped myself, bleeding off as much momentum as I could by bouncing back-and-forth between the hands of my own intent, and then I hit the mountain, tucking my shoulders and rolling until everything came to a stop. Panting harshly and nearly vibrating with adrenaline, I rose up into a crouch and assessed my situation. I was somewhere inside of the immortal storm that hung around the peak of Kaukoso Mons, that much was obvious. How far up I was, how close to the hidden peak, I had no idea. But I was far enough up that I noticed the effort when I inhaled. It wasn¡¯t just that the air was frigidly cold. It was also thin, more so than it had ever been at the top of the eastern mountain range back home. The mountain itself didn¡¯t seem to be much different up here, but immersed in the clouds as I was, I could only see a few feet in front of my face. Even with the light of dawn in my twenty-two palms. The only way I could truly gauge distance was by watching the- Lightning struck beside me, close enough to electrify the fine hairs on my arms and make my teeth buzz in my mouth. I rolled sideways, watching another searingnce strike the stone where I had just been. I tried to curse the old philosopher that had thrown me up here, but instead coughed up a mouthful of blood. I rolled away from another thread of lightning, hacking blood as I went. Well. This seemed appropriate. As it turned out, the storm was aptly named. ¡°Whimpering Heaven,¡± I growled regardless, the taste of my own blood thick on my tongue. The stone was slick this far up the mountain, treacherous. What paths that existed were even more so. I leaned sharply back, lightning arcing past my face and striking an outcrop of stone. As it passed, though, thin trailing fingers split off and grasped the tip of my nose. My teeth mmed together, muscles locking up as the lightning coursed through me. I exhaled a seething breath, and just barely managed to wrench back control of myself from the storm. But there were paths. And that suggested something that I had suspected, but never known for certain. I raced down the path as fast as I dared to, crouching low as I went. I had tried jumping only once. It had nearly killed me, just like that. The skies weren¡¯t safe. Not even for a moment. Heaven was my enemy. But returning to the paths. It was simply the case that the mystery cults of the free Mediterranean hoarded their confounding questions at all costs. The mystery of a cult was its founding myth, the thesis statement upon which the entire institution was built. These treasures were hoarded from the public, from outsiders, and even from the cult¡¯s own initiates outside of significant asions. It was not within the power of a Rosy Dawn mystiko to gaze upon the bisected corpse of the fallen sun god whenever the urge struck them. It was simple enough to guard that corpse, of course. After all, it was buried in the heart of a vast mountain range. But not all cults were as the Rosy dawn. Not all mysteries were buried beneath spans and spans of ancient rock. How did one guard a mystery with no natural barriers? How did one obscure from view something in in sight? Out in the open air? Every cult had its own initiation rites, governed by a unique set of rules and regtions. But the purpose of those rites was always the same. Of course, I could have been wrong. The Raging Heaven¡¯s mystery could have been buried somewhere deep within the mountain. It could have been somewhere else entirely, separate from Kaukoso Mons. Or, perhaps, the Raging Heaven was as unique in this regard as it was in every other. Perhaps there was no mystery at all. But as I watched another bolt of lightning arc down from wrathful Heaven and abruptly diverge, striking the upraised hand of a cowering stone giant, I began to doubt. I slid down slick stone until I was crouched beneath the cowering giant. Light shed - once, twice, three and then four times. The storm hammered relentlessly down on the statue of a long dead monster, and I felt the fury behind it. I stayed there for a long while, staring up as Heaven came down, safe from the storm only because I was crouched in the shadow of something that it hated far more than me. ¡°Porphyrion,¡± I murmured to the monument of the twice-disgraced Giant. ¡°Look at you. Greatest of the great striders, king of those that shake the earth. Isn¡¯t that what they called you? How can you bear to see your likeness chiseled by such a disrespectful hand? Why can¡¯t I hear your soul howling in outrage all the way from bleak Tartarus? They made you look like a coward.¡± Heaven screamed and struck the destitute king of Giants, over and over again. I looked down the mountain. I still couldn¡¯t see more than a few feet in any direction. I had no way of knowing how far I was from the storm¡¯s edge. I had no way of knowing what Socrates was doing to my brother, now that I wasn¡¯t there to stand beside him. The Fates and Muses knew that our Heroicpanions would not stand there in my ce. I looked back up at poor Porphyrion. While he cowered and held a helpless hand up against heaven, his other hand hung worthless beside him. In that hand, insult of insults, the statue¡¯s maker had ced a sword. Never to be properly wielded. Never to be brought to bear. Forever held back in hesitation and fear while its wielder flinched beneath the storm. No. Not forever. Pankration hands gripped the Giant¡¯s clenched fist, ring with the rosy light of dawn and prying apart his fingers. Ancient stone cracked and shattered, and a sword longer than I was tall fell into my waiting arms. I heaved it up onto one shoulder. Its edge was far too dull to cut me. ¡°Let¡¯s see what Heaven has to say when the damned strike it back,¡± I said fiercely, and charged out from under the Giant¡¯s silhouette. I felt the lightninge, a vibration in the air that I could taste on my tongue. I dug my heels in and stopped as abruptly as I had started, pivoted, and mmed the Giant¡¯s de into the mountain. I let go and watched the lightning veer sideways at thest moment and strike the pommel of the giant¡¯s sword, rather than me. I waited a second longer than I knew, instinctively, that I needed to, and then I heaved it out of the stone. ¡°Is that all?¡± I taunted the fates, pounding pankration fists against the ground as I stood tall. There came a low, rolling growl, like the thunder that preceded lightning. I turned my head, and beheld a hound of pure, shocking light prowling up the path towards me. ¡°Heel,¡± Imanded the storm hound. It barked in response, the sound like a thunderp. I turned and sprinted back up the mountain. Time passed. I knew, because my rosy palms grew progressively dimmer as the morning turned to afternoon. Or perhaps that was my own internal sundial sabotaging me. Certainly, there was no way to tell by sight alone. The storm was thick, oppressive, and utterly unrelenting. I found more hounds. The distinction between a virtuous beast and a typical animal was simr to the difference between a cultivator and a mortal man, but not quite the same. Beasts could not cultivate in the same manner as thinking men, and so what they did was not entirely equitable. But it was close enough. Once semantics were stripped away, it became a question of magnitude for both man and monster. That was themon consensus. That was what my mentors had taught me. But Sol had imed that his demon dogs had cultivated in the style of men. And though I had dismissed him out of hand at first, I couldn¡¯t so readily deny what was now before my eyes. Hounds could grasp at primitive virtue, given the time, the opportunity, and the primordial strength of will. But no dog could grasp lightning in its teeth. No hound could cast off its flesh and blood and exchange them for the storm. Tribtion hounds stalked me up the mountain, and with the appearance of each one, I was forced to question what I had always known to be the truth. I nted the Giant king¡¯s de in the mountain and rolled sideways. A thunderp bark was the only warning I got before the hound lunged. Light shed and the giant¡¯s de rang like a bell, followed by a yelp that sizzled in the air. They moved more like the lightning they wereposed of than the dogs they had taken the form of. They crouched, and they prowled, that was true enough. They went through the motions of snapping their jaws and lunging like hunters. But the motion that was meant to bridge the gap between crouching and sinking their crackling teeth into prey happened faster than the eye could track. One moment there, the next, gone. I had been clipped by lightning three times before the first hound had found me. I hadn¡¯t allowed anything to touch me since. I knew in my virtuous heart that the fourth strike would be justice rendered. If one of these dogs got their teeth in me, I wouldn¡¯t be getting them out. I spotted another looming silhouette up ahead, and wrenched free the giant¡¯s de with hands of manifested pneuma while I rushed up to it. I also found more of the condemned. I lunged and rolled beneath another statue as Heaven struck down, my heart hammering a fric beat in my chest as the lightning mmed into the hunched shoulders of a struggling stone man. ¡°Isn¡¯t it sad, Sisyphus?¡± I asked the degraded tyrant. He didn¡¯t respond, preupied as he was heaving against the boulder that was his perpetual punishment. And also, perhaps, because he was made of stone. I gripped the de buried in his stone back and wrenched it free, passing it off to a pankration hand and adding it to my growing collection. Seven stolen des, and one Giant¡¯s broadsword, were my weapons against the storm. Periodically, as the lightning struck and I had no sorry victim to shelter in the shadow of, my pankration hands would offer their des up to heaven and dispel the moment before they struck. Dodging the des after the lightning blew them out of the sky was a trial, but one I was well-suited to handle. It was far better than the alternative, at any rate. ¡°Take heart,¡± I told the statue of Sisyphus, pping him on the shoulder and squinting up the mountain. ¡°I think we¡¯re nearly at the top.¡± Thunderps sounded below as well as to my right. Upward it was. Fatigue began to take its toll. There were many things a cultivator could do without. Sleep, sustenance, even water in the most extreme circumstances. Citizens could put off these necessities for days at a time with the proper conditioning. Philosophers even longer, and Heroes longer than that, until at a certain point a mortal man could be born and die before a Tyrant was forced to break his fast. But no cultivator could go without air. Even the best of us required a moment to breathe. And as much as it galled me to admit, I was approaching my limits. Skulking around and picking off Crows in the night was one thing. This was another entirely. I fell more than I slid beneath mytest safe haven, slumping down onto one elbow, precariously close to touching the statue and sharing in its tribtion as lightning struck it over and over again. Twelve pankration hands drove their stolen des into the stone around me in a circle. I heard barking thunderps in the distance. Still closer than I preferred. Rebuffing them with the des stunned the hounds long enough to put distance between us, but that was all it did. I had tried cutting one by heaving the de like a javelin at it, but all I¡¯d gotten for my troubles was a re-creation of what happened when I threw the swords up into the air to intercept lightning bolts. Only, ten feet away from me instead. I hadn¡¯t tried it again. ¡°It could be worse, I suppose,¡± I panted. I shed blood stained teeth and nced up at my unwitting protector. ¡°I could be you-¡± I blinked, and tilted my head. The Oracle of the Broken Tide sat upon her holy tripod, the seat and the soothsayer both carved out of the mountain itself. Amethyst wound through her body in ce of veins, and the tridents in her eyes glowed with the indigo light of prophecy. She was young in this iteration, the lines of her face changed enough that I wasn¡¯t sure if this was simply the younger version of the woman I¡¯d met with Kyno, or if it was another Oracle entirely. Either way, she was certainly the Oracle of the Coast. If the eyes hadn¡¯t given her away, herpany surely would have. Over a dozen suffering statues were poised around her, flinching, raging, and grasping ineffectually for the light of the sun. These were men I vaguely recognized. Heroes and Tyrants that the Oracle had cast down with her prophecies throughout history. Great menid low by the heartless judgment of a holy woman. They formed a cage of sorts around her, their bodies acting as the walls, and their grasping, outstretched arms forming a roof of sorts over her head. And as I watched, lightning came down upon them a dozen times in quick session. It washed over the cage of men each time, dispersing through their arms and down their bodies before a spark could ever touch the woman within. The statue of the soothsayer stared gravely down at me, as if its maker had always known I¡¯d be here, now, looking up at this moment. I could hear herughing voice in my head, clear as day over the storm. You scarlet sons are all the same. I scoffed and rose to my feet, looking down upon the amethyst oracle. From this angle, I could see the inscription on her seashell crown. Melpomene ¡°I¡¯ve seen you before,¡± I dismissed her. ¡°Show me your sisters.¡± Lightning shed, forking seven ways. I traced the path of each branch and then favored the oracle and her crown of tragedy with a wild smile. ¡°My thanks,¡± I said earnestly, and the fatigue was surely getting worse, because I would swear on my deathbed that I saw the statue wink. I found the oracles one-by-one. It wasn¡¯t how I had originally intended to meet them, true enough, but even a storm like this had its silver linings. I found the Fuchsia Oracle first, with her crown of risen foam, and beheld the throng of maddened suitors and scorned lovers gathered around her in a perversion of a cage. I looked her in her sultry eyes, admittedly less tempting when cast from stone, and addressed her by the name carved with amethyst into her crown. ¡°Erato,¡± I greeted the Oracle of Fo¨²skia. ¡°I¡¯vee to seek your wisdom. Tell me, what is the nature of tribtion?¡± I blinked and dropped each of the swords in my hands to rub the fatigue out of my eyes. When I looked again, her smile was no longer deepening. She was simple stone again. Behind me, I heard the snarling rumble of thunder that preceded attack, and lunged inside the oracle¡¯s cage of statue men. I watched the tribtion hound strike the cage, and instead of rebounding as all its siblings had when I¡¯d intercepted them with a flying de, it yelped and howled as it was wrenched apart by the many linked limbs that made up the bars of the cage. I watched as the hound was spread agonizingly thin across the cage. Until, finally, it dispersed with an ear-splitting crack. Never let it be said that the young Griffon was ungrateful. I bowed my head to the Oracle with the seafoam crown and pressed a kiss to her forehead. If her smile widened, I was too far gone to contemte it overmuch. I moved with greater purpose through the storm, sideways more than up or down now. The hounds added new members to the pack to rece the one I had dispersed, but I managed to stay just a few steps ahead of them all the while. I found the oracle of Nkr¨ª next and traced my fingers across her crown of pewter stars. ¡°Urania,¡± I said to her, ¡°What differentiates the light of tribtion from mundane elements?¡± My answer came first as a bolt of lightning striking mindlessly, relentlessly, above our heads, dispersed by the cage of those she had disgraced with her soothsaying. Then, my answer came twice as the hounds caught up to me. This time, however, they didn¡¯t lunge blindly into the cage to be dispersed. They paced around it, eyeing me intently. ¡°Not the answer I would have preferred,¡± I said wryly, flicking the stone nose of the Pewter Oracle. I knew without a doubt that that nose could not have possibly scrunched up in response. It simply didn¡¯t make sense. And so I dismissed it, and made a break away from the hounds after hurling all of my stolen des at the pack. ¡°If tribtion can discern, then it can reason,¡± I proposed to Clio, the other Oracle of the Coast, with her wrought-iron crown. ¡°And if it can reason, does that mean it can be spirited? Does that mean it can hunger?¡± The good Oracle gazed imperiously down her nose at me, and I followed her stone hand as it pointed in an entirely different direction than the one I recalled, at the pack of hounds roving further down the mountain. As I watched, one hound among the dozen raised its crackling head to heaven and howled loud enough to shatter my ear drums. From this distance, I could just barely make out the sparks ring from the corners of its crackling jaw. Drooling in its hunger. I spoke to each of the oracles, seven in all, and gleaned from each of them a truth of tribtion. Finally, with unspoken anticipation, I hauled my battered body and my eighteen stolen des - plus the Giant king¡¯s broadsword - over the ridge that I had seen marked by the branching lightning. Iid eyes on the Scarlet Oracle. No. That wasn¡¯t true. Iid eyes on what remained of the Scarlet Oracle. It was carnage carved from stone. There had been an Oracle perched upon a tripod once, and a stone cage of all the great men and women she had cast down with her divinemandments. They were all shattered and cast out now. A miasma of scorched rock and indigo mist hung in their ce now, in the ssed crater of what had once been a monument to holy retribution. Broken, scattered limbs remained, unmoved by the gale winds of the storm, somehow as timeless as the statues they had once been. I stared down into the fractured eyes of the Oracle¡¯s severed head, broken in three ces, and assembled her name from the pieces of her broken sun crown. ¡°Calliope,¡± I whispered hoarsely, kneeling beside what remained of her in the crater. I asked of her, ¡°Who did this to you?¡± My shadowid its flickering hand on my shoulders. The raven on the right leaned over my shoulder and whispered the answer into my ear. ¡°I, your father.¡± And it pressed the twentieth de into my hand. The hounds surrounded me. There were well over a dozen of them now, each of them tall enough at the shoulders to look Myron in the eye. They paced around me in that odd way of theirs, lightning limbs flexing as if to move and then suddenly reappearing several steps away, little more than fric shes of light. In the end, it was inevitable that they would corner me. After all, no man can escape tribtion. No man could escape justice. ¡°Tell me something, cousin,¡± Niks prompted me, either in a memory or just out of sight. I couldn¡¯t be sure which. My head was pounding too hard. My body was aching too fiercely to tell. ¡°What is the first virtue?¡± ¡°Justice,¡± I whispered, because it was what I had been born to say. Every tribtion hound surrounding me snarled and pounced at once, the whole world turning to blinding light and crashing thunder. Before they had even moved, and as a result just barely in time, my pankration hands drove fifteen of the des I¡¯d taken from the Raging Heaven¡®s immortal victims into the stone around me, while the remaining five were raised horizontally above my head. Over a dozen hounds struck my iron cage in tandem, and their agonized howls split the earth. ¡°And what is justice?¡± Niks asked. I felt his hand dig into my hair and ruffle it, but my neck was far too stiff to turn my head and confirm whether that was a memory or something happening here and now. ¡°And don¡¯t give me Uncle Damon¡¯s answer. I want to know what you think.¡± Up until this moment, and every time previous, I had done everything in my power to avoid touching my stolen des in the moments that they were intercepting tribtion lightning. After all, it would surely defeat the purpose of using them if I shared in the experience anyway by holding on, whether with hands of flesh and blood or pankration intent. But that was when I still had hope of escaping a direct conflict. That was when I could still envision a world in which I came out of this any way but straight through. And that was before I had my answers. ¡°Justice is a grasping hand,¡± I dered, and reached back out with twenty hands of pneuma to grasp the pommels of my sword cage while tribtion lightning coursed through it. Light and heat unlike anything I had ever experienced before shot through my soul. I hadpared the damage I took in the past by blocking attacks with my pankration hands to real world injuries, but it had always been metaphor more than material. This time, I doubled over and vomited blood onto the face of the mountain. It sizzled as it left my mouth. ¡°Justice,¡± I gagged, ¡°is a punch in the gut.¡± I focused on breathing, on the heat of the Rein-Holder¡¯s starlight marrow as it coursed through my scorched and ruined body, mending what it could. I had only touched true tribtion for a fraction of a second, and it had nearly killed me. But only nearly. And in return, I¡¯d seen it. The answer to my final question. ¡°Justice is two clenched fists in return for one,¡± I said, reaching up and rubbing my face. When I lowered my hands, they were covered in blood. ¡°Stained by scarlet sin.¡± ¡°The world doesn¡¯t have to be so brutal, cousin,¡± Niks said sadly. Iughed, the sound hysterical, as a dozen more hounds came prowling up the mountain, circling around the de bars of my cage. Patiently. Ravenously. ¡°Maybe not,¡± I agreed. The wind was howling. Thunder shook the earth. Sleet and freezing rain washed the blood away nearly as fast as I could bleed it. But I was alive. And I was free. ¡°Justice is whatever I can reach.¡± And I lunged forward, reaching through the cage and grasped lightning. My vision red white and my blood sh-boiled in my veins. But those were only impressions. Theoretical truths. What should have happened to a man that reached out and caught lightning in his hand. But I knew now. ¡°Behold,¡± I snarled triumphantly at the struggling hound. ¡°Tribtion.¡± And I crushed its skull in my fist. Chapter 1.37 Chapter 1.37 The Son of Rome ¡°Arrogant, belligerent child,¡± Socrates muttered as he stalked out of the rugged chamber with its shard of tongues. ¡°I¡¯ll box his ears until they fall off. Split foundations. Split foundations!¡± For a long moment, I continued to stare at the shifting text chiseled into the man-size tablet, iprehensible to me with both eyes open. I still felt that primordial shifting behind my eyes, in my skull, even in my tongue. But the bulk of it had slowed down when I stopped reading, and instinct told me that the process was not yet finished. ¡°My master is a good man,¡± I said quietly, nearly to myself. Beside me, Selene gripped the arm I had over her shoulder. ¡°I believe you, Solus.¡± ¡°He did the best that he could with the materials he was given, and the time that he had.¡± I had said it before to Griffon, and then to Socrates. ¡°That I am what I am is not a condemnation of him. My failings are my own.¡± ¡°But you credit him with your sesses, don¡¯t you?¡± Selene gently prodded me. I nced sidelong at her. At some point, she had lifted her golden veil from her face, revealing fine features, burning scarlet eyes and hair like spun gold. ¡°It isn¡¯t the same,¡± I said. ¡°Why isn¡¯t it?¡± Socrates called, his irritated voice drifting in from the adjacent chamber. ¡°What differs?¡± I gripped my spear and forced myself to stand, my thoughts far too tangled to keep on reading with any real focus. Selene quickly stood up with me, bearing the brunt of my weight with nothing but an encouraging huff. I sighed softly and let her do it, the two of us turning and limping out of the untarnished room. ¡°In the legions, ountability is king,¡± I said tly, watching as Socrates rifled through one of thete Kyrios¡¯ sleeping chambers. ¡°It isn¡¯t within a mentor¡¯s power to live my life for me. Aristotle provided me with the tools that I needed to seed, and so I credit a part of all my sesses to him.¡± ¡°And why not your failures?¡± Socrates asked, overturning severalrge, woven reed baskets onto a feather bed covered in silk sheets of indigo and white. Clothing spilled out, tunics and sashes, dress robes for cult business, as well as formal attire for mortal affairs. ¡°Why should I?¡± I bit back. ¡°Say that a farmer gives me a scythe and tells me to harvest a crop by sundown, and I return to him with only half the work done because I decided to do it with my hands instead. Is it his fault or mine?¡± ¡°Yours, surely enough,¡± Socrates agreed. ¡°But what about a huntsman?¡± ¡°What about a huntsman?¡± ¡°A scythe¡¯s function is self-evident when you¡¯re standing in a wheat field at harvest- that¡¯s clear enough. But what about the workings of a bow and arrow? If a hunter presents you with a bow and a quiver and tells you to bag him a fine buck by sundown, is it his fault or yours when you return empty-handed?¡± ¡°Mine.¡± ¡°Is that so? The man that knows how to track deer, how to stalk them without being spotted, and how - as well as where - to shoot them. That man presents you with a bow and some arrows and a stern demand, and you believe that it¡¯s your fault for not living up to his expectation? And if you do, somehow, by the grace of the gods manage to bring something down through your own ingenuity, he deserves a portion of the credit for the kill?¡± Socrates held up a tunic of white cloth with crimson arch designs sewn along its edges. He looked between it and me, squinting. I red back at him. ¡°Theparison isn¡¯t fair.¡± Socrates threw the tunic at my face. Selene caught it just before it could hit me, and the sound of it striking her palm left me confident that it would have knocked me clean off my feet if it had hit. ¡°In all three scenarios, each of the masters provided their student with the tools needed to seed,¡± he said, but waved a hand to brush the argument away from him. ¡°But fine, we¡¯ll discard the huntsman. What of the fisherman?¡± I unwound my arm from Selene¡¯s shoulder, ignoring her protest, and leaned heavily onto the celestial bronze spear I had stolen from the temple of the father. I considered the scenario. ¡°What¡¯s provided?¡± I asked, finally. Without a set of the parameters, I knew he could wind me into a knot until the end of time. ¡°A and a spear,¡± he said, holding a broad leather belt in his hand, considering me before grunting and tossing it back into a basket. I exhaled, annoyed. ¡°Fishing isn¡¯t that hard. Acquiring the tools is more difficult than learning how to use them.¡± ¡°I know men that would disagree, but let¡¯s say you¡¯re right. If I gave you a right now and told you to take that pretty spear of yours and catch me dinner, how many fish could I expect from you by sundown?¡± I thought hard about it. Fishing had been a curiosity when I was a boy, a non-issue when I was a soldier in the legions. There was always someone else to do that work. Always more important things to be done. But my time at the Rosy Dawn had humbled me in many ways, and re-introduced me to many tasks I hadn¡¯t practiced since my father had taught them to me. Fishing was one such task. So, I considered the time of day, the distance from here to Olympia¡®s port city, and nodded sharply. ¡°Thirty.¡± ¡°Good.¡± Socrates reached into a fold in his tunic, and inexplicably, pulled from it an entire fishing. He tossed it at my chest with only slightly less force than he had thrown the tunic. ¡°Come back with one hundred by sundown.¡± I staggered back a step as the hit my chest, but managed to keep my feet. I pretended not to notice the way that Selene hovered behind me, her hands just barely not touching my back. I stared hard at the master of my master¡¯s master, temper boiling. ¡°I can¡¯t catch one hundred by sundown,¡± I said quietly. ¡°I can,¡± Socrates said, turning away from the Kyrios¡¯ clothes and moving on to the pots and jars scattered about, perched on high tables and shelves. Each of them was painstakingly painted with images of epics,edies, tragedies, and more benign depictions of everyday life and nature. He reached into one and pulled out several rolls of bandage cloth, flinging them negligently over his shoulder. Selene leaned past me and caught them all in one hand. ¡°I can¡¯t,¡± I repeated. ¡°What does that matter? It¡¯s possible, because I can do it, and all I would need are the tools I¡¯m giving you. A, a spear, and a long afternoon. Why can¡¯t you bring me one hundred fish, boy?¡± ¡°I never said I couldn¡¯t bring you one hundred fish,¡± I corrected him, eyes narrow. ¡°I said I couldn¡¯t catch them.¡± ¡°Ho? Will you buy them, then? Steal them, perhaps?¡± I shrugged. ¡°You gave me a spear and a,¡± I said wryly. Selene chuckled softly behind me. ¡°That I did, that I did. So, in summation, without the apanying experience, the tools alone are not enough to aplish the task before you. Leaving you no choice but to cheat or steal your way to sess.¡± Seleneid gentle hands on my shoulders, and I realized that they were horribly tense, my pneuma rising precipitously. I forced myself to rx, to be realistic with the state of my body and the strength of my enemy, and allowed the Scarlet Oracle to guide me down into a nearby chair. ¡°Life is not something that can be summed up in a single neat scenario,¡± I said tiredly. Socratesughed. ¡°Exactly right. What Aristotle did to you is not equal to the huntsman nor the fisherman. It is worse. Do you know why it is that cultivators so often die young, despite having the potential to live unfathomably long lives?¡± I did. ¡°The ideal of cultivation is to begin at the foot of the mountain and end at the peak,¡± I said, brushing off Selene when she went to touch my wounded leg and taking the roll of bandage cloth from her hand. ¡°The experience of cultivation, on the other hand, is the reverse.¡± ¡°Beginning at the peak?¡± The girl in the sun ray silks asked, curious. I nodded. ¡°Cultivation is a chariot teetering on the peak of a mountain. Once it starts rolling, there¡¯s no stopping it until it hits the bottom.¡± ¡°In pieces, or otherwise,¡± Socrates mused. I grunted in agreement. ¡°A greater understanding than most men your age have. But that only means you have more reason to see my meaning.¡± I kept my silence, peeling back bloodsoaked cloth from my left leg and going to work with the bandages provided. It was stubborn of me. It was prideful. But it was who I was. ¡°A person¡¯s failings don¡¯t invalidate their virtues,¡± Selene said quietly, kneeling beside me. My shoulders slumped, pressed down by the weight of three thousand dead men. Salt and ash. ¡°Of course they do.¡± ¡°Aristotle may not have been the one to ce you in that chariot,¡± Socrates said. ¡°He may not have even been the one to push you down the mountain. But he changed your trajectory, and he split your wheels. When you take upon yourself the mantle of mentor to another, you¡¯re to me for a portion of everything that follows. The good and the ill.¡± The great philosopher shook his head, emptying out thest y jar in the room and sighing in disgust at what he found. ¡°Greedy old dog,¡± he muttered. ¡°What are you looking for?¡± Selene asked. ¡°I may be able to help.¡± ¡°Can¡¯t find what isn¡¯t here,¡± he said. ¡°Thete lord decided to take all of the advantages he could with him to heaven. Or Tartarus, as it turned out. His stores of nectar and ambrosia are all gone. It¡¯ll be the long road to recovery for you, boy.¡± I looked down at the bandages wrapped tight around my left thigh, already staining red. The hand that I had broken in catching a punch for Griffon throbbed incessantly, something distant but inescapable. The rest of my body felt like one all epassing bruise. ¡°I¡¯ll be fine.¡± ¡°Good, because you have some work ahead of you. You¡¯ve made a mess of things, and I won¡¯t be cleaning it up for you.¡± Socrates pulled a handful of cloths from the pile and began wrapping them haphazardly around himself, constructing his veil of inconsequence before our eyes. ¡°You¡¯ll stay here for the time being.¡± I reached for anger, I reached for rage. All I found was bone deep exhaustion. ¡°First you beat me like a dog, and now you cage me like one, too.¡± ¡°It¡¯s safe inside this cage,¡± he said, turning and stepping through the next door, out into the underground courtyard with its ivory and gold mosaic floor. ¡°You¡¯ve been snapping at lions¡¯ heels. If I hadn¡¯t stepped in when I did, you and your friend both would have been dead before the changing of the seasons. You might still be.¡± ¡°What do I do here, then? Twirl my thumbs and await your pleasure? I have to speak to the others. If nothing else, I can save you the trouble of theming after you.¡± Socrates scoffed, not even bothering to look back. ¡°Not everyone in this city is as uninformed as you. Even fewer are as grant. I have nothing to fear from a handful of lost souls.¡± ¡°Griffon wille for you,¡± I said with rock solid certainty. ¡°At least let me speak to him.¡± ¡°You¡¯re free to speak to whoever you like,¡± he said, turning just before stepping through the archway leading back out of the mountain. ¡°So long as you don¡¯t leave this ce.¡± And then he was gone, moving without particr haste up the steps. Eventually, even the sound of his footsteps faded. I sighed and leaned back in my chair, letting my head loll. ¡°I can carry a message for you, Solus,¡± Selene offered with mingled hesitance and excitement. In lieu of a response, I pursed my lips and whistled a sharp, rion call. It echoed in the vast courtyard outside the room, reverberating throughout the mountain. I inhaled deeply the scent of cypress smoke and waited, ignoring my aches and pains with long practice. Only when I heard the beating of wings did I finally tilt my head, meeting Selene¡®s curious gaze. ¡°He forbade me from leaving, but he didn¡¯t say anything about my bird.¡± I found my lips curling, just the slightest bit, as the girl¡¯s face lit up and she turned to wee Sorea as the messenger bird of prey came swooping down into the bowels of the mountain. I would need to find some papyrus and ink, but it would be enough to send the others a letter for now. Once I shook off the worst of my injuries, I''d find Griffon and we would regroup. I had what felt like a thousand things to tell him, and instinct told me that he would have just as much to say when he came down from the Storm That Never Ceased. That he would return alive wasn¡¯t even a question. Socrates had allowed it as a possibility, and if it was possible, Griffon would see it done. ¡°Selene,¡± I said, lifting my head with some effort and watching her croon to Sorea as the great eagle shuffled around on the floor, surveying the Kyrios¡¯ estate. The girl in the sunray silks looked back at me, eyes burning merrily. ¡°Yes, Solus?¡± ¡°Do you want to hear a story?¡± Her smile was dazzling. Chapter 1.38 [Lefteris] Chapter 1.38 [Lefteris] The Gold-String Guardian Names were strange things. Eleftherios. Lefteris for short. Neither name had been given to him at birth, but his mother had told him from a young age, over and over until he was old enough for the sentiment to stick, that his name was too dangerous for the world to know. That it was a secret between the two of them that had to be kept at all costs. They moved often, early on. Each ce was a new home, and each home meant a new name. It was safer that way, his mother insisted. This way if anyone did find out his true name, they wouldn¡¯t be able to track them through the fake. If every vige and every city knew him by a different moniker, they would be safe. One day, when he was five years old, he asked his mother why she had named him at all, if it was such a burden. It wasn¡¯t the first time he¡¯s seen her cry, but it was the one he remembered most vividly. He¡¯d triedforting her, blindly, the way that young children did - assuring her of things he had no understanding of and no ability at all to deliver on. A child¡¯s titudes always cut deepest. Because unlike with an adult, you knew they believed them wholeheartedly. That they didn¡¯t understand some things were impossible in such an ugly world. He grew up, eventually, and came to understand the way of things. He took what control of his life that he could, deciding at least that if he had to live under a fake identity that it would be one of his choosing. He chose an audacious name, admittedly, but after a lifetime of hiding he felt he was due some audacity. Eleftherios. The liberator. He had grown up, but that didn¡¯t mean he had entirely given up on those ideals. He would do what he could. And when he could, however he could, he would help those who suffered like he had suffered. Until the day his name caught up to him ¡°Theri,¡± the usurper whispered. Another nickname, one that the boy had decided on himself. He was poised on hands and knees at the edge of the cave, peering out as far as he dared. The boy was equal parts curious and wary. ¡°Who is it?¡± Lefteris didn¡¯t move, didn¡¯t look back, didn¡¯t even re his pneuma in wordless response. He didn¡¯t dare to. Not while the gadfly was watching him. There were some things that were universal in the free Mediterranean. Stories of people and ces that every Greek child, even one such as him, cut their teeth on around crackling fires. Every young boy had shed bitter tears at least once for the tragedy of Heracles, the Champion, cut down in his eleventhbor so unjustly afterpleting the tenth. Every free citizen knew of the Conqueror and his greed, knew to fear him and to never speak his name directly, because there was no guarantee he wouldn¡¯t hear them say it. And of course, every academic with a thought in their heads knew of the Schr and his influence. The man that existed not only in legends, but also in the same modern world that Lefteris had been born to. The man that Tyrants regarded as an unshakable pest. The man that all cultivators considered to be their master¡¯s master, in some distant way. The philosopher that even the Coast couldn¡¯t kill. Socrates. Before Lefteris¡¯ disbelieving eyes, that man strode out of a cave not fifty feet away from the safe haven he thought he had established, within leaping distance of the alcove where his chargesid their heads to rest every night. All this time, and he had never once known that they weren¡¯t alone. He had chosen this spot, just beneath the immortal storm crown of the Raging Heaven, because proximity to the storm was the only way to escape a Tyrant¡¯s roving eye. And he had been fool enough to think that was enough. To think it made them safe. Lefteris watched, frozen in horror, as the gadfly picked up the Rosy Dawn¡¯s slypetitor by his golden shawl belt and heaved him into the storm. Socrates turned his head, then, and looked him dead in the eyes. Polyhymnia, Lefteris desperately invoked. The muse of sacred poetry immediately pressed her finger to his lips. Be silent, she whispered in his ear, graver than he¡¯d ever heard her speak, draping her cloak protectively around him as she pressed against his back. And be still. Lefteris obeyed, as he¡¯d obeyed since he was a boy, bowing his head and hoping for greater men to take no notice of him. For a long, long moment, he thought it was over. That he had been found out, in one way or another, and that the gadfly would surely expose him. That his destiny woulde crashing down on top of him and his charges both. Polyhymnia held him steady through it, smoothed out the tension in his body so that he wouldn¡¯t move in even the slightest of degrees. Then it was over. The gadfly shook his head and muttered something that Lefteris couldn¡¯t hear over his own pounding heart, and walked back into his cave as if nothing had happened. As soon as he stepped into the shadows, he vanished once again from Lefteris¡¯ senses. He had never noticed the Schr before, because to his pneuma, it was as if that cave didn¡¯t even exist. Slowly, now, Polyhymnia urged him, her veil brushing against his cheek as she pulled him back towards his own alcove, one slow step at a time. Only when he was fully inside, away from prying eyes, did she remove her finger from his lips and whisper a grave farewell. Lefteris turned and regarded the usurper, currently fighting against a headlock that the vehement protector had put him in. They were just boys. Young enough that they could almost pass for his sons if not for the fact that they looked entirely different, red-haired and bright-eyed where he was painted in desert shades. The usurper was the younger of the two, slightly shorter than the vehement protector and far more grant in his mannerisms. Which was unfortunate, because his real name was by far the more dangerous of the two of them. ¡°What did I tell you about poking your head out?¡± Lefteris demanded, before anything else, and the adrenaline pounding through his veins gave heat to the words that he hadn¡¯t intended. Both boys froze, staring up at him. ¡°Well?¡± The vehement protector spoke in the usurper¡¯s ce, stepping in for him as he always did. ¡°Be wary without Theri,¡± The older boy answered, reciting it from memory. ¡°But you were right there!¡± The usurper protested, jerking back and forth in the vehement protector¡¯s grip. ¡°I only wanted to see.¡± ¡°And you saw,¡± Lefteris said, kneeling down in front of them, ¡°but you were seen in turn.¡± The usurper paled, and his vehement protector shook him by the neck. ¡°I told you,¡± the older boy hissed. ¡°I told you to wait. All you have to be is patient.¡± Lefteris watched them go back-and-forth, an oddbination of fondness and dread festering in his heart. They had grown so much since he¡¯d taken them on, and their spirits were starting to assert themselves. Their sense of self was solidifying, and they were aching to live their lives. He knew they wanted to walk the earth freely, without fear of being recognized for what they were through no fault of their own. They were growing tired of waiting for a liberator. Eleftherios. It was a name he wanted to live up to, someday. But that day evidently wasn¡¯t today. ¡°Both of you, be quiet,¡± he finally said, looking past them at the modest conditions he¡¯d managed to establish for them sinceing to the sanctuary city. Furniture and tools for dining, a few toys and curiosities that he had picked up after months of walking through the markets, and as many tablets and scrolls as he could feasibly smuggle into a cave at the top of a mountain. Which was quite a few. ¡°Is it time to go?¡± The usurper asked, watching him as he surveyed their things. Now there was remorse in his mismatched eyes. He knew what that look meant. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Theri. I didn¡¯t know - I promise, I didn¡¯t mean to be seen.¡± Without being told, the vehement protector released the usurper from his chokehold and went over to their section of the cave, gathering their things up with practiced efficiency. Lefteris sighed, and ced his hand upon the younger boy¡¯s head. ¡°It¡¯s fine,¡± he told the boy. ¡°It might be time to go, it might not. I¡¯m not sure yet. For now¡­ for now I need to talk to a few people, and you two areing with me.¡± The vehement protector paused in stuffing a toy sword and its apanying shield into arge leather sack. ¡°Now?¡± Lefteris nodded grimly. ¡°Now.¡± ¡ì They took the long path, the boys disguised as casually as they could afford, each wearing a straw farm hat that obscured their defining features from most casual eyes and allowed them to blend in just fine with many of the other children on the outskirts of the city. They took the long road because Lefteris could no longer be sure that he had been at all sessful in hiding them. As they meandered through the city of Olympia, the boys inevitably forgetting the tension of the situation in favor of exploring the markets and engaging with the other children out and about, Lefteris cast out with all of his senses for followers. He didn¡¯t find any, but then, he had never found any before in Olympia, and that hadn¡¯t stopped Socrates from stepping out of that cave within spitting distance of him. It hadn¡¯t stopped the revenant from Rome. They walked the city nearly in its entirety, corner to corner, and passed through the agora several times. The usurper reveled in every moment of it, eager to explore the ce that had been in his sights but out of his reach for so many months, and though the vehement protector did his best to stay vignt, he was still only a boy. After the second pass through the agora, he was enjoying himself just as much as the usurper. Eventually, morning turned to afternoon. Afternoon turned to evening. By the time Lefteris had satiated his paranoia and they¡¯d arrived at their destination, the burning embers of dusk were fading from the skies and the moon was ascending to its throne in heaven. They stood before an unassuming door in one of the less renowned residential areas in the city, and he motioned for the boys to be silent. Exhausted by a long day of adventure, they obliged without protest. He raised his hand and rapped it against the wood. Lefteris only had to knock once before the Sword Song¡¯s door swung open. Elissa stared at him, and he saw his wild eyed paranoia reflected in her. ¡°What are you doing here?¡± she whispered harshly, immediately looking down at the two boys hiding behind his legs. ¡°And who are they?¡± ¡°They¡¯re with me,¡± he said simply, leaning in. ¡°I¡¯m here because I saw something outrageous this morning. Have you spoken to those two cultivators from the Rosy Dawn since we met them? From the kyrios¡¯ funeral?¡± Her expression changed, and his worst fears were confirmed. He grabbed each of his boys by the shoulder and pushed them inside the Heroine¡¯s home. He mmed the door shut behind him, and Elissa immediately pressed a hand to the wood, closing her eyes and invoking something wordless with her pneuma. When it was done, she turned and stalked down the hall. The dread he was feeling redoubled as they followed her into the next room, and beheld a full party of Heroic cultivators. ¡°Lefteris?¡± Kyno asked, confused, from his ce in front of the hearth. He had his crocodile skinid out across hisp, and he straightened from a hunched, wary posture when they entered the room. ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± Rather than answer immediately, Lefteris found himself staring at the other two cultivators in the room besides Kyno and Elissa. The Hero of the baster Isles and the caustic queen herself. Jason nced at him through split fingers, his hand syed over his face while he hung halfway off of a lounging couch. Anastasia didn¡¯t even bother to acknowledge him with a look, leaning against a shuttered window with her eyes closed. Lefteris knew for a fact that Kyno and Elissa didn¡¯t keeppany with those two. He also knew for a fact that they had been there, the night of the funeral. The memory was almostpletely ck, washed out by foolish amounts of alcohol, but he remembered the club. He remembered the shrieks of eagles and crows, of the weight ofmand and the revenant that bore it on broad, wrathful shoulders. The man that Jason and Anastasia had been following. ¡°This must be a joke,¡± Lefteris said, distantly, as if with another man¡¯s voice. He willed it to be true, stoked his heart¡¯s me unconsciously to make it so, but such an alteration was beyond him. His expression twisted. ¡°The two of you, with them? Are you out of your fucking minds?¡± ¡°¡®Left-¡± Kyno tried again, swinging his crocodile skin over his shoulders and rising, reaching out a hand to him. Lefteris pped it away, seething. The usurper and the vehement protector both flinched. ¡°Don¡¯t ¡®Left¡¯ me! Look at you! Look at both of you!¡± He rounded on Elissa, leaning against the door frame with her arms crossed. She scowled. The Sword Song wouldn¡¯t meet his eyes. ¡°What could have possibly possessed you? What could have been so tantalizing that you would throw in with them? With that man? The first time we saw him was after he¡¯d pped us all in the face and dared us to do something about it, and the second time was with a broken Crow in his hand!¡± ¡°Things have happened since then,¡± Kyno said, holding both arms out catingly. The vehement protector nced worriedly between Lefteris and the Heroic Huntsman. A distant part of Lefteris realized that Kyno might have been thergest man the boy had ever seen. ¡°You weren¡¯t there,¡± Elissa added, stubborn till the end. ¡°What¡¯s going on now is-¡± ¡°Is what? What could be significant enough to throw in with the man making enemies of Tyrants in their own domain? What could possibly bepelling enough to implicate yourselves with stowaways from the Rosy fucking Dawn?¡± ¡°Enough of barking dogs,¡± Anastasia murmured, opening her eyes. Lefteris bared his teeth at her. ¡°Enough of venomous whores.¡± She raised a dark eyebrow, unimpressed. ¡°Sit down, ¡®Left,¡± Elissa demanded. ¡°You¡¯re scaring your own children.¡± He looked down and saw it was true. The usurper and his vehement protector stared up at him, wide-eyed and afraid. Even in their past moments of crises, during the conflicts that had forced them into the Half-Step City, he¡¯d never spoken like this in front of them. He¡¯d thought himself better than that. Lefteris grit his teeth and reached for calm. Polyhymnia met him halfway, as she always did, and he exhaled slowly. He sat down and addressed the room. ¡°Tell me why this morning I saw the gadfly throw Griffon into the Storm That Never Ceases.¡± He took what little satisfaction he could from watching that statement wash through the room. Jason viciously cursed. And then they told him. It was a story told in waves, each of the Heroic in Cultivators offering a perspective, an anecdote that the others had not been present for. A side of the revenant and his student that hadn¡¯t been seen that night at the funeral. They took their time, one asionally chiming in for the other to emphasize a certain detail, and it was clear that they had been telling each other these stories all day. Trying to make sense of what they¡¯d gotten themselves into, and why. By the end of it, Lefteris was no more satisfied than before. If anything, he was angrier. ¡°You mean to tell me,¡± he finally said, once the ounts had been made and a tense, expectant silence had settled over the room like a funeral shroud, ¡°that these two plied you with titudes and heroic ideals, promised you salvation without exining how they would deliver it, and in exchange you took up arms against the Tyrants of the Raging Heaven Cult?¡± ¡°You would understand if you had been there, rather than cowering in your cave,¡± Anastasia said, shrugging his disdain off and delivering her own with a smile. ¡°Things are worse than we thought they¡¯d be,¡± Elissa cut in before he could snap. ¡°We knew it would be bad, but not like this. We thought they¡¯d make their picks and be done with it, but it¡¯s been continuous. Every night since the funeral they¡¯ve had their crows out in force.¡± ¡°The mystikos are afraid to travel the mountain alone,¡± Kyno said grimly. ¡°Even those that shouldn¡¯t have anything to fear, those who couldn¡¯t possibly y a significant part in a Tyrant¡¯s power struggle. Children, ¡®Left. They travel in packs, even during the day, because it¡¯s the only way they feel safe.¡± ¡°And did either of you, even for a moment, stop to wonder if your new friends had something to do with that?¡± Lefteris didn¡¯t wait for them to answer. Their expressions said enough. ¡°A strange cultivator appears on the night of the kyrios¡¯ funeral and tears a bloody streak through the cult¡¯s night crawlers, uses a young aristocrat of the Raging Heaven outright of collusion with assassins, and you¡¯re surprised that the aristois are responding?¡± ¡°It¡¯s not just because of Solus,¡± Jason said, shaking his head. He was hanging almost fully off the lounge now, dangling upside down. ¡°They¡¯ve already started moving in on the juniors, drawing lines and shifting the rhetoric in their lectures.¡± ¡°If I wanted to hear a coward speak I¡¯d have gone looking for Scythas. Be silent.¡± Jason sneered at him upside down, making a vulgar gesture with one hand. ¡°You said you saw the gadfly with Griffon this morning,¡± Elissa said, impatient and restless. ¡°When specifically, and where?¡± He¡¯d known from the start that their safe haven beneath the storm couldn¡¯tst forever. Still, it hurt to see his boys¡¯ shoulders slump at the question. They knew that once a hideaway was found, it wasn¡¯t used again. The disappointment fed the mes of anger and disgust, pushing him to his feet. He paced in the middle of the room, unable to sit still. ¡°It was an hour after dawn, maybe less. We were on the eastern side of the mountain, close enough to the storm for a mortal to cast a stone up into it. Griffon came hurtling out of a cave, beaten half to death, and it was the gadfly that came out after him.¡± He ran a hand through his hair, pivoting on his heels again and again. ¡°I just can¡¯t wrap my head around it. I know you two. I know you¡¯re not this foolish,¡± he told Elissa and Kyno, hating the way they looked back at him. Like they¡¯d been let in on a secret that he had yet to be told. ¡°I listened to you, I heard you out from start to finish, and I still don¡¯t get it! What could possibly be sopelling about these two, to convince you of this madness?¡± Kyno sighed heavily, pulling from a fold in his cult attire a leather skin and taking a long pull from it. He offered it to Elissa, who took a longer pull and grimaced at the taste. ¡°There¡¯s something to them,¡± Kyno said heavily. ¡°I can¡¯t describe it with words.¡± ¡°Does this nameless thingst after death?¡± Lefteris pressed. ¡°Because if it doesn¡¯t then it¡¯s useless to you now. And here you are, out in the cold. Do you really think the elders will buy your story of being kidnapped? Do you think you¡¯ll be able to sell it beyond a shadow of a doubt when you¡¯re face-to-face? Are you willing to bet your lives on that?¡± ¡°They¡¯re not dead,¡± Anastasia said, and the simple certainty of it made Lefteris briefly see red. ¡°I saw the Schr toss Griffon into the storm,¡± he said with slow deliberation. ¡°Alone and half-gone already. He¡¯s dead.¡± ¡°He¡¯s not,¡± she replied, just as slowly. ¡°No student of Solus would die from something like that.¡± ¡°He¡¯s dead!¡± Lefteris shouted, despite the fact that it made his boys jump in rm, despite Elissa¡¯s hissed demands for him to be quiet. His pneuma rose, wrathful beyond belief. ¡°He¡¯s dead, and his master isn¡¯t far behind him! Sitting here and assuring yourselves otherwise isn¡¯t going to change that! It isn¡¯t going to make him walk through that door-¡± There came a sharp, piercing crunch as the protections on the front door broke. They all stared at one another, frozen in that moment. Lefteris couldn¡¯t feel a single hint of pneuma outside. Then, as one, they rushed into the hall. A single murky hand of pneuma had punched cleanly through the door, crackling faintly. As Lefteris watched in disbelief, neen more punched through to join it. And then they were joined by ten more, and thirty hands of violent intent tore the reinforced door clear out of its frame. Chapter 1.39 Chapter 1.39 The Young Griffon The second rank of the Sophic Realm felt much like the first. The difference was enormous by the standards of a Civic cultivator, of course. My reservoir of pneuma - the sea of my vital soul - had deepened an outrageous amount. The saying went that one rank above was worth ten below, and though my perceptions were skewed by excessive blood loss and a staggering depletion of strength, that felt nearly in line with what I had experienced. I had also grown in a less evident way, something I couldn¡¯t quite pin down, but which instinctively felt clearer within me. I had a few ideas as to what it could be, but at the moment I was in no state to be waxing theoretical about Sophic cultivation. Instead, I chose to pay my wayward friends a visit and assure them of my good health. s, I misjudged my new strength, and rather than open the door to Elissa¡¯s residence I identally conjured thirty hands of pankration intent and tore it off its hinges. There in the hall I found Elissa and the rest of the group, as I had suspected I would, along with a pleasant surprise. ¡°Lefteris,¡± I said brightly, shing my teeth in a friendly smile at the gold-string archer. ¡°I¡¯ve been looking for you.¡± For some reason, he flinched at my words - or maybe it was just the sight of me. I noted a pair of boys peering out at me from behind Lefteris¡¯ legs, each of them around Myron¡¯s age by the looks of it. Their fiery red hair was mostly covered up by straw hats, but the bright, mismatched eyes were on full disy. I¡¯d ask about themter when I wasn¡¯t feeling quite as murderous. ¡°Griffon,¡± Elissa breathed. ¡°You¡¯re alive.¡± ¡°I am,¡± I agreed, stepping inside and grinding the door to further splinters beneath my heels. My pankration hands flexed and grasped fitfully at the air around me, crackling still with the memory of lightning. They wed at the walls around them, they pounded against the floor and they wrenched the door apart. Others still reached out for the Heroic cultivators at the other end of the hall. The heroes eyed them warily, pneuma curling around themselves protectively. ¡°Forgive me,¡± I said, grabbing a pankration arm with my flesh and blood hand and crushing it into formless essence. ¡°These hands of mine are versatile, but at their core they¡¯re nothing more than a manifestation of my intent.¡± ¡°And that intent would be?¡± Jason asked cautiously, his hands resting at his waist, where several daggers were sheathed. I grinned. ¡°Violence.¡± The rosy light of dawn erupted upon the remaining twenty-nine hands of pankration intent in the hall, that curious weight I had noticed upon my advancement flickering in their palms. ¡°Don¡¯t be ridiculous,¡± Elissa scoffed, breaking from the ranks and crossing the hall. She tensed as she passed through the throngs of grasping pankration hands, but none of them touched her, naturally. ¡°You look like you already have a foot in the Styx.¡± ¡°Two, actually,¡± I said, smiling faintly when she snorted in amusement. ¡°And I suppose you expect us to pull you out? Patch you up and ship you back out good as new, is that it?¡± She poked me in the chest, rxing into the back and forth. ¡°You¡¯ll be recing that door. And don¡¯t even think about-¡± ¡°Why is the coward touching me?¡± I asked curiously. The Sword Song froze, staring hard at me. ¡°Excuse me?¡± ¡°I asked why you were touching me,¡± I repeated for her benefit, ¡°with the mongrel finger you refused to lift when you were needed.¡± ¡°Be very careful about the next word you say,¡± she said, every syble a threat. I leaned in close enough for the residual lightning in my hair to shock her. ¡°Coward.¡± The Sword Song spat an oath and lunged forward, only to be jerked back in the same motion by Kyno, who hoisted her up with her back against his chest while she thrashed and seethed. ¡°Who gave you the right!? Who gave you the right to ignore the reality of this city, to render judgment on us who have lived it!? How dare you call me a coward, you arrogant scarlet bastard!¡± ¡°Ho, have I touched a nerve?¡± I taunted her, advancing forward while Kyno stepped back with her in his grip. ¡°Does it anger you, to be confronted? Does it upset you, to face judgement from someone who isn¡¯t broken and defeated?¡± ¡°What were we supposed to do against the Gadfly?¡± she spat, mes the color of desert heat zing behind her eyes. The heat in her face overpowered the ssical beauty of an advanced cultivator, allowing the scars to assert themselves in all their ugly glory. ¡°What could we have possibly done to stop the man that plumbs the depths?¡± ¡°What could a group of Heroes do against a single Philosopher? Is that what you¡¯re asking?¡± I repeated the question, continuing forward even as Kyno bumped back against Lefteris and Jason. I saw something like true steel enter the archer¡¯s bearing, just for a moment, as my wandering pankration hands reached for the two boys hiding behind him. His influence struck out and nailed them to the floor in a wordless invocation of will that sentnces of silver pain through my soul. Good. Good. Give me something. ¡°Not a philosopher. The philosopher. He set the standard, we named it the Schr¡¯s path after him. Crows and bleeding carion, you can¡¯t possibly think it¡¯s that simple.¡± Elissa jerked against Kyno¡¯s grip, but unlike at the funeral he decided against letting her go. She snarled in frustration. ¡°Socrates has had centuries to walk his path, further than any of his kind. How long have we had? How long have you had?¡± ¡°Eighteen years.¡± The cultivators in the hall stared at me in t disbelief. Anastasia tilted her head, furthest down, merely leaning in the doorframe to the next room and watching. I shot her a challenging look. She smiled apologetically. ¡°Eighteen years old,¡± Jason muttered. ¡°Even for Solus¡¯ student, that¡¯s¡­¡± ¡°Lying again.¡± Elissa¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°I didn¡¯t ask you how old your disguise was. I asked you how old you were. Griffon, the Olympicpetitor.¡± ¡°And I answered you,¡± I said, pushing them back into the adjoined room. There were several lounges around the edges, and a warm hearth with a few crumbling logs burning away inside. A table next to two of the lounges had several empty jugs on it, one still half-filled with kykeon. It seemed they¡¯d had a long day of sitting around, drinking and feeling sorry for themselves. ¡°Still with this? Even now?¡± She demanded. ¡°We threw in with you against all reason, but you still won¡¯t tell us the truth.¡± ¡°That¡¯s twice you¡¯ve called me a liar. My virtuous heart won¡¯t tolerate a third.¡± My pankration hands strained to the limits of the range that I allowed them, wing at the air in strangling motions. Elissa¡¯s pneuma rose in response. ¡°Be reasonable, both of you,¡± Kyno said firmly, holding the Sword Song still with an arm around her throat and holding the other out towards me, palm t. ¡°She makes a good point, Griffon. How can you expect us to see this through if we continue to hide everything significant from one another? The stakes in this game are too high to be ying against each other on the side.¡± ¡°And why would I ever entrust my secrets to this cabal of cowards?¡± Kyno met my eyes and did not waver. ¡°We aren¡¯t you. The Oracle was right when she judged you. You say all the things a man in your position must not say, you do all of the things that you must not do, and as far as I can tell, you are the way you are for the thrill alone. Most men aren¡¯t made in your image. And if you want to work with us, you¡¯re going to have to live with that.¡± We stared hard at one another while I bled out on the Heroine¡¯s floor. Finally, I tilted my head. ¡°That day, before we went to see yours, you told me to seek the Scarlet Oracle,¡± I said. He nodded. ¡°When was thest time you saw her, or knew someone to have seen her?¡± The heroes exchanged looks. ¡°Recently,¡± Kyno said at length. ¡°Why?¡± ¡°During my brief stroll through the Storm That Never Ceases,¡± I said, drawing my pankration hands back within myself with some effort, ¡°I spoke with each of the Oracles.¡± ¡°You¡­ what?¡± Jason asked. Anastasia hummed in interest. ¡°Seven in all,¡± I continued, ¡°but when I reached the eighth, the oracle of my own home, I found her broken and battered in a crater of melted stone. Can any of you exin that?¡± By this point Elissa had stopped raging, a pensive frown settling onto her face, and Kyno slowly lowered her to the floor. Anastasia spoke for the first time since I¡¯d arrived. ¡°That¡¯s a question you¡¯d have to ask her sessor. Or your master, perhaps.¡± ¡°Of course.¡± I rolled my eyes and turned, striding back down the hall. ¡°Wait!¡± ¡°You¡¯re leaving in that state?¡± ¡°Absolutely not.¡± I nced down at the marble white hand gripping me by the elbow and holding me in ce. On my best day, a Heroine¡¯s strength was something I couldn¡¯t have shaken. As I was now? I may as well have tried to pull heaven and earth along with her. ¡°What do you think you¡¯re doing?¡± I asked Anastasia. If the body was weak, then presence would prevail in its ce. Unfortunately, she wasn¡¯t phased. Caustic green eyes burned as they roved up and down my body, and with a distasteful click of her tongue she pulled me back into the room. I allowed her to do it, because my only other option was to resist and fail. She sat me down on one of the lounges next to the table and I grabbed the remaining jug of spirit wine and downed it in protest. ¡°¡®What do I think I¡¯m doing¡¯, he asks,¡± Anastasia muttered, shaking her head in disbelief. With deft movements, she wound her hair into a simple braid and shrugged out of her fine onyx robes, leaving her in a simple peplos that fell to her midriff. ¡°As if I¡¯d let you walk out of here in that state just so you can die. Solus would never forgive me.¡± I opened my mouth to say something appropriately harsh and shut it just as quickly as sheid her hands upon my chest, searing heat sweeping through my body. I jerked back, but she only leaned forward, guiding that heat through the vital channels of my body where the Rein-Holder¡¯s marrow dwelled. So, this was purity. ¡°You¡¯re a healer,¡± I mused, tracing her pneuma as it wound through me, burning away the impurities that it found and cauterizing internal wounds that my rosy hands of dawn hadn¡¯t been able to reach. ¡°That¡¯s one of the things that I am,¡± she agreed, her usual conniving smile reced with focus and intent. In this moment, more than any other that hade before, I bore witness to the Heroine that was Anastasia. ¡°Teach me,¡± I said. The heroine blinked, her pneuma faltering in my veins, and nced up at me. ¡°Medicine isn¡¯t something that can be learned overnight. It¡¯s not some fighting stance to add to your inventory after a few days practice.¡± ¡°That¡¯s fine,¡± I said. ¡°I¡¯ll master it all the same.¡± ¡°Why?¡± Jason asked, sitting on the couch opposite the table and leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, visibly forcing himself to lean closer to Anastasia so he could watch her work. ¡°You never struck me as the type. You break, you don¡¯t build.¡± ¡°I am whatever I desire to be,¡± I said. ¡°As for why, this morning has made it clear that I can¡¯t rely on others to mend me when things are dire. If I had known how to do it myself, I wouldn¡¯t have had to turn back at the precipice of the peak.¡± ¡°The peak of the mountain?¡± Elissa cut in. ¡°He threw you that far?¡± Kyno asked. ¡°No,¡± Lefteris answered for me, frowning my way. ¡°Based on the trajectory, you couldn¡¯t havended more than a third of the way into the storm.¡± ¡°That¡¯s true.¡± I acknowledged. ¡°My great-great-grand-master didn¡¯t have the courtesy to send me all the way up, so I had to travel the rest on foot.¡± ¡°You went up the mountain?¡± Elissa hissed. ¡°Alone?¡± ¡°Not alone. I made some friends along the way.¡± ¡°When the Raging Heaven sends initiates up into the storm for their rites, they send all of the cult¡¯s senior mystikos to guard them,¡± Kyno said with a grave sort of wonder. ¡°There are things in that storm too treacherous for a single cultivator to walk alone.¡± ¡°The hounds aren¡¯t so bad.¡± I lifted my left shoulder in a shrug, because the right had stopped functioning hours ago. ¡°Any dog can be disciplined.¡± ¡°You¡¯re serious,¡± Lefteris said. He looked from me to Elissa to Kyno. ¡°He¡¯s serious?¡± ¡°This is what we were talking about,¡± Kyno said wearily, rubbing at his temples. ¡°So, you braved the trial of tribtion. Official or not, that earns you a right to admittance to the Raging Heaven Cult.¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t make it to the top,¡± I pointed out. ¡°That just means you wouldn¡¯t be inducted as a senior initiate on your first day,¡± Elissa said. ¡°The higher an initiate makes it up the mountain before breaking or being broken by the storm,¡± Jason exined, ¡°the higher their standing when they first enter the cult. It¡¯s a point of pride, as well as their peers¡¯ first look at what they¡¯re made of.¡± And I hadn¡¯t made it all the way. How annoying. I sighed. ¡°I suppose I¡¯ll have to make up for it when I return with Sol.¡± A beat of ufortable silence, punctuated by the crackling hearth. ¡°Solus¡­ we can¡¯t be sure that he¡¯ll being back,¡± Kyno finally said. ¡°And why is that?¡± I asked mildly. ¡°Look at yourself,¡± Elissa said, gesturing at my admittedly gruesome appearance. By now, she seemed almost too tired to be angry with me. ¡°The Gadfly goes where he wants and says what he wants, and the tyrants of this world allow it, where they would subjugate any other philosopher. Solus may be beyond us, but he certainly is not beyond Socrates.¡± Anastasia frowned, but didn¡¯t look up from her work. Jason spoke for her, seeming just as troubled. ¡°It¡¯s not impossible,¡± he said, gripping the upholstered edge of his couch. ¡°Together, under the right circumstances, if we could find him. I owe it to him to at least try. I made a promise that I¡¯d stand by his side.¡± ¡°And you broke it in under a day,¡± I said, manifesting two pankration hands to p. ¡°Impressive.¡± He scowled and looked away. ¡°Enough,¡± said Anastasia, digging fingertips painted ck into the juncture between my ribs. I exhaled slowly as an enduring pain in my chest was burned away. ¡°We hesitated, and that was our weakness. It won¡¯t happen the next time.¡± ¡°This is madness,¡± said Lefteris. Sitting beside him, the two boys and their straw hats were staring at me with open curiosity. I stuck my bloody tongue out at them, and they both flinched. ¡°I won¡¯t be a part of it,¡± he insisted, beseeching Kyno and Elissa. ¡°And you two shouldn¡¯t either. More likely than not we¡¯d be going after a dead man, challenging the Gadfly over a corpse. We might as well go charging straight into Tartarus and save ourselves the detour.¡± The beating of wings sounded from outside the door, cutting the archer off before he could get a full head of steam. Elissa cursed. ¡°The door.¡± But what swept through her entryway wasn¡¯t an ink ck crow, rather a great messenger eagle. Sorea glided into the room, his wings brushing either side of the hall, and settled himself on the back of my couch with an expectant trill. Lefteris inhaled sharply, recognizing the bird, while his boys stared in wonder. Anastasia, for her part, immediately ceased healing me in her delight. That delight died a quick death when the messenger eagle disdained her reaching hand, beating his wings and shrieking in her face. She drew back, hurt. ¡°The bird is wise,¡± I said, holding out a palm. Sorea snapped his beak and heaved, vomiting a handful of ck bones as well as a roll of papyrus into my hand. I inclined my head in thanks and opened the message, something primal easing in my chest as I saw Sol¡¯s tight, militant script. I read two lines before I was smiling. ¡°What does it say?¡± Jason demanded, leaning over as far as he could to see. I went back to the beginning and read it for the room to hear. Griffon, I hope this letter finds you in one piece. You¡¯ve been due a smack in the mouth, but I won¡¯t be able to enjoy it until I know you¡¯ve survived to be reminded of it. Sorea will wait for you to send back a reply - don¡¯t keep him long after you¡¯ve read this. I can¡¯t rejoin you just yet. I¡¯ll be fine where I am so don¡¯te charging after me. I came to this city looking for Aristotle and found his master¡¯s master instead. It will have to do. Socrates has identified an aspect of my cultivation in need of improvement, so while he advises me I¡¯ll be behind closed doors in thete kyrios¡¯ estate. Try not to be yourself until I get back. You can tell the others I¡¯m alive, but don¡¯t give them the full details. Things have beplicated enough as it is. Ever, Solus ¡°Ah,¡± I said, looking from the assembled cultivators¡¯ expressions back to thest paragraph. ¡°I suppose I shouldn¡¯t have read this out loud.¡± The room erupted. Chapter 1.40 Chapter 1.40 The Son of Rome ¡°Tell me, Solus, what do Romans do for fun?¡± Selene asked, resting on her stomach in thete kyrios¡¯ bed while I paced slowly around the room. Her legs kicked idly behind her. We had been speaking for hours while I waited for Sorea to return with news of Griffon¡¯s survival. The Scarlet Oracle was borderline ravenous for tales of life outside of the Half-Step City. She eagerly listened to my description of the city of Rome as a Roman knew it, chiming in to contrast it with what she had been told of the Republic as a Greek. She didn¡¯t hesitate to point out simrities between her own city and mine when she noticed them, and was even quicker to ask about differences in our ways of life. I¡¯d had an idea from the start, when we first spoke to each other on that teau - surrounded by initiates of the Raging Heaven Cult and yet entirely alone - that she was an isted girl. I had assumed that had more to do with her father than anything else, but then I¡¯d found out she was an Oracle. It was impossible not to see once I knew to look for it. Selene was a girl that nomon mystiko could hope to approach, even for a casual conversation. Those that could afford to be in herpany were, by the nature of their power and influence, far older and far less agreeable than a girl her age needed in a friend. The more we spoke, the more I found myself sharing the truly painful memories. The ones that stung like fresh wounds, because they were small enough that I could afford to not remember them every day. The thousand-thousand little things that made me proud to call myself Roman. The countless shards of a shining, shimmering mosaic that together made up the Republic. Selene epted those small remembrances, all but meaningless to someone who hadn¡¯t lived them, with genuine reverence. And that made it all too easy to keep divulging them to her. What did Romans do for fun? I pondered the question. ¡°Games,¡± I said, because it was the first thing that came to mind. ¡°The chariot races were thergest spectacle by far. My father would always reserve the best seats at the corners of the track, where the races were the deadliest. It was considered a dull affair if at least three chariots didn¡¯t crash by the finalp.¡± ¡°I wouldn¡¯t have guessed racing to be Rome¡¯s favorite pastime,¡± Selene said, interested. I nced wryly back at her, bracing half my weight on the raven¡¯s bronze spear. ¡°Why do you say that?¡± ¡°Well¡­¡± She tucked a finger behind her golden veil and lifted it just enough for a single scarlet eye to peer back at me. Her Heroic fire burned mischievously. ¡°I¡¯ve only met one Roman so far, and you seem to fall in line with themon consensus.¡± ¡°I enjoy games as much as the next man,¡± I protested. ¡°In fact, I enjoy them more.¡± She smiled obligingly and let the veil drop. ¡°I believe you, Solus. I¡¯m just surprised. I would have expected a more violent game, if nothing else.¡± ¡°It was permitted for chariot riders to whip their opponents,¡± I admitted. Her smile deepened. ¡°I see.¡± ¡°Regardless,¡± I said, waving the point off. ¡°The simple things are always enjoyable. A hot bath and a cold bath, an afternoon at the races or a game of dice with friends, and whatever sport happened to be at hand.¡± ¡°What was your favorite game when you lived there?¡± She asked, tilting her head. Then, rising up slightly, she added, ¡°is it a game we could y here?¡± I still had my knuckles, and I suspected that thete kyrios would have all manner of board games and curiosities here in his estate, if what Griffon had told me of the man was true. But the question had been what my favorite game was. ¡°My favorite game was Lusus Troiae,¡± I said, and shook my head. ¡°It¡¯s not something two people can y.¡± ¡°The Game of Troy,¡± she murmured, disappointed and curious in equal measure. ¡°How was it yed?¡± ¡°Officially? The Lusus Troiae is a maneuvering game, amunal test of skill rather than apetitive one.¡± I paused in my pacing, allowed the distant cadence I had been keeping in the back of my mind to fade, and sighed heavily as the throbbing ache in my left leg came roaring back to the surface of my thoughts. ¡°In honor of victory, in respect for a statesman¡¯s passing, or inmemoration of new holy ground, the games were invoked as a remembrance of the present as well as the most distant past - the origin war that birthed the Republic.¡± ¡°Amunal test of skill,¡± Selene mused. ¡°What¡¯s it look like?¡± I inhaled deeply, tasted the tter of equestrian steps and the drumbeat of their wless formations. The column split apart As files in the three squadrons all in line Turned away, cantering left and right; recalled They wheeled and dipped theirnces for a charge. ¡°Three squadrons of mounted Cavalry, each fifteen strong,¡± I recounted, closing my eyes and seeing it unfold. ¡°Twelve riders, two armor-bearers, and a leader to guide them. Forty-five men and their warhorses in total. We call it the Game of Troy because what they were doing was more than just a drill.¡± I smiled, because the wonder was still there. Even the memory was dazzling. They entered then on parades and counter-parades, The two detachments, matched in the arena, Winding in and out of one another, And whipped into sham cavalry skirmishes By baring backs in flight, then whirling round With leveled points, then patching up a truce And riding side by side. ¡°They went to war amongst themselves, those forty-five men. They brought the Battle of Troy to life without spilling a drop of blood,¡± I recounted. ¡°During my time as a young patrician in Rome, andter as a young officer in Gaius¡¯ legions, I had seen the Lusus Troiae in motion more than once. Each urrence was as profound as the one that came before. It never got old. It¡¯s difficult enough to coordinate forty-five men in such aplex formation. On horseback, in front of the most demanding audiences in the Republic? Incredible doesn¡¯t do it justice.¡± ¡°It sounds impressive,¡± Selene agreed. ¡°But not the sort of thing you can y at a moment''s notice. How often did you get to do it?¡± I chuckled ruefully. ¡°Never. I was always an observer.¡± I wasn¡¯t old enough, back when I skulked the streets of Rome. And after, I had never had the time. ¡°Your favorite game is one you never yed?¡± Selene asked, frowning severely. ¡°That isn¡¯t fair at all. It¡¯s also very sad!¡±¡¯ ¡°I said that was the official Lusus Troiae,¡± I corrected her. ¡°And it is one of my favorites to this day, observer or not. But as a boy my favorite was the unofficial Game of Troy. The one that young patricians and street rats alike would y while the adults were away.¡± ¡°Oh?¡± She leaned forward, eager. ¡°Sometime after I met Aristotle,¡± I exined, ¡°the pickpocket that led to our meeting introduced me to the child¡¯s Lusus Troiae.¡± For a moment, the aches and pains were a fond thing, a memory of long afternoons in the alleys and streets of Rome. I shook my head. ¡°We formed teams of children, one alwaysrger than the other, and where the adults chose to recreate the war in its finest form, capturing the essence of martial ingenuity without any of the bloodshed, the boys of Rome chose to do the opposite. We would draw a line in the dirt and therger team would do everything in its power to drag the smaller team across that line. Tactics were minimal, if they were there at all. Bloodshed and broken bones weremon urrences.¡± Selene hummed, tilting her head. ¡°I think I can guess which of the two teams you preferred to be on.¡± ¡°To prevail in the face of overwhelming numbers,¡± I mused. ¡°That is the essence of Rome.¡± ¡°How do you win as the smaller team? Drag therger team across the line?¡± ¡°No, the official game of Troy is an ode to coordination, but the boys¡¯ game is the opposite. The only way to win was to be thest man standing on your side of the line.¡± ¡°And how often did you win, Solus?¡± The Scarlet Oracle asked me. I nced back at her, smiling faintly. ¡°Every time.¡± We continued on like that, trading stories long into the night while I awaited the return of Socrates or my eagle, whichever came first. It ended up being thetter, to Selene¡®s delight and my quiet relief. The messenger eagle alighted on the raised butt of my spear, vomiting a message as well as a pile of ink ck crow bones into my open hand. Idly, while I unfurled the papyrus and began to read, I cracked a bone open with my teeth and sucked the marrow out. The starlight strength rushed through the new channels in my body, cascading down towards my left leg and burning horrifically as it began its bloody work. It wasn¡¯t an immediate fix, but any help was wee. ¡°Solus,¡± Selene said, and I nced up to find her rising from the bed, veiled face tilted down towards the remaining bones in my hand. ¡°What are those?¡± I tossed one to her, and she juggled it between both hands as if it burned. ¡°Griffon and I believe them to be a fraction of a Tyrant¡¯s influence,¡± I exined, spitting the fragments of bone out onto the kyrios¡¯ priceless ivory and gold floor when I was done with them, moving out into the temple courtyard. ¡°They taste vile and burn going down, but they¡¯re better than hard tack.¡± The Scarlet Oracle considered the midnight bone in her hand for a moment before slipping it into a fold in her Oracle attire. She sighed softly and shook her head. ¡°You¡¯re not going to live a very long life if you keep on like this, Solus.¡± That was divine wisdom if I had ever heard it. Sol, As always, it¡¯s a pleasure to hear your voice, even when I¡¯m only imagining it. If I¡¯m being honest, I might even prefer the you that exists within me. You¡¯ll be pleased to know that I took your great-grandmaster¡¯s lesson to heart, and have since advanced to the second rank of the Sophic Realm. Please, deliver to Socrates my thanks when you get the chance. A bolt of tribtion lightning should convey my gratitude quite well, I think. Failing that, you may instead inform the great philosopher that he¡¯s an ugly son of a bitch and I intend to punch him in the throat when next we meet. I await yourpany along with our heroic friends, whose strength I have long admired. Perhaps while your great-grandmaster is revealing to you the secrets of creation, I might be able to learn a thing or two from these great legends. Assuming they can find the courage in their hearts to face the tyrant known as reality. Learn quickly and hurry back, worthless Roman master. Always, Griffon I read the message delivered by my virtuous beast, and then I read it again out loud for Selene¡¯s benefit. She was giggling by the end of it, and I couldn¡¯t deny a bit of exasperated mirth myself. ¡°This Griffon is yourpanion that Socrates spoke of?¡± She asked, and I nodded. ¡°I take it he isn¡¯t really your student.¡± I shrugged. ¡°We grew up in different worlds. I¡¯m not strong enough to stand over him as a mentor, and neither is he to me, but there are some domains where I am the master.¡± ¡°And some where he is in turn,¡± she finished. I nodded. ¡°I think I¡¯d like to meet him. No, I know I would.¡± I considered the attire of the Scarlet Oracle, the sunrise silks of dawn. ¡°I think he would feel the same way.¡± I folded up the missive and dropped it into my shadow, consumed the rest of the ink ck bones and internalized their starlight marrow, and tightened my grip on the raven¡¯s bronze spear. I began to hum another cadence under my breath, walking along the ivory and gold path, and after a moment Selene joined in. For the first time since we had arrived on the shores, paradoxical as it was to think while crippled and held captive, I rxed. Tension slipped away and purpose took its ce. Things hadn¡¯t gone the way that I¡¯d intended, but that was a fact of life I had grown all too ustomed with over the years. What mattered was that I had found a mentor, and I could begin moving forward towards what Griffon had dubbed my hopelessly grim future. My relentlesspanion was alive and well, stronger than ever. For the moment, I could shrug off the weight that Olympia had heaped upon my shoulders. Of course, the legions had taught me early on that such moments rarelysted. Sorea noticed the intruder first, shrieking an rm and fanning his wings out wide in a threatening stance, still perched atop my spear. Selene was by my side in an instant, a spear of her own suddenly in her hand, its shaft a bone white yew topped by a bronze head, the entire weapon covered in carved depictions of war and tragedy. Her sunray silks whispered quietly as they fell to the floor, revealing the ornate bronze armor she had been wearing underneath. I inhaled a wary breath and drew myself up to my full height, forcing my left leg to take my weight. I set aside pain and infirmity, things that an officer had no time for, and faced the archway with severe bearing. ¡°Come forth,¡± I demanded, and miraculously enough, someone did. Scythas stepped out of the open air, already three steps inside of thete kyrios¡¯ courtyard, and dropped his sword to the mosaic floor. It ttered musically, every jarring impact somehow turning to whistling chimes on their way to my ear. ¡°Solus,¡± he said hoarsely, and I saw the bags under his eyes. The hazel mes of his heart flickered fitfully, their gold embers dulled to copper. I recognized the look on his face immediately. It was the kind of exhaustion that sleep couldn¡¯t fix. The hero of the Howling Wind Cult dropped to one knee, gritting his teeth. He bowed his head shamefully. ¡°They told me to kill you,¡± he confessed. ¡°I wasn¡¯t brave enough to tell them no. But how can I kill you, after you stood by my side? After you were strong for me when I was weak?¡± Selene inhaled a slow breath beside me, easing forward a step. She reached out a slender hand, slowly, andid it upon the crown of Scythas¡¯ head. He didn¡¯t react when she did, other than to shiver and grit his teeth. ¡°Beware, cultivator,¡± she said quietly, with sad sympathy. Before my eyes, the curious and vibrant girl I had been introduced to dimmed and became something deeper. ¡°Your heart is not your own.¡± ¡°Tell me it isn¡¯t true, Solus,¡± he begged without meeting my eyes. ¡°Tell me you aren¡¯t striking out against the elders. Tell me you aren¡¯t the raven that hungers.¡± Slowly, with care not to betray my pains, I knelt before the Hero of scything wind. ¡°That night, I wasn¡¯t the one that took the first step,¡± I reminded him. Not cruelly. With no particr heat. But he flinched nheless, dark brown curls of hair matted with sweat hanging over his eyes. ¡°I only made you aware of injustice in action. I only followed where you led.¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t want to hunt,¡± he protested. ¡°I only wanted to save Jason. I only wanted to save someone, for once.¡± I frowned and nced up, into the sunlight veil of the Scarlet Oracle. I tilted my head back, towards her personal quarters within the kyrios¡¯ estate. Her lips pursed. After a long moment, she inclined her head in a nod. ¡°Why are you here, Scythas?¡± ¡°I told you. The Tyrant Aleuas wants you dead -¡± ¡°Not here in this courtyard,¡± I said. ¡°Why are you here in this city? What is a hero doing in the most secure city in the world while there are people out there in need of saving? Monsters in need of ying?¡± When he refused to answer, or was unable to, I gave him my best guess. I voiced the trend that I had noticed among all of ourpanions. The red thread that connected us all. ¡°You ran away,¡± I quietly condemned him. Scythas nodded miserably. ¡°You wanted to save someone, to be yourself again. I can respect that. I can even admire it. But it isn¡¯t enough to be that man once. You have to be him every day, every hour, every single moment. You can¡¯t afford to be less when the world needs you to be more.¡± He looked up at me, and there were tears in his eyes. ¡°How can I be?¡± He asked, tortured. ¡°How can I possibly be a hero now, when I had the audacity to be a coward when I was needed? When I had to be brave?¡± Just like Jason before, I looked into the mirror¡¯s reflection and felt rage at what it showed me. I set my jaw and rose on worthless legs, thrusting out a hand. Scythas stared at it like it was a living serpent. ¡°You¡¯re asking the wrong question,¡± I told him harshly. Those broken eyes snapped up to mine. Btedly, I felt Selene¡®s hand on my back, steadying me. Always another person¡¯s hand holding me up. Always another soul standing beside me in support, helping me do what I should have been able to do for myself. ¡°The question you should be asking yourself - how can you be anything else?¡± Scythas stared up at me, and I saw him teetering on the edge of giving in to despair. ¡°What do they have on you?¡± I asked him. The First Spear of the Fifth had told me once that the men didn¡¯t need to think you were soft to confide in you. They didn¡¯t need to beforted or consoled. It was enough to know that you¡¯d go to war for them. It was enough to know that you¡¯d tear out throats for those in your care. ¡°I¡¯m engaged to his daughter.¡± Ah. ¡°You care for her,¡± I said. He didn¡¯t say yes. He didn¡¯t have to. ¡°What else?¡± His pneuma rippled and flexed around him. ¡°My brother. They have my brother. They took him into the Howling Wind Cult, into the kyrios¡¯ own confidence. They¡¯ve taken my brother, and every day they strive to turn him against me. They took my family, Solus.¡± ¡°So kill me.¡± He met my eyes in despair. ¡°You have two choices,¡± I told him, crushing the part of myself that urged me towards empathy. ¡°You can obey, now and tomorrow and the day after that, and pray every day for a Tyrant¡¯s mercy. You can do what they tell you and kill me where I stand. It might even be enough to keep the people you care about safe. ¡°Or.¡± I clenched my outstretched hand into a fist, and pulled him to his feet with Gravitas. ¡°You can stand,¡± I said fiercely. ¡°You can fight. And you can take back what is yours. You can¡¯t live both lives, so which will it be? Will you be a ve? Or will you be Scythas? What does your heart say?¡± He stood under his own power. Haltingly, he reached out to me. ¡°It says I¡¯m lost,¡± Scythas whispered. ¡°Take heart, cultivator,¡± Selene said. ¡°You may be lost.¡± I took his hand and gripped it tight. ¡°But you are not alone.¡± Interlude 2.2 [Old Zalus] [Olympia Arc (1): END] Interlude 2.2 [Old ''Zalus] [Olympia Arc (1): END] Old ¡®Zalus The room wasrge but modestly furnished, barren by the standards of most made men. Its floors were polished marble, pure and unblemished by gemstone veins. What furniture that there was, a massive cypress bed frame and side tables of the same wood, was all finely kept but notable for itsck of adornment. There were no paintings, no statues or sacred treasures. It was as humble a home as any man could have. And yet, that did not change what it was. Theck of overt majesty made it no less potent. No less his. The response to intruders here was just the same as in the most ptial estate. ¡°I¡¯m going to kill you, Gadfly,¡± Polyzalus promised the man intruding upon his ce. It was an insult that no tyrant worth their title would tolerate. After all. A Tyrant¡¯s domain was the throne of their soul. ¡°Good evening to you too, Zalus,¡± Socrates said, brushing the weight of a Tyrant¡¯s displeasure off his shoulders. ¡°I¡¯vee to bargain.¡± The Gadfly, pest among pests, strode into Polyzalus¡¯ domain as brazenly as he did everything else, passing by the bed and side tables without a second nce on his way to the wide open terrace. That he didn¡¯t hesitate even for a moment is the only reason Polyzalus didn¡¯t kill him where he stood. But the urge was strong. It always was. ¡°I have nothing to give you, and you have never had anything worth wanting,¡± the tyrant dismissed the philosopher. Idly, in another ce and another part of himself, the Rein-Holder listened through the ears of his faithful shadows as they left to do their dark work. These aspects of himself, the shards of the Tyrant that was Scarlet Polyzalus, existed in his perception in the same way that the shadows they epitomized did. Silhouettes without true detail. Impressions and whispered half-truths. It was enough to know when his crows were on the hunt. The rest would be revealed to him when the shadows of himself were re-gathered to the whole. Assuming, of course, that they were not devoured first. ¡°Fortunately for the both of us, nothing is exactly what I came here to bargain for,¡± Socrates said, sitting cross legged on the marble floor with his back to the stone rails of the terrace. ¡°Deal, then. Now leave.¡± ¡°That¡¯s no way to treat a guest.¡± Polyzalus paused in his work, and in his far seeing as well, and leveled the Gadfly with the pressure of his authority. Socrates met his eyes just long enough to make his worthless point before allowing his head to bow. ¡°You haven¡¯t been my guest in over three hundred years,¡± the true tyrant of the Burning Dusk said, and his conviction made it so. Within these in walls and upon this marble floor, the word of the First-to-Burn was naturalw. And yet Socrates found it within himself to reach outside of that new natural order, and make a nuisance of himself as always. ¡°What would our father in heaven think, to hear you cast aside xenia so callously?¡± Night was falling, casting shadows in the room. Polyzalus reached out with the crystallized purpose of his ravenous soul and from nothing dered something, burning out of non-existence several sunsetnterns that drifted like fireflies into his domain. With his hands, he dipped an unstained cloth into a basin of water and twisted it, gently ringing out the bulk of the moisture. ¡°There are no gods left to punish such things,¡± he said, taking her arm in his hand and setting to his work with the damp cloth. ¡°Is that so? Is that what you truly believe?¡± ¡°Near enough.¡± These days, it made little difference. ¡°Then disregard the pantheon,¡± Socrates said, unwinding sash after sash from around himself and casting them to the wind. ¡°What would you think, three hundred years ago, to see yourself now? To hear your own voice uttering such foul sentiment?¡± ¡°I wouldn¡¯t think anything meaningful at all. I never did, in those days.¡± ¡°If not the gods, and not the you of yesterday, then is the you of today truly the sole arbiter of morality? How can you know that the ¡®Zalus of tomorrow won¡¯t disagree? If all the world tells you-¡± ¡°Not today,¡± Polyzalus said simply, and leveraged the weight of his purpose. Outside of his domain, he would have had to manifest his pneuma for this. But here, seated upon the humble throne of his soul, all he had to do was desire it. And it was his. The Gadfly shut his mouth, and it was worth every ounce of ethos that Polyzalus had invoked to achieve it. He dipped his cloth back in the basin of water, wringing it once more. s, it didn¡¯tst. ¡°I¡¯ll be brief, then.¡± ¡°Will you?¡± The first son to burn mused, brushing back golden hair the same shade as his own and wetting her forehead. ¡°Even in my own domain, I never thought I¡¯d see the day.¡± ¡°I¡¯ve taken on a boy.¡± He sneered. ¡°Spare me your personal details.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll be overseeing his development for the near future, so expect to see him around the Raging Heaven. I don¡¯t want him pulled into the current schemes.¡± The damp cloth stilled, resting against her right cheek. ¡°What is his name?¡± ¡°He calls himself Solus. But hispanion calls him Sol.¡± Polyzalus nced back at the arrogant Gadfly. ¡°You¡¯re tempting the Fates, boy.¡± Socrates scoffed, amused. ¡°Three decades difference aren¡¯t what they used to be. We¡¯re both old men these days - it¡¯s only that I choose to look it.¡± ¡°Those children took a bite out of my influence,¡± Polyzalus exined, because the world was a strange ce, and he had known wiser men to be less informed about more obvious things in the past. ¡°They perverted the nature of my shades and used their stolen strength to do the same to my peers. Even if I were to grant them clemency, the others wouldn¡¯t.¡± Especially when these hungry ravens had thwarted all attempts to bring their lost Heroes in line. Tyrants were greedy existences. It was already the case that they hungered beyond any satiation. Anything that strove to take even more from them would face the same fate regardless of whose heels they were nipping at. What else could a starving lion do when provoked by a scavenger? ¡°What makes you think that the boys I¡¯m referring to are the same ones tearing down your crows?¡± Socrates pressed, with his veiled curiosity. He reached out with his poisonous logos, as if Polyzalus couldn¡¯t see it written in the stars between them. ¡°I don¡¯t think. I know.¡± He watched with a dim sort of mirth as the logos strengthened, coiled in on itself in preparation. And then he waved his influence through it, brushing it off like sand from his shoulder, and headed off the argument before it could be made. ¡°You can run your circles all you want in the agora, but not here. Not right now. And especially not in front of my wife.¡± Three times he asserted himself within his domain, and three times it was made so. He dipped his cloth into the shimmering basin once more, and returned to his duty. In the fine feather bed, his wife continued to sleep her dreamless sleep. ¡°I came here intending to be civil,¡± Socrates said, scowling now, and reached into a fold in logic disguised as cloth, pulling from it a jug of fine kykeon. The smell of it permeated Polyzalus¡¯ domain, and he knew it was no coincidence that this was the exact blend he had served a young man in search of understanding over three hundred years ago. Back when he ruled in the Scarlet City. Back when the setting sun belonged to him. ¡°How can a schr be anything less than civil in the presence of a king?¡± Polyzalus mused. ¡°But so be it. I¡¯ll humor you - where do you intend to keep this boy?¡± ¡°It just so happens that an estate has been made vacant recently,¡± Socrates said, shrugging and taking a pull from the wine jug himself. He swallowed easily, savoring the taste. Then he grimaced in fleeting unease as Polyzalus burnt Courage from his soul. ¡°What?¡± ¡°I gave the boy a ce to learn some sense away from prying eyes - and the presumptions of men that think they know best.¡± The damp cloth burnt to ash in his hands, and the ash burnt soon after. Outside of the bedroom, to the furthest edges of his domain, members of the Burning Dusk cult faction within Olympia dropped anything and everything they were doing and moved. Whether that was to rush towards them or away depended on the individual. Of course, he¡¯d seen Socrates bring the boy to the kyrios¡¯ estate in the heart of Kaukoso Mons. It wasn¡¯t an act outside of the Gadfly¡¯s usual privileges, confidant that he had been to thete lord of the Raging Heaven Cult. But refuge for the night was one thing, and prolonged amodation was entirely another. ¡°You intend to keep him there? In the heart of the mountain where the Oracles sleep? With my daughter?¡± He had promised murder when the Gadfly first walked in, and countless times before today. Perhaps after all these years he¡¯d finally make good on that promise. Socrates raised both hands, with some effort, against his ethos. And he spoke. ¡°I brought no ravens to your doorstep, I can promise you that. Only a boy with more potential than sense. Your daughter is as she¡¯s always been. Safe and secure.¡± ¡°And why should I take you at your word? Why should I ept a young fool¡¯s resolve over my own?¡± Socrates matched logos to ethos, as he always had, and the sight was as absurd as it had been the very first time. ¡°Because you¡¯re all bncing on the knife¡¯s edge, and even a young fool¡¯s word could be the difference that ces one of you above the rest. And unlike your peers, who are each trying to decide which path best suits their greed, you don¡¯t have a choice.¡± Socrates spread his hands and offered up the truth of Polyzalus¡¯ world as he understood it. ¡°The others can decide. They can go home and reim what was theirs before the kyrios took them from it, or they can stay and fight for what the kyrios left behind. But not you, ¡®Zalus. The only way out for you is through. Nothing remains of you in the Scarlet City. No one is waiting for you there.¡± No one but Damon Aetos. Rage warped the sunset domain for a single micro instant. In the time it took him to reim himself, every soul in the Burning Dusk wing of the Raging Heaven Cult dropped to the ground, their eyes and ears leaking blood. The only one spared was his wife. As always, courage wrapped her in its tight embrace. ¡°The world is on the brink of being a violent ce once again,¡± he finally said, the tightly leashed fury in his voice cracking the marble beneath their feet. ¡°I won¡¯t tolerate another threat to my ethos.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll keep them in line,¡± Socrates promised. Them. So he sought to include the other hungry raven in his protection. Polyzalus stared him down, stared through him, sifted through the light of his soul and didn¡¯t find a single answer that satisfied him. ¡°You said you¡¯d never take on another student,¡± he finally said, reaching into empty air and grasping the jug of wine that Socrates had brought in offering. He drank deeply from it, remembering simpler times. ¡°What changed?¡± Socrates sighed. ¡°Nothing at all.¡± Polyzalus finished the wine in two more pulls and dismissed the jug from his domain. He turned away from the philosopher, back to his wife. ¡°Swear to me they won¡¯t take another bite out of my influence, and know that if either of them advances on my daughter I¡¯ll tear their mortal threads from the loom and eat their beating hearts.¡± ¡°I swear. And I understand.¡± Polyzalus waved an irritated hand. ¡°Fine. Do what you will.¡± The Gadfly always did. Interlude 3.1 [Myron Aetos] Interlude 3.1 [Myron Aetos] The Little Kyrios The first day after Lio left the Rosy Dawn was the longest, and the most difficult. There were tears, anguish, frustrations, and above all else a horrible fear. After that first day, they stifled their tears and hid their anguish, putting the fear for their cousin out of their minds as best they could. The second day was not easier, but it passed quicker. The third day was even quicker than that. Finally, they made it through the first week. And then, in no time at all, two. Suddenly three. It helped to have a goal. Myron ducked beneath a senior mystiko¡¯sshing strike, the wooden practice de whistling over his head. From an early age he had been taught to leverage every advantage that his body provided, no matter how old he happened to be, or what size his body was. Against an opponent like this, nearly twice his height, his stature allowed him to dodge certain attacks more easily. His speed allowed him to maneuver through the older cultivator¡¯s guard. And child or not, he still carried the strength of a seventh rank Civic cultivator within his soul. Myron spun into the opposing cultivator¡¯s guard rather than away from his sword, and drove every ounce of his momentum and the full force of his pneuma into an elbow to the kidney. The senior cultivator, an eighteen-year-old in the sixth rank of the civic realm, dropped his practice de and copsed, wheezing. Myron caught it out of the air and tossed it from hand to hand, changing grips until it feltfortable enough to use. The opponent before this one had fought with his fists, and so Myron had done the same upon beating him. Now, he would try the de. ¡°This lowly sophist thanks you for your guidance,¡± he said formally, bowing to the gasping mystiko. He offered him a hand. He took it and rose, holding his side. ¡°And I thank the little lord for his instruction.¡± Myron rolled his eyes at the nickname, and the older cultivator chuckled, patting his shoulder and staggering out of the marble octagon. Myron turned to regard the gymnasiarch and his audience, a collection of boys his age as well as older cultivators that had been drawn first out of curiosity, and then by the novel prospect of trading discourse with a young pir of the Rosy Dawn. He waved invitingly, and after a moment another young man with his arms and hands wrapped in scarlet bandages took to the octagon. The gymnasiarch leaned his elbows on the edge of the octagon, the upraised tform standing nearly at chest height for a grown man. He raised an eyebrow at Myron. ¡°Are you sure, son? You¡¯re due a break.¡± He mastered his impatience, brushed damp curls of hair from his eyes, and nodded firmly. ¡°I¡¯ll be fine, sir.¡± He¡¯d only fought a couple dozen times so far, and most of those early on had been boys his own age. Uninspiring opponents, if he was being honest with himself, though he hadn¡¯t said that to their faces. They had given him all they had and didn¡¯t deserve such a blow to the ego. Myron could keep going. Myron had to keep going. He knew that Lio could have fought this entire gymnasium without faltering. And he would have won every time. ¡°I offer my greetings to the little lord,¡± his opponent said, bowing his head deeply. Myron rolled the de of wood in his hand and nodded. ¡°Raise your head and greet the dawn.¡± His opponent shed him a grin and they both erupted into violence. A minuteter, maybe two, the older cultivator flew off the side of the marble octagon, a straight thrust that would have skewered him through the heart if it had been a live iron de instead pushing him firmly out of bounds. Myron caught the leading edge of the wrap on his right hand as he went, unraveling it from the cultivator¡¯s arm and wrapping it around his own. He tossed the practice de aside. ¡°My thanks,¡± he said again, exchanging polite words with the mystiko, who seemed caught between indignation and amusement, before turning once again to regard his audience. Cultivation is the sum of lived experiences. Lio and Sol had told him that almost a year ago, and it had been exactly what he needed to learn at the time. Now he found himself falling back on that advice, searching out new opponents, new weapons, new styles of fighting. Anything it took, he would do. Lio had shown him the difference between heaven and earth on the night of Niks¡¯ wedding. If they wanted to bring him back, Myron would have to bridge that gap. But they were so weak. ¡°Cousin,¡± a deep, concerned voice said to him sometimeter, breaking him from a trance he hadn¡¯t noticed himself slipping into. Myron panted for breath, dragging a hand down his face anding away with so much sweat it was as if he¡¯d dipped it in a pool. At his feet, two cultivators of the fourth and fifth Civic rank respectivelyy crumpled and beaten. Myron looked at the blunt daggers in his hands, each forged of rounded bronze, and dented from the impacts of his attacks. They ttered to the surface of the marble octagon as he knelt to help his opponents to their feet. Only once they were shuffling off to the baths on the other side of the gymnasium, their arms slung around each other¡¯s shoulders, did Myron turn and greet his cousin. ¡°Niko.¡± ¡°How long have you been at this?¡± the new young aristocrat of the Rosy Dawn asked, approaching the octagon with a frown. Mystikos hurriedly parted from his path, gazing with naked admiration at the sight of a truly heroic body. Niko still had a tunic wrapped around his waist, but he made for an impressive sight nheless. Myron sized him up,pared his physique to Lio¡¯s, and then to his own. His father had always said that the body was a divine reflection of the soul. That every chiseled muscle was the work of countless hours in the gymnasium and on the battlefield. Lio had the physique of someone who had put in far more hours than Myron, who had cultivated his soul in earnest for longer than Myron had been alive. Niko was a level beyond even that. Niko waved a hand in front of his face. Myron blinked, realizing that his mind had been wandering. How long had he been in the gymnasium, anyway? He nced at the gymnasiarch in askance, and the old man shook his head in stern disapproval. To Niko, the gymnasiarch said, ¡°He¡¯s been here since this morning.¡± ¡°This morning- Myron, it¡¯s nearly dinner time,¡± he said, the concern redoubling. Behind him, closer to the baths, Myron spotted his cousin¡¯s malepanions, currently in the process of bathing while initiates of the Rosy Dawn drifted around and worked up the courage to speak to them. ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± he said btedly. His limbs felt heavy and weak, and he still hadn¡¯t quite caught his breath, but he could keep going. Griffon would have kept going. This much was nothing. ¡°I think you¡¯re done for the day,¡± Niko said, not unkindly, and held out a hand. ¡°Come on, let¡¯s get you washed up and fed. I don¡¯t have any obligations for a few hours; how about I tell you a story of my time in the baster Isles?¡± ¡°Not yet,¡± he said, gritting his teeth. ¡°I¡¯m not finished yet.¡± Those clear blue mes behind his cousin¡¯s eyes flickered. He considered Myron, seriously, and that meant more to Myron than he could put into words. It was why he had always looked up to Lio and Niko so much. Even when he was hardly a cultivator at all, they had never treated him like a child. ¡°When will it be enough?¡± Niko asked him, in that heavy,yered tone of voice that Myron had learned early on meant there was more than one thing being said. In the privacy of his own thoughts, he called it the Lio voice. Myron gathered back up his daggers of blunted bronze, squaring his shoulders. ¡°It¡¯ll be enough when I¡¯ve grown.¡± Niko smiled ruefully. ¡°No. It won¡¯t.¡± ¡°Just one more, then,¡± Myron pressed. ¡°One more and I¡¯ll take a bath.¡± Niko exchanged a nce with the gymnasiarch, and Myron silently pleaded with his eyes for the old man to agree. After a long moment he sighed and shook his head, scratching at a long gray beard. ¡°He¡¯s got enough left for one,¡± he allowed, and Niko nodded. ¡°One more, then. Who will face the young terror?¡± Niko nced around, his good humor turning to puzzlement when no one raised a hand. He looked over the mystikos of the Rosy Dawn, following their shocked gazes all the way back to Myron. Back to the finger Myron was pointing at his cousin. ¡°Niks Aetos,¡± he said in his most demanding voice. He would have pitched it deeper, but whenever he did that people tended to smile rather than shrink. ¡°Step into the marble octagon with me.¡± Someoneughed. His cousin got the strangest look on his face. After the first initiateughed, the rest of the crowd was soon to follow. There wasn¡¯t any cruel intent behind it, Myron could tell, but it still made his teeth grind. This was the reality of things. This was how far his cousin was above him, that the suggestion alone of a fight wasughable. Over at the baths, his cousin¡¯spanions leaned on the edge of the pools and put their hands around their mouths, calling out to him and to Myron. ¡°Someone¡¯s finally called you out, Niko!¡± ¡°Your hubris ends tonight!¡± ¡°Send him to Tartarus, little Lord!¡± The taunts and the jeering flew throughout the gymnasium, drawing the eyes of those that hadn¡¯t already been watching. The crowd grew. Myron ignored them all, ignored his exhaustion, and continued to steadily point. He met Niko¡®s eyes without hesitation. Finally, just when he had begun to doubt himself, his cousin nodded and jumped up onto the octagon. The gymnasium erupted in cheers, naked boys and men alike rushing over to watch the spectacle up close. Only Niko¡®spanions remained in the baths, content to heckle and watch from afar with their heroic senses. The gymnasiarch was frowning severely, staring hard at Niko. Myron¡®s oldest cousin settled into a stance across from him, taking up the wooden practice sword that Myron had dropped several fights ago. Disguising the motion with several shy twirls of the practice sword, Niko leaned in and spoke quietly enough that no one but Myron could have possibly heard him. ¡°Are you sure?¡± Myron nodded once, with finality. That night, Lio had shown him the difference between heaven and earth, the vast difference between the two of them. But it wasn¡¯t enough to bridge that gap. Myron knew Lio. He was certain, down to his bones, that the former young aristocrat had already grown in the weeks since he¡¯d left. Myron knew he wouldn¡¯t stop. It wasn¡¯t enough to know how far he had to go to reach the man that Lio had been. He had to know where Lio was headed, the man he would be. Niko searched his eyes for any hesitation, and when he didn¡¯t find any he sighed and nodded in return. Myron bowed his head in thanks. ¡°Rise,¡± Niks Aetosmanded, ¡°and greet the dawn.¡± Myron inhaled sharply, gripping his daggers tight, and looked up. The scarlet mes behind his cousin¡¯s eyes erupted like bonfires, and his heroic pneuma flooded the gymnasium. Myron tensed, leaping back- He woke up in a feather bed, surrounded by his cousins. Rena was slumped halfway onto the bed, asleep in her chair with Myron¡®s left hand held in both of hers. Castor was right there with her, one arm precariously propping his head up while he dozed. Heron sat with his arms crossed, bags under his eyes as he red across the room. Lydia was over by the door, trying and failing to calm his mother down while she screamed in Niko¡¯s face. Heron noticed that he had woken up first, calling their mother¡¯s name and holding hesitant hands over Myron¡¯s arms and chest, which ached horribly. Then his mother was there, brushing her eldest aside and assaulting him with frenzied questions about what happened, who was to me, what he had been thinking. Rena and Castor snapped awake, sagging in relief when they saw him awake. It made Myron feel horribly guilty. But not regretful. He met Lydia¡¯s eyes over his mother¡¯s shoulder, and though her expression was stern, he knew she understood. Then he looked past her, to Niko at the door, and smiled weakly in gratitude. He had already known the distance he needed to travel to stand where Lio had stood that night. Now he knew how much further he needed to go beyond that to get to where he was going. Niko stared at him for a long moment. Then he turned, and walked out the door. Interlude 3.2 [Myron Aetos] Interlude 3.2 [Myron Aetos] The Little Kyrios In the aftermath of his discourse with his eldest cousin, Myron realized something that should have been evident to him from the beginning. Actions had consequences. He¡¯d been enlightened, that was true, but his parents didn¡¯t see it in quite the same light that he did. For an entire week, Myronnguished in his mother¡¯s care. He wasn¡¯t allowed to see his eldest cousin, let alone speak to him or seek his guidance, and most of his time was spent in bed recovering from his wounds. The one time he had managed to catch his father while his mother was away and begged him for an escape, Stavros Aetos had only shaken his head and ruffled Myron¡®s hair, fondly scolding him. ¡°If you didn¡¯t want to be smothered like this, you shouldn¡¯t have lost.¡± The lesson was bitterly learned, but he had no choice. The youngest son of the Rosy Dawn epted the punishment for his hubris and did what he could while confined to quarters. He studied manically and circted his pneuma while pretending to sleep. As soon as he could prove that he was healed, he raced out into the central courtyards of the Rosy Dawn in search of fresh air. He was promptly found by Niko, and before Myron realized what was happening his eldest cousin had thrown him over his broad shoulder like a sack of grain and leapt off of the eastern mountain range. Myron hollered into the wind, first in terror and then in wild exhration. He stretched his arms out and spread his fingers wide, trying to catch the wind in his hands as they hurtled over the Scarlet City. In what felt like no time at all, and simultaneously an eternityter, the western mountain range rushed forward to meet them. Niko exhaled sharply, the sound of it somehow piercing through the howling of the wind. And though they struck the mountain hard enough that Myron was certain it should have shattered like it did when Uncle Damon conducted the rites, their impact produced no sound and left no marks on the stone. Myron bumped sharply off his cousin¡¯s shoulder, catching himself on his hands and rolling to his feet. It certainly didn¡¯t feel like he had just flown across the full length of a city. In the distance of a clear blue sky, he heard a faint rumble. ¡°Good afternoon, cousin,¡± Niko said, lifting up his left leg just enough to stretch out his ankle, then alternating and pulling his right knee up to his chest. He favored Myron with a wry smile. ¡°Feeling well-rested?¡± ¡°I was rested six days ago,¡± Myron said, and then usingly added, ¡°You left me to rot!¡± ¡°Aunt Raisa was far too furious with me to approach you in your room,¡± the youngest Hero of the Rosy Dawn exined. ¡°To tell you the truth, Uncle Stavros wasn¡¯t exactly pleased with me either. When a Hero and a Citizen exchange discourse, it¡¯s a very fine line between guidance and gratuity. I had no business being in that octagon with you.¡± That wasn¡¯t true, and Myron didn¡¯t appreciate it being phrased that way for his benefit. They both knew that it was him that had no business being in that octagon with Niko. ¡°I¡¯m the one who challenged you,¡± he insisted. Though he knew trivialities like facts hardly mattered to his parents when it came to him. Nikoughed and threw an arm around his shoulder, pulling him into a side embrace. ¡°That you did. But I¡¯m the one that epted.¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t die, and I wasn¡¯t crippled,¡± he muttered. It was petnt, beneath a young pir. But sometimes he just couldn¡¯t help it. ¡°We¡¯re cultivators, aren¡¯t we? Why should it matter that you were stronger? No one is favored to win when they challenge the Fates.¡± Niko blinked and looked down at him. ¡°Who taught you to say things like that?¡± Myron flushed. He¡¯d said the words with confidence, but it was embarrassing to be called out on it. He had no idea how Lio made it sound so natural when he spoke like this. He was saved from answering by the distant screams of his cousins, rapidly growing closer, and the rising sound of thunder on a cloudless day. One by one, Niko¡¯s Heroicpanions came crashing back down to earth with the other young pirs in their arms. Myron watched with some satisfaction as Heron and Rena sprawled onto their hands and knees uponnding - it was nice to know he hadn¡¯t been the only one taken by surprise. Castor, being the most graceful of the five of them by far, managed to catch his bnce after only a couple hopping steps, and Niko¡®s wife held Lydia around the waist while she got her bearings before letting go. ¡°What was that!?¡± Heron gasped,ing shakily up to one knee. He looked to Niko, wild-eyed, and then to the tall, tanned hero in hybrid finery and weathered pirate garb - with a coarse ck beard to match - that had carried him clear across the city. ¡°You said it was within spitting distance!¡± ¡°It is,¡± the raggedly rich Heroic cultivator said, canted green eyes burning mischievously. He turned his head and pursed his lips, and with a sound like cracking stone he spat back in the direction of the Rosy Dawn. Myron watched the spittle shoot through the air faster than an arrow from a bow and vanish into the distance. His upper lip twitched. ¡°Look!¡± The Heroine that had carried Rena eximed, pping the noble sailor over the head. ¡°Even the boy is disgusted with you!¡± He shoved her away, a challenging glint in his smile, and her long red hair shivered and rose up ever so slightly around her as her heroic mes burned. ¡°Now now,¡± Iphys Aetos chided, moving over to her husband and wrapping an arm around his waist, sandwiching Myron in between the two of them. ¡°Behave in front of the children.¡± Even as she said it, she shared an amused little smirk with Niko. Myron got the feeling they had exchanges like this often. ¡°What¡¯s going on, Niko?¡± Lydia asked, helping Rena to her feet. ¡°Is this¡­¡± Myron looked between their other three cousins as best he could with his face sandwiched between two powerful thighs, uneasy. Among the three of them, Rena would be the most sympathetic by far to the agreement to pursue that Lydia and Myron had made with Niko. Castor would almost surely betray them to their parents, and Heron - well, he didn¡¯t want to think about how his older brother would react. This couldn¡¯t be the private tutoring that Niko had promised them, then. Could it? ¡°I¡¯ve been thinking,¡± Niko began. ¡°Impossible,¡± the Hero that had carried Castor said at once. Niko rolled his eyes, ignoring him. ¡°Since I exchanged discourse with Myron here-¡± ¡°Since you beat the little lord like he owed you money,¡± the Heroine with the blood red hair corrected himughingly. Niko ignored her too. ¡°That you¡¯ve all grown into magnificent Citizens since I left,¡± he said fondly, favoring each of them with a warm smile, pure white teethplimenting deeply tanned skin and tousled ck hair. ¡°Most of you are grasping at virtue already, and I¡¯m sure sooner thanter you¡¯ll all be brushing up against the Sophic realm. I¡¯m proud of you all.¡± It was hard not to stand taller at praise from the prodigy of prodigies. Heron puffed up, nudging Castor with an elbow and exchanging pleased grins. Rena ducked her head, smiling with restrained pleasure that only Myron could tell was just slightly smug around its edges. Lydia epted the praise, but she didn¡¯t smile. Myron decided to voice what they were both thinking. ¡°If we¡¯re magnificent, what does that make you?¡± That took the wind out of their sails as surely as anything. Myron felt bad, seeing Rena¡¯s face fall and his own brother¡¯s fists clench, the dull edge to Castor¡¯s sigh. But he didn¡¯t regret saying it. ¡°It makes me Niks,¡± answered the Scarlet Hero. His wife stroked her thumbfortingly across Myron¡¯s cheek. ¡°Who I am doesn¡¯t take anything away from you, cousin.¡± When Myron didn¡¯t reply, Niko reached down and picked him up, sitting him on his broad shoulders. Myron struggled and thrashed like anded fish, indignant at the childish treatment, but a Hero¡¯s grip was not so easily slipped. Niko started up the mountain path to the Burning Dusk Cult, havingnded just outside of its valence estates, and hispanions fell into step around him. The young pirs hurried to keep pace. ¡°That gloom has also been on my mind,¡± Niko said, pping Myron¡®s hand away when he tried to twist his older cousin¡¯s ear. ¡°It¡¯s one thing to be hungry for the next step. It¡¯s good to have lofty goals, even, so long as you¡¯re honest. But you have to be realistic as well.¡± Myron frowned. The sentiment rang false in his ear, like the time Sol had snapped one of the strings on his lyre mid-song. Grating to the senses. ¡°It¡¯s all unrealistic, from the very start. What¡¯s reasonable about looking up at the stars in the sky and deciding you want them for yourself?¡± he asked, and immediately felt the tips of his ears burn when the pirate guffawed. The Heroine with the crimson hair hushed him, but she wasn¡¯t quite able to hide her own amusement. ¡°The little lord is a philosopher already,¡± the Hero that had carried Castor observed. Myron buried his face in his hands. When Niko spoke, the amusement of hispanions was noticeably absent. ¡°That right there,¡± he said quietly. ¡°That¡¯s why we¡¯re here.¡± They stepped onto the scarlet steps of the junior mystikos¡¯ quarters, and through the gaps in his fingers Myron saw initiates of the Burning Dusk rushing out of the streets, hiding behind marble pirs and down residential halls. They fled like mice before hunting cats, and the Heroic cultivators among them took no notice of it. As if it was entirely reasonable to have this sort of effect on people. ¡°What do you know of advancement?¡± Niko asked, and after a beat added, ¡°That¡¯s a question for all five of you.¡± Heron answered first, standing tall. ¡°Cultivators advance exponentially. One rank in a realm above is worth all ten in the realm below.¡± ¡°We advance in three parts,¡± Castor said, biting his lip thoughtfully. ¡°In reason, in spirit, and in hunger.¡± ¡°The further we advance, the more impurities we cleanse ourselves of,¡± Rena murmured. Lydia nced east, to the Rosy Dawn and the Ionian Sea beyond. ¡°To advance is to move forward,¡± she said. ¡°Without ever looking back.¡± ¡°Myron?¡± Niko prompted him. What else could he say? ¡°It only makes you more of what you are.¡± Niko sighed. ¡°You¡¯re all correct, to various degrees, but what causes advancement? What is the root of the divine struggle? I know your parents haven¡¯t told you yet.¡± It was Niko¡¯s wife that supplied the answer, while hispanions gazed wistfully up. ¡°A Citizen can live their entire life without ever advancing to the Sophic Realm, and they be happy,¡± Iphys said, threading her fingers through her husband¡®s. ¡°They can develop their pneuma beautifully, embody their virtue in all things, and never once progress past the tenth rank of the Civic Realm. Aside from being human, there is no particr thread that connects all citizens.¡± ¡°But every cultivator in the Sophic Realm and beyond has one thing inmon,¡± Niko continued. He tilted his head back, regarding Myron seriously. ¡°They are all, each and every one of them, discontented.¡± Myron blinked. ¡°A Philosopher is someone that couldn¡¯t stand a Citizen¡¯s life,¡± spoke the Heroine with the crimson hair. ¡°Whatever their reasons, whatever their virtues and philosophies. At the end of the day, the final requirement for ascension has always been a refusal to ept life as it is.¡± ¡°What does that have to do with the Burning Dusk?¡± Heron asked. They had progressed past the outer estates now,ing up on the central pavilion with its heroic sentinel statues and grand fountain. The Burning Dusk Cult was a mirror image of the Rosy Dawn in nearly every way, down to the statue of a man standing in the center of the pavilion¡¯s fountain, filling it with a steady stream of water from its palm. The only difference was that it was the opposite hand from the one at the Rosy Dawn¡¯s fountain. ¡°You¡¯re all impatient to grow, some more than others,¡± Niko said. Lydia looked away. ¡°And I understand that. I¡¯ve stood in your ce. But before I can watch you all tumble off the side of the cliff with a smile and a wave, I have to be sure that it¡¯s your own restlessness driving you. Not our uncle¡¯s.¡± Myron sat up ramrod straight on his cousin¡¯s shoulders. ¡°What are you saying, Niko?¡± Lydia asked him, razor focused. ¡°Manufacturing prodigies is something that every great civilization has tried to do since we were first molded from formless y,¡± he exined. ¡°It¡¯s never worked on a grand scale, of course, because cultivation is a journey of the soul, and every soul is unique - its own star in the boundless sky.¡± ¡°But,¡± Myron said quietly. ¡°But,¡± Niko allowed, ¡°while manufacturing the talent needed to advance is a fool¡¯s dream, manufacturing discontent is not.¡± ¡°Not for the kyrios,¡± Iphys said, her voice hushed. The rest of the heroes exchanged tense looks. They reached the central pavilion, impossibly deserted for this time of day. The sun was still high in the sky. Niko strode purposefully up to the central fountain in the pavilion. ¡°Not for Uncle Damon,¡± he agreed. Then he reared back and kicked the lip of the marble fountain. The young pirs of the Rosy Dawn stared, aghast, at the shattered remains of the Burning Dusk¡¯s central edifice, and the gaping maw of a tunnel beneath it. ¡°Did you know,¡± Niko said conversationally, moving deftly over the rubble, ¡°that the Rosy Dawn and the Burning Dusk used to mingle with one another during their initiation rites? Instead of one day being devoted entirely to the trials of hunger, spirit, and reason, initiates spent one night contemting the mystery of the dawn, and they spent another night contemting the dusk.¡± They ventured down into the tunnel, so familiar and yet so strange, and only now did someone finally dare to confront them. Myron looked back just in time to see the Heroic pirate in his finery heft a chunk of rubble the size of a chariot in his hands and m it into ce behind them, just as Gianni Sc himself came sprinting down the steps of the main estate towards the pavilion. ¡°The practice ended after centuries of precedent, when our uncles returned home from their adventures and Uncle Damon took the Rosy Dawn in his hand.¡± Niko raised his own hand and scarlet mes erupted in his palm, illuminating the mosaics embedded in the walls of the mountain tunnel. ¡°He separated the two cults entirely and forbade them from sharing in their rites. I was able to visit this ce once before I left, but only because your fathers smuggled me in.¡± Myron had never even heard of such a practice. Looking at the faces of his brother and cousins, he knew that they hadn¡¯t either. ¡°Why would he do that?¡± Rena asked weakly. ¡°There¡¯s a lot that goes into pursuing virtue,¡± Niko said, prompting a round of firm nods from hispanions. ¡°Especially for those of us privileged enough to take part in the cults of greater mystery. These mysteries define us. They make our virtue what it is.¡± Niko had said he wanted to make sure that their restlessness was their own. The bisected corpse of the fallen sun god was only one half of a body. ¡°What happens if you only see half the mystery?¡± Myron asked, though he had a sickening feeling that he already knew. In the scarlet light of his rosy palm, Niko¡¯s smile was bleak. ¡°They say the father split us at our conception, that every human being is only half of a greater whole. That¡¯s why we seek outpanions. It¡¯s why we marry.¡± Iphys squeezed his hand tight. ¡°It¡¯s human nature to seekpletion. It¡¯s only natural to be restless when you only have half of the full picture. ¡°How can you possibly solve a mystery when you¡¯ve only seen half of it?¡± They descended into the cavernous tomb of another bisected corpse from the same fallen sun god, and as they reverently watched the dusk fall into its iprehensible palm, Myron felt something slide into ce within him. Some primal itch that he had never known he needed to scratch until this very moment. He felt his entire soul rx. And he knew. Lio would never be satisfied, no matter how far he ventured, no matter what sights he saw. Because a part of him, howeverrge or small, would hunger endlessly for this. For something the outside world couldn¡¯t provide him. Something he should have had from the start. All because of their uncle. Lio¡¯s father had starved him. Myron¡¯s pneuma surged, doubling and redoubling as his soul advanced to the eighth rank of the civic realm. It was enough to break the spell the bisected corpse had over the young pirs of the Rosy Dawn, make them turn to him in shock and confused tion. The Heroic cultivators, by contrast, were entirely subdued. ¡°Are you restless, cousin?¡± Niko asked with that quiet intent. Of course, he already knew the answer was yes. Chapter 1.41 Chapter 1.41 The Son of Rome I realized very quickly that my time as Gaius¡¯ shadow had spoiled me. My conception of what a mentor - or a patron - was, had been heavily skewed by years on campaign. In the legions, every lesson was eminently applicable to the task at hand. The skills taught were concrete, readily contextualized, and though they weren¡¯t all easily learned, the reason I needed to know them was always clear. As I invoked gravitas as viciously as I could while trying toplete a single push-up, only one of many such tasksid out for the day, I wondered how I could have possibly forgotten Aristotle¡®s teaching methods. More importantly, why had I thought his master¡¯s master would not be even more Greek about things? ¡°Pathetic,¡± Socrates dered, not the first time and certainly not thest. ¡°You can¡¯t even do a push-up in this state. How are you going to lead an army with a weak body like that?¡± I grit my teeth and strained against the weight ofmand, pressing down with it as hard as I could at the same time. ¡°How?¡± How could I push up while my soul pushed with everything it had down? ¡°With your arms, boy.¡± ¡°I beg the master,¡± I forced myself to say, diverting valuable breath to form the words. ¡°Help this lowly sophist ask the proper question.¡± The old man did his own push-ups beside me, pressing effortlessly through the weight of the captain¡¯s virtue. I¡¯d been all too happy to oblige him when he demanded that I invoke Gravitas on him, but I might as well not have done anything at all for the impact it had. Instead, the cumtive weight of its upkeep had pressed me down, down, until it had gotten to the point where I couldn¡¯tplete a single push-up no matter how hard I struggled. ¡°You¡¯re asking me how you can match your body against a manifestation of your soul, is that fair to say?¡± Sweat dripped from my face. My arms trembled. ¡°It is.¡± ¡°And what is the rtion of the soul to the body?¡± I didn¡¯t have the strength for sophistry. ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll be the judge of that.¡± Up he rose, and down he fell, smoothly and in rhythm. ¡°You¡¯re familiar with my student¡¯s theories on the nature of the soul, yes?¡± ¡°Three parts. Reason, spirit, and hunger.¡± ¡°Do you know what inspired that theory, which you cultivators take as simple truth?¡± I bit the inside of my cheek as I started to fall, from halfway down to a third, and then to a quarter. Slowly, with such effort that I couldn¡¯t speak at all for a moment, I stopped my descent. But no matter how hard I pushed, I couldn¡¯t make back what I had lost. ¡°You,¡± I said, less because I was confident in the answer and more because a single word was all I could manage. But I was lucky, this once, and his grunt confirmed it. ¡°I confided in him one day the nature of my principle,¡± Socrates exined. ¡°The ideal that I choose to live by, each and every day. Since I was old enough to think, I have had a daemon in my head.¡± I stared at him out of the corner of my eye. ¡°It tells me when a thing is bad, and says nothing when a thing is good,¡± he said. ¡°And so whenever I¡¯m considering a course of action and I hear the daemon speak, I don¡¯t do that thing.¡± ¡°That¡¯s your principle?¡± I asked faintly. He rolled his eyes. ¡°Disappointed? Profundity and simplicity aren¡¯t mutually exclusive, boy. This world would be a far brighter ce if every man listened to the voice that told him when something wasn¡¯t worth being done.¡± ¡°At any rate, my student took a lesson from that that I had not intended to teach, peppering me with questions and eventually, yearster, developing his model of the human psyche. Or, as cultivators so adore calling it, the tripartite soul.¡± Socrates raised one hand off the floor so that he could tick off three fingers, continuing to do one armed push-ups through the captain¡¯s virtue. The sight alone made me furious enough to raise myself back to the halfway point, though stars drifted across my vision as I did. ¡°Logistikon, thumoeidas, epithumetikon,¡± he recited, words that I wouldn¡¯t have understood even a few days ago that now rang clear asmon Latin in my head. Reason, spirit, hunger. ¡°Drawing from my own story, he created a model of the soul that existed in three parts. When pressed to exin it, he called upon the allegory of the Charioteer. Have you heard it?¡± ¡°I have not.¡± ¡°Have you not heard, or have you forgotten?¡± Socrates demanded. ¡°I haven¡¯t.¡± He smacked me over the back of the head, driving me back down so that my nose hovered just above the marble floor. I snarled. ¡°I¡¯m not your friend, boy, and your father isn¡¯t paying me to humor you. Watch your mouth. And tell me why the worthless student of my worthless student didn¡¯t bother to tell you what he learned at your age?¡± I focused on breathing, on a simple cadence, centering myself in memories of long afternoons drilling in the miserable heat of a Mediterranean sun. Doing push-ups and other bodyweight drills with the Fifth, suffering together. Suffering as one. I forced myself to rise and made it just barely past the halfway point. ¡°Aristotle told me that if I only had time to learn a few things, they might as well be useful.¡± Socratesughed. ¡°Arrogant brat. After all these years they¡¯re still at each other¡¯s throats. I suppose I have no reason to be surprised - I know where they got it from. Allow me to fill this particr gap for you, then. ¡°My student exined the tripartite soul in terms of a charioteer. A man in a chariot is pulled by two horses, one ornery and cker than night, the other snow white and passionate. The charioteer represents reason, or in this case the self. The ck horse represents the hunger, man¡¯s covetous desires. The white horse represents our spirit, the positive impulses of our hearts. ¡°The charioteer holds the reins of both horses, and manages them both as they sh with one another. Reason guides the soul, masters both desire and passion, and maintains the course. This is how a man aligns himself with the divine. Ascension is a circuit, and we are all racing along the track, doing our best not to stray. The daemon that I described to him is the charioteer, the negative impulses it warns me away from are the ck horse, and the positive impulses it stays quiet on are the white horse. ¡°And what does that have to do with the body?¡± I asked. He nodded in approval. ¡°Consider theponents described. It¡¯s easy to imagine the three elements of the soul in an abstract sense. But if you were to describe them physically, how would you do it?¡± I frowned. When I asked Gaius a question, so long as it was a question worth answering, he would answer it without fanfare. With Socrates, if I was lucky, I would receive another question. ¡°The hunger is the easiestparison,¡± I finally said. ¡°Of course.¡± Socrates waved for me to continue. ¡°Hunger for prestige or power, those are abstract things. Spiritual hunger. But the body hungers for food, for water, and for¡­ carnal things. The hungeres from the stomach.¡± ¡°And what of the spirit?¡± It felt like it went against the purpose of the question, but I immediately drew from recent experiences within the Half-Step City. ¡°The heart,¡± I said, thinking of burning eyes and heroic spirits. ¡°That, or the blood.¡± ¡°And what leads you to believe that?¡± ¡°When a hero is impassioned, the heart mes in their eyes re or flicker to match their mood. But more than that, anyone can feel the pressure of grief or joy in their chest. It¡¯s¡­ painfully physical.¡± ¡°Reason?¡± ¡°The head,¡± I said after a long moment. ¡°Why?¡± ¡°When I try to make sense of why Greeks are the way they are, it hurts.¡± Socrates pped me again. This time I managed to hold my ce. ¡°Well enough. And what is virtue?¡± ¡°Performative excellence.¡± On this, Griffon and I had always been in agreement. ¡°Excellence of the soul, or excellence of the body?¡± I frowned. ¡°All too often, cultivators consider virtue to be an expression of the soul and the soul alone,¡± Socrates said, progressing from simple one-handed push-ups to more advanced two finger variants. ¡°Intuitively, it¡¯s easy to understand why. Virtue is something many men never truly grasp. It is depth and it isplexity, which we naturally attribute to the nebulous realms of the soul. But what did we just discuss?¡± ¡°The elements of the tripartite soul can be physical as well as abstract,¡± I mused, beginning to see. ¡°The hunger, the spirit, and the reason can be attributed to the body as much as they can to the soul. So why should virtue be any different?¡± ¡°Unity in all things is best,¡± Socrates said. ¡°Unity of the body and the soul most of all. If a man is living his life the proper way, the virtue of his body and the virtue of his soul will be in perfect synchronicity with one another.¡± It struck me like a lightning bolt, and in the same moment my arms gave out beneath me. ¡°Split foundations,¡± I gasped, panting for breath. I couldn¡¯t do a push up whileboring under the captain¡¯s virtue because my foundations were split. I couldn¡¯t rise against the weight of my soul because my body was not its equal. Out of sync. ¡°You begin to see,¡± he said approvingly, rising to his feet and pping the dust from his palms. ¡°In our efforts to understand cultivation, as we strive to understand all things, we create terms and stratifications. Citizen, Philosopher, Hero, and Tyrant. Principle, passion, and purpose. And of course, virtue. Each of these concepts is connected, unified in the same way that the body and the soul are, and their tripartiteponents within. It all begins with virtue. And it all ends with virtue just the same.¡± ¡°Fates and Muses forbid it be simple,¡± I said between ragged breaths. Socrates chuckled. ¡°The world would be a boring ce if every man could understand it by the time he was twenty. Come, let¡¯s do some sit ups.¡± I wondered how Griffon was faring. Chapter 1.42 Chapter 1.42 The Young Griffon I wondered what Sol was up to. ¡±I swear by the Physician, and all the gods and goddesses as my witnesses, that, ording to my ability and judgement, I will keep this oath in this contract.¡° Iid my hands in Anastasia¡¯s, the backs of my hands pressing into her open palms. She stared into my eyes and I stared right back in hers. She was uncharacteristically serious, the somber glow of her caustic green eyes casting shadows on her ck-haired features. I recited the oath of the first physician, Hippocrates. ¡±To hold she who taught me this art equally dear to me as my parents, to be a partner in life with her, and to fulfill her needs when required; to look upon her offspring as equals to my own siblings, and to teach them this art, if they shall wish to learn it, without fee or contract; and that by the set rules, lectures, and every other mode of instruction, I will impart a knowledge of the art to my own sons, and those of my teachers, and to students bound by this contract and having sworn this Oath to thew of medicine, but to no others.¡± As I spoke the words, I didn¡¯t feel anything in particr. There was no rising tide of sensation or meaning within me, no profound heat where our hands met. Of course, I hadn¡¯t expected it to be that easy. The worthwhile things in life never were. ¡°I will use those dietary regimens which will benefit my patients ording to my greatest ability and judgement, and I will do no harm or injustice to them.¡± As if I would do such a thing, regardless of an oath. ¡°I will not give a lethal drug to anyone if I am asked, nor will I advise such a n; and simrly I will not give a woman a pessary to cause an abortion.¡± Assassination via poison killed one man and cursed the world with a coward. Prescribing poison for suicide cursed the world with two. Another promise that I would have fulfilled anyway. But now came an interesting line. In purity and ording to divinew will I carry out my life and my art, so said the oath of the physician. ¡°In justice will I carry out my life and my art,¡± I swore instead, and Anastasia¡®s breath hitched. I smiled faintly and continued on before she could cut the oath short. ¡°I will not use the knife, even upon those suffering from stones, but I will leave this to those who are trained in this craft. ¡°Into whatever homes I go, I will enter them for the benefit of the sick, avoiding any voluntary act of impropriety or corruption, including the seduction of women or men, whether they are free men or ves.¡± I raised a suggestive eyebrow, and the caustic queen rolled her eyes, exasperated. ¡°Whatever I see or hear in the lives of my patients, whether in connection with my professional practice or not, which ought not to be spoken of outside, I will keep secret, as considering all such things to be private. ¡°So long as I maintain this Oath faithfully and without corruption, may it be granted to me to partake of life fully and the practice of my art, gaining the respect of all men for all time. However, should I transgress this Oath and vite it, may the opposite be my fate.¡± There was no flickering of pneuma, no rattling of chains around my heart as the earth was sealed to my soul, but I suppose that the words were profound enough alone. And whether or not the Fates would bind me to them, it hardly mattered. I had given my word, and so I would keep it. ¡°I told you what to say,¡± Anastasia said usingly, withdrawing her hands from mine. I shrugged. ¡±I am who I am, as you are who you are. Medicine is an entity all its own separate from the physician, so what does it matter if I practice it through the lens of my virtue instead of his?¡± Instead of yours? ¡°We haven¡¯t even begun our first lesson yet and already you defy me. How does Solus put up with you?¡± ¡°I¡¯m incredibly charming,¡± I said modestly. She scoffed. ¡°Incredibly cheeky, more like. But fine. Are youfortable with the theories I''ve taught you?¡± The Hippocratic Oath was taken only at the precipice of a physician''s first work. Anastasia had warned me that she wouldn¡¯t show me a single thing until she was satisfied with my grasp of the theory behind practical medicine, and so we had spent thest several weeks immersing ourselves in the conceptual side of human constitution. Fortunately, my education as the young aristocrat of the Rosy Dawn had ovepped significantly with the contents. In a way, cultivation as it rted to the body was simply a man practicing medicine upon himself. I knew the workings of the human physique better than most physicians in this world - if not from their particr perspective. But Anastasia was my senior in both cultivation and medicine, and so, even if she was a coward, I would afford her the respect that the master was due. Given that I had demanded her time, it was the least she was due. ¡°ck bile, yellow bile, phlegm, and blood,¡± I recited dutifully. ¡°The four humors that make up every liquid in the body. Theirbinations and ratios determine a man¡¯s health as they approach the perfect bnce, eukrasia.¡± ¡°And the temperaments?¡± ¡°Four natures, which can show up wholly or fractionally in a man¡¯s personality. Phlegmatic, choleric, mncholic, and sanguine. Each of them corresponds to one of the humors.¡± ¡°And which pairs to which?¡± ¡°The yellow bile forms a choleric temperament and breeds aggressive, viciously ambitious men.¡± I thought of Sol, and saw that thought reflected in her. ¡°They are also notoriously short-tempered.¡± Anastasia rolled her wrist, urging me on. ¡°ck bile is the culprit for a mncholy nature, deep thinkers and deep feelers. Phlegm leads to a phlegmatic man, as inconsequential in his presence as the dominant humor in his body. Which leaves only one.¡± I stood, stretching mightily and dragging fingers through my hair. ¡°Blood, the domain of sanguine men. Charismatic, social, risk seeking-¡± ¡°Talkative,¡± Anastasia finished, rising to her feet. I chuckled. ¡°The correspondence between the temperaments and the humors is simple enough,¡± she said, ¡°but if you had to ce them each in a cultivator¡¯s realm, how would you do it?¡± I hummed, considering that as we progressed deeper into the wilderness thaty beyond the eastern walls of the Half-Step City. There was a thick, sprawling valley forest within a few hours of walking at a Citizen¡¯s pace. We had set a light pace and covered it in half an hour before swearing my oath. Why the Heroine had chosen this as the site of my first practical, I couldn¡¯t say. Perhaps an animal would be my first patient. ¡°In order from Civic to Tyrannic,¡± I eventually said, ¡°phlegm would be the first.¡± Anastasia nodded, absently pressing branches and swaying vines out of our path, the limbs burning and withering away at her touch. It was an obvious first choice. The useless humor for the least of all realms. ¡°Next,¡± I mused. I gave it another moment of thought, crystallizing the order, and then nodded. ¡°The philosopher¡¯s yellow bile, the hero¡¯s ck bile, and the tyrant¡¯s blood.¡± ¡°Wrong.¡± ¡°Ho? Then enlighten me, master.¡± ¡°You confused thest two,¡± she said, hopping absentmindedly over a deep ravine. I braced myself, and with thirty pankration hands flung my body over the gouge in the earth tond beside her. ¡°The yellow biles lend sharpness and intelligence to the soul, which fits easily enough into the realm of philosophers. ¡°However, blood is the na?ve humor. It lends belligerence to the soul, simplicity of the spirit. We heroic cultivators are simple-minded, and in the face of the ancient rules of nature and the unwavering domains of tyrants, a hero¡¯s virtue is our simple, naive defiance of forces that should be greater than us in every way. The ck bile, by contrast, lends constancy to the soul. It belongs to the realm of tyrants, those timeless few that reign unchallenged by the rules of nature and lesser men. Constant, always, in their designs.¡± I listened intently as she spoke, took her answer in and gave it the consideration that it deserved. I examined it against my own, her reasoning and conflict with mine, and caught a withered leaf as it fell in her passing. ¡°I disagree.¡± Anastasia nced back at me over her shoulder, a dark eyebrow rising. ¡°Do you now?¡± ¡°The ck bile is constancy, that¡¯s true enough,¡± I said, crushing the withered leaf in my fist. And when I opened my hands a momentter, the cast off was still intact, against allmon sense. Held in ce by my own pneuma. ¡°But it is also perseverance. And what is a hero, if not someone who perseveres in the face of unlikely odds?¡± Anastasia tilted her head. ¡°And the blood?¡± ¡°Simplicity and naivety,¡± I said, letting the ruined leaf drift away on the wind in pieces. ¡°A tyrant might take offense to you saying it, but how can they be anything less than na?ve?¡± Anastasia stops walking. ¡°We are all na?ve to some degree, we cultivators of virtue,¡± I mused, walking past her. I had no idea where I was going, but I assumed she would stop me if I wandered off in the wrong direction. ¡°Just as we all have blood in our bodies, to one ratio or another. But a tyrant is most na?ve by far, don¡¯t you know?¡± A philosopher understood the rules of nature, and guided them to suit his ends. A hero defied thosews, and all others, existing as a monolith unto themselves. Given that, what more could a tyrant possibly be? ¡°The tyrant is the only cultivator that dares to think his mandate supersedes that of heaven and earth.¡± A tyrant established their ownws. Anastasia appeared in step beside me, a considering look in her eyes. ¡°That school of thought,¡± she murmured. ¡°My, my. You really are in an irreverent one, aren¡¯t you?¡± I smiled faintly. ¡°The temperament aligns as well. A sanguine nature is king among tyrants.¡± ¡°Not choleric?¡± I thought of my father. ¡°For a tyrant, charisma trumps ambition every time.¡± Slowly, after long minutes of silent introspection between the two of us, she smiled. ¡°An interesting answer. I like it.¡± ¡°I thank the master.¡± Anastasia flicked me with a pale finger that singed the hairs on the side of my head. Iughed and returned the favor thirty-fold, raining the rosy embers of dawn upon her. A sharp spike of pneuma in my awareness, off to the east, cut our battle short. I perked up, reaching out with the waves of my sophic sense for its source. Anastasia made a pleased sound and promptly sat down once more, cross legged on the forest floor. ¡°Herees your first patient.¡± The source of the pneuma made a beeline for us, and within moments a philosopher in ragged indigo attire came hurtling down from the tree line, plowing through dirt and fallen trees. He knelt in front of Anastasia, more of a controlled copse than anything else, and heaved for breath. He looked to be a bit older than me, with a full blond beard and a few scars around his forearms and biceps that spoke tobat experience. He wore a bronze breastte beneath his cult attire and it was as ragged as the cloth, torn nearly apart by what I assumed was the same creature currently slung over his shoulder. The mystiko of the Raging Heaven dumped his catch onto the ground, a mountain cat twice his size with golden ws and teeth to match. Its ws were covered in the cultivator¡¯s blood, and aside from the spearncing through its chest, it looks like it had given far more than it had taken in their exchange. s, quality had prevailed over quantity this time around. ¡°This lowly sophist,¡± the ragged hunter said between gasping breaths, bowing his head, ¡°greets his senior sister. If it pleases the honorable heroine, I¡¯ll just be returning to the cult.¡± ¡°It does not please me,¡± Anastasia said smoothly. I watched the battered philosopher tense, his eyes flickering possessively to the virtuous beast¡¯s corpse. But it was only a momentary thing, and then the fight went out of him. He slumped and bowed his head further. Ah. I knew what this was. ¡°How may I serve the heroine?¡± he asked, defeated. ¡°Take off your armor,¡± Anastasiamanded, and I watched the light go out of his eyes as heplied. ¡°Your tunic as well.¡± This was a shakedown. ¡°Nowe here,¡± she said when the man was naked and destitute. ¡°And tell us where it hurts.¡± Or so he thought. ¡°What?¡± The Sophic cultivator asked, baffled and just barely hopeful. His eyes flickered to me, for the first time since he¡¯d arrived, and I saw the question in them. I could have drawn it out, made a suggestivement to give him the wrong idea, but it was difficult to tear a man down when he was naked and all but broken already. ¡°Come,¡± I said instead, beckoning him forward, and summoned the arms of my intent. ¡°Stand before these healing hands.¡± The relief nearly knocked him out cold, but the mystiko of the Raging Heaven managed to find his feet and approach us. ¡°Keep your pneuma to yourself this time,¡± Anastasia instructed me, that same cool seriousness from before settling over her spirit. Sheid her hands upon the mystiko¡¯s chest and closed her eyes. ¡°Follow my light, and see if you can learn something. Attend.¡± Iid thirty pankration hands over the man¡¯s mangled body and did just that. Chapter 1.43 Chapter 1.43 The Son of Rome As a young patrician of Rome, andter an attendant to Gaius, I had grown used to being in the presence of powerful people. Those with physical power, those with political power, up and down the spectrum of influence within the Republic. ¡°Thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine,¡± Selene counted off dutifully while I pressed against the gold and ivory mosaic floors of thete kyrios¡¯ courtyard. ¡±Forty!¡± I let go of Gravitas and copsed, forehead pressed against the cool stone as I panted for breath. After thoroughly proving his point with regards to my foundational imbnce, Socrates had advised me to continue my calisthenics under the influence of the captain''s virtue. I invoked Gravitas just enough to make the work nearly unbearable, but not enough to keep me fully down, and I returned to the basics until my body gave out. It was grueling, but I couldn¡¯t deny the results. I felt like I was a boy again, training my body under Aristotle¡®s watchful eye for the very first time. Basic calisthenics that had ceased to yield any real benefit long ago felt challenging again. With every push-up, every lunge and crunch, I cursed myself for not doing this as soon as I had first tapped into Gaius¡¯ virtue. At the same time, a more realistic part of me acknowledged that I¡¯d held it in such high regard for so long that I never would have considered such an option if it hadn¡¯t been forced on me first. Still, the benefits of Socrates'' training were one thing. But there was something unnerving about keeping this sort ofpany, even with all my experience. The Oracles of the Coast, the baster Isles, and the City of Squalls - also known as the Hurricane Heights - politely apuded while the Scarlet Oracle hopped off my back and went to grab a jug of water. ¡°My, you¡¯re in fine form today,¡± the Oracle of the baster Isles said, resting her cheek in one hand, the other holding her knee up to her chest while she lounged on her holy tripod. Her smile was teasing. ¡°I¡¯d expect nothing less from thest son of Rome,¡± spoke the Oracle of the Hurricane Heights. She was a lithe woman, a slim contrast to the baster Oracle¡¯s obscene curves, and her hair drifted in a breeze that couldn¡¯t be felt. Threads the color of harvested wheat drifted around her hallowed tripod, spiraling through her fingers as she idly weaved. ¡°Tomorrow he may even reach fifty.¡± ¡°Respectfully,¡± I groaned, forcing an arm beneath me, ¡°I didn¡¯t ask the oracles for their input.¡± ¡°Respectfully, he says,¡± the Oracle of the Broken Tide cackled. Of the five, she was the only one that fit my mental image of what a soothsayer should be. Ancient, wrinkled, and frail. Her shawls and sashes seemed to swallow her up so that all a man could see of her were her skeletal hands, and the wispy strands of bone white hair that red out from under her hood. Her face was thin and severe, perpetually leering. Her eyes were milk white and the pupils were trisected. She was also, bizarrely, sitting in thep of the Brazen Aegis¡¯ Oracle. As it had been exined to me the first time I had met them, the Scarlet City had only one oracle despite being home to two separate cults because their mysteries were intimately rted. The coast, on the other hand, had two entirely separate mysteries which their cults were built around, and so the city had enjoyed the privilege of two separate oracles. Thete kyrios had taken this into consideration and dered that eight tripods for eight cities was perfectly fair, and so they¡¯d been forced to share ever since. Sitting together as they were, they looked nearly like a mother and her daughter. ¡°Men have given their lives pursuing a moment of our time, you know,¡± the crone of the Broken Tide said, smacking her fellow Oracle¡¯s hand away when it tried to cover her mouth. ¡°The richest man in the world wouldn¡¯t be able to buy thepany of two of us at any given time, let alone the five you have before you.¡± ¡°If I wanted to pay for a woman¡¯spany, I¡¯d go to a brothel.¡± I managed to sit up and ept the jug of water Selene offered me, nodding gratefully, and drank deeply. The Oracle of the Broken Tideughed so hard that she started to choke. ¡°Forgive them,¡± Selene whispered, her shoulder bumping against mine. ¡°It¡¯s rare for us to meet someone we can speak freely to.¡± ¡°There are certain things a seer can provide that a prostitute can¡¯t,¡± the Oracle from the baster Isles pointed out. Her eyes danced, silk chiton shifting as sheid her chin on her raised knee. Her lips were painted in the shades of the baster Isles, a spectrum of white-gold to canary yellow. ¡°Perhaps he has no use for a soothsayer,¡± the Oracle of the Hurricane Heights mused, weaving her hovering thread. She blew her waving hair absently out of her face. ¡°Is that it after all, son of Rome? Have you no interest in what¡¯s toe?¡± I drained thest of the water from the jug. Gravitas struck me like a clenched fist, pressed me down, and I got to work on my situps. ¡°Seems you¡¯re on the mark,¡± the Oracle of the Broken Tide croaked, having regained her breath. ¡°The young barbarian fears what¡¯s toe.¡± I rose against the weight ofmand, and I fell. I saw another crone, in another ce. Another time. Heard her eerie, rasping voice. Beware the Ides of March I didn¡¯t need a soothsayer to tell me what I already knew. My future was hopelessly grim. Selene added her weight to my exercise, sitting on my feet so they wouldn¡¯t slide on the mosaic floor or lift up. She crossed her arms on my knees and set her chin upon them, considering me seriously. ¡°They¡¯re only teasing you,¡± she said, her veil shifting as she shook her head. ¡°The gods don¡¯t speak to us anymore. They couldn¡¯t give you a prophecy even if they wanted to.¡± A sandal struck her in the side of the head. The Scarlet Oracle cried out, flinching back. ¡°Arrogant girl, telling me what I can¡¯t do.¡± The Oracle of the Broken Tide struggled against the Oracle of the Brazen Aegis, the old crone doing her level best to throw her other sandal. ¡°I¡¯ve taken naps longer than you¡¯ve been alive!¡± ¡°Just because you look like you¡¯re older than dirt doesn¡¯t make it true!¡± Selene shot back, immediately ducking the second sandal. It whistled sharply as it cut through the air and drove through the stone of the far wall. ¡°Honestly, Dona, she¡¯s just a child!¡± The Oracle of the Brazen Aegis scolded her counterpart, wrestling the old woman¡¯s arms back with some effort. Dona spat. ¡°If she¡¯s old enough to be a wife, she¡¯s old enough to get beaten.¡± The soothsayers from the Brazen Aegis Cult and the Howling Wind Cult exchanged long-suffering looks across the courtyard, their tripods situated opposite from one another. ¡°Thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three-¡± ¡°Perhaps we¡¯ve taken the wrong track,¡± the Oracle of the baster Isles mused, and I felt her gaze as a physical thing. Something that went beyond the influence I could detect with my Sophic sense, deeper and more vibrant. I shivered as it ghosted up and down my body. ¡°These are our leisure hours, aren¡¯t they? Perhaps the son of Rome has something he can deliver to us.¡± Selene frowned, head tilting towards her fellow soothsayer. ¡°Certainly not good conversation,¡± Dona said derisively. ¡°Oh, I don¡¯t know about that,¡± the woman with the gold-gloss lips said, smiling slowly. ¡°I¡¯m quite enjoying what he¡¯s saying right now.¡± I stopped, halfway through my situp. Her smile widened. ¡°Oh no, please. Continue.¡± I stared hard at the holy woman. Then, slowly, Ipleted my situp. ¡°Forty.¡± Dona scoffed. ¡°It¡¯s a wonder he knows how to count. Be truthful, boy - when¡¯s thest time you had a real conversation, without any moody deflections?¡± I looked the salty old bitch in her blind eyes and said tly, ¡°Bar.¡± Behind her, the Brazen Aegis¡¯ Oracle fought a smile. ¡°Bar?¡± I nodded. ¡°Bar.¡± "Bar," Selene added. ¡°Every generation thinks they¡¯re cleverer than the one that came before,¡± the Oracle of the Broken Tide said sourly. ¡°When they¡¯re always, always less.¡± ¡°In fairness,¡± said the Oracle of the Hurricane Heights, ¡°you don¡¯t make for good conversation either.¡± ¡°Haa? Is the whistling shrew running her mouth again? All I can hear is the wind.¡± ¡°Keep going,¡± the Oracle of the baster Isles urged me, ignoring her peers with practiced ease. ¡°Let¡¯s see forty-one.¡± Her lips curved, wickedly amused. ¡°Or perhaps a different movement? Something for the hips?¡± Selene shoved me back into the rest position. ¡°Forty-one,¡± she said firmly, and I resigned myself to more situps. The holy women of the Greek faith continued to bicker and chat among themselves, asionally prodding at me verbally to see what I would do. I suffered it in silence when I could, focusing on the burn of my bodying apart in small degrees so that it could be remade better, stronger than before. I was drenched in sweat by the time Socrates finally stepped out of thete kyrios¡¯ quarters and into the courtyard. He had a finger dug into his right ear and a scowl on his face. ¡°Of all the world¡¯s mysteries,¡± he said irritably, ¡°the one that baffles me the most is how ourte lord could rx for a single moment down here with all of you.¡± Dona tilted her head his way, blind eyes swiveling as they sought out his voice. ¡°No,¡± he said before she could speak, holding out a hand. ¡°Enough of you. I cut my dwelling out of the highest visible point on Kaukoso Mons, and some nights I swear I can still hear you barking. I¡¯d sleep inside the storm crown if I thought it would be enough to block you out.¡± The Oracle of the Broken Tide cackled, and Socrates rubbed his wrinkled brow. ¡°How was your afternoon, boy?¡± he asked me. I nced up at him, arms trembling as I fought to maintain my nk position with the weight ofmand and Selene both sitting on my back. ¡°Tiring.¡± Socrates snorted. ¡°Good, that¡¯s another lesson learned. Some say that cultivation only makes us more of what we are - that applies to women just the same. They only be more insufferable the further they advance.¡± The philosopher raised his hand and caught a sandal before it could strike his temple, ncing scornfully at the side of the octagonal courtyard reserved for The Coast. The Oracle of the Brazen Aegis averted her eyes, putting her other sandal back on her left foot. ¡°Shall I tell poor Daphnis that you said that?¡± Dona asked, blind eyes crinkling deviously. Socrates sneered. ¡°Tell her whatever you like. I¡¯ve said it to her face enough times already.¡± ¡°What an awful man,¡± the Howling Wind Cult¡¯s soothsayermented. ¡°You mustn¡¯t be like him,¡± the Oracle of the baster Isles said, beckoning me to her. ¡°It¡¯s unnatural for man to despise woman as he does. This one will teach you everything you need to know in his stead.¡± For the first time, I saw that there was a thin line of color tattooed down her tongue, the same golden shade as her lips. Socrates stepped over me, blocking her from my line of sight. As if I would be swayed so easily- I scowled. ¡°What are you doing?¡± ¡°... Just in case,¡± Selene said, covering my eyes with her hands. ¡°Chara can be, ah, tempting when she wants to be.¡± The Oracles were meant to be crones, that had always been my understanding of them. But aside from the Oracle of the Broken Tide, the others that I¡¯d met seemed more like mothers just out of their prime than anything else. Chara¡¯sugh in answer to Selene¡®s warning was most definitely not the cackle of an old woman. Though it unsettled me all the same. ¡°I won¡¯t be tempted,¡± I said firmly, shaking her hands away and pushing myself to my feet. Selene rolled smoothly off my back, smiling innocently at the look I gave her. ¡°See that you aren¡¯t,¡± Socrates advised. ¡°Vignce, always.¡± He pped my shoulder and nodded back at the kyrios¡¯mandeered quarters. He moved, and I followed. ¡°He¡¯ll never find a wife if he takes your advice,¡± Dona heckled. ¡°Is that what you want for your poor student? A life of lonely istion?¡± ¡°By all means, marry,¡± Socrates said over his shoulder, sarcasm dripping from every word. ¡°If you¡¯re fortunate enough to find a good wife, you¡¯ll be happy. If not, you¡¯ll be a philosopher.¡± I shrugged. ¡°I already am.¡± Selene stumbled beside me, and the heckling rose to shrieks and cries for details. I strode quickly after my mentor, into the rtive safety of the kyrios¡¯ rooms. Socrates mmed the heavy doors shut behind us, muffling the worst of the holy noise. Inside, I found the residence had changed. Socrates had kicked me out into the courtyard earlier so that he could attend to some unexined business within the kyrios¡¯ personal rooms, and now that work wasid out before me. Socrates had ransacked the ce, tossing aside furniture and in some cases tearing it apartpletely, arranging the pieces around the room in an utterly chaotic manner. The columns that preserved the structure of the underground alcove had been worn down, as if by the sea, all their straight lines and harsh edges smoothed away to rounded curves. The walls themselves, carefully carved out of the mountain, had been given the same treatment. The nkets and clothing were gathered in the middle of the room in quasi-nests, facing one another, and the old philosopher had torn open the bed itself and scattered its feathers around several points in the room. I could see a few puddles, ces where he had clearly dumped out entire jugs of water and spirit wine. I also saw, and smelled, the fires he had made of the broken down furniture. I squinted through the smoke, utterly baffled. ¡°Why?¡± ¡°Perfect symmetry in nature is something that does not exist,¡± he exined calmly, as if that exined anything at all. He stepped over a pile of burning kindling that had once been a table and sat cross-legged on one of the two nests. ¡°So, when we seek to emte nature in our own artificial dwellings, we must observe the same dissymmetry.¡± I looked around. ¡°What does that have to do with setting fires?¡± ¡°I¡¯m setting the stage, boy,¡± he said impatiently, waving me over. Reluctantly, Iplied. ¡°Generally, we do these things out in nature, because it¡¯s easier and a better experience overall. But as we¡¯ve established, you¡¯re a ridiculous child and I can¡¯t take you anywhere until I¡¯ve civilized you. So we¡¯ll do what we can, now that you¡¯ve healed up.¡± I sat cross legged in the nest of silk sheets, mirroring his rxed posture as best I could with smoke assaulting my senses. ¡°We¡¯re going to meditate?¡± ¡°Something like that. Close your eyes, boy.¡± My eyes closed, and then opened a momentter when someone joined me in the silk nest, pressing into my side so that they could fit fully on to it. Selene settled into her own meditative stance, breathing deeply. I looked to Socrates. The expression on his face was hard to describe. ¡°This isn¡¯t an open lesson, girl.¡± ¡°I greet the master,¡± she said formally, bowing her head without opening her eyes. My lips twitched. ¡°There¡¯s room for two,¡± I told my mentor. He grunted, disgusted, but shut his eyes and resumed his posture. ¡°Close your eyes and think of Rome,¡± hemanded. I obliged. ¡°Aristotle taught you how to train your body, but it was Rome that taught you how to train your soul. We¡¯re going to work backwards and see if we can find a Greek soul buried somewhere in the dirt.¡± ¡°Thank you,¡± Selene whispered, nearly too quiet to be heard over the crackling of the fires, nudging my knee with hers. I hummed and immersed myself in thoughts of home. Chapter 1.44 Chapter 1.44 The Young Griffon ¡°Observe,¡± I whispered, as I hunted the Huntsman, ¡±the coward in his natural state.¡± Lefteris¡¯ nameless boys crept after me, bolts of forest green cloth wrapped around their heads to hide their distinctive red hair. There was no hiding their eyes, though, wide and intense as they tracked the Heroic Huntsman himself. Their focus wasmendable, though their tracking skills left much to be desired. I smiled as I saw a muscle in the massive hunter¡¯s neck twitch. ¡°The coward is aware that his way of life is at risk, but hecks the killer instinct to do anything about it. Instead, he fills his time with menial pursuits, such as hunting lesser existences and devouring them, despite the fact that he can go indefinitely without sustenance.¡± I continued to narrate for the benefit of my young charges, maintaining a harsh voice that Kyno could undoubtedly hear. We were out in the wilderness once again, this time north of the sanctuary city of Olympia. Game was plentiful out here, provided one was powerful enough to deal with any virtuous beasts encountered, or fortunate enough to avoid them. At the moment, the Heroic Huntsman was tracking a stag. ¡°How do you know he¡¯s a coward?¡± The smaller, more precocious of the two children asked in his own whisper. ¡°I¡¯ve been observing this particr sea creature for weeks now,¡± I said, shifting undergrowth silently aside with formless hands of pankration intent. The boys did their best to follow me in step, but the crunch of dead leaves betrayed them. ¡°Notice his stature,rger than any of his peers. Notice his pneuma, firmly within the realm of legends. This is a man capable of changing the world.¡± Therger of the two boys edged slightly in front of his brother, cing himself between the younger and our prey when I described the full threat. I smiled faintly and patted his head. ¡°And so we must ask ourselves,¡± I continued, ¡°is he happy and content with his life as it stands, or is he too fearful of reprisal to make it so?¡± ¡°Maybe he is happy,¡± the younger of the two proposed. ¡°How do you know he isn¡¯t?¡± ¡±A fair question,,¡± I acknowledged. I started to rise. ¡°Let¡¯s ask him.¡± ¡°No!¡± The older of the two hissed, jumping onto my back and wrenching with everything he had to pull me back down. ¡°You can¡¯t!¡± ¡°And why not?¡± I asked. He did about as much to stop me as a feather down pillow, but I humored him and froze halfway to my feet. ¡°He¡¯ll tell Theri we were with you,¡± the younger said urgently, gripping my right arm with both hands and pulling with all his strength. ¡°He can¡¯t know we left the house!¡± I considered that. Across the de, far enough that two boys of such juvenile cultivation would not be able to make out the fine details of a man¡¯s face, I looked and saw Kyno staring back at me from the corner of his eye. And I nodded gravely, sinking back down into a crouch. ¡°I understand,¡± I said. ¡°We¡¯ll continue as before.¡± The young vagabonds slumped to the ground in relief. In the distance, I saw Kyno close his eyes in quiet despair before returning to his hunt. ¡°If we can¡¯t get the truth from the man himself, how else might we discern it? What are the signs to look for? Rather, what makes a man happy?¡± ¡°Power,¡± the precocious one said immediately. How cute. ¡°Naturally.¡± ¡°Wealth,¡± put forward the elder. I nodded. The younger tapped his chin, mismatched eyes narrowing thoughtfully as we progressed through the wilderness. Kyno had found his mark, a great stag with five points on each antler. I watched intently how he moved, the approach he took and why. I noted which way the breeze was blowing, the shadows that he kept to. This was no beast of virtue that the great hero was hunting. This was only a stag, and so Kyno was going through the motions as much as anything else. He could have done this in moments if he felt a need to flex his pneuma. But that would have defeated the purpose. After all, this was nothing but a way to kill time. ¡°Women,¡± the younger brother proposed, and Kyno winced ever so slightly. Ho? ¡°Your age can still be counted on two hands,¡± I said disdainfully, though my gaze didn¡¯t waver from the Heroic Huntsman. How interesting. ¡°What would you do with a woman?¡± ¡°I¡¯d make her my concubine,¡± the younger brother insisted, puffing up in my peripheral vision. ¡°A king needs concubines.¡± The older brother lurched towards the younger in rm, grabbing him around the neck and covering his mouth. Gently, I separated the two of them with pankration hands, tilting the younger boy¡¯s head up when he tried to stare at the ground in abashment. ¡°And what would you have the concubine do for you, little king?¡± The little king hesitated, looking to his brother, but I had a rather firm grip on them both. Finally, he gathered up his courage and answered boldly. ¡°I would have her pour my drinks and feed me grapes,¡± he firmly dered. I very carefully did notugh. We were hunting, after all. ¡°What shall I call you, little king?¡± I asked him. Lefteris hadn¡¯t offered the information the night I came down the mountain, and I hadn¡¯t cared enough to ask. But now I was curious. The boy answered with a mechanical precision that spoke only to a lie. ¡°Leo.¡± ¡°Impossible,¡± I said at once. ¡°What do you mean?¡± The boy demanded, voice rising precipitously as he began to panic. ¡°That¡¯s my name!¡± Beside him, suspended in mid air by my pankration hands, his older brother began to thrash and fight. ¡°It is!¡± the elder insisted. ¡°I swear it is!¡± ¡°My virtuous heart won¡¯t tolerate lies,¡± I warned them both. ¡°But beyond that, you¡¯ve missed my point. It¡¯s impossible for me to call you that, because that¡¯s my name.¡± They both froze, staring at me in bewilderment. ¡°I thought your name was Griffon,¡± the elder brother said. ¡°It is,¡± I confirmed. I was treated to the sight of two children experiencing a grand revtion. The little king leaned forward, pressing aside my pankration hands so he could get up close and whisper, as if that would make the difference in being overheard, ¡°Yours is fake too?¡± ¡°The opposite.¡± I turned to fully face him, settling down to the balls of my feet. My ragged cult attire pooled on the forest floor like blood, myte uncle¡¯s sheathed sword jutting up as it brushed against the dirt. ¡°Both of my names are wholly my own. I¡¯ve simply chosen to discard one for the other.¡± ¡°But it¡¯s still fake,¡± the younger insisted. There was an old pain there, an insecurity that ached when prodded. ¡°Even if you chose it, you¡¯re only choosing it because you can¡¯t use the real one.¡± ¡°Is that what your guardian did?¡± I asked, not unkindly. The little king shut his mouth, falling silent. I allowed his brother to fight his way free of my pankration hands, looming protectively over the young king''s shoulder. I addressed him next, ¡°And what shall I call you, little sentinel?¡± ¡°Pyr.¡± The lion and the me. ¡°Tell me something. How long have the two of youbored under false names?¡± I asked. Above us, nestled in the prickling leaves of the firs that abounded north of the Half-Step City, an eagle let fly a warning cry. I turned abruptly, thirty hands of pankration intent manifesting with the Rosy Light of Dawn zing in their palms. A crocodilerge enough to coat a man like a mantle lunged out of the undergrowth, and in its yawning maw an utterly unnatural number of wicked teeth glistened. It crossed the distance between us in the time it took me to turn, before the boys even had time to scream. Then thirty hands of my violent intent mmed down, driving its hundreds of teeth together. If the beast¡¯s presence here in the winter woods wasn¡¯t proof enough of its unnatural origins, the teeth certainly were. This was a virtuous beast, sure as the sun rose, and it had the strength and speed to match a hundred of its mundane brethren. Unfortunately for the majestic creature, a crocodile was still a crocodile. Once the maw was closed, it was all too easy to keep it shut. And I wasn¡¯t afraid to wrestle a lizard. ¡°Observe,¡± I said, and tackled the crocodile bodily back into the brush. ¡°We¡¯ve established what makes a happy man!¡± I eximed, wrenching an arm around the reptile¡¯s tree trunk neck and heaving back, thirty pankration hands making certain that it couldn¡¯t open its jaws. The beast rolled, eerily silent for the frenzied nature of its movement. I locked both legs around its midsection, and with my free hand coated in the Light of Dawn began hammering punches into its side. ¡°Power!¡± m ¡°Wealth!¡± m ¡°Concubines, to feed us grapes!¡± Crack. The massive creature whipped itself and me both almost in a full circle as I finally broke one of its ribs. It exhaled a deep, rumbling noise of pain that made the leaves shiver on their branches. I punched it again in the same spot, and it rolled us right through a mighty fir¡¯s trunk. ¡°But you forgot pride!¡± Itched on to the crocodiles straining maw with both flesh hands, withdrawing my pankration arms and turning them upon the falling fir instead. The tree instantly caught me where the hands of my intent touched, and they set to tearing it apart as it fell. ¡°Even a coward has his pride, misguided as it may be,¡± I exined for the benefit of the little king and his faithful sentinel. I saw a sh of wide mismatched eyes and the older pulling the younger insistently back before the fat lizard rolled us again. ¡°Even a coward has his ego!¡± The hands of my pankration intentshed down with sticks and clubs of burning fir wood, hammering into the crocodile from every angle. With a snarl of effort and a twist of my hips, I flipped us once more. My back to the ground and the crocodile¡¯s belly to the sky. My violent intent struck its vulnerable underside without mercy, and I relished in its rumbling cries. And then I was pleasantly surprised. I heard a child¡¯s sharp cry, felt a lowly Civic cultivator rush into the eddies of my influence, and the little king came lunging through the undergrowth, wild-eyed and with a wood-cutter¡¯s axe in both hands. He leapt through the seething mass of my ming pankration hands and leveraged every ounce of his strength to bring his axe down on the crocodile¡¯s exposed stomach. The cutter¡¯s axe shattered. Of course, even the frailest of such a creature¡¯s scales were more than a match for an axe of humble iron. The little king bared his teeth and balled his fists, hammering punches into the beast¡¯s stomach instead. I grinned. A momentter, the sentinel burst through the brush, pneuma ring in absolute panic, and did not hesitate upon seeing the situation. The elder threw himself bodily on the crocodile¡¯s snapping maw and drove both thumbs into its eyes. The beast¡¯s pneuma rippled and burst. The certainty of death enveloped all three of us in that moment. The knowledge that we had already been hunted, that we were already sitting in the predator¡¯s mouth. I felt the crocodile bite down on my very soul. I threw my head back andughed. ¡°Good! Good! Fight like you mean it! Fight like this is real, because it is! A man dies a thousand deaths if he lets a thousand insults go - power, wealth, and women can be gained and lost and gained again. A man¡¯s pride is the only resource he can¡¯t win back! Guard it with your life, because it is your life! Wealth is transient, power is rtive -¡± The Heroic Huntsman hurtled down from the heights of the fir tree forest, cratering the ground and throwing all of us three feet into the air. The boys grunted,nding sloppily, and stared petrified at the stone-faced hero. I craned my head to meet Kyno¡¯s eyes and smiled brightly,ying onest fist into his crocodile¡¯s wounded side. ¡°Pride,¡± I promised him, ¡°is absolute.¡± Kyno¡®s lip lifted from his teeth. The hulking cultivator gestured sharply with his right hand, the left currently holding a ten point stag by the scruff of its neck like an unruly dog. I let go of the crocodile and watched with some amusement as it rushed to him, surging up his legs and somehow turning from a living, breathing predator back to an empty skin the instant it came to rest over his head. ¡°You¡¯re too loud,¡± the Heroic Huntsman rumbled. ¡°You¡¯re scaring all the game.¡± ¡°What makes a man happy, Kyno?¡± I prompted him, propping my head up on one hand in lieu of standing. He sighed. ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡± ¡°He was right,¡± the little king whispered to his sentinel. ¡°My mentor always told me that his greatest happiness in his life was teaching me,¡± I said meaningfully. It was true. Old Chersis, the man who had shouldered the primary burden of my formal education within the Rosy Dawn, had said those very words countless times. Whether or not his tone had been entirely genuine when he said them, I couldn¡¯t say. ¡°I highly doubt that,¡± Kyno said, likely thinking of my surly Roman brother. ¡°It¡¯s worth trying,¡± I said encouragingly, and came to my feet, brushing off my ragged cult attire. I could already feel several deep bruises forming where the crocodile had rolled me into particrly unforgiving surfaces, but it was a pleasant sort of pain. ¡°I¡¯ll admit, my grasp of field craft isn¡¯t what it could be. And I¡¯m sure these boys would love to learn from a legendary hero. Isn¡¯t that right?¡± The little king nodded firmly, leaving his sentinel no choice but to follow suit. Kyno considered the two of them. Dark eyes swiveled to me, and the crocodile¡¯s ancient predation shone in their depths. I stepped forward, into the open maw, and offered my hand. You¡¯ve lost some pride, I spoke in the voice of my soul, so the Civic boys wouldn¡¯t hear. Are you going to watch the rest slip away from you too? For reasons that I didn¡¯t know, but intended to find out, the heroes of this ce had been broken down. Rendered less than what they should be. But that did not mean they had lost all of what they were. They were still men and women worth telling stories of. They were still beloved by the Muses, and reviled by the Fates. And this one, looming over me in a winter de with blood dripping from his hands, was still a fearsome predator. ¡°Teach me how to hunt,¡± I bade the Heroic Huntsman. He huffed a breath and sped my hand in his. Chapter 1.45 Chapter 1.45 The Son of Rome When I was a young boy, my father took me into the city of Rome to see a marching band. ¡°There are as many approaches to cultivation as there are stars in the sky,¡± Socrates spoke, his voice a distant thing. It was my first clear memory of the great city. I had grown up sheltered even by the standards of a young patrician. My mother rarely let me out of her sight, such was her anxiety, and so Inguished in my early years with only the members of our estate and a few family friends aspany. For years the vineyard was all I knew - until the day that my father took me from my mother¡¯s arms and brought me to the beating heart of the Republic. The men of the band were dressed in their legion best, parade regalia of crimson cloth and pristine leather. They wore polished bronze breast tes that glimmered in the sun, the eagles of Rome etched lovingly into their surfaces, and had ceremonial des strapped to their hips. They marched proud, and they marched strong. In perfect synch, as one existence. ¡°If there is an objectively correct way to approach the refinement of the self, we have yet to discover it.¡± Some of the men carried tympanon, beating the shallow drums with their hands as they marched. Others bore the long, almost circr curves of brass cornu on their shoulders. Centurians set the pace, easily marked by their distinctive silver helmets - gold trimmed and bristling with crimson manes. They marched down the streets of Rome in cadence, and their music was like nothing I had ever heard before. ¡°Every cult has its own methods, and so do all the major families. There are schools of philosophy run by men who think themselves wise, and schools of war overseen by men who know that some virtues can only be taught at the tip of a de. There are benefits to almost any method and drawbacks to match.¡± I had never seen a city street before that day, let alone a city street in the midst of a parade. Hundreds of people - thousands - lined the stone steps of temples and bathhouses, balconies and rooftops, all of them straining for a clear look at the marching men. I was overwhelmed in more ways than one. The people, the music, the sights and sounds and scents of the city, they were all so much harsher than what I had known within the walls of my family¡®s estate. It was all so vibrant. My father hefted me up in the crook of his arm so I could see over the crowds. He pointed out elements of the parade that a child¡¯s eyes wouldn¡¯t pick out on their own, describing with quiet pride the hours upon hours of practice that had gone into those simple marching columns. He exined to me the codedmands the centurions were barking out, how those samemands practiced here would serve the legions in coordinating men on the battlefield. Even here, they prepared themselves for war. ¡°In general, how a man refines the aspects of his virtue is less important than what that virtue is. It¡¯s amon saying that the grandest monuments are built upon the strongest foundations. Virtue is that foundation - it is excellence of the soul, and it requires constant work. That is what cultivation is, stripped of all our proud descriptions. Refinement of the body and soul.¡± What struck me the hardest about that day, watching legionnaires march down marble boulevards as if on their way to war, was how they greeted my father. Every boy grows up thinking the world of his father, but few have the privilege of seeing that respect reflected in the eyes of other men. That day, I realized that my father wasn¡¯t the great man I had always known him to be. No. Watching legionnaires, centurions, and even noble tribunes divert from their perfect formations as they passed to tip their heads in respect to my father, I realized that he was an even greater man than I had thought. Captain, they called him, though he was not there in uniform. It didn¡¯t matter. In the city of Rome, rank could be forfeited. It could be retired or revoked. But it could never be fully taken from a man once it had been given to him. Though Cincinnatus returned home to toil in his fields after the work of a Dictator was done, there wasn¡¯t a soul in Rome that would dare refer to him with anything less than the full respect he hadmanded at his height. My father was no different. Though he wasn¡¯t a Captain at that time, he had been in the past, and he had earned his ce among the men of the legions. They never forgot it, and they never acted otherwise. Because, eventually, they knew he¡¯d be back. They knew he was that kind of man. And in the end, they were proven right. ¡°Gravitas is your foundational virtue. A Roman virtue.¡± ¡°You know all these people?¡± I asked my father, astonished in the way that only young children could be. He chuckled. ¡°More than you¡¯d think, but less than I should.¡± ¡°But they all know you.¡± ¡°Not quite. They know of me.¡± ¡°What¡¯s the difference?¡± I asked, confused. But he only smiled and watched the band march. ¡°You have Rome in your mind¡¯s eye,¡± Socrates said. ¡°Keep it there, and refine your musing. You know of Rome and your ce within it. Now, picture virtue within that. The heart beats inside the chest, the mind dwells inside the skull, and the gut hungers inside the stomach. But what of virtue? ¡°Where is Gravitas found within Rome?¡± The cries of the people and the marchingmands of the centurions fell away at once. The rion calls of the curving horns vanished like they¡¯d never been. The only sounds that remained in the city of Rome were the beating of the drums, and the pounding of marching boots. ¡°Son,¡± my father said, thest voice in Rome, ¡°can you see where they¡¯re going?¡± Darkness encroached on the edges of memory, at the end of every alley, and the men of the legions walked in quick-step into that void. I reached out, inexplicably terrified for them in a way that I knew I hadn¡¯t been when I was living this memory. ¡°They¡¯re off to fight our demons.¡± ¡°Where?¡± I asked desperately, though I already knew. ¡°Here,¡± he said, and tapped my heart. I blinked pyre smoke out of my eyes, staring down at my fathers corpse on its bed of broken shields. The men of the Fifth gathered around him in somber silence, drawn despite broken limbs and battered bodies to his side. I scrubbed the smoke from my stinging eyes, and gazed upon the broken corpse of a wolf in the shape of a man. The men of the Fifth stood bristling around me, the Prime Cohort seething at the sight of the creatures that had brought down Caesar. I raised my boot and hammered it down, shattering the demon skull. The Prime Cohort roared their approval. I squinted against the spray of blood, wavering points of light in the night sky above, and cast around for a single Roman soul. I didn¡¯t find them, not one - but I found their corpses. The men of the fifth legion had known ours was a losing battle, and yet somehow, inexplicably, here they were. Surrounding me, when they should have fled. nking me, when they should have kept their ranks. Broken, beaten, and damned. ¡°There are as many paths to refinement as there are stars in the sky. What¡¯s important is that you know where you¡¯re going. What matters is that you know why you want to get there.¡± It doesn¡¯t matter who avenges the city of Rome, so long as she¡¯s avenged. I had said those words, hadn¡¯t I? I had believed them with all my heart. ¡°A cultivator can¡¯t advance unless they know what they are advancing towards. You¡¯ve captured Rome in your mind¡¯s eye, and you¡¯ve captured Gravitas. Your beginning, and your middle. Now, envision the end.¡± As if I could ever be satisfied with such a conclusion. I stalked through fields of broken corpses, demons crushed beneath the weight of Gravitas. I ripped and tore beneath crow-darkened skies. And when I finally reached the ursed city of Carthage, I burned it to the ground. I tore out the Carthaginian captain¡¯s beating heart while it choked on the ash, and I poured salt into the gaping wound. ¡°Salt and ash,¡± I snarled in a voice more guttural and inhuman than its own, staring into its wicked gold eyes while I bit into its heart. Salt and ash. Salt and ash. Do you know why Africanus salted the city of Carthage after his work was done, Solus? My father asked me, while I trudged across the ruin of their home with fistfuls of white mineral. His gut was a bloody ruin, the armor blown out. Do you know why he broke all their metal works and scattered their children? Where my birth father was mangled, my adopted father moved in shadows - I didn''t know how he''d died, even now. But his voice was still clear. He burnt Carthage to ash so he could win the war. He salted it so nothing would ever grow again. I opened my eyes inside the estate of the Raging Heaven¡¯ste kyrios, and found myself covered in soot and cave minerals. Beside me, Selene continued to meditate with her eyes closed, humming a tuneless song. Socrates eyed me, sitting across on his own nest of nkets and silk. ¡°Are you familiar with your master¡¯s theory of the elements, boy?¡± ¡°Of course,¡± I said. The words came out hoarse. ¡°Air, water, earth, fire - and aether.¡± ¡°And aether,¡± he echoed, in quiet contemtion. He grunted. ¡°Four terrestrial elements, and four properties thatbine to create them.¡± ¡°Hot, cold, dry, and wet,¡± I recited. I ached for a jug of water, but unfortunately it had all been dumped out onto the floor. I frowned, considering the puddles scattered around the room. They had been closer to me before, hadn¡¯t they? ¡°Aristotle posits that just as every material object on this earth can be reduced to itsposite elements, so too can abstract concepts. Principles, passions, and purposes. He theorized that virtues can be expressed in an elemental form because they share the same fundamental properties.¡± The great philosopherid one hand on his knee, leaning forward. ¡°Do you remember which propertiesbine to create which elements, boy?¡± I swallowed, and tasted the soot of the burning furniture. The tang of the minerals carved off of the cave¡¯s stone walls. ¡°Hot and wet create air. Wet and cold create water. Cold and dry create earth. Dry and hot -¡± I looked down at my hands, covered in soot and mineral dust. Dry and hot. Theponent parts of my virtue. Socrates sighed and rose to his feet. ¡°I should have guessed. That worthless boy is the same as he¡¯s always been. ¡°Everything he touches turns to me.¡± Chapter 1.46 Chapter 1.46 The Young Griffon ¡°Lio! Teach-¡± I pped the little king upside his head. He yelped. ¡°When did I say you could call me that?¡± ¡°Griffon,¡± he amended, rubbing at the spot where I¡¯d struck him. ¡°Teach us.¡± ¡°I refuse.¡± ¡°What- You can¡¯t refuse!¡± ¡°And why not?¡± ¡°Because he¡¯s the king,¡± his older brother said, doing his best to impart authority through a ten year old¡¯s voice. ¡°When the king makes a demand, ites from two mouths. The mouth of the man and the mouth of the kingdom.¡± I smiled faintly. ¡°Then I refuse him twice.¡± The two boys shouted in outrage and leapt on my back, clinging like monkeys while they hammered punches into my side. I locked them in ce with pankration hands and reached back, digging knuckles of flesh and blood into their fire-branded hair and rubbing viciously. Their battle cries turned to shrieks of pain in an instant. I let them go, leaving them to roll on the ground and rub at their heads while I walked through the vast storm-carved gates that separated the Raging Heaven Cult from the city of Olympia. Unlike most metropolitan constructions of this scale, it had no men to guard it. Any unfortunate soul that tried to slip past the cult and through these unmarked gates would have theirborid out for them. The cult guarded this side of the city, that was universally known, and any that came down the mountain would of course be wee in Olympia. The Stairway to Raging Heaven that connected the Half-Step City to Kaukoso Mons was no less bombastic than the rest of the cult. Upon each step a man¡¯s name was carved, iid with precious gems that burned even in the pitch dark night. Titles and nicknames were present just the same. Each name was a living soul within the Raging Heaven Cult. Each name was a man or a woman standing at the foot of the mountain, casting defiance up at the stars. But that wasn¡¯t the most interesting thing about this stairway. What had first drawn my eye, and what still did now as I approached, was how the names changed. Lambros. Nikitas. Lyko. Three steps, and a name for each, each glowing with a progressively brighter blue light as the steps ascended. But my eyes drifted, and when they drifted back, the names were changed. Mideia, Annita, and Flora. Every step leading from Olympia to the hallowed grounds of the Raging Heaven Cult was iid with a mystiko¡¯s name, and at the same time, the stairs were iid with every mystiko¡¯s name. There were forty-one steps on the stairway to heaven. One for every rank and realm of cultivation. And each step proudly proimed the names of every mystiko who shared that rank. ¡°Wait!¡± The little king and his sentinel bounded up the steps after me, stepping over the names of the civic cultivators within the Raging Heaven Cult - children of senior initiates, those lucky enough to be born into an institution that otherwise only epted the best. ¡°I won¡¯t,¡± I dered, but manifested pankration arms obligingly when they jumped on my back again. This time they simply hung on and peered over each of my shoulders. ¡°Theri said we weren¡¯t to leave the house,¡± spoke the sentinel that called himself Pyr, though his heart wasn¡¯t in it. The boy¡¯s nose scrunched, eyes roving intently over the entry to the grandest institution in the free world. His younger brother didn¡¯t even bother pretending. ¡°We¡¯ve never been up this way before,¡± spoke the little king that called himself Leo. He set his chin on my shoulder, peering down at the steps curiously. ¡°Whose names are those? Past members?¡± I shook my head, stepping onto the first rank of the Sophic Realm - someone named Vaso. When I raised that foot, the name was changed to Kovos. ¡°These are existing cultivators, your rivals and friends,¡± I exined. ¡°The Raging Heaven Cult keeps a living ount of their members, along with their standing among heaven and earth.¡± ¡°How do you know?¡± the little king asked. I stepped up onto the second rank of the Sophic Realm, the name Griffon disappearing beneath my feet, and when I moved on up the name was unchanged. The boys¡¯ eyes drifted over the step without pause. As I had suspected, the stairway to heaven would always show you your ce among your peers, but others wouldn¡¯t necessarily see the same thing. ¡°A hunch.¡± ¡°So you don¡¯t know,¡± the little king concluded. Ho, was that scorn? I continued up eight more steps and then fell into a crouch on the tenth step of the Sophic Realm, looking down at the next step where mortal man became legends. The boys tensed on my back, and the little sentinel reached across my shoulders to shove his little brother. ¡°Apologize,¡± he hissed. ¡°Why should a king apologize?¡± I asked, and they both rxed. I smiled faintly. ¡°I expect an answer.¡± I considered the first step of the Heroic Realm while they exchanged hurried whispers. The higher up the stairway you went, the fewer names you would see. That wasmon sense, given how few managed admittance to the Sophic Realm, let alone those of heroes and tyrants. I swept my hand across the time-weathered stone, watched the name carved into its face inexplicably shift. Periklis, Wave Dancer, became Amalia, the Breeze. The Breeze became Haris, Wind Weaver. The Wind Weaver became Elissa, the Sword Song. ¡°The only time a king should apologize is to his people,¡± little Leo decided. Pyr nodded in firm agreement. ¡°Under what circumstances?¡± I asked, passing my hand over the Sword Song¡¯s name, and revealing Kyno¡¯s in its wake. ¡°Does the citizen have a right to the king¡¯s apology whenever they desire it? How about the metic, or the freedman? What of the ve?¡± ¡°Of course not!¡± ¡°And why not?¡± I asked curiously. ¡°A king doesn¡¯t owe a ve anything, any more than he owes an enemy,¡± Pyr said at once. ¡°His duty is to his citizens and his soldiers, the men that owe him everything because he¡¯s given it to them. The only time a king apologizes is when he¡¯s failed his kingdom.¡± ¡°Are the metics and freedmen included in that kingdom?¡± He hesitated. ¡°Here, in Greece, they are.¡± ¡°They are,¡± the little king said firmly. ¡°So freedom is the deciding factor,¡± I mused. ¡°A king should apologize only if it¡¯s a free man he¡¯s apologizing to, is that it?¡± ¡°That¡¯s part of it,¡± little Leo agreed. ¡°And if he does otherwise, he ceases to be a king?¡± On that, neither boy hesitated to voice their agreement. I considered that for a moment, along with the next step on the stairway to heaven. ¡°Do you know why they built this stairway?¡± I finally asked. ¡°Can you see its significance?¡± ¡°You said it was to keep an ount of the initiates,¡± Pyr said. ¡°Beyond that.¡± They joined me in staring down at the first step of the Heroic Realm as I passed my hand back and forth across it, watching the names shift and glow. ¡°You have to step on them.¡± The little king realized it first. ¡°Go on,¡± I encouraged him, but his brother spoke next. ¡°These are initiates of the cult,¡± little Pyr said. ¡°These are their names, their pride, and yet¡­¡± I passed my hand over the step one more time, and in its wake, the name Eleftherios, Gold-String Guardian remained. ¡°Theri,¡± the little king breathed. His sentinel leaned back, clinging to my shoulder while he looked down the steps and counted under his breath. ¡°Twenty-one,¡± he finally said, once he¡¯d reached his guardian¡¯s step. His eyes widened. ¡°These aren¡¯t steps.¡± ¡°That¡¯s exactly what they are.¡± I corrected him. ¡°That¡¯s exactly what cultivation is. A Stairway to Raging Heaven.¡± That was why this structure that connected the city of Olympia to the Raging Heaven Cult was only wide enough for a single man to walk it at any given time. That was why the steps were engraved with the names of all those that cultivated virtue beneath the wrathful crown of the Storm That Never Ceased. ¡°What am I supposed to teach you boys, hm? I¡¯m climbing these steps the same as you. I¡¯m grasping for understanding the same as you are. And I, lowly sophist that I am, am striving to be stronger in the same way that you are. You¡¯re closer to me in rank and standing than I am to your guardian. What can a second rank Philosopher teach you that a Hero cannot?¡± ¡°Theri said you¡¯re lying about your rank,¡± the little king said at once. ¡°He said you¡¯re hiding things, and that¡¯s why he left the other day. That¡¯s why he hasn¡¯te back yet. He¡¯s looking for answers.¡± ¡°That sounds like something you weren¡¯t supposed to tell me,¡± I noted. ¡°We¡¯ve already crossed that line,¡± the older boy said wearily. I patted his head. ¡°Your guardian says a lot of things, and a few of them are even true,¡± I said. ¡°But what¡¯s more unbelievable? That mypanion and I infiltrated the nexus of the free Mediterranean posing as philosophers and immediately outed ourselves to your guardian and his friends, or that we are simply the best philosophers this world has ever seen?¡± ¡°Thetter,¡± the young king said at once. Iughed. ¡°And yet here we are. You said before that operating on a hunch, a gut feeling, was the same thing as not knowing anything at all. But that¡¯s just it. We are all of us operating on instinct and the greater intuition, more and more the higher we ascend as cultivators. ¡°Since we forgot the names of those that came before us and their faces were scoured from our holy ces, everything beyond the realm of Tyrants has been unknown. The path is unmarked. A Tyrant, then, is a man following his gut to divinity, forck of all other guidance. That is why we associate them with the hunger. ¡°I¡¯m sure Lefteris has done his best to teach you the ways of the world, and I would be surprised if a little king and his sentinel had not received the best education money could provide before you ran away from home. But what you fail to understand, what so many fail to grasp, is that cultivation is not a solved system.¡± ¡°What do you mean?¡± asked the little king. Ah, there it was. Finally, the look of someone ready to learn. ¡°We ascribe reason to Philosophers, spirit to Heroes, and hunger to Tyrants, because centuries ago a man followed his intuition into the darkness of uncertainty and pulled from it a theory. He observed the world around him, and though no one had ever spoken to him before of the tripartite soul, although he had received no mandate from heaven on the subject, he decided that it fit. And so he tested his hunch. And he was right. ¡°Now, I speak of the tripartite soul and you nod along as if our father in the sky spoke the words through my own mouth. But he didn¡¯t. And he never will. Do you know why?¡± Both boys shook their heads, wide-eyed and intent. ¡°Because cultivation is refinement of the self. And heaven has no need for a man that can¡¯t make it up on his own. The father has no need for a man that¡¯s afraid of the dark. You want me to teach you how to flex your pneuma and strike like a fighter, but those are worthless if you don¡¯t have the proper mindset to develop them further once I¡¯m gone. Before strength, you need perspective. ¡°A cultivator of the Raging Heaven is someone seeking divinity,¡± I said, and the words rang true in my beating heart. This cult was soft, rotten from the inside out, but it hadn¡¯t always been that way. Its foundations were still strong - carved from the mountain and embedded with amethyst and gold. ¡°The path to heaven is only one man wide, and all the world is moring to reach the top. So how do you make the trip? Do you wait for all of those in front of you to make it there first, follow the path that heaven carved from stone just for you?¡± ¡°No,¡± the little sentinel said quietly. ¡°You step over top,¡± said the little king, steel in his mismatched eyes. ¡°On the shoulders of the men who came before you.¡± ¡°And when there are no more men in front of you? When all that''s left is darkened steps and howling chaos?¡± ¡°You keep running. You let your intuition guide you.¡± ¡°The king can learn,¡± I said approvingly. And with that, I bounded up the remaining steps while the boys hung on for dear life,ughing and whooping. Heroes and Tyrants vanished beneath my feet, and Inded adroitly on the forty-first step - whatever had been carved there once now faded and worn away. I nted my hands on my hips and looked up at the proper path that wound through the raging Heaven cult, the steps widening to the point where a group of eight rowdy drunks could stumble up it after a hard day¡¯s drinking. The storm gates here were a mirror of the ones at the foot of the stairway to heaven, but these were guarded. I waved pankration hands at the senior philosophers standing guard at the entrance to a cult I was most certainly not wee in, and after a moment they waved back. ¡°What¡¯s your name, friend?¡± one of them called. ¡°And your business with the Raging Heaven Cult?¡± the other asked. On my back, I felt the boys shuffle and try to hide themselves. I snorted. ¡°My name is Griffon, and these are my students,¡± I replied, smiling brightly as my pneuma coiled and surged within me. Crows could be anyone in the light of day, bereft of their shadowed veils. Even gatekeepers. The guards exchanged a look and immediately stepped aside, holding their shields to their chests and mming the butts of their spears against the stone. ¡°The Raging Heaven wees you,¡± the one on the left dered. ¡°And pities you,¡± the other on the right said. I blinked. ¡°And why is that?¡± They exchanged sly smiles. ¡°The Gadfly is known for many things, some of them even good,¡± the gatekeeper on the left exined. ¡°His treatment of his students is not one of those things,¡± finished the gatekeeper on the right. Rest assured, all of us here envy the insight you¡¯ll surely gain under his guidance.¡± ¡°But we wouldn¡¯t trade ces with you for all the gold in Egypt.¡± Both men chuckled, and I tilted my head. ¡°So, Socrates has imed me as his own.¡± ¡°It¡¯s an honor few have ever enjoyed. Stand proud,¡± The gatekeeper on the left said,ying a friendly punch into my shoulder as I passed. I returned the gesture, pping each of them on the back with hands of formless intent, Lefteris¡¯ boys clinging silently to me. ¡°Ah, a moment!¡± the one on the right suddenly said. I nced back, raising an eyebrow, and the guard waved a hand, as if to say ¡®what can you do?¡¯ ¡°We¡¯ll still need to know the purpose of your visit, for the records.¡± ¡°Recuperation is the standard response,¡± his fellow exined. ¡°That or lecture.¡± I hummed, considering. ¡°Neither.¡± Their brows furrowed. ¡°Then¡­?¡± I turned back up the mountain. ¡°I¡¯m here to punch an old man in the throat.¡± Chapter 1.47 Chapter 1.47 The Son of Rome ¡°You were right to seek out Aristotle first.¡± I watched deathnce towards my heart, a spear with a dull wooden tip that was better suited for a stage y thanbat. And yet the rules of nature clung to its tip, and I perceived its simple truth through the lense of my Sophic sense. A man dies from a spear through the heart. I knew, like I knew that the skies above were blue on a cloudless day, that his spear of dull oak would skewer me as sure as any bronze or iron. That it would kill me where Gaius¡¯ campaigns and howling wolves had failed. As if I¡¯d allow such a thing. Dull wood can¡¯t pierce bronze te, I dered in the voice of my soul, and the rhetoric clinging to the practice weapon dispersed just as Socrates drove it into my chest. The haft cracked in his hands, the head of the spear crumpling against my breastte. ¡°The foundation of a man is built over the course of years, and to tear that foundation apart after it¡¯s settled takes twice the effort. Far easier to find a mentor that knows that foundation, who has built upon it before - either in his own lifetime, or through his students.¡± Socrates pressed me with his broken spear, parrying the one I had stolen from the temple of the father with infuriating ease. Oracles heckled and cheered all around us, reaching out to shove at my mentor or pull at me when we passed too close to their tripods. I grit my teeth as he wound another rule of nature around his broken spearhead and fractured shaft, mending them both in the blink of an eye. ¡°Any man can teach fundamentals, assuming he¡¯s familiar with them himself,¡± the Gadfly continued, without a hitch in his voice. ¡°But you''re past that. You¡¯ve established your virtue, your foundations have been set, and now you''re faced with a choice.¡± Dull wood can pierce bronze tes at times, Socrates dered, and in the span of an instant, faster than the blink of an eye, he assaulted me with the truth of his own experience. In that brief instant, Socrates¡¯ pneuma, his rhetoric, shed with mine and showed me a memory. Broken men in the earth, screaming horses and calls to retreat. Beneath me, a son of Helen, a brother set against me by war. He reached desperately for the short de on his belt. I raised the shaft of my broken spear and drove it through the crack in his breastte. I inhaled sharply and dodged right, watching the practice spear lurch through the space where my heart had just been. I knew that if I had still been standing there, it would have broken through my breastte just the same as it had in his memory. Exhaling, I twisted at the hips and swung the shaft of my spear as hard as I could at his knees. He hopped over it obligingly, and I tackled him out of the air. ¡°That¡¯s it!¡± the Oracle of the baster Isles cheered. ¡°Take it to the ground!¡± ¡°Between his legs, boy!¡± heckled the Oracle of the Broken Tide. ¡°It¡¯s a small target, but it¡¯ll make him sing!¡± ¡°You''re a troubled case,¡± Socrates continued, as we grappled. ¡°Aristotle left you half-finished and the legions filled in the rest. Why is it, you think, that we call a cultivator¡¯s formative years their foundation? What purpose does it serve to evoke such an image? The barbarians of the world call it by countless other names- what does a Roman call it?¡± Foundation establishment. The Greeks used it to describe the refinement of a Citizen, a cultivator in the first realm. Once a cultivator ascended to the realm of Philosophers, no matter how long it took them, their foundations were considered established. In Rome, in the legions, we¡¯d known a simr concept. A point of no return where a man became what it was that he¡¯d be for the rest of his days. The first blow struck. And then in his actions, Gaius had given us a name for it. ¡°Crossing the Rubicon,¡± I said, and the mystery of the Babel shard tranted it to another word as it hit the air. A concept Aristotle had taught me in a distant memory. The first philosophy. Metaphysika. I snarled as Socrates pinned my legs with his own and shoved his palm up under my chin. Leveraging all my strength to the right, I rolled us. ¡°And why call it that?¡± he asked. ¡°What does it represent?¡± Sea water struck us before I could answer, a wave appearing from nowhere, and as I coughed and spat I heard the crone of the Broken Tide cackle. Socrates growled in annoyance and ripped the sandal off my foot before I could stop him, twisting and heaving it with all his might. Dona¡¯sughter turned to an indignant shriek, and stone shattered. ¡°Advance and consign yourself to never-ending ascension,¡± I coughed out. Exploiting the crone¡¯s distraction for everything I could, I mmed my forehead into Socrates¡¯ nose and wrenched my arm up under his knee, prying it out of its lock. ¡°When Gaius crossed the Rubicon in defiance of the senate, he condemned himself to eternity. An endless expansion of Rome as he saw it.¡± I will step down when the enemies of Rome are dead and gone. Since the birth of the republic, Dictator had stood unchallenged as the highest realm a cultivator could touch. For Gaius, it hadn¡¯t been enough. And so he¡¯d pressed on further and found whaty beyond. Dictator Perpetuo. ¡°Then, to establish your foundations is to take the first step towards building something greater, endless in its expanse,¡± Socrates said, hammering my right side until I was forced to let go and defend it. ¡°Is that fair to say?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± I growled, wedging my forearm under his chin when he tried to bring it down, pressing with everything I had against him. ¡°And what does the other half of you call it? What does the Greek in you say?¡± ¡°Metaphysics,¡± I answered, straining, but Socrates was too strong. He tossed me off and we rose with our spears in hand again. ¡°The study of abstractions. The contemtion of things that can¡¯t be directly observed.¡± ¡°The first principle,¡± Socrates concluded, and threw his spear at me like it was a toy javelin. A dozen whispering truths propelled it through the air faster than any spear had a right to move. They clung sharply to its tip, his rhetoric imbuing it with piercing truths. It was too fast for me to dodge, too fast for me to unravel every portion of the rhetoric surrounding it, and far too fast for me to even think of countering them. What else could I do but meet it head on? The captain leads from the front. I lunged forward and met his spear with mine, tip to tip. The wooden spear exploded with a whistling boom, pelting thete kyrios¡¯ courtyard with shards of splintered wood. The Oracles shielded themselves with their myriad mysteries, some pping and others whistling in appreciation. I scowled and twirled the celestial spear once before mming its butt against the mosaic floor. ¡°What you call rhetoric is a de with more than one edge,¡± Socrates said, rolling his left shoulder and pacing around the room. I watched him warily, but for the moment it seemed our spar was over. ¡°Tell me, how many forms have you noticed today?¡± ¡°Three.¡± He rolled his hand at the wrist, urging me on. ¡°Invoking the rules of nature,¡± I said, contemting the eerie bite of a spear that should have had no chance against a sturdy bronze breastte. ¡°By emphasizing one aspect of your weapon, one strength, you can bypass its weaknesses.¡± That one had been hammered into me countless times over thest few days, every iteration of the lesson more punishing than thest. ¡°But it can be countered. Inconsistencies can be pointed out to disrupt it.¡± ¡°It applies to more than just weapons, boy. But yes. The second?¡± I backed up one step too far. Slim hands wound around my neck and through my hair, pulling my back against the warm stone of a holy tripod. Long, thick legs wrapped around my chest, pinning me in ce. ¡°My, my, look what I caught,¡± the Oracle of the baster Isles whispered in my ear. ¡°My own barbarian prince.¡± ¡°Chara!¡± Selene cried, outraged. I tilted my head back, ring up at the holy woman. ¡°I¡¯m no prince.¡± ¡°No, I suppose you¡¯re not,¡± she mused, her nails dragging down my scalp just gently enough not to break skin. ¡°You¡¯re all that remains, aren¡¯t you? That makes you king.¡± ¡°That makes me nothing,¡± I told her quietly. ¡°It makes me no one.¡± I leveraged the captain¡¯s virtue against the eerie depths of her influence. She leaned back just a hair, her eyes dancing. ¡°Focus,¡± Socrates said, suddenly beside us, and Chara sputtered as he nted an open palm against her face and shoved her off her own holy tripod. He continued on, pacing around the room. I stepped away from the indignant oracle, over to the scarlet side of the octagonal room where Selene was watching me with concern. ¡°Are you alright, Solus?¡± she asked once I was close enough. ¡°Fine.¡± I set my elbow on the edge of her tripod and leaned most of my weight against it. It had been a long morning. ¡°Sometime today,¡± Socrates called. I shook my head. ¡°The second aspect of rhetoric,¡± I recalled. ¡°Persuasion through lived experience. Even if a man¡¯s knowledge of a thing tells him something, you can persuade him otherwise with your own recollections.¡± The blunt shaft of a spear could not possibly punch through a bronze breastte like papyrus, I knew that. But Socrates had lived his own life, he had served as I had served - for longer, likely - and he had lived through one of those umon circumstances in which such a thing could happen. He had done it himself and he¡¯d shown me the work. That was a powerful thing to argue against, though I could have, if I¡¯d had the time to do so in the middle of our bout. But I hadn¡¯t had the time. And that had been the point. ¡°You just realized something,¡± Socrates observed, though he wasn¡¯t looking at me. ¡°Share it with us.¡± ¡°Your rhetoric was wed,¡± I said, frowning. ¡°The shaft of your spear was enough to punch through that breastte only because a stronger weapon had already cracked it sometime prior. You were striking a weak point, not an intact piece like mine.¡± ¡°It was a warhorse that did it, actually,¡± he corrected me idly. ¡°The beast trampled him underfoot - nearly caved his chest in whole. But yes, you raise a fair point. So why did you dodge? Why didn¡¯t you counter me, as you had just before that?¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t have time,¡± I said, searching for the words. ¡°When you were invoking just one truth at a time, telling me rather than showing me, it was like a thrust I could parry. But that¡­ that was an ambush. I had to recognize it before I could counter it. I had to understand what you were trying to convey, find a w in your reasoning, all that before I could even attempt to counter it. I didn¡¯t have time.¡± ¡°Good,¡± he said, nodding. ¡°Rhetoric is about more than truth alone. Every man¡¯s truth is a slightly different shade, you¡¯ll find that out soon enough. A false argument presented in bad faith can be more powerful than the truth as you know it, so long as it is convincing. Not a righteous approach, but one you¡¯ll have to contend with.¡± ¡°Third,¡± I murmured. In a prior lesson, Socrates had listed several words with heavy meaning, joined concepts of note. Among them were Purpose, Passion, and, ¡°Principle.¡± The captain leads from the front. Socrates ceased his pacing, eyeing me from across the courtyard. The Oracles lounging off to his right and off to his left, belonging to the Howling Wind Cult and the Blind Maiden Cult respectively, each leaned forward with interest. ¡°Exin.¡± ¡°We are men of principle,¡± I said, reciting the words like a prayer, as Griffon had in the temple of the father. ¡°Each of us holds dear to our hearts an ideal, a state of being that we aspire to every day of our lives. Something that we cannot achieve as citizens alone.¡± Socrates crossed his arms, the muscles in his forearms flexing as he considered me. ¡°We call it the first principle because it¡¯s the first valuable thought a man has in his life,¡± he finally said. I considered that, considered the words. The ideal. The Romanmander, leading the charge against the screaming hordes. Yes. That sounded right. ¡°There¡¯s power in striving towards something greater than yourself,¡± I continued, sounding out the words as much as speaking them. But they felt right. They thrummed through the channels that the Reign-Holder¡¯s marrow had burnt through me, empowering me. Allowing me to stand up straight, where I had been forced to lean on Selene¡¯s dais moments before. ¡°And there¡¯s power in getting closer.¡± ¡°And if you live counter to that ideal?¡± Socrates challenged me. ¡°If you return to the earth the principle that you cast off your silk bonds of mortality for?¡± Every oracle answered as one. A sorrowful epitaph. ¡°Deviation.¡± Chapter 1.48 Chapter 1.48 The Young Griffon ¡°The old man you¡¯re here to punch,¡± whispered the little king, Leo, ¡°it¡¯s the Gadfly, isn¡¯t it?¡± ¡°It is.¡± ¡°We¡¯ll help you,¡± the little king decided. ¡°Won¡¯t we, Pyr?¡± His loyal sentinel nodded. ¡°I don¡¯t recall asking for your help.¡± The boys shared a look behind my back, still clinging to me like monkeys as I ascended through the various estates of the Raging Heaven Cult. ¡°Where we¡¯re from,¡± Pyr, the little sentinel, said, ¡°a student has to prove himself before his mentor will take him on. The greater the student, the greater his deed will be.¡± ¡°The two of you assisted me inbat against a hero¡¯s virtuous beast,¡± I said, patting them both on their cloth-covered heads with pankration hands. ¡°I know philosophers that wouldn¡¯t have the guts for such a thing. Was that not enough for you?¡± ¡°Of course not,¡± the little king hissed, indignant. ¡°What sort of king stops short at a beast?¡± I found myself smiling. ¡°You two remind me of my cousins,¡± I said, amused. I nodded at a trio of young philosophers as they walked past. Their eyes lingered on the Rosy Dawn attire hanging around my waist, on theurel wreaths wrapped around each of my biceps, and on the pair of mongrel children hanging off my shoulders. I clearly saw their suspicion of me at war with their confidence in the men that guarded the mountain. I did not belong, but I could not possibly be here against the will of the Raging Heaven. They hesitantly nodded back and hurried down the steps. ¡°You have cousins?¡± the little sentinel asked. ¡°How many?¡± the little king asked eagerly. ¡°Five.¡± ¡°And how many siblings?¡± ¡°None that I know of,¡± I said lightly. ¡°That you know of?¡± the little king¡¯s brow furrowed. ¡°What does that mean?¡± ¡°It means my father is a worldly man. He traveled the Mediterranean to its furthest limits when he was my age. Who is to say how many seeds he nted along the way?¡± ¡°Is he a powerful cultivator?¡± ¡°Of course he was,¡± the little king answered his brother¡¯s question scornfully. ¡°Just look at his son. The proper question is how powerful is he? Griffon?¡± ¡°I wonder,¡± I mused, looking up past the amethyst veins of Kaukoso Mons, past the Storm That Never Ceases, to the risen sun. ¡°A thought urs to me.¡± The boys leaned in attentively. ¡°You said that the greater a student is, the greater their offering will naturally be to a prospective mentor. I¡¯m assuming in the city of your birth that such transactions are often more materialistic than what you¡¯re suggesting. Riches rather than actions.¡± Their silence spoke volumes. I chuckled and flicked them both on their noses. ¡°I have no issue being paid with virtue over vice. However, the other thing that urred to me - if a hopeful student¡¯s offering is scaled to their worth, then wouldn¡¯t a prospective mentor¡¯s price be scaled in the same way?¡± ¡°That¡¯s true¡­¡± Pyr slowly agreed. ¡°What¡¯s your point?¡± little Leo demanded. ¡°You¡¯ve offered to take up arms against the Gadfly with me,¡± I reiterated, waiting for them both to signal their agreement. ¡°To stand against the Schr, an act that I¡¯ve personally seen Heroic cultivators cringe away from as if I¡¯d asked them to dive into the Styx. What you¡¯ve offered is more than most men would ever willingly give.¡± I tilted my head back, smilingnguidly at the upstart vagrants from the city of conquerors. Home to the Scattered Foam Cult. ¡°What makes you think that is nearly good enough to be my students?¡± ¡°What!?¡± the little king shouted, pounding on my back. ¡°That¡¯s unreasonable! That¡¯s beyond unreasonable, even for a king - and you¡¯re no king!¡± ¡°Who told you that?¡± I asked curiously. ¡°... you are?¡± The little sentinel whispered. ¡°Of course.¡± ¡°King of what? King of where?¡± little Leo pressed me. ¡°King of the greatest kingdom among heaven and earth. King of the only kingdom that matters.¡± ¡°Where?¡± ¡°Tell us!¡± I tilted my head up. ¡°King of the rising sun.¡± Then I threw them both through an open door. A medical pavilion had no business being opulent, but here we were. The Raging Heaven had decorated its ce for the ill and infirm with tapestries of the first physician and exquisitely stitched depictions of the greatest of his works. Alchemical processes and the distition of medications were stitched into a visual format, recipes that were pleasing to the eye. Carved into each of the supporting pirs that held up the roof was a line from the Hippocratic oath, the same oath that I had taken with Anastasia as my witness in the forests outside of Olympia. The boys scrambled to their feet amidst the scolding of physicians. A man in a pure white tunic with sashes of indigo and gold wrapped tightly around his forearms and hands stalked over from a nearby bed to berate them. Panicked, the little sentinel ced himself between his brother and the approaching surgeon. The little king grit his teeth and balled his fists. ¡°Senior!¡± I greeted him gaily, stepping into the medical pavilion where mystikos of the Raging Heaven came to be made well. The man looked sharply my way as I entered. He was tan, shorter than Scythas with a stockier build; cultivation had rendered him aesthetically rugged rather than runty. As his influence crested against mine, I identified him as a Philosopher of the fifth rank. He was old enough to be my father. This was a man that had gained entrance to the Raging Heaven through specialized knowledge of medicine alone, rather than through exceptional cultivation. Which meant that he was an utterly unremarkable man in one sense, and a valuable resource in another. ¡°Who¡¯s your senior?¡± The irritated physician demanded, picking the little sentinel up by the back of his peplos. His younger brother tensed, and I saw murder in the coiling of his body. ¡°I¡¯ve never seen you in my life, and I¡¯ve especially never seen these two-¡± With the hands of my violent intent I struck the physician at a vulnerable juncture in his wrist, catching the little sentinel with pankration hands when the physician¡¯s hand spasmed open, releasing him. The physician¡¯s pneuma flooded the medical pavilion. In the light of the risen sun, pure white sheets seemed to glow as they fell to the marble floor - patients that could move threw off their covers as a cultivator¡¯s fury roused them from a dead sleep. I saw his peers, men and women of varying rank within the Sophic Realm, prepare themselves for a fight. Some immediately made their way over. Others hastened to finish up their current work, bound by the first physician¡¯s oath. ¡°Perhaps an introduction to start,¡± I said, raising my flesh and blood hands in friendly surrender. ¡°Youe into my asclepieia,¡± the stout physician said furiously, advancing on me while the boys stood their ground at my side. ¡°Disrupt my patients. Strike the hand with which I heal-¡± ¡°My name is Griffon,¡± I said, offering him a hand. He pped it aside, standing nose-to-nose with me. He had to crane his neck back to do it, of course, but the sentiment was there. ¡°I don¡¯t know who you think you are, and I don¡¯t care to know either,¡± he said dangerously, the waves of his pneuma crashing against mine. I weathered it without retaliation, raising an eyebrow. ¡°But around here, juniors do not strike a physician¡¯s hands. You think this entire mountain is yours to torment? It¡¯s not. You would-be soldiers need to remember who it is that makes you whole again after tribtion strikes you down.¡± I met his furious eyes, and a broader picture began to form inside my mind. I flooded the healing house with my violent intent, thirty hands of roaring pneuma that flexed and grasped at the open air. The tension grew thick enough that I felt I could open my mouth and take a bite out of it. The healing man in front of me, a physician that had no doubt devoted his life to mending rather than harming, did not falter for even an instant. So it was like that. ¡°My apologies,¡± I said, bowing my head, and with each hand forced the boys to bow theirs as well. ¡°This one is not yet familiar with a physician¡¯s conventions.¡± I didn¡¯t raise my head or allow the boys to raise theirs until the physician stepped back, having found the sincerity in my gesture that he was looking for. I smiled brightly, and he scowled. His brow was heavy, as was his jaw. His eyes were dark slits as they regarded me. ¡°A serene environment is as important as any medicine where the humors are concerned,¡± he said tly. ¡°Your brothers and sisters within this cult depend on that serenity to heal. For some of them, it¡¯s the difference between life and death. Do your roughhousing outside.¡± ¡°Of course, senior.¡± ¡°Otus,¡± he snapped. ¡°It¡¯s Otus. Now get out of my pavilion.¡± ¡°That I can¡¯t do,¡± I said, and it was then that Otus the physician realized I still hadn¡¯t dismissed the manifestations of my violent intent. Instead, they had found purchase on nkets and hanging veils of silk used for privacy. They ripped and they tore. ¡°What-!¡± ¡°I¡¯m here to visit a patient,¡± I said mildly. The boys looked up at me, confused. Ah. There she was. A beautiful woman that could have been five years older than me, or fifty, pulled the sheets up to her neck as two of my pankration hands tore her veil of silk down from around her bed, revealing her to the rest of us. ¡°There you are,¡± I said, stepping through the physician. He stumbled back against another patient¡¯s bed, the ill mystiko reaching out to study the stout doctor. ¡°Who are you?¡± the woman in the bed demanded. She dragged herself up into a sitting position, moving with her arms. From the waist down she was motionless. ¡°I¡¯ve never seen you before.¡± Her pneumashed out, but it was crippled. It broke before it reached me, hardly more than a ripple in a still pond. Her body was broken and her cultivation had broken with it. ¡°How did you know I was here?¡± Her eyes darted to the myriad physicians present in the healing house. Somehow, none of them stopped me. There was an expectant dread in the asclepieia. Somehow, even Otus seemed to be waiting for something. I supposed I might as well deliver it to them. How had I known she¡¯d be here? ¡°A raven told me.¡± The woman whose name was Harmodius paled. The woman who had once been a Crow before my worthless Roman brother threw her off Kaukoso Mons slumped back down on her bed, chest heaving as she began to panic. ¡°None of that, now.¡± Burning pankration hands whirled through the healing house, causing physicians to flinch and stumble as they swept past and settled themselves all across the crippled woman¡¯s body. ¡°I¡¯ve onlye to talk, I promise you that.¡± ¡°You,¡± she gasped, chest heaving. ¡°You.¡± ¡°I,¡± I agreed, and flooded her pneuma with my own. I had wondered, briefly, when my instruction with Anastasia first began, whether the process of healing would be identical to the subsuming of self that the Reign-Holder¡¯s starlight marrow had tried to inflict upon me and Sol. In the end, it hadn¡¯t been the same process at all. It hadn¡¯t even been close. Where the marrow had burned and forced its way past all natural barriers within us, my pneuma simply flowed. I allowed the currents of her own vital breath to guide me, and slowly, her frenzied gasps slowed to match my own deep, steady inhtion. I tracked my pneuma¡¯s progress through her body, each pankration hand pressed against her skin acting as another eye. Serenity. Bnce between the four biles. No matter which path was taken, the destination was ever the same. Eukrasia. Healthy equilibrium. For now, while I was still a student in this field, it was enough to know that the problem would reside where the biles were in greatest flux. I found it immediately. ¡°Your spine is broken,¡± I said quietly. The boys mbered up onto the bed by her legs, watching the mes dance on my pankration hands without burning the sheets. ¡°I already know that.¡± Panic gave way to defeat. ¡°So you¡¯re a physician as well as a thug?¡± Otus said, standing just far enough from the bed for it to be clear that he wasn¡¯t involved. Yet there was rage in those words. In the shaking of his clenched fists. ¡°Not yet,¡± I admitted. ¡°Anastasia isn¡¯t finished with me yet.¡± It was interesting to see how people reacted to a demon¡¯s name. Physicians and patients alike tensed, gasped, averted their eyes and turned away from me. Before this moment I had been a danger sent from an unknown party. But now I was known. The shadow my caustic mentor cast was long. Otus, for his part, only became angrier. ¡°This is a safe ce,¡± he whispered, his voice hoarse. I watched his eyes dart across me, across the hands of my intent. Sizing me up, gauging his odds were he to strike. My respect for him rose, just a bit. ¡°This is a safe ce, like all of the Raging Heaven is meant to be but is not. Like the city of Olympia is meant to be, but is not. Can your power ys not wait until the woman is healed?¡± ¡°No, they can¡¯t,¡± I said frankly, and Harmodius moaned in quiet despair. ¡°Because I¡¯vee to speak to a woman on the mend, and instead I¡¯ve found a cripple.¡± Otus¡¯ brow furrowed. ¡°She¡¯s crippled? Where?¡± the little king asked, concerned. He patted the former crow¡¯s legs and arms, In the gaps where my pankration hands were not covering her. I smacked him on his head and gave his older brother a look. The little sentinel took it for what it was, yanking his brother back to the edge of the bed and hushing hisints. ¡°If I tell you she¡¯s crippled, why would your first impulse be to touch her?¡± I asked him. ¡°I know Lefteris hasn¡¯t set the best example, but try to use your head.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t talk about Theri like that,¡± the little king said petntly. I snorted, turning back to my senior in the field of mending. He was staring hard at me. Trying to unravel something behind my eyes. ¡°You¡¯re Anastasia¡®s student?¡± ¡°In medicine,¡± I confirmed. ¡°Otherwise, she¡¯s a friend.¡± I watched him absorb that, watched the muscles in his cloth-wrapped arms flex as he fought the urge to punch me in my mouth. And I watched the fight go out of a man that had been defied in his own domain. Defied by a lone junior he had never met, whose cultivation was lesser to his own. I frowned. ¡°How many times has this happened?¡± I asked. ¡°Has what happened?¡± he asked. I watched him steadily, until he looked away. ¡°How many times has this happened since the kyrios died?¡± I rified. A nearby physician, a woman with gentle hands and flowers braided in her hair, shivered and turned away. The head physician shook his head. ¡°Too many times.¡± ¡°And how many of the visits lead to immediate discharges of your patients? To permanent discharges?¡± All of them, his silence said. I took that in. epted it into myself. My pneuma rose. ¡°Physician,¡± I murmured. He grit his teeth. I waved a hand at Harmodius, the Crow we had crippled. ¡°Why isn¡¯t this woman healed yet? It¡¯s been days.¡± ¡°You said it yourself,¡± he bit out, hating every word. He didn¡¯t question how I¡¯d known about her admittance. He didn¡¯t have to. ¡°Her spine is broken. She¡¯s lost the use of her body below the waist. Such an injury¡­ it goes beyond the bncing of humors. It goes beyond mending that any of us are capable of.¡± ¡°And what could mend it?¡± I asked, tracing my pneuma as it wound through her body, through channels she had forged over the course of a lifetime. By tracing those channels, Anastasia had taught me how to gauge a cultivator¡¯s true age. Like counting the rings on a tree stump. Harmodius was thirty-seven years old. Lying hopeless and in tears on this bed, she looked younger than me. Otus scowled ferociously, though this time it was not at me. Not at anyone, for that matter. The stout healer withdrew into his own mind, thinking furiously over my question, and my respect for him rose again. When he spoke, it was with finality. ¡°For her, taking into ount the break and the extremities lost- time, if she had the proper mentor and a mind for philosophy. If reason and spirit advance far enough, the body is bound to follow. The tripartite soul naturally seeks bnce.¡± I hummed. ¡°Otherwise?¡± ¡°Nectar,¡± he said at once. ¡°That, or ambrosia.¡± The food and drink of the faceless divinity. I sighed heavily, leaning back on the bed. ¡°And where do they sell divine sustenance in this city? Is there a stall I can go to?¡± ¡°The kyrios had his stores,¡± Otus said, and if he took any satisfaction from the way I perked up, pleasantly surprised, he didn¡¯t show it. ¡°If he left any behind it would be in his quarters.¡± ¡°Fantastic,¡± I said, favoring him and our grounded Crow with a smile. ¡°I was heading there anyway.¡± ¡°You were-¡± Otus inhaled deeply, held it for a long beat which I did not interrupt, and then exhaled. ¡°There¡¯s one other possibility. Something your master might be able to do.¡± ¡°Ho?¡± ¡°Surgery,¡± he said. ¡°It¡¯s dangerous, and in the case of a spinal injury, far from assured. But if it works then it¡¯s just as effective as ambrosia, and nearly as quick.¡± ¡°And you can¡¯t do that?¡± I asked. Otus sighed heavily, crossing wrapped arms. ¡°You were a fighter before you were a physician,¡± he dered. I hummed. ¡°You ascended to the Sophic realm through violence, or discourse, or any number of methods. And along the way you became familiar with other types of martial cultivation. True?¡± ¡°True,¡± I confirmed. ¡°Just as there are a thousand ways to do violence, there are a thousand ways to mend it. You use hands of pneuma to do your dirty work. If I asked you to instead use pneuma feet, here and now, could you do it? Having never done it before?¡± I thought about it. The boys shuffled on the bed beside me. Harmodius pulled her sheet up further, to her nose. ¡°Well?¡± Otus demanded. ¡°I¡¯m thinking.¡± He made a disgusted sound and swiped a hand through the air. ¡°No! You couldn¡¯t! What we do is as different from surgery as a foot is from a hand! We bnce humors, mend what can be mended without causing further harm. We¡¯ve sworn to never take up the knife without the proper training, as you have, and we have not been trained.¡± ¡°Surely the Raging Heaven possesses at least one surgeon,¡± I reasoned. ¡°We do,¡± the nearby physician said, the woman who had ducked her head. Her hands shook faintly as she tipped a cup of spirit wine into a patient¡¯s open mouth, but she didn¡¯t spill a drop. ¡°Most are away from the cult. But there is one.¡± ¡°There was one,¡± Otus corrected the woman, though his voice was far more gentle than it had been with me. ¡°Was?¡± I asked. ¡°Before she was stolen away in the night,¡± he said. ¡°Now, only her captor knows where Anastasia is. And perhaps her student.¡± I smiled, ever so slightly. ¡°Boys,¡± I said, rising to my feet. ¡°We¡¯re going.¡± The little king and his sentinel scrambled off the bed. Behind me, Harmodius gasped and forced the sheet back over her crippled legs, it having been disced by the boys and my own pankration hands. But it was toote. I¡¯d already seen the color of her cult attire. Which king do you serve? I¡¯d asked her the night we threw her off the side of the mountain. She¡¯d refused to answer then, and Sol hadn¡¯t allowed me the time to press her further. Now I knew. Grass-green silks, the same as Scythas¡¯. The Howling Wind Cult. I added the elder from the City of Squalls to my list of powerful people scorned. I nced back and saw that she knew that I knew. She slumped in despair, eyes clenched shut. A woman that had given her life and her identity in the pursuit of power, of renown - and in the end, given the use of her legs. I watched the tears she¡¯d been fighting break through and trail down pale cheeks. I¡¯ll mend your legs¡°,¡± I decided. Her eyes snapped open. ¡°With nectar or ambrosia, if I can find it. And if not, with the surgeon¡¯s knife. I promise you that.¡± I turned and walked out of the healing house, the boys close behind. Chapter 1.49 Chapter 1.49 The Son of Rome Solus. The wind carried my name to me, a whisper with no visible source. I grunted and stood up, shrugging the weight ofmand off my shoulders. ¡°Ny-three?¡± Selene asked, disappointed. She was perched on her scarlet tripod, legs kicking beneath her while she kept count of my repetitions. ¡°I was sure you¡¯d break a hundred today.¡± One hundred repetitions of any given exercise was the mark Socrates had set for me and my physical training. Once I could do a hundred I increased the weight of gravitas until I could barely do one, and then I worked my way back up. ¡°The spirit is willing, but the body is weak,¡± I lied, standing tall and stretching. When I winced it was only partly an act. I could have pushed through and reached a hundred today, but I would have suffered for everyst repetition. As an excuse it would do. I nced meaningfully at the Scarlet Oracle as I stretched. Her head tilted, golden hair spilling over one shoulder. ¡°Would the barbarian like a massage?¡± As always, the old crone of the Broken Tide read my intentions before anyone else in the courtyard. The ancient woman leered at me with her blind, trisected eyes. ¡°How conceited, to think your ugly, rugged body worthy of an Oracle¡¯s holy hands.¡± ¡°Oh!¡± Selene¡¯s back straightened suddenly, the girl drawing her golden veil back down over her face. ¡°I see. Well, I suppose¡­¡± ¡°You don¡¯t have to force yourself, dear. These things are difficult for a girl your age,¡± came the sympathetic sounds of a woman with nothing but bad intentions. I stared tly at the Oracle from the baster Isles, a woman named Chara with lips painted white-gold, with a line of the same color running from the tip of her tongue to the back of her throat. She smiled, her right leg curled up against her chest with her cheek resting on her knee. ¡°I suppose there¡¯s nothing for it. Come and let this one ease your aching body.¡± Slim hands wrapped around my bicep, and before I could respond Selene had already pulled me halfway to the Scarlet Oracle¡¯s private quarters with the overwhelming strength of a Heroic cultivator. Melodiousughter and ugly cackling followed us all the way into the room, ceasing only when Selene mmed the door shut behind us. Each of the oracles enjoyed the privilege of a personal living space, tucked away behind the walls of thete kyrios¡¯ octagonal courtyard within Kaukoso Mons. Before the Tyrant¡¯s death these quarters had been reserved for sleeping and bathing only. The kyrios wasn¡¯t cruel enough to require the holy women to do their bathing and sleeping in his presence, but he also wasn¡¯t kind enough to give them private leisure. If an oracle was not asleep, in a bath, or in her public temple where mystikos and made men could seek her wisdom, the kyrios had decided she would be in his courtyard. Waiting on one of the tripods he had chiseled himself - in case he ever had a need for her. Though there was no one left to enforce it after the kyrios¡¯ death, some of the oracles still maintained the habit. For them - the oracles from the City of Squalls, the baster Isles, and the Coast - I assumed it was the inertia of long practice as much as it was a desire forpany. The other holy women mostly kept to themselves in their private quarters. Whether that was because of my continued presence, I couldn¡¯t say. It hardly mattered. Unlike Griffon, I hadn¡¯te to Olympia in search of an Oracle¡¯s wisdom. Selene pressed her back against the door to her personal quarters, the entire piece a broad b of bone-white wood with dyed carvings of a bisected sun sprawled across it. Her veiled face pointed towards me. For a long moment, neither of us spoke. ¡°How did I do?¡± she hesitantly asked. I smirked. ¡°Well enough.¡± The Scarlet Oracle slumped in relief, and the torchlights in the room shifted as Scythas stepped out of the open air beside me. ¡°Were you seen?¡± I asked him. He shook his head. ¡°No further than the stairway to heaven.¡± ¡°Even by the elders?¡± ¡°I swung wide around each of their domains,¡± he said firmly. ¡°And I waited until the Oracle was lost in her fumes before I moved.¡± Thus far, the veil of shifting wind that Scythas had been using to obscure his movements around the mountain had been wless. Though he wasn¡¯t confident in much, the Hero of the Scything Squall had been adamant that he could avoid detection better than Selene. It was the only reason I had allowed him to leave the kyrios¡¯ estate - if he was to be believed, the only entities on the mountain that he couldn¡¯t slip past with his veil were the tyrants in their domains and the Oracle of his own Howling Wind Cult. It was for that reason that we never met outside of his Oracle¡¯s working hours, while her senses were addled by the toxic fumes that holy women used to invoke prophecy. It wasmon knowledge that the oracles could no longer deliver prophecies, but the old practices had their own timeless momentum. ¡°Good.¡± I sat down heavily on a cushioned lounge, snapping off the buckles and straps affixing my breastte to my body with practiced motions. A gift from Socrates, insomuch as he was capable of giving gifts. I¡¯d asked the old philosopher how much it had cost him, where it hade from, but he¡¯d only waved me off and thrown rhetoric in my eyes for my trouble. It was a good piece of armor. Strong, scraped and worn but undeniably whole. It was carved in the usual fashion, in the image of a man¡¯s bare torso. Moving in it while I trained wasforting in a way that I couldn¡¯t exin. ¡°Tell me what you¡¯ve heard,¡± I bid Scythas, setting aside the armor and rolling my shoulders, gripping the juncture between my corbone and my neck when the muscles clenched painfully. I didn¡¯t allow it to show on my face. Not in front of him. I tensed as slim hands brush mine aside, digging into the knots and snarls of overburdened muscle. I nced up at Selene. Her veil still covered her face, golden silk with vibrant red threads winding through it like sun rays. Her hands froze as I looked up at her. Then, slowly, they resumed their kneading. ¡°Selene,¡± I said quietly. ¡°The massage was just a cover to get us in here.¡± ¡°Certainly.¡± Her voice was light, gently amused. ¡°But the best lie is a truth repurposed. What will we do if Chara notices you¡¯re still stiff when we leave the room?¡± The better question was what I would do if I had to continue living among handsy Greeks. I let it be, returning my attention to the first hero I¡¯d met in this city. The first man to suspect Griffon and I of malintent, and now the first man to act as my scout within the cult. ¡°Things have slowed down since the two of you encountered the Gadfly,¡± he said, and there was still a bit of wonder there. He hadn¡¯t fully believed it until I¡¯d told him myself, despite tracking me through the rumors spread about Socrates walking me down the mountain. ¡°If the other elders are anything like mine, things would have escted very quickly if the two of you had kept on the way you were. Especially after you got the others involved.¡± He shook his head, leaning against the wall beside me. He still looked exhausted, with dark bags beneath his eyes, but the flecks of color in those hazel mes had brightened from copper to gold again. ¡°The Raging Heaven is an institution that attracts men from all over the continent,¡± he said. ¡°There¡¯s always been arge portion of initiates with no ties to any other cult, sess stories from nameless settlements or cultivators recovering from disgrace in other institutions. When the kyrios was alive they served directly under his banner, like everyone else. But now they have no master to serve. The elders are focusing on these initiates first.¡± ¡°Jason mentioned coercion through lectures.¡± I noted the way his eyes flickered when I said the name. ¡°They¡¯ve moved fully onto that?¡± He nodded. ¡°It¡¯s¡­ The situation has not improved at night, but it¡¯s stopped escting. I don¡¯t think they intended to be this far out in the open this early on with their Crows, but you left them no choice. Now it¡¯s a question of who will withdraw first.¡± ¡°Hardly a question at all.¡± How could any of them, when the game had only just begun? ¡°Exactly. But for the moment, it isn¡¯t getting any worse. Instead the senior philosophers are out in force, offering lectures on every topic under the sun. It¡¯s a good time to be a junior in search of knowledge.¡± ¡°And if the lecture happens to lead into other topics, how can a man be med for following the natural flow of discourse,¡± I concluded. ¡°What else?¡± ¡°Preparations for the Games are underway. The kyrios was already in talks with the city''s officials, foreign dignitaries, the other city-states and their cults - but with his passing, negotiations are up in the air. The men of the city offered to shoulder the burden while the Raging Heaven mourns, of course, but the elders couldn¡¯t allow them to carry that alone.¡± It was a unique bitterness with which the Howling Wind¡¯s Hero spoke. I remembered the night of the funeral, when Scythas was the only one out of all his peers to defend the elders¡¯ intentions. That hadn¡¯t been so long ago, but the events that followed had tainted that optimism. Scythas had held onto one hope above all - that no matter the machinations of ravenous tyrants, a greater man¡¯s death was something they could alle together to respect. His elders had not wasted any time correcting him. It was a lesson I¡¯d been forced to learn early on in the legions. It was a lesson every man had to learn, sooner orter. ¡°And whoever takes the mostmanding role in negotiating logistics adds another notch to his belt,¡± I said, just to have it in the open. ¡°Will the other kyrioie?¡± Scythas hesitated. A vein bulged in his neck, and I knew that there was still a trace of that bleak optimism within him. A remnant that the Raging Heaven had not yet stomped dead. He didn¡¯t want to answer, because he didn¡¯t want to believe the answer. So instead, I consulted the Oracle. ¡°Selene. Did you attend thest Olympic Games?¡± ¡°I did,¡± she answered, nimble fingers pressing insistently against the point where my jaw met my ear. I tilted my head obligingly, refusing to let slip the relief I felt wherever her fingers went. ¡°Were the kyrioi there?¡± ¡°No. None of them.¡± ¡°Why not?¡± I asked, watching Scythas intently. Selene hummed, scarlet light flickering behind her veil. ¡°For many city-states, the kyrios of the local mystery cult is their greatest deterrent to would-be invaders.¡± ¡°I was told that conflict in the free Mediterranean stopped once the games began.¡± ¡°It¡¯s supposed to be that way. It is that way, for the most part. But things have been¡­ tense, recently.¡± ¡°Because the kyrios died?¡± Selene shook her head, golden hair brushing against my cheek. It smelled of cypress. ¡°Not quite that recent,¡± she corrected herself. ¡°This was before I was born. Before you were born, maybe.¡± Thest line was spoken with obvious intent. If we had been alone in the room I probably would have answered the unspoken question about my age. But we weren¡¯t. So I didn¡¯t. The scarlet oracle softly huffed, continuing on, ¡°The second time that I attended the games, I asked my father that same question about the kyrioi. Spectacr guests are bound to attend no matter what, and the athletes themselves are a joy to behold, but the kyrioi upy a special ce in the heart of our culture. If they could trust their rivals to observe the truce while their best were gathered in Olympia topete, why couldn¡¯t theye themselves?¡± Within the free city-states of Greece, the children of Helen had long agreed that anyone willing to disdain the Olympic pact of peace did not deserve their ce among heaven and earth. The threat of unrestrained cooperation between the free cities was something no man had the courage to face - not since Alexander took his armies east. ¡°What did your father say?¡± I asked, and Scythas himself tilted his head, the hands of his influence reaching out through the space between us. One of his wind techniques, the kind that allowed him to overhear. He didn¡¯t want to miss a word. A tyrant¡¯s wisdom was a currency that no man could ever be rich enough in. ¡°He said that having trust is like being lost at sea,¡± she said, rubbing her thumbs into the base of my neck. ¡°There¡¯s no end to it, no destination to reach, and if there was then no one on board would know how to get there. All you can do is work your oar and pray the others on board do as well. Because even if they don¡¯t, you still need to get home.¡± ¡°Someone has to pull, or thirst will take them all,¡± I mused. ¡°One man pulling alone will work himself to death,¡± Scythas added. ¡°Two won¡¯t fare much better. It has to be everyone.¡± ¡°It has to be everyone,¡± Selene agreed. ¡°He said that if one man sat back while all the rest pulled, it was only natural that he¡¯d be cast off the ship. The same for two, or three. So long as those rowing in good faith maintained the majority.¡± ¡°But the majority do still observe the pact,¡± I said, following the analogy to its natural conclusion. ¡°The free cities have been at peace for over a century now. Haven¡¯t they?¡± ¡°I asked the same question,¡± Selene said sadly. ¡°And my father told me that our trust wasn¡¯t broken by the majority. He told me there were other ways as well. Things one man could do alone to ruin what all the rest hadbored for.¡± Her fingers paused. Drew away. ¡°He could throw out their oars while they were sleeping,¡± she whispered. ¡°He could condemn them all to the Fates.¡± Scythas slid down the wall until he was sitting with his knees pressed against his chest. ¡°One man ruined it for all the rest,¡± he said, defeated. ¡°The kyrioi haven¡¯t attended the games in decades because ack of war does not always mean an abundance of peace. Since I was old enough to understand all of the conversations that I wasn¡¯t meant to hear, the people of the Hurricane Heights have been living their lives on eggshells. A storm swept through the Mediterranean before we were born and the city-states have only just started to recover from it.¡± I nearly asked what he meant, but paranoia stopped me short. Something about the way he said it, the look in his eyes, told me this was something the man he imagined me to be would know. Something I should have known. I kept the question to myself, and resolved to ask Griffon about it when we reunited. Instead, I said the words I knew would crack him open like an oyster. ¡°And yet.¡± ¡°And yet,¡± he echoed miserably, ¡°these Games are different now. The kyrios of the Raging Heaven Cult is dead, and the elders have already decided to hold these Games in his memory. It was eptable that none of the kyrioi left their cults and their cities to attend his funeral, held so soon after his death. But they still have months to prepare for the Games.¡± ¡°Skipping the Games means insulting his memory,¡± I said, the strands connecting one by one. The more that I learned about him, the more absurd thete kyrios became. The an insult to his memory could carry such weight. ¡°But there¡¯s more to it than that.¡± Scythas clenched his eyes shut, and I mercilessly struck down on what was left of his bleak optimism. ¡°There¡¯s more to it,¡± I said again,yering Gravitas into the words and forcing them through the curtain of wind he¡¯d subconsciously summoned up around his ears. ¡°Because there¡¯s nothing to say that the next kyrios of the Raging Heaven has to be a citizen of Olympia.¡± ¡°Yes,¡± he whispered, finally. epting what had been in front of him all this time. ¡°The tyrants on this mountain are readying Olympia for the games, but they¡¯re also readying themselves for a power struggle. Once the kyrioie¡­ I don¡¯t know. But they¡¯ll be here, all of them. They can¡¯t afford the alternative.¡± I burned his expression into my memory. I wouldn¡¯t coddle him for it. Wouldn¡¯t acknowledge it, not now. But I¡¯d never forget it either. I had sent him out to find information where I could not, knowing the state he was in. And now here he was. Here was the fruit of the captain¡¯sbor. ¡°You¡¯ve done well, Scythas,¡± I said quietly. The least I could give him now was the truth. And it was all that I¡¯d give him. Now then. I reached out to the empty space in Selene¡¯s quarters, the space that Scythas¡¯ eyes had flickered to when I spoke a pirate¡¯s name, and clenched my fist. Every piece of furniture in the room scraped across the floor towards me, y pots shattering as they fell. Bolts of sunray silks and papyrus sheets covered in drawings scattered through the air. The Hero of the baster Isles stumbled out of the empty air as Scythas¡¯ veil broke apart beneath gravitas. Jason stared down at his now visible hands and then back up at me, wide-eyed. ¡°I lied, before.¡± Scythas waved a hand at his fellow Hero, too broken down to be ashamed at being caught in the act. ¡°I was followed.¡± Chapter 1.50 Chapter 1.50 The Young Griffon The ideal of the institutions that we called the greater mystery cults was camaraderie in pursuit of greater understanding. These were learning ces, yes, as well as fonts of overwhelming strength in times of strife. But their central purpose was not to uplift, nor to make war. The mystery cults were a timeless reminder that every man was equally worthless under the sun. ¡°You¡¯re certain that you can¡¯t tell me anything about it, senior brother?¡± ¡°I can¡¯t tell you what I don¡¯t know,¡± my senior within the Raging Heaven Cult affirmed. His pneuma marked him as a cultivator in the eighth rank of the Sophic Realm. Yet even so, I had found him more than halfway up the mountain. A man of his standing would have enjoyedfortable seniority within the Rosy Dawn Cult, but here in Olympia he was hardly fit for the second-rate estates - only the junior mystikos slept closer to the storm crown than him. No, that wasn¡¯t true. The ones that slept closest to the storm crown were the boys following me like lost ducks, their guardian, and the ugly philosopher that had dared to put his hands on my brother. Still, it was a shame. A man of such advanced cultivation, and yet so little renown to show for it. I wondered what he could have aplished by now, this senior of mine, if he hadn¡¯t wasted his time vying for the approval of men that couldn¡¯t care less about him or his life. ¡°Surely, there¡¯s something you can tell me,¡± I pressed him. He frowned, shifting the bundle on his back - dozens of papyrus rolls tied by string, y tablets wrapped in leather, and the whole lot of it bundled in a fisherman¡¯s of all things. ¡°I never made it past Sisyphus,¡± he said ruefully, raising his hand to shield his eyes against the re of shing light above. ¡°Up there in the storm, the words your seniors used tofort you lose all meaning. The thunder is so loud that you can¡¯t hear yourself think. They urged us to go it alone, of course, but once the seniors were out of sight we all bunched up like sheep.¡± ¡°They don¡¯t go with you?¡± I asked. Kyno had said that every senior mystiko within the Raging Heaven Cult was sent by their elders to guard the new initiates during their trial. The Rosy Dawn¡¯s initiation rites were much the same. Everyone, even the pirs of the Aetos family, descended into the heart of the eastern mountain range together to behold the confounding sight of the fallen sun god. ¡°They do, but only so far,¡± he said, tearing his eyes away from the Storm That Never Ceased. He sighed and tousled the sandy curls of his hair. ¡°For a man to prove himself worthy of the Raging Heaven he must bear its weight alone, even if only for a step. That is the final trial, the one that every hopeful initiate must surpass.¡± ¡°Only one step?¡± the little king asked, and I smirked at the disdain in his voice. Fortunately, my senior was just as amused. ¡°Only one,¡± he confirmed, chuckling. ¡°And I¡¯ve seen boys your age with twice your refinement fail, sulking all the way down the mountain because they couldn¡¯t manage it.¡± ¡°Cultivation alone isn¡¯t enough,¡± the little king dered, puffing out his chest and pounding it with his first. ¡°Pyr and I will make it at least as far as Griffon. Farther, even!¡± The little sentinel viciously smacked his younger brother over the head, at about the same time that the boy himself realized what he¡¯d just said. ¡°You¡¯ve already¡­¡± My senior looked sideways at me, his brow furrowed. ¡°I¡¯ve already decided that I¡¯ll reach the top,¡± I said, and understanding gentled his expression. That, and a nostalgic sort of mirth. ¡°Second rank of the Sophic Realm,¡± he said, fondly and a bit sadly, having gauged my standing just as I had gauged his. ¡°I remember those days. I thought I would bepeting in the Games by now, or perhaps pioneering a new field of natural philosophy. The possibilities seem so vast when you¡¯ve only just reached the foot of the mountain.¡± ¡°You¡¯re talking like an old man,¡± I said, knocking him sideways with my elbow. Heughed. ¡°I am an old man, by the Raging Heaven¡¯s standards. And you¡¯re not far behind me.¡± ¡°Is that so?¡± ¡°It is so,¡± he confirmed. ¡°Out in the viges where men like you and I carved our names, captain of the Civic Realm is a rank worthy of respect. No man would hesitate to offer his daughter¡¯s hand in marriage to such a citizen. Reaching captain of the Civic Realm before you¡¯ve even reached legal adulthood? Your father would have to beat the suitors off with a stick.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t recall saying that I grew up in a vige,¡± I said, raising an eyebrow. He waved the hand not holding his bundle of texts, gesturing at my tattered cult attire. ¡°You strut through the premier cult of the free Mediterranean, waving down senior initiates as if it¡¯s only natural that they give you their time and insight, all while wearing the colors of a cult that you can¡¯t possibly be from,¡± he said. The odd sensation of being pitied and supported at the same time washed over me. ¡°In a way, the trial of the storm crown is much like the experience of stepping into Olympia after a lifetime of shoveling shit on a farm.¡± ¡°I think you¡¯re projecting, honored senior.¡± ¡°¡®Honored senior,¡¯ he says, while sneering in my face.¡± The older cultivatorshed out with his free hand, a p to the back of my head that the boys didn¡¯t notice until the p of flesh against flesh made them jump. My senior stared curiously at the pankration hand that had intercepted his own just before it struck me. Without the Rosy Fingers of Dawn to render it visible to the naked eye, he instead observed it with his sophic sense. Unlike the aggressive overtures I had often encountered since unlocking my Philosopher¡¯s eye, his influence felt less like a wave and more like the waterfall currents that fed a bath. It coursed over my pankration hand, flowing into the gaps between its fingers and the creases left behind in the skin when those fingers curled and uncurled. The older philosopher squeezed the hand of my intent, and I squeezed back. He let go. ¡°I meant no disrespect,¡± I said honestly. He hummed. ¡°You may have been right. Perhaps I was projecting. Certainly, my intent was nothing like that when I was a newly minted Philosopher. How long have you been refining that ability?¡± ¡°How long has any man been refining the use of his hands?¡± I asked in turn. ¡°Fascinating,¡± he murmured. ¡°I take it next you¡¯ll tell me that you really are from the Rosy Dawn.¡± I smiled faintly, and he shook his head. ¡°Right, right. That aside, being stronger than I was at your rank doesn¡¯t mean much on this mountain. I said it before, but a captain of the Civic Realm is only impressive in the settlements that can hardly be said to have citizens at all. How old were you when you reached the peak of that realm?¡± ¡°Seventeen.¡± ¡°Which would put you somewhere between twenty and twenty-five years old now, if you were fortunate while bridging the gap and didn¡¯t waste a moment in your studies.¡± I said nothing, and thanks to the little sentinel¡¯s quick thinking, neither did the little king. ¡°A secret, is that it?¡± We both watched the little sentinel grapple with the little king, one hand nted firmly over his mouth while the other struggled to fend off his brother¡¯s fists and elbows. ¡°What a sad day, when a junior can¡¯t trust his senior with something so basic.¡± ¡°Ah, but you already have me at a disadvantage.¡± I conjured burning hands of pankration intent between the two boys, separating them, and then when they both simply red at one another I drowned them in a flurry of ps and light punches. The little king and his sentinel let fly their battle cries, pneuma surging, and began to fight back against the hands of my intent. ¡°How¡¯s that?¡± My senior asked, eyes tracking the now visible limbs with keen interest. ¡°You¡¯ve seen a manifestation of my soul,¡± I said, conjuring another pankration hand in front of his face, close enough that his eyes crossed as he looked at it. I flexed and waved the fingers of dawn, contorting the limb this way and that so he could observe it. ¡°You¡¯ve also heard my name, though it was given to you secondhand. And I still don¡¯t know yours.¡± ¡°Chilon,¡± he said, his eyes not wavering from the pankration limb even as he offered his free hand to me. When I sped it with fingers of flesh and blood, he seemed almost disappointed. ¡°I didn¡¯t notice it before, but in the light¡­¡± His eyes flickered, tracing the shadows cast by the rosy light of dawn - the faint silhouette of an arm beyond the ming hand. ¡°There¡¯s more to it that can¡¯t be seen, isn¡¯t there?¡± ¡°You have a keen eye, Chilon,¡± Iplimented him. ¡°And what illuminates it? It¡¯s not quite a me, but it¡¯s more than simple light.¡± ¡°It¡¯s called the Rosy-Fingered Dawn.¡± He exhaled heavily. ¡°Of course it is. Nheless, it¡¯s an interesting technique. You can control the heat and the intensity of the light?¡± ¡°I can.¡± Behind us, fighting for every step against flurries of pankration hands just bright enough to distract the eye and just hot enough to let them know they¡¯d been burned, the boys were proof enough of that. In contrast, the hand hovering in front of Chilon¡¯s face was burning bright enough to blind a Civic cultivator. ¡°You were saying about my age?¡± I prompted him, when he continued to run the streams of his influence and most of his attention over the pankration hand. I dismissed it and he blinked, returning to himself. ¡°Right. Well, whatever age you are, and whatever backwater town or Ind in the Sun you came from, the fact remains that you¡¯re a grown man and only a Philosopher of the second rank. Am I right about that much, at least?¡± ¡°You are.¡± ¡°Then the circumstances hardly matter,¡± he said, conviction returning to him as he lectured. ¡°Even the strongest ant in the colony is still an ant. In the world that I grew up in, Sophic Realm by the age of twenty was a feat worth celebrating. Worth telling stories of, as if I had skipped the second realm entirely and jumped straight to the third. But the city-states of the free Mediterranean are a different world entirely, and their standards are tailored to match. ¡°When I was offered an opportunity at the trials leading to admittance in the Raging Heaven, my family threw a party. And when the leading men of our little town found out about it they scolded my father for not telling them sooner. They dered a festival then and there in my honor, and neighbors and distant rtives that I had grown up doing chores for hoisted me up onto their shoulders, each of them in turn, so they could parade me through the town. As if I was Heracles himself. Children that I had shared lessons with, boys that I had considered my rivals and girls that I had pined over, showered me with praise and begged me to remember them when I was gone.¡± Chilon stopped short at the next step, his fishing full of papyrus and y tablets thumping to the steps by his feet as he dropped it. He tilted his head fully back, gazing unimpeded at the curtain of furious tribtion that forever darkened the Raging Heaven¡¯s door. ¡°I hadn¡¯t even been epted yet,¡± he whispered, as if he still couldn¡¯t believe it. ¡°I had only been given a chance - but to these people that I had known all my life, I may as well have caught lightning in my hands.¡± ¡°But you were epted,¡± I observed. He inclined his head in the slightest nod. ¡°I was. And when I joined the others beneath the Storm That Never Ceases, resolved to go as high as any of my fellow initiates, I realized something. I was the oldest among them by far.¡± The little king snarled in effort, one of my pankration hands writhing as the little sentinel gripped it with both hands as well as his teeth. The older of the two boys held it steady while the younger bent back its middle finger with all of his strength. Both boys scowled and drew up their shoulders, weathering the ps and punches of the rest of my pankration hands. The faint taste of blood appeared in the back of my throat as the middle finger of my pankration hand broke with an ugly crack. Lefteris¡¯ boys shouted triumphantly, and I rewarded them for their tenacity with another ten hands. ¡°I was twenty years old, in the first rank of the Sophic realm,¡± Chilon said. ¡°Of the rest of my peers, only three of them were as weak as I was. None of the three were old enough to grow hair on their chins. But that wasn¡¯t the worst of it.¡± ¡°Your seniors,¡± I guessed. Heughed. It was a different sort of hopelessness than the kind I had encountered in our Heroicpanions. This was something he had long made his peace with. My ire stirred in the boiling red depths of the Rein-Holder¡¯s marrow. ¡°My seniors, yes. There were dozens of them there that day. At any given time, it¡¯s natural for half of the Raging Heaven¡¯s senior initiates to be away from the cult, either on elder business or pursuing whatever they pleased. Only the initiation rites can bring them all back. When ites time to face Raging Heaven, every indigo sones home to stand beside his new brothers and sisters in solidarity. ¡°Among all of those cultivators, none of them were below the fifth rank of the Sophic realm - the turning point where a man is closer to a legend than he is a mortal. Captains of the Sophic realm abounded, some of them too young to be married. Even Heroes took time from their epics to support us. ¡°I saw a Hero that was younger than me that day,¡± Chilon said, disheartened and awed at the same time. ¡°He was making his rounds through the crowd, like many of the seniors were, but where the seniors were encouraging us, he was encouraging the seniors. Preparing them for another trip up the mountain. Another bout against tribtion. ¡°It¡¯s different, you know.¡± Chilon nced sidelong at me. ¡°Nothing can truly prepare you for the Storm That Never Ceases, not even someone that has lived it before. But when a Hero says the words¡­ Even in the middle of the crashing thunder, when sound has lost all its meaning, those words remain. A senior Philosopher may have seen the lightning with his own eyes, but a Hero has felt its touch. And he¡¯s survived for the Muses to sing of it.¡± I flexed the fingers of my right hand, the one of flesh and blood. At any given moment, I could feel the lightning heat of the tribtion hound¡¯s skull. It was as vivid a sensation now as it had been then. ¡°I believe you,¡± I said simply, and he turned his eyes back to the storm. ¡°I wasn¡¯t the only one watching him, of course - my peers were just as enthralled as I was by the sight of so many extraordinary men and women. But he did take notice of me eventually. He looked me up and down with eyes that burned with the mes of his triumphant spirit. Up until that point, he¡¯d spoken to the seniors with an older brother''s fondness, despite the fact that he was younger than many of them. He¡¯d graced my peers with words of quiet strength and a father¡¯s stern expectation when it looked like the youngest of them would faint on their feet.¡± Chilon rubbed a thumb at his right eye. Unshed tears shimmered in the light of the storm. ¡°And then he saw me, a twenty year old man standing at the lowest step in the lowest realm that the Raging Heaven would ept.¡± His voice was thick. ¡°And it was like he was looking at garbage.¡± My teeth ground together. ¡°To answer your first question,¡± he finally said, after long moments where the only sound was the muted boom of the storm crown and the boys fighting behind us, ¡°I can¡¯t tell you a single thing about the true mystery of the Raging Heaven Cult, because I wouldn¡¯t be here talking to you if I was the sort of man that could reach it. ¡°The trial of Raging Heaven doesn¡¯t truly begin until you¡¯re inside the storm already. The seniors escort the new blood into the storm, nearly a third of the way to the peak, and the Heroic cultivators among them venture up into the heart of the storm to divert the worst of it. Otherwise, there¡¯d be no new blood to fill the junior estates.¡± ¡°And then they set you loose,¡± I said, leaning against the natural walls of the mountain and relishing the gentle heat of the amethyst veins on my back. ¡°With a p on the back and a hearty shove, yes. One step away from the crowd is enough to gain admittance, but I¡¯ll warn you as my seniors warned me - any initiate of the Raging Heaven that does not at least make it out of sight of his seniors will soon wish they had nevere to the city of Olympia at all.¡± I thought back to the admittedly frenzied hours I had spent in the Storm That Never Ceased. At that time, whenever I stepped away from a statue, three strides had been enough to put it out of my sight. ¡°That isn¡¯t much better,¡± I mused. ¡°No, at best it¡¯s a difference of five steps,¡± he agreed, sitting down heavily on the stone stairs and fiddling with the knots holding his fishing together. ¡°But that fifth step is the difference between heaven and earth. Whether you¡¯re five steps away from the group or all the way up at the peak of the mountain, the istion is the same. In that moment, you experience something that no other cult can provide you. Something that every cultivator beneath the realm of Heroes would kill to know.¡± I recalled the lightning. I recalled the storm. ¡°In that moment,¡± Chilon said, ¡°you understand the price of ascension. Standing alone against the wrath of heaven itself, you finally realize what it means to defy the rules of nature. The trial of Raging Heaven is a warning and an invitation. The first kyrios, the one that built this institution, speaking to you from the furthest depths of Tartarus - ¡®This is what it takes to be a man worth telling stories of. This is the least of what a hero must endure.¡¯ ¡°When my people found out I was a candidate for entry to this cult, they told stories of me as if they were worth hearing,¡± he whispered harshly, the contents of his fishing spilling out as he undid the primary knot. Scrolls of papyrus went rolling down the steps, y tablets slipped out of their leather casings and plummeted to the unforgiving stone. Little Leo and Pyr copsed as my pankration hands abruptly lurched away from them, leaning shoulder-to-shoulder and exchanging victorious grins while they struggled to breathe. I caught each of the falling tablets before they could shatter, scooped up all of the papyrus scrolls before they could tumble fully down the mountain. And I watched silently as my senior ignored what he had almost lost, sifting through the remaining contents in hisp. ¡°Until the day they died, my parents sent me messages whenever they could, asking me for stories of my time in the Raging Heaven. Each year, on the day that I had first received the news of my candidacy, they celebrated like it was a religious holiday. And every year that passed, they became more and more convinced that I had already surpassed the realm of Philosophers, that I was the Hero I had bragged I would soon be when I left. They begged me for tales of my exploits so that they could spread them to all of their neighbors.¡± He finally found what he had been looking for, a leather pouch that was filled to bursting with papyrus sheets. As he drew them out, one by one, it was clear that the most recent of them had been sent before I was born. The ink had faded nearly to transparency and the sheets were browned by age. ¡°I never replied. Not to a single one,¡± he said, and finally looked up at me. Whatever he saw in my face, it only made himugh. ¡°My apologies, Griffon. This is why I never offer my juniors guidance. I¡¯m hardly fit for it.¡± ¡°The rest of these,¡± I said, the words carefully measured. My pankration hands brandished in the air what he had let fall. ¡°Are these messages from home as well?¡± ¡°No,¡± he said, watching them fondly as they drifted around him. ¡°These are stories I¡¯ve collected during my time here. Stories worth telling.¡± ¡°Where were you taking them?¡± I asked. ¡°Everywhere. Most men have a relic that¡¯s close to their heart. An ancestor¡¯s gift, or perhaps a lover¡¯s token of favor.¡± I raised an unconscious hand, rolling between my finger and thumb the scarlet gem that hung from my ancestor¡¯s ne. The one I had stolen from the filial pools in my father¡¯s courtyard, five months and a lifetime ago. Chilon nodded. ¡°Every cultivator needs something tofort them when they stand alone against the Fates. Admittedly, I could have chosen something more sensible, but I am who I am. This and all its contents are my precious relic. Each of those scrolls and tablets is a story that I¡¯ve been told during my time in Olympia, a tale of a Heroic soul that even tribtion lightning could not strike down.¡± ¡°You carry all of them with you, and your family''s letters,¡± I said pointedly. ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°Why?¡± Chilon, an old man with the face and the body of a twenty-five year old, smiled boyishly up at me, shedding all of his years in an instant. ¡°Because when that hero condemned me with his eyes, I promised myself that I wouldn''t utter another boasting word until I had surpassed him. I ignored every letter my family sent me, every request for information - even when they only wanted to know that I was alive. That I was whole, and happy. I was too ashamed to read any of them more than once, let alone reply. ¡°And when they passed and my siblings gave up on reaching me, gave up on believing that I had passed the initiation rites at all, I realized what a fool I had been. I realized that chasing after that Hero''s shadow for so many years had never given me a moment¡¯s joy. I realized that the happiest I¡¯d ever been was riding on my fathers shoulders while he paraded me around the town, holding my mother close when the joy made her legs give out.¡± ¡°So you gave up on bing a hero?¡± The little sentinel asked. The boys had regained their breath and mbered up my back, peering over my shoulders once again. ¡°Not at all,¡± I said. The ire in my soul settled back down to rest. ¡°He only shifted his focus.¡± Chilon snapped his fingers, pointing at me. ¡°You¡¯ve got a keen eye, too,¡± he said, and I snorted. It only made his grin grow. ¡°Here and in the other great cities, a sixty year old man in the eighth stage of the Sophic realm is hardly worth acknowledging in the agora, let alone listening to. It¡¯s been nearly a decade since I advanced from seventh to eighth. My prospects are terribly bleak.¡± Against my best efforts, my lips began to curl. ¡°But even so.¡± ¡°But even so,¡± he agreed. ¡°I will take thosest three steps into glory. Even if it takes me the rest of my natural life, the rest of every man¡¯s natural life - even if the stars go out and the sun falls from the sky, I will be a man worth telling stories of.¡± ¡°And then what?¡± The little king asked. His mismatched eyes watched the senior Philosopher intently. ¡°What will you do then? Be a Tyrant?¡± ¡°No.¡± Chilon shook his head, carefully slipping the stack of letters back into their leather pouch. ¡°Then, I¡¯ll respond to each and every letter my parents sent me, because I¡¯ll finally have a story for them to tell.¡± ¡°But they¡¯re-¡± This time, it was my own flesh and blood hand that covered the little king¡¯s mouth. I bowed my head to the old man. ¡°Thank you for your story, senior sophist. I look forward to hearing the rest of it some day.¡± Chilon smiled warmly. I deposited all of the stories that had nearly gotten away back into his, and he cinched it shut with practiced motions. But when he rose to his feet and heaved it over his shoulder, there was still one more scroll at his feet. I picked it up with a pankration hand, offering it to him. His eyes swept over the picture that had been brushed with ink across the outside of the papyrus. An ink painting of four young men, standing side-by-side under a mottled brown ring. The thumb of my pankration hand brushed against the ring, a piece of it crumbling away, and I realized that it was old blood. When this scroll was first written, those four young men had stood beneath a scarlet sun. ¡°Keep it,¡± Chilon said. ¡°A gift for my junior,e all the way from the Rosy Dawn. It¡¯s worth reading, I can promise you that.¡± Rather than thank him again, I offered him my arm. He reached out, sping my forearm while I sped his. ¡°I made it to the statue of Sisyphus and no further,¡± he said, looking down pointedly at his own arm. There, I saw a faint scar just above where my hand was sped. An odd sight for a cultivator of his standing. ¡°When you go, as proof of your progress, try to find the statues of those that fell before us. Each of them carries a de. When you can¡¯t progress any further, push on until you find one more statue. Leave your blood on its de, and all of the Raging Heaven will know how far you went against the Storm That Never Ceases.¡± ¡°How will they know which de left the mark?¡± I asked, turning his forearm so I could get a better look at the scar. Of all the des I had taken from that mountain - lurking now in my shadow - I could only think of a few that would leave a mark at all noticeably different from this one. ¡°These statues are memorials to the stories we were raised on.¡± What had at first been an unassumingly handsome face, when I marked him as an easy target, was now made just the slightest bit wild by his passion. ¡°These are the stars in the sky that we looked up at as children, that our parents promised us we could grasp in our hands if only we gave it everything we had. These men and women, these giants and monsters and holy seers, they¡¯re the curtain of heaven above. No matter who you are, no matter where you are, every son of Helen sees the same thing when he looks up at the cosmic glory.¡± As he spoke the words, his influence impressed them upon my soul. The world as I knew it fell away, and in its ce - ¡°There he is, Chilon,¡± my mother whispered while Iy in herp. Her hand pointed up, at the vast expanse of light. ¡°There¡¯s Sisyphus, pushing his boulder up the hill. There¡¯s the tyrant that cheated death.¡± - I saw the constetion carved into his arm. It was a scar left on his soul as much as his body. Something that I couldn¡¯t have faked if I tried. ¡°Good to know,¡± I said, and meant it twice. ¡°But unless the cult¡¯s mystery has a de of its own, I don¡¯t intend toe down with any scars.¡± His pneuma rippled around him. Not an advancement, not quite - but the promise of one on the horizon. ¡°To the peak?¡± He asked, though he already knew. ¡°To the peak.¡± The ideal of the greater mystery cults was brotherhood beneath the storm. The acknowledgement that no matter how old you were, no matter where you stood among heaven and earth, some mysteries simply couldn¡¯t be solved. Every man was equally unlikely to reach that impossible understanding. Any man could stand humble by your side in contemtion of the unknown. We let go at the same time. Chilon turned back up the mountain, continuing the climb to his quarters. Or perhaps beyond. I slipped the scroll he¡¯d gifted me with its four painted men and its bloodstained sun into the makeshift satchel around my waist, the one that I¡¯d made out of an old woman¡¯s golden shawl. The scroll settled beside the cypress mask of tribtion that I¡¯d taken from Melpomene. ¡°You ought to advise your juniors more often, Chilon,¡± I called over my shoulder, turning down the mountain while the boys waved goodbye. The sixty year old Philosopher turned his head, shifting the that he used to catch stories so he could look back at me. ¡°Why?¡± he called. Why? Worthless old man, that should have been obvious. ¡°Because you¡¯re good at it.¡± Chapter 1.51 Chapter 1.51 The Son of Rome Jason fell to one knee, staring down at the mess I¡¯d made of Selene¡¯s floor. For her part, the Scarlet Oracle only pped me lightly on the shoulder for the damage I¡¯d done and rolled her eyes when I mouthed an apology. ¡°Solus,¡± Jason said hoarsely. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, I - there¡¯s no excuse for my cowardice. Nothing I can say-¡± ¡°What cowardice?¡± I asked him. He looked up at me, his eyes still wide. The ocean-blue mes behind them were almost fully eclipsed by his pupils. ¡°What?¡± ¡°They can¡¯t read our minds,¡± Scythas said tiredly, slumped against the wall across from us. ¡°Even if it feels like it at times. You have to be more specific.¡± ¡°Are you apologizing,¡± I asked, ¡°For creeping in under Scythas¡¯ cloak like a stray? Or are you apologizing for staying under it, out of sight, while we spoke to him? For observing us when you knew you could not be observed in kind?¡± ¡°I wasn¡¯t apologizing for any of those things,¡± he admitted, forcing the words out. ¡°But I should have been, and now I am. I should have done this first, before anything else was said here. I''m sorry for that too.¡± When he clenched his teeth together as if in physical pain, I noticed his right canine was subtly different from the rest. Not a natural tooth at all, but a carved fang of pure white-gold. I let him work through it alone. Every officer in the legions, from the lowest Tribune to the highest Legate, knew that silence and guilt would draw the words out of a soldier faster than anything an officer could do. You only had to be there, deafeningly loud in your silence, and wait for them to break themselves. Admittedly, the sight of me sitting on a sixteen year old girl¡¯s lovingly adorned couch while she massaged my shoulders likely took something from the captain¡¯s re. Fortunately, Jason had risked the ire of every Tyrant on this mountain to sneak down here with Scythas, all so he could confess. It didn¡¯t take much. ¡°For before,¡± he said. ¡°For the Gadfly.¡± I waited patiently. ¡°What about the Gadfly?¡± Selene¡¯s prompted him, not unkindly. The captain of the baster Isles exhaled shakily. ¡°For not stepping in to help when he grabbed you,¡± Jason borated, striking the knuckles of his left fist against the floor. Every amethyst vein embedded in the marble shed, for a moment illuminating all four corners of the room. ¡°I should have done something. Not even a full day before, I promised that I would stand by your side, and I did nothing. ¡°While the Gadfly was on you, I did nothing. While Griffon was heaving himself into danger, I did nothing!¡± He gripped his head with the other hand, striking the floor again. He seethed. ¡°Against the Schr himself, shackled to a Philosopher¡¯s strength, Griffon still acted without hesitation. When the Gadfly took you to the mountain, he sprinted after you like Cerberus itself was on his heels! ¡°And I did NOTHING!¡± The mes in Jason¡®s eyes zed like bonfires, spilling out from the confines of his irises. His heroic pneuma roared through the room. Rage and self-loathing overcame control, and I was treated to a glimpse of the pirate¡¯s true strength. The lights in the room, torches and a lit brazier in the corner, dimmed and faded to bare pinpricks of light. The sound of Scythas cursing anding to his feet was lost to my ears entirely, registering instead as faint vibrations on my skin. And I watched, with the eyes of my Sophic sense, as his furious influence reached out and crushed a beautifully chiseled bust of a woman¡¯s head to rubble. I felt more than heard Selene cry out behind me as the bust was crushed. I saw Jason¡®s influencesh out again in the time it took my heart to beat once, saw a codex filled with sheets of fine gold in ce of papyrus jerk as it was seized by his influence. I saw the bundle of leather and gold cave in on itself a dozen times in a fraction of a second. Before my heart could beat a second time, hazel-gold light in front of me and scarlet light behind me cut through the darkness. Scythas dove across the room and Selene vaulted over the lounging couch, both of their Heroic souls ring blindingly bright. Still, my heart would beat a second time before either of them reached Jason. By then, the strand of the pirate¡¯s influence reaching for me would have found its mark. Two beats and never again. In that space between the first beat and the second, as a Hero and an Oracle reached out desperately, and as the dread pirate began to rear back in horrified understanding of what he¡¯d done, I finally recognized what it was his influence was doing. An effect I¡¯d only ever heard of secondhand, from my father. When Gaius was a young man, just twenty-five years old, he was captured by pirates in the Adriatic. This was before he became the man we know him as today, before he was the general of the west. But that man was within him even then. So when the pirates set a young patrician¡¯s ransom for him rather than a general¡¯s, Gaius demanded they raise their price - even went so far as to promise them that he¡¯d see it paid. While theyughed and obliged him, he promised them another thing too. That he would return some day with a legion at his back, and he would crucify every single one of them for their crimes. They hardly believed him, of course. But the general of the west always makes good on his promises, doesn¡¯t he? Gaius returned with his legion, just as he promised, and he nailed each and every one of those pirates to a cross. Ordinarily, there are men within the ranks tasked with concluding a crucifixion. Some use knives, others use swords or barbed whips. The proper way is a spear, I¡¯ve already told you that. One thrust through the heart and justice is rendered. Most days, Gaius is of a simr mind. But these pirates were guilty of crimes of a different magnitude, against more men than Gaius alone. The entire Republic had suffered the burden of their presence in the Adriatic. So after they had suffered the cross for thirty-eight days, to match the thirty-eight days that Gaius had been in their care, he dered that he would bring them to their victims¡¯ graves - so they could properly atone before they died. That¡¯s exactly right, Solus. They were pirates - their victims were buried at the bottom of the Adriatic Sea. And so Gaius took them there himself, dragging them down into the depths while we watched from the shore. When he brought them back up their crosses were all shattered, and their bodies had caved in on themselves. As if the gods had taken each of them in hand - and crushed them like rotten figs. Jason¡¯s influence brushed the tip of my nose, and the dread pirate¡¯s influence dragged me to the bottom of the sea. Scythas reached him first, tackling him into the far wall and illuminating the room in another sh of amethyst light as the stone absorbed the impact. Selene was next, striking his chest over his heart with the tips of her index and middle fingers - and though the Oracle¡¯s strike was far less explosive, not even strong enough to cause a flicker in the room¡¯s amethyst veins, Jason''s pneuma recoiled like a kicked dog. Finally, the man himself reasserted control over the vital essence of his soul, the roaring blue mes in his eyes dimming in a split second. ¡°Solus!¡± three heroic cultivators cried out, each of them in fear. My heart beat a third time. I sucked in a breath and each of them froze, already halfway back across the room. I held it for a moment. ¡°Jason,¡± I exhaled. Gravitas. The Hero of the baster Isles mmed t against the floor, pressed down by the captain¡¯s virtue. I put everything I had behind it, like I hadn¡¯t done since the days before I was a ve. It had been a year and a half since Tartarus had taken me in its hand like that, since death had whispered its name directly in my ear. My spirit raged in response. ¡°Control yourself,¡± Imanded. The words were for myself as much as for him. I hardly heard them over the ringing of my ears. Jason¡¯s pneuma rushed abruptly back into him. His influence vanished from the room. ¡°Sol,¡± Scythas gasped, halfway risen from a sprinter¡¯s crouch. Selene crossed the remaining distance between us in the blink of an eye,ying one hand t over my heart while the other gripped my chin and tilted my head back. Her golden veil had been torn from her face at some point, her hair pulled free of its braids by the unreasonable speed of a Heroic cultivator. It spilled over her shoulders and down her back, the sight familiar for reasons I couldn¡¯t describe. Burning scarlet eyes met mine searchingly. Of all the Heroic cultivators that Griffon and I had encountered in Olympia, she was the only one who knew that I was exactly what I appeared to be. A Sophic cultivator, as the Greeks understood it. ¡°How?¡± she whispered. It was a fair question. Even a moment under a wrathful Hero¡¯s influence should have been fatal for a man of my standing. Especially an influence like Jason¡¯s. I forced shut the snapping jaws of my spirit, wrestling everything down so that the Heroes in the room would only see cool contempt in my expression. But I couldn¡¯t fool Selene. Not while she had her hand pressed against my chest - when she could feel my heart hammering against my ribs at double time. ¡°I¡¯m not that frail,¡± I reassured her anyway. When she didn¡¯t seem convinced, I went on, ¡°He only put the Aegean on my shoulders. He could have heaped the Ionian and the Adriatic on as well - it still wouldn¡¯t have been enough to crush me.¡± Was I exaggerating? Of course. I had felt my bones flex as Jason¡¯s influence dragged me to the bottom of the sea, felt the pressure force my vital breath from my lungs. Had I stayed there, at his mercy, I had no idea how long I could have borne it before I caved in on myself. Above all, I was fortunate that his influence had manifested itself as it did. If there was a single thing that I excelled at as a cultivator of the captain¡¯s virtue, it was withstanding pressure. ¡°Of course it wouldn¡¯t,¡± Jason said, chuckling in helpless relief. He sank fully to the floor, rolling onto his back andughing out loud. ¡°Of course not! Not you - thank the Muses and the Fates, not you! You¡¯re made of sterner stuff than that.¡± I muscled down a cough. Something told me that hacking up blood would ruin his impression of me. ¡°Reckless bastard,¡± Scythas growled, turning andying a kick into his fellow Hero¡¯s side. Jason onlyughed harder. ¡°What if you hit the Oracle instead, huh!? Would you still beughing!?¡± Three sharp knocks on the bone-white door silenced them both. Selene¡¯s head whipped up. With one hand still pressed over my heart, she leaned past me andid her other palm on the door. Her pneuma wound through it in a warm current. ¡°Who is it?¡± her voice came out calm, entirely at odds with her wild hair and torn silks. ¡°Me.¡± Selene looked down at me, just a shade past panicked. What do we do? she mouthed, and somehow, the mystery of the Babylonian shard allowed me to read her lips as if she was speaking Latin. I thought about it. Behind us, Scythas and Jason remained stock still. They didn¡¯t even breathe. Admittedly, they had good reason to be worried. Scythas knew for a fact that his veil of obstructing wind wouldn¡¯t hold up under the scrutiny of a Tyrant in their domain, nor would it escape the Hurricane Oracle¡¯s gaze. Outside of those known quantities, he¡¯d assured me that he could slip past anyone on this mountain. All except for one. There was one other unknown quantity, a man that Scythas couldn¡¯t gauge one way or another. Socrates rapped impatiently on Selene¡¯s ivory door. ¡°Send the boy out. You¡¯ve had him in there long enough.¡± Scythas had no idea whether or not his veil would hold up under the Gadfly¡¯s scrutiny, and I had no idea how my mentor would react if he caught the two of them sneaking out. Was it worth risking? If I wasn¡¯t still high off my near miss beneath the waves, my answer might have been yes. s. ¡°You¡¯ve apologized and you¡¯ve thrown a fit,¡± I addressed Jason, rising to my feet. Draped over me as she had been in order to reach the door, Selene gasped as I lifted her with me, slung over my shoulder. ¡°After you convinced Scythas to smuggle you in here under his power, not yours, and after I pulled you out of the veil myself, because you couldn¡¯t bring yourself to say the first word.¡± With every word, I pressed him down. Until the ocean mes behind his eyes were nothing but dull embers. ¡°Are you satisfied with that?¡± I demanded, while Socrates hammered on the door. ¡°Is that all your word is worth?¡± ¡°No.¡± And with thest of my strength, the final scrap that hadn¡¯t been spent resisting his influence and then hammering him to the floor, I pulled him back up. Gravitas forced him to his feet. ¡°Then prove it,¡± I ordered the Hero of the baster Isles. ¡°You say you regret hesitating in the presence of the Gadfly? Then here¡¯s your second chance.¡± And with that, ignoring Selene¡®s protests and Scythas¡¯ vicious cursing, I threw open the door. On the other side of the threshold, Socrates stood with a scowl on his bearded face. As soon as he saw the state of the room and those of us in it, the scowl darkened. ¡°What do you think you¡¯re doing?¡± he asked me, in an unnervingly neutral tone. I considered the scene. The Scarlet Oracle draped over my shoulder like a sack of flour, her clothing and hair wildly askew. A pair of Heroes that were assuredly not wee in this part of the mountain. And of course, the fucking room. ¡°You¡¯ll have to be more specific,¡± I said at length. Socrates inhaled deeply. ¡°Boy-¡° Whatever he¡¯d nned to say next, it was cut short by an eagle¡¯s echoing cry. The cries of women followed soon after. Tucked behind the column as we were, the other oracles couldn¡¯t see us and we couldn¡¯t see them. However, we could hear them. ¡°An eagle!¡± ¡°How majestic-¡° ¡°Filthy bird, out, out, out-!¡± Sorea swerved sharply into view, soaring over Socrates¡¯ head and beating his wings hard to kill his momentum. Massive talons wrapped gently around my outstretched arm, and Selene held out her hands beneath his beak while he heaved up a message. ¡°Only in Rome,¡± Socrates muttered in disgust, watching my messenger eagle vomit a roll of papyrus into Selene¡¯s cupped hands. Selene unfurled the message and tilted the sheet so the four of us could read it. ¡°Oh no,¡± Scythas breathed. ¡°What does it say?¡± Socrates demanded. I read it again, just to be sure. It didn¡¯t take me long - the message was only a single word. ¡°Behold.¡± The oracles hollered as another eagle swept through the courtyard. Socrates snorted, spinning on his heel, and stepped forward as the supporting column in front of us exploded. Griffon surged through the flying shrapnel, thirty pankration hands zing around him. Socrates raised a disdainful hand, weaving a hundred truths into that simple motion, and - ¡°This is justice,¡± my father told me. The bisected corpse of the fallen sun god reached up andid its iprehensible palm over my eyes. ¡°Remember its face.¡± - Griffon assaulted us all with a memory of something that even he couldn¡¯t fully recall. Instead of the vivid rity that Socrates had forced upon me with his remembrance of war, this was entirely a question of shock and awe. It was rough, and it was dirty. There was no particr argument being made - only a statement. The former Young Aristocrat of the Rosy Dawn struck us all with the entrancing wonder of the fallen sun god. And in the split second that it took Socrates to shake it, Griffon closed the gap and punched him in the throat. Chapter 1.52 [Jason] Chapter 1.52 [Jason] Hero of the baster Depths What distinguished a hero from a man? [Leave it be, leave it be, leave it be.] Back then, he¡¯d been certain that he knew. Every time they took up oars, each of those among his crew, and heaved against the fickle waves. The tang of the air and the rolling of the ocean, randy sea shanties andughter filling the sails. On days like those, he could have sworn that his epic was just over the horizon. But all he¡¯d found on the other side was ck sails and howling whirlpools. Whatever had washed up to shore afterwards was no hero. It was hardly a man at all. Jason had forgotten what a Hero was meant to be years ago - the baster sea had taken it from him. The demons had raked their ws through his soul and devoured what they found, and they¡¯d hollowed out his heart. The man that the ocean had spit back out onto the shores of the greater Mediterranean could hardly remember the feel of an oar in his hands, let alone whatever it was he thought he had seen just over that far horizon. Life at the Raging Heaven hadn¡¯t helped. He hadn¡¯t thought that it would, of course, hadn¡¯t thought much of it at all outside of it being close at hand and within his means to join. He would have gone anywhere at that time, so long as he didn¡¯t have to cross salt water to get there. But even a husk had eyes. And a hollow heart had twice the room for outrage when it came to the whims of rivalrous Tyrants. Impotent outrage, that was. That was the most a man could ever feel towards the elders of the Raging Heaven. A mortal man or a Hero, it hardly mattered. They all fell in line. Jason was no exception. He fell. Fell in line, fell from grace. Fell, fell, fell to the bottom of the sea. And then the Crows came. Something changed that night. Nothing tangible, certainly nothing he could grasp. But ever since the Crows had nearly returned him to the Icarus on the night of the kyrios¡¯ funeral, ever since he had been saved, the urge to fight had appeared at the corners of his vision. Gone whenever he turned to look, but always there. The captain of the Icarus was still drowning, but his feet had started to kick. And at times, times like these, he could almost imagine that whatever the sea and her demons had taken from him, whatevery beyond that far horizon - ¡°This is justice,¡± my father told me. The bisected corpse of the fallen sun god reached up andid its iprehensible palm over my eyes. ¡°Remember its face.¡± - Griffon and Sol hade here to remind him of it. A thunderous impact jarred him from the unearthly vision, along with Scythas beside him. They both watched in disbelief as the Gadfly staggered back into the room. Jason hurriedly stepped right while Scythas stepped left, each making space for him. The man that had defied the Tyrants of the Coast, lived to spit their own poison back in their eyes, gagged and gripped his neck. Griffon had punched the Schr in the throat. ¡°Socrates!¡± he greeted, arresting the momentum of his mad dash down into the heart of the mountain with thirty burning hands of his own intent. ¡°Or should I say, master. I¡¯vee to thank you for your guidance!¡± The Hero from the Rosy Dawn straightened up out of his striking stance, resting one hand negligently on the pommel of his sheathed de. The Gadfly inhaled a single sharp breath, his expression murderous, and the scarlet son bared his teeth in a wild grin. ¡°Reckless, arrogant-¡± Jason eased back another step, and - no. No. He wouldn¡¯t run away. He wouldn¡¯t spend another second drowning. He spat at the ground by the Gadfly¡¯s feet and took hold of the blood burning inside his heart. Across from him, Scythas whistled a low note and his pneuma whirled. ¡°- children,¡± The Gadfly finished, his tone severe. ¡°Who told you that memory was yours to share? Who told you that you were allowed in this ce?¡± ¡°Ho, it seems the philosopher has lost his way,¡± Griffon jeered. Striding forward, towards the danger. As he had before and as he always did. Towards that far horizon. ¡°Thinking I need anyone to tell me anything at all. Allow this humble sophist to educate you on the truth of things. Atten-¡± Griffon stopped short, just outside of the doorway to the room. His pneuma flickered and vanished from the room, the grasping hands of his intent disappearing in an instant. Without a word, he dismissed the Gadfly entirely. The Hero of the risen sun and the Scarlet Oracle stared at one another. Slung over Solus¡¯ shoulder as she was, the Oracle was at eye level with the man. Face-to-face like this, hardly a foot apart, they almost- Jason squinted. Scythas¡¯ whistle faltered. Sol tilted his head. [Leave it be, leave it be, leave it be.] ¡°Sunkissed,¡± spoke the Scarlet Oracle. Griffon blinked at the holy woman that Solus had thrown over his shoulder like a bundle of tangled line. ¡°You must be Griffon.¡± A fist-sized chunk of broken marble broken off from a bust by Jason¡¯s soul - in that split second that he¡¯d allowed the anger and the shame to drag him back down to the Icarus - mmed into Griffon¡¯s chest and threw him back out into the courtyard. The Gadfly pped the marble dust from his palms, each p an echoing sound. ¡°Look where they must not be, and there you¡¯ll find them,¡± he said, irritated. ¡°Which of them did you tell first, boy?¡± Solus frowned, distracted. ¡°Boy.¡± ¡°Griffon,¡± he said, though whether it was an answer to the Gadfly¡¯s question or a personal realization, Jason couldn¡¯t tell. Surely, something like that¡­ ¡°And how long did it take him to spread the news around?¡± the Gadfly demanded. He turned first to Scythas, who kept his grimacing silence. Then the Gadfly rounded on Jason, and he was forced to invoke the only strength he could still trust. Euterpe, he called, desperate as the weight of the wise man¡¯s years was leveled against him. He reached for that joyful melody, the sound of the Muse¡¯s flute and the brush of her flower crown against his brow. He found nothing. His hollow heart stuttered in his chest. ¡°Is that the face of a man with something to say?¡± the Gadfly asked, stepping to him and pressing him back a step with his barrel chest. Old man, they called him, as if the hoplite would never return. Salt and shifting winds, as if he¡¯d ever left. ¡°How did you get here? Who told you toe?¡± Without a muse to inspire him, without a crew he could call his own, what separated a man from a hero? What made him anything at all? Jason¡¯s focus wavered, and was drawn in by another. Solus drew his eyes as surely as a sail. He didn¡¯t speak, but the storm in his eyes spoke for him. [Leave it be, leave it be, leave it be.] ¡°No one,¡± he answered, defiance straightening his spine. ¡°No one. So why are you here?¡± ¡°Because I made a promise to the man you took, and I broke it when I let you take him,¡± he said, and shed his baster fang. ¡°I¡¯m here to bnce that scale.¡± Jason stoked the mes of what remained and prepared himself to die. ¡°Enough.¡± A strong hand came down on Jason¡®s shoulder, the captain from the west interposing himself between Jason and the Gadfly. Jason leaned back, lest the Scarlet Oracle¡¯s head collide with his own while Solus swung her around. ¡°You did this to yourself, walking me down the mountain like a prisoner,¡± Solus said, meeting the Gadfly¡¯s re without any particr fear. ¡°Of course we were seen. What did you expect to happen?¡± ¡°I expected the younger generation to possess at least one functioning mind,¡± the Gadfly said acerbically. He rapped the knuckles of his hand against Solus¡¯ forehead. ¡°And I had hoped that they might share it amongst themselves. I see now that my optimism outweighed my sense.¡± ¡°A lesson is learned,¡± the captain said ndly. The Gadfly sneered. Without warning, the imposing messenger eagle perched on Solus¡¯ arm spread its wings wide, head turning to the open doorway. It snapped its beak once, twice, the virtuous beast¡¯s savage pneuma buffeting the air as it beat its wings. Sol frowned, and after a moment¡¯s consideration walked wordlessly out of the room. Leaving Jason and Scythas with the Gadfly. Jason exchanged a look with his fellow Hero, and both cultivators made a mad dash after the captain. The Gadfly let them go, muttering to himself as he surveyed the wrecked room. Outside they found Solus and the Scarlet Oracle, along with Griffon and the rest of the holy women that Scythas had so carefully veiled them past - He dug his heels into the baked-y mosaic winding out from the Oracle¡¯s quarters, Scythasing to a simrly abrupt stop beside him as the full weight of the courtyard¡¯s inhabitants hit them all at once. ¡°This-¡± he gasped, stoking his heart me forck of any other defense. The overwhelming presence, presences, the excruciating majesty of three sovereign souls pressing down on him from on high. It hadn¡¯t been like this before. Griffony in the rubble of a holy tripod across the courtyard, sprawling almost as if in leisure. The broken mound of what had once been a hallowed instrument propped him up, the wreckage of the supporting pir behind serving as a cradle for his head. He had one hand raised to his face, covering most of it but for a narrowed scarlet eye. His other hand was still on the pommel of his sword. Even now, he refrained from drawing it. Three Oracles knelt on priceless garments, surrounding him. The sources of the suffocating majesty, the pressure that had not been there before. First, the Oracle of the Broken Tide, ancient and so casually cruel, smirked as she brushed the blood from his forehead. Second, the Oracle of Jason¡¯s own home, flighty and so wickedly maniptive, murmured softly whilebing delicate fingers through his golden hair. And third, the Oracle of the Brazen Aegis, stern and so mercilessly honest, clicked her tongue as she pressed the folded silk of her veil against a bleeding gouge where the rubble had cut him. There was a reason that Oracles kept thepany of tyrants and heroes, kings and their forgotten sons - beyond the political maneuvering, beyond the logistical concerns, the problem with seeking out a seer was their presence. The aura of a woman whose body functioned as a divine vessel could kill a mortal man outright. It was within their power to control, of course, in the same way that a Tyrant could speak to his lowest Citizen without the weight of his voice crushing their spine. But asking an Oracle to mind her majesty while about her holy work? It wasn¡¯t possible. The majesty was the work. It was the entire point, after all. And it was a sensation as profound as it was terrifying. It hadn¡¯t been like this when Jason and Scythas slipped into the courtyard just minutes prior. The Oracles had been chatting idly while Solus did calisthenics and the Scarlet Oracle kept count of his repetitions. It had been as in a sight as any, reminiscent of the days and nights he¡¯d spent at the dock towns and their markets while between voyages. Heckling and gossipping while going about their casual business. Now, Jason averted his eyes as the Oracle of the Brazen Aegis turned to regard him, as the sound of hissing snakes filled his ears and the eerie sensation of her majesty slithered across his body. Dread, instinctual and severe, told him not to look. A dormant instinct cried out from the bottom of the sea, the bubbles carrying its voice to the surface of his mind. Don¡¯t look into the Aegis. You¡¯ll die! Now, Jason¡¯s knees bent as his city¡¯s holy woman, the Oracle of the baster Isles, settled her attention on him. The burn of her majesty threatening to melt his skin like wax, and the nauseating weightlessness of falling, falling, strings of gold coiling around his neck- Stay down, stay down. You¡¯ll die! Now, Jason¡¯s heart stopped as the Oracle of the Broken Tide speared him with the tridents in her eyes, and he was dragged once more to the bottom of the sea. In thefort of Elissa¡¯s home, Kyno had described to Jason and the rest of those wrapped up in Solus and Griffon¡¯s schemes what it felt like to seek the Broken Tide¡¯s wisdom. It was something each of them had considered at one point or another since ascending to the Heroic Realm. But none of them had ever gone through with it. By the time they had be existences worthy of an Oracle¡¯s attention, they had lost all desire for it. But Griffon had convinced him, and so they¡¯d gone. And while the man from the Rosy Dawn had sauntered through the seer smoke and majesty as if it weren¡¯t there, Kyno had told them the truth of it. The Oracle of the Broken Tide drowned you with her majesty. She filled your lungs with it. She carved it into your soul with three prongs. [Leave it be, leave it be, leave it be.] Jason watched dully as his soul sank into the depths where light could not follow. Past the far horizon, where the Icarus [I¡¯ll find another, better one.] ¡°You¡¯re greedier by the day,¡± the Oracle of the Broken Tide chided Griffon, cracked lips curling mischievously. ¡°Was I not enough for you?¡± ¡°Were the eight of us not enough for you?¡± the Oracle of the Brazen Aegis teased him further. ¡°Perhaps he¡¯se to ask his question after all,¡± the Oracle of the baster Isles mused, twirling a lock of his golden hair around her finger. She leaned in and whispered, quiet as a mouse and loud enough for all to hear. ¡°The one he swore he¡¯d never ask. Has pining overturned your principle yet, oh son of scarlet sin?¡± His face covered by a blood-stained and burning hand, Griffon growled a single word. ¡°Sol.¡± The captain from the west knelt in front of his student, that curious distance still about him. His eyes swept across his student in the rubble, the holy women surrounding him, and the holy girl that was still somehow thrown over his shoulder. If he suffered at all beneath the weight of their majesty, he didn¡¯t show it. Jason supposed a Tyrant wouldn¡¯t. Griffon stared at his master, and then at the young woman over his shoulder. ¡°Who is that?¡± The seer offered him a smile. ¡°My name is Selene.¡± ¡°She¡¯s the Scarlet Oracle,¡± Solus added. Griffon snarled and exploded out of his eerie recline in a single motion, throwing off the hands of the three holy women andshing out. Sorea shrieked and took flight. Jason hissed a curse and Scythas leapt into motion beside him, calling upon the wind. Solus caught his student¡¯s grasping hand in a thunderp of sound, their fingers interlocking as the space between them burned with the rosy light of dawn. His eyes narrowed dangerously. ¡°No,¡± Griffon snarled, leaning in. The Scarlet Oracle¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°She¡¯s not.¡± Chapter 1.53 [Jason] Chapter 1.53 [Jason] Hero of the baster Depths When Jason was six years old, his father sat him on his shoulders while they sailed into a cyclone and told him it was time he learned about standing. Standing, or reputation as the mortals called it, was something any man could understand whether he was a cultivator or not. But, as with most things, its significance increased along with pneuma. Standing was what contrasted a man from his peers. In a financial sense, standing was the difference between the man that cleaned stables for a living, and the man that owned those stables. In a physical sense, it was the man that sat front row for every wrestling match his city put on, contrasted with the man that was in the pitspeting. Jason had been young then, and terrified of the approaching storm. The panicked hollering of his fathers crew hadn¡¯t helped. So his father had provided him with an even simpler example to illustrate the point. The Reaver That Broke the Loom had stepped up onto the Golden Thread¡¯s figurehead, a winged boy with a noose around his throat, and forced Jason to look behind them. Below, at the men roaring against the waves. He forced Jason to watch as his crew gnashed their teeth and wrenched their oars through the sea. Veins bulging, chests heaving for breath. All while Jason¡¯s father stood above them, at the top of the ship¡¯s hierarchy in every way that mattered. Even a pirate knows the way of things, the Reaver had said, before turning back to face the storm. A ve knew his ce when the freedman spit in his face. A freedman knew his ce when the metic chased him from his wares. The metic knew his ce when the citizen sneered at his petty wealth. The citizen knew his ce when the aristocrat humiliated him in the agora. And the aristocrat knew his ce when the tyrant took him in hand. A cultivator was no different. A cultivatorbored under the same hierarchy, only more so. The Reaver¡¯s men were each cultivators of infamously high standing, men that could do unspeakable things with nothing but their own vital essence and whatever was at hand. Yet there theybored, fighting the wrathful sea while Jason looked down on them all. He was hardly a cultivator at all back then, and a child besides. But theybored for his benefit nheless. Why do you think that is, little rat? his father had asked, and Jason had fought the terror of theing storm just long enough to answer. Because you told them to. The Reaverughed, and said that he was exactly right. Jason sat on the captain¡¯s shoulders, his standing greater than anyone else on the Golden Thread, because his father had decided it would be so. And no one on that ship questioned his father. His father had told him they could push the crew further. At Jason¡¯s confused look, he¡¯d borated - perhaps on top ofboring so Jason wouldn¡¯t have to, and speaking to him with the respect a superior was due, his father could have them share their rations of food and drink with him as well. Or he could go beyond that - he could demand that each of them pay a portion of their wages to the Reaver¡¯s son as a sign of deference. Caught between terror and bewilderment, Jason had asked why his father would ever treat the Golden Thread¡¯s crew so poorly. These were men that Jason had grown up admiring. These were the men he had dreamed of rowing beside when his father finally deemed him fit to join them. Why would he treat them like ves? Why wouldn¡¯t I? his father had asked in turn. That¡¯s what they are, in the end. That¡¯s what every man that stands below you is. Why not fleece them for everything they can give you? Scandalized, yet knowing the kind of man his father was even back then at six years old, Jason gave him the only answer he could. The only answer that the Reaver would possibly ept. They¡¯ll mutiny. A roar had gone up then, a chorus of voices raised in vehement agreement. The crew had been listening, and they didn¡¯t hesitate to chime in. His father had only smirked and nodded in satisfaction. Standing is what separates greater existences from their lessers. Once you be a man worth talking about, standing bes renown, renown bes glory. Kleos. The divine hierarchy that governed them all. However, the nature of kleoswas that of adder. Every great man started at the lowest rung. His father could ce him at the top of the financial hierarchy, the social hierarchy, even the political hierarchy - but no man could climb the divinedder in his son¡¯s ce. And if you were on thedder, you were a rung to everyone else. There to be grasped, there to be stepped on. It was natural for man to fear the heights. It was terrifying to reach for that next rung, knowing the man you would have to step over to get to it. That fear won out over every man eventually. Whether it was as a Citizen, as a Philosopher, as a Hero - even as a Tyrant. Eventually, every man decided that what was required to reach the next rung was more than he was willing to risk. That was how you kept a crew of significant men. That was how you kept a portion of the world docile beneath your thumb. But every man has his limit, and it¡¯s the Captain¡¯s job to know it. Press as close as you like to that line in the sand, it makes no difference. Every man below you is a willing ve until you cross his line. It¡¯s only once you cross it that you¡¯re inviting mutiny into your ship. No matter how many years passed, Jason would never shake the feeling that the king below the waves had sent that storm personally. And though his men urged the Reaver to turn back, though any other captain would have fled long ago, his father had held them true to course. The Reaver That Broke the Loom had stood defiant against the rain and the wind. When the timees for you to bite the hand that feeds you, don¡¯t you dare hesitate, his father had said. And when you are the captain and the first of your menes for your ce on thedder, remember this: Once he¡¯s crossed his line in the sand, you¡¯re nothing to that man but another tribtion. Jason mped a hand down on the scarlet son¡¯s wrist and dragged it roughly away from Sol and the Oracle. Burning hands of Griffon¡¯s violent intent punched and wed their way into existence, each one aiming for a different vulnerable spot on his body. Behind, Scythas whistled sharply and a gale enveloped Jason as well as Solus and Scarlet Oracle, deflecting and dispersing the worst of the attack. Since that very first moment he¡¯did eyes on Solus¡¯ student, Jason had known he was a threat to everyone around him. He¡¯d seen it as soon as he walked into that club. Griffon had been staring down zon, a Heroic Young Aristocrat of the Raging Heaven, as easily as he would a vagrant beggar. Jason had known it then, like he knew the rolling of the ocean beneath his feet. Griffon had nced at him, over to Anastasia and Scythas, inevitably settling on his master. But from zon to Jason, to Anastatia, and to Scythas, that look in his eyes hadn¡¯t changed. Not once. Not even for a second. Not even when they settled upon Solus himself. Wherever Griffon¡®s line in the sand was, he had left it behind when he crossed the Ionian. To him, every existence on this earth was nothing but a tribtion for him to ovee. ¡°Control yourself,¡± Jason said harshly, projecting his voice over the wind. zing fists of manifested pneuma pounded at the gale wind shell, ripping and tearing and grasping for purchase. Heedless. ¡°Griffon,¡± Solus said quietly. ¡°What are you talking about?¡± Every manifested hand mmed against the curtain of wind one more time, all of them at once, and then they vanished. After a cautious beat, Scythas allowed his winds to disperse as well. Griffon set his sheathed de against the floor and leaned artfully onto it, blood running rivulets down his forehead and around his eyes. He sneered at the holy woman of his city like she was the ugliest thing he¡¯d ever seen. ¡°I¡¯ve met eight of the nine oracles since west spoke, Solus,¡± he said, deceptively calm. ¡°During your time in the legions, did you ever have the privilege of meeting a holy woman?¡± The captain from the west stared hard at his student. ¡°I did.¡± Scythas exhaled a shaking breath behind them. ¡°Of course you did,¡± the Griffon that was also the hungry raven said easily. ¡°And when you met her, did she grace you with her majesty?¡± Solus grimaced. ¡°Is that what Greeks call it?¡± The Oracles tittered andughed. Jason braced his heart against the simultaneous sensations of drowning, melting, being crushed and hung and turned to stone. Majesty was admittedly a kind word for it. ¡°So she did,¡± Griffon said. ¡°And tell me, oh master, was that a sensation you¡¯ll ever forget? Was that an experience you could possibly mistake for a mortal woman¡¯s charm?¡± Solus¡¯ silence was answer enough. ¡°Then believe me when I tell you -¡± the sword the scarlet son had never bothered to use mmed cleanly through the ivory and gold tile of the floor, sheath and all. His pneuma rose precipitously around him. ¡°- she is not one of them. This pretender is wearing the uniform and mouthing the words, but there is no majesty in her soul.¡± ¡°This is where the oracles reside,¡± Solus said, waving his arm expansively at thete kyrios¡¯ underground courtyard. ¡°She was living here well before the kyrios died. You think he couldn¡¯t tell the difference? The man that spoke to any oracle he wanted, any time he felt the urge?¡± ¡°Living with the king doesn¡¯t make you a queen,¡± Griffon said. Jason¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°You dare?¡± Scythas ground out, stalking over to Solus¡¯ other side. He red furiously at the Griffon, and the Griffon red right back. ¡°Youe here uninvited, unwanted, and make a mess of a great man¡¯s living memory - and you have the audacity to question an Oracle¡¯s right to be here? When you are the intruder?¡± ¡°Why not?¡± Griffon asked with disdain. ¡°No one else was going to.¡± ¡°Your master just told you,¡± Jason said, because Scythas looked too enraged to speak. He¡¯d always been too emotional when it came to the kyrios. ¡°This is hallowed ground in the Raging Heaven Cult. The kyrios never took guests here, never entertained lovers in his private estate. No one but an oracle or the kyrios could possibly live down here.¡± ¡°And yet here you are. Here we all are, my master and his crows. I suppose that would make him the kyrios, but what does that leave the three of us?¡± The narrowed eyes of a predator swept up and down Jason and Scythas, the color of blood and molten heat. ¡°The two of you don¡¯t look like seers to me. I don¡¯t feel like an Oracle, though I suppose I could be wrong.¡± ¡°The wind runner is pretty enough for it,¡± teased the Oracle from the baster Isles. ¡°Shut up,¡± Griffon said at once, and all three of the holy women erupted into giggles once again. An utterly bizarre sight, made more so by the fact that one of them looked older than the city of Olympia itself. ¡°You¡¯re certain of this,¡± Solus finally said, something formless passing between himself and his student. Nothing that Jason could perceive with a Hero¡¯s limited senses. After a beat, Solus sighed. ¡°Why are you lying to me, Selene?¡± The young woman slung over his shoulder, noticeably silent up to this point, blinked and shook herself out of a trance. She looked away from Griffon for the first time since leaving her room, meeting Solus¡¯ eyes with earnesty. ¡°I¡¯m not,¡± she said. And then she winced. ¡°Well, not entirely.¡± Scythas muttered something under his breath. The words apoplexy and acute brain suffering were all that Jason caught from it, through the barrier of his own disbelief. ¡°He¡¯s not wrong, then,¡± Solus observed, and the Oracle¡¯s - the girl¡¯s? - head bobbed in agreement. ¡°He¡¯s not. However, he¡¯s not right either.¡± ¡°Then by all means,¡± Griffon said, ¡°enlighten me.¡± ¡°She isn¡¯t an oracle yet. But she will be.¡± Socrates came striding out of the Scarlet Oracle¡¯s quarters, shutting the bone white door behind him with one hand while the other cradled a mangled bust of a woman¡¯s head. Jason caught a glimpse of the room beyond just before the door mmed shut. Everything was as it had been before Solus pulled him out of Scythas¡¯ veil. Somehow, the Gadfly had fixed it all. The first philosopher gestured irritably with his free hand, and the chunk of marble that he¡¯d thrown at Griffon¡¯s chest leapt across the room. He caught it and pressed it against the partially reformed marble bust of a woman¡¯s head, and when his hand came away it was whole again. Selene, the girl that may or may not have been an oracle, sighed in relief at the sight. ¡°Thank you.¡± The Gadfly grunted. ¡°Be more discerning about who you invite into your room. And get off the boy¡¯s shoulder already, you look ridiculous.¡± Selene flushed. Solus set her down, brow furrowed as he worked over the Gadfly¡¯s words. ¡°The oracles are meant to be crones,¡± he said. ¡°That they are. And do you know why, boy?¡± Solus grimaced again. ¡°Men hunger for various things.¡± ¡°Wrong,¡± Griffon said quietly, riveted on the Gadfly. ¡°Wrong now, but right once upon a time,¡± the Gadfly corrected him. Idly, Jason wondered how many centuries Solus had spent fighting demons out in the furthest reaches of the West. How long had it been since he¡¯d stepped foot in a free city? ¡°Before we forgot the names of those that came before us, chastity was of prime concern for a seer. Do any of you unruly children know why?¡± All three oracles raised their hands. The Gadfly ignored them all. ¡°Back then,¡± Selene said softly, ¡°oracles were handpicked by their patron. Blood rtion was not needed, and so the divine preferred their hosts to have no rtions at all.¡± The Gadfly nodded once. ¡°A man I once knew liked to say that an oracle was like a glove for their god, perfectly fitted to their hand. The immortals used them to affect change that a direct touch wasn¡¯t suited for. And what man, mortal or divine, wants to put his hand in a glove that¡¯s filled with seed?¡± The Gadfly nced meaningfully back at thete kyrios¡¯ personal quarters. Jason wished he could say that the line was out of character for the memories he had of the man. But it wasn¡¯t. ¡°But that was before,¡± the first philosopher continued. ¡°Now, we cling to what¡¯s left of our divinity with everything we have. There are no patrons left, so we preserve thest spark of those that were chosen through their blood. The oracles are no longer forbidden from breeding - now, they¡¯re required.¡± ¡°A holy woman needs an heir,¡± each of the three Oracles said in eerie unison. ¡°So we wait until the Oracle has had her child. Then, when her mother has prepared her for her duties and is ready to torment men in the afterlife, she anoints her daughter in prophecy and mystery faith. Then her child¡¯s child begins the search for a proper partner. On and on it goes, until the day we¡¯ve finally wrung thest of the majesty from their blood.¡± ¡°Ever so cynical,¡± the Oracle of the Broken Tide said, the old woman¡¯s cracked lips creasing in her distaste. ¡°We¡¯ve always hated that about you.¡± The Gadfly ignored her again. ¡°You¡¯re the daughter of the oracle, then,¡± Solus said. ¡°I am,¡± she said sadly. ¡°Then where is she?¡± Griffon demanded. ¡°I came to this festering city to see the Oracle. Where do I have to go to find her?¡± Jason answered before he could think better of it. ¡°Old Zalus¡¯ domain.¡± The Gadfly¡¯s handshed out, rhetoric that Jason could not possibly hope to counter seething in his palm. Jason stoked the mes of his heroic spirit, called upon the Muse that wouldn¡¯t answer, and all of it was toote, too slow. In vain. [I''ll find another, better o-] The Gadfly smacked him over the head. ¡°Some things don¡¯t need to be said just because you can say them,¡± the Gadfly rebuked him with a scowl. Jason raised a hand to his head. Somehow, his skull was still intact. It hadn¡¯t even cut the skin. ¡°After all you¡¯ve seen this foolish child do, you thought it would be wise to give him information like that?¡± Jason opened his mouth to argue. Then he thought about what he¡¯d just said, and to whom. He closed his mouth. ¡°Don¡¯t even think about it,¡± the Gadfly said, dismissing him and rounding on Solus¡¯ student. Fortunately, Griffon was still leaning on his sword and hadn¡¯t gone running off to challenge a Tyrant in his domain. Yet. ¡°You¡¯vee to see the Scarlet Oracle? To seek her wisdom? You can¡¯t.¡± Griffon stared steadily at him. ¡°No, not even then,¡± the Gadfly said, answering the unspoken challenge. ¡°Even if you managed to infiltrate his domain, defy all his ethos, it wouldn¡¯t change a thing. She won¡¯t speak to you because she can¡¯t speak to you.¡± Griffon considered that for a long, tense moment. ¡°Why?¡± He asked Selene. Not the Gadfly. ¡°... The day that I was born, my mother fell asleep and never woke up again.¡± It was a disgraceful act to look upon an oracle¡¯s unveiled face, disrespectful in the most sphemous sense. But Jason found himself looking anyway. Here, leaning against Solus as she was with her hair and silks in disarray, she looked hardly like an oracle at all. It made the sorrow on her face even more painful to see. ¡°They say that thest thing she did was name me, and then I fell right out of her arms. It happened so suddenly that my father had to catch me. She just copsed back into the sheets, dead to the world. She hasn¡¯t stirred since.¡± ¡°An illness?¡± Griffon asked. She shook her head. ¡°Nothing that the physicians had a name for. Certainly nothing they could cure.¡± ¡°She¡¯s been asleep for sixteen years?¡± Solus prompted her, though not unkindly. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders. She nodded miserably, leaning further into his side. Across from them Griffon¡¯s eyes narrowed, his fingers flexing unconsciously. He turned the weight of his gaze and his pneuma both on the Gadfly. ¡°But you know.¡± The Gadfly considered him. ¡°I know nothing.¡± Griffon spat at his feet. ¡°When you first saw Griffon,¡± Solus said, with that same distance from before. Working through a puzzle only a Tyrant could see. ¡°You said something. A word with significance.¡± ¡°Sunkissed,¡± Selene whispered. ¡°I recognized the memory he showed us.¡± ¡°This is justice. Remember its face.¡± Jason shivered. ¡°You¡¯ve seen that corpse before?¡± Solus asked. She shook her head. ¡°Not in person, no. But I knew it anyway. My father used to tell me that we were all blessed by the sun - me, and him, and my mother. It¡¯s why our hair is the color of the zenith. It¡¯s why we have the dawn and the dusk in our eyes. I was blessed by the sun through my mother, who was blessed through her mother, who was blessed through her mother before.¡± ¡°You said your father was blessed, too,¡± Solus observed. ¡°Are you saying¡­¡± ¡°That the roots of her family tree are an Ouroboros?¡± the Gadfly interjected, crossing his arms. ¡°No. Polyzalus is no oracle¡¯s son.¡± ¡°Then how -¡± Solus stopped himself. Understanding bloomed. ¡°Sunkissed.¡± Selene nodded shallowly. ¡°When my father still lived in the Scarlet City, on the western mountain range, he went down alone to where the Burning Dusk¡¯s mystery was kept. In that cavern, on that day, the bisected corpse of the fallen sun god blessed him. It pressed a kiss upon his brow. When he emerged from the mountain, he looked like heaven itself had painted him with an entirely different pallet.¡± ¡°You mean-¡± Scythas said. ¡°That memory was real?¡± Jason demanded. Griffon spared them both a scornful nce. ¡°My virtuous heart doesn¡¯t lie.¡± But that was- to touch a greater mystery of the world- ¡°Can it be fixed?¡± Solus asked the Gadfly. ¡°The Oracle¡¯s affliction. Can she be woken up?¡± Selene, for her part, dipped her head further, her golden hair shading her face in ce of a veil. ¡°I already told you,¡± she whispered. ¡°She can.¡± The Scarlet Oracle¡¯s daughter whipped her head up, and her Heroic pneuma flooded the courtyard. ¡°What? What?¡± she demanded, her voice rising along with her pneuma. The scarlet mes in her eyes zed. ¡°Is this funny to you?¡± ¡°It¡¯s not,¡± the Gadfly said, weathering the zing heat of her pneuma with nothing but a faint grimace. ¡°You said she couldn¡¯t be cured. It wasn¡¯t just the physicians that said it, it wasn¡¯t just the other oracles. You said it!Every time I ever asked, you told me you couldn¡¯t do it!¡± ¡°I said those things before. But I¡¯m not saying them now,¡± the Gadfly said. Solus quickly turned the arm he had around the girl¡¯s shoulders into a restraint when she made to lunge, cheeks flushed and eyes wide with outrage. ¡°You lied!¡± she used him. ¡°All these years, you lied to me! You lied!¡± ¡°You lied!¡± The three Oracles chorused in joyful spite. Their majesty rippled through the room with every repetition. ¡°You lied! You lied! You lied!¡± ¡°The kyrios lied.¡± They all fell silent. The Gadfly raised the bust of a woman¡¯s head still held in his hand, turning it so they could all observe her features. Even without color, it was impossible to mistake her for anything other than the mother of the girl in the sun ray silks. ¡°An oracle is a divine existence, even if only in the slightest of degrees,¡± he said with solemn intonation. ¡°That¡¯s why they live such long lives. That¡¯s why nature preserves them. Any illness that can ovee their majesty, then, must itself be divine. There are only two things known to man that can cure a divine affliction.¡± ¡°Nectar and ambrosia,¡± Griffon said, utterly focused on the philosopher. ¡°Nectar and ambrosia,¡± Socrates agreed. ¡°And since the day you were born, who is the only man on this earth that has demonstrated the ability to refine such a substance?¡± Steam drifted up around Selene¡¯s burning eyes, tears turned to vapor before they could be shed. ¡°Why?¡± she asked. A multitude of questions housed in a single word. ¡°Why didn¡¯t he offer your father a cure if he knew he had it? Why did he lie to you every time you asked him? Why was the kyrios the man that he was?¡± The Gadfly sighed. ¡°There isn¡¯t a wise man alive that could answer any of those questions.¡± ¡°But the kyrios is dead,¡± Solus said, ¡°and he took his nectar and his ambrosia with him.¡± ¡°He did,¡± the Gadfly agreed. ¡°So what does it matter?¡± Selene asked. But now, mixed with the bitterness and the anger, there was an undercurrent of hope. ¡°He was the only one that could create it, wasn¡¯t he?¡± The holy girl begged him with her eyes to disprove her. And so he did. ¡°During his time here, the kyrios was the only man in the free Mediterranean to synthesize divine sustenance,rgely because he felt it was proper that that be the case. He was never the only man capable of following this process.¡± ¡°You know,¡± Griffon said, a vicious smile revealing his teeth. ¡°Worthless old man. Just say it.¡± Socrates scoffed. ¡°Old I may be, but I¡¯m worth far more than you.¡± ¡°Well?¡± Selene pressed, gripping Solus¡¯ restraining arm tightly. The scarlet mes in her eyes flickered. ¡°Can you create it?¡± The Gadfly muttered something under his breath, and tossed the bust of Selene¡¯s mother away so he could rummage through a fold in his tunic. A hand of manifested intent caught it out of the air, rotating it slowly while Griffon looked it over. The Gadfly pulled a folded piece of papyrus out and flicked it at the captain from the west. Solus caught it between two fingers and shook it open, revealing a map of the free Mediterranean. A map of the free Mediterranean that was covered in markings. ¡°What is this?¡± Solus asked while Jason, Scythas, and Selene crowded around the map. ¡°No matter how much thete kyrios enjoyed prodding me with questions, I was never close enough in his confidence to share his recipes and refinement techniques with. No one was. However, it¡¯smon knowledge that he mastered this process and discovered these materials during his time as a Hero. What is lessmonly known, but still within the scope of my understanding, is how he spent his years in the Heroic Realm. And where.¡± ¡°So if we follow his steps,¡± Selene said excitedly, hope and joy finally overtaking outrage and doubt. ¡°If we look where he¡¯s been-!¡± ¡°We¡¯ll find what he found,¡± Griffon said, cing the bust of Selene¡¯s mother into her hands. She hugged it tightly to her chest, more steam drifting from the corners of her eyes. Griffon shouldered Scythas aside, the Hero of the Scything Squall gritting his teeth but making space. Side-by-side, the captain from the west and his student considered the map of thete kyrios¡¯ epic. ¡°This will work? You¡¯re certain?¡± Selene asked in a hitching voice. ¡°Nothing is certain,¡± the Gadfly said gruffly. Then, to Solus and his student: ¡°But this is as good a use of your time as any. You¡¯ve both proven today that you¡¯re not fit for a horse¡¯s stable, let alone a city full of civilized people. Take the map and begon from my sight. Go be a problem for the rest of the world while I think about what to do with you.¡± ¡°Where do we start?¡± Griffon asked Solus without hesitation, following the finger his master was tracing across the map. He added his own finger, jabbing at a particr marking as they exchanged another silent conversation. The Gadfly jabbed his own finger to the papyrus, a small mark of liquid gold. ¡°You¡¯ll go here first.¡± he dered, leaving no room for argument. ¡°Of all the conjectures associated with the kyrios¡¯ recipe, one element has always been constant. Go here and find me a golden cup filled with spirit wine. Return it to me without spilling a drop. I, your grandfather, will handle the rest.¡± Selene answered for them, wedged in between the two and smiling like the sun. ¡°We will!¡± Chapter 1.54 Chapter 1.54 The Young Griffon Emerging from the heart of the mountain was a slightly less pleasant experience than going in. Myte uncle¡¯s sword made for a poor walking stick, and using pankration hands to steady my body was a drain just severe enough to be noticeable. The Reign-Holder¡¯s starlight marrow was doing its best, but Socrates had put some proper force behind his throw. For now I could only endure and do what I could with the knowledge Anastasia had given me, guiding my pneuma to the parts of my body where it was most needed - which, contrary to what one might expect, wasn¡¯t always where the wounds were. I raised a hand against the light as I stepped out. The mystikos standing guard at the entrance to the subterranean estate looked me over, visibly pausing at the ugly bruise on my chest where the old philosopher had thrown a rock at me and shattered my ribs. ¡°I take it the Gadfly was down there,¡± one of the guards said sympathetically. I grunted. ¡°Well, at least you found him.¡± ¡°Did you learn anything?¡± the other guard asked, mirth at war with pity. ¡°A few things,¡± I said, brushing past them. ¡°Griffon!¡± ¡°How did it go?¡± The little king and his sentinel dropped the branches they¡¯d been sparring with in a nearby mountain grotto and sprinted my way. The guards had been reluctant enough to let me through under the supposition that I was seeking Socrates, a man that I apparently had good reason to be searching for. The boys, unfortunately, hadn¡¯t had a chance. Now they made up for it by peppering me with questions and jumping at my shoulders. I staggered back a step as they hit me, the little king rolling his eyes at my theatrics. It wasn¡¯t the first time I had pretended they had more sway over me than they did, after all. He became slightly more concerned when I hunched over and coughed, sttering my blood across the mountain trail. ¡°You¡¯re hurt! You¡¯re actually hurt! Was it the Gadfly? Is he chasing you?¡± ¡°Get off him first,¡± the little sentinel hissed, yanking his brother down off my shoulder. The two boys circled worriedly around me, casting wary res back at the entrance to the center of the mountain. Then Sol stepped out, both guards wordlessly parting as he passed. The boys edged behind me. ¡°Is that¡­¡± ¡°The revenant?¡± Ah, right. That¡¯s what Lefteris called him. ¡°Boys,¡± I said once I had stopped spitting blood. They looked up. ¡°Can you find your guardian?¡± They exchanged a startled look. ¡°We told you, he¡¯s-¡± ¡°I won¡¯t tolerate a lie, and I¡¯m running out of patience for misdirection,¡± I said roughly. The little sentinel bit his lip. The little king gazed back in defiance for as long as he could. Sol came to stand behind me, looking down on him neutrally. Little Leo flinched and looked away. ¡°We can,¡± he muttered, and reached for a golden thread tied around his left wrist. Sol and I watched, fascinated, as the golden thread unraveled from around his wrist and then snapped taut, as if an invisible hand was pulling the other end of it. It swiveled and pointed southwest down the mountain. ¡°Go,¡± Imanded them, and both boys visibly fought the desire to tell me no. It had been one thing for them to tag along when they thought they wouldn¡¯t get caught. Then, when Kyno and his crocodile had caught them out, they¡¯dforted themselves with the knowledge that at least I¡¯d be there with them when Lefteris found out. But here and now, I was telling them to track him down themselves. Alone. There would be no softening the blow if they did, and they both knew it. ¡°You offered to face the Gadfly with me in exchange for my tutge, and I told you it wasn¡¯t enough,¡± I said, swallowing back blood as I knelt in front of them. ¡°Have you realized why yet? It¡¯s because you wanted to do that. It would have cost you nothing. If the two of you truly want to be my students, go find your guardian and tell him what you¡¯ve done. Stand tall when he rages. Do not falter. And bring him back to Elissa¡¯s home by any means necessary. Do that, and I¡¯ll teach you mongrel children a thing or two about justice.¡± It was interesting, watching them work through the dilemma of their circumstances with one another. I wondered, distantly, if Socrates had felt this way when Sol and I faced him in his cave. They reached a decision. Leo inhaled a deep breath, offering his brother the back of his fist. ¡°With me?¡± ¡°Always,¡± Pyr said, rapping the back of his own fist against it. ¡°We¡¯ll have him back by sundown,¡± Leo promised, gripping his golden thread tight. With that, the two boys turned and went bounding down the mountain steps, their guardian¡¯s thread leading the way. Sol frowned. ¡°What was that?¡± ¡°There¡¯s a vast expanse of things you don¡¯t know, Sol,¡± I said. He rolled his eyes as we both turned down the mountain. ¡°And even more that ourpanions have kept from us. Out of fear, out of paranoia-¡± A soft whistle in the wind heralded the breaking of a veil once the guards were out of sight, and Sol¡¯s toy soldiers stepped out of the open air beside us. ¡°-and out of shame,¡± I finished, ncing sidelong at Scythas and Jason. The wind walker red but didn¡¯t utter a word, while the disgraced captain of the seas avoided my gaze entirely. For a moment, I tried to imagine Niks in their ce. A Hero cowed by a pair of lowly Philosophers. ¡°What¡¯s so funny?¡± Scythas grit out. I shook my head, fighting my good humor. As I was currently,ughter would only lead to me spitting more blood. ¡°Nothing,¡± I said, smiling. ¡°Just you.¡± ¡°Scythas, Jason.¡± Sol said. The Heroes bit their tongues and sheathed their rising ire. ¡°Can you find the others? We need to talk.¡± ¡°All of us,¡± I added. ¡°We can,¡± Scythas reluctantly said. Sol considered the shorter hero. He sighed. ¡°Go.¡± The Hero of the Scything Squall nodded wordlessly. The two vanished, stepping once more into the wind. ¡°What are you ying at, Griffon?¡± Sol asked me as we descended the stairway to heaven. ¡°I could ask you the same thing.¡± A gaggle of children, no less young for the fact that each of them were in the Sophic Realm, eyed us curiously as we stepped off the stairway and through the arched gateway separating the Raging Heaven from Olympia. They waited for us with veiled impatience - the stairway to heaven was only wide enough for one man to walk it at a time. Once I had passed, and then Sol behind me, they went bounding up the steps - each chasing the other¡¯s heels. Sol and I watched them go. Finally, my worthless Roman brother spoke the words that were on both of our minds. ¡°I want to know.¡± ¡°Want to know what?¡± I asked blithely, as if I wasn¡¯t suffering the same desire. We continued on into the Half-Step City, into grand streets wide enough for three drawn carts to pass without fear of collision. The city was alive as it always was, the muted noise of the Storm That Never Ceased giving way to the thunder of humanity, hundreds of men and women doing hundreds of different things wherever you happened to look. Within minutes of leaving Kaukoso Mons I spotted a man hawking swill and calling it spirit wine, more than a dozen hetairai beckoning men and women alike from their balconies and perfumed shops, and even a group of street performers with drums and flutes and, for some reason, a snake slithering along to their beat. ¡°A subordinate of mine once told me that a man is entitled to his own demons, if nothing else,¡± Sol said as we passed beneath an arch of tangled boughs, the product of two trees on either side of the road reaching out to one another. ¡°Whether you¡¯re a soldier or a mystiko, or just a man trying to provide, there will always be superiors and dependants vying for your time, your attention - and your secrets.¡± I hummed, watching a pair of street rats edge towards a man selling fruit. The boy¡¯s skin clung to his ribs, outlining each one, and the girl¡¯s cheeks were devoid of the fat a child her age should have. Without breaking stride, I manifested a hand of pankration intent and snapped its fingers loudly beside the merchant¡¯s ear. The man flinched and whipped around, cursing at a nearby loiterer. The urchins lunged out of the shadows and grabbed as many figs and pears from the baskets at his feet as they could carry, dashing into a nearby alley with their spoils. ¡°Every man deserves at least one secret, is that it?¡± I asked. Sol grunted affirmation. ¡°But you want to know them anyway.¡± ¡°I do.¡± Beside me, he drank in the city with his eyes. There was wonder beneath the thick veneer of Roman contempt. ¡°Aristotle told me stories of Greece, at times - its great Heroes and the arts they inspired, as well as its Tyrants.¡± ¡°And? You¡¯ve met my father, and more Heroic souls here than whores in a symposia. Has it been everything you thought it would be?¡± Unconsciously, against his better efforts, Sol sneered. ¡°Your father is exactly what Aristotle warned me a Tyrant could be,¡± he said. ¡°But the heroes we¡¯ve met are wrong. And there¡¯s a part of me that can¡¯t help but wonder-¡± ¡°If ourpanions aren¡¯t what they¡¯re meant to be, because the Tyrants in their lives are.¡± I finished his thought for him, because it was my thought as well. ¡°That part of me wants to know,¡± he said, ¡°even though it has no right.¡± We passed through the grand agora, citizens and philosophers of all ages parting unconsciously from our path as Sol¡¯s riptide influence guided them out of the way. I held out a hand and let it pass through the eerie currents of the fountain where we¡¯d recruited Jason and Elissa weeks ago, streamers of water simply falling up into the sky before returning to the earth. ¡°What right do we need to seek the truth?¡± I asked, flicking the moisture from my fingers and watching it spiral up into the air to rejoin with the fountain. ¡°What right do we need for anything at all, so long as we can take it for ourselves?¡± ¡°These aren¡¯t knuckles in a game of dice,¡± Sol said, irritated. ¡°There¡¯s no reward for taking everything you can from the world around you. These are real people, living and breathing just like you. If they want to keep the worst of their suffering to themselves, why shouldn¡¯t we let them?¡± I scoffed, and he nced sharply at me. Worthless Roman, if you wanted me to reassure you that your first impulse was just, all you had to do was ask. ¡°Because if I observed such pitiful courtesy, you¡¯d still be a ve in chains,¡± I told him, and saw his relief in the ebbing of the storm. ¡°This is different,¡± he said, because nothing could ever be easy with him. ¡°You¡¯re not doing this for them.¡± I threw an arm across his shoulder, knocking the side of my head against his. ¡°And who said any of this was for you?¡± I asked him airily, pping aside his halfhearted attempt to push me away. ¡°You and Socrates both, lecturing me as if I don¡¯t understand the difference between a man and a mound of y. What does it matter that my actions are selfish at their core if they¡¯re what the other party needs?¡± ¡°The intent doesn¡¯t matter,¡± Sol mused. ¡°Not when oue is king,¡± I agreed. He inhaled sharply and nodded. ¡°Right. Then if we¡¯re going to do this, we have to make certain we leave them better off than we found them.¡± ¡°Will that absolve you of your guilt?¡± I asked him, raising an eyebrow. ¡°Dragging their demons out of them, unearthing whatever it was that made them this way to satisfy your own curiosity - will you be able to justify it if they walk away hating you? So long as they¡¯re stronger for having suffered it?¡± For all that thest son of Rome sought refuge in apathy, he couldn¡¯t fool me. And whatever his intent had been when we stepped off the Eos and into the sanctuary city, the oue was attachment. Against his best efforts, Sol had grown fond of these destitute Heroes and their troubled cult in the weeks since we¡¯d met them. Whether it was sympathy or camaraderie hardly mattered. He had imed them within himself, consciously or not, and that meant iming their troubles as well. How could I know that? It was obvious. I¡¯d done the same exact thing. ¡°They''ll hate us regardless once they figure out what we really are,¡± he said wearily. ¡°The least we can do is give them some peace in exchange for their turmoil.¡± ¡°The least we can do is nothing at all,¡± I corrected him. ¡°That is the least of what we will do. And personally, I have no intention of stopping there.¡± He nced at me in askance. ¡°My cousin was a Philosopher when he left the Scarlet City, and he was alone. When he came back to wed his woman he was a Hero. Do you remember how manypanions they brought with them?¡± ¡°Six,¡± he said promptly, having been one of the ves to prepare their amodations at the time. ¡°Eight in all.¡± ¡°Eight in all, each of them Heroes.¡± I nodded. ¡°Something you couldn¡¯t possibly have known as a ve is that three of thosepanions were there for his wife, and three were there for him. Two groups of four joined by their union.¡± ¡°Get to the point.¡± ¡°Impatient wretch,¡± I said, tightening the arm around his shoulder into a headlock. ¡°Why do you think it is that all the best stories are about parties and crews? Even the Muses know it¡¯s better that way. For every Hero that can stand alone against a Tyrant, there are three more that can only do it together. ¡°There¡¯s strength in numbers. Strength in justice,¡± I added, raising fingers one at a time. ¡°My cousin carved out his name with a crew of four. Tessera - that¡¯s justice. His wife did the same with a party of the same size, and that¡¯s justice as well. In their union they created a covenant of eight Heroic souls, justice twice over. Something far greater than the sum of its parts.¡± The muscles in Sol¡¯s jaw flexed. Of course, there was no grand realization on his part. Just as I had known all along what he was thinking, so too had he known my intentions. ¡°Scythas, Jason, and Anastasia,¡± he said, reciting the names of those he¡¯d imed as his own. ¡°Elissa, Kyno, and Lefteris,¡± I responded in kind. ¡°What makes you think they want that kind of arrangement? What makes you think they¡¯d be able to stomach one another even if they did? We have no idea what it is they¡¯re here to aplish, only that they¡¯vee from every corner of the free Mediterranean topete for it. For all we know, sess for one could mean death for the other five.¡± ¡°We know that four of them despise their elders enough to take up arms against their crows,¡± I said, reminding him of the unkindness that had led to our meeting with Socrates. ¡°We know that Scythas is more eager to help you now than you ever were to help me as my ve.¡± Sol¡¯s eyes rolled. ¡°And Lefteris?¡± ¡°What Lefteris wants hardly matters,¡± I said slyly. ¡°Because he¡¯d put his boys above it anyway.¡± ¡°And you have them eating out of your open hand.¡± He sighed. ¡°What is the story behind them? They don¡¯t look nearly enough like him to be his children.¡± ¡°I only have suspicions.¡± ¡°But you know he values them over his own desires,¡± Sol observed. I hummed, confirming it. ¡°So you¡¯ll ckmail him into joining you, using his dependents as leverage? There¡¯s a word for men that do that.¡± ¡°I won¡¯t do anything to his boys,¡± I said, waving off the thought. ¡°But if the little king and his sentinel decide they want to tag along, I have no reason to refuse them. Besides that, Lefteris has an attachment to Elissa and Kyno as it is. If they go, of course he¡¯ll want to follow. And if the boys are in his ear, begging him to join them too?¡± ¡°All of this, just to have some fun?¡± ¡°Worthless Roman, I told you before - a thing can be good more than once. Everything I do is for my own enjoyment, as it should be, but that doesn¡¯t mean my fun can¡¯t also serve a greater purpose. You think you¡¯re the only one that¡¯s paid attention to these pitiful Heroes and their rotten, sinking cult? You¡¯re not. Who said my pursuit of the heights had to be at odds with my pursuit of happiness? Why shouldn¡¯t a man be smiling when he catches tribtion lightning in his teeth?¡± ¡°I¡¯ll keep that in mind when my journey reaches its end,¡± he said, dark Roman humor asserting itself in his bleak smirk. Iughed, my internal and external bruises throbbing painfully as I did. ¡°You should! I can¡¯t think of anything more terrifying than a Roman with a smile on his face. The dogs won¡¯t stand a chance.¡± He snorted. ¡°There¡¯s still a w in your grand design.¡± ¡°Ho?¡± ¡°You want to form a Heroic party, but we¡¯re not even Heroes yet.¡± Ahead of us, a man visibly past his prime cursed as the press of the crowds forced him into Sol¡¯s path, shoulders knocking together. He stumbled back, and a Philosopher¡¯s influence washed over us as his pneuma rose in outrage. A Philosopher of the third rank. ¡°Bastard-!¡± he seethed, catching his bnce and squaring his shoulders. Sol stared steadily at the man, and I raised an eyebrow beside him. The man faltered. The eyes on us grew in number, citizens stopping to take notice of a brewing conflict, and I allowed my violent intent to manifest itself without the mes to make it visible. The Philosopher flinched. ¡°Watch yourself,¡± he spat, and Sol allowed him the token attempt at maintaining some standing. The senior cultivator stalked away as fast as he could without running. I nced at Sol. ¡°Does it matter?¡± Chapter 1.55 Chapter 1.55 The Son of Rome We gathered in the home of the Sword Song, the first Heroine to respond to my unintended call on the night of the kyrios¡¯ funeral. She stood while the rest of us sat around a low table of carved mahogany. There were dining couches as well, enough scattered throughout the house for us all to sit if a few of us shared, but I hadn¡¯t bothered dragging one over. The rest had followed my example and sat on the bare floor with varying degrees of propriety. Elissa alone stood - silently glowering at the far wall. The first thing I¡¯d noticed about her that first night had been the scars marring an otherwise wless physique. The second thing had been the anger. Not at me for calling her out, though that had been present. Not at Griffon for pping her in the face, though that had of course been there as well. Not even at the Tyrants and their games. It was a deeper fury than that. Something I had no name for, but could pick out of a crowd of any size. It was a special sort of torment, the kind that made a man a horrible citizen and a valuable soldier. Gaius had trained me to notice broken souls. He¡¯d trained me to sort those for whom war was the only salvation from those who would break beneath the weight of their sins. You came here to seek your master, is that it? Can you look me in the eyes and tell me that was your only intent? These people aren¡¯t your soldiers. They don¡¯t owe you their lives. Not yet. That night, while the elders of the Raging Heaven beat their drums and the pyre smoke reached fruitlessly for the stars, I¡¯d tasted salt and ash on the wind. I¡¯d noticed the attention of a higher power whirling around Scythas, and I¡¯d followed its path through the crowd with my burgeoning Sophic sense. That I¡¯d found the rest of Griffon¡¯s three was pure coincidence. That was all. None of what followed had been my intent at the time. I looked around the table, at Heroic cultivators far stronger than myself. I looked at slumped shoulders and wary eyes - heart mes that flickered when they met my gaze. Any man will go to war for you if given the proper cause, nephew. To fight is the legionnaire¡¯s purpose. To find the legionnaire, to convince him of the necessity - that is ours. I scowled and clenched my fist on the table. I hadn¡¯te to Olympia for that. Not here, not now. Nowhere and never again. I¡¯d seen the end of my path in meditation with Socrates. Burning the city of Carthage to ash and pouring salt into thest demon¡¯s gaping chest. Alone. Living just long enough to swallow the final dog¡¯s beating heart, and then returning to the Fifth where I belonged. Alone. Griffon hadn¡¯t been wrong. I wanted to know what was lurking behind each of these people. I wanted to know why they had chained themselves to the Raging Heaven despite once standing in defiance of tribtion lightning. I wanted to see it undone. But I had no illusions as to where that road led. Griffon had an ideal in his mind¡¯s eye, a world that was poetry as much as it was reality, and he expected everyone else to fall in step with that vision. Even if these fortuitous encounters yielded truepanions, the union could onlyst so long. Every man stands alone against the heavens. They¡¯d all stray eventually, lost again on their own paths. And if they didn¡¯t, I would. They were Greeks. No matter the route, no matter the tribtion, Olympus Mons was their final destination. It was inevitable that I¡¯d leave them all behind. All of them. Even Griffon. For me, the end had been set in stone long ago. It didn¡¯t matter which path I chose now. All roads led to Rome. Elissa¡¯s pneuma flickered around her, tension coiling in the squaring of her shoulders as sheid a hand on her sword. Across the room, the only other cultivator that had not followed my example raised his head from the lounging couch where he¡¯d been napping. Griffon blinked, smilingnguidly. ¡°Just in time,¡± he said. A ferocious pounding on the door down the hall followed soon after. ¡°¡®Left!¡± Elissa snapped, rushing down the hall. ¡°If you break that door-!¡± The door mmed open. ¡°I¡¯ll kill him!¡± ¡°Theri, You can¡¯t!¡± ¡°He needs to teach us first!¡± ¡°Ho, so it¡¯s fine after that?¡± Griffon asked, amused. Rolling onto his side, he propped his head up with one hand and raised the other in a greeting as Lefteris came storming into the room. ¡°You!¡± the bowman seethed. The two boys from before struggled futilely to hold him back, the smaller of them hanging off his neck while therger of them attempted to yank him back by the waist. Elissa followed close behind, irritated but not quite willing to stop him. ¡°Just who do you think you are!?¡± ¡°I¡¯m d you asked-¡± ¡°Don¡¯t,¡± I said wearily. Griffon smirked. ¡°This isn¡¯t funny! None of this is funny!¡± Lefteris raged, his pneuma rising precipitously. ¡°Easy.¡± Elissa gripped his shoulder. Where two Civic boysbined had failed to slow him down, that hand stopped him short. Lefteris heaved a helpless growl. ¡°You know this isn¡¯t funny,¡± he said to her. ¡°It¡¯s not,¡± Kyno rumbled. ¡°But that¡¯s how he is. We won¡¯t get anywhere if we let him set the pace.¡± ¡°It¡¯s the opposite,¡± Griffon corrected the hulking cultivator in the crocodile skin. Scarlet eyes glittered in the low light of the home¡¯s hearth me. ¡°If you¡¯d only follow my lead, you¡¯d be at the end of the road before you knew it.¡± ¡°In pieces, maybe,¡± Scythas muttered, resting his chin in crossed arms on the table beside me. ¡°You had no right,¡± Lefteris used the former Young Aristocrat of the Rosy Dawn. ¡°No right to spirit them away after I told them to stay here!¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t,¡± Griffon agreed. ¡°As if it wasn¡¯t enough to take them out of the house, you took them out of the city entirely! Into the wilds!¡± ¡°It wasn¡¯t like that, Theri,¡± the older of the two boys protested. The younger scowled and tightened his arms around the Hero¡¯s neck, doing his level best to throttle him. ¡°We can take care of ourselves.¡± ¡°What would you have done if they came to harm?¡± Lefteris asked, shrugging off Elissa¡¯s hand and advancing forward. Kyno rose from the table only for Griffon to wave him off. Jason leaned back on his elbows, crossed legs tucked under the table. Across from me, Anastasia watched with calm interest. ¡°Would you have done anything? If a beast had taken them while you were looking the other way, swept up in whatever curiosity caught your eye - would you have noticed it at all?¡± ¡°Such suspicion,¡± Griffon replied without concern. ¡°How cruel. Is that any way to treat a friend?¡± The Heroic bowman grit his teeth. ¡°We aren¡¯t friends. We will never be friends.¡± ¡°I told you, boys,¡± Griffon said without breaking eye contact. The young redheads both perked up attentively. ¡°Your guardian¡¯s heart is in the right ce. Unfortunately, the rest is often wrong.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t talk to them,¡± Lefteris snapped. The mes behind his eyes red. ¡°Don¡¯t even look at them!¡± ¡°Or what?¡± ¡°Enough.¡± The attention of two boys and six Heroic cultivators fell heavily upon my shoulders. The captain¡¯s virtue reached out through my voice and drew their eyes unfailingly to me. All of them except Griffon. Gravitas is a Roman conceit, boy. You never bothered to consider the impact it could have on a Greek soul because it never mattered back then. But you¡¯ve lost that luxury. If you want to aplish anything at all before you return to the elements, you¡¯ll have to find your ce in this world once again. Whatever the rules were in the legions, whatever your limits were there, understand that they won¡¯t necessarily be the same underneath a Greek sky. Six Heroes were drawn in by the captain¡¯s word, while a Philosopher of the second rank ignored it. I didn¡¯t know why. I would have to find out. For now, business. ¡°I apologize for Griffon,¡± I told the Gold-String Guardian, meeting his burning re as forthrightly as I could. Finally, he exhaled and broke the captain¡¯s gaze, looking away. ¡°He should apologize for himself.¡± ¡°It¡¯s impossible for him,¡± I said. ¡°His vital breath would flow backwards on the spot - he¡¯d explode.¡± Jason snorted augh, surprised more than anything. Scythas tucked his face further into his crossed arms to hide a sudden smirk while Anastasia¡¯s lips curled. A sliver of tension eased out of the room, the Heroes letting down their hackles just a bit. ¡°My master is abusing me,¡± Griffonmented. ¡°And after everything I did to rescue him from that old man¡¯s groping hands.¡± ¡°That was true, then?¡± Elissa asked, finally taking a seat at the table once she had forced Lefteris and his boys to sit first. ¡°The message you sent with that eagle - the Gadfly really took you on as a student?¡± ¡°Student¡­ isn¡¯t quite the right word.¡± More urately, the Gadfly had taken me on out of obligation, as a distant mentor to my own master. Even then, he¡¯d taken me on the same way a man took on a feral dog. Keeping me away from politepany and vowing to beat the wolf out of me until I was civilized - whatever that meant to a Greek. ¡°But yes, he¡¯s offered me his wisdom for the moment.¡± Lefteris and Kyno exchanged a look. Anastasia hummed, leaning across the table towards me. ¡°That¡¯s quite an honor,¡± she said, significance in every intonation. ¡°The Gadfly doesn¡¯t offer his wisdom to just anyone these days.¡± She had foregone her cult attire since being stolen away by a pair of hungry ravens, and now ck cloth spilled down slender marble arms as she leaned, emerald gems shimmering as they dangled from each of her ears. She¡¯d tied her hair back into something more artful since thest time I had seen her, thickly interwoven braids the same color as her dress that spilled over one shoulder. Somehow, like this, she looked more menacing than she had with a bloody javelin in her hand. ¡°I¡¯ll take what I¡¯m given,¡± I said simply. ¡°Of course you will.¡± A pankration hand pped the table in between us, nting a worn papyrus map in the center. Anastasia leaned back while the rest of the Heroes and children around the table moved in around it. ¡°As much as I love to see your smiling faces gathered here together -¡± Griffon drawled from across the room. ¡°We¡¯ve called you for a greater purpose today,¡± I finished, epting the cue for what it was. Smoothing out the old map, I allowed each of them to drink it in. Jason and Scythas had already seen it back in the kyrios¡¯ estate, but they pored over it again with full focus. ¡°We¡¯re really doing this,¡± Jason murmured. Scythas nodded absently, eyes flickering across the various markers. ¡°Looks that way.¡± ¡°Doing what?¡± Lefteris demanded. ¡°What is this?¡± Kyno asked quietly. ¡°I¡¯ve learned a few things since west spoke,¡± I exined. ¡°The nature of a wise man¡¯s rhetoric, the greater scope of thete kyrios¡¯ hunger, and more besides.¡± The inexplicable influence of the shard from Babylon wavered on my tongue. That eerie stone tablet with every founding myth scrawled across its shifting surface - in everynguage of man - had left its mark on me, burrowed in through my eyes as I read it and settled along the surface of my tongue. Ready and willing to serve my needs. After I had gone back following that initial reading and finished the Theogeny as well as the Aeneid, my grasp of the myriad tongues of the Mediterranean had solidified in my mind. It was a convenience that I could hardly believe any man would be afforded. But if my gut was right, this phenomenon exined Griffon¡¯s eerie ability to trante his words to nearly a dozen different tongues while speaking only a single set of words. It also exined why none of the Heroic cultivators we¡¯d encountered thus far had struggled to understand the Latin I spoke out of habit. Perfect trantion. Effortless understanding, driven by an ancient relic. At times, the Greek cities seemed as barbaric to me as the tent kingdoms and marsh empires of the western front. And then there were moments like that, when they so casually flourished ancient treasures that the Senate would wage war for. And I was reminded once again just how young my city was in the grand scheme of things. How young it had been. My fist clenched and unclenched on the table. Regardless. I wouldn¡¯t mention that particr linguistic revtion just yet. I had spoken to the Heroic cultivators in Latin up until now without issue, and I had no reason to change that. Let them think it was a deliberate choice on my part. The alternative would be a blow to an image I had no choice but to maintain. ¡°I also discovered something about the Oracle of the Scarlet City,¡± I said neutrally. Kyno and Elissa nced warily at Griffon across the room. Toote for that now. ¡°We discovered that the girl who calls herself a seer is no seer at all,¡± Griffon said, his influence an odd thing as it clenched and unclenched around him. The mood he¡¯d been in back in that courtyard was something I hadn¡¯t seen from him in months. Agitated down to his bones. ¡°Not yet,¡± I said, and he scoffed. Anastasia raised an eyebrow, something curious in her bearing. Off to the left, Elissa drummed her fingers on the polished wood of the table top. ¡°Everyone knows that,¡± the Sword Song said, unable to contain herself. ¡°You¡¯re telling me the great Solus and Griffon only just now figured it out?¡± ¡°Elissa,¡± Kyno warned her. ¡°What? They pulled us into all this, he went and roped the Oracle in under her father¡¯s own nose, and now he tells us he had no idea what the girl really was?¡± Damn it. I forced my teeth not to clench, my breath not to catch. Damn it. I should have known they¡¯d know. I should have known- ¡°Just a moment,¡± Anastasia murmured. ¡°Somehow, I get the feeling they¡¯re not saying what you think they¡¯re saying.¡± Elissa frowned. ¡°What do you mean?¡± ¡°It¡¯s known that the previous Scarlet Oracle retired from her duties after giving birth, yes,¡± Anastasia said, ncing obliquely at the scarred Heroine, ¡°though to say it¡¯smon knowledge is rather disingenuous. Further, it¡¯s known that the current Scarlet Oracle could not have possibly made the necessary journey to be crowned in her patron¡¯s domain.¡± ¡°Because the Scarlet City is an ind in the sun,¡± Griffon mused. Because Damon Aetos was Damon Aetos. ¡°Thest Oracle died in childbirth and the new one is unordained. What¡¯s your point?¡± Lefteris asked. Caustic green eyes considered him, and then the children sitting on either side of him. The boys flushed at the Heroine¡¯s smoldering attention. ¡°My point,¡± Anastasia decided, ¡°is that they didn¡¯t say she was an unordained seer. They said that she was no seer at all.¡± ¡°Meaning¡­¡± Elissa frowned, twisting a scar along her jaw. ¡°Impossible.¡± ¡°Improbable,¡± Anastasia corrected her. The two Heroines stared hard at one another. Then, as one, they turned to me. ¡°What is it you¡¯re trying to tell us, Solus?¡± Kyno asked me, the dull eyes of his crocodile cloak seeming to flicker and sharpen in the hearth¡¯s low light. Well. I had little choice now. ¡°Selenecks an oracle¡¯s majesty,¡± I informed them. Then, as an afterthought, ¡°And her mother is still alive.¡± Chapter 1.56 Chapter 1.56 The Son of Rome Griffon¡¯s trio of Heroic cultivators stared at me withoutprehension. The boys on either side of Lefteris leaned around their guardian to whisper to one another, confused. Anastasia, for her part, hummed and nodded once, as if I¡¯d just confirmed a long held suspicion. ¡°Old ¡®Zalus has been keeping quite a secret.¡± ¡°Fuck,¡± Elissa whispered. ¡°¡­ fuck,¡± Kyno agreed. ¡°Fuck!¡± Lefteris mmed his hands to the table with force enough to crack it and make his boys flinch. Elissa smacked his shoulder so hard it nearly knocked him on his back, but he didn¡¯t seem to notice or care. ¡°Just what I needed! Just what we all needed!¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t realize you felt that strongly about the Oracle,¡± I said, bemused. On his lounging couch at the far side of the room, Griffon watched Lefteris intently. ¡°I don¡¯t,¡± Lefteris snapped. ¡°I feel strongly about being passed a Tyrant¡¯s secrets like a sk around a night fire. This isn¡¯t bathhouse gossip, and ¡®Zalus isn¡¯t the kind of man to take an insult on the chin. Tyrants have burnt out entire family trees for less; don¡¯t you understand?¡± ¡°Doubtful,¡± Jason said sarcastically. ¡°How could Solus possibly understand the whims of Tyrants?¡± Scythas snorted. I closed my eyes and prayed for patience. ¡°Whether or not Old Zalus takes offense to the airing of his dirtyundry has no bearing on us,¡± Griffon said, rising from his lounge. He ignored the myriad sounds of doubt and incredulity sent his way, approaching the table and taking a seat at its one remaining side. He reached for the map with a hand of flesh and blood, pressing a finger to our first destination. ¡°A Tyrant¡¯s ire won¡¯t deviate my cultivation or my digestion,¡± he said, smirking faintly at my sharp exhale. ¡°Besides, once we¡¯re finished with this, he¡¯ll owe us all a greater debt than any insult could outweigh.¡± ¡°Oh my,¡± Anastasia whispered, eyes widening as she looked the map over again. Realization dawned in caustic green me. ¡°The true Scarlet Oracle isn¡¯t dead,¡± I exined to the rest of them. ¡°She¡¯s been asleep for sixteen years, suffering from an illness that no one could identify and none could hope to cure.¡± ¡°None could care to cure,¡± Griffon said with special emphasis. ¡°The kyrios.¡± Kyno put it together next. ¡°The kyrios,¡± I confirmed. ¡°Socrates believes that nectar and ambrosia could cure whatever it is that ails the Oracle, but the kyrios refused to offer his personal stores and he wouldn¡¯t allow anyone else the knowledge of how to synthesize it.¡± ¡°And he took it all with him when he challenged the fates,¡± Elissa said with mounting dread. I nodded. ¡°Even Socrates doesn¡¯t know the exact recipe. But he knows the kyrios umted this knowledge as a hero, and he knows where the kyrios has been. Whatever the materials are, we¡¯ll find them if we retrace those steps.¡± ¡°This is the kyrios¡¯ epic,¡± Lefteris said with a dull sort of shock. Lean as he was, the lines of his jaw and cheeks had been prominent the moment I first saw him. The weeks since the funeral had only weathered him further - he looked nearly gaunt as he regarded the map now. ¡°We have to find whatever there is to be found at each of these locations,¡± I exined, keeping it short. Simple. They wouldn¡¯t be able to process much more than that at the moment. ¡°Which means securing passage through any cities we might encounter, charting courses and securing a ship for the locations that we can¡¯t reach on foot. We¡¯ll need provisions as well as a n - several. Best if we split our efforts, focus part of our efforts on scouting the distant locations while the rest of us handle the nearby marks. Kyno raised a hand, the other kneading at his forehead. ¡°Slow down.¡± ¡°No, stop,¡± Elissa said, that fury rising in her voice. ¡°And tell me that you don¡¯t expect us to join you on this- this-¡± ¡°Thrilling adventure,¡± Griffon offered. ¡°Nonsense,¡± she spat. She pped the map. ¡°The full Mediterranean, from corner to corner! A journey across the civilized world while the Olympic Games are just four months away. Have you forgotten why we all came to Olympia in the first ce, or-¡± and here the Sword Song red at me and me alone. ¡°Do you simply not care?¡± ¡°Where are the otherpetitors?¡± Burning desert heat eyes swiveled and settled on the former Young Aristocrat. ¡°What?¡± ¡°Where are the otherpetitors?¡± he asked again, the scarlet gem of his ne swaying as he leaned forward. ¡°Hundreds of Heroespete in the Olympic Games, is that not so? And yet, aside from the people in this room, I can count the number of other Heroic cultivators I¡¯ve met in this city using only my hands.¡± ¡°How many?¡± I asked wryly, and he flicked the side of my head with fingers of violent intent. ¡°Well?¡± he pressed. ¡°Where are they, Elissa?¡± She sneered at him. ¡°Anastasia!¡± ¡°Yes, Griffon?¡± the caustic Heroine asked, amused. ¡°I am young and unrefined, brought up in a distantnd with barbarians as my neighbors,¡± he said, ncing meaningfully my way. ¡°Enlighten me - where are all the rest of thepetitors?¡± ¡°Wherever it is that Heroes go, I imagine.¡± ¡°Ho? And why aren¡¯t they here, preparing for the Games? They¡¯re only four months away, after all.¡± Anastasia considered Griffon, and then the fuming Heroine across the table. Her smile deepened. ¡°Technically speaking,petitors aren¡¯t required to be in the city of Olympia until a month before the Games. Most choose to spend their time abroad prior to that.¡± ¡°With their families and their cults?¡± Griffon asked. Anastasiaid a finger to her chin, making a show of thinking deeply. Slowly, Kyno began to inch himself closer to Elissa. ¡°Pursuing advancement, whatever that means for them. Every rank is an advantage over thepetition, another door opened to them.¡± ¡°How so?¡± ¡°A Hero of the first rank can onlypete in a single event, no matter how skilled they might be in others,¡± Anastasia exined earnestly, without any apparent satisfaction at Elissa¡¯s rising pneuma. ¡°A Hero of the second rank canpete in two, the third rank in three, and on it goes. Only a captain of the Heroic Realm can hope to win glory in every single event. Only a captain can hope to seize the Olympic me.¡± ¡°So you¡¯re saying glory goes to those with strength to seek it,¡± Griffon mused. Anastasia nodded, ncing slyly my way. Patience. Patience, until it¡¯s done. ¡°And rather than pursue her own strength to this end, rather than add to the epic inside her soul, the Sword Song would rather sit in this house and polish her de for four months. Correct me if I¡¯m wrong.¡± ¡°No,¡± Anastasia said merrily. ¡°You¡¯re absolutely right.¡± ¡°Poisonous bitch,¡± Elissa snarled, and lunged across the table. The room exploded into motion, Kyno diving in between the two Heroic women while Lefteris threw his boys back against a cushioned lounge on the other side of the room. Scythas whistled sharply, gale winds rising around myself and him, while Jason palmed the daggers at his belt and rose. Griffon raised an eyebrow at me from across the table. Gravitas. Half a dozen Heroic cultivators grunted and gasped as they were thrown back to the furthest edges of the room, each falling onto a cushioned lounge with varying degrees ofposure. Jason, off to my left, shot me a betrayed look while hanging over the headrest with his hair brushing the hearth¡¯s coals. What did I do? he mouthed. I rolled my shoulders, stifling a wince at the stabbing pain that followed. I was ying with fire here. More so than usual, given thepany I kept. ¡°You were willing to stand with us against the Crows,¡± I said to Elissa. She stared mutinously back at me. ¡°What¡¯s changed since then?¡± ¡°We came together for our juniors that were suffering,¡± Kyno answered in her stead. ¡°And wemitted less then,pared to what you¡¯re asking now.¡± ¡°Are you certain?¡± Griffon asked. He had anchored himself with all thirty of his pankration hands, resisted the captain¡¯s virtue and remained at the table with me. ¡°You allowed yourselves to be kidnapped from your rooms. You risked retribution from your elders, struck down the instruments of their influence with your own hands. You mean to tell me that defying eight took less from you than following the footsteps of one?¡± ¡°Not just any one,¡± Lefteris muttered. ¡°Granted. But think of what¡¯s to be gained. Think of what we can see, what we could experience! Leave aside the question of nectar and ambrosia, resources that any cultivator would rip themselves apart to get a taste of. Think of what we could gain as men and women of principle, of passion, of purpose. ¡°And if you must be cynical, all of you that havee to the city of Olympia seeking the benefits that a champion¡¯s glory can afford, imagine the gratitude of a Tyrant that¡¯s just been given back his wife.¡± ¡°Why would you want to help him?¡± Elissa asked from her cushioned lounge, scarred legs tucked up underneath her. ¡°I just said-¡± ¡°No. Why would you want to help Old ¡®Zalus? Either of you?¡± Desert heat swept over Griffon and I each in turn. ¡°Thest time we spoke of it, you said you had no allegiance to him or his faction here.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t,¡± Griffon agreed. ¡°Then why?¡± ¡°I came to Olympia to see the Oracle.¡± ¡°You¡¯ve seen them all!¡± she shouted. ¡°All but one, and even then you saw her daughter! Was that not enough!?¡± Griffon answered without hesitation. ¡°It wasn¡¯t.¡± ¡°I told you already, Griffon,¡± Kyno said quietly, rising from the lounging couch he¡¯d broken in half when hended on it. ¡°You¡¯ll have to give us more than that if you want us to work with you. Now more than ever. Regardless of what you think of us, and regardless of your pride.¡± ¡°What are you here for, really?¡± Elissa pressed. ¡°The Olympic Games, thepany of the Oracles, the session of the kyrios? Which is it?¡± ¡°All of those things, and more besides.¡± ¡°You¡¯re both here on the Rosy Dawn¡®s behalf,¡± Lefteris used. ¡°Don¡¯t dress it up.¡± Griffon smiled and said nothing. ¡°At the bathhouse,¡± Kyno said, ¡°you told us that Old Zalus doesn¡¯t speak for the Scarlet City. What purpose could this quest possibly serve for Damon Aetos?¡± I fully released my hold on the reins of the conversation, resigning myself to whatever absurdity Griffon had nned. ¡°What could the Tyrant of the Rosy Dawn possibly want with the recipe for nectar and ambrosia? The food and drink of divinity?¡± Griffon repeated for the benefit of all those in the room. ¡°Is that what you¡¯re asking me?¡± There it was. In the silence and dread that followed his words, Griffon pulled a scroll of rolled papyrus from the golden shawl wrapped around his waist. Heid it on the table beside the map, so that everyone could see the illustration on its worn outer surface. Four young men standing beneath a ring of dried blood - what had once been a scarlet sun, I realized. ¡°You want to know why Sol and I have epted this quest? I¡¯ve already told you. You want to know why we¡¯re bringing you along with us? It¡¯s just as simple - I believe there¡¯s a thread that connects all of us here together,¡± he said, undoing the twine around the scroll. ¡°Beyond our virtues, beyond our shing temperaments, beyond our dreams and our tribtions - each of us has a Tyrant we¡¯venguished underneath for far too long. Each of us is looking for an escape from subjugation. Speak now or never again if I¡¯m wrong.¡± I opened my mouth. ¡°Be silent, worthless Roman.¡± I snorted, but obliged him. No one else in the room tried to speak - not even the boys, interestingly enough. Though they may have just figured the question wasn¡¯t for them. ¡°Right,¡± Griffon said sharply, casting aside the twine and sliding his thumb under the leading corner of the scroll. ¡°I believe we can help one another, just as I believe there are still Heroes worth telling stories of buried somewhere in your souls. So, as a gesture of good will, allow me to be the first to share.¡± He cracked the scroll open in one sharp motion, papyrus spilling off the table as it rolled across the room - all the way into the open hearth. The furthest edge of the old papyrus caught fire in an instant, and the light of the mes swiftly rushed up the rest of the scroll. Illuminating every word. ¡°Allow me tell you a story of the man I¡¯ve vowed to defy,¡± Griffon said, as the mes rose from the papyrus and pneuma spilled out of the scroll. He bared his teeth in a wicked grin as whispering rhetoric pressed against our senses and pulled us into the rosy glow. ¡°Listen closely. This is a story about Damon Aetos.¡± Chapter 1.57 [Stavros Aetos] Chapter 1.57 [Stavros Aetos] Youngest of the Convocation Dawn break my oath and cast me down, say all who walk in chains; If turning wheels are what¡¯s toe, I¡¯d rather die in vain! Lord take this son into your hand, I¡¯ll stare until I¡¯m blind; Who needs their eyes to guide them home? On freedom¡¯s wings we¡¯ll fly! I hummed an easy tune as I went about my work, the rosy light of a new day touching upon the furthest reaches of Alikos and her valence territories. The weather was pleasant - this early in the day, it was still cool enough to wear cult attire without cursing the kyrios that designed it. There was a breeze carried over the Ionian that soothed the sweat on a toiling man¡¯s brow and reminded him that clear waves were waiting for him once his work was done. Normally, I would still be fast asleep at this early hour. Today was an exceptional day, however. It was Kronia, the day that ves rested and their mastersbored in their ce. Even a young pir of the Rosy Dawn was no exception to tradition, and so here I was. Toiling away at first light so that others might rest. ¡°Honored Aetos, please - we don¡¯t need that much timber!¡± Admittedly, I may have gone beyond the duties strictly required. But what was a cultivator to do if not his best? ¡°I told you to call me Stavros for today,¡± I chided the flustered ve while I wrestled an ash tree out of the earth. His name was Thon and he was usually stationed in the gymnasium, which meant I ran into him more than the average ve in the Rosy Dawn. He had something of an obsession with boxing, always observing initiates out of the corner of his eyes while about his work. And if his squashed and crooked nose was any indication, he did more than just observe the sport while in thepany of his fellow bonded men. It wasmon practice for the initiates of the cult to serve at least one ve their meals throughout the day. Generally, the Aetos family entertained the senior servants while the rest of the mystikos took their pick of those they were fondest of within the ranks. It was an interesting experience, if nothing else, and more than a few unlikely pairs woulde together for today while all were equal beneath the sun. This timest year, I had been in the courtyard with my brothers, tending to the filial pools while the oldest of our estate¡¯s servants told us stories of our grandfather¡®s generation and the feats its greatest cultivators had aplished. The year before that I would have been in the gardens that my father¡¯s mother had nurtured before any of the young pirs were born, carefully pulling weeds and tending to lilies, roses, and delicate chrysanthemums. Kronia was a holiday that disdained all natural hierarchies. That was the ideal, at any rate. In reality, a lesser initiate would normally be here in my ce, gathering timber for night fires and reconstruction. Even on a day like this, a young pir of the Rosy Dawn had more suitable tasks he could be doing. That being said, here I was. Today was exceptional in more ways than one. The mighty ash tree groaned and gave way in a cacophony of splintering wood. I tore it from the earth, roots and all, and heaved it over my right shoulder, breathing a steady rhythm that broke up the strain and dispersed it through my body. The hunting bird¡¯s breath was a meditative technique I¡¯d resented my father for making me learn as a boy, but these days I was grateful for every breath it granted me. I eyed the other upended tree that I¡¯d dumped off to the side after finding this one - a soft cypress that could brush the roof of the gymnasium if I nted it inside. I carefully knelt, bncing the ash with one arm while I slid a hand under the bncing point of the cypress. Thon crouched on the other side of the uprooted cypress and heaved on it with all his strength. I clicked my tongue but epted the help for what it was, rolling the great tree into the crook of my arm and bouncing it up onto my empty shoulder. ¡°This is your day, Thon,¡± I told him. The man stumbled back, red-faced and panting. ¡°The boys will have me over a barrel if you injure yourself trying to help with my share.¡± ¡°Yes, honored Aetos.¡± The ve¡¯s broken nose wrinkled grotesquely with his grin. I barked augh. ¡°Ugly, arrogant ve.¡± I stood, carefully turning so neither of the trees on my shoulders struck the surrounding forestry. ¡°Come. We¡¯ll bete to lunch if we don¡¯t hurry home, and then what will I do with all the lessons on courtesy your sister¡¯s been giving me?¡± Thon punched me in my unguarded side. It hurt him more than it hurt me, shackled as he was, but it was a good jab for a man without any pneuma. He¡¯d been paying attention while at work in the gymnasium. I considered the motley forests of the valley ahead, and the Scarlet City beyond. Thon cursed viciously beside me, shaking out his injured hand. ¡°Your sister hits harder than that,¡± I said absently, and chuckled at the answering kick to the back of my knee. ¡°But the form wasn¡¯t bad. You¡¯ve been practicing.¡± ¡°I¡¯m a humble ve,¡± Thon said through grit teeth, hobbling after me. He¡¯d be walking that one off for the rest of the morning. ¡°I would never try to take the sublime martial techniques of the Rosy Dawn for myself.¡± ¡°Naturally not,¡± I agreed, turning his way. Thon yelped and ducked as the ash tree bnced on my right shoulder nearly knocked him off his feet. ¡°Ah, my mistake. This lowly sophist is inexperienced in the ways of working men.¡± ¡°That much is apparent.¡± Thon was a sensible man, and good at what he did around the cult. On any other day he wouldn¡¯t have dreamed of talking to an initiate of the Rosy Dawn in such a way, let alone to me. But Kronia brought the best out of us all. For today and today alone, I¡¯d allow him the snark. ¡°You know, you¡¯ve been improving in more than just the martial pursuits. I hear you¡¯ve been making quite a bit of money ying that flute of yours for the women in the outer estates. Enough in thest two years to nearly afford your freedom''s price.¡± Thon raised an eyebrow. ¡°The young aristocrat has been keeping track of me?¡± ¡°This young aristocrat has been keeping track of you. The young aristocrat has better things to do with his time.¡± ¡°Apologies,¡± he said at once, an ugly grimace marring his face. ¡°I misspoke.¡± It was odd, at times, seeing the truth of what a man could look like without the radiance of his vital essence to smooth his outer imperfections. Even the lowest citizen enjoyed the benefit of gradual refinement while their pneuma flowed freely and unfettered. To be a member of any greater mystery cult, even the low Rosy Dawn, an individual had to be truly gifted. That meant that nearly every man, woman, and child an initiate saw on a daily basis would be unnaturally pleasing to the eye. Each of them several steps closer to the divine standard than the average vagrant. Let alone a barbarian. The ves in our estates kept us grounded. Unable to cultivate virtue, their vital essence shackled by iron and chains, they kept us grounded in more ways than one. They were a living reminder of how far we hade, outside and in. A reminder of how far we had yet to go. And they were afort to the juniors. Even the lowest initiate could take heart in the fact that they weren¡¯t the ugliest on the mountain. ¡°I rescind my apology.¡± I blinked. ¡°For what purpose?¡± ¡°You were thinking something vile just now. It was written all over your face.¡± ¡°Fascinating. I¡¯d try reading yours, but someone¡¯s crumpled the papyrus.¡± ¡°No, please,¡± he said in a t monotone, ¡°not my ego.¡± I smirked and swung the trees around again, forcing him to drop. We continued back towards the Scarlet City and the eastern mountain range beyond in that way, amiable conversation and the asional jab to keep things interesting. It was a refreshing change of pace from his usual quiet acquiescence. The Thon that offered me towels andthered my body in olive oil before a round in the octagon was a ve like any other, just barely notable for his inability to ignore a good boxing match. The Thon I had chosen to entertain for the Kronia was another man altogether. Someone I wouldn¡¯t mind exchanging discourse with more often. Haa. As always, my brother had been right. Damn. ¡°Honored Aetos,¡± Thon eventually said, after an extended lull in conversation. I didn¡¯t respond, humming along to the same tune as before. He sighed. ¡°Stavros.¡± ¡°Yes?¡± We were nearly back now, the sun fast approaching its zenith. I could¡¯ve made the trip in half the time, of course, if not a quarter. But I had asked Thon to show me where the good timber was, and it would¡¯ve been rude to leave him behind afterwards. Especially today. I suppose it was fine. I hadn¡¯t been given a particrly strict deadline for this task. ¡°Why have you been keeping track of me?¡± He finally asked, having finally mustered up the courage. It had taken him the entire agonizing trek through the city - which was hardly a friendly trip for a man hauling two trees over his shoulders - and half the way up the eastern mountain range, but he¡¯d gotten there in the end. ¡°Because,¡± I answered, ¡°a young pir of the Rosy Dawn has the privilege of sponsoring anyone of their choosing when ites time for the rites. So long as we see them through it to the end, and so long as we take responsibility for their performance in the cult from then on, we can choose anyone we want. Even a ve.¡± Thon stumbled. I dipped my shoulder obligingly so he could catch himself on one of the uprooted ash¡¯s swaying branches. ¡°You mean,¡± he stammered. ¡°You- sponsoring me? For the Rosy Dawn?¡± ¡°If you¡¯re worthy of it,¡± I said, shrugging with some effort. The hunting bird¡¯s breath dispersed the worst of the strain involved in carrying two trees like they were country yolks, but it had been a long trip. I was still only a Philosopher at the end of the day. ¡°It is within my power to nominate a ve, but I¡¯d rather not. Understand? If I were you, I would y that flute of yours extra sweet for the girls in the junior estates, and ascribe whatever meaning to the tune that would please them most. They¡¯ll pay you more if you do.¡± ¡°So if I¡¯m free next year -¡± ¡°If you¡¯re worth something next year,¡± I cut him off. Horribly rude of me, and on Kronia of all days. s, I didn¡¯t have nearly as much patience for mortals as my brothers did. ¡°Pay your freedom''s price as soon as you can and start cultivating virtue. Mimicking what you see a cultivator do in the gymnasium with shackles around your wrists is one thing. Executing a martial form as it was meant to be executed is something entirely different. Give yourself as much time as you possibly can to be a boxer as I am a boxer, and I''ll see where you¡¯re at when the trialse around again.¡± ¡°Stavros¡­ This-¡± The ve with the ugly, beaten face swallowed heavily. ¡°I am honored beyond all words-¡± ¡°I¡¯d prefer it if you were honored beyond tears,¡± I said, nose scrunching in distaste. ¡°If the rest of you is any indication, your crying face must be grotesque.¡± A chokedugh. Thon dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, holding them there for a second and then scrubbing viciously. When he removed them his eyes were clear and bright. ¡°Thank you,¡± he said earnestly. I hummed dismissively. I hadn¡¯t promised him anything yet - nothing that he wouldn¡¯t have to take for himself. ¡°But forgive me, and please don¡¯t take this the wrong way - why?¡± ¡°Why?¡± ¡°Why me?¡± he amended. ¡°As long as I¡¯ve been here, the young pirs of the Rosy Dawn have never sponsored a single soul - freedman or not.¡± We finally crested the outer peak of the eastern mountain range, stepping off the worn and scattered paths of the mountain and up onto the carved steps that lead to the Rosy Dawn Cult. ¡°Why?¡± It was a good question. There was a good answer for it as well, I was sure. I didn¡¯t know what it was though. I just knew what I¡¯d been told. ¡°We¡¯ll need eight.¡± ¡°I wonder,¡± I said, and made my way to the central pavilion where the bulk of the night fires would be lite dusk. ¡°What is - young Aetos, what is this? How many fires do you think we¡¯re starting tonight? Where did you even find a cypress of this size!?¡± Tragedy of tragedies, I¡¯d brought too much after all. ¡°Excuse this lowly sophist, elder,¡± I said, bowing my head while the old philosopher grumbled and hacked away at the timber I¡¯d brought along with a dozen lesser initiates. ¡°I¡¯mcking in a servant¡¯s wisdom. Allow me to make up for thispse in judgment.¡± A junior mystiko squawked in rm as I shouldered him aside and dug my fingers into the soft bark of the cypress tree, dragging a long strip of bark cleanly off the trunk. The old philosopher, an elder by the name of Poecas that cultivated the virtue of boring me to tears in his lectures, sighed andbed agitated fingers through a thick gray beard. ¡°Do as you wish, young Aetos. We¡¯re all ves today-¡± ¡°Done,¡± I said, pping my hands in satisfaction. The junior mystikos and the elder philosopher all stared down at the cypress and the ash, each stripped of their bark and branches by brisk swipes of my hands and a bit of pneuma. ¡°Young Aetos,¡± Poecas said slowly. ¡°The trunks are still intact.¡± ¡°An eyesore to be sure,¡± I said, nodding firmly. ¡°I¡¯ll get them out of your sight, honored elder.¡± ¡°Wait-¡± But it was toote. A young pir¡¯s jaunty stroll down the other side of the eastern mountain range was an old schr¡¯s full sprint, even with two freshly trimmed tree trunks hoisted over my shoulders to slow me down. Thon shouted something as I left them to their work, but he¡¯d served his purpose for the day and he was far too slow to wait for. My deadline wasn¡¯t strict, per se, but that didn¡¯t mean I could take all day. If I did that, I¡¯d best. And I refused to best. Out of the corner of my eye, as if by providence at that moment, I spotted a ruggedly handsome cultivator with a face identical to mine leaping out of a window to the kyrios¡¯ main estate. He soared through the air, a massive bundle of scarlet cloth held tight in his arms and a wild grin on his handsome face. As he hurtled through the air and down the mountain, past me, my twin brother and I locked eyes. Fotios Stavros whooped and gave me the finger. We made it to the docks at exactly the same time. ¡°First!¡± Fotios shouted regardless, tossing his bundle of scarlet cloth up into the air in victory. ¡°The audacity,¡± I panted, furious and exhausted in equal measure. I shrugged the ash and the cypress off my shoulders, each kicking up scalding white sand as they hit the beach. ¡°We got here at the same time!¡± ¡°How did the heel of my foot taste, Stav?¡± I spat and tackled the handsome bastard into the sand. ¡°Neither of you were first,¡± came an amused voice, the quiet hiss of shifting sand and a looming shadow over our heads. The second oldest of the new generation smirked as he leaned down over us both, one hand on his hip and the other on the hilt of his belted sword. ¡°I got here hours ago, and I was only second.¡± ¡°That doesn¡¯t count,¡± Fotios said at once. ¡°He never leftst night.¡± ¡°And no one cares about you, Gyro,¡± I added. Our older brother scoffed and kicked sand into our faces. ¡°Come on, then,¡± Anargyros Aetos said, turning back to the mess of wooden construction on the far eastern side of the beach docks. ¡°Damon¡¯s only one man, and this ship won¡¯t build itself.¡± Chapter 1.58 [Stavros Aetos] Chapter 1.58 [Stavros Aetos] Youngest of the Convocation ¡°You did well, both of you.¡± Gyro paced a winding line through the sand, rhythmically easing his de out of its sheath a sliver before dropping it back into ce. ¡°I couldn¡¯t have found better materials if I tried.¡± ¡°Joy,¡± Fotios muttered beside me, holding scarlet cloth in front of him like a shield. ¡°Joy and rapture.¡± His eyes were clenched shut in expectation of pain. Not that I was very much different. I ducked my head and hunched my shoulders, hiding behind the ash tree as much as I was holding it upright. The rhythmic click, click of our older brother¡¯s sword falling back into a sheath paused. In an instant, Gyro¡¯s pneuma rose and the trace of a de cutting through air tickled my left ear. ¡°Fuck!¡± I snarled. A section of the ash tree cut so cleanly that I had only felt it¡¯s sudden absence in the shifting of weight hit the sand and toppled. Another hiss and a brush of phantom sensation by my left knee. ¡°Gyro!¡± ¡°Yes brother?¡± he asked pleasantly, circling around with a critical eye. ¡°Watch where you¡¯re cutting,¡± I demanded, feeling sweat bead on my brow. ¡°The Aetos line needs heirs.¡± ¡°Not that that has anything to do with you,¡± Fotios remarked. A momentter he yelped and flinched back, a section of scarlet cloth falling away without any frayed or jagged edges to mark its separation. ¡°All these years of practice and my brothers still doubt me with a de,¡± Gyro despaired,shing out half a dozen times as he did. Sections of cloth and hardwood fell away with everysh, and soon enough the tree had been trimmed down to a single heavy beam and nks of varying length and thickness. The scarlet cloth was added to a pile of other myriad silks, blood oranges and vibrant yellows. ¡°The only thing I doubt is your intent,¡± Fotios said petntly, smacking sand out of the rugged cult attire that every initiate wore for Kronia. Gathering up the sail clothes, he wasted no time sprinting to the other side of the beach. Idley, as he passed, Gyro flicked his de and cut a few curls hanging by the nape of his neck. I watched my twin curse and stumble into the shallow waves with mixed feelings. ¡°Please don¡¯t touch my hair,¡± I said when Gyro looked back at noon. ¡°It¡¯s just how I like it.¡± He smiled and dipped his head towards the cypress tree, still in need of carving. Midday gave way to dusk, each of the shades represented in the pile of silks we¡¯d stolen for our ship reaching out tirelessly across the heavens. Lunch came and went along with dinner, an unforgivable shame that we had not been present to entertain our ves on this day of festivities. s. Our brother had decided that a ship had to be built. And as with most things, when Damon decided a thing needed to be done, all else fell away. ¡°Boys,¡± the man in question called as the moon fell up into the sky and the rosy light of our cult¡¯s greater mystery bloomed in his palms. ¡°Come make yourselves useful.¡± Boys, he called us, as if we were separated by more than a few years. I hopped up onto the skeletal frame of the ship, still just the suggestion of a whole. It was going to be another long night. An even longer night, I realized, when Inded precariously on one of the naked beams and saw what my eldest brother had been doing with his time. ¡°What is that?¡± Fotios asked incredulously,nding adroitly beside me. Surrounding Damon, spanning out from the central point where he sat, the beams and nks that I had so painstakingly gathered that morning were covered in burning formations. As we watched, he dragged the tip of one finger across an ash beam and a line of smoldering lights followed. The word didn¡¯t burn, not fully, the way a mundane me would. It ckened beneath the lines of light, but it never once spread. ¡°Decoration,¡± Damon answered, pulling back and flicking the rosy light from his finger. Itnded in the sands beside the ship and bloomed, slowly like a flower, until it was the size of a bonfire. A suitable source of lighting that impossibly gave off no heat. Damon had always been the one with the finest control of the four of us. ¡°Naturally,¡± I said, as if that made perfect sense. ¡°What do you need from us?¡± He propped his cheek up on a clenched fist, cross legged in the sullen lights of his designs. In the light of our foundational mystery, the concentric circles ringing his pupils seemed to burn malevolently as they sun. ¡°Add to it,¡± he bade us. ¡°Absolutely not,¡± I said immediately. Fotios didn¡¯t even bother with a verbal response, stepping backwards off the skeleton of the ship and falling into the pile of sailing cloth. ¡°I sacrificed an entire day for this, and that¡¯s fine,¡± I told him, ¡°but I¡¯ll swimps in the styx before I sit down and finger-paint a ship when I could be in the gymnasium.¡± ¡°It¡¯s necessary.¡± ¡°Decoration is going to make the ship float, is that it?¡± ¡°It might.¡± I blinked and turned to regard an old man in rags of scarlet and gray sitting beside my brother. ¡°Elder.¡± I bowed my head, confused but not bereft of my senses. ¡°I didn¡¯t notice you there.¡± ¡°I know you didn¡¯t,¡± Damon¡®s mentor said, sitting with one leg tucked up underneath him and the other dangling as he bnced on the figurehead of the Eos - for some reason, the very first portion of the ship that Damon hadpleted. ¡°But I was here, even so.¡± ¡°Elder?¡± My twin¡¯s face appeared at the edge of the ship, Fotios pulling himself up just enough to see the unkempt philosopher. ¡°When did you get here?¡± ¡°Yesterday. Your brother has been busy.¡± ¡°He always was.¡± I frowned and brushed my thumb across one of the lines he¡¯d burnt into the ship. A shock of something, some whispered sensation, leapt from the design to my hand. It raced through the channels I had worn through my body with the hunting bird¡¯s breath, settling at the base of my skull as an echo of a truth. If God wills it, you can sail even on a mat. ¡°Decoration,¡± I repeated, while Fotios followed my example and stiffened up at the feedback he received. ¡°Decoration,¡± the old philosopher agreed. ¡°I¡¯ll admit that I spend more time in the octagon than I do with my tutors,¡± I said. ¡°But this feels more significant than that.¡± ¡°How so?¡± Damon¡¯s mentor asked. ¡°Brother,¡± I entreated him. I had learned my lesson long ago that the only man with the patience for Damon¡®s mentor was Damon himself. These days, I didn¡¯t even bother engaging him if I could avoid it. My ego could only suffer so much abuse before it shattered ¡°It is a decoration,¡± Damon said, taking pity on us. He brushed wild dark hair out of his eyes and leaned down. The rosy light grew brighter in response to his proximity. ¡°It¡¯s also an appeal to higher power.¡± Fotios raised an eyebrow and held out his own empty palm, coaxing light to it. He nodded down at his hand, at the application of a question inspired by the mystery of the bisected corpse of the fallen sun god. ¡°That sort of higher power?¡± I asked. ¡°The world does not revolve around your lonely burning god,¡± the old philosopher in rags of anonymity said with polite disdain. ¡°There are as many natural mechanisms as there are stars in heaven, as many gods as there are no constants in this life.¡± ¡°If not a god, then what?¡± I cracked my neck, the eerie weight of that burning truth I¡¯d overheard in the me still noticeable at the point where my skull met my spine. ¡°No, it is a god,¡± the old man said. ¡°Just not your corpse god. An originator. In building this ship, We take a substance changeable and perishable and shape it to our needs. In beautifying it, we appeal to the unmoved mover, immutable among heaven and earth, in the hopes that our ship might be something closer to the divine - changeable, yet eternal.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t believe us,¡± Damon said without any particr heat. If anything, he was amused. ¡°Allow me to make up for fourteen years of poor instruction, then - our wise elders taught you the principal theories of natural philosophy. They did that much, at least.¡± ¡°As best they could, yes.¡± An elder in the cult was due a certain level of respect, but an elder in cultivation was due even more. It was difficult to take our boyhood mentors seriously these days, regardless of my disinterest in their teachings. After all, how could a captain of the Sophic Realm show academic deference to a bunch of old men that had yet to breach the ninth rank? ¡°Then you understand what it is we do when we invoke the rules of nature,¡± Damon continued, licking his thumb and dragging it back down one of the burning lines in the ship. A sharp hiss and rising steam followed. When the steam cleared, A furrowed scorch remained. I flexed the fingers of my hands, all ten of them, and then curling each digit I recalled a principle that I had internalized during my time as a Philosopher. One for every rank. ten lessons learned, ten rules of nature I had made my own. Every one of them carved into my soul. ¡°It¡¯s a Philosopher¡®s nature to question greater authorities,¡± I said, reciting an old line our father had told us when we were boys. ¡°It¡¯s a Hero¡¯s nature to defy greater imposition,¡± Fotios picked up where I left off. ¡°And it¡¯s a Tyrant¡¯s nature to impose,¡± Gyro said, appearing silently behind Damon and leaning over his shoulder, one arm hooked around his torso with a hand loosely syed over his brother¡¯s chest. ¡°The greater question is, what is a god¡¯s nature?¡± It was the final question our father would always ask us, and I''ve never been able to give him an answer that satisfied him. Neither had Fotios, or even Gyro. Damon had never bothered to try. Until now, apparently. ¡°A god¡¯s nature,¡± mused the young aristocrat of the Rosy Dawn, ¡°is to live apart. Untouched and unspoken of.¡± ¡°An ind in the sun,¡± his mentor, Aristotle, concluded. Chapter 1.59 [Stavros Aetos] Chapter 1.59 [Stavros Aetos] Youngest of the Convocation ¡°What does this have to do with sailing?¡± Gyro asked curiously, having arrivedte to the entire tangent. Sitting as they were, side by side and cheek to cheek, even a close acquaintance could have mistaken them for twins like Fotios and me. Clear blue eyes swept over Damon¡¯s designs, deep brown curls that he always wore longer than the elders preferred spilling past his shoulders. They had the same nose, the same strong jaw and the same ears that sloped up into a slight point. ¡°We¡¯re decorating the ship,¡± Damon said, and Gyro nodded as if that exined everything. ¡°Asking nicely, looks like.¡± ¡°This is why people don¡¯t talk to the two of you,¡± I said. Gyroughed and Damon hid a smirk behind his fist. ¡°I¡¯ll be clear, then, for the boys that chose the champion¡¯s path over the schr¡¯s. As captains of the Sophic Realm, I understand that your skulls are already filled to bursting with the ten meaningful thoughts you were forced to think.¡± Gyro¡¯s boisterousugh turned to an ugly chortle while Fotios and I offered him a sacred Aetos gesture - the bird. ¡°As philosophers, we invoke myriad truths in order to amplify ourselves and the world around us,¡± he exined, wrestling down his mirth. ¡°We live by certain principles, and we impose our own lived experiences onto others. Each of these things is a crucial element of a thinking man -¡± ¡°Those aren¡¯t elements,¡± the old man interjected. ¡°Pardon, Aristotle. It was just a figure of speech.¡± ¡°It was flowery rhetoric.¡± ¡°Gods forbid and we say a thing just because it sounds good,¡± Gyro said, rolling his eyes. Aristotle snorted andid the back of his hand across our brother¡¯s temple, knocking his head into Damon¡¯s. ¡°Point being, there are three aspects that make up a philosopher¡¯s cultivation, just as there are three aspects of the soul. Is that much fair to say, honored elder?¡± ¡°The tripartite soul,¡± Aristotle said distastefully. ¡°Shall we give them a lecture on the Forms while we¡¯re at it?¡± The father of rhetoric sneered and turned his head to spit over the side of the ship. ¡°Master,¡± Daemon said, his eyes distant as he considered his lines, ¡°you¡¯re being obnoxious.¡± Aristotle sighed and waved a hand. ¡°Fine, fair enough. Take the Broad and his rule of threes.¡± ¡°I thank the master,¡± Gyro said. To us, he continued, ¡°though some have concerns with his model, we look to the Broad and his theory of the tripartite soul as cultivators of virtue. We strive to refine our reason, our spirit, and our hunger, while we cut a path up to heaven. ¡°And as we do this, we look for that tripartite reflection in other things. We ascribe reason to the Philosopher, because the Schr was the most rational of us all -¡± To this point, even Aristotle had no objection. ¡°We ascribe spirit to the Hero, because the Champion¡¯s heart me burns eternal in the Olympic torch. And we ascribe hunger to the Tyrant, because the Conqueror devoured everything east of the free Mediterranean. We associate these concepts with physical organs as well- our brain, our heart, and our gut.¡± ¡°It¡¯s human nature to seek patterns in all things.¡± Damon leaned back from his work, Gyro¡¯s back bumping against a vertically mounted beam that would serve as the ship¡¯s mast while our elder brother used him as a cushion. ¡°It¡¯s how we¡¯ve advanced to this point as human beings, it¡¯s how our culture has advanced further than that to be civilized, and it¡¯s how the four of us will advance further than any that came before us.¡± ¡°To the peak,¡± Fotios and I murmured, like a prayer. ¡°To the peak,¡± Gyro affirmed, gazing up at the cosmic glory. He continued, ¡°that pattern of three exists within each of the greater realms. We attach reason to the Philosopher, just as we imagine him walking the Schr¡¯s path, but it isn¡¯t always so simple. A philosopher is still a man, and a man can walk any path he chooses to.¡± Gyro raised three fingers, one after the other. ¡°The philosopher can reason, the philosopher can have passion, and the philosopher can hunger. He must do all of these things if he is ever to advance past frail mortality.¡± ¡°We have three core abilities that we¡¯ve nurtured and refined since ascending to the Sophic Realm,¡± Damon exined, raising his own three fingers as he did. ¡°As mentioned before. Invoking the rules of nature, living by principle, and imposing our lived truths onto others.¡± Reason. Spirit. Hunger. Fotios and I took that in, let it simmer in our minds. Things always seemed to make more sense when it was Damon or Gyro saying them - when they cared enough to draw back the curtains on their rhetoric. Infuriating bastards. ¡°Then this decoration is a philosopher¡¯s reason,¡± I ventured. ¡°And what led you to that conclusion?¡± Aristotle pressed me. I grimaced. ¡°Invoking the rules of nature,¡± Fotios jumped in, thankfully. ¡°Invoking. Appealing to a higher authority- the unmoved mover that you mentioned before. That¡¯s what we¡¯re doing when we call upon truth as a source of strength.¡± ¡°Good,¡± Aristotle said, satisfied. ¡°How would you appeal to a superior in your cult, or a man with greater cultivation? How many ways can a man appeal to a higher power?¡± ¡°As many ways as there are stars in heaven,¡± Gyro answered. ¡°Whether it¡¯s a fine sculpture or a persuasive argument, strength or guile or beauty. What matters is that it¡¯s pleasing.¡± Damon waved a hand at the section of the boat that he¡¯d scarred with me. ¡°All that matters is the aesthetic.¡± Made up of dozens upon dozens of winding lines and finger carved pharaohs, an eagle¡¯s head had been burned into the uppermost bones of the ship. Closest to the figurehead, the wooden maiden reaching both hands wantonly for the sea. ¡°Divinity exists apart from us,¡± Damon said quietly. ¡°We appeal to it the only way we can. By creating beauty worth regarding. By living lives worth speaking of. Gyro misled you - this design is a philosopher¡¯s reason, yes, but it is also passion and hunger. Each one of these lines was drawn with a rule of nature in mind, by a man living in ordance with his principles, and imbued with the light of his lived experiences.¡± ¡°But why do we have to add our marks to it as well?¡± He smiled faintly. ¡°Because this is more than just my ship. It¡¯s ours.¡± ¡°Leave your mark however you see fit,¡± Gyro advised us. ¡°Your own truth, your own principles, your own lived experiences. So long as it fits.¡± ¡°So long as it¡¯s appealing.¡± Fotios and I exchanged a look. Already, we each knew what we¡¯d be contributing to the ship. The Young Aristocrat, head of the young generation, had left his mark with an eagle crown. Gyro, the predator with his hunting de, would doubtlessly leave his mark as a set of talons. Leaving Fotios and I to stand in the middle between them. What else could we be, if not the wings? ¡°It¡¯s going to be a long night,¡± I said wearily. Though I couldn¡¯t deny a bit of excitement. Our ship. It was, wasn¡¯t it? ¡°We¡¯ll sleep when we¡¯re at sea,¡± Fotios said, grinning and heaving himself over to the other side of the frame to stake his im on a quadrant of unburnt timber. ¡°Won¡¯t be long, at this pace,¡± Gyro mused. He nced down at Damon. ¡°You¡¯re not wasting any time.¡± ¡°The sooner it¡¯s ready, the better.¡± I rolled my eyes. ¡°You keep saying that, but you¡¯ve yet to tell us why. Where¡¯s the fire?¡± The bright concentric rings whirling in the Young Aristocrat¡¯s eyes froze for a moment. I blinked, and they resumed. ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± he admitted. ¡°Then why are we rushing at all?¡± I asked, irritated. ¡°Respectfully,¡± Fotios added, as disrespectfully as he could. Damon shrugged. ¡°I have a feeling.¡± In the end, I supposed that was all we¡¯d ever needed to hear. ¡°Lord Aetos! Lord Aetos!¡± ¡°Hngh!?¡± I jerked upright, leftover cloth that hadn¡¯t made it onto the mast falling away from me. Fotios thrashed awake on the adjacent rowing bench, cursing like he was a sailor already as he reached into his tunic and pulled a trident out of a fold in the cloth. I followed his example, reaching into a fold in my own scarlet cult attire, a fold in logic - The next sentence is true. The previous statement is false. -and pulled from it my spear. I was halfway through a javelin-style toss over the side of the Eos when I recognized who it was shouting up at us from the beach. I squinted blearily down at an ugly ve with a broken nose, his features partially blocked by the arms he was holding protectively over his face. ¡°Wait!¡± he shouted, panicked. ¡°It¡¯s me! Don¡¯t-!¡± ¡°Thon?¡± I demanded. ¡°What are you doing here?¡± ¡°The kyrios received word from Olympia this morning!¡± Another ve whose name I didn¡¯t know tossed a roll of papyrus up to us. Fotios groaned, catching it. ¡°Gods damn you, Dymas. Was it really so important that you had to wake us at this unholy hour?¡± The ve, Dymas apparently, nced up at the cheery skies above. The sun was just passing its zenith. ¡°Apologies, Lord Aetos,¡± he chose to say. Wise. ¡°See for yourself.¡± My twin grumbled and unfurled the missive, the seal having already been broken. I leaned over from my own rowing bench and read it over his shoulder. Oh. ¡°Damon!¡± Fotios called, wide-eyed. ¡°There¡¯s trouble in the Ionian!¡± ¡°The kyrios is in talks with Yianni Sca,¡± another ve I had never seen before hurriedly exined, already climbing up onto the deck. He rushed to Gyro, who was stretching himself awake at the aft of the ship. ¡°He wants to see you all as soon as he¡¯s back at the main estate. Quickly, Lord Aetos! We have to move!¡± ¡°No need,¡± Damon said, already up and with a line of rigging in hand, and with a vast rushing sound of falling cloth the Eos let fly her sails for the first time. The wind filled them at once, the ship straining as the eagle we¡¯d burnt into her bones struggled to take flight. Then the ship jerked beneath our feet, nearly throwing Fotios and I over the side, and we looked over to see the fourth ve that Damon had chosen silently heaving the ship towards the cresting waves. For a ve to have such strength was - Wait. ¡°Where are your chains?¡± I asked the ve. He didn¡¯t bother looking up from his work, even as Thon and Dymas rushed to add their own shackled strength to his efforts inunching the ship. But he smiled in his efforts, and answered. ¡°Lord Damon set me free.¡± We looked to the Young Aristocrat, each of us young pirs of the Rosy Dawn Cult. Our eldest brother favored us with a rare grin. ¡°There¡¯s trouble on the Ionian,¡± he said with fierce conviction. ¡°Olympia has called for our aid. Who are we to ignore her?¡± We¡¯ll need eight, he¡¯d said, to each of us so long ago. Eight oars sat ready and waiting on the Eos¡¯ deck, eight empty benches waiting to be seated. ¡°Just a feeling,¡± I muttered incredulously. Fotiosughed and leapt to his oar as we plunged into the sea. I reached over the side and helped Thon and Dymas up while Damon¡¯s freedman inhaled sharply and leapt straight up onto the deck. Well, whatever it was, some things never changed. Life was always more exciting with my brothers. Chapter 1.60 [Stavros Aetos] Chapter 1.60 [Stavros Aetos] Youngest of the Convocation ¡°Pull!¡± ¡°The oars in-to your guts un-til the tides are gray,¡± Gyro sang, volume and spirit filling the gaps a poor singing voice left. ¡°Pull!¡± we bellowed, bracing our feet on the benches in front of us and heaving on our oars with all our might. ¡°The stars, down from the sky, until the night is day!¡± ¡°Pull!¡± The Eos sailed across the waves as fast as an eagle flew. The product of four brothers¡¯bor seemed to nearly outpace the breeze, though the winds never fell out of her sails. ¡°The sword, out from the sheath, I feel the fight - ites!¡± Gyro sang and worked his oar at once and in rhythm, neglecting neither in the process. He had mastered the hunting bird¡¯s breath long before I had achieved proficiency - there wasn¡¯t a single heavy pant to mark his exertion. As he braced and leaned back to pull, and then hunched forward again, the only signs of his effort were the sweat on his brow and the bulging veins in his neck. ¡°Pull!¡± I roared, determined to match him ¡®till the end. To my right, on the bench adjacent, Fotiosughed wildly. ¡°The sun that¡¯s reaching out, from under Tyrant¡¯s thumb!¡± ¡°Pull,¡± Damon demanded, at the forwardmost bench beside Gyro¡¯s, and we all fought the Ionian to obey. Some of us more sessfully than others. I gnashed my teeth, watching the wood-carveddy of the Eos drift sideways against the horizon as our ship¡¯s pace was unbnced once again. Damon had distributed us evenly across the benches. There were two rows of four on the deck, one for every oar, and the eldest of the young pirs had taken the left and right benches up front for themselves. Behind Damon was the ve whose chains he¡¯d broken, while Gyro¡¯s ve sat behind him. Though Fotios and I had protested it vehemently, we sat the third row benches behind our older brothers¡¯ ves and watched their backs while they worked. Thon and Dymas, the ves my twin and I had taken on at Damon¡¯s suggestion, sat the rear benches behind us. And as I watched our ship drift once more towards mine and Damon¡®s side on the left, I beganmenting my choice. ¡°Pull!¡± I snarled, twisting as I pulled my oar to look back at Thon. My blood roared in my ears, such that I didn¡¯t register Gyro¡¯s next line at all. ¡°Pull! Damn you to the pits beneath the earth, like you mean it!¡± I shouted at the ve. Thon gasped raggedly, his ugly face contorting as he pulled back on his oar. Drenched in sweat and flushed from the tips of his ears to the divots of his corbone, he looked for all the world like the hardest working man on the ship. And yet, with every cut of the oars, our course drifted further left. I inhaled sharply, gathering up every scrap of pain and exertion that the hunting bird¡¯s breath had dispersed throughout the channels of my body. My pneuma rose. ¡°I said -¡± ¡°Pull!¡± ¡°- yourself together, brother!¡± Fotios hollered, meeting the furious re I turned upon him with wild cheer. The wings of our influence beat challengingly, true wind kicked up by formless pneuma buffeting us both and blowing back the damp curls of our hair. ¡°You have no one to me but yourself if he falters!¡± ¡°L-lord Ae-¡± my worthless ve tried to speak up, gasping the words, and I saw our side of the ship lose further ground as he diverted his efforts from the oar. ¡°I¡¯ll-¡± ¡°Pull!¡± ¡°- your tongue out of your mouth! Be silent!¡± I beat the wings of my influence once. Thon¡¯s teeth snapped together and he hissed through them, throwing his body back into the next pull. ¡°This is my fault, then!?¡± I demanded, rounding on my twin. ¡°I¡¯m to me because the ugly wretch couldn¡¯t -¡± ¡°Pull!¡± ¡°- a thought from his empty head, let alone an oar! That¡¯s my burden!?¡± Fotios rolled his eyes at me, his good cheer not faltering. I knew, in the way that only siblings that had shared a womb could know one another, that he was taking nearly as much joy from my anger as he was from this excursion itself. I tried to hold onto that knowledge. I tried to brace myself behind it like a shield, to resist my rising ire. I failed miserably. ¡°Choosing him is your burden,¡± my twin threw back. ¡°Leaving him to suffer is your fault, asking him to -¡± ¡°Pull!¡± ¡°- a cultivator¡¯s share without the breath to fill his lungs - that¡¯s your me to take!¡± ¡°Pull!¡± Fotios took one hand off his oar and pointed it at me in condemnation. I stomped the bench in front of me in frustration when Dymas, the ve he¡¯d chosen for himself, inhaled sharply and put twice the strength into his next pull. Compensating for my twin. ¡°Idiot brother,¡± Fotios condemned me, ¡°you¡¯re the only one whose ve is still in chains!¡± ¡°Pull!¡± the Young Aristocrat demanded. Seven cultivators of virtue and one bonded ve pulled their oars against the waves. ¡°What¡¯s stopping you, Stavros?¡± Gyro called back across the deck, abandoning his next verse. ¡°You liked him well enough to pick. Why not set him free?¡± Damon had broken the shackles that bound his ve to the Rosy Dawn Cult before the Eos was even built. I knew it, because he hadn¡¯t left the sun-bleached sands of the docks even once during the ship¡¯s construction. He¡¯d worked without sleep, without sustenance, from the moment the figurehead¡¯s first grasping hand was carved and until the ship¡¯sst rope was tied. Gyro had reached out and taken his ve¡¯s wrists in hand as soon as the Eos breached the waves, breaking the gaunt man¡¯s bonds without a second¡¯s hesitation. As if he had made the decision long before today, just like Damon. As if he had only been waiting for the proper time. Seeing that, and seeing the haste with which our older brothers set the rowing pace, Fotios had followed suit while we all settled into our rhythm - reaching back without looking and tearing Dymas¡¯ shackles off his wrists with a sharp jerk. It had broken the ve¡¯s skin and coated his hands and part of his oar in blood, but he didn¡¯t utter a word ofint. His eyes were clear and bright, his spine straighter with every pull. My twin¡¯s ve worked his oar with mangled hands like he was rowing straight to heaven. There had been a moment, then, a hesitant beat in the motion of the oar behind mine. It was no longer Kronia and the ve I¡¯d chosen had enough sense not to voice his expectation in that moment. But it had been there, and it had been loud. Thon had asked me without words to break his chains as well. And I had ignored him. Why not set him free? I felt my expression twist. I put everything I had into the next turning of the oars, but Fotios simply matched me. As Damon and Gyro matched one another, and as their ves matched each other in turn. The one and only dissonance in our effortsy behind me. In the ugly ve with the often broken nose, and the newly woken cultivator rowing on his right. ¡°Why should I!?¡± I shouted. Damn them all, and damn him twice. This was supposed to be an adventure worth remembering fondly. The young pirs of the Rosy Dawn, the young generation of the Aetos family, positioned ahead of everyone else in the Scarlet City during a time of crisis - poised to seize glory before even the indolent Burning Dusk could take it from us. This was supposed to be fun. ¡°Why should you follow your wiser and better looking brother¡¯s example?¡± Gyro responded, winking over his shoulder at me. ¡°Was that the question?¡± Directly behind him, the ve he¡¯d freed had the audacity to chuckle. Tough at me. ¡°No.¡± The wood in my hands groaned and flexed, each of my knuckles bleeding white. ¡°Why should I turn aside my principles because you and Damon have a n?¡± The wings of my influence beat, filling the Eos¡¯ sail and spilling over its edges. ¡°Why should I risk the virtue in my soul because Fotios didn¡¯t bother to think before he followed your example!?¡± ¡°What do your principles have to do with this?¡± My twin asked incredulously. Thoughtless twin. You should know. I answered in the way only a Sophic cultivator could. With the full force of a truth that I had learned, a principle that I had refined - and I mmed it through their skulls with the de of my own lived experience. [Young Aetos, please - it¡¯s enough.] My forehead rebounded off the chipped and weathered marble of the octagon, light exploding behind my eyes in ce of pain. The senior cultivator eyed me scornfully as I forced myself back up. Around us, his fellow mystikos of the Burning Dusk heckled andughed while the children of the dawn averted their eyes in shame. [Young Aetos, please - there¡¯s nothing you have to prove to them.] The people of the Scarlet City cheered wildly as my opponent wrenched my left arm from its socket. The sand of the pit was hot enough to burn as he rolled me and pressed my face down into it, the falling sun burning over the Scarlet Stadium. I bucked wildly against him, even when the grinding of my dislocated shoulder overwhelmed the hunting bird¡¯s breath and the pain filled my senses. I tried to rise, rise like the dawn, but it was already so close to dusk. My opponent in the wrestling event pressed down on me with the full force of his foundational mystery and drove me into the sand. [Young Aetos, please - an aristocrat has better things to do.] I mmed a clenched fist through the teeth of a burly mystiko of the Burning Dusk. He staggered back with both hands over his mouth, blood pouring out from the creases between his fingers. His fellow initiates cursed and converged on me all at once, beating me in a back alley of the Scarlet City that the Burning Dusk Cult had imed as its own. [Young Aetos, please - it¡¯s too much!] I waded through rivers of blood-orange me, inhaled the disturbing odor of my own burning flesh, and reached up. Up, through the difference in our standing. Up, through the vast and endless boundary that separated the eighth rank of the Sophic Realm from the ninth. Up, through the mes of a cultivator¡¯s virtue, to seize a fellow Young Aristocrat by the throat. I pulled a son of Yianni Sca out from his mes and mmed my forehead against his. Light shed behind my eyes in ce of pain. He went limp. I took one of the young pirs of the Burning Dusk Cult in hand, one of the favored souls that ruled in this city of bisected wonder, and I threw him off the side of his own mountain range. I basked in my advancement as my pneuma doubled and redoubled. I basked in the rush of winning a trial by hunger. I basked in the real and tangible strength I took from him in that moment, a portion of his vital essence filling the channels of my body as I inhaled, a piece of Anakle Sca¡¯s soul breaking away in my teeth and settling in my stomach when I swallowed it down. More than any of that, though, I basked in the incorporeal things I had taken from him. The respect of those he called his friends and considered his peers. The confidence he inspired in those of his cult, the proxy superiority he allowed them all to im - as if they were all of them better than the best of us. I spread my arms and the wings of my influence wide and cast my shadow upon those that had gathered to watch a young upstart from the Rosy Dawn challenge a young pir of the Burning Dusk in the middle of his own cult. Young men and women, boys and girls and elders covering up their age with the cosmetics of cultivation, converged on me from all sides in howling rage. They hurled their own hungering challenges at me. For those without the fortitude to go that far, challenges to the trial by reason or the trial by spirit came instead. The true cowards among them didn¡¯t even venture that much. Instead they challenged my right to be on their mountain, challenged the validity of my victory, challenged my manhood and my virtue and anything else they could think to say while safely backed by the rest of the crowd. [Young Aetos, please-!] they reached for me, and in those reaching hands I saw the servants of my cult. I saw the elders, the grovelors and bootlickers, the suitors and their scheming fathers. Reaching out, offering me a hand from the very beginning and through every hardship that followed. Offering me an escape from the disparity in my city, assuring me that they¡¯d pull me up to the lowly peak of the Rosy Dawn if I would only let them. I spat on that outstretched hand - -and Gyro watched my spittle hit the deck between us. ¡°A man pays his own way,¡± I said, and the strength of one of my principles filled my limbs. I exhaled sharply and pulled. Fotios cursed beside me, his pneuma rising and the wings of his influence beating as he quickly tried to match me. It wasn¡¯t nearly enough. The Eos¡¯ course jerked right, correcting itself as I overwhelmed the efforts of my twin brother and his newly freed ve with the truth of my conviction. ¡°You shouldn¡¯t need me to tell you what you already know!¡± I continued, pulling again with all that I had, reinforcing my oar with myriad truths so it wouldn¡¯t snap apart in my hands. ¡°The four of us know the worth of what we are because we earned it for ourselves! Why should I turn away from that now when you¡¯re the ones that set this pace? How can I deprive a man of the promise I saw inside his soul by paying his freedom¡¯s price for him?¡± I heard Thon¡¯s ragged breath hitch behind me, saw his oar freeze mid motion. And then all the world heard him shout, heard him holler breathlessly as he reached within himself and found strength where there had been none before. It wasn¡¯t a cultivator¡¯s breakthrough, and no outpouring of pneuma followed. It was more mundane than that. It was far more profound. Thon threw his entire body and all that he was into rowing. It still wasn¡¯t enough to match the freedman beside him, but it was enough for me to bridge the gap with the strength of my principle. ¡°We¡¯re all tenth rank,¡± Fotios panted, thrown off the rhythm of his own breathing by the memory I¡¯d assaulted him with. He didn¡¯t seem too upset about it, though. ¡°What are you going to do if I pull out all my principles and truths to match you, brother? Catch a muse¡¯s eye and ascend just to spite me?¡± ¡°I¡¯d move heaven and earth to spite you, brother,¡± I promised him, and Gyroughed from his ce at the front. ¡°If that¡¯s how it is, then fair enough! But don¡¯t expect any mercy from me!¡± Thon roared, spittle hitting the back of my neck as he threw even a ve¡¯s courtesy to the wind in favor of force. Heedless to everything but his oar. Finally. I scoffed at my second eldest brother. ¡°As if we¡¯d need it.¡± ¡°Pull,¡± Damon demanded, with a smile on his face. Chapter 1.61 [Stavros Aetos] Chapter 1.61 [Stavros Aetos] Youngest of the Convocation ¡°Lord Aetos-¡± ¡°Call me Anargyros! Or Gyro if there isn¡¯t time,¡± Gyro said, cutting off the ve he had brought along and freed. ¡°Lord Anargyros,¡± he amended, to our brother¡¯s exasperation. ¡°I don¡¯t think this is wise.¡± The man was doing his best to maintain the pace, though he was struggling nearly as much as Thon in his chains. Through good fortune or shrewd attention, Damon and Fotios had both taken on ves with prior experience in cultivation. Damon¡¯s ve, now a free man, leveraged the pneuma of a fourth rank Citizen as he rowed - a notable achievement for a man that had spent his adult life shackled and suppressed. My twin¡¯s ve was even more impressive, somehow having reached the seventh rank of the Civic realm before the Rosy Dawn had bound him body and soul. I had never cared to know the man¡¯s story before today, but I resolved to ask Fotios about it when this was over. In contrast to his fellow freedmen, Gyro¡¯spanion had been enved young. He did what he could with the strength his vital breath provided, but the distance between a man that didn¡¯t know his ce in the world and an untrained citizen of the first rank wasn¡¯t all that vast in many ways. Though it was infinite in others. He was able to keep pace with the man Damon had brought, but it was clear to see the effort it took him. If things kept on the way they were, he might be the first to copse - even before Thon. Even so, he mustered up the breath to speak, and the courage to challenge the young pirs of the Rosy Dawn on top of that. I wouldn¡¯t forgive him forughing at me earlier, but I could at least respect what it took for a cultivator at the foot of the mountain to challenge a group of men half a step from the realm of legend and epic. ¡°Which portion of this isn¡¯t wise, Menoeces?¡± Gyro asked gaily, tilting his head back to regard the man as he rowed. ¡°The portion where my good older brother abandoned all his duties as the Young Aristocrat for days without warning? Perhaps the portion where we used a holy day of festivities as an excuse to gather materials and men? Or is it the portion where we built a ship without the permission of either kyrios and sailed it into danger after our uncle demanded our presence?¡± ¡°All of those things! But especially thest one!¡± the freedman wheezed and ducked his head into his shoulder, scrubbing the sweat from his eyes as best he could without letting go of his oar. ¡°Your uncle will be furious. Worse than that, if the Rosy Dawn and the Burning Dusk decide toe together to answer Olympia¡¯s call, and Yianni Sc discovers you took a ship alone that his initiates could have shared-¡± ¡°We did no such thing,¡± Damon said, and then, as an afterthought, ¡°Pull.¡± It was impossible to tell whether Gyro¡¯s freedman was gasping like anded fish at the exertion or at the thought of directly disagreeing with the Young Aristocrat. ¡°I beg the Young Aristocrat,¡± he finally decided. ¡°Exin it so this one can understand. How is that so?¡± ¡°We didn¡¯t take a ship that Sca could have used,¡± Damon exined, the muscles of his shoulders and arms flexing smoothly as he worked his oar. Somehow, he wasn¡¯t sweating at all. ¡°Unfortunately for the Burning Dusk, there wasn¡¯t a single vessel that would take them. Those that should have been present were pushed off their courses by the crisis we¡¯re sailing towards.¡± ¡°But the Eos,¡± Gyro¡¯s man pressed in frustration. ¡°They could have used the Eos!¡± ¡°What gave you that idea?¡± Gyro asked. The man stared at his back, lost for words. ¡°The hands of Stavros Aetos pulled from their roots the trees that served as this ship¡¯s timber,¡± Damon spoke, his voice carrying easily through the wind and the crashing of waves against the hull. ¡°The hands of Fotios Aetos wove the sun-stained cloth that catches the wind and drives the ship forward. The hands of Anargyros Aetos guided the de that cut these materials to size, refined them to their current state.¡± ¡°And the hands of Damon Aetos designed it all,¡± Gyro finished, kicking our eldest brother¡¯s knee with a fond smile. Damon smirked faintly. ¡°This ship was built by filial sons,¡± he said, the concentric circles ringing his pupils almost too bright to look at as he turned to regard us all. ¡°By the young generation of the Aetos, for the young generation of the Aetos. Her name is Eos, and she would sink herself before she carried the weight of the Burning Dusk Cult.¡± ¡°Aye!¡± Fotios crowed, while I stomped my feet against the deck in agreement. ¡°But that¡¯s¡­¡± Gyros freedman bit his lip until it bled, unable to go on. ¡°That¡¯s tempting the Fates,¡± Damon¡¯s freed ve said, his firstplete sentence sinceunching the ship. The fourth rank Civic cultivator met our eldest brother¡¯s eyes squarely, unafraid. ¡°The Young Aristocrat knows that better than any of us. He knows that his uncle would have the young pirs whipped and confined to the estates for this. He knows that if Yianni Sca finds out, the Tyrant will shatter his ego along with his brothers¡¯. And he knows that if the kyrios of the Burning Dusk Cult ever heard what he just said-¡± ¡°He would kill us all, and make our uncle thank him for the privilege.¡± Damon nodded. ¡°I know.¡± ¡°Then why?¡± Gyro¡¯s man asked helplessly. Fotios and I exchanged a look. Mingling with genuine concern for the sponsor that had broken his chains, there was also fear for himself. We young pirs knew what was at stake. That our crew would share our punishment went without saying. ¡°Why go about it this way? You know what they¡¯ll do when you return.¡± ¡°I know what they¡¯ll try.¡± My twin and I chuckled at the look on the freedman¡¯s face. ¡°A Tyrant is only a man,¡± Gyro said, like a prayer. ¡°A Tyrant¡¯s existence is no different from ours,¡± Damon agreed. ¡°Only more, for better and for worse. A Tyrant in their domain might seem to be a god, but that doesn¡¯t make it true. The kyrioi of the Scarlet City can be opposed. They can be maneuvered against. And they are still fallible - to greed, to pride, and to fear. Do you know what a Tyrant fears more than any distant divinity or thunderous tribtion?¡± The sun dipped fully past the horizon, the silver glow of thousands upon thousands of stars above casting dim shadows across the deck. The glow of Damon¡¯s eyes washed out all other color. ¡°A Tyrant fears subjugation.¡± ¡°But subjugation is a Tyrant¡¯s trade, brother.¡± Gyro affected a puzzled voice. ¡°Who subjugates the subjugator?¡± ¡°Who enves the enver?¡± Fotios echoed,ughing silently at the way the freedman jolted on his bench. ¡°It has to be a bigger fish,¡± I joined in. As one, on an unspoken signal, the four of us called up the Rosy Fingers of Dawn. The light spread across each of our oars, Hissing and throwing up steam where the paddles dipped into the Ionian. The oars didn¡¯t burn, of course. Even I had finer control than that. ¡°A Tyrant fears the world outside of their domain.¡± Damon ran a hand through wild brown hair, gazing distantly at the shadowed horizon ahead. ¡°Even more than that, they fear the world inside of a greater Tyrant¡¯s authority.¡± With a negligent hand, the Young Aristocrat of the Rosy Dawn pulled from a fold in his attire and threw over his shoulder the roll of papyrus sent from Olympia. It tumbled and unfurled in the air, headed for the edge of the ship. But as it passed the beam from which the sale hung, a thinnce of rosy light struck and nailed it to the mast. Damon flicked his middle finger again, and another shaft of light nailed down the bottom edge of the papyrus. ¡°The city of Olympia has issued a cry for help,¡± Damon said, repeating what we already knew from the contents of the message. ¡°There are ravenous creatures in the Ionian, and one of them has decided to put its hunger beforemon sense. The docks that connect Alikos to the free Mediterranean have been empty for days because of it.¡± It was a detail I hadn¡¯t noticed until Gyro pointed it out, to my chagrin. It wasn¡¯t umon for the docks to be empty during certain seasons, given most sea captains preferred thevish dark towns of the baster Isles or the city of Olympia over our own bare beaches. It was, however, umon for them to be empty in the days leading up to Kronia. Damon had noticed, and he had either assumed something outrageous because of it, or he put more stock in his gut than I thought he did. ¡°The Half-Step City doesn¡¯t take kindly to reavers, but they also don¡¯t care enough to chase them out of the seas,¡± Gyro chimed in. ¡°So long as it isn¡¯t their ships being sunk, it¡¯srgely a colonial concern.¡± Unfortunately, they had lost a ship in the end. ¡°Now that they¡¯ve lost one of their charters, the kyrios of the Raging Heaven is concerned.¡± Damon curled the fingers of his left hand, his influence brushing over the deck and seizing upon the two shafts of light pinning Olympia¡¯s missive in ce. At once, both constructs of lights began to melt like candle wax, the one at the bottom melting up in defiance ofmon sense. The trails of liquid light bent and curved as they trailed up and down papyrus, eventually meeting in the middle, having outlined every letter of the message. The call for help glowed in the night, every word of it. Including the name signed at the bottom. Bakkhos ¡°It¡¯s been over a century since the first son to burn was torn down from his throne and dragged across the Ionian,¡± Damon continued. ¡°Long before any of us were born. But not nearly long enough for the Burning Dusk or our own Rosy Dawn to forget it.¡± ¡°You can¡¯t possibly- you intend to turn them against each other? The Tyrant of Tyrants and the kyrioi in Alikos?¡± Gyro¡¯s freedman of the first Civic rank asked, aghast. ¡°Are you mad?¡± My pneuma rose along with Fotios¡¯ beside me. Dymas and Thon froze in their rowing, not daring to even breathe despite their bodys¡¯ demands for it. Gyro winced, and the fool¡¯s blood drained from his face as he realized what he¡¯d just said. ¡°I beg the Young Aristocrat-¡± ¡°Mad,¡± Damon mused, as we all but flew across the Ionian with nothing but the stars to guide us. ¡°What do you think, brother?¡± Gyro hummed. ¡°I think insanity is your virtue, brother.¡± ¡°And am I a virtuous man?¡± Damon asked, amused. ¡°More than any other I know.¡± ¡°It¡¯s part of your charm, brother,¡± I added. Fotios grunted in firm agreement, still ring at the back of the lowly freedman¡¯s head. ¡°A wise man in filthy rags once told me something,¡± the Young Aristocrat of the Rosy Dawn said, contemtive. ¡°I¡¯ve carried it with me ever since.¡± ¡°There is no great genius without some touch of madness.¡± It was a principle that he lived by. One of his ten as a captain of the Sophic Realm. Unmistakable once described, just as mine had been. The freedman¡¯s shoulders hunched. His hands trembled as they gripped his oar. ¡°I understand,¡± he whispered. ¡°So you do. What I¡¯m suggesting, then, is that the man that gathers Tyrants the way Tyrants gather Philosophers is a man worth knowing. Though I can¡¯t say it with certainty, I am saying that stories paint him as an amiable man when things go his way, and as someone who is gracious when epting favors - and generous when returning them.¡± ¡°You think he would oppose two Tyrants in their domains for this?¡± I asked, honestly curious. ¡°Even if we find the goods and the pirates responsible, there¡¯s no guarantee that they kept the ship intact.¡± ¡°Or any of its passengers alive,¡± Fotios added. Damon and Gyro shared a look. ¡°I think the kyrios of the Raging Heaven would oppose anyone on this earth, given an excuse to do so,¡± Gyro eventually said. ¡°And we didn¡¯t build this ship to chase pirates,¡± Damon added. I blinked. Fotios tilted his head. The message that the kyrios of the Raging Heaven had sent to the Scarlet City specified that a passenger transport with precious cargo on board had been waid at one of the micro inds located between the Scarlet City and the shores of Olympia. It had implored - in the same way that a lion implored amb - our Uncle as well as Yianni Sc to aid the Half-Step City in its efforts to salvage the ship¡¯s contents before they were lost forever. What else could that have meant besides pirates and precious exports? The hairs on the back of my neck rose. ¡°Damon,¡± I said in a low voice. ¡°Yes, brother?¡± ¡°When you said ravenous creatures and reavers, you were disparaging sea dogs. Right?¡± The Young Aristocrat of the Rosy Dawn smiled faintly. ¡°You meant pirates, right?¡± In the shadowed distance, a woman¡¯s agonized shriek erupted from the waves. Chapter 1.62 [Stavros Aetos] Chapter 1.62 [Stavros Aetos] Youngest of the Convocation ¡°Found you,¡± Damon dered with bone deep satisfaction, and my heart started hammering. ¡°Freedmen! Maintain the pace!¡± Gyro stood abruptly up from his bench, snuffing out the unburning mes of virtue that had been coating his oar. Damon was already at the tip of the Eos, one arm draped over the figurehead¡¯s shoulders and the other braced against the rail, both man and wood-carved woman staring out into the abyss. I threw down my oar and reached into my cult attire - The next statement is true. The previous statement is false. - and pulled from it my spear. Fotios did the same beside me, dispelling the illuminating light clinging to his own oar so he could grab for his trident. In a moment all the lights were gone. What remained was provided by the stars above, the moon rising up to join them - And the message from Olympia, still pinned to the mast by Damon¡¯s manifested pneuma. Every letter glowing with the rosy light of dawn. I realized all at once the error in my thinking. I had epted as a matter of course that Olympia would have good reason to know a tragedy had taken ce, along with where it had taken ce. Pirates were working men like any other, if easier to hate. It only made sense that if they had acquired precious cargo they would seek to sell it to the highest bidder. Reaving was a pirate¡¯s virtue and ransom was their path. They would have sent word not just to Olympia, but any of the wealthier prospects in the free Mediterranean and beyond. Our dock had been empty for days, but there were other ways to send a message. Virtuous beasts that obeyed a man¡¯s will were in high demand no matter where you stood among heaven and earth, but even mundane birds could be trained to carry a message with the proper upbringing. If the barbarians in Rome could manage it with their eagles, it was surely within the capabilities of even the lowest Greek reaver. That Olympia could muster the same resources in delivering their call for aid went without saying. But that only made sense under the assumption that it had been men that waid the ship from Olympia. Otherwise, how could they have known what happened? How else could a message have been sent to notify the Raging Heaven? ¡°If they had something prepared in advance,¡± Fotios muttered, leaning over the ship¡¯s rail and brandishing his trident warily at the coal ck mes. ¡°A pre-written message in case of the worst¡­¡± I realized we had been thinking the exact same thing. ¡°It wouldn¡¯t have mentioned their location,¡± I muttered, tensing as a particrly loud wave broke against the hull. ¡°They would have had to amend it at that moment.¡± ¡°Not impossible,¡± my twin reasoned. He didn¡¯t sound convinced. ¡°Not likely.¡± I rounded on my elder brothers, pacing up the deck while three freedmen and a ve did their best to make up for the loss in rowing hands. ¡°I have a question.¡± ¡°I have an answer,¡± Damon responded without looking back. Another agonized scream split the Ionian in two. ¡°How did Olympia find out about this?¡± ¡°The same way we did.¡± ¡°That being?¡± ¡°Yesterday, just after dawn,¡± said a winded man behind me. I turned to the freedman that Damon had brought. ¡°The kyrios received a roll of papyrus from a raven made of liquid shadow.¡± ¡°Just call it a raven,¡± I said in irritation. ¡°Not like there are any light ravens left.¡± ¡°He wasn¡¯t being artful,¡± Gyro said idly, rhythmically easing his sword from its sheath before dropping it back into ce as he leaned against the rail. A bad habit of his. He only fiddled with his de like that when he intended to use it. ¡°A bird made out of shadows?¡± Fotios queried from across the deck. ¡°Did it talk as well?¡± His tone was deliberately light, an affectation tobat the tension in the air. ¡°Yes.¡± I stared down at Damon¡¯s man. ¡°My mentor often tells me that the Tyrants across the Ionian are a different breed than what we¡¯vee to know.¡± In the low light of the endless shadowed waves, the rings in Damon¡¯s eyes seemed to glow like whirling sun rays. ¡°The kyrios of the Raging Heaven is another level above even that. And when a man is half a step from heaven, who¡¯s to say he can¡¯t reach into his shadow and pull out a bird to deliver a message for him?¡± ¡°What did it say, then?¡± I asked the freedman, before shaking my head and rounding on my brother. ¡°Damon, what did it say? Enough games - your ve¡¯s obviously already told you.¡± ¡°He¡¯s not a ve anymore.¡± ¡°I am going to throw you into the sea,¡± I threatened him. ¡°You¡¯re worse than Aristotle.¡± Damon smirked. ¡°It¡¯s the oldest brother¡¯s duty to irritate his younger brothers.¡± ¡°A truth worth advancing for,¡± Gyro chimed in. I brandished my spear. The Young Aristocrat raised his hands in surrender, mirth coloring his next words. ¡°In an act of political mercy, the raven told our uncle what the kyrios of the Raging Heaven had omitted from his letter. The message was brief - ¡®Lend me every heroic soul you have to see this done, or I¡¯ll tear your ancestral tree out by the roots.¡¯¡± As if in response, another scream came seething out of the sea spray. Closer now, but how far until we reached it? I nced around the Eos. At four philosophers, three citizens, and a bonded ve. ¡°Seems we¡¯re ill equipped.¡± ¡°Take heart, brother.¡± Gyro threw an arm over my shoulder. His blue eyes were bright. ¡°So long as we¡¯re together, we have everything we¡¯ll ever need.¡± The Eos dipped. I staggered, a childhood of sailing and Gyro¡¯s arm around my shoulder preventing me from tumbling over the rail entirely. I heard Fotios curse at the stern and heard Dymas and Thon cry out in rm as the rowing benches slid out from under them. The sudden roar of rushing water was too loud to be believed. Even in pitch dark I should have noticed it before this moment. I should have heard it. Gyro reached out with his other hand and caught his freedman by the hair as he fell past us ¡°What is this!?¡± Fotios shouted. Damon¡¯s freedman stumbled back towards the stern, walking up an incline as the Eos dipped further down. The man had no sea legs to speak of, but he moved with purpose nheless. The Young Aristocrat of the Rosy Dawn stood at the front of the ship, arms crossed and perfectly bnced even as it dipped so low that the woman serving as the ship¡¯s figurehead was fully submerged in the Ionian. Wait. I squinted. No, she should have been beneath the surface of the waves by this point. But she wasn¡¯t. Because the Ionian was dipping to match her. We weren¡¯t sinking. We were sloping down. ¡°Lord Aetos,¡± Damon¡¯s freedman called from the back of the ship, a parcel of unadorned leather in his arms. He tossed it down the deck and Damon caught it without looking. From it, he pulled a bow and a quiver of arrows. ¡°That¡¯s uncle¡¯s bow.¡± Somehow, it was all I could think to say. ¡°He¡¯s going to shatter your ego when we get back,¡± Fotios called from the stern, hysterical mirth in his voice. ¡°He¡¯s going to try,¡± Damon said, and nocked an arrow to the bow string. The Tyrant¡¯s weapon, carved from ancient ash and as broad end-to-end as some men were tall, creaked ominously as he drew it back. I felt the same mad excitement as my twin bubble up in my virtuous heart. Gyro had understood the full scope of Damon¡®s n from the beginning, but it was the nature of older brothers to keep their younger siblings in the dark. Damon spread wide the wings of his influence and the string of the Tyrant¡¯s bow erupted in scarlet me. It spread to the arrow, the intensity of the light doubling and re-doubling in the distance between two heartbeats. He leaned back, angling the arrow up to the heavens. [The dawn breaks] Thwang. The arrow shot up into the night sky, illuminating the Ionian for leagues all around us. Behind us there was nothing but the same churning waves we¡¯d been rowing through all day, stretching through the far horizon. But ahead¡­ Iughed. I couldn¡¯t help it. ¡°Free men, to arms!¡± Gyro¡¯s voice rose. He pped me on the back and turned to climb back up the ship, dragging his freedman along by his hair. He pped Dymas over the head and pulled Thon from the rail that he was clutching for dear life. ¡°Up with you, rise! You may not be my brothers, and you may not be my juniors, but you¡¯re members of my crew and that¡¯s more than most men can say! ¡°Stand like you belong on this ship. Rise and fight with us, show us we were right to free you from your chains!¡± From a fold in his cult attire our brother pulled three swords, each of them a work of art that he had long discarded - des that hadn¡¯tsted long in Anargyros Aetos¡¯ hands. ¡°I only have these scraps to offer you now, but once the work is done we¡¯ll find you each a weapon worth wearing on your belt.¡± The freedmen caught the des he tossed their way with varying degrees of poise, but the reverence in their eyes was equal across all three of them. As it should have been. What Gyro called scraps, swords weakened and worn beyond his ability to repair them, were priceless artifacts by the standard of anymon philosopher- let alone a citizen that had gone to bed the previous night a ve. I watched those des alone give each man strength, courage in the face of whaty ahead. It was one thing to cast off your chains and take an unfettered breath for the first time in years. It was one thing to sail alongside young philosophers of the aristoi, one thing to call them by their given names as if you were equals. But all of that was within the scope of a ve¡¯s life, and ack of iron chains did not necessarily make a man free. What was entirely another thing was to stand and fight beside those philosophers that had once been your masters, entirely another thing to wield a cultivator¡¯s de and not just whatever was at hand. Iughed harder as the Eos rode down into the currents of a whirlpoolrge enough to swallow the Scarlet City whole. Pulling us all, unerringly, towards a central point that could just barely be seen in the distance. Damon¡¯s shining arrow illuminated the ind at its center briefly as it flew overhead, along with the ships gutted and shattered on its shore. ¡°Fine then!¡± I mmed the butt of my spear to the deck, and beneath the deck the ship¡¯s bones lit up at my pneuma¡¯s touch. The light spilled up through the seams of the deck, bathing me in the glow of my conviction. ¡°You want to teach me a lesson!?¡± I demanded of my brothers as the Eos fell into the sea. ¡°This lowly sophist awaits your wisdom!¡± Infuriating bastards. They had let me put on such a show before, not once interrupting to give me the greater context of what was toe. Philosophers could exchange discourse without a Citizen ever being the wiser - it wasn¡¯t consideration for the freedmen that had held their tongues. No, I knew better than to think so favorably of them. ¡°I have no idea what you mean, brother,¡± Damon said, pulling another arrow from his quiver. ¡°Even if we did, does this really strike you as the proper time?¡± Gyro added, scolding words betrayed by the creasing of his eyes. Damon and Anargyros Aetos were as identical in spirit as Fotios and I were in flesh. Wherever they went and whatever it was they were doing, neither could be satisfied unless they were putting on a show. Any ywright worth their title knew that even the cleverestedy went to waste if there was no one there tough - even the most gut-wrenching tragedy was worthless if there was no one there to weep for it. Unfortunately for Fotios and I, that meant we were the audience. We called it our fraternal tribtion. Our earned consequence for having the audacity to be born so beautiful not just once, but twice. Regardless. They had set me up, and I had fallen into it. Nothing for it now but to take ount of it. ¡°Yes,¡± I dered. ¡°This strikes me as exactly the right time.¡± Thon hissed in helpless frustration while the vast whirlpools currents wrenched us sideways, sending him staggering. He reached for the ship¡¯s rail but stopped himself at thest moment. Gyro had told him to stand, and so he stood. He looked like half a corpse already, the only one of us that had been forced to row through the day and into the night without the bracing vitality of a cultivator¡¯s breath. He didn¡¯t take his eyes off his unsteady feet even as I stepped up to him and loomed, so absorbed in maintaining his bnce. He did look up when I ced a hand on his heaving chest and shoved him off his feet. ¡°What- Lord Aetos?¡± ¡°I told you to call me Stavros,¡± I said, invoking another fold in logic and pulling a fine leather pouch from my cult attire. ¡°But,¡± he hesitated, visibly thrown. The whites of his eyes stood out starkly as he took in our current situation. We were deep enough into the whirlpool now that the Ionian seemed to rise up around us like the mountain ranges around the Scarlet City. ¡°But?¡± I prompted him sharply, rapping my spear against the deck. ¡°It isn¡¯t Kronia anymore!¡± he blurted. ¡°I¡¯m just a ve again!¡± ¡°I suppose that¡¯s true,¡± I said, and dumped the leather purse out into hisp. Golden drachma and other coins of silver and bronze, dozens of them, rained down into his hastily cupped palms until they spilled over the sides. Thon stared at the riches in his hands, more wealth than he had held in the entirety of his life up until now. ¡°What is this?¡± he asked, a hitch in his voice. ¡°Helping me find the best timber for my ship on the one day of the year you didn¡¯t have to was a kindness,¡± I told him. ¡°But it fell within the boundaries of a favor. Dragging you onto this ship and telling you to match my pace was a cruelty, but one within the scope of a ve¡¯s duties.¡± Damon let fly another shining arrow, lighting up the night and showing us just how far we had fallen into the tide. The ind at the center of it all still seemed impossibly far away, and yet the waves around us kept growing higher. Fotios hollered down approximate distances, having climbed the mast for a better viewpoint. ¡°If we were chasing pirates, I wouldn¡¯t give you a single lepton for your troubles,¡± I told him frankly. ¡°But it¡¯s clear to me now that this isn¡¯t ve work. And if that¡¯s the case, I have no choice but to pay you for your services.¡± ¡°I¡­ I don¡¯t¡­¡± Thon couldn¡¯t seem to decide what was more pressing. The ravenous whirlpool, the cultivators taking up arms all across the ship as if to fight the Ionian itself, or- ¡°I don¡¯t have a ce to put all this.¡± I closed my eyes and inhaled a slow breath. On the other side of the deck, Gyro tried and failed to muffle a snort. It wasn¡¯t his fault. This once, in these circumstances, I would let it go. ¡°That is a problem,¡± I agreed, opening my eyes to regard the ugly ve with the often broken nose. ¡°Why don¡¯t I hold onto it for you? Better yet, I can sell you something for it.¡± Common sense finally overcame panicked vertigo, and his hope bloomed once again. Thon cleared his throat, salvaging what pride he could. ¡°My freedom?¡± ¡°If you¡¯d like. Seems you have just enough to cover it.¡± Thon counted out everyst coin while we wound a hurtling path down to the bleak rocks of the central ind. Once thest golden drachma dropped into my leather pouch, I tucked it back into my cult attire and took his manacles in hand. The dawn burned through them, weakened them until even a mortal man could tear them off. Thon did just that. The ugly freedman took his first unfettered breath, and Gyro promptly tossed him his fourth and final spare. Thon rose on steadier feet than before, his grip on the sword unfamiliar but strong. ¡°Stavros,¡± he greeted me as an equal. Met my eyes as a free man. I scoffed and punched his shoulder. ¡°Thon. Let¡¯s see if you¡¯re worth the money.¡± ¡°You know, I think you were right after all,¡± Gyro eximed, smiling brightly even as the Eos rolled and nearly capsized us. ¡°This is the perfect time for a lesson.¡± ¡°Let¡¯s hear it then!¡± Fotios hollered down from the top of the mast. ¡°I might as well die wise!¡± The rush of air that apanied every use of the Tyrant¡¯s bow was almost a blow by itself, a swift boxing of the ears. Damon watched the third arrow ze a trail through the sky and just barely clear the lip of the whirlpool above. ¡°What is a hero?¡± he asked. I braced myself with my spear in hand, pneuma rising. ¡°You¡¯re about to tell us.¡± Damon pulled the fourth arrow from its quiver and nocked it to our uncle¡¯s stolen bow, leaning so far back that the arrowhead was pointed nearly straight up. At this point, it was all but impossible that it would clear the rim. We were too far down. ¡°A hero is a breaker of chains,¡± Gyro said, drawing his sword fully from its sheath and nting his right foot up on the rail. ¡°A liberator of men.¡± The string of the Tyrant¡¯s bow and the arrow knocked to it ignited in scarlet me. Damon let it build, let it overflow, until it had banished every shadow on the ship. Thon set his feet beside me, his shoulder pressed to mine. Dymas stood beneath the sail and watched my twin, ready to catch him if he fell. Our older brothers¡¯ additions to the crew nked them on either side. ¡°What else?¡± I asked, though I already knew. I inhaled deeply and drew my principles around me like a cloak - like armor. ¡°A hero,¡± Damon said with heavy intent, ¡°is a yer of monsters.¡± He turned abruptly, taking aim at the sea and loosing his nova arrow. The shaft of riotous light punched through the waves in an explosion of steam and boiling water, and it continued on without dying out. An unmistakable guiding light piercing down, down, into the dark- And finding its mark. The light mmed through flesh within the depths and went out. A woman¡¯s shrill, agonized shriek bubbled up out of the waves. ¡°Come, then,¡± the Young Aristocrat of the Rosy Dawnmanded, his pneuma nketing the Eos. His lips drew back from his teeth, his voice rising to match a sudden wild grin. ¡°Rise!¡± he shouted, and we, his brothers, roared along with him. ¡°Rise and greet the dawn!¡± The monster did just that, scales of shifting silver exploding up out of the sea. Chapter 1.63 [Stavros Aetos] Chapter 1.63 [Stavros Aetos] Youngest of the Convocation Bursting from the sea and wailing in a woman¡¯s voice, a monster took the stage. We watched withoutprehension as it exploded upward and cast its shadow over the Eos. Silver scales and coiling flesh that undted and flexed like nothing I had ever seen in my life. The monster continued to rise, pulling more and more of itself from theforting veil of opaque waves, and in the light of stars above I saw the scars left by those who came before. Pockmarks and craters in the creature''s hide, each a blow that had marked it - for some of them, even broke scales - but never pierced through. None but Damon¡¯s arrow, lodged so deep in a gap between two cratered scales that only its fletching was still visible. ¡°Give me all your Heroes,¡± the kyrios of the Raging Heaven hadmanded our uncle, provoking a fellow Tyrant and risking greater conflict. And here before me was the reason why. The creature''s narrow, sloping head cracked open, it¡¯s grotesque maw yawning wide. Its eyes, a shimmering liquid ck, disappeared entirely behind its gaping mouth. It breathed in and the freedmen among us stumbled and shouted in rm as the force of its inhtion dragged the Eos towards it. I felt the ship''s frame strain like it was my own ribs cracking. Hundreds of sickle-shaped teeth moved inside the monster''s throat, rows of them spiraling down into the ck depths of its stomach. They almost seemed to spin, in great, lurching motions, as the monster swallowed down the winds. Finally it had its fill. The winding silver monster lurched down and closed the final span between us, releasing the breath it had taken as it did. I felt the drums inside my ears burst, a woman¡¯s voice scrambling my senses. ¡°I WANT-!¡± Fotios fell upon it from the top of the mast, howling in terror and defiance, and drove his burning trident down on top of its head. My twin wound over a dozen truths through the spokes of the trident as he fell, focused every ounce of a tenth rank Philosopher¡¯s strength into the blow. The monster¡¯s jaws mmed shut, silencing it. And my brother¡¯s trident shattered against its scales. I lurched forward, leaping up while Fotios bounced off the monster''s head and iled for bnce in the air. It rolled, the motion eerily sinuous and faster than a creature that size had any right to be. Its mouth opened wide again, poised beneath my brother. I exhaled sharply. The hunting bird''s breath was a breathing technique passed down through the Aetos family for as long as we¡¯d had our name. A mimicry of the eponymous animal, it required a cultivator to hollow out a portion of their body in the style of an eagle - a chamber that they could store their vital breath within. A mortal man inhaled and exhaled only once each time, but the hunting bird did it twice. Once through its lungs, and a second time through hollow sacks of flesh feeding to the pneumatic channels in its hollow bones. An eagle had nine such chambers stored within itself, each one a buoying force against the currents of heaven. My mother had told me once that it was the ninth chamber that allowed them to fly. It was why every practitioner of the hunting bird¡¯s breath strove to create those nine chambers within themselves. So that one day we could join them up above. So that one day we could fly. I had only ever heard stories of distant ancestors managing eight. Maintaining a pneumatic chamber at all as a civic cultivator was a feat worth praising. Maintaining two as a philosopher was simrly impressive. Three for a hero, four to a tyrant. Anything beyond that was prodigious, so said the elders. I drained all four of my pneumatic chambers and shot up from the ship¡¯s deck with my spear in hand. The first exhale emptied the pneuma from those chambers into the channels I¡¯d painstakingly carved through my bones. Each chamber contained a breath, each breath the culmination of hours and days of dogged exertion. Every pain that I had dispersed evenly throughout them, every ounce of my conviction built upon a thousand everyday actions. The second exhale passed through my lungs, steaming as it shot through my grit teeth. The hunting bird''s breath allowed a man to break apart the trials of his life, to disperse them within himself and minimize their impact. In doing so, it allowed him to make those pains his own. To buoy himself with them as an eagle in flight. And when the time was right, it allowed him to let those pains go all at once, releasing more than any mortal man could hope to take in with a single breath - and it allowed him to fall. To dive out of the sky with talons spread wide. That was how an Aetos hunted. I dove up, exerting the strength of four talons with one thrust of my spear into the monster¡¯s liquid ck eye. The impact mmed the creature up and away from my airborne brother, its entire body flinching away from the blow in a cascade of moving coils. It rounded it on me while I fell back to the deck, holding onto what remained of my spear. I had rocked it, but I¡¯d broken my weapon in the process just like Fotios. My twin and I hit the deck at the same time, and Gyro was suddenly above us. His de burned bright for a split second as he leapt, and then it was quenched. Gyro buried it to the hilt in the gap between pockmarked scales The monster screamed again. I gasped, dispersing the wrenching pain in my ears through four pneumatic chambers. Sprawled out on the deck beside one another, Fotios and I watched, dazed, as the enormous serpent writhed and drew away from the Eos. It dove back into the whirlpool and was gone in an instant. Fotios¡¯ head lolled sideways, his lips moving silently. As if I could hear him over the whirlpool and the shrill ringing in my ears. I dug a finger into my ear and flicked the blood at his face. ¡°Did you bring another weapon?¡± he asked me in the voice of his soul, like a proper Sophic cultivator. ¡°No,¡± I responded in kind. He grimaced. ¡°Gyro is going to be insufferable.¡± ¡°And why would that be?¡± Asked the man himself. He leaned over us, one hand on his hip while the other held a sword covered in molten lead. ¡°What cause would a man carrying four spare swords have to be insufferable to the boys refusing to carry even one?¡± ¡°I would have made room for a spare if I knew we¡¯d be fighting monsters.¡± The voice of my soul seethed. Gyro scoffed. He offered me a hand. ¡°A man can¡¯t always know when a fight ising. That¡¯s why you carry it everywhere you go.¡± ¡°Consider us humbled,¡± Fotios said while Gyro yanked me to my feet. ¡°Now will you loan us some arms?¡± ¡°I cannot.¡± Gyro pulled Fotios up and pped droplets of molten lead off his shoulder, spattered on him by the creature¡¯s wound. ¡±I gave thest one to Thon.¡± ¡°Well enough. I¡¯ll take Dymas-¡° ¡°No.¡± Gyro shook his head with finality. ¡°The freedmen need weapons more than you two.¡± ¡°Son of a bitch,¡± my twin conveyed in a Philosopher''s voice, vitriol behind every word. My own mood wasn¡¯t far behind. ¡°Fine, fine! What¡¯s next, then? The snake¡¯s not dead yet - how do we kill it?¡± ¡°You can¡¯t.¡± I snarled a curse and jerked away from the old man in rags suddenly standing between Fotios and me. The Eos rocked as the whirlpool currents mmed her starboard side, nearly knocking me right back on my ass. ¡°No! I refuse!¡± I shouted. ¡°I refuse to believe it! How could you have possibly been here the whole time!?¡± Aristotle rolled his eyes, looking for all the world like a man with two feet in the Styx, yet bncing on the roiling deck without any apparent effort. ¡°If you had looked, you might have seen me.¡± ¡°What do you mean we can¡¯t kill it?¡± Fotios demanded. ¡°Stavros and I beat it like a mouthy ve. Damon skewered it and Gyro made it bleed! If it can bleed then it can die-¡± ¡°It did not bleed,¡± Aristotle cut him off, snatching Gyro¡¯s sword arm before any of us could react and dragging it up, forcing him to brandish the de. ¡°To bleed is to shed blood. What sort of blood looks like this? What sort of blood clings like molten lead to a de?¡± ¡°Ichor,¡± Gyro answered, watching Aristotle unwrap one of the gray rags from his body and run it down each side of the de, soaking up the shimmering metallic liquid. He tucked the soiled rag into a fold within his attire when he was done. ¡°It¡¯s a monster after all.¡± ¡°I could have told you that,¡± Fotios said. ¡°Could you?¡± Aristotle asked, rounding on him. My twin flinched, taking a step back and nearly falling over Dymas - the man was still t on the deck, lying prone with his hands over his bleeding ears. ¡°Because it seems to me that you have a fundamental misunderstanding of what this creature is. If I were an unkind man, prone to unkind assumptions, I might even say you had mistaken it for a virtuous beast. That you ascribed the same rules to one as you did the other.¡± Another wail bubbled up from the whirling currents. Behind us and away now that the riptide had dragged us further in, but not nearly far enough. ¡°And if I did?¡± Fotios demanded. ¡°They are the same, aren¡¯t they? Beasts that grew beyond the natural order. It¡¯s only a question of magnitude that separates them.¡± ¡°Wrong!¡± Aristotle¡¯s rhetoric thundered, threatening to rupture drums that didn¡¯t exist within ears that weren¡¯t corporeal. ¡°They don¡¯t bleed the same blood. They don¡¯t conform to the same rules. A virtuous beast is to an animal what a cultivator is to a man. A monster is something else entirely!¡± ¡°We can still kill it,¡± I said, stubbornly matching him when he rounded on me. ¡°Men have killed monsters before. Why shouldn¡¯t we be able to now?¡± ¡°Men have imed to have killed monsters,¡± Aristotle stressed, ¡°and then crowned themselves heroes for it. Ancestral warriors and demigods with the ichor of faceless divinity flowing through their veins are said to have killed monsters. I have heard these things, and I have also heard an old man im to be able to show me a king if I gave him a crown while he defecated in the agora. Would you care to guess how many of these things I have actually seen done?¡± ¡°None,¡± Gyro answered when I refused to. ¡°None at all. I¡¯ve seen things in the course of my life that would seem stranger and more profound to you than even your bisected corpse god; I have even seen monsters before. But I have never, ever seen a creature that sheds ichor in ce of blood die. Have any of you?¡± Our silence spoke for us. ¡°What do you suggest we do?¡± Gyro asked, his polite neutrality entirely at odds with the chaos raging all around us. As if to punctuate it, the Eos suddenly rolled, catching on apeting current and leaning so far starboard that her sails nearly touched the water. Aristotle watched us stagger and grab onto whatever portion of the ship was closest at hand to steady ourselves, catching our rattled freedmen by whatever limbs we could before they were tossed fully from the ship. ¡°Turn back,¡± he said. Damon did not hesitate. ¡°I refuse.¡± The Young Aristocrat¡¯s pneuma rose, the eagle head that he had burnt into the Eos lighting up beneath the deck - just as my wing had earlier. Unlike when I had done it, though, my brother invoked it with a purpose. Narrowing his eyes in concentration and rolling his wrist, he reached out for the Eos with his vital breath. The Eos met him halfway. Against the current and disdaining the momentum that had nearly capsized her, the Eos swung back up to a proper sailing pitch and the groans of her straining frame went silent. The whirlpool still had her, and we were still careening towards that ind with its rocks, but it no longer felt as if the ship was about to fly apart any moment. Gyro whistled appreciatively, though I couldn¡¯t hear it. Fotios and I exchanged a wide-eyed look, seeing the same thought in each others¡¯ eyes - we could do that too. Even the freedmen, still utterly shaken by the monster¡¯s swift entry and exit, regarded the light beneath the steadied deck with awe. Only Aristotle was unimpressed. ¡°Idiot boy. You¡¯ll kill us all if you go through with this.¡± ¡°We¡¯ll die anyway if wee home empty handed.¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t say you had to go home,¡± Aristotle said, irritated. ¡°I said-¡± he stopped short, turning to re at me. No. Turning to re at the newly freed man I had propped up on my shoulder. Thon¡¯s mouth moved and the veins in his neck bulged as he shouted in my ear as loud as he could, for all the good it did. The only one that could hear him was Aristotle. The father of rhetoric clicked his tongue and reached for my face. I leaned back, wary - He snapped his fingers next to my ear. ¡°-ING ON!? STAVROS!¡± Thon¡¯s voice came thundering through, nearly deafening me again. Another snap by my left ear before I could react, and the vast rushing roar of the whirlpool inundated me. ¡°Enough! I hear you!¡± I snapped. Thon stared at me, ugly face scrunching as he tried to read my lips in the low light. Then Aristotle did to Thon whatever he had done to me, and the rest of the Eos¡¯ crew each in turn. ¡°What did you do?¡± Fotios asked, gingerly touching his ears. ¡°Nothing that nature would not have done itself,¡± Aristotle said. Clearing Damon¡¯s earsst and snorting at the Young Aristocrat¡¯s appreciative nod, he waved a hand in his usual lecturing gesture. ¡°That is all a philosopher can do. He deals in naturalw the way a monger deals in fish. You children enjoy your groups of three, don¡¯t you? Here¡¯s another: ¡°Magnitude. Motion. Time.¡± Each word rang like a bell in the air, briefly muffling the outside world. ¡°With experience, through ingenuity, a man can leverage his understanding of naturalw to adjust these things in his favor. Your ears would have healed naturally over the course of weeks - all I did was shorten that time. This ship was built well enough to sail naturally through rough waters. Damon only lessened the magnitude of those currents and applied a counter motion to them.¡± Another scream. This one angrier than it was pained. And close enough to make my ears ring faintly again. ¡°What¡¯s your point, elder?¡± Gyro asked the question we were all hysterically thinking. ¡°My point is that we do not have the tools required to kill a drakaina, and we don¡¯t have men capable of doing it without them. A philosopher can¡¯t kill what divinity cursed to live forever.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t know that,¡± Damon said with such confidence that I couldn¡¯t help smiling. ¡°You just haven¡¯t seen it done yet,¡± Gyro concluded, his pneuma rising in anticipation. For a blissful moment Aristotle said nothing at all. Crescents of flesh reflecting the light of stars shed by the port side, the serpent of the sea circling us with ugly intent. The old philosopher sighed. ¡°I suppose I¡¯ll die, then.¡± ¡°You heard the wise man!¡± I shouted while Fotios rushed across the deck, gathering up as much rigging rope as he could get his hands on. ¡°It¡¯s time to die!¡± Thon stood to attention beside me, Dymas and Gyro¡¯s freedman mirroring him. Damon¡¯s man had already joined the Young Aristocrat at the bow and was listening intently as our brother ryed something to him. The drakaina swept past us again, starboard this time, and struck the Eos with some portion of its grotesque body as it passed. I steadied Thon and epted a bundle of rope that Fotios tossed my way, breathing deep the salt and thrill in the air. ¡°You smell that, boys? That tang in the air- do you know what it is?¡± Thon closed his eyes and breathed in deep. ¡°Freedom,¡± he said at once. ¡°Exactly right.¡± I set my feet and watched the ind hurtle into view. Almost there. ¡°That¡¯s a cultivator¡¯s freedom.¡± ¡°And isn¡¯t she sweet?¡± Fotios jeered. ¡°Brace!¡± Gyro called, and we all brandished our weapons in defiance as the serpent reared up on our starboard side. I drained all of my pneumatic chambers again, cracking my line of rigging rope like a whip and igniting it. The drakaina¡¯s sloping head split open, and then its jaw split further on each side, hoods of slick ck flesh unfolding like blooming roses. Disgusting creature. I knew, in a primal ce deep within, that this was an entity that did not deserve to exist. And in its passing, the world would be made a brighter ce. As cultivators of virtue, what else could we do but see it done? Resolved and focused in the face of certain death, none of us noticed the second monster until it was toote. ¡°Damon!¡± Fotios cried, but toote. Toote. Ash and cypress shattered and flew apart beneath the coiling scales and wed fingers of a woman with a serpent¡¯s tail in ce of legs. She took the bow of the Eos before any of us could think to move, sent Damon and the ship¡¯s wooden figurehead both plummeting into the sea, and dove in after them with a hateful grimace on her eerily human face. Then the first monster struck. The Eos lurched and broke again, the drakaina¡¯s revolting coils spilling onto the deck and crushing whatever they could. Gyro stabbed it again, finding another weak spot left by those that died before us, and the monster sought to deafen us again with its voice. Whatever Aristotle had done for us lingered, though, and I kept my hearing this time. Enough to hear my twin shout. ¡°Land!¡± Fotios pointed, and - ah. The ind. I threw Thon over my shoulder and leapt off the deck just before the Eos struck the rocks of the central ind''s shore. Wended in beach sand and rolled, Thon scrambling after the sword that had flown out of his grip uponnding. I rose up with nothing but a line of rigging rope and bare belligerence, Fotios and the rest of the crewmening to their feet alongside me to face the undying threat. Gyro ran straight past us. Away from the rocks and the monster ravaging our beached ship, towards the gutted ship from Olympia further down the shore. Fotios and I shared a look. ¡°Go!¡± he said. I took off after Gyro. ¡°What are you doing!?¡± I called, squinting through clouds of sand kicked up by his pounding strides. ¡°Securing precious cargo!¡± he replied without stopping, diving headlong into the ship¡¯s gutted frame. ¡°Now!?¡± I sprinted past that, into the wreckage that had been thrown from the ship when it was beached. I tore through broken timber and tangled lines of rigging and sail cloth with a furious purpose, looking for anything worth a kyrios¡¯ favor and finding nothing at all. ¡°Stav!¡± Fotios¡¯ panicked shout rang clear across the beach, and I spun around to see the reason why spilling out of the whirlpool onto the rocks. The drakaina could swim through sand as well as it could water, and it had ignored the freedmen and my twin entirely in favor of pursuing us. It bore down on us faster than Fotios and the crew could match, the spiraling lines of teeth within its mouth devouring the wind and sands between us. ¡°Gyro!¡± I shouted, brandishing my whip. Gyro lunged out of thended ship, his sword zing with the light of the Rosy Dawn and his own dauntless courage. A young woman came sprinting out after him. She had a javelin in one hand, drawn back to throw, and a shield in the other. The shield was polished bronze. It was embossed with a scarlet sun. Chapter 1.64 [Stavros Aetos] Chapter 1.64 [Stavros Aetos] Youngest of the Convocation The Raging Heaven had called for aid in Olympia¡¯s name, demanding a resource that only institutions of greater mystery could hope to provide. I had wondered, when pirates were the greatest threat in my consideration, what cargo was worth the Riotous Tyrant''s attention. Then, when a woman¡¯s cries and a monster''s flesh had erupted from the whirlpool currents, I had wondered what cargo could possibly be worth the risk. The woman charging on my brother''s heels reared back and let fly her javelin, a Philosopher''s pneuma rising up around her. Thence struck the drakaina in one of its glossy ck eyes and punched clean through. Thin, watery ichor sprayed from the wound. The monster rolled, burying the upper half of its narrow skull in the sands - in the same motion releasing every ounce of breath it had stolen while crossing the beach. The woman grabbed Gyro by the back of his sword belt and yanked him behind her, digging her feet into the sand and raising her red sun shield. The monster screamed. ¡°I WANT TO LIVE!¡± The crude attack, violence in shrill sound, struck the woman¡¯s shield and rebounded off its surface. It struck back at the screamer, and though the serpent had no means of hearing that I could see, it flinched and flung every coil of itself back. Gyro took the opportunity for what it was, and I called upon the strength of conviction to cross the distance between us. I immersed myself in an ideal- a principle that I had internalized as a philosopher and followed faithfully ever since. A lord may lead that men may follow - but brothers stand side-by-side. I nted my back foot and pushed off, crossing the wreckage and the woman with her shield in a single bound tond beside my brother. I dispersed my pains with the hunting bird''s breath as the force of my movement fractured the bone just under my knee. It wasn¡¯t enough to stagger me, not with my principle raging and Gyro by my side. He shed me a grin while we sprinted in synchronicity. ¡°The eyes!¡± ¡°Obviously!¡± I shot back. Heughed. We jumped at the same time, just as the drakaina thrashed up in pain and disorientation and exposed its eyes once more. Gyro unleashed his own Sophic strength with a shout, burying his de to the hilt in the monster''s good eye. I sailed past its sloping head entirely, cracking my line of rigging rope as I passed and wrapping it around the javelin lodged in its other eye. [Dawn arrives upon its throne] The burning light of my mystery faith rushed down the length of the rope and ignited the javelin in an instant, sh boiling the molten ichor oozing from the wound. Not hot enough. That being so, I piled on the truth as I hurtled past. me needs fuel - it hungers like a living thing. me needs room to grow - it covets like a living thing, too. Some mes are quenched in water, but others burn even over waves. To kill Greek me you must contain it. Starve it, like any other ravenous soul. To nurture it is far easier - simply feed it and set it free, beyond your shackling will. Let it breathe. If a Philosopher''s only strength was his grasp of naturalw, then that would be enough. I called upon the truth of tending me that I¡¯d learned from tutors and practiced with my own hands, and through it I bid the fire boiling the monster¡¯s eye to multiply. Light shed and the low rushing sound of devouring heat overtook the creature, burning its punctured eye to ash in a split second. Inded heavily in the sand further down the beach, the rigging rope going taut in my hand and tearing the woman¡¯s javelin free as I went. A second searing sh of light heralded Gyro¡¯s own invocation. I watched him push off its head, back towards the gutted ship, backflipping andnding adroitly beside the woman. ¡°Magnitude,¡± Aristotle said, sand spilling down his head and shoulders as he rose inexplicably up out of the beach next to me. This time I only grit my teeth at his sudden presence. ¡°Your rhetoric is crude, but I suppose your foundations are firm enough. Unfortunate, that it won''t help you here.¡± ¡°You sure about that, elder?¡± I cracked my impromptu whip again, flinging the javelin back across the beach. It sailed over writhing hills of flesh, the serpent unable to react to it visually and in too much pain to bother even if it could. Gyro caught it out of the air and offered it back to the woman who¡¯d thrown it. She smiled and said something I couldn¡¯t make out over the crashing of beach dunes. ¡°Maybe you¡¯re right,¡± I continued, waving a hand at Fotios and the crew as they came charging over. ¡°Maybe a philosopher can only influence the simplest mechanics of this world, and perhaps all that I¡¯ve done is shift the magnitude of a me. But if that¡¯s enough to blind a monster, how is killing it a leap too far?¡± Aristotle sighed,bing sand out of his ragged white beard and shrugging more off of the rags draped over his shoulders. His next words were delivered without any of his prior heat - nothing but a teacher¡¯s worn patience. ¡°Look, and you may see.¡± I rolled my eyes but obliged him, looking at the blind drakaina. Liquid ck eyes stared back at me. ¡°Impossible,¡± I spat, and the monster lunged. Fotios mmed into my side, a diving tackle with force enough to send us both careening over the beach rocks and into the riptide beyond. I felt the whirlpool¡¯s notice, felt it seize us with greedy hands and pull us in. I kicked frantically, pumping my right arm while I gripped Fotios¡¯ shoulder with my left. He did the same, and for all our troubles we only just managed to stay together. But not escape. We sank and kept sinking, tossed and whipped around the spiraling currents all the while. I had thought the ind was the central point, the originator of this grand ocean sink, but I had been wrong. The true source drew us down past the ind into the furthest depths, and every truth and conviction my brother and I leveraged wasn¡¯t enough to escape it. When my lungs had fully depleted and darkness crept across the edges of my mind, I emptied my pneumatic chambers one by one back into my lungs, allowing me to fight on for precious moments. At this depth, there was nothing that a man¡¯s eyes could see. The vertigo of tumbling down a drain and the frigid chill reaching for us from the bottom of the sea were all that could be sensed. I let go of the vital breath from my third pneumatic chamber, in my panicked delirium imagining that I could see it spill past my lips, precious bubbles rising swiftly out of reach. I began emptying my fourth and final chamber of breath back into my lungs, knowing as I did that it would onlyst me another minute while fighting the riptide. Two if I was blessed. Then all of that ceased to matter. Fotios¡¯ hand went ck on my shoulder and the riptide jerked it away - my twin nearly with it. I snarled beneath the sea, wasting precious air, and abandoned fighting the current entirely to wrap both arms around my brother''s chest, pinning him back to me. ¡°Idiot twin,¡± I spoke in the only voice that could be heard down here, my heart hammering in my chest. ¡°You told me you had four chambers, too.¡± ¡°I do.¡± Even the voice of his soul was weak, distant. ¡°I drained the first one saving you.¡± ¡°Is that what you call this? Salvation?¡± Panic and frustration and a need to keep him lucid drove the words. We spun blindly, falling further into the whirlpool mouth. ¡°Can¡¯t¡­¡± ¡°Can¡¯t what? Can¡¯t do anything right? Can¡¯t help but be a pain in my ass?¡± ¡°Can¡¯t feel my soul, Stav.¡± It was said that every man confronts the Fates alone. Though we cultivated virtue alongside our peers in the gymnasiums, though we challenged the rhetoric of our fellow Sophists in the agora, and though we stood together against the whims of both Tyrants and raging heaven, there came a point where every man was forced to choose. Our father had told us as boys to seek the first virtue. Our uncle had told us at his funeral that the first virtue was oneself - that was why he¡¯d let his brother die. It was a cultivator''s nature to stand alone. Who among heaven and earth could judge him for preserving himself above any other, when divinity and endless glory were on the line? ¡°We can,¡± Damon had said, while weid our father to rest. With a quiet anger, one that endured. ¡°And we will.¡± I forced my brother¡¯s mouth open and exhaled half of what remained of my soul into his. Fotios seized, jerking back and grabbing a fist full of my cult attire. ¡°Bastard!¡± his rhetoric thundered. ¡°Who said you could die first?¡± ¡°Who said you could die alone?¡± I fired back, every bit as furious. ¡°Who said your deaths were yours to choose?¡± a woman¡¯s lilting voice asked, clear beneath the waves despite the fact that it wasn¡¯t spoken through pneuma. Light followed, a dim silver glow, rising impossibly from below. A woman reached up to us. Her arms were so pale they were nearly translucent, her slim fingers tipped with wicked ws. The woman¡¯s eyes were ck and wet, her lips slightly parted. Silver white hair rose around her head like mist on winter waters - and she waspletely nude, slender and beautiful from the curves of her hips to the modest lines of muscle in her stomach. Below that, reflecting a light that had no source beneath the sea, thousands upon thousands of silver scales coiled down into the furthest depths of the Ionian, extending seamlessly from her waist. The serpent woman reached up while the currents pulled us down, and I readied onest breath before the end. Fotios did the same beside me. Then in the distant depths, past even the drakaina¡¯s spiraling lengths, a spark of rosy light bloomed. ¡°Who said you had to die at all?¡± the voice of Damon¡¯s soul rose up from the bottom of the sea, and that spark of light shot up to us in an instant, grazing a painful line across the serpent woman¡¯s cheek as it passed and mming through my shoulder. The impact knocked thest breath out of me and the pain shattered my senses. The whole world seemed to spin around me, the only anchor being my twin¡¯s iron grip on my arm as the arrow continued on its course. Darkness encroached, the arrow boiling the water around us and cauterizing inside of my shoulder. I lost my grip on my senses- And we exploded out of the water, rising up above the central ind until the light abruptly went out of Damon¡¯s arrow and it lost its blistering momentum. The two of us hurtled down without a breath to bolster us. Thon caught me in his arms, grunting and staggering back a step while Dymas did the same for my twin. ¡°Stavros!¡± Thon eximed, ugly face contorting in panic. ¡°Are you alright!?¡± I gasped, inhaling sweet freedom¡¯s air, arching up and mming my forehead into his nose. He fell back into the sand bleeding. ¡°Apologies,¡± I managed to say, lurching forward and gripping his arm. ¡°I didn¡¯t mean to-¡° ¡°¡®S alright,¡± he said, the words slurred by yet another broken nose. He cracked an unsightly smile, blood running down his lips and into his beard. ¡°I''ve been hit harder.¡± I heaved a breathlessugh and we pulled each other to our feet. ¡°What have we missed?¡± Fotios asked, standing with Dymas¡¯ help. The freedman pointed wordlessly, a bleak grimace on his face. ¡°Ah.¡± The drakaina with a serpent¡¯s body and a woman¡¯s voice pounded down into the beach, its closed mouth like a spear piercing through the ind itself. Gyro and the woman from the gutted ship leapt away from it at thest second, our brothershing at a line of broken crater scales with his sword as he did. His broken sword. Gyro¡¯s freedman, the first rank Civic cultivator that had balked the hardest at our venture, swung his own borrowed de at the monster''s dimly glowing scales with wild abandon. Sparks flew up from every strike, shards of iron flying away from the de with every blow. The man dove and scrambled as if possessed, avoiding thrashing flesh by slimmer margins each time. His pneuma red wildly all the while. Even I couldn¡¯t deny it was an impressive sight. It was the sort of valor that every cultivator of virtue imed to have within themselves, just waiting for the right circumstances to burst forth. But where most yed the brave man until it came time to be brave, Gyro¡¯s man had yed the coward up until the very end. Until we needed him to be more. It was inspiring. And it was utterly wasted effort. ¡°Elder,¡± I said bleakly, and Aristotle raised an eyebrow from his ce now beside me. ¡°Where did its wounds go?¡± ¡°I told you already, boy,¡± he said, resigned. ¡°Mortal means can¡¯t kill what divinity cursed to live forever. You can shoot it with ming arrows, stab it one thousand times and burn its eyes to ash. It won¡¯tst. These creatures don¡¯t abide by naturalw. They don¡¯t abide by anything at all.¡± ¡°But it¡¯s been injured before,¡± Fotios protested. ¡°Someone came before us and battered it, broke its scales and made it vulnerable. Why haven¡¯t those wounds healed if that¡¯s a monster''s nature?¡± The old philosopher frowned and said nothing. Across the beach, the woman cried out something and Gyro fell into a deep crouch, dropping his broken sword and linking his hands together. She took two running jumps across the sand and leapt up onto his joined hands. Our brother¡¯s pneuma rose alongside the flexing of his muscles, and he heaved her up into the sky with a shout. A mound of sand wide enough across to carry a ship bulged underneath her and then exploded as the sea serpent burrowed back up, shrieking at the stars. ¡°I WANT TO SEE-!¡± The woman from Olympia caught it on her shield with a sound like a hammer striking a metal drum, and reflected it back down on the monster once again. The monstrous serpent mmed down into the sand, cratering the beach. I took a step forward without realizing it. Felt my eyes widen. ¡°You said wecked the proper souls,¡± I breathed. ¡°That may still be true. But you also said wecked the proper tools.¡± Gyro caught the woman out of the air, making distance as the drakaina thrashed in miserable agony. Gyro¡¯s man bounded and lunged through the outer scales, hacking his borrowed sword to pieces against its flesh. Thus far, all of our weapons had proven useless in the long term against the creature. Backed by our cultivation, we could stagger it and wound it temporarily with our weapons. The monster would oust them, though. The woman¡¯s javelin was no different - half of it jutted up from a sand dune beside her gutted ship, broken and abandoned. But her shield was different. ¡°What did you mean by the proper tools?¡± I asked the wise man. I knew he was looking at the same thing I was. ¡°¡­ in the golden age of heroes, if there was ever such an age at all,¡± he finally spoke, ¡°it¡¯s said that legendary figures stood against the monsters that haunt humanity with arms and armor forged in divine me. Unbreakable and unrelenting. ¡°Adamant,¡± he said with skeptical reverence, as the scarlet shield¡¯s diamond edges glimmered in the lunar light. I took off running. Thon followed behind as quickly as he could. ¡°Stav!¡± Fotios shouted. ¡°Damon¡¯s still down there!¡± Frustration and a brother''s worry made my heart clench in my chest. But there was nothing for it. The four of us had promised long ago to never let the others stand alone. ¡°He¡¯s in your hands, Fos!¡± I shouted, sprinting for Gyro. I didn¡¯t turn back to look when the seas we had been shot out of erupted. I didn¡¯t hesitate when the geyser rained down on my head, such was the size of it. I left it to Fotios, and trusted him to see the work done. ¡°Fine then!¡± Fotios¡¯ pneuma rose, the wings of his influence beating in furious challenge. ¡°Come give me a kiss, you ugly snake bitch!¡± ¡°You scarlet sons are all the same,¡± Aristotle said in exasperation, inexplicably keeping pace with me using only leisurely strides. I scoffed. ¡°You¡¯re the one who chose toe along,¡± I reminded the old man. He shook his head, smirking. ¡°Yes, I suppose I was.¡± Chapter 1.65 [Stavros Aetos] Chapter 1.65 [Stavros Aetos] Youngest of the Convocation I danced throughshing coils of flesh and lowered my shoulder into the back of Gyro¡¯s man. The lowly Civic cultivator¡¯s head snapped back, but he held stubbornly onto his de while I hefted him up like a sack of grain without breaking stride. For all the good it did him. What remains of his borrowed de could hardly be called a dagger - now it was little more than a hilt and a jagged shard of iron the length of my middle finger. ¡°Lord Aetos!¡± he gasped, staring upside down at the pained drakaina while I ran. ¡°Wait, I can still fight! I can still-¡± ¡°Can¡¯t fight without a weapon,¡± I told him. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t matter if you had one.¡± Thon and I closed the distance in desperate strides. Aristotle, for his part, stepped lightly over thrashing mounds of flesh and somehow outpaced the monster''s reach at a walking pace. I kicked up sand just short of Gyro and the shield woman as they dashed out of the graveyard of broken timber beyond the ship. I dumped my brother''s freedman onto the beach between us. I stood tall, snapping the fletching off of Damon¡¯s arrow and pulling the shaft out of my shoulder. Cauterized flesh bled once again. I dispersed the pain and re-sealed both ends of the wound myself with an invocation of virtue¡¯s me. I met my brother¡¯s eyes resolutely. ¡°We can kill it.¡± ¡°Of course we can, brother,¡± Gyro said, helping his man up. ¡°How was your swim? Bracing, I hope?¡± ¡°To say the least.¡± I turned to the shield bearer. ¡°Who are you?¡± She was tall for a woman of her standing. Muscr enough that her status as a cultivator could not be denied - her shoulders and arms were cut by martialbor, her thighs thickly defined. She wore sandals of white leather that crisscrossed up her ankles and a tattered shawl of white silk that hung from her right shoulder, leaving the left bare so it wouldn¡¯t obstruct her shield. An unmarred breastte of fine bronze clung to her like a second skin beneath the shawl, forged to mimic the lines of muscle it guarded. Greaves of the same quality bronze shed as her stance adjusted and her shawl shifted over her legs. A gossamer of a silver-white thread held the golden braids of her hair in ce, paint of the same color enting curving scarlet eyes. She was regal, and she was strong. She had something we needed. The woman from Olympia smiled and offered me her hand beneath the shawl, keeping her adamant shield up on her unclothed arm. ¡°My name is Elena. I¡¯m on a sacred quest, sent from Olympia,¡± she said graciously, gripping my hand. ¡°Are you as mad as your brother?¡± ¡°You¡¯ll have to narrow it down.¡± Elenaughed, clear and bright. ¡°There are more of you?¡± ¡°Four in all,¡± Gyro said, dumping onto the sands a bundle of wooden shrapnel he¡¯d gathered from the ship¡¯s remains and taking his broken sword to one of the nks. ¡°Our father vowed to stop at three sons if he wasn¡¯t granted a daughter by then, so of course the heavens punished him with a set of twins. This is one of two.¡± ¡°Stavros,¡± I said. It was likely just the night air and my dip into the Ionian depths, but her skin felt oddly warm. I let her hand go. ¡°The beautiful man on the other side of the beach is my twin, Fotios.¡± She smirked. ¡°I see. And where¡¯s the fourth?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± I admitted. ¡°We didn¡¯t make it that far down.¡± That scarlet gaze swept over me, eyes a color I had - seen burning, one gazing up from the eastern range while the other red within the depths of the western mountains - never seen in my living memory. Elena took a note of how drenched I was. She looked past me, at the serpent with a woman¡¯s upper body dragging itself onto the beach while my twin danced around it with his ming whip, and beyond to the whirlpool rising up around the ind like an upended dome. It didn¡¯t take her long to make the connection. ¡°I¡¯m sorry for your loss,¡± she told me with sad sympathy, while sheid her calloused hand on Gyro¡¯s shoulder. ¡°Don¡¯t be,¡± I told her. ¡°Not yet. He¡¯s in a bad spot, but he¡¯s not gone. It was Damon that saved us.¡± ¡°I was wondering how you got yourself shot fighting a snake,¡± Gyro said, fierce joy in the dimpling of his cheeks. He carved away at his nk of wood with deft motions, somehow cutting clean edges despite his broken de more closely resembling a saw. ¡°Damon always said he could hit any target he wanted, even blind or underwater. Seems he was right.¡± ¡°Stavros,¡± Thon said urgently. He pressed his back to mine, raising his borrowed iron in an amateur¡¯s grip. Boxing had always been his strong suit. ¡°It¡¯s shaking itself off.¡± He wasn¡¯t wrong - the keening of the drakaina¡¯s feminine voice was tapering off. It would be on us again soon, and I still had to secure our proper tool. ¡°And you are?¡± Elena asked the ugly freedman at my back, pleasantly uncaring of the rallying threat. ¡°His name is Thon,¡± I said, brusquely cutting short any possible back and forth. Then, before she could ask, ¡°and this is-¡° I stopped short, frowning at Gyro¡¯s blood-hungry man. What was his name again? ¡°Menoeces, Lord Aetos.¡± ¡°Call him Stavros,¡± Gyro said, elbowing me in my side. ¡°Better yet, call him a bastard for not bothering to know your name.¡± ¡°He was a ve just a few hours ago,¡± I protested. Damn it, no, we didn¡¯t have time for this. ¡°Even ves have names, brother. They¡¯re still men like you and I. The only thing that separates us from them is a handful of gold.¡± ¡°You¡¯re a kind ver, are you?¡± Elena''s eyes were measuring. ¡°The kindest there is,¡± Menoeces firmly agreed. Gyro only hummed and reached into a fold in his chiton. ¡°A kind ver,¡± he mused. ¡°I wonder if anyone can im that title.¡± From the fold in his logic, he pulled a wineskin and drank deeply from it before tossing it to Menoeces. ¡°Quick, while there¡¯s time. Get some courage in you.¡± The newly freed ve drank sparingly from it and handed it over to me. I passed it over my shoulder to Thon before taking my own swift pull. The kykeon was sweet and alight with cinnamon and clove, burning pleasantly down my throat and returning warm vitality to my flesh. I offered it to the shield womanst. ¡°Thank you, but I don¡¯t drink.¡± ¡°At all?¡± Gyro raised an eyebrow, shaving onest strip of wood from the nk. Was that¡­? ¡°I hear things when I drink,¡± Elena said abashedly. ¡°So I try to avoid it when I can. It was a gift from my mother, I¡¯m afraid-¡± Her expression hardened in an instant and she lunged past us just as Thon cried warning and the cascading sound of parting sands gave away the threat. I turned and saw Elena raise her shield, strapped to her left forearm while her right arm braced it. This time it wasn¡¯t violent noise she was blocking, but the serpent entire. The drakaina¡¯s narrow head rammed into the adamant shield and the same reverberating sound as before rippled out from the point of impact. The woman from Olympia was thrown back, digging up clouds of sand as she doggedly kept her feet. The monster reared up and spread wide its jaw and its dark hoods of skins, wailing. ¡°I WANT TO LO-¡± A line of vibrant light whipped up and encircled its upper jaw, and I yanked its mouth shut again. The line of rigging rope that I had reimed while rushing to rejoin my brother thrummed ominously in my grip - even with my pneuma and myriad truths reinforcing it, this was rope better suited to wrangling a goat than a monster. The serpent bucked, nearly pulling me off my feet. Thon, Gyro, and Menoeces grabbed on and dragged me back down. ¡°Elena!¡± I shouted. ¡°I¡¯ming!¡± The shield woman stomped hurriedly out of the sand, having been hammered down nearly waist-deep. The drakaina assaulted our ears again, no less unsettling with its mouth shut- moreso, if anything. I snarled and banished the memory of my mother screaming through clenched teeth over our father¡¯s grave. Obnoxious fucking snake. ¡°No time! Pass the shield!¡± ¡°Out of the question!¡± ¡°Whore of three cities-¡± I was cut off by Gyro shifting his grip around my waist and tackling me out of the way just as the monster shifted its efforts and lunged down into us. Thon and Menoeces scattered, thetter throwing what remained of his de at its liquid ck eyes and missing horribly. We made space, the whirlpool precariously close behind. I cracked the rope and whipped the eye Menoeces had been aiming for, bursting it like a rotten fig for all the good it did. Translucent eyelids folded over the wound, three of them in all, and when they retracted the eye was whole again. ¡°Living is out of the question!?¡± I shouted furiously. ¡°That shield¡¯s our only chance! Did Bakkhos send you here to die!?¡± On the other side of the monster, bracing herself in front of the gutted ship, she shook her head. ¡°Of course not!¡± ¡°Then give it here!¡± ¡°I refuse!¡± I yelled in wordless frustration and surged forward to catch the drakaina¡¯s whipping tail. It mmed into my gut, driving the air from my lungs and shattering at least three of my ribs. Even at its thinning tip I couldn¡¯t join my hands around it, could barely get a grip at all. The monster undted, and I knew it was going to toss me back into the whirlpool. I emptied my pneumatic chambers and called upon conviction - A good man is a mountain once he¡¯s nted his feet. -and held it in ce. The serpent whipped its entire body around trying to throw me, broke another rib and drove me to the very edge of the rocks separating the ind from the riptide. But my principle lessened the magnitude of its strength, and it lessened my motion in turn. For just a moment, the monster couldn¡¯t shake me. Gyro seized the opportunity, striking it from the side and burying what remained of his sword in one of the gaps between its cratered scales. His pneuma spiked and the hilt in his hand glowed cherry red. The monster cried out, mes spewing from its vile mouth as Gyro used his sword as a conduit to flood its innards with searing heat. He leapt off with nothing but a glowing hilt, what remained of the de oozing out of the wound in molten rivulets. I threw the serpent¡¯s tail aside at the same moment and ran, muscling down the worst of my broken ribs and refilling my pneumatic chambers with the agony. I slid under the monster as it whipped back around and tried to knock my head off my shoulders. Beneath the fractured silver glow, I saw Thon leap forward with his sword raised high above his head. I saw him bring it down with everything he had. The sword broke apart on the serpent''s hide. The tail continued forward and struck him in the gut. I saw in the rity of silver light the way his eyes bulged, the blood that sprayed out of his mouth. Then he was gone, mming through the gutted frame of Elena¡¯s ship faster than my eyes could track him. At that moment, it ceased to be a question of if. Faceless divinity had cursed these creatures to live forever. The Fates had made them impervious to death by mortal means. Even the Father of Rhetoric had dered them an impossible threat to ovee. As if any of that mattered. These abominations hadid their vile flesh on what was mine. Glory at the peak or shame in distant Tartarus - whatever followed, the result would be the same. I would see it done. ¡°If you won¡¯t give me the shield, I¡¯ll take it,¡± I promised the woman from Olympia. I leveraged the full weight of my influence against hers, a captain against a junior that had only taken a few steps into the Sophic realm. Elena tensed, halfway back to the ship that Thon had disappeared inside, and turned her shield towards me. ¡°You¡¯ll try, cultivator,¡± she grimly replied. Gyronded between us, eyes on the monster while he pulled his carved nk of wood from the sand where he¡¯d nted it. ¡°This isn¡¯t a fight we can afford to have right now, brother,¡± he told me. I rose up on one knee, swallowing back blood. It was difficult to breathe. ¡°You don¡¯t understand-¡± ¡°Elena,¡± he said, cutting me off. ¡°Exin it to him, as you did to me.¡± Then, before my disbelieving eyes, my brother joined a wrecked ship''s broken nk to the iron hilt that was all that remained of his sword. He¡¯d carved it into the shape of a wavy de, with such precision that it looked almost natural joined to the finely wrought hilt. That is, if you ignored the fact that it was made of wood. He tore a strip of scarlet cloth from his cult attire and wrapped it around the point where it would meet iron. He met my incredulous stare with a wink and exploded up into the air. Chapter 1.66 [Stavros Aetos] Chapter 1.66 [Stavros Aetos] Youngest of the Convocation ¡°Move, boy,¡± Aristotle said, grabbing a fist full of my hair and dragging me bodily across the beach. ¡°You¡¯re no use gawking.¡± ¡°Old bastard, you¡¯re no use at all!¡± I pped his hand away and staggered to my feet. ¡°Old bastard am I? What happened to honored elder?¡± ¡°What happened to you?¡± I snapped. ¡°Where did you go while we could have used you?¡± ¡°Somewhere I was needed more,¡± he said, and had the audacity to sound exasperated. ¡°Selfish child, you¡¯re not even my student. Be thankful I¡¯m here at all.¡± ¡°Who is that?¡± Elena called, eyes flitting from me to the old philosopher. Trying to decide which of us was the greater threat. ¡°Where did hee from?¡± ¡°One of life¡¯s greater mysteries,¡± I answered sourly. A tremor in the earth rocked my feet out from under me a few steps away from the woman and her ship. Impossibly, absurdly, I saw the drakaina roll away from my brother with what looked to be an oversized splinter buried in one of its weak spots. ¡°Another!¡± Gyro called, hitting the beach and rolling backwards to bleed off momentum and avoid the serpent¡¯s retaliation. ¡°You can¡¯t be-¡° serious, I tried to say, but stabbing pain in my chest cut the word off. I hacked and spat a mouthful of blood, sucking air through my mouth and feeling precious little of it fill my lungs. Another shard of broken wood sailed through the air, tossed by Menoeces. This one was hardly fit for a practice boutpared to the one Gyro had carved, but he joined it to his iron hilt nheless. He shrugged tattered cult cloth from his shoulders and let it hang around his waist. He swiped the ¡®sword¡¯ back and forth to get a feel for its weight and then went charging in again. Warmth like afternoon sun bathed my left side. Elena knelt beside me, keeping her shield just out of reach andying a hand on my chest. ¡°Breathe deep,¡± she told me. I tried, and cut it off half way before another coughing fit took me. When I exhaled, it was equal parts wheeze and whistle. Her eyes widened in dismay. ¡°Your ribs are broken. They¡¯ve punctured your lungs.¡± ¡°Tartarus it is, then,¡± I rasped, forcing myself to one knee and then my feet. There were many wounds that a Cultivator of virtue could shrug off where a mortal man would surely die, and the list only grew the higher up the mountain one climbed. Past a certain point, ailments ceased to matter at all. But no matter your standing among heaven and earth, there was one thing that could kill any cultivator if the worst came to pass. Citizens and Philosophers could walk away from injuries that would cripple or kill a man with no standing. The Epics imed a Hero could carry on even if they lost their limbs or lesser organs. Our uncle had told us, only once, in one of his sentimental moods, that a Tyrant could survive with no heart at all - so long as he could eat. But beneath the light of raging heaven, every man needed to breathe. ¡°Conserve your strength,¡± Elena urged me, trying to force me back down with a hand on my shoulder. Without her shield, though, she was only a low Philosopher. And while she had evidently trained her body as well as her mind, I''d worked mine harder. I rose anyway. Gyro hit the beach again, the serpent pursuing him with another stake in its side. Menoeces threw him another crudely carved de of wood, covered in his own blood. He immediately went to work on the next piece of wooden shrapnel, scraping it to shape with his fingernails forck of a proper tool. ¡°That shield is adamant, isn¡¯t it?¡± I demanded, the words scraping painfully as they left my throat. ¡°It¡¯s more than just a shield. You know it¡¯s more than just a shield, don¡¯t you?¡± Elena eased back a step. ¡°It¡¯s¡­¡± ¡°Divine metal,¡± Damon¡®s mentor said, suddenly leaning down beside her to observe it. She inhaled sharply and thrust the shield forward in a bash. He sidestepped it, tracing a finger over the scarlet sun embossed on its surface. ¡°Something like diamond, and something like iron - bronze if it were better. A fantasy material, forged through any number of means depending on who you ask.¡± ¡°A monster killer,¡± I concluded, readying myself as best I could. The old man sighed. ¡°Perhaps,¡± he admitted. ¡°Or perhaps just wishful thinking. Either way-¡± Without looking at me, Aristotle pulled a y jug from his rags and tossed it at my face. It had no cover but it didn¡¯t spill over when I caught it. The contents were too thick. ¡°Drink,¡± he said. I swallowed it downboriously, spooning it out with my fingers when waiting for it to creep down the sides of the jug took too long. It was almost unbearably sweet, with an underlying bite that I couldn¡¯t identify. I muscled down one mouthful and took a breath to ask him what the point of it was. Then when I realized how much easier that breath hade than the one before it, I dug my entire hand into the jar and shoveled as much of the amber elixir into my mouth as I could fit. Elena¡¯s brow furrowed. ¡°Is that-?¡± ¡°Oxymel. The boy''s lungs are punctured, not torn out of his chest. He¡¯s young and fit enough for time to mend it.¡± The philosopher had influenced that time, somehow through his medicine. Whether it was the ingredients involved or how it had been prepared, he had imbued it with the essence of natural recovery. I felt my body heal itself of its many aches and pains, my ribs and lungs captain among them. It was a process I had experienced many times in my life, but now I felt it happen over the course of seconds rather than days and weeks. A month of focused recovery, distilled and stored inside a chipped y jug. I forced myself to stop as soon as the tight pain in my chest receded to the point where I could properly move again. I thrust what remained at the old philosopher and nodded towards the broken ship. ¡°Take this to Thon, help him drink it if he can¡¯t do it himself-¡° ¡°Were you listening to me, boy? You were fit enough to walk away from what it gave you with broken ribs and punctured lungs, wounds that heal with time. Oxymel can¡¯t remake bone from dust - time won¡¯tpel a pulverized heart to beat again.¡± The jug fractured in my hand. ¡°What will?¡± ¡°Nothing that we have here.¡± ¡°Nectar,¡± Gyro answered,nding in the middle of us. He caught another wooden de when Menoeces threw it, panting heavily and gleaming with sweat. He nced wryly at Elena while he assembled his next absurd de. ¡°Didn¡¯t take you this long to exin things to me.¡± Elena flushed. ¡°We got a bit sidetracked. Stavros was injured, and this old man appeared out of thin air.¡± ¡°Aristotle does that,¡± Gyro confirmed. Scarlet eyes widened. ¡°Oh my,¡± she breathed. ¡°Don¡¯t worry about Thon just yet,¡± Gyro said to me, rolling his shoulders and dragging his de through the air experimentally. ¡°In all the world, there are only a few ces he¡¯d be better off at than where he is right now.¡± ¡°In the wrecked ship?¡± I asked incredulously. The drakaina struck before I could get an answer, forcing us all to scatter. The monster bristled with all of the wooden des Gyro had left behind in its flesh, a hazard all their own as the serpent spun and whipped its coils across the beach. With furious zeal, my brother kept adding more. As fast as Menoeces could make them, first with the Citizen¡¯s nails and then with his teeth once all the fingernails had torn away, Gyro would fasten them to his iron hilt and bury them in the beast. ¡°Pointless,¡± Aristotle observed, ducking the serpent¡¯s tail while I dove over it. ¡°Perhaps,¡± I echoed him, twisting and cracking my whip. I caught the serpent by the tail and invoked conviction, nting myself in the sand and refusing to be moved. I stopped its motion long enough for Gyro to give it another kiss. The monster screamed in building frustration and whipped its tail into me rather than away from me. Elena appeared between us and took it on her shield. A ruinous crack rang out alongside the reverberating hum. My heart stuttered in my chest. ¡°The shield-¡± But when the woman from Olympia turned, her shield remained diamond pristine. It was the recoiling tail that was broken, a new crater in the scales leaking ichor where it had struck the scarlet sun. Elena offered me a hand up. I took it. ¡°The shield is our best chance,¡± I told her. ¡°If you won¡¯t lend it to us, then it has to be you that kills these things.¡± I rushed back in, invoking principle - a lord may lead that men may follow, but brothers stand side-by-side - to appear at Gyro¡¯s side in the space between breaths. He shed me a quick grin and dove through the coils, trusting me to cover him. I did, and I called fire to my rope whip to light the way while he nted another thorn in its side. ¡°I can¡¯t!¡± Elena called, leaping in and bashing its head away with her shield when it snapped at him. ¡°I was given this to protect, not to kill!¡± ¡°Father in Raging fucking Heaven,¡± I seethed, dashing and diverting what I could from my brother. ¡°What does it matter?!¡± ¡°I made a promise!¡± ¡°You made a promise,¡± I repeated, scrambling and kicking up sand as the drakaina rolled nearly overtop of me. ¡°You made a promise. Look at where we are! What is a promise worth right now!?¡± ¡°It¡¯s worth a shield,¡± Elena responded with conviction, raising it against the serpent¡¯s maw. The monster bit down on peerless adamant and four of its teeth audibly fractured. ¡°Lord Aetos! I found it!¡± Menoeces hollered, running full tilt out of the graveyard of ships with a thick beam of wood bnced over one shoulder. ¡°I knew you would!¡± Gyronded beside me, Elena bracing in front of us. Wild blue eyes met mine in the dark, aglow with sourceless light. ¡°It¡¯s time for your final lesson, brother.¡± ¡°You¡¯re drawing back the curtain?¡± ¡°I am in fact.¡± I choked on augh, furious and relieved in equal measure. ¡°Good. Any longer and I would have left the theater.¡± Anargyros Aetos¡¯ teeth shed in a wicked grin, his bare chest heaving. ¡°What is the nature of a Hero?¡± he asked me, while the wailing serpent gathered itself. A recap, then. ¡°To liberate, and to y.¡± Menoeces heaved the thick beam of wood down at our feet and immediately dropped to his knees, prying at it with another piece of shrapnel. Gyro followed suit, digging his nails into the wood and somehow carving out clean lines as he did it. I knelt and added my own efforts, tearing strips out of the beam alongside the freedman while Gyro trimmed out the finer details. ¡°How do you y a monster, Stavros?¡± ¡°I already told him,¡± Aristotle said, abruptly there watching us work over my brother¡¯s shoulder. ¡°There are only stories-¡± ¡°Father of Rhetoric whom I have long admired,¡± Gyro said, turning his steadily brightening eyes up to regard the philosopher. ¡°I wasn¡¯t asking you.¡± Aristotle regarded my brother curiously. ¡°Fine.¡± ¡°Boys,¡± Elena warned us, shifting her sandaled feet. ¡°With haste.¡± ¡°Well?¡± Gyro prompted me. I nearly repeated everything Aristotle had told me, but instinct stopped me short. I considered it, imagined what my answer would have been before the father of rhetoric took an interest in my oldest brother. What would it have been when I was a boy, when our father was still around to tell us stories of his triumphs and his conquests? Better than that, what would he have answered? The Tyrant Aetos, the man better suited than any of us to say. I thought back to all the Epics I had heard outside of him, of Perseus and Jason and grand Achilles, of the champion Heracles. How had they done their brutal work? How had our father? How did a man y a monster? ¡°He does it with divine strength, granted by his faceless father. He does it with divine guidance, led by oracles and mystics when the path is unclear. He does it with divine gifts, a sickle sword of adamant granted by the Thunderer. He does it with help. He does it with divine blessing.¡± ¡°And now that the gods have turned away from us?¡± Gyro pressed me. He stood, joining a de carved from a dead ship¡¯s beam to his broken sword''s hilt. ¡°How did our father do it without a shield or sickle sword of adamant? How does any man stand against the bleak midwinter?¡± ¡°With reason,¡± spoke the father of rhetoric. ¡°With spirit,¡± suggested the woman with the divine shield. ¡°With hunger,¡± dered the newly freed ve. The drakaina shrieked and tore through the dunes separating us, moonlight gleaming in its scales. Gyro rolled the shoulder of his sword arm, watching ite with shining blue eyes. Waiting for the spark. Waiting for the answer that only I could give him. Elena caught the spear of its closed mouth on her shield, shouting as it pushed her back into us. Gyro exhaled. How did we stand against relentless despair? I gave him his answer. ¡°With courage.¡± Sky blue mes erupted behind his eyes, and Anargyros Aetos plunged a de of carved driftwood through the monster''s mouth. Pinned it to the beach and killed its momentum in an instant. ¡°What!?¡± Aristotle roared. ¡°How?¡± My brother twisted at the waist and tossed the serpent that swallowed ships clear across the beach, those blue mes spilling out from behind his eyes, and he leapt after it with force enough to rock the entire ind beneath our feet. I called upon conviction, invoked the principle that allowed me to stand by any of my brothers with speed no philosopher could match. And it wasn¡¯t fast enough to catch up to him. ¡°Why did we build the Eos, brother?¡± Anargyros asked, mming into the serpent''s side andshing his driftwood de across its hide. Pristine silver scales that had weathered bronze and iron without a scratch now shattered and tore apart, molten ichor spewing out of the gouge left behind and not stopping. ¡°To sail it together!¡± I caught up just in time to whip my rigging rope around its maw, shifting its head just long enough for the driftwood de to open another trench in its side. The serpent screamed through its teeth in our mother¡¯s voice and I yanked the line so hard it snapped. ¡°Yes, but no!¡± Anargyros struck it again, carving away a patch of flesh and revealing monstrous pulsating organs beneath coal ck ribs. ¡°From another angle- why did the kyrios of the Raging Heaven let an Oracle leave his city before she was properly anointed?¡± I sucked in a breath. ¡°She¡¯s-?¡± ¡°Further, why would he send her out with only her sister to protect her? Why would he give them nectar and ambrosia and a shield sent from heaven when he couldn¡¯t be bothered to give them a proper crew?¡± ¡°Her sister?¡± I waded through thrashing coils that I wanted desperately to believe were death throes, breathed deeply of air that was thick with promise and the presence of something else that hadn¡¯t been on this ind before but suddenly was. I felt my brother''s pneuma on my skin, rising and continuing to rise. It spilled out of him in a torrent without end. I found Elena fighting through it beside me, her shield glowing like a bonfire as the light from his eyes spilled across its surface. I tried to speak to her but couldn¡¯t form the words. I tried to use my Sophic tongue, but the rhetoric was swept away by the currents of my brother''s zing soul. So I waited for her to look, and silently mouthed it instead. Where? Her eyes flickered back to the ship. The one she¡¯d been hiding in when we first arrived, and the one she¡¯d been returning to throughout the fight. Standing guard. Anargyros drove the drakaina down into the beach as if it was nothing but a garden snake, and no matter how many furrows he tore into his flesh, his driftwood de didn¡¯t once break. Didn¡¯t even chip. ¡°Why wouldn¡¯t he tell the kyrios of the Rosy Dawn what he wanted us to find, to fight, to rescue and preserve?¡± He stomped the monster deeper into the sand with each word, blue mes shing in time with the blows. ¡°Why would he keep it a secret, when it would make the odds of rescue so much worse?¡± I finally found my voice, hollering into the wind, ¡°I don¡¯t know!¡± ¡°You do!¡± He fired right back, the wings of his influence spreading wide and casting a shadow over us that could not be seen but could be felt. He beat them once, and the winds drove us to our knees. ¡°It¡¯s the same reason we built our ship, brother. It¡¯s the same reason we burnt our hearts and souls into its bones. It¡¯s exactly that same reason why I chose to fight with carved wood when iron failed me.¡± ¡°For the aesthetic?¡± I asked as much as answered, unable to believe it as it left my mouth. ¡°Closer. Are you surprised?¡± He asked, striding down the length of the serpent like it was polished marble tile. ¡°Did you think Damon and I were being metaphorical? Aristotle surely did. It¡¯s why he¡¯ll be a Philosopher until the day he dies.¡± My brother nted his foot on the serpent''s jaw and forced it shut, and only then did I realize that it had been screaming in agony while he spoke. Somehow, I hadn¡¯t heard it at all. ¡°This ind is a graveyard, have you realized it yet?¡± he asked, flicking his driftwood de to the side and scattering the molten ichor from its surface. ¡°This whirlpool is the work of a creature beneath the sea, drinking the Ionian dry and devouring any unfortunate soul caught in her current. She was chained in ce once, but not anymore. Now Charybdis roams. ¡°There are broken ships scattered all over these shores, just out of sight in the dark. If you had been looking closely when Damon lit the ce up with his arrows, you would have seen it,¡± he winked at me, half the light in the world vanishing and reappearing when he did it. ¡°These monsters are ship wreckers. Worse than that, they¡¯re maneaters. ¡°I couldn¡¯t find the bones because they¡¯d devoured them all, but the ship worked just as well. Monsters broke these ships, battered them with their bodies and dashed them against the rocks. Now we return that unkindness to them.¡± He raised his curved driftwood de, carved from the one part of the broken ship that Menoeces had been searching for all along. The portion bearing its name. Nychi. The Talon. ¡°A hero is the shield just as he is the sickle de,¡± he promised us from up above. ¡°Virtue is all he needs to do his work. Even if the stars fell out of the sky and even if the glories of the world all ceased to be, I¡¯d face the chaos that remained with fortitude in my soul. Adamantly.¡± ¡°Courage,¡± whispered a voice unlike any other. A woman of formless light, a crown of stars revolving around her head as she embraced my brother from behind. ¡°Courage, until the work is done.¡± Anargyros Aetos drove his talon through the drakaina¡¯s skull, and every single wooden de that he had left jutting out of its body shivered and plunged through into its body in the same motion. Ichor erupted from every wound, and it burned. The serpent with a woman¡¯s voice jerked once, its entire body shivering, and fell limp into the sand. ¡°Heroes from the golden age and cultivators of virtue as we know them today,¡± the Hero Anargyros broke the deafening silence that followed. He tilted his head back, gazing up at the night sky, or perhaps at the celestial woman pressing her forehead to his. ¡°We¡¯re no different in the end. We¡¯re all reaching up hopelessly. Foolishly. Courageously. Hoping someone will reach down and take our hand, though we¡¯ll never admit it. Hoping they¡¯ll pull us up to heaven with them.¡± ¡°Appealing to higher power,¡± I realized the true answer. Anargyros smiled brightly, matched by the holy Muse his actions had inspired. The goddess Urania that had lent him her strength. ¡°Exactly right.¡± And lightning struck him from a cloudless sky. Chapter 1.67 [Stavros Aetos - END] Chapter 1.67 [Stavros Aetos - END] Youngest of the Convocation Tribtion lightning. There were as many exnations for it as there were thinking cultures on the earth. From the truly ancient civilizations of Mesopotamia and golden Egypt, to the lowest barbarian hovels in the east and west, every cultivator knew a singr truth. Regardless of what we cultivated, how we cultivated, where we did it or why. One thing remained the same. We were all reaching madly up to heaven. No matter what that meant to a man, the result was what mattered. Reach high enough, and Heaven will take notice. Of course, Heaven¡¯s response was always the same. The bolt from Raging Heaven struck the Hero Anargyros and seared my vision white. Elena¡¯s adamant shield rang like a bell, a sound altogether different from the unsettling reverberations that followed when she used it to block the monster. Not close enough to benefit from its protection, I was flung back by the force of my brother¡¯s tribtion. I scrubbed frantically at my eyes and spat a taste I had never experienced before out of my mouth, the faint echoes of what my brother had taken on his chin coursing through my body and wreaking havoc on my limbs. When I managed to clear my eyes and rise again, my heart in my throat, I saw that my worry had been wasted. He stood in the same ce, unchanged despite the fact that the sands around him had been turned to molten ss and the monster¡¯s corpse beneath his feet had been charred from silver to ck. Urania was gone, if she had been there to begin with. Yet the Hero Anagyros still kept his silence, his head tilted thoughtfully as if listening to a voice only he could hear. ¡°The drakaina,¡± an old man spoke when the Hero did not. My brother blinked and looked down at the Father of Rhetoric, kneeling before the corpse of the serpent. ¡°A female dragon spirit, a cursed spawn of Echidna and Typhon. Its scales are harder than iron, and its veins are filled with molten lead. It does not age. It can not starve. Any wound inflicted by mortal man will heal in moments, mended by its ichor.¡± The Hero Anargyros said nothing still. Elena crept forward, peering over the rim of her shield with scarlet wonder. ¡°Only the divine can unmake what the divine have cursed to live forever,¡± Aristotle continued, raising a frail and wrinkled hand. His pneuma gathered between his fingers, taking shape as he manifested his intent - and I flinched and drew back my Sophic sense at the same time that Elena did. I swallowed, and tasted blood that had not been in my mouth moments before. Whatever intent the old philosopher had called upon, it was so sharp that it had cut my Sophic sense itself. ¡°With golden ichor running through your veins, or with arms and armor of incorruptible adamant. Those are the only ways I have ever seen a monster die.¡± Aristotle reached for one of the many gouges my brother had carved into the serpent, cauterized by the bolt of tribtion lightning. He drew his intent across its flesh, and his hand abruptly jerked as his intent broke against the serpent¡¯s corpse. ¡°Even in death they are impervious. Or so I thought.¡± My brother hummed and pinched the unsharpened edge of the talon. With a twist and a sharp crack, he broke a splinter off the sword that had just in an undying drakaina. Shaving an edge into it with his driftwood de, the Hero Anargyros flipped the wooden scalpel so he was holding its edge and offered Aristotle the handle. We watched the old man drag a wooden scalpel across flesh that had rebuffed bronze and tempered iron. Scorched scales and sinewy muscle parted like blooming roses, with no resistance at all. Aristotle¡®s hand shook. But his voice and his bearing were unchanged when he spoke. ¡°I¡¯ve seen you bleed before, Anargyros Aetos. It was blood, not molten gold that sprung from your wounds. You are no son of heaven.¡± ¡°No, elder,¡± the newly risen hero agreed. ¡°Only the son of a good man, and a loving mother.¡± ¡°I¡¯ve seen ships built,¡± the old philosopher carried on as if he didn¡¯t hear him. ¡°I recognize the timber that made the Talon, and I¡¯ve seen wood of the same kind used in practice des. That sword and the scalpel. Neither one is peerless adamant.¡± ¡°They are not.¡± ¡°I know what such a de is capable of against a creature like this.¡± He scowled. ¡°No. I thought I knew. This and a thousand-thousand smaller truths. I thought I knew.¡± A sound like breaking ss assaulted my Sophic sense and my Sophic sense alone. I saw rm steel across my brother¡¯s face for the first time since our shipwreck. The mes behind his eyes red and his pneuma, still pouring out of him in torrential waves, converged on Damon¡¯s mentor. ¡°Wait-¡± ¡°I was wrong,¡± Aristotle admitted, and the three of us watched in horror as his cultivation broke apart. ¡°Stop!¡± Elena cried, lurching for him with her arm outstretched, as if she could pull him behind her shield and protect him from what was happening inside his soul. The Hero Anargyros leapt down from the monster¡¯s corpse, the stifling heat and wonder in the air around him growing thicker as he knelt in front of the Father of Rhetoric. The wings of his influence, vast enough to cast their formless shadow over the entire ind, folded protectively around the old man¡¯s hunched body. It did about as much good as Elena¡¯s shield. This wasn¡¯t something that could be defended against. As cultivators of virtue, we refined ourselves with every step we took up the divine mountain. Through every advancement and every grand ascension, we built upon what we had built before. As Citizens, we gathered the materials and searched for the proper ce within our souls toy the foundation for what was toe. In order to ascend to the realm of Philosophers, a cultivator needed to firsty the foundation inside their soul. Then came a man¡¯s first principle. His first thought worth having. The culmination of all his efforts as a citizen. It was upon this foundation that a philosopher built a monument inside their soul. Every truth learned was a brickid, and each principle internalized was another pir that would bear the weight of all that was toe. In a confrontation between cultivators of virtue, whether it be an exchanging of discourse in the agora or a round inside the marble octagon, that monument could be broken down like any other man made wonder. Done properly, with the right intent, a man could attack his opponent¡¯s soul at the same time that he picked apart their arguments and assaulted their bodies. He could force his opponent to doubt themselves, could make a demon of their heart. In the most extreme cases, you could even tear down the edifice that every cultivator builds inside their soul. Their monument to Ego - the culmination of all their efforts as cultivators of virtue. Apparently, you could even do it to yourself. Aristotle¡®s Ego shattered and flew apart, and we all felt it in the deepest of our senses. The bricks of polished marble truth that he had used to build the walls of the monument crumbled and fell away, each one a disdainful whisper as it tumbled away. Then, one by one, the towering columns of his principles and ideals groaned, fractured, and fell apart in chunks, the impact of each as they hit the floor echoing in my Sophic sense. The old philosopher¡¯s soul shed more internalized truths in those paltry moments than most thinking men would ever learn. Nine times he discarded principles that had made him the most feared man in any agora for decades before I was born. He shed his pneuma too, a tired exhtion that filled the air with nearly as much vitality as my brother had been emitting since his ascension. The difference was that my brother¡¯s strength was still growing, outpacing everything he was throwing off. What Aristotle lost was not returned or reced. In seconds, his influence fell from that of a Sophic captain all the way down to the very first rank of the Sophic realm. When the stones stopped falling and the dust had settled in his soul, only one column of principle remained. The Father of Rhetoric inhaled slowly, tattered rags stretching tight across a rugged chest. Calloused hands rose and brushed thick dark curls out of weary eyes. The irritated scowl was the same as it had always been, even on a young man¡¯s face. ¡°What have you done?¡± I asked, aghast. The man that had just shattered his own Ego and shed his wisened years alongside his principles and strength, pinned me with a nce. ¡°Humbled myself,¡± he said, as if that was any exnation at all. ¡°Elder,¡± the Hero Anargyros breathed, though Aristotle hardly looked older than him at all now. ¡°Why? It¡¯s all gone. Everything that you¡¯ve built- our mentors told us stories about the Father of Rhetoric, about the wonders you unearthed from uncharted mist. And you just-¡± ¡°Threw it away,¡± Elena whispered, looking for all the world like she had just witnessed a murder. Aristotle made a dismissive motion with his hand. Brushing off our concern, or maybe brushing the rubble of his Ego¡¯s monument from the foundations. ¡°It wasn¡¯t the first time. Odds are it won¡¯t be thest,¡± he said, resigned. ¡°A philosopher is a man seeking order in a chaotic world. We build walls inside ourselves, set boundaries - whatever we can fit inside those boundaries as possible, and everything outside of them is not. ¡°What you just did had no ce inside the walls that I had built. But you did it anyway, and I saw it with my own eyes.¡± Aristotle shrugged. ¡°When Ego obstructs possibility, a philosopher loses his curiosity. At that point, it doesn¡¯t matter how appealing those truths and convictions are. They¡¯re wrong. That makes them worthless.¡± ¡°That¡¯s the opposite of what you should be taking away from this,¡± my brother said in exasperation. Heid a hand on Aristotle¡¯s shoulder, sky blue mes burning earnestly behind his eyes. ¡°There will always be an unknown, a contradiction or a truth we can¡¯t exin. The Father of Rhetoric should know better than anyone that any truth can be made a lie with the right persuasion.¡± ¡°In these moments more than any other,¡± Elena said emphatically, ¡°conviction is the way forward. Every path has its obstructions. If you discard your progress every time you reach one, double back and search for a different, perfect path every time, you¡¯ll never reach your destination.¡± ¡°Sometimes we have to step off the path and walk uncharted steps,¡± the Hero Anargyros advised the wise man, glory rolling off him all the while. ¡°The world of Heroes and Tyrants is different from the world of Citizens and Philosophers, but that doesn¡¯t make your knowledge worthless. There are just some things that reason can¡¯t exin.¡± ¡°No.¡± Aristotle was a newly minted philosopher again. His pneuma was unmistakably that of a first rank Sophic cultivator. Far lesser than Elena¡¯s,ughablepared to mine, and an entire realm apart from my newly risen brother. In nearly every way that mattered, his cultivation was crippled. And yet. All three of us could not help but attend when the father of rhetoric invoked the only principle he had retained. The one marble column left standing inside his soul. ¡°There is nothing in this life that cannot be exined.¡± I fought the urge to bow my head, and as a result saw the exact moment that my brother¡¯s disbelief gave way to mirth. The Hero Anargyrosughed and stood, whirling his driftwood de. ¡°Urania says that this is why her sisters despise you,¡± he said, eyes crinkling. ¡°Trying to tear down all the world¡¯s mystique and wonder. Even if you could, how do you know you¡¯d be satisfied at the end of it?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t,¡± the philosopher admitted freely. Heid his hand on the corpse of the drakaina. ¡°The only thing I know is that I know nothing at all.¡± The drakaina vanished. If I was careful about it, I could fit three jugs of wine and enough food to satisfy me for a week in the pocket of folded logic within my cult attire. Anything more and I risked losing all of it. Aristotle had just tucked a serpentrge enough to devour an elephant whole into his rags. ¡°I¡¯m keeping the scalpel as well,¡± he dered, and this time even I had to snort at his priorities. ¡°I¡¯ll need it for the dissection. Later. When I¡¯m not surrounded by mouthy children and sanctimonious muses.¡± ¡°And if it doesn¡¯t cut when I¡¯m not there?¡± my brother asked, amused. ¡°Then I¡¯ll have learned something regardless.¡± ¡°Gyro,¡± I said, wincing as I reached for what was left of my strength. Across the beach, distant enough that the silent monster¡¯s rampaging could hardly be heard over the roar of the whirlpool, Fotios and Dymas along with Damon¡¯s freedman were doing their best to draw the serpent with a woman¡¯s torso to us. Damon was nowhere to be seen. ¡°The work¡¯s not done yet.¡± ¡°Take heart, brother,¡± he told me, gazing knowingly up. ¡°We¡¯re nearly there.¡± For the second time that night, lightning lit up a cloudless sky. Elena crouched and raised her shield above her head, and I readied the hunting bird¡¯s breath to disperse what came, but it didn¡¯t hit any of us. It struck the Ionian, piercing through the whirlpool andncing down through opaque waters. The roaring inhtion of the monster Charybdis stopped. The ind, the entire thing, shook once, twice, three and then four times as something too vast to be described choked beneath the sea. And then it was done. I followed my brother¡¯s line of sight. ¡°Ah.¡± ¡°How spiteful,¡± Elena whispered. The whirlpool created by Charybdis¡¯ grand inhtion was wide enough to fit the entirety of Alikos inside of it, and deeper than our eastern mountain range was tall. Without the monster¡¯s grotesque suction to maintain the currents that had drawn the Eos and so many other unfortunate ships in, the Ionian sought to rebnce itself. The sea copsed in on us, dark waters swallowing up the stars in the night sky above. Fotios hollered in rm but I couldn¡¯t see from where anymore. The only light left came from the blue mes in Gyro¡¯s eyes, and those were angled up at the falling hammer that was the Ionian Sea. ¡°Humbled just in time to see the underworld, like the Broad always said,¡± Aristotlemented, leaning back on one hand. ¡°Worthless student - if you¡¯d been faster than your brother, I could have died ignorant and proud.¡± ¡°Who says you have to die at all?¡± Gyro asked him lightly. Light bloomed beneath the ind. A scarlet glow rose like blood in water, seeping up over the rocks that lined the shores and illuminating every span of the beach. Broken and battered ships, dozens of them, were revealed by the rising light. Precious cargo scattered carelessly across the beach, chests cracked open like oysters. Their contents glittered in the light - ornate metal works, coins of gold and precious gems, some half-buried in the sand and others sitting in in view. Entire fortunes left to rot. Scarlet pirs of light rose up out of the copsing currents, five of them in all, and arched up over the ind. Each one was glory and triumphant vitality, so bright I had to squint. To raise my hand against them or be blinded. They curled together overhead, the curtain of falling waves reced with a dome of brilliant light. The Young Aristocrat of the Rosy Dawn took the ind in his hand, and the Ionian whistled and shrieked as it sought to subsume the Rosy-Fingered Dawn and was vaporized instead. ¡°And here I thought I was showing off,¡± Gyro said ruefully. ¡°This is too much,¡± Elena said quietly, barely audible. ¡°He¡¯ll burn out.¡± It seemed to hit her, then, and she grabbed my brother¡¯s arm and pulled him urgently to her. ¡°Anargyros! We have to stop him - he¡¯ll burn himself away!¡± Our father had told us long ago that a Tyrant alone could survive without a heart, and only then because he had no other choice. To be a Tyrant, a man had to be a Hero first. And a Hero¡¯s nature was to burn. Brilliantly, gloriously, for all the world to see. But burn nheless. We called the light behind a Hero¡¯s eyes their heart¡¯s me. We called it that because it rose and fell in time with their spirit, their joys and their sorrows, and we also called it that because of what fueled it. Every me needed fuel, an Aetos knew that better than anyone. Within a Hero, there was only one source that would suffice. The heart¡¯s blood. Hero¡¯s burned their own blood to draw glory from their souls. It was how they defied Tyrants an entire realm above their own, just as they defied monsters and cruel nature. It was why every Hero¡¯s story was a tragedy in the end. Greek fire was unlike any other in the world. Once it started burning, it never, ever stopped. Not until the world was ash. It was said that a cultivator wasn¡¯t fullymitted to the divine climb until they reached the Sophic Realm. Prior to that, they could live a citizen¡¯s life and be content. But even a wise man could find some sce in his studies. It wasn¡¯t until the third realm and the fourth realm beyond it that a man was left with no other choice but to reach the heights. It was every Tyrant¡¯s fate to starve, no matter how many they consumed. And it was a Hero¡¯s destiny to burn, no matter how they stifled their passions. ¡°The low me burns the longest,¡± I quoted ourte father, and Gyro smiled. Elena flushed, having pulled her to him almost nose-to-nose. I forced my aching body to move, warming up to a sprint as I made to help my twin. Behind me, I heard Gyro finish the quote. ¡°But we don¡¯t light candles to usher in the Games,¡± he intoned. ncing over my shoulder, I saw him grip the back of Elena¡¯s head and press their foreheads together. Startled, she raised her adamant shield with its bisected sun and pressed it half-heartedly against his chest. She didn¡¯t pull away, though. ¡°My brother will die on his own terms, whether it¡¯s here and now or never at all. Let me handle my mad siblings, and I¡¯ll let you handle yours.¡± ¡°Oi,¡± I called. ¡°Don¡¯t lump us in with Damon.¡± The wings of my brother¡¯s Heroic influence smacked me upside my head. My vision shed white and I stumbled, snickering. ¡°You aren¡¯t what I expected of the Rosy Dawn,¡± Elena admitted. ¡°Thank you.¡± The Oracle¡¯s daughter huffed augh. Within the clenched fist of the Young Aristocrat¡¯s burning spirit, the entire ind was lit up. I could see the treasures left behind and the shipsid to final rest on the shores. I could see Fotios, Dymas, and Damon¡¯s man as they raced to meet me in the middle. And I could see what my twin was pointing to, back they way they hade. The second drakaina wasn¡¯t pursuing my twin and the members of our crew. The woman fused to its silver coils straightened her back and drew up her monstrous bulk, expression unreadable as distant as the creature was. Its attention was focused on someone else entirely. ¡°Elena?¡± I called back. ¡°Yes, Stavros?¡± ¡°Is that one yours?¡± Bathed in scarlet light, her anklets and bracelets and nes and earrings - all of them ruby and gold - glinting as they swung, a woman with the same golden hair and scarlet eyes as Elena raced across the beach. Her form was inexperienced and she had a bolt of bloodstained silk pressed against her mouth and nose, but she had started running while we were distracted. She was already past Fotios and the crew. The drakaina watched her steadily as she sprinted towards it. ¡°Calliope!¡± Elena cried. Fotios¡¯ brow furrowed, mirroring mine. ¡°The muse?¡± I asked, confused, as we finally reached each other. Fotios shook his head, bracing his hands on his knees and panting for breath. Dymas nted his de in the sand and leaned heavily against it, while Damon¡¯s man copsed entirely to his hands and knees. ¡°Unless she¡¯s a Heroine in disguise, I¡¯m thinking not.¡± ¡°Her sister,¡± Aristotle said, abruptly beside my twin. He cursed breathlessly and stumbled sideways. ¡°I was hoping you¡¯d lost that ability,¡± I said sourly. He snorted. ¡°Lost it-?¡± Fotios¡¯ eyes widened as he noticed the young man where an old man should have been instead. ¡°Aristotle? What happened?¡± The overpowering glory of a Hero swept over our heads along with a very real shadow. Gyro sailed through the air with his Talon in hand, seeming to almost fly with the wings of his influence spread wide. Elena shot by momentster, her pneuma riotous with fear. Fotios and I shared a nce and took off after her. ¡°That¡¯s your sister?¡± I asked, catching up on her left and ignoring my body¡¯s worthless pleas to stop. ¡°She is,¡± Elena gasped, running like she was chasing gold in the sprints. ¡°And your father had the audacity to name her after the Chief of all Muses?¡± Fotios added incredulously,ing up on her right side. The woman from Olympia bit down on a sob, furiously blinking tears from her eyes. ¡°He did! And she¡¯s suffered for his hubris! Now it¡¯se to this-!¡± Her sister, the Oracle-to-be draped in jewelry and silks, stumbled and fell to her knees just short of the serpent woman. Her body, thin and frail beneath the finery, trembled as she coughed. The drakaina tilted her head, silver-white tresses spilling over her chest. The monster¡¯s bulk shifted, lowering her torso down. ¡°She¡¯s ill,¡± I realized. ¡°She¡¯s always been ill.¡± Why did the kyrios of the Raging Heaven let an Oracle leave his city before she was properly anointed? Gyro had asked me. Why did their kyrios send her out with no one but her sister to protect her, yet gift them with an adamant shield and nectar to sustain them? I had found the answer another way, but it still applied here. ¡°Bakkhos was appealing to higher power when he sent the two of you alone,¡± I said, ignoring Fotios¡¯ questioning look. Elena bit her lip. ¡°What were you meant to do? Where were you meant to be?¡± ¡°Here.¡± ¡°Here? He sent the two of you to fight monsters?¡± A low rank Philosopher and her ill sister? The frail woman raised her head, dropping her bloodstained bolt of silk as she did. The serpent with a woman¡¯s face reached out, wed fingers grasping for the daughter of the Oracle. She didn¡¯t flinch away. Didn¡¯t move at all. ¡°I snuck onto the ship against his orders,¡± Elena admitted, bitter tears taken by the wind as she shed them. ¡°He sent her out alone. Not to fight.¡± The woman known as Calliope knelt in the sands and awaited the serpent¡¯s grip. Too weak to fight, too weak to even raise the ornate dagger in her other hand. Crippled by illness, cursed at birth for her father¡¯s hubris. Yet, by Elena¡¯s own admission, heir apparent to the mantle of Oracle. As if such an insult to the muses could ever be allowed. ¡°He sent her here to die.¡± The Hero Anargyros descended from the curtain of scarlet light above and sank his talon into the serpent¡¯s scales, cutting through undying flesh as easily as he had the first time. The monstrous woman recoiled from Elena¡¯s sister, her mouth opening in a silent scream. ¡°He sent her here to die, and she thanked him for the privilege!¡± Elena seethed, outrage and hope rekindling her conviction. ¡°They told her that this was the righteous path and she believed them! She told me not toe. She told me to take her ce. She said that was justice for what our father had done, but even so-!¡± ¡°But even so,¡± spoke a voice I knew all too well. I dug my feet into the sand and Fotios did the same, both of us reaching out with unspoken understanding and grabbing Elena by either arm. She fought viciously against us, but I only pointed up ahead. The Hero Damon Aetos stepped out of the light on the ind¡¯s edge, triumphant vitality and glory rolling off of him like heat from a me. The concentric rings within his eyes glowed vibrantly, and his pupils zed with his heart¡¯s me. Steam billowed off his body, and each stride across the sand left molten ss behind. He had our uncle¡¯s bow - no, he had his bow in hand. But the quiver was nowhere to be seen. ¡°He¡¯s out of arrows,¡± Fotios muttered. ¡°The Tyrant Pierus had nine daughters, and every one of them he named after a muse,¡± Damon said, heedless of that fact as he approached the monster. ¡°That was his hubris. But it was his daughters that dared to challenge the nine in a contest of song. That was their hubris. That was their tribtion earned.¡± Gyro flew back, his Talon wet with molten lead. ¡°The kyrios of the Raging Heaven decided to avoid the issue altogether, to offer one Oracle up to the divine and keep the other for himself. That was his hubris. He may have had good reason. He may have even been right to do it. But even so, even though he only wants one back,we¡¯ll return to him both.¡± Damon Aetos stepped in front of the Oracle-to-be and pressed three fingers to his chest, drawing an arrow of rosy me from his heart. ¡°Once given and twice returned,¡± the Young Aristocrat intoned, nocking the arrow to his bow. The Hero let fly his heart¡¯s arrow and the serpent fell dead, pierced between the eyes. Fingers of a vast scarlet hand unfurled above us, revealing stars once more. Somehow, some way, he had lifted the entire ind up out of the sea. Calliope the woman stared up at the eldest of the four and spoke to him in a voice soft with shock and wonder. ¡°Who are you?¡± ¡°This is Justice,¡± Calliope the Muse answered. The Goddess with the Heavenly Voice cradled Damon¡¯s jaw in her ethereal hand andid her golden crown upon his head. ¡°Remember his face.¡± As if she could forget. Chapter 1.68 Chapter 1.68 The Young Griffon I leaned back. Six Heroic cultivators crowded around the table alongside Sol and I. They had been at the furthest edges of the room when the story began, but now each of them leaned forward on elbows and crossed arms to get as close to the fading papyrus as they could. In the dull silence that followed the story Chilon had gifted me, the world seemed to lose a certain quality that I hadn¡¯t known it possessed before. Without the warmth of heroic glory suffusing the air, each breath felt colder in my lungs than it truly was. Without the lights of triumphant me suffusing all above, the shadows in Elissa¡¯s home seemed that much darker. ¡°-iffon?¡± I blinked. Little King Leo tugged again on my arm, confused and wary. To my right the little sentinel, Pyr, crouched beside their guardian, watching Lefteris with concern. ¡°Yes?¡± I responded btedly. ¡°When are you going to tell the story?¡± the little king asked as thest embers died out in the hearth and the papyrus dimmed. ¡°It¡¯s already been told,¡± I informed him. His expression tightened indignantly, his distinguished nose wrinkling. ¡°Leo. Not now.¡± Lefteris shook his head once, his eyes riveted to the story on the table. The little king made to protest, thought better of it, and slunk back to his brother¡¯s side. In the weeks since my arrival at Olympia, I had achieved an adequate understanding of the Heroes and Heroines gathered around the stout wooden table. Nothing near what I wanted, but assuredly more than they were happy with me knowing. Their mannerisms, the quiet martial habits that they carried with them everywhere, as well as their feelings towards one another. There were power dynamics at y there, ire and affection depending on who was paired with whom. It was a given that they had all known each other before Sol and I ever set foot in their city. Heroic cultivators weren¡¯t nearlymon enough for them to have missed each other. It was said that in a crowd of a hundred Citizens you might find only one lonely Philosopher. The same rule applied the further up you went. In a crowd of one hundred Philosophers and ten thousand Citizens, if you were fortunate, you might find a single shining Hero. The city of Olympia was an exception to this rule in some ways, especially when it came to her Tyrants, but not enough for these six to be unacquainted. Our Heroicpanions had history. They had enmity and affection for one another. The three that I had imed as my own were friends, or at least friendly. Elissa was familiar enough with Kyno to not stab him when he held her back in her heated moments, and Kyno was familiar enough with her to know when she needed holding back. Lefteris liked them both well enough to try warning them away from me, and they liked him well enough to try to justify their involvement. Sol¡¯spanions, simr to the Roman himself, were a mess. Jason and Scythas keptpany with each other but hated my three, and my three disdained them both in turn. Anastasia was somehow feared by all, in the way that hunting cats feared a cobra - a wary understanding of her nature. They weren¡¯t cowed, but they kept their distance from her when they could. For her part, she regarded them with a cool amusement. Content to let them skirt around her. All of that was gone now. Those small nuances that they so carefully kept, the thousand-thousand truths and convictions they had used to sculpt their identities. The intery between each other. Whatever required conscious effort to maintain had been stripped away. Friends did not look to friends to discuss what we had just seen. Enemies said nothing to enemies as shoulders and knees brushed together at the crowded table. Scythas, Elissa, Kyno, Lefteris, Jason, and Anastasia had each withdrawn into themselves, struck by a portion of what we had all seen. I knew them well enough to know it had been a different moment for every one of them that did it. I had my suspicions as to what those moments had been. But for now, I could still only guess as to why. Finally, I nced at the Roman directly across the table from me. Gray eyes stared piercingly back. You didn¡¯t know, the raven in his shadow whispered to mine under the table, quiet enough that the others wouldn¡¯t hear. There are many things I don¡¯t yet know, the raven in my own shadow whispered back, levity in shifting ink. You¡¯ll have to be more specific. In lieu of a response, Sol clenched his fist and then slowly unclenched it on the table. His eyes trailed meaningfully down. I followed his gaze. Hm. I rxed my right hand, dismissing fifteen hands of violent intent that hadyered themselves in the same space. Pain drove through each finger like a needle as it uncurled. My nails weren¡¯t long enough to break skin, but they had left four crescent grooves in the meat of my palm. You didn¡¯t read it first, Sol used me. There wasn¡¯t time. I flexed blood back into my fingers, distantly observing the pain. If I had been taught the hunting bird¡¯s breath, I could have dispersed it. Made it future strength. So youid it out in front of them. Legendary cultivators from all over the known world whose motivations and allegiances we still don¡¯t fully understand. And you rolled the dice on this convincing them to work with us, rather than against. When you had no idea- No. I saw the storm gathering in his re. I knew it was a Hero¡¯s story. Because the only other thing Chilon carried in his fishing was the satchel of letters he¡¯d never replied to. And I knew who it was about. In a grand parade of one hundred heroes, only one among them could be expected to ascend to the realm of ravenous authority. It was only natural for that singr Hero to stand head and shoulders above the rest. A legend among legends. A Hero¡¯s deeds were always worth hearing of, no matter if they lived and died at the lowest of the ranks. But that didn¡¯t mean they were all equally inspiring. Every Tyrant was once a Hero. Every Tyrant was once the greatest of one hundred greats. The magnitude of their deeds could only reflect that. The details were irrelevant. What was important was that each of these wilting cultivators had seen what a Hero was meant to be. That even for just a moment, they had felt what they could feel if they only took the risk. Glory above all. The contents didn¡¯t matter. I inhaled deeply, and listened past the roaring in my ears as my brother broke the silence. ¡°Elissa,¡± Sol said. ¡°Do you have any wine?¡± The Sword Song stiffened and looked up from the table, blinking rapidly. Unapanied by her usual scorn, the scars that riddled her ceased to be fierce - they became something nearly tragic. ¡°Wine,¡± Elissa murmured, desert mes flickering fitfully behind her eyes. ¡°Yes. This calls for wine.¡± The Sword Song all but ran out of the room, returning shortly thereafter with an impressive y jug bnced precariously on her shoulder. She reached for a pitcher of clear water on a nearby table to dilute the wine, decided against it, and snapped her fingers. ¡°Cups.¡± The Heroic cultivators in the room reached absently into the folds of their chitons and tunics, pulling from them cups for Elissa to fill. Paradox logic, pockets of folded rhetoric that they kept hidden in their clothes. It was different than what I had expected, nothing like the space within my shadow. Somehow more and less profound now than it had been before I knew the trick of it. Kyno and Lefteris murmured quiet thanks while she filled their cups with thick red wine. Anastasia nodded in appreciation, thoughtfully regarding the long sheet of papyrus. Sol had no cup to fill when Elissa reached him. Instead, he dipped a hand into the open jug and took a mouthful from his cupped palm. She grimaced but moved on without a word. While Jason drained his portion in one pull and Elissa went to fill Scythas¡¯, the Hero of the Scything Squall broke the heavier silence. The one that talk of wine and niceties hadn¡¯t breached. ¡°Bakkhos,¡± he breathed, and Elissa dropped the jug. Pankration hands caught it just before it shattered, glowing faintly with the rosy light of dawn. I raised the jug to my mouth with hands of formless intent and drank deeply of the undiluted kykeon, setting it aside when my insides were sufficiently warmed. Elissa left it there. ¡°Bakkhos,¡± she echoed Scythas, leaning heavily against Kyno¡¯s shoulder - he was tall enough that she could do it standing while he sat. ¡°I knew that was his name. I know I knew that.¡± ¡°We all did,¡± Kyno agreed. ¡°And yet you haven¡¯t said it once.¡± I ignored their bristling and brushed off the unspoken you do not belong in the air. ¡°Sol and I have been in the city for over a month, and in all that time I have never once heard the kyrios of the Raging Heaven Cult referred to as anything but that. Not even the night of his funeral, while you all told stories in remembrance of him.¡± There was nothing they could say to that, because of course it was the truth. ¡°You¡¯ve all forgotten the name of the Tyrant Riot, the man that terrorized greater mystery cults for no greater purpose than his own amusement.¡± I pressed both palms t against the table and leaned forward, sweeping across each of the Heroes. ¡°You¡¯ve buried him in your minds deeper than your elders buried his corpse.¡± Anastasia, sat beside Sol, nced up through the coal ck fringe of her hair in brief acknowledgement. The rest of them- ¡°Aristotle taught Damon Aetos,¡± Lefteris blurted, as if unable to believe it. ¡°The Father of Rhetoric mentored Damon Aetos.¡± Did you know that? The raven in Sol¡¯s shadow asked mine. Did you? He frowned and shook his head minutely. ¡°He taught more than just him,¡± Anastasia said meaningfully, tilting her head at Sol beside her without looking up from the papyrus. Her fingers traced lightly over the map, brushing Chilon¡¯s story aside where it obscured it. ¡°Damon Aetos is your senior brother,¡± Jason said with a hysterical sort of wonder, dashing wine from dark stubble where it had spilled past the corners of his mouth. ¡°Wait, unless! Is he-¡± ¡°Your junior?¡± Scythas asked, intent sharpening his focus. Kyno frowned. ¡°Did you know him personally? Before he was¡­¡± ¡°A Tyrant? Elissa suggested. ¡°A Hero?¡± Lefteris added. ¡°Himself.¡± Once again, a group of people that should have known better wavered on the edge of an outrageous assumption. They had an excuse this time, I supposed. The story of my father and my uncles was still a vivid silhouette inside my soul. We had looked too long at the sun, and now a portion of it remained when we closed our eyes. The memory of the Philosopher Aristotle so casually shedding his cultivation and his years was as fresh in their minds as it was in mine. Who was to say that his student wasn¡¯t capable of the same? Even if they came to ept Sol¡¯s status as a first rank philosopher now, a part of them would always wonder if he used to be more. Normally, it wouldn¡¯t even be a consideration. A shattered ego was the end of a cultivator, that wasmon knowledge. There were theories and hearsay remedies, certainly, but no one knew anyone that had benefited from them. In nearly every circumstance a cultivator of virtue chose death of the body before death of the self. Those that did cling to life afterwards led miserable existences, unacknowledged without as well as within. If I¡¯d been asked at any point in my life other than this one here now, whether a man could shed like a snake the culmination of his soul¡¯s greater aspirations and carry on without breaking stride, I would haveughed. And then I would have spit. Yet here we were. The Heroic cultivators in the room waited for the rank one Philosopher to tell them he was an ancient, that he had stood among the strongest before he chose to discard his ego like a torn rag. I could already see the questions that would follow creeping up their throats. The son of Rome resigned himself to the room¡¯s attention, arms crossed as he sought the words. The truth, this time, I advised him through the shadows beneath the table. The one on your right is a physician. If she¡¯s mended you before or does so in the future, she¡¯ll know your true age. Sol sighed. She can hear us. Anastasia smiled. You gave me away, her shadow whispered teasingly. Chapter 1.69 Chapter 1.69 The Son of Rome Anastasia¡®s shadow pulled away deliberately from mine beneath the wood-carved table, an active separation that was impossible to see and nearly impossible to feel. I almost hadn¡¯t noticed it at all, the sensation for some reason so much deeper now than thest time I remembered feeling it that I¡¯d almost mistaken it for something else entirely. If Anastasia¡¯s eyes hadn¡¯t given her away, smoldering mes flickering in response to Griffon¡®s silent message, I might have dismissed it as a remnant from the Aetos¡¯ story. Griffon hadn¡¯t caught it. The state he was in right now, he might not have even if he knew what to look for. But shaken or calm, I could never forget the feeling of a scavenger creeping into my shadow. As long as I lived, I would never forget the rats. The raven that lurked inside of Griffon¡¯s shadow roiled beneath the table, raising a bronze hilt up in offering. Anastasia¡®s smile deepened to match the schemes in her eyes, and in response to her challenge the raven brandished twenty iron hilts alongside the bronze. ¡°I didn¡¯t meet Damon Aetos until a year ago, when he was already the man he is today,¡± I answered the question the Heroes around the table had posed, the silence having stretched long enough. Through my shadow, as sharply as I dared, I added, We¡¯re not fighting here. Stop posturing before they notice - and where did you even get that many swords? The scavenger edged back in, listening curiously while the woman controlling it continued perusing Socrates¡¯ map. ¡°So that story took ce after he¡¯d already been to Rome,¡± Scythas said, before frowning. ¡°Unless, no. He could have gone after, but that would mean¡­¡± Souvenirs from our lesson with the Gadfly, Griffon''s shadow answered mine, withdrawing the hilts of his celestial axe and twenty iron swords. ¡°That would mean he taught Sol just a decade or two ago,¡± Jason said doubtfully. ¡°Taught. Even the Gadfly only advised Bakkhos, as he¡¯s advising Sol now. How can a Philosopher be master to a Tyrant?¡± ¡°What is it about him that makes you want to kiss his feet?¡± Elissa asked him scathingly, jabbing a finger at me while she pinned Jason with a re. ¡°Who says he¡¯s a Tyrant at all?¡± You¡¯re a terrible actress, Griffon¡®s raven taunted Anastasia¡®s crow, while heid his cheek in his hand to stop its furious clenching. Shoving your face into a map like it will save you from being found out. It worked on you, her crow repliedughingly. ¡°Who says? You were there when we went out posing as crows! Have you not been paying attention?¡± Jason demanded. ¡°A question I could ask a few people,¡± Griffon mused. He went ignored. Beneath the table, he added, It never will again. No, nothing ever works twice on you, does it? ¡°Whatever he is,¡± Kyno interjected, pulling down the Sword Song¡¯s pointing hand. ¡°He can tell us himself.¡± ¡°He already has,¡± Scythas dered. Though the term Legate won¡¯t mean much to them, Anastasia¡¯s shadow mused, wings fluttering as it mingled between mine and Griffon¡¯s. ¡°Well?¡± Lefteris asked, leaning forward on the table. ¡°It¡¯s rude to ask a man his standing among heaven and earth without first offering your own,¡± Griffon chided him. ¡°You¡¯ve been to our cult and climbed the stairway to heaven - our ranks are in to see. Yours aren¡¯t.¡± ¡°Mine is.¡± His smile was just the wrong side of sharp, his affected levity noticeable even to the boys sitting by Lefteris. ¡°In fact, I just saw it earlier today.¡± ¡°Liar,¡± Lefteris used him, rising from the table. His fuchsia cult attire, negligently wrapped as it was, spilled nearly entirely off his shoulders and exposed his bronze breastte. ¡°I checked them, every step from the twenty-first to the thirtieth. Not one of those names was yours!¡± ¡°You checked the wrong steps,¡± Griffon said, eyes narrowing. ¡°The twelfth step is where you¡¯ll find me¡± ¡°More lies.¡± Elissa pinched the bridge of her nose. ¡°The same now as before. And you wonder why we don¡¯t want to go chasing after myths with you.¡± Perhaps the truth this time, Anastasia advised him through her shadow, throwing his words back in his face. A single pankration fist formed in the air above the table. It raised its index finger, its glow casting a shadow across Griffon¡¯s features. ¡°Call me a liar one more time,¡± he invited the room, and I knew what wasing next. ¡°Stop.¡± Kyno pushed Lefteris¡¯ chin up, closing his mouth with a click of teeth against teeth. Elissa crossed her arms mutinously, still leaning against him, but didn¡¯t speak further. Anastasia¡®s scavenging shadow withdrew from my own, the woman herself finally looking up from the map on the table to regard me curiously. Jason silently reached back and dunked his empty cup into the y jar of spirit wine. ¡°Solus?¡± Scythas asked me quietly. I closed my eyes, falling back into a state of mind that felt too familiar. Morefortable than I deserved it to be. Get to the point, the first spear had advised me in myst private moment before assuming control of the fifth legion. Truth or dishonesty, bright news or bleak, whatever it is you have to say - be direct, or don¡¯t say anything at all. ¡°I am a Legate,¡± I told the Heroic cultivators arrayed against me. Lefteris¡¯ eyes widened. ¡°In Rome, a man¡¯s standing is measured by his ce within the city. Our realms are different than yours, eight instead of four. We have our own paths, as you have yours.¡± The Soldier. The Senator. And of course. The Captain. ¡°Whichever path a man takes, the oue is the same. It¡¯s called the Cursus Honorum, and it is the progression of a Roman soul.¡± ¡°And how far down that road are you?¡± the man in the crocodile skin asked me. Lefteris mumbled something undistinguishable, unable to open his mouth with Kyno¡¯s hand still pressing up on his chin. He smacked the hulking cultivator¡¯s hand away and tried again. ¡°A legate is amander,¡± he said, staring hard at me. Searching my face for falsehood. ¡°A man that leads thousands of soldiers directly.¡± How interesting, Anastasia¡®s crow softly cawed. Lefteris, for his part, grit his teeth and ignored her caustic gaze. ¡°He does,¡± I said, nodding once. ¡°A full legion. Imanded men that together could sweep a hundred drakaina screaming back into the sea.¡± I said to tell the truth, Griffonmented, no less irritating for the fact that I didn¡¯t have to hear him say it aloud. Hush, Anastasia scolded him. He snorted. Scythas nodded slowly. ¡°So you are, then.¡± ¡°A Tyrant,¡± Jason said with quiet conviction. I grimaced. At a certain point, the lies would have to end, or else be found out. If Griffon and I managed to convince any of these Heroes to journey across the map with us in search of theponent pieces that made up a god¡¯s sustenance, we would almost certainly run into conflict. Real conflict, the kind that required force on the level of what Griffon¡¯s roll of papyrus had shown us. If that sort of crisis found us out in the valleys and the mountains, or on the open waves, or any wild ce apart from the free cities, the Heroes and Heroines among us wouldn¡¯t have to restrain themselves. They would fight freely and their hearts¡¯ mes would burn triumphantly. Griffon and I would be found out the moment we failed to keep up. If we failed to keep up. ¡°The Republic despises Tyrants,¡± I said, apologizing silently to the first spear and my father and everyone else that would have throttled me for what I was considering. ¡°No citizen of Rome would ever ept such a title.¡± ¡°Call it what you like,¡± Elissa said impatiently, shifting her weight. Anxious at what I was saying, and at what I was not saying. ¡°Every barbarian nation has a different word for what the free cities know is true. Where do you stand?¡± ¡°Elissa,¡± Kyno said sharply. ¡°It¡¯s fine.¡± I exhaled a long breath. This would work, or it wouldn¡¯t. At this point, all I could do was try to reach them. Griffon was too rattled by the story of the brothers Aetos to be anything but vicious right now. That wasn¡¯t what they needed. ¡°We despise Tyrants,¡± I said again, ¡°but that does not mean we can avoid them. There are those among us with power and influenceparable to what you consider the Tyrannic Realm. Thews of the Republic exist to bnce these men, to temper them so that they can never be to Rome what Damon Aetos is to the Scarlet City.¡± I met Scythas¡¯ eyes, and stifled my desire to soften the words that came next. ¡°What Bakkhos was to Olympia.¡± I watched him wilt, as I had done in Selene¡¯s quarters when I forced him to admit to the true nature of those that led the Greek mystery cults. He was the Hero that had protested the loudest at the desecration of the kyrios¡¯ funeral, and he had just borne witness to that same great man¡¯s casual cruelty through the lens of lived experience. He had looked up to Bakkhos, I knew. But that didn¡¯t change a Tyrant¡¯s nature. ¡°s,¡± Griffon murmured. ¡°Now is absolute.¡± I inclined my head, acknowledging it. ¡°I have seen men that were Tyrants in everything but name,¡± I admitted, even though the words tasted like ash in my mouth. ¡°Men thatmanded legions enough to fill three Greek cities. I¡¯ve met men that have taken entire civilizations into their hands, and crushed them when they struggled. I would put my money on any of those men before I would put it on a Greek. Tyrant or not. ¡°I served under the greatest of those men,¡± I told the Heroes all around me. ¡°I fought in his legions, was there when he broke the Gauls and the Britons and the Celts over his knee, every barbarian king one by one. Those of us following him knew him as the General of the West. But there were those that called him something else.¡± ¡°Tyrant of the West,¡± Anastasia murmured, and Griffon sat up from his slouch. ¡°Imperator Gaius Julius Caesar.¡± The weight of every word hammered down on my shoulders, pressed down by three thousand dead men. I grit my teeth and set myself against it. ¡°Gaius was a Tyrant,¡± I said, words that would have made any man in the fifth legion spit blood - including my own father. But I had seen too much, and known him too well, to think anything else. If you must break thew, do it to seize power. ¡°But he was the best a Tyrant could be,¡± I promised them, infusing every word with the captain¡¯s conviction. ¡°The least of a necessary evil. There was no one among the patricians more generous to the plebes than he was, no triumphantmander as merciful to their fallen enemies. He was what he was for the betterment of Rome, and he was beloved by the people because of it. ¡°It¡¯s why theyuded him in the streets even as his rivals spread the word tyrant through their homes. It¡¯s why they raised him exalted above all others in the city, even as the provinces shut themselves away. And it¡¯s why time and again, against overwhelming numbers, he kept marching on - even as rats ate at his unguarded heels.¡± The Heroes and Heroines in the room tensed and readied themselves for a fight, the young brothers huddled behind their guardian, but I didn¡¯t pay it any mind. I felt my expression twisting, ire rising in the thunder of marching feet. ¡°I owe a portion of everything that I am to the General of the West, as I owe a portion to Aristotle, and to every other mentor that has tried to make me more than what I am. Gaius was the ideal Tyrant, the only one deserving of the influence afforded. And even so, his rivals tore everything they could from him. Even so, they shamed him in the forum while he was on the furthest edge of the western frontier, shedding blood so that they could live theirvish lives. I served with that man, learned from him directly, and came to understand what a guiding hand could be. ¡°And then I came to Olympia.¡± My clenched fist finished what Lefteris had started before, breaking the wood-carved table down the middle. ¡°And I was reminded why the Republic swore to never suffer another king. ¡°Caesar despaired the day he found his greatest rival dead,¡± I said furiously. ¡°And your elders started groping for the kyrios¡¯ power before his funeral was over. They sent scavengers after their cult¡¯s own initiates, heedless of anything but their own hunger! Heedless of those that depended on them! ¡°Heedless of their citizens.¡± I remembered a family curled up screaming on the streets of Olympia as Tyrants hammered away at funeral drums. They had known that the citizens of the city were in attendance, that the volume they were using to distract and disorient their greater targets would debilitate the smaller souls. They had done it anyway. They had used them as obstacles. That family of citizens had looked at me like I was a monster when they saw the mystery cult attire I was wearing. And they¡¯d had good reason to. ¡°I came to this city in search of my Greek mentor because my Roman mentor is dead. I came in search of Aristotle¡¯s guidance, and instead I found this. Instead I found all of you.¡± Sorea mmed into the door to Elissa¡¯s home, an audible thunk of his talons sinking into the wood followed by a piercing shriek. The sound of the door breaking out of its frame echoed down the hall. The virtuous beast that was all I had left of my home came gliding into the room a momentter,nding on my shoulders and spreading his wings wide. ¡°I am no Tyrant,¡± I told the wide eyed cultivators of virtue. ¡°I refuse to be associated in such a way with your elders. But I am heir to the man that was greater than them in every way, and I am a Roman before that. ¡°All of you saw something in that memory, in the deeds of triumphant Heroes, that you wanted for yourselves. Each one of you is fighting a Tyrant that has you in their grasp. And you¡¯ve decided that the Olympics are your best chance at salvation. Each of you is hoping that an Olympic champion¡¯s cry for help will suffice where your own did not.¡± I took the unrolled papyrus in my hand, dragging it up out of the dead hearth. It cracked and crumpled in my clenched fist. ¡°You are, all of you, appealing to higher power,¡± I condemned them. ¡°You¡¯re wrong,¡± Lefteris seethed. ¡°You¡¯re wrong, and you¡¯re out of line! You have no ce lecturing us- you have no ce here at all! You should be dead.¡± Scythas¡¯ head snapped to him. ¡°What?¡± ¡°What are you saying?¡± Jason demanded. ¡°He¡¯s saying,¡± Anastasia said, caustic green eyes flickering, ¡°that the Republic has fallen, and her people were ughtered to a man. Solus hase walking into this city from out of a grave. A revenant from Rome.¡± Somehow, I wasn¡¯t surprised at all that she knew. Griffon had called her a terrible actress, but she had fooled me twice the day we shared a bath. ¡°The city of Rome is salted ash,¡± I said, acknowledging the truth and moving forward. Marching on. ¡°The half of my soul that lives in Rome wasn¡¯t enough to bring down the demons of risen Carthage. The half of my soul that is Greek will have to do the rest.¡± ¡°The half that is what?¡± Elissa asked. ¡°I came to Olympia looking for Aristotle, but I found a rat¡¯s nest instead. I chose to hunt your elder¡¯s crows because they make me sick to look at, and I hate them to my core. I will tear your free cities apart, drink whatever divine elixir your gods fill their cups with, and topple all of your Tyrants if that is what it takes to gain the strength that I need.¡± It was the only way I could possibly convince them all, the wildest gambit I could think to take. I told them the truth. ¡°I am a stranger in a foreignnd, and all that I desire is the death of ursed Carthage,¡± I promised them. ¡°I will stop at nothing in this life until I am strong enough to see it done. Come with us on this journey and every journey to follow, or don¡¯t - neither choice will change that. ¡°All that will change is you. Either you¡¯ll stay here in this poisonous city, hoping and praying that the des you win in a game will be enough to win you favor from higher powers. You¡¯ll cling to that proxy strength and hope it¡¯s enough to get you out from under Tyrant¡¯s thumb. You¡¯ll wait here as long as it takes, breathlessly, for your freedom to be delivered to you. ¡°Or you¡¯ll join us,¡± I said, pping my hand on Griffon¡¯s shoulder. ¡°And you¡¯ll take it.¡± Chapter 1.70 Chapter 1.70 The Young Griffon Olympia¡®s western dock town was as I remembered it, though it felt downright decrepit after weeks spent in the grandest city in the free Mediterranean. Stout wooden constructions were the standard out here, no amethyst-veined marble or towering bronze doors. It was refreshing, in a way. The beaches were teaming with fishmongers and their patrons, a cool breeze of waning winter offset by the cheerful warmth of unclouded sun. The port¡¯s rubble mound breakwater could be seen from a respectable distance, jutting up from the Ionian several spans out. It hugged the coast up and down as far as mortal eyes could see, and if the maps were to be believed, a bird or a god looking down on it from above would see the winding lines of rubble as a gorgon¡¯s snarling face - each of the tangled serpents that served as her hair a point of entry for enterprising ships. It was a sight that Niks had boasted of seeing for himself after returning home for his wedding, all the while smugly refusing to exin how he¡¯d done it. I had a few ideas, myself. Someday soon I¡¯d bring one of them to life and have a look for myself. See the ugly leer that the free Mediterranean cast across the Ionian at her lowly scarlet colony. Later, of course, when there weren¡¯t morepelling things to do. I cast a lingering nce at the Roman walking down the beach beside me. ¡°You were confident about that one, weren¡¯t you?¡± Sol¡¯s lip curled in silent contempt. ¡°There was weight behind those words, I could tell,¡± I said, considering the crowded shacks and broad and oak tables buried in the sand for the day¡¯s catch to be disyed. ¡°It wasn¡¯t difficult at all to imagine you in your armor, cape and all. Was that how you spoke to your legionnaires? I¡¯m sure It inspired them on their way to the underworld.¡± Strong hands grabbed up my shoulders and spun me around. Scythas pulled me down to his eye level, his influence shing with my own. Hands of my violent intent mped down on his own shoulders along with his arms and neck, fisted themselves in his faded green robes and glowed with building heat. ¡°What is the matter with you?¡± Scythas demanded, golden coals burning. ¡°The Oracle wasn¡¯t wrong,¡± I mused, leaning further in. This close, it was impossible to deny. ¡°You are a pretty thing. Thicker eyshes than most marble beauties, and lips well suited to pouting. If you shaved that stubble you¡¯d be a hotmodity in any bathhouse.¡± I added my flesh and blood hand to the mess of pankration intent, pressing my palm t against his forehead and pushing him down. The Hero¡¯s pneuma rose. His lips pursed for a whistle. ¡°Leave him be, Scythas.¡± The Hero of the Scything Squall scowled. ¡°He had no right.¡± ¡°No,¡± Sol agreed. ¡°He didn¡¯t. I apologize on his behalf.¡± ¡°I wasn¡¯t talking about what he said to me.¡± The fair Hero shoved me off and whistled a sharp note, sting my pankration hands off his body with gale winds. ¡°I¡¯m going to find us a ship.¡± He stalked off, muttering ugly oaths under his breath. ¡°Farewell to the brave Hero,¡± I said, waving a solemn goodbye. ¡°We can only hope to meet again one day when the stars align above. Remind me why you brought him instead of the reaver?¡± ¡°Jason won¡¯t set foot on a ship as he is,¡± Sol answered, sitting down right where he was and burying his feet in the white sands. ¡°Of course he won¡¯t,¡± I said, copsing beside him and leaning back on my elbows to watch the sea. The waters were gentle this close to shore - it was a calm day, and the breakwater stifled what waves there were. ¡°Naturally the Heroic sailor is afraid of sailing. I¡¯d expect nothing less of yourpanions. A shame mine weren¡¯t quite so useless, really - your speech might have swayed them if they were.¡± ¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡± he asked, without any particr expectation. ¡°A broad question. Where to begin-¡± ¡°Griffon.¡± He struck me with a look. As if there were a discerning mind behind that heavy Roman brow. ¡°The others might think you¡¯re just being more of yourself, but this isn¡¯t like you. Cruelty of this kind isn¡¯t your style.¡± ¡°Ho?¡± I raised a challenging eyebrow, dismissing a pair of errant pankration hands when they formed and reached for his throat without my permission. ¡°Your father¡®s story shook you,¡± Sol said, irritatingly certain. ¡°It¡¯s the only reason I didn¡¯t break your jaw when you said what you said just now.¡± ¡°I thank the Legate for hispassion.¡± I bowed my head, which in my lounging position was more a tucking of my chin. Perhaps I¡¯d take this time to replenish my body. Scythas wasn¡¯t liable to find us a worthwhile vessel any time soon, and the sand was asfortable as anything else. ¡°Was it your uncle?¡± I dismissed another formless hand, scowling. ¡°Which one?¡± ¡°The dead one.¡± ¡°No.¡± Idly, I fingered the pommel of the de I had stolen off my father¡¯s wall. It was a different de than either of the des that Anargyros had carried in the vision of his ascension. Even the sliver I had pulled from its sheath was enough to tell. It was bronze, where the first had been iron and the Talon had been ship wood. But It still thrummed like lightning when I touched it. And the hilt was still the same. ¡°Your father, then?¡± he guessed, because that was all that he could do. I spat a vile taste out of my mouth. Onto the sand between us. ¡°No. It wasn¡¯t any one of them alone.¡± Sol pondered that, dragging a hand through jet ck hair. It was getting longer, just a bit wild - only on the top, though. He shaved the sides down every day with a knife. ¡°Paradox logic,¡± he said contemtively. ¡°Truths and convictions. Maniption of naturalw. Those concepts were as novel to you as they were to me when we first arrived here.¡± ¡°They weren¡¯t novel. The greater mechanisms of cultivation were known to me long before I ever met you. All that I was missing was the practical example. I just had to see it done.¡± For each application of rhetoric, all I had needed was to see it. ¡°And yet you never did,¡± Sol said. ¡°I¡¯m the same, I think - the lessons Aristotle taught me always felt purely academic, but when Socrates was showing the practical side of rhetoric to me, it felt like a natural continuation. I just hadn¡¯t made the connection. But I have the excuse of spending half my life in legion camps and barbarian kingdoms far from any Greek philosopher. How did you never once encounter a philosopher¡¯s rhetoric during your time in the Rosy Dawn?¡± My eyes rolled. ¡°I¡¯m sure I did. But I didn¡¯t have a Sophist¡¯s sense to recognize it for what it was at the time. A Philosopher¡¯s rhetoric is as grand and unfathomable to a Citizen as a Hero¡¯s glory is to a Philosopher.¡± And as unfathomable as a Tyrant¡¯s greed was to all thatnguished beneath them. ¡°It wouldn¡¯t have been as clear to you then as it is now, but you would have known it if you were told what to look for. If someone had taught you, you could¡¯ve distinguished it, as you would any application of pneuma.¡± ¡°What makes you so sure of that?¡± I asked. ¡°You were angry in the Temple of the Father, when you first identified what the crows were doing and realized it had been left deliberately out of your education.¡± He reached over and pressed two fingers to my forehead, tapping it sharply. ¡°Now we¡¯ve seen what your father and your uncles were doing at the same age that you were studying supply chain logistics andpeting in games rigged for your benefit. And you¡¯re furious.¡± ¡°That isn¡¯t it either. Not entirely.¡± He hummed knowingly. ¡°Calliope.¡± The skies above were clear, blue, and bright. What would they look like when I took my first step into the realm of Heroes, I wondered. Clear, blue, and bright, or thick with shining stars? Would lightning strike me from cloudless heaven, unmistakably meant for me? Or would it be like it had been up in the storm crown at Kaukoso mons? A negligent bolt, tossed down alongside a hundred others. Perhaps a tribtion. Perhaps nothing more profound than mortal misfortune. ¡°Appealing to higher power,¡± I murmured, and felt my blood begin to boil. ¡°Ah. That.¡± ¡°Yes. That.¡± Distantly, far enough that I couldn¡¯t make out the words, Scythas¡¯ voice rose up over the ambient ttering of the dock town. Sol didn¡¯t turn towards it. He kept watching me. ¡°What is the first virtue, Sol?¡± ¡°Gravitas.¡± ¡°No,¡± I snapped. ¡°Not the cultivator¡¯s answer. Give me your answer. The one you gave me at the rites.¡± ¡°¡­ freedom.¡± Freedom. In every story worth telling, the cardinal virtues were present in one form or another. But none of those were possible if a man couldn¡¯t control his own destiny. That was what an audacious ve had said to me in the midst of my cult¡¯s holiest procession. He had rounded it off by calling me a ve just the same as him. I had hated him for it then. But I had agreed. ¡°We agreed back then that virtue was performative excellence, and that for a man that meant climbing the divine mountain and throwing off his destined threads. Standing in defiance of the Fates. Standing proud. Free.¡± ¡°We agreed,¡± he admitted. He began to understand. ¡°But my father didn¡¯t.¡± ¡®Appealing to higher power¡¯, they had called it. Myte uncle, the Talon Anargyros, and my father in the eddies of his Heroic ascension. They had used it to exin the actions of the mad Tyrant that ruled the Raging Heaven, as well as justification in the fight that would be the first. And I had been forced to watch through my uncle¡¯s eyes as he came to that realization himself. I had been forced to feel the same awe that he felt as if it was my own. As if this was something worth celebrating. As if it was something profound. We¡¯re all reaching up hopelessly. Foolishly. Courageously. Hoping someone will reach down and take our hand, though we¡¯ll never admit it. Hoping they¡¯ll pull us up to heaven with them. What was the point of making it to the top and casting off your chains if you spent every step up groveling at the feet of those above? How could I take any pride at all and being a freeman, if I had spent my life a willing ve? ¡°I¡¯m irritated that my education was stunted,¡± I said, shrugging off the doubtful look my brother gave me. It was the truth, and nothing more than that. ¡°I¡¯m disappointed that Elissa, Kyno, and Lefteris chose against us in the end. And I¡¯m angry, yes, that my father and my uncles decided that the righteous path was to charm their way into the Ivory Heights. As if we need the whispers of Muses to aplish incredible things. ¡°But I am furious,¡± I said, heat and clenching fists of pankration intent spawning around me as fast as I could dismiss them, ¡°because the Stavros and Fotios that I know as my uncles are nothing at all like the men we saw in that story. I am furious because Anargyros Aetos died before I was born, and he took the spark that those four brothers had with him. ¡°I am livid,¡± I exined to thest son of Rome, the only spark that I had found in a city that should have been teeming with vitality. ¡°Because the Aetos family that I saw in that vision was one I wanted to be a part of. And I missed it.¡± Chapter 1.71 Chapter 1.71 The Son of Rome Having aired his frustration, Griffon seemed to shake the worst of his foul mood. Whether it was relief after admitting it, or irritation with himself for letting it show so clearly, he throttled his violent intent and restrained himself to his usual provocations. We both took a dip in the Ionian, and then while we waited for Scythas to secure us a ship we spread the map out on the sand and discussed the task ahead. ¡°Bakkhos lived a full life, if nothing else at all,¡± I marveled, tracing connecting lines through the drops of liquid gold that Socrates had marked the map with. ¡°No matter what order these took ce in, the journey alone¡­¡± I had done my fair share of marching since my father took me with him to Gaius¡¯ legions. I had seen vast frigid wastnds, trudged through marshes and built bridges across the seas, and even traversed Hercynia Silva, the ck forest that spanned entire nations - not once, but twice. Cultivation lent speed to a man¡¯s stride, but even then Gaius¡¯ campaigns had taken months and months of travel beforebat ever came into y. I had spent my formative years marching, yet the task ahead was still daunting. The map Socrates had given us covered a vast expanse. The region I was most familiar with, the colony nation we knew as Magna Graecia, was only a bare sliver on the western edge of the map. Of all the Greek settlements west of the Ionian Sea, Alikos, the Scarlet City, was the only onebeled. There were no golden markers to be found there. East of the Ionian, the centralndmass of the free Mediterranean was marked by gold in four ces. One in Lev¨¢nta, the city-state just over the mountain ranges east of Olympia. Another was at the southernmost coast, a city-state marked Kr¨­kos with a smallerbel beneath it that ominously read Infernal Frenzy Cult. Further north, above the Coast and its two opposing mystery cults, the city of Pal¨¦ta was partially obscured by another drop of gold. Finally, on the western coast and furthest north, edging towards the grand territories of Macedonia, the fourth golden marker was apanied by the word Aornum and nothing else. ¡°It¡¯s going to be longer for us, starting in the middle like this,¡± Griffon said, lounging on his side in his preferred way, with his cheek propped up on a raised palm. His golden hair was still dripping seawater, slicked back without its usual waves. His eyebrows furrowed as he tapped the marker in question. ¡°I have more than half a mind to ignore the good philosopher¡¯s suggestion entirely. Begin somewhere more sensible.¡± ¡°And do what when we get there?¡± I asked wryly. ¡°Ask around for the ingredients to make divine nectar? Say our prayers and hope we¡¯ll know them when we see them?¡± He scoffed, but we both knew it wasn¡¯t feasible. Socrates had only given us one clear objective to start with, and that was a golden cup filled with sacred wine from the region marked beneath Griffon¡¯s finger. Thracia, thend with no definite boundaries. The marker was east of Macedonia and just off the northern coast of the Aegean Sea. It was our first destination, and we¡¯d evidently need to sail if we wanted to make good time. ¡°If the Gadfly would just give us a proper list, we could hit four of ten before Thracia was a speck on the horizon,¡± Griffonmented anyway, sweeping a finger up from Kr¨®kos at the southern tip of the centralndmass and along its eastern side, to Lev¨¢nta and then out east into the Aegean Sea where another golden marker resided amidst a cluster of inds. Then he dragged his finger back west and north up the coast, passing Pal¨¦ta before finally docking at Thracia at the northern edge of the Aegean. ¡°He may not know exactly what to look for just yet,¡± I said. Then, having spoken my day¡¯s worth of diplomatic statements, I added, ¡°or more likely, he just wants to keep us busy.¡± ¡°Worthless old man,¡± he muttered. ¡°The journey is long enough without him adding on to it.¡± It was true. It would have been an arduous undertaking even if we had managed to convince Elissa, Kyno, and Lefteris to assist us in the end. There were still four more markers left after those six. The next closest was on the free Mediterranean¡¯s easternmostndmass, just off the coast of the Aegean - Nkr¨ª, the Greek city-state home to the Blind Maiden Cult. From there, the remaining three were truly distant. ¡°It¡¯s these three that concern me.¡± I said, indicating each one. They had been the first to draw my eyes when Socrates gave us the map. Two that were all too close to home, and one that was dauntingly far. South of the Aegean, beyond the baster Isles, two more golden drops had been ced at the bottom of the map. One was in Libya. The other was in Egypt, a golden drop atop the world¡¯s secondrgest - no. It used to be the secondrgest city in the world, before Rome was burned and salted. Now it was the first. The map marked it simply as His Pearl. Apparently, even writing Alexander¡¯s name was a risk too far for the Greeks. Thest of the three that concerned me, the tenth and final marker, was so far east that the map could not properly ce it. A winding arrow indicated a likely path, but the destination was uncharted. The location was a single word. India. ¡°What is there to be concerned about?¡± Griffon asked airily. ¡°It¡¯s only a quick jaunt through the Conqueror¡¯s favored city and then a brisk march off the edge of the world.¡± I pressed my finger to Libya. ¡°The hounds took Africa from us first,¡± I said quietly. Griffon¡¯s eyes sharpened, losing their mirth. ¡°By the time we realized, it was toote to do anything about it. We had alreadymitted to fighting them in Gaul. No matter how many eagles we sent, not a single one was returned. It¡¯s been nearly four years since then. There¡¯s no telling how much of the southern continent they¡¯ve devoured since.¡± ¡°Is that so?¡± His tone was thoughtful. ¡°Seems we¡¯ll be gutting your dogs sooner thanter.¡± ¡°No,¡± I said, though it tasted like ash. I inhaled slowly, the salt of the Ionian thick in the air. ¡°Not yet. Not until I¡¯m strong enough to sweep them all into the sea.¡± ¡°We¡¯ll see.¡± Griffon drew an invisible line with his finger, just west of Alexander¡¯s pearl city. ¡°Regardless, we can tell this much. No matter how fearsome those dogs are, this is as far as they¡¯ll ever go in Libya. No free city has ever fallen to a barbarian incursion - demonic or otherwise.¡± ¡°Wrong.¡± He blinked. ¡°Excuse me?¡± ¡°You¡¯re wrong,¡± I said, brushing his finger aside and deliberatelyying my own over the pearl city in Egypt. ¡°This one fell four years ago. To us.¡± ¡°Impossible,¡± he said immediately. I met his gaze steadily. After four seconds I saw the first spark of confusion, smothered quickly by disdain. ¡°It¡¯s a bitte for propaganda, isn¡¯t it?¡± ¡°It is,¡± I agreed. Disdain gave way to doubt. ¡°Prove it,¡± Griffon challenged me. So I reached out, at the same time immersing myself in bittersweet recollection - The limestone blocks of the towering lighthouse were slick with sea mist, made worse by the sweat on my palms. My heart hammered a fric beat in my chest, so loud that I nearly couldn¡¯t hear the men cheering down below. I forced myself to keep climbing. I refused to back down. When I finally made it to the top, gripping the shoulder of the Father¡¯s faceless statue, I took the Eagle standard out of my teeth and tied it to the statue¡¯s outstretched hand. Gaius¡¯ men roared gleefully as I leaned back and waved down at them, the Pharos of Alexandria flying the Republic¡¯s g for all the world to see. - and I obliged him. ¡°What?¡± He breathed, his eyes unfocused as he yed the truth of my lived experience over in his head. ¡°What?¡± ¡°It was Gaius¡¯st campaign,¡± I exined, clenching my fist above the map and withdrawing it. ¡°The final one before¡­ before. I saw the Egyptian navy sink into the Nile with my own eyes, and I watched the beasts of virtue lurking beneath its waters tear their king limb-from-limb. The pearl city weed Gaius with open arms after that. As did their new queen.¡± I muscled down an old unease, memories of the queen in Egypt and her inhuman eyes. A headdress that was no headdress at all, feral ears jutting up from the crown of her head like an animal¡¯s. I had seen far uglier sights prior to that day and since, but the memory of that first meeting always unsettled me. Nearly everything about that city and its people did. ¡°That- hold on.¡± Griffon buried his face in his palm, pankration hands manifesting at either temple and massaging with incorporeal knuckles. ¡°That doesn¡¯t make any sense. Even if your legions somehow managed it, there should have been aid from the north. The Amazons, the baster Isles, the maind. Us. Someone.¡± ¡°The enlisted men didn¡¯t understand it either,¡± I admitted. ¡°We were pursuing an enemy from within, thest of Gaius¡¯ opposition in Rome. That Egypt would offer Pompey safe haven was one thing. But that they chose to fight us alone when we came marching up their shores, with Greek allies just over the Aegean? The men thought Gaius was tempting the Fates.¡± Looking back, maybe he was. ¡°But Gaius convinced them in the end. His reasoning was simple. Yet profound.¡± I shrugged when Griffon made a gap with his fingers to stare incredulously at me. ¡°You Greeks so revile the Conqueror, or otherwise are so terrified of his memory, that you refuse to even write his name on your maps centuries after he left. Why would any of you lift a finger to help the city he built for himself?¡± ¡°Because it¡¯s ours.¡± ¡°Is it? The city in Egypt, built by a Macedonian - what about that sounds Greek to you?¡± It was an honest question, one that I had wondered about for months after Gaius¡¯ conquest there. All the way up until word came from the west, and everything else ceased to matter. ¡°This,¡± came Griffon¡¯s sharp reply, muffled by the hand over his face. A rosy pankration finger jabbed sharply down on the map, scraping the golden marker just beneath His Pearl away from the papyrus and revealing the words scrawled underneath. Scattered Foam Cult. ¡°The free cities threw back the Conqueror at the very start of his campaigns,¡± Griffon exined, raising the rosy finger to his mouth and scraping the gold onto his tongue. ¡°Some say that he could have taken us if he had truly desired it, but most of those people are disgusting Macedonians and their word means less than a Roman¡¯s. Whatever the case, he left the Greek cities with nothing to show for hisbors, and we made sure he knew it. ¡°It¡¯s only natural for a man to harbor a grudge over failure like that. Any man, let alone the Conqueror. We had denied him admittance into our culture, taken from the starving Tyrant his first substantial meal, and he despised us for it. He never made another overture into our cities, but he took everything that surrounded them. And eventually, inevitably, he found for himself something incredible.¡± ¡°A greater mystery of the world,¡± I murmured, eyes widening. ¡°The one thing that we could not possibly ignore,¡± Griffon agreed. ¡°He found something in the fields of bountiful Egypt that did not belong there. He found something of ours. And so, when he sent his smug heralds to inform us of his discovery, we free cities had no choice but to ept his gracious offer - the construction of a proper city at his own expense to house this profound natural phenomenon, thereafter surrendered to the Greek diaspora where it surely belonged. Any Greek citizen would be wee within its walls. His only requirement was, of course, that they obey the governance of the Macedonians that had built it.¡± Their alternative options being war with the man that had so recently brought them to the brink, or a willing forfeiture of a key to their mystery faith. No choice at all, in the end. ¡°I think you just answered your own question,¡± I mused. ¡°The city was only ever yours by technicality. Whether the Macedonian on the throne is beholden to themselves or to another barbarian benefactor, the oue is the same. Why shed blood for it?¡± ¡°As if it would have been some great sacrifice on our part,¡± he said, his lip lifting from his teeth. ¡°It was only Rome.¡± This time, I punched him. Chapter 1.72 Chapter 1.72 The Young Griffon I copsed onto my back in the sand, breathing heavily. My body ached fiercely, satisfying as it throbbed. I ran my tongue over my bottom lip and prodded the split flesh. Sol had given it to me good with the first punch, I¡¯d allow him that much. Of course, I¡¯d given him twice as much in return. I swallowed down blood and saliva, stretched my arms over my head and sighed as tension unwound from my body along with my soul. ¡°I think I needed that,¡± I said to the cloudless sky above. ¡°Thank you.¡± ¡°My pleasure.¡± Sitting beside me, Sol gingerly curled and uncurled the fingers of his left hand. He¡¯d left his mark on me, but he¡¯d cut two knuckles open on my teeth and bruised his hand in the process. I saw from the corners of my eyes the nervous looks being sent our way by nearby members of the dock town. We hadn¡¯t brought any real pneuma into our impromptu pankration, of course, but that didn¡¯t really change things. Sol may have exchanged his indigo attire for a nondescript white chiton and a beaten bronze breastte underneath, but I was as I was. Even the grimiest sailors and fishwives on the beach recognized the cult attire of the Rosy Dawn that hung from my waist. Conflict between two cultivators was cause for concern no matter what. Just because pneuma was not involved now did not mean it would not be involved . Fortunately for the mongrels on the docks, they were safe from the two of us. ¡°You didn¡¯t tell me why the pearl city concerned you,¡± I said, going over the conversation in my mind again. Sol grimaced, looking distantly out over the Ionian. Somewhere else entirely. ¡°The Egyptians are¡­ strange,¡± he eventually said, in such a way that I knew it was an understatement. ¡°As different as the Cursus Honorum is from the Greek cultivator¡¯s journey, the Egyptian way is a thousand times further removed. In some ways, it felt like they weren¡¯t even reaching for the same goal at all.¡± ¡°They¡¯re barbarians,¡± I said simply. He snorted. ¡°So am I.¡± ¡°Only half.¡± I waved an airy hand. ¡°Your better half alone is worth more than any lesser culture¡¯s best.¡± ¡°You really believe that?¡± I offered him a sharp grin, bloodied by the lip he had split. ¡°Until I¡¯m given a reason not to.¡± ¡°Greeks,¡± he said, like a curse. ¡°What about the Conqueror?¡± ¡°What about the Conqueror?¡± ¡°A Macedonian is a barbarian like any other, isn¡¯t he? You and every other Greek that dare speak of Alexander have gone to great lengths to emphasize his separation from your culture. And yet despite being lesser to you, he terrifies you all so much that you won¡¯t even say his name. You resent him so much that you refuse to offer aid to the home of one of your own greater mystery cults, simply because he was the man that built it. How can it be said that his people are lesser to yours, given that?¡± ¡°Exactly because of that.¡± Sol looked at me like I was simple. Sneering, I made it clear for the Roman half of him. ¡°The free cities spit on the Conqueror at every turn. We denied him admittance to our Olympic Games even after he came riding into ournds with gifts of such riches that Croesus would have blushed to look upon them. We refused him admittance even after he made a fool of himself,vishing us with praise for our works of architecture and the aplishments of our thinking men. He all but begged us to let himpete for glory alongside our greatest heroes, iming Greek ancestry that traced back to the free city of Levanta, and still we told him no. ¡°Tell me, Sol, what would you have done in his ce? If you marshaled every scrap of wealth and ancestry that you could and sang your praises to the guards at the gate, only for them to spit in your open mouth, would you still want to pass through? In ce of the Conqueror, would you still desire admittance to our culture after that?¡± ¡°I never desired it to begin with,¡± he said, and Iughed. ¡°Worthless Roman. At least you¡¯re honest. But let¡¯s say you did, and let¡¯s say I¡¯ve just spit in your face and thrown back all the gifts and riches you brought along to bribe me. Would you still want in?¡± ¡°You know I wouldn¡¯t.¡± ¡°I do. Because you¡¯re better than that. The Conqueror was not. ¡°No one can deny that he was a powerful brute, but a brute is all he was. When the free cities sent him back to Macedonia in shame without an olive leaf crown, he did not wash his hands of us. When he came back with his armies and tried to overtake us, he still valued the words of our holy women over his own. To the point of separating himself from his own men, risking his entire campaign for a word from an oracle worth listening to. ¡°And after that? Look no further than his pearl. After being cast out not once, but twice, he still knew his ce. He could have kept the greater mystery of Scattered Foam for himself. He could have built his city over top of it and fortified it against any Greek incursion. Do you have any idea how much it would have tormented us? Knowing that another piece of our faith¡¯s mangled mosaic had been found, knowing it was just across the Mediterranean Sea, and not being able to reach it?¡± The Conqueror could have drawn all of the free Mediterranean into a war on his terms, on his continent. Or he could have proven all of us cowards if our city-states refused to rise to his challenge. Even if I tried, I couldn¡¯t think of a more fitting retribution for the scorn he had received than that. Standing where the Conqueror stood, looking through his eyes like they were mine, I knew what the discovery of that scattered foam in Egypt would have seemed like to me. Justice. ¡°He could have made us all suffer if he had only kept it for himself, the most natural thing a Tyrant can do,¡± I said, every word more scornful than the one that came before it. ¡°But he didn¡¯t. Even then, triumphant and proud, he knew Macedonia¡¯s ce among heaven and earth. So he bundled it up and presented it to us like he had the rest of his gifts when he first came to Olympia, and if I had to guess, he told himself that building a Macedonian city over a natural Greek phenomenon made it his.¡± In that way, he could tell himself that he had contributed something to the greatest diaspora in the world. He could pretend he was one of us. But he wasn¡¯t then, as he wasn¡¯t now. As he never would be. For a long moments, only the sounds of gentlypping waves and coastal industry hung between us. ¡°I knew Alexander upied arge space within the Greek collective consciousness,¡± Sol eventually said, regarding me with naked interest. ¡°But I didn¡¯t realize you hated him personally.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t.¡± What a ridiculous suggestion. ¡°That wasn¡¯t hatred?¡± he asked, waving his bruised hand as if to epass everything I¡¯d just said. ¡°I¡¯ve seen judges sentence men to execution with less vitriol than that.¡± ¡°It was not,¡± I affirmed. ¡°The lion has no hatred for barking dogs.¡± ¡°And between the two of you, you¡¯re the lion,¡± he said doubtfully. ¡°That¡¯s what you think. Griffon above the Conqueror.¡± ¡°Of course.¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t punch you that hard.¡± ¡°You aren¡¯t funny,¡± I reminded him, lest he forget. ¡°More importantly, haven¡¯t we already agreed that strength alone is not the deciding factor?¡± That night before my cousin¡¯s wedding, while we drained the Aetos family¡¯s filial pools with spoons, Sol and I had talked about all the ces in the world that we would see if we had the chance. All the things that we would do. We had also talked about my family¡¯s opinion of me, and the greater Greek perception of bottlenecks. ¡°You told me back at the filial pools that strength alone did not define virtue,¡± I mused. ¡°If I had drowned you in one of those pools and ascended to the Sophic Realm because of it, that by itself would not have been enough to make the action righteous. You told me that and I agreed.¡± Sol frowned thoughtfully. ¡°Cultivation is refinement of self,¡± I said. ¡°The Conqueror was a nightmare and his armies were unlike any the free cities had seen before - I¡¯ll never argue his strength. But strength was not the question. The Conqueror was powerful, yet forever unrefined by the standards of those that mattered. He knew it as we knew it. It¡¯s why he tore the east apart, taking everything he could from better cultures. Because he knew he could never produce those wonders himself. ¡°So yes. He may have been the meanest dog in all the world, but he was still a dog. How could I hate him when I know that everything he aplished was the least of what I am capable of? The Conqueror stood at the peak of what a barbarian could be, and from the day I was born that peak was so far below me that I could hardly see it looking down.¡± Sol leaned away from me, as if I had pressed him back with pankration hands. He raised a hand to his forehead, dropped it, and raised it again. ¡°That is¡­ breathtakingly arrogant.¡± ¡°Thank you,¡± I said modestly. ¡°Far beyond delusional.¡± ¡°So you say.¡± ¡°Where did all the heate from, then? If he¡¯s so far beneath you, why get worked up by theparison at all?¡± ¡°I was already fighting a bad mood, and he does irritate me. He could have tormented us after he found the mystery of the Scattered Foam in Egypt. A barking dog is one thing, but he could have savaged us. Devouring was his only virtue, and the one time the dog should have eaten, it dropped its meal outside the lion¡¯s den and fled east with its tail tucked. ¡°It¡¯s not that he was too audacious,¡± Sol realized. ¡°It¡¯s that he wasn¡¯t audacious enough. You revile him because you would have done things differently in his ce.¡± ¡°That should have been obvious from the start. His culture is beneath mine, but how can I hate a man for hungering above his station? I¡¯m exactly the same. That¡¯s why the hound from Macedonia irritates me. Because he tried to charm what he should have taken.¡± He had appealed to higher power. ¡°At any rate, we¡¯ve strayed from the topic at hand,¡± I said, and Sol blinked, seeing for himself how far the ship had drifted off its course. ¡°The Egyptians are bizarre, even more so to a Roman than a Roman is to a Greek. borate.¡± His lips thinned while he searched for the words. I rolled over onto my stomach andid my cheek on crossed arms, waiting patiently. ¡°They¡¯re old,¡± he began. ¡°Their golden age ended thousands of years before the first Greek city was built. Rome, byparison, was nothing but an infant colony. Their perception of the world is ancient, and their morality is matched to it.¡± ¡°Meaning?¡± ¡°They gut their dead,¡± Sol exined, haunted. I wondered what I would see if I could look through the same memories he was at that moment. ¡°In a process they call embalming, they hollow out the corpse and harvest all its organs except for the heart. They drag the brain out through the nose with metal hooks, because cracking open the skull is apparently one desecration too far. The harvested organs are stored in jars and the body isid out on a bed of salt for weeks. Stuffed with it, if the corpse was wealthy enough in life to afford such treatment.¡± ¡°For what purpose?¡± I asked, my nose wrinkling at the thought. I had no intention of ever dying, but that didn¡¯t mean I was without manners. Death was a sacred tragedy - even a corpse was owed its dignity. ¡°It dries the body, draining it of its liquids so it won¡¯t rot. When it¡¯s done they rinse the corpse with wine and stuff it full of spices and aromatics. Like it¡¯s a meal.¡± ¡°Why?¡± He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. ¡°They sew it up after that, wrap it in linen andvish it with decorative jewelry before sealing it away. They bury the corpse with its valuables so that it can take them with it into the immortal thereafter. The greatest of them, Egyptians of high standing, even took their servants with them.¡± ¡°How long does this process take?¡± I asked. ¡°Two months. Sometimes more.¡± ¡°But not more than three,¡± I rified, and he shook his head. ¡°Then when you say they take their servants with them¡­¡± That wasn¡¯t nearly a long enough time frame for even a shackled ve to die a natural death. ¡°The newly risen queen offered Gaius an unprecedented honor after the battle was won,¡± Sol said bleakly. ¡°A proper Egyptian burial for the legionnaires that we¡¯d lost, guaranteeing life after death for every one of them. To that end, she invited him to join her privately in observing the embalming of one of the fallen Egyptian generals. So he could see for himself the profundity of what he was being offered.¡± ¡°He brought you along with him,¡± I concluded. ¡°The general took three servants with him into the afterlife,¡± Sol exined, confirming it without pausing. ¡°They stripped each of them down, and before our eyes they cut open their throats as the ves prayed over their master¡¯s corpse. Then they gutted them all.¡± ¡°I take it your uncle opted out of that one,¡± I murmured. ¡°We burnt the corpses that day. The queen assured us there was more than enoughnd avable to bury them intact, but we didn¡¯t trust the Egyptians not to go digging them up after.¡± ¡°Disgusting savages.¡± For once, Sol readily agreed to my sentiment. ¡°They don¡¯t view even intrinsic things the same way that you and I do,¡± he went on. ¡°Life and death are hardly distinct concepts to them at all - their cultivators don¡¯t measure sess in the avoidance of death, but in the execution of it. Their model of the soul has eight parts rather than the Broad¡¯s three, and they believed that if a man led a virtuous life and his corpse was properly observed, his vital breath would find its way back to his body after death. Reanimate it and change its form.¡± ¡°Naturally. And I¡¯m sure you saw the truth of that in motion,¡± I said wryly. When he didn¡¯t respond, I raised myself up on my elbows, eyes widening. ¡°You did? Truly?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡± He scowled, more at himself than at me. ¡°Some of the things that I saw there¡­ I can¡¯t exin them, even now. Gaius told me once that the worst institutions of any culture are generally also the ones that linger. All I can say of Egypt is that it¡¯s had more time than any living nation to rue those ugly institutions.¡± I reached up andid a hand on his shoulder, feeling the tension beneath his skin. ¡°Infernal or not, they can¡¯t be that bad,¡± I assured him. ¡°You managed to bring them down, after all.¡± He sighed. ¡°Maybe.¡± That storm built slowly in his eyes. ¡°Or maybe we just didn¡¯t recognize their victory when we saw it in their hands.¡± The eddies of a Hero¡¯s influence washed over us, and Sol¡¯s expression cooled as he turned to regard the source. Burying the memories once again. ¡°Solus!¡± Scythas called out to us from far down the beach, waving an arm emphatically. ¡°I¡¯ve found a ship!¡± About time. Chapter 1.73 Chapter 1.73 The Son of Rome We moved with purpose through the dock city. It was a good day for sailing, as far as I could tell - though admittedly I was far from an expert. The abundance of blue-backed tuna, mackerel, and vibrant dorado on disy spoke to good fishing if nothing else. I even spotted a few mongers a bit further down the beach hauling swordfish asrge as their torsos. The sight alone was enough to provoke my hunger, evoking vivid memories of the roasted filets Griffon had served at the Kronia. I debated my next impulse within myself for a moment, but hunger won out in the end. Selene had done her best to smuggle me a few things here and there while I was in the Gadfly¡¯s tender care, minding my health when my mentor would not. There was no substitute for fresh meat, though. ¡°How much for that one?¡± I demanded of the next fishmonger that tried to pass me with his haul. He hesitated, ncing around to see if I was talking to anyone else. ¡°Try a civilized tongue,¡± Griffon suggested. The fishmonger fidgeting in front of me could have been from any of the free city-states, as far as I knew, or he could have been from somewhere else entirely. His features were squat and unassuming, just the wrong side of ugly, and his skin was wrinkled and leather-tanned by the nature of his work. He didn¡¯t look any younger than thirty, but his soul was still dormant. The shard of nameless stone from Babylon had left its mark on me in a vague and profound way. I had no way of knowing what Greek dialect or other far-flung tongue he spoke, yet when I called upon the memory of reading the foundational myths off that shard, my pneuma sprang forth from the back of my throat and coated my tongue. ¡°How much for the swordfish?¡± I asked the monger again, the words Latin and every othernguage at once. The monger blinked and held up his catch. ¡°As is, sir?¡± My hunger reared up. ¡°From your hands to mine.¡± The monger gave Griffon and I a once over, lingering on the battered bronze breastte Socrates had lent me, as well as Griffon¡®s sheathed sword and cult attire. He seemed toe to a decision within himself, shoulder slumping just slightly, and rattled off a nonsense sum of a currency I only vaguely recognized. ¡°I have no money,¡± I said tly. The monger swallowed down his first response to that, casting around for an ally in the seaside markets and finding none that would meet his eyes. ¡°Don¡¯t have much either, myself. Pardon me for saying it, but I¡¯ve got a family to feed-¡± ¡°I¡¯ll work for it.¡± Griffon snorted. The monger regarded me with polite disbelief, strained to the limits of courtesy. It was an expression I had seen on more than one centurion¡¯s face in my early days as a tribune. ¡°You¡¯ll work for it,¡± he repeated, squinting as if the sun¡¯s re might have distorted his view of me. ¡°Ain¡¯t you a cultivator?¡± ¡°Solus!¡± Scythas called again, close enough now for even the mongers to see the Heroic mes burning behind his eyes. ¡°You¡¯re with the Hero?¡± he asked, aghast. ¡°The Hero is with us,¡± Griffon corrected him lightly. The monger inhaled a shaking breath. ¡°Right. Alright. Then, if it pleases the wise men, I¡¯ll trade for a word of advice.¡± My eyebrows drew down. ¡°You¡¯ll what?¡± ¡°The monger wants to hear a thinking man¡¯s opinion,¡± Griffon exined for my benefit. ¡°Fortunately, it seems he¡¯s willing to settle for yours instead.¡± ¡°I offered to work for it,¡± I rified, ignoring my Greekpanion now that he was back to himself. ¡°I¡¯m quick on my feet and strong enough. Point me to a task and I¡¯ll see it done.¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t take you for a haggler,¡± Griffon mused. I gave him an ugly look. ¡°I¡¯m just telling him to take his money¡¯s worth.¡± ¡°Hn. You don¡¯t seem to understand, so I¡¯ll enlighten you,¡± the former Young Aristocrat of the Rosy Dawn said, throwing his arm across my shoulders. ¡°The monger is trying to get his money¡¯s worth out of you. A Greek philosopher¡¯s word is worth more than any sailor¡¯sbor. It isn¡¯t unheard of for even a small morsel of wisdom to awaken a man to his ce in the world, depending on the question asked and how well the philosopher artictes his answer.¡± Awaken a man to his ce in the world. There was only one thing that could mean in this context - the birth of a cultivator. But that hardly made any sense at all. ¡°That¡¯s all it takes?¡± ¡°At times,¡± Griffon confirmed. ¡°But that¡¯s so¡­¡± I struggled to find a word that wasn¡¯t disparaging. ¡°Soft.¡± I failed. Griffon snickered. Mottled color darkened the monger¡¯s face, flushing at the curious looks his fellow sailors were sending his way. ¡°I suppose where youe from the journey begins upon enlistment?¡± He waited for me to snap something back, and when I didn¡¯t he groaned. ¡°Oh, you can¡¯t be serious-¡± ¡°Ask your question and give me my fish,¡± I told the weathered fishmonger. The man visibly gathered his courage, set his shoulders, and looked me in my eyes. Griffon may have spent his life sparring with words as often as with fists, but I had not. If I had been a better student, perhaps I would have picked up Aristotle¡®s easy rhetoric or Gaius¡¯ stirring diction. But I was not, and I had not. Labor I could do. But advice of this kind was beyond me. He would be disappointed, of that I was all but certain. ¡°I¡¯ve lost the clothes off my back five times since I joined Fat Nelp¡¯s crew,¡± he said in a rush, flopping the swordfish tail at a group of simrly grimy sailors loitering by a beached fishing skiff and pretending not to listen in. ¡°Those whoresons keep thrashing me at dice and telling me to put my wife on the table when I run out of coin. How do I beat them?¡± ¡°I take back what I said before,¡± Griffon said incredulously. ¡°A schr of profound mystery stands before you, and you¡¯re asking for tips on dice? Do you have any idea-¡± I held up a silencing hand, regarding the fishmonger seriously. ¡°Listen to me closely.¡± ¡°You have a problem.¡± ¡°Several,¡± I agreed. The swordfish wasn¡¯t thergest I had ever seen caught, but it was fresh and the taste of it was sweet enough to remind me why even gods above hunger still ate at times. ¡°If you were half as passionate about the refinement of your soul as you are about gambling, the Fates wouldn¡¯t stand a chance against you.¡± I sank my teeth into swordfish well-earned and savored its vor. Seabirds hopped and fluttered around in our wake, snapping up the undesirable scales and offal as I tossed them aside. I stepped lightly - objectively, the bone dice I had given the fishmonger to punctuate my lecture didn¡¯t weigh enough for me to really notice their absence. But the spirit was another matter entirely. I felt nearly naked without them. ¡°I could have saved myself days and weeks of effort back then,¡± Griffonmented. ¡°If I had only known a handful of carved bone was all it took, I could have made this whole journey a wager and yed you in a game for it.¡± ¡°You could have.¡± I pried a thin bone out from between my teeth with my tongue and spat it out into the sea. ¡°But you would have lost every time.¡± ¡°I never lose the same game twice.¡± ¡°You¡¯ve never yed me twice.¡± The air between us was tense with future promise when we made it to our Heroicpanion and the captain of the vessel he had acquired for us. ¡°Finally.¡± Scythas took silent note of the bloodied knuckles of my left hand and Griffon''s split lip, satisfaction in his eyes¡¯ golden coals. I supposed that as he saw it, I had sent him off alone so that I could discipline my student properly for his attitude. ¡°It took some time, but I found us a charter that¡¯s willing to sail east. This man¡¯s name is Boli - he¡¯ll be the one taking us.¡± ¡°Greetings.¡± The captain offered his hand and I took it. If the swordfish¡¯s blood and oil coating my hand bothered him, he didn¡¯t show it. He was a lean man, dark-haired with a mortal sailor¡¯splexion and a con man¡¯s easy smile. ¡°The Hero tells me you boys are gearing up for a bit of a journey.¡± ¡°Just running a few errands,¡± I replied, taking onest bite out of my fish and tossing the rest to the birds. ¡°Is that what it is?¡± he chuckled. ¡°Suppose it might be for someone of your standing. Lately though, us crude men give the Aegean a bit more respect than that. I imagine that¡¯s why the good Hero made it this far down the beach before he found someone who¡¯d take his money.¡± Griffon¡¯s head tilted. ¡°And why is that?¡± The weathered captain raised an eyebrow. ¡°The Raging Heaven Cult¡¯s lost their kyrios. I¡¯ve heard of cultivators seeking istion, but you couldn¡¯t avoid that news if you tried.¡± ¡°We know,¡± I said. ¡°What does that have to do with sailing?¡± Boli shrugged. ¡°Same thing as a red sun at dawn, if I had to guess. Poor omen. Doesn¡¯t help that most of the ships that were out east when the kyrios passed have yet to make it back.¡± Griffon and I shared a look. ¡°Then why are you risking it?¡± he asked the obvious question. Scythas answered in the captain¡¯s ce, bouncing a leather pouch in his hand so that the coins inside of it could be heard striking one another. ¡°I¡¯ve never been able to turn down a good deal,¡± the captain confessed. ¡°It¡¯s why I have a wife for every major port and a crew that most captains wouldn¡¯t bother pissing on. That¡¯s them over there.¡± He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. I raised an eyebrow. ¡°Your crew or your wives?¡± ¡°Cultivators are truly cruel,¡± Boli said ruefully. ¡°Them?¡± Griffon asked. ¡°The ones loitering by the decrepit skiff?¡± Scythas winced as the former Young Aristocrat stalked past, and I nearly did the same when I saw it for myself. ¡°Was the ship a bargain, too?¡± ¡°Might as well have been free,¡± he said proudly. Scythas and I joined Griffon at the stern of the beach ship. The crew scattered, likely as much due to the look on Griffon¡¯s face as the orders Boli started hollering at them. We examined the vessel in silence. I walked a slow circle around it while Griffon pressed and prodded at it with pankration hands. ¡°It¡¯s the best we¡¯re going to find,¡± Scythas finally said, unable to bear our silent judgment. ¡°For now, at least. Once we make it to the port at Krokos we can charter something sturdier.¡± ¡°Ifwe make it,¡± Griffon murmured. Scythas scowled. ¡°You¡¯re free to walk this beach yourself if you think you¡¯ll find something better.¡± ¡°Far from a high hurdle. We might be better off swimming.¡± ¡°We could walk,¡± I muttered, considering the paths avable. ¡°If we skirted Macedonia¡­¡± ¡°We¡¯d be at this for years,¡± Griffon said, waving the suggestion off. ¡°Three months is already a steep enough task without trying to march it.¡± Behind us, the captain Boli¡®s voice rose in anger. Arguing with someone further up the shore about prices. Some market dispute or another. I ran my hand along the ship¡¯s keel. It felt nothing at all like the Eos had, and looked nearly rotten byparison. The ship¡¯s sail was tied up, but I could still see patchwork colors that differed from the rest in its folds. Tears that had been mended. ¡°You have some experience with sailing,¡± I said quietly. Scythas grimaced and nodded once. ¡°Is this vessel capable of the kind of sailing we may need it for?¡± Could it outrun a real ship? We could add ourselves to the crew¡¯s efforts, but past a certain point the ship would have to do the work. To say that I was a novice seafarer would have been an understatement. I couldn¡¯t tell one way or another if this would be enough. The ship inspired little confidence in me, but if Scythas said it would suffice then I would take him at his word. The Hero of the Scything Squall gripped the starboard rail. ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡± ¡°I do,¡± Griffon dered, pacing around the ship to our side. ¡°I know it won¡¯t. And so does this one.¡± A ragged young man followed close behind the former Young Aristocrat, an eager smile stretching his chapped lips. Rail-thin with a former ve¡¯s brutally misshapen posture, he nheless thrust out an unchained hand and gripped my forearm as tight as a mortal man could when I returned the gesture. His forearm was so thin that the tips of my thumb and middle finger touched when I gripped it. ¡°Terrible ship, sir,¡± was his cheerful greeting. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t sail it through a bathhouse.¡± He was missing three teeth in the top row and two in the bottom, grouped in such a way that I knew they had been knocked out rather than rotten. ¡°Where did this mane from?¡± I asked Griffon, confused. ¡°I was trying to get Boli¡¯s attention so I could have him address some concerns,¡± the leonine cultivator exined, his disgust clear, ¡°but he was too preupied haggling with this one¡¯s friend to pay me any mind. This wretch did see me, fortunately, and ran over to confirm my suspicions.¡± Scythas looked ready to spit blood. ¡°You¡¯re taking his word for it?¡± ¡°Why not? This sorry ship reeks of fish and has mores than rowing benches. Who would know a fishing vessel better than a monger?¡± ¡°I¡¯m no fishmonger, sir.¡± The young man was as unbothered by the assumption of his upation as he was the name Griffon had called him. He raised both arms and flexed, and to his credit what little flesh he had was pure muscle and enduring sinew. His eyes crinkled, brown and vibrant as he dered, ¡°I¡¯m a mercenary!¡± ¡°Ho? And what sort of rate does a mercenary charge with a body like yours? Show me your weapon of choice.¡± He was no cultivator, that much was clear. He didn¡¯t have a cloth to cover his emaciated torso, let alone arms and armor of any sort. To call him a wretch was unkind - but it wasn¡¯t a lie. ¡°Not that type of mercenary, sir. Rather than a soldier for hire, think of me as an ethically ambiguous ferryman.¡± He pped one of the decrepit ship¡¯s oars. ¡°This right here is the only weapon I need to do my work.¡± ¡°You¡¯re trying to poach our business,¡± I realized. Up the beach, Boli¡¯s crew were meandering their way through stalls over to their captain and the man he was heatedly arguing with. The mercenary ferry¡¯spanion didn¡¯t look much more promising than him, but the man¡¯s running mouth didn¡¯t once falter even as they surrounded him. ¡°We¡¯re bound for Thracia, you understand that?¡± Scythas said. ¡°We¡¯ll have you there and back before you know it!¡± ¡°And what will it cost us?¡± Griffon asked, as if he was the one paying. The mercenary opened his mouth. ¡°Free!?¡± Boli exploded, and the mercenary nodded happily while we all turned to look. The captain Scythas had secured shoved the mercenary¡®spanion back, nearly throwing the simrly emaciated man clear off his feet. ¡°You¡¯ll take my charter and you¡¯ll do it for free? What do you think you¡¯re ying at!?¡± ¡°That is a bargain,¡± Griffon mused. ¡°What¡¯s your name, ferryman?¡± ¡°Hoiple, should it please you!¡± ¡°I think it might.¡± ¡°You¡¯d be fool enough trying a scam like that on mortal men, let alone two cultivators and a Hero,¡± Boli berated the mercenary¡¯spanion while we approached. The captain¡¯s collection ofyabouts and drunks pressed in, forming a ring around them. ¡°If I was a righteous man I¡¯d let you try it and reap your earned reward. But I¡¯m not, and I¡¯m being paid far too much to let you do as you wish.¡± ¡°The only deceitful man here is you,¡± the mercenary''spanion fired back without hesitation. ¡°Naming obscene rates like you¡¯re the Hero and not the one transporting him.¡± ¡°The supplier names the rate!¡± Boli thundered. ¡°The client decides whether it¡¯s fair to pay - that¡¯s how clean business is done!¡± ¡°Your rate is too high!¡± ¡°Right, of course! I should drag my men from their families and brave the bleak Aegean for nothing at all, just like you.¡± Boli rounded on us, his men parting to allow us into the circle. ¡°Is this your doing? Lather me up and let me name my price, then send in your proxy to threaten me with an undercut?¡± ¡°Please,¡± Griffon scoffed. ¡°If I cared enough to haggle I¡¯d have done it myself.¡± Boli looked at me. My eyes rolled. ¡°If this was my doing, he¡¯d have at least started off with a believable number.¡± ¡°We¡¯re here of our own ord,¡± Hoiple asserted, standing between Griffon and I. ¡°And you can be gone of my ord.¡± The captain hacked and spat phlegm on the mercenary¡®s bare chest. ¡°Fuck off.¡± The man in the middle of the sailor ring lunged forward and punched Boli in the jaw. A short while and some venomous cursingter, I dumped both mercenaries in the sand behind me. Griffon hummed an absent tune, a pankration hand holding each sailor up off the ground while another pankration hand eachzily smacked their faces. Scythas, for his part, held the captain back while he howled for blood. I crossed my arms. ¡°You wanted our attention? You have it. What¡¯s your real price?¡± ¡°Could be abor of love. Perhaps they admire the great Hero and his pretty lips,¡± Griffon suggested, returning Scythas¡¯ ugly look with a smile. ¡°That¡¯s twice you¡¯ve mentioned his lips today,¡± I pointed out. Griffon snorted. Returning to the supposed mercenaries, I rolled my wrist. ¡°Speak.¡± ¡°Lae and I are new hires, sir,¡± Hoiple exined. ¡°The boys picked us up a few weeks back and told us to keep an eye out for a gold-haired cultivator in fancy red silks. Said he¡¯d probably have a mean looking bastard with him forpany. Begging your pardon, sir, but Lae and I figured that was you.¡± ¡°You figured right,¡± Griffon assured them, his pankration limbs abruptly flinging Boli¡¯s crew out into the Ionian. He sidled up beside me and looked curiously down on the two mercenaries. ¡°So then. Who is it that¡¯s been looking for me, and why are they offering to do my work for free?¡± ¡°Not for free, sir,¡± Lae said. He was every bit as emaciated as Hoiple, but his bushy eyebrows and his dark, heavy beard gave him an illusion of greater fortitude. ¡°The boys charge a king¡¯s fortune for their services. It¡¯s just that you two paid up front.¡± ¡°Here theye now,¡± Hoiple said, rising up and waving cheerily at the distant serpentinene of the breakwater. ¡°This is a joke,¡± Boli said furiously. ¡°Worse than that, it¡¯s a waste of my -¡± Scythas tossed him down face first, eyes wide as he looked out over the Ionian. ¡°Is that-?¡± he breathed. Griffon hummed. ¡°Well now. There¡¯s a sight for sore eyes.¡± ¡°Thank you, but we¡¯ll be taking their offer instead,¡± I informed the sputtering captain. Griffon and I set off with Scythas in tow to greet the Eos. Chapter 1.74 [The Caged Dove] Chapter 1.74 [The Caged Dove] Athis The Caged Dove Life in the Rosy Dawn Cult was miserable. Athis knew it was an ungrateful sorrow. From the very beginning, her prospects had been hopelessly bleak. That she had survived a year and then half a year again without any scars to show for it was miraculous enough already. When an initiate of a greater mystery cult considered even the natural born citizens of their city to be a lesser existence, it went without saying that their ves were worth about as much to them as a loyal dog. Sometimes less. The rtive safety she had enjoyed from the whimsical cruelties of cultivators within the cult thus far was nothing short of a divine blessing. Yet every day seemed dimmer than thest. It felt to Athis like the sun roseter each morning, and every evening earlier it fell. Pervicas had assured her that that was impossible the one time she had spoken of it, promised her that winter was behind them rather than up ahead. Somehow, Athis didn¡¯t believe her. Her duties came easier to her now. The Rosy Dawn Cult was an institution built upon natural mystery, but it was still an institution - and thus cyclical in its ways. Athis had experienced the various holidays and traditions that the cult observed in her first year as a ve, and the work was much the same as she entered her second year. It was something they whispered like a prayer on the truly bad nights, when one of the new additions was sobbing too loudly for the rest of them to sleep in their shared quarters. It will pass. Some chores were universal -undering clothes, preparing meals, gathering water. It will get easier. Others sprang up around holy days - the nting of lettuce and fennel seeds for the Adonia, the brewing of tonics for young men participating in the Heraea, the decoration of doors withurel and olive branches bound by wool for the Pyanopsia, and on and on. All of them pleasant enough but for the Thargelia. Athis despised the Thargelia. The first time is the worst, their seniors within the female ve ss would promise, grave as any priestesses. The first year, the first punishment, the first night in a mystiko¡¯s bed. Nothing hurts quite as bad the second time. All things will pass. Even this. They all offered that prayer up to heaven every morning when they woke and every night before they slept. Athis was beginning to wonder if anyone would ever listen. ¡°Pivot! Brace! Thrust!¡± ¡°HAA!¡± Athis crept silently around the perimeter of the training in progress, collecting discarded piles of scarlet and white silks as she went. Pervicas was stuck in the kitchens for the afternoon, but Athis was still far from alone in her work. Working women followed behind her,ying down clean cult attire to rece what had been discarded. Others collected empty jugs and reced them with full containers of clear water or diluted spirit wine. ¡°Pivot! Brace! Thrust!¡± ¡°HAA!¡± In the center of an enclosed courtyard essible only to the women and girls of the Rosy Dawn Cult, the Young Miss Lydia Aetos was conducting martial practice with her junior sisters. ¡°Pivot! Brace! Thrust!¡± ¡°HAA!¡± The young women of the Rosy Dawn stood in orderly ranks, eight to a row and eight columns deep. Each of them carried a spear, each one unique to the initiate holding it. Some were in by a cultivator¡¯s standards,petently made but otherwise unadorned. Others were more art than armament - beautifully carved poles decorated with paint, some tied with ribbons and others topped by exotics spearheads. And others still were notched and weathered, distinguished by their visible use. In the pre-training chatter and over the course of all of her shifts in this courtyard, Athis had overheard the stories behind most of those spears. The ones that had seen use were heirlooms, treasured relics passed down from the mothers and grandmothers that came before them. The shier spears were nearly all tokens of favor, either from suitors within the cult or wealthy citizens down in the valley city. The unadorned weapons were the product of first generation initiates, a final gift from their proud families or one of their first purchases as cultivators of virtue. As with everything else, the equipment an initiate brought with them was as much a deration of their value as what they did with it. The order in which they formed their ranks reflected this. First generation to the rear, martial heirs and favored daughters to the front. ¡°Pivot! Brace! Thrust!¡± ¡°HAA!¡± Lydia Aetos stood apart from the eight-by-eight formation, facing them and calling out the pace. Pivot, and each girl spun to face her right side. Brace, and she set her feet, calves and thighs tensing. Thrust, and every young woman in attendance jabbed her spear forward, shouting in perfect unison. The next pivot brought them back to center, and the one after that took them left. Then back to center again. It was one of many martial drills, and every bit as taxing as the rest despite its simplicity. The mystikos in attendance were all dripping sweat by this point, their pale skin shimmering like they¡¯d oiled it. In the privacy of the courtyard they trained as their male counterparts did, entirely nude. Those carrying greater burdens followed the Young Miss¡¯ example and bound their chests with strips of linen, but nothing more than that was worn. Athis had needed a few sessions to limate herself to the view. She didn¡¯t know much about cultivating virtue, but the term refinement was all too apt as a description of the process. In her experience, even the least attractive cultivator in a courtyard full of them was a sight worth admiring. Pervicas had teased her relentlessly that first afternoon, pinched her flushed cheeks and asked if she should be worried that the bonded girls all shared a bath. But she had understood. They all had. None of them had been untouched by awe the first time theyid eyes on an initiate of greater mystery, exposed in all their glory. Well, none of them but- ¡°Quickly now,¡± an older girl whispered in her ear. Athis sighed shakily and moved on to the next discarded pile. None of them but Solus. Athis and her fellow ves moved on to the adjoining baths once clothing and refreshment had been properlyid out in the courtyard. Pots of olive oil were ced around the rims of the steaming pools, and bonded women paced around the edges tossing fragrances into the pools from reed baskets. Petals of iris, cistus, and rose, along with cinnamon and mint leaves, all floated atop the water in dizzying quantities. Small, personal containers of perfume were set aside as well, property of those among the initiates that could afford to have them distilled. When the baths were ready there was nothing to do but wait for them toe. They took up their scraping tools and made idle conversation, enjoying a short break in a fragrant setting. Athis sat with her knees tucked to her chest and gripped her strigil with both hands, silently staring at her reflection in the pool. She did not offer her own input to the conversations going on around her, and without Pervicas there to force the issue, the other ves left her to herself. It wasn¡¯t cruelty orck of care. They could simply tell she didn¡¯t want to talk. A few of the more reckless women among them dared to run their hands through the hot and fragrant waters, dabbing it on their faces and necks. A ve¡¯s perfume, they called it. Of course, that was all they dared to do. None of them were mad enough to dip their feet in- Ah. Even in this ce, she couldn¡¯t escape thoughts of him. The young marble beauties of the Rosy Dawn finished up their martial training soon enough, quenching their immediate thirst with the jugs left out in the courtyard before making their way to the baths. Exhausted but in high spirits, theirughter and yful arguments soon filled the bathhouse. Athis waited with her head down for an initiate to present themselves for cleansing. When one finally did, marble smooth calves and deceptively delicate feet entering her vision, she looked up and her breath caught. Lydia Aetos stared piercingly down at her. ¡°Well?¡± The strigil was a curved de without any sharp edges, a tool for scraping away oil and grime from the body. Athis dragged it up and down the Young Miss¡¯ body, cleansing her of sweat with every pass. Despite having just finished a martial session that hadsted the entire afternoon, her breath was steady and her eyes were clear. Neither of them spoke until the Young Miss turned and presented her back for scraping. ¡°Your name is Athis.¡± The strigil faltered in its path. If it had possessed an edge, she would have drawn the Young Miss¡¯ blood. Inexcusable. ¡°It is, honored miss.¡± They were the first words she had spoken all day. ¡°You¡¯ve been here for over a year now,¡± Lydia Aetos observed, lifting both arms and sping her hands above her head so that Athis could reach her underarms and sides. ¡°Recently, you¡¯ve spent all of your time in the portions of the estates reserved for women.¡± Had she asked around for that information, or had she taken note of Athis herself? She wasn¡¯t sure which possibility unsettled her more. ¡°Yes,¡± she whispered. The duties of a ve were ubiquitous regardless of gender. There were some things only a bonded woman would be expected to do, as was the case for a bonded man, but the majority of chores simply had to be done. It wasmon sense that every female ve would sequester themselves in feminine spaces if she could. Although there were predators among the marble beauties of the Rosy Dawn, they existed in far fewer numbers than the predators among the cult¡¯s men. But there just wasn¡¯t enough work of that kind to go around. That Athis had not seen a man except from a distance in over a month was no coincidence. No one had that kind of luck. She was being shielded in the only way that her senior sisters could shield her. By giving her the small slivers of sanctuary that they all so dearly cherished. It was a consideration that she did not deserve, and a guilt that festered every day she selfishly epted their kindness anyway. ¡°What has your experience been here?¡± the Young Miss asked, shifting her stance so Athis could scrape the sweat from her inner thighs. ¡°I cannotin, miss.¡± More than anything, those words were true. ¡°No. I suppose you can¡¯t.¡± Lydia Aetos stepped lightly to the edge of the heated pool, smiling briefly when a few of her junior sisters sshed water her way and dared her to jump in. She sat instead. Her feet kicked gently in the fragrant bathwater while she unwound her blonde hair from its braids. Athis quietly wished her an enjoyable bath and hurried away, to safety from piercing blue eyes and pointed conversation- ¡°Stop.¡± What else could she do? ¡°Sit with me,¡± the Young Missmanded, and the caged dove obeyed. Athis tucked her legs underneath her and gripped her strigil as hard as she could so her hands wouldn¡¯t shake. ¡°You¡¯re afraid of me. Why?¡± Before Athis could even begin to think of a proper answer, she continued, ¡°Have I ever been cruel to the women of this cult? Any of them, even the ves?¡± ¡°No, Miss.¡± Not that she had heard of, at any rate. If anything, the aristocratic children of the Rosy Dawn Cult - the young pirs as the mystikos called them - were umonly kind for their status. Casual cruelty was an expectation as much as a fear the higher up thedder you went, yet the Aetos children were rarely more than indifferent to the servants of their eastern mountain range. The greatest of them, the Hero Niks Aetos, was kind by any standard - the older servants among them said he had always been that way. Though with wandering eyes and flushed faces, several had confessed that the Hero had changed in other ways since he first left the Rosy Dawn. The youngest, Myron Aetos, was as considerate as a child his age could be and prone to endearing imitations of the people he admired. Castor Aetos was easily distracted and at times a ruinous flirt, but never vindictive. Rena Aetos was sweeter than honey and generally subdued, though a few of the senior serving girls were wary of her for reasons they wouldn¡¯t disclose. Even Heron Aetos, for all his proclivities and his harsh tongue, had only ever tried to strike a ve once as far as anyone knew. It hadn¡¯t ended well for him. Lydia Aetos was no different from her siblings and cousins in that regard. She was distant, even at times to her own junior sisters, but Athis had never heard of her doing anything untoward to a ve - especially not a woman. None among the young pirs were prone to excessive cruelty, not even the Young Aristocrat- Athis clenched her eyes shut. The former Young Aristocrat. ¡°Tell me then, if I¡¯ve never done so before, why do you look like you¡¯re about to be struck down?¡± The Young Miss asked her. She slid slowly into the pool until the steaming waters were up to her neck, rinsing her face and hair. ¡°I have no reason to hate you.¡± ¡°Not me, no.¡± The words came, and from the corners of her eyes Athis saw eavesdropping servants seize up in rm. They urged her to shut her mouth with silent looks. ¡°The Roman,¡± Lydia said tly. She supposed it was toote now. ¡°Sol-¡± ¡°Don¡¯t,¡± she snapped, and the only mystikos that didn¡¯t look their way were the ones that had already been pretending not to listen. Athis knew, deep in her bones, that she would be tempting the Fates if she voiced the word on her lips. ¡°Solus.¡± She met Lydia Aetos¡¯ wrathful stare. ¡°His name is Solus.¡± It was the smallest possible defiance she could have offered. It was all a caged dove could do. For a long, terrifying moment, Athis awaited death. She had no cultivator sense like what Solus and some of the other ves in iron chains had described. She had no way of knowing if or when the Young Miss would strike her. All she knew was that if it happened, she would have no chance of stopping it. Lydia Aetos red at her for her cheek, and all she could do was stare right back. ¡°You love him,¡± Lydia finally said, her voice deathly soft. ¡°As I love him.¡± Athis knew that the first and second ¡®him¡¯ were not the same person. Even the lowest servants in the Rosy Dawn Cult knew the story of what had taken ce the night of Niks Aetos¡¯ wedding. ¡°I don¡¯t,¡± she said anyway. Shook her head and pressed the dull edge of her scraping tool against her thighs. ¡°Liar,¡± Lydia Aetos condemned her. In all her life, Athis had only suffered scorn of such intensity a few times. And of those few painful memories, this one hurt the worst by far. Because it was earned. ¡°I don¡¯t,¡± Athis insisted again, even so. To her quiet horror, she heard the promise of tears in her voice. ¡°E-even if I did, it wouldn¡¯t matter. He¡¯s gone now.¡± ¡°No.¡± The Young Miss shook her head once. ¡°He was never here in the first ce.¡± A different ¡®he¡¯ again. Whatever it was the other girls felt in her pneuma or heard in her voice, even the most brazen of her junior sisters turned their heads away. Offering what privacy they could. ¡°What do you mean?¡± Athis asked, though she knew she didn¡¯t want to know. Lydia Aetos reached up and pressed a single finger to Athis¡¯ chest, directly over her heart. ¡°His heart was somewhere else from the very start,¡± she said. ¡°There¡¯s no capturing what wasn¡¯t present to begin with. You never had a chance, and you never will for as long as you live here. Because you had the misfortune of falling in love with a great man, and great men follow their hearts unto death.¡± Athis blinked rapidly, the bathhouse steam obscuring her vision. ¡°Tell me that I¡¯m wrong.¡± ¡°No,¡± she choked out. ¡°You¡¯re not.¡± ¡°You never had a chance, because the you that exists here in this moment could not possibly survive the life he intends to live. There is no ce for you in his heart. Not as you are. Tell me, ve - are you content with that?¡± Lio Aetos¡¯ disgraced fianc¨¦ asked her quietly. For the first time in over a month, maybe in all her life, Athis admitted to herself the truth. ¡°No.¡± She wasn¡¯t. A chorus of gasps and exmations flooded the bathhouse, along with a sensation that was like dozens of breezes of differing intensity brushing across the surface of her skin and deeper at the same time. Athis inhaled a shuddering breath while tears crept down her cheeks, and it filled her lungs to the point she thought they¡¯d burst. Lydia Aetos stood from the bath and started walking, beckoning her to follow. ¡°Good. Neither am I.¡± Chapter 1.75 Chapter 1.75 The Young Griffon As a boy first learning how to sail beneath my father¡¯s watchful eye, the Eos had seemed to me a daunting vessel. She wasrge for what she was. Not a trireme, not even a true war galley, butrger than any trade ship. My father had designed her in the Phoenician style - rather than the four-to-one ratio of a merchant vessel, or the eight-to-one ratio of a war galley, she was six-length to one-width. Too small to be a fighter, yet toorge for one boy alone tofortably manage her. Though, of course, I had in the end. When the prodigal son of thete Anargyros Aetos first received my father¡¯s blessing to venture out into the wider world, setting sail for greater shores, the Eos had seemed to me a lonely vessel. Niks, a senior Philosopher at the time, had led her over the horizon with the deft capability he showed in all things. But even so, there had been something bleak to the sight. The Aetos family watched from the docks - my father and his brothers and their wives, all of my cousins and I, all of us waiting for the one and only son of the family¡¯s broken pir to vanish into the horizon. To sail into the rosy dawn as it reared up in the east, one young man captaining alone a ship that had been built by four to serve eight. Niks Aetos left the Rosy Dawn, and with him he took the same spark that Anargyros Aetos had taken with him in his passing. My father sent him off with rare fondness. Weighed him down with trinkets and coins and told him never to return until he had sixpanions and a wife worth showing off to his family. He had hugged Niks tightly, and when my cousin drew me into the embrace as well it felt like I was the nephew instead of the son. The experience drove Lydia and Heron to tears, diverted Castor from his chosen path and left Rena despondent. It woke Myron¡¯s sleeping soul. My aunts and uncles saw him off with fierce encouragement and fond sorrow. They were proud of what he was and what they knew he would be, but even a temporary loss was a tragedy in its moment. For the brothers of thete Anargyros and for their wives, parting was bittersweet. For me, it had only been bitter. Half a decade passed before I saw the Eos again. Inguished in those years. I paced up and down the eastern mountain range in search of greater purpose and found nothing. I foraged through the Scarlet City¡¯s citizens and her mystikos in search of passion and found no one. I hunted within myself for a principle unmarred by apathy, and found every one of them was hollow. The day my cousin came home, I saw that the Eos had changed again. She had been a tragedy on breaking waves the day that Niks took her out. Five yearster, she returned as my deliverance. I had been all but certain I¡¯d never see her again after brightening Olympia¡¯s shores, confident that it was our tale together concluded. I was wrong. ¡°Tell it to us again, ?ib¨´t?,¡± Khabur, the old Thracian who knew over a hundred sea shanties, urged me while we skimmed the northern coast of the Aegean Sea. ¡°Tell us about the lightning!¡± A chorus of cheers went up from the other nine sea dogs on deck, galley ves that Sol and I had liberated from pirates the day we escaped the Rosy Dawn. The weeks since then had been kind to them. Each of them had gained much needed weight and the heavy lines of exhaustion had begun to smooth from their faces. Some marks were permanent, but those did nothing to dampen their high spirits. ¡°Again?¡± I raised an eyebrow, lounging with one leg crossed over the other and my right cheek propped up by a fist. My throne of rowing benches differed slightly from how I¡¯d left it, but to the crew¡¯s credit they had reassembled it as best they could without being prompted. ¡°A story is never as good the second time you hear it, you know. Why ruin it with repetition?¡± Groans and protestations were my response. I chuckled and obliged them. They had been working themselves to the bone thest few days, after all, hardly stopping to sleep and taking food and drink only while they rowed. Sol had told them to pace themselves and I had not disagreed, but there was a determination in each of those sea dogs that would not be stifled. I supposed the least I could do was entertain them. And if telling the same story twice meant dampening its luster, then I¡¯d simply tell a different one. The same event, but a different portion of it. ¡°The Raging Heaven Cult is an institution devoted to man¡¯s hubris,¡± I began. ¡°They decorate their bath houses with scenes of ruinous debauchery and fill their holy ces with relics and idols of history¡¯s greatest fools. As it turns out, their initiation rites are no different. ¡°Last time I told you of the Oracles that I convened with during my brief holiday in the immortal storm crown. This time, how would you dogs like to hear about the suffering memorials I encountered in my ascent - the cast down giants and disgraced kings punished personally by our own faceless divinity?¡± The sailors whooped and hollered in reply. I regaled them with stories of Sisyphus, twice risen king, of Porphyrion, Tyrant giant, as well as the rest of the tribtion statues that I had gathered my twenty iron des from. Disgraced Minos and defiled Pasiphae, Aktaion the voyeur, the starving Tyrant Erysichthon, and of course Ixion on his burning wheel. The sailors listened hungrily, if nothing else wise enough to know that this was knowledge any Civic cultivator would kill for. Knowledge of the Raging Heaven¡¯s rites. ¡°You shouldn¡¯t be telling them this,¡± Scythas muttered, leaning against the ship¡¯s mast and looking out at the distant coast off our port side. We¡¯d made good time to Thracia thus far. The sea dogs were giving it their best, and the hands of my pneuma were pulling right alongside them. ¡°I heard you thest time,¡± I acknowledged. ¡°I¡¯m serious. This, and that memory you smacked our faces with down in Bakkhos¡¯ estate. You may not care, but they will when they let slip the stories you¡¯ve told them in the wrongpany, and a cultivator tears them to pieces for their knowledge. Knowledge they shouldn¡¯t have.¡± I considered that. Cast of nce over the sea dogs, suddenly a bit more somber than before. ¡°Show of hands,¡± I said, raising my own demonstratively. ¡°Who here knows how to keep their mouth shut?¡± All ten of the former ves raised a hand from their oars. ¡°Put your hand down,¡± Sol ordered me from his ce at the front of the ship. I smirked and offered him a sacred family gesture. ¡°Knowing how and choosing to are entirely separate questions,¡± I said. To Scythas, I added, ¡°and what a man does with a gift he is given has nothing to do with the giver. My experiences are mine and no one else¡¯s - I am free to share them, as these sea dogs are free to hear them.¡± ¡°You know that isn¡¯t true,¡± Scythas disagreed, scowling at distant Thracia. ¡°Every mystiko swears the same oath the day they¡¯re inducted - a vow of secrecy against outsiders. How can those experiences be yours to share when experiencing them at all was contingent on keeping your mouth shut?¡± ¡°I never swore any such oath.¡± Scythas spat on the deck my father¡¯s hands had built. ¡°Then enlighten this lowly sophist. How did you experience these things at all?¡± ¡®Or did you?¡¯ went unsaid. ¡°You found me after the Gadfly split us up,¡± Sol exined for my benefit, though he didn¡¯t look up from the letter he was writing. ¡°Socrates dragged me down the mountain to Bakkhos¡¯ estate alone, but before that Griffon and I confronted him together. For his cheek, Socrates beat him bloody and tossed him up into the storm crown.¡± Scythas blinked, visibly processing that. I had specified for the sailors that I was alone when describing my audience with the Oracles, but I had not given them the context leading up to my plunge into baptismal lightning. Scythas alone had not been present at Elissa¡¯s home when I came down the mountain, nor had he been at the bathhouse when Socrates first confronted us. Why are you only just now telling him this? the raven in my shadow asked the raven in Sol¡¯s curiously, the two connected by the dark silhouette cast by the Eos¡¯ sail. I had other things on my mind. Liar. Sol quietly sighed, ncing up from his writing just long enough to pin me with a t stare across the deck. I had other things on my mind, such as the Tyrant Aleuas that sent him to assassinate me in the first ce. Ho? Now there was an interesting revtion. You fought Scythas and you didn¡¯t tell me? I think I might spit blood. It didn¡¯te to that. Largely because he thought I was a greater man than I actually am. He was willing to join me over Aleuas because he thought I was equally capable. If I had told him in that moment that Socrates had just recently wiped the floor with me and my ¡®student¡¯ both, that illusion would have been shattered. The raven in my shadowughed. The noise it produced was odd, a deep and gurgling caw. I wouldn¡¯t be so sure. In the wake of Chilon¡¯s story, Sol had decided to do the righteous thing for once and told the truth to ourpanions. As far as he was concerned, his captain''s speech had finally rified the matter of his strength for the six Heroic cultivators that had been wondering since meeting us. He didn¡¯t mind revealing what he perceived as weakness now because he assumed that Scythas had been stripped of all his delusions. I am no Tyrant, Sol had so furiously dered. I refuse to be associated in such a way with your elders. Sol had been so caught up in his own wrath at the Raging Heaven¡¯s injustice that he had failed to notice the implication of his wording, just as he had failed to properly answer Kyno when the Heroic Huntsman asked him what realm he upied within the Roman eight. I will tear your free cities apart, drink whatever divine elixir your gods fill their cups with, and topple all of your Tyrants if that is what it takes to gain the strength that I need. He had promised a room full of Heroes and Heroines this. Promised that he would destroy their homes, steal bread from the mouths of their gods, and cast down the pirs of their holy institutions. He had promised them ruin with that storm in his eyes, and dared them all to do something about it. And they hadn¡¯t. Sol thought his Heroic three had chosen to stick with him after that for the sake of camaraderie, born of mutually bleak circumstances - and that might have even been part of it. But looking back on it dayster, I suspected it was far from the deciding factor. Fortunately for my idiot Roman brother, the weakness he now feltfortable exposing was hardly a weakness at all so far as Scythas was concerned. The Gadfly had beaten us ck and blue, but that was to be expected. A Tyrant in his domain was nearly a god, but as far as ourpanions were concerned, the Tyrant Solus had left his domain behind when he came to Olympia. A Tyrant was still a Tyrant whether or not you found him on his throne, of course. But the Gadfly was the Gadfly just as well. ¡°If that¡¯s true,¡± Scythas finally, reluctantly, spoke, ¡°then I suppose telling ten mortal men secrets that the Raging Heaven would kill them for knowing is only cruelly reckless, rather than cruelly reckless and a vition of oaths.¡± I nodded graciously. ¡°However.¡± The Hero of the Scything Squall abruptly turned his head and leveled a finger at my face. ¡°That doesn¡¯t excuse the oath you broke when you assaulted us down in that courtyard. You may not have betrayed the Raging Heaven, but you did betray the Rosy Dawn.¡± My eyes rolled. ¡°I told you once already. I never swore such an oath.¡± ¡°And I suppose the Rosy Dawn¡¯s mystery was forced upon you just like the Raging Heaven¡¯s was?¡± ¡°You saw it for yourself,¡± I said, annoyed now. I had inundated all of them with my memory of first meeting the bisected corpse of the fallen sun god. In that moment my reality had be theirs and they had experienced it as I had experienced it, a three year old cradled in his father¡¯s arm. What sort of oath did he think a three year old could swear themselves to? They can¡¯t remember what you showed us, Sol¡¯s raven informed mine. Not that vividly Are you calling my rhetoric crude? No. Though it is. Scythas frowned. ¡°Solus. Is he telling the truth?¡± ¡°He is.¡± The frown deepened. ¡°How? Under what circumstances?¡± ¡°You¡¯d have to ask Damon Aetos,¡± Sol said simply, rolling up hispleted message and binding it before starting on another. Scythas grimaced, but didn¡¯t press further. Why wouldn¡¯t they remember that memory, when I still recall yours of the Conqueror¡¯s pearl city like I was there myself? My shadow demanded while my mind raced. I had recreated Chilon¡¯s rhetoric perfectly, I knew that like I knew the sun rose each day. The fault was theirs, or else I had overlooked something. But what? When our rites ended and we emerged from the eastern mountain range, there was a tear in my chiton that hadn¡¯t been there before. I assume it caught on something jagged while we were down there. You assume? I assume. Because I don¡¯t remember anything of that night except for the bisected corpse of the fallen sun god and your father looming over it. For all that I remember, you could have torn it. I forgot everything of myself in that moment. I think the only reason I can remember what you showed us is that I¡¯d already seen the corpse once before. Scythas is an initiate of the Howling Wind Cult. He witnessed greater mystery long before he met us. Maybe he did, Sol¡¯s raven croaked. Maybe it doesn¡¯t matter that he did. Maybe resistance to one has nothing to do with resistance to another. A thought that was as interesting as it was irritating. I grunted, banishing it from my mind for the moment. ¡°These men are free,¡± I decided, epassing all ten of the sea dogs that Sol and I had liberated. Each of them nodded and voiced vehement agreement in ten different tongues. ¡°If they choose to hang themselves with what I¡¯ve offered them, that is their prerogative. But I suppose if it bothers you that much, I can stop handing them more rope.¡± ¡°Thank you.¡± The Hero¡¯s tone was exasperated, but the words were genuine. ¡°It might even be for the best,¡± I mused. ¡°I can¡¯t say their judgement is sound.¡± ¡°?ib¨´t?!¡± Khubar the Thracian protested, along with a few others. I flicked the old man¡¯s temple with a pankration hand, making him yelp. ¡°I told you ugly dogs that the Scarlet City would reward you handsomely for returning this ship. Yet here I find you over a monthter, just as ugly and nearly as poor as you were before. The Hero raises a fair point, the longer that I think about it. How can I trust you to act in your own best interests now when you didn¡¯t before?¡± ¡°It wasn¡¯t that simple!¡± ¡°We owe you a debt-¡± ¡°What would we do if they took us for thieves?¡± ¡°We¡¯re all equally far from home-¡± Amidst the deluge of excuses, I tilted my head and looked curiously to the rear of the ship. ¡°And why did you choose to stay?¡± I asked the redheaded pirate boy currently scrubbing the deck. The crew hadn¡¯t kept him against his will, I¡¯d made sure of that as soon as I saw him on board. They had him doing the worst sort of grunt work, but they had assured Sol and I up and down that it was his choice to do it. The boy hadn¡¯t disagreed. The former pirate looked up from his work, scowled and shot me an ugly look. ¡°Where else was I supposed to go?¡± ¡°The bottom of the sea,¡± I suggested. ¡°Don¡¯t bully the child,¡± Sol called. ¡°He¡¯s not a child,¡± I called back. ¡°He¡¯s a bastard.¡± ¡°As if you were any better then,¡± he said, rolling up and sealing another message before tossing it into the air. Perched on the Eos¡¯ figurehead, Sorea snapped it up and swallowed it down. ¡°As if you¡¯re any better now,¡± Selene added lightly, pulling a translucent shawl from her head and abruptly existing beside Sol. My mind went curiously nk. Scythas flinched back and mmed his head against the mast. Some of the sea dogs dropped their oars, others cursed, and one screamed shrilly. ¡°¡­ is there something on my face?¡± The daughter of the oracle whispered loudly to the only man on the ship not surprised to see her there. Sol snorted. Chapter 1.76 Chapter 1.76 The Son of Rome Thracia, otherwise known as the nation with no definite boundaries, was a barbard in every sense of the word. Its cultures were unrefined, its peoples were savages, and its treatment even of allies was brutally cruel. My father as well as Aristotle had both told me stories of the Thracian tribes when I was a boy, and the Greek perspective had differed little from the Roman perspective. Northeast of Macedonia and separated from the Aegean Sea only by a thin line of coastal greek colonies, the greater territories of Thracia all too often spilled off the northern edge of any map that cared to name them - the one Socrates had given us being no exception. One of the most populous nations in the world, one of Gaius¡¯ logisticos had once confided in me that the only thing stopping Thracians from overtaking us all was the Thracians themselves. The only reason they weren¡¯t a nation to rival all others was the fact that they could hardly be called a nation at all. There had been a kingdom there, once, existing in the years between the Greeks breaking the Persian Empire¡¯s back and the rise of Alexander the Conqueror. Prior to that and since then, what the mapsbel Thracia has been more than anything a loose collection of tribal societies that the mapmakers couldn¡¯t be bothered to differentiate between. So when Socrates had marked with gold the portion of the mapbeled Thracia, he had essentially pointed a finger vaguely north of the Aegean Sea and told us to begone. For all the marker implied, we could find that golden cup of wine an hour off the coast or at the northern edge of the world. Thankfully, where the Gadfly hadcked, Scythas had provided. Though at the moment, he didn¡¯t have quite the right mindset to guide us. ¡°All this time? She was here all this time?¡± the Hero of the Scything Squall said in rising disbelief. ¡°How is that possible?¡± He wasn¡¯t the only one voicing such thoughts. The galley ves that Griffon and I had freed on our way to Olympia were hollering their ownints - from what I could discern, they were less aghast at the fact that a cultivator had avoided their notice for three days on a crowded ship, and more at the fact that said cultivator was a woman. I was no seaman, but even I knew that the only woman a sailor would tolerate on his ship was the one carved from wood at the bow. s. ¡°You didst longer than I thought you would,¡± I mused, smirking at Selene¡¯s betrayed look. ¡°I was certain you¡¯d crack when you realized the limits of that anonymity.¡± The daughter of the Scarlet Oracle - daughter of either Elena or Calliope, unless the current Oracle was a crone predating them - huffed and tossed one of the many ragged elements of her disguise at my face. ¡°You knew she was here from the start?¡± Scythas groaned and shook his head, splinters of wood flying from his hair. He¡¯d nearly broken the mast when he mmed the back of his head against it. ¡°Why am I surprised, of course you did-¡± ¡°How?¡± Griffon asked, the neutral tone of his words betrayed by the intensity of his scarlet gaze. He didn¡¯t need to speak to me through his shadow for his true feelings to be conveyed. How had Selene tricked his senses for three days straight when we had both managed to see through the Gadfly¡¯s disguise in his cave beneath the immortal storm crown of the Raging Heaven? And more importantly than that, how had I seen through it when he had not? ¡°Rhetoric is the art of persuasion,¡± I answered, addressing both questions as I met his hungry stare. ¡°A man¡¯s rhetoric can be refined or crude, impassioned or dull - those are secondary concerns. The only real measure that matters is whether or not his point is persuasive.¡± You may not like it, the raven in my shadow spoke to his when his eyes narrowed, but your discontent won¡¯t change reality. Not yet, was all he said in turn. ¡°What does that have to do with this?¡± Scythas asked, mirroring Griffon¡¯s curiosity without the corresponding belligerence. ¡°Men are stubborn and irreverent creatures, cultivators even more so,¡± I said, waving a hand at the bare chested Greek lounging on a throne of rowing benches. He scoffed when Scythas and most of the sailors nodded along to that point. Selene giggled. ¡°At times, depending on the topic and the man being persuaded, no rhetoric will ever be good enough. Other times, the man doing the persuading is his own obstacle.¡± I hadn¡¯t ever put it together as a child under his tutge, nor had I made the connection between my childhood mentor¡¯s lectures and the Gadfly¡¯s ability to walk through a crowded city without drawing a single eye. I hadn¡¯t made the connectionrgely because what Socrates did was different from what Aristotle did. I had needed a refresher on thetter to connect it to the former, and the story of the Aetos brothers had been exactly that. ¡°Aristotle used to warn me that a man¡¯s reputation was its own form of rhetoric,¡± I recalled. ¡°A passive rhetoric that follows you and requires no words - persuasion through past deeds.¡± ¡°Why was that a warning?¡± Scythas asked, puzzled. ¡°Because men are stubborn and irreverent creatures,¡± Griffon echoed my words, backed by understanding. I wasn¡¯t surprised in the slightest that he understood it at once. It had taken me years of service at Gaius¡¯ side to fully internalize it, but he had been Damon Aetos¡¯ son his entire life. ¡°They are.¡± I nodded. ¡°In Rome, Aristotle was known as the man who knew everything. That was his reputation, and it colored every interaction he had while among Romans. It made those who idolized that reputation more likely to be swayed by his word, no matter what the point of contention was, and it made those who resented that reputation far less likely to hear him in good faith.¡± From time to time, and more often the older we get, our past undermines our present. Make no mistake, boy. A sycophant is as troublesome as a censor when you¡¯re searching for the truth. ¡°Sometimes,¡± I quoted the man who had mentored me as an irreverent young patrician, ¡°an argument will only work if you¡¯re not the one making it. You can be someone else, or you can be no one at all. All that matters is that you are not yourself.¡± ¡°Anonymity,¡± Selene and Griffon murmured at the same time. One with reverence, the other with disdain. ¡°What Socrates did when he called us out at the bathhouse was a slightly different application than what Aristotle did,¡± I exined. ¡°But each one was an application of anonymity.¡± ¡°How so?¡± Scythas asked, having been absent when we were confronted by the mentor of my mentor¡¯s mentor. ¡°Socrates can be seen and spoken to when he wraps himself in anonymity,¡± Griffon exined brusquely. ¡°All he does is separate himself from-¡± he paused, eyes widening slightly. ¡°From his reputation,¡± Ipleted his thought. ¡°You can still see the man and trade discourse with him, but you can¡¯t recognize him for who he is. What Aristotle did was a level further removed from that. You can¡¯t see the man at all - in a crowded agora, you¡¯d hear the voice but never see the face.¡± Often times, a voice in the crowd is all that¡¯s needed. As a young patrician, I had learned early on that I had to be able to recognize which thoughts were my own and which were actually my mentor¡¯s anonymous whispers. As a legionary, I had learned that I needed to keep my eyes open on and off the battlefield - that I had to see. I still hadn¡¯t quite figured out how Aristotle did what he did, but I could spot his work. Selene had caught up to us just as the Eos was pulling into the dock city back at Olympia. I had seen her when she snuck aboard for our departure, and she had seen that I had seen her. Frozen like a rabbit before a wolf. But when I hadn¡¯t said anything and no one else had reacted, the sunkissed Heroine had rxed. She spent the days that followed amusing herself with the coastal views and Sorea, the eagle¡¯s eyes having picked her out immediately as well. Speaking had been out of the question, because a voice without a visible source was far less easy to ignore on a ship like the Eos than it was in a crowded agora. We hadmunicated periodically through writing, fake letters that were really just extended conversations mixed in with the actual messages I''d spent the trip thus far drafting. ¡°Who taught you how to do that?¡± Griffon demanded. ¡°And why are you here at all?¡± Scythas asked, dread darkening his expression as he btedly realized exactly who it was that had snuck aboard our ship. ¡°The Gadfly told you not toe.¡± It was true. Down in the subterranean courtyard of the Raging Heaven¡¯ste kyrios, the Gadfly had smacked Selene down almost before she finished agreeing to the quest on our behalf. Their furious arguing had followed Griffon, Jason, Scythas and I all the way up the tunneled steps. Yet here she was. I inclined my head, ceding the exnation to the girl herself. ¡°In reverse order!¡± Selene eximed cheerfully, thirteen sets of eyes following her finger as it shot up. ¡°Socrates is not my father or my mentor. I listen to him only when it suits me, and his disapproval means less to me than propriety does to the shirtless vagabond over there.¡± Her finger swiveled to point at the vagabond in question. Griffon rolled his eyes, but I saw the way his lips twitched at the corners. A second finger was raised. ¡°I have no idea how these rags work, only that they do. After the great philosopher left me to sulk, he extracted a promise from each of the Oracles present to keep me in their sights, apparently assuming their personal integrity would outweigh their disdain for him.¡± ¡°Unwise,¡± Griffon mused. ¡°So then I stole these clothes from the kyrios¡¯ quarters and snuck out anyway!¡± ¡°In defiance of allmon sense,¡± I added wryly. The sunkissed Heroine beamed. Scythas¡¯ mouth opened and then after a long moment closed. ¡°Do you realize the immensity of the problems your absence will cause?¡± Griffon asked, and the Hero of the Scything Squall looked to him in surprise. Griffon leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and stared intently at the Heroine. ¡°Do you have any idea at all what you are inviting with this petty defiance?¡± Selene met him re for re. Scarlet to Scarlet. ¡°I do.¡± ¡°And you don¡¯t care?¡± ¡°Not enough to stay. Not when there¡¯s hope for my mother again. Some things are worth risking.¡± Griffon¡®s eyes narrowed. Searching. Reaching. Finding. ¡°So long as you know.¡± The former Young Aristocrat sat back in his throne and crossed his arms, satisfied. ¡°So long as she knows,¡± Scythas echoed in bleak disbelief. ¡°If her father finds out who she snuck away with, you know what he will do.¡± Griffon lifted one shoulder in a negligent shrug. I put it into words. ¡°We know what he will try.¡± The scarlet sail of the Eos billowed as if filled by gale winds, though the breeze on our skin did not for a moment shift. Mortal sailors eximed in mingled awe and fear at the sudden heat rising up from beneath their feet, along with the scent of burning ash wood and rosy light. Beneath the nks of the deck, evoked by defiance of Burning Dusk, the legacy of four brothers shone in the image of an eagle. Chapter 1.77 Chapter 1.77 The Young Griffon Our objective in Thracia was simple. It was also nearly worthless. A golden cup filled with spirit wine. That was all the guidance the Gadfly had given us, along with a vague marker on an endless charter ofnd to find it in. The belligerence in my heart urged me to take him at his most literal word, dip my toe into the vast expanse of Thracia and fill the first golden cup I found with the cheapest spirit wine avable. ounting for the time wasted sailing here and back, we were out a week of travel no matter what - and three months could pass in the blink of an eye if we chose to explore. The temperance in my treacherous mind urged against it, however, and so the Roman¡¯s proposal won out in the end. I wanted to get these errands over with, but I could all too easily envision a world where we returned to Olympia with insufficient ingredients and were sent back out to do the work properly. And as much as it galled me, we¡¯d have no choice but to do it. The Gadfly held the reins in this arrangement. I hade to Olympia to see the Oracle, but more than that I hade to speak to her - and so far as the Gadfly was concerned, thetter would be impossible without a divine cure. I had my doubts. Truthfully, I was confident that mortal hands could mend the problem, if only Old ¡®Zalus could find his wife a physician worthy of the title. If I had the time to properly immerse myself in medical study, I knew I could cure it without any nectar at all. If I had the time. As things stood now, however, I had only just started walking the physician¡¯s path a few weeks ago and the Olympic Games were in four months. That meant I had three months to reach the Heroic Realm or else find another way to gain entry as apetitor, otherwise I would be barred entirely. I had ideas, but they would take time to implement. Ruinous time, each and every one of them. The Fates had stranded me in a market that only epted one singr currency, time, and I was a very poor man. None of the options presented to me were appealing. If I chose to dance to the Gadfly¡¯s tune and run his errands for him, I risked missing my opportunity topete in the games. I also risked my audience with the Oracle - after all, the Gadfly had only said he should be able to synthesize nectar with the proper materials. Not that he could with certainty. If I chose to race down the physician¡¯s path and mend the Oracle myself, I put myself at odds with Sol. Normally an enticing prospect if anything, but in this case an irritation. The girl would never agree to abandon this quest now that it had been offered to her, and I knew Sol well enough to know that he wouldn¡¯t abandon her in that pursuit without apelling reason. And I still risked missing my chance topete, even then. Socrates had us over a barrel and he knew it. Even if we knew he was being deliberately vague, even if we knew he was parceling out objectives to keep us away from his city, we had little choice but to suffer it and make the best time that we could. After all, as Sol had pointed out on the beach, what else were we to do? Ask around? Make the nectar ourselves? Yes. Obviously. We were going to do exactly that. We couldn¡¯t just grab the first golden cup we saw and fill it with piss wine, that much was likely true. We also couldn¡¯t wander blindly through the Mediterranean and thends beyond without any idea what we were searching for, not if we hoped to make good time. Thankfully, we had discovered shortly after Sol and I had reached that conclusion that we wouldn¡¯t have to. The sea dogs that we had liberated from pirates were an eclectic bunch, put politely. Put frankly, I had discovered on our way to Olympia over a month ago that they were the dregs their vers couldn¡¯t sell. Not pretty enough for sexual servitude, none of them the correctbination of young and healthy and strong to be bought up as miners or fieldborers. And somehow, some way, not a single one of them skilled enough in a trade to catch a merchant¡¯s eye. It was so tragic that it crossed clear over the line intoedic. They were all worthless. Each one the runt of their litter, each one the only ve not sold. Good for nothing but rowing. They were worthless, and because of that they were exactly what we needed. By good fortune or by providence, ten men from ten wildly different backgrounds had been disdainfully chained together and then dropped into ourps over a month ago. We had ten destinations on the map that the Gadfly had given us. And as it happened, for every location marked by gold there was at least one filthy sea dog that had been there before. Even some, like the Thracian, that had been born and raised in one of those destinations. Each of those ten men had decided against returning my cousin¡¯s ship as I had advised for their own various foolish reasons, and had decided to repay their perceived debts to myself and my Roman with their service. They were all too happy to share with us their knowledge, stories of the ces they had been and the homes from which they had been taken. Best of all, they were willing to do it for free. They could still lie, of course, in the interest of telling a more exciting story or saving themselves personal embarrassment. I doubted they could fool Sol and I if they did, though. A ve with the acting skills required would have been bought up long ago. I was confident enough in that to make the wager, and so was Sol. So rather than stumble blindly through each gold-marked nation in search of locals willing to guide us to forbidden knowledge, or otherwise wait for the Gadfly to get around to being useful, we could use our sea dogs. Now, were any of them particrly knowledgeable about the mythos behind divine nectar? No, of course not. Did any of them know about thete Tyrant Bakkhos, whose footsteps we were following? Less than us, if anything at all. Their past experiences were useful, but only if we knew the proper questions to ask. Surprisingly, that was where Scythas earned his keep. We docked as the sun fell out of the sky. On our first night in Thracia, we scouted the immediate coast for a trader willing and able to sell us a few decent horses. On the first day, we brought the Thracian along with us. ¡°Like this, ?ib¨´t?,¡± Khabur told me with an old man¡¯s patience, deftly avoiding the snapping teeth of an ornery mare while he saddled her. He was spry for an old man and handled the horse without fear. Not that the beasts Scythas had secured for us were anything to fear. Giant man eating mares had been the Champion¡¯sbor to ovee when he came to Thracia in the distant Golden Age of Heroes - but these beasts were hardlyrge enough to ride, let alone monstrous enough to warrant iron chains and a bronze manger. I waited and let the old sea dog show me his method anyway, out of courtesy if nothing else. ¡°There!¡± Khabur grunted, swinging up onto his mare and swatting her hind leg when she bucked halfheartedly. ¡°Simple as that! Even a Greek can do it.¡± I nced at the mare provided for me, fidgeting and quick-stepping in ce. She was a slight thing, taller than Khabur¡¯s but with legs so slender it was a wonder she could support her own weight, to say nothing of mine. Her coat was white beneath the grime, and her mane along with her tail were pitch ck. Pretty enough, I supposed, if not for the look she was giving me. I reached out with an empty hand to distract her while the other brandished the leather harness, just as Khabur had done. Unfortunately, my horse had been paying attention to his lesson as well. The slender mare disdained my empty hand and took the saddle in her mouth, whipping her head back with the full strength of her frame. Four pankration fists mmed into her head from every cardinal direction, and the mare copsed like a lead weight. I sat myself on her naked back and patted her encouragingly. ¡°Up with you. I have ces to be,¡± I informed the impudent beast of burden. Something like a winnie came wheezing out of the horse¡¯s mouth. She rose, dazed and on unsteady legs. I looked expectantly at the old Thracian. The sea dog¡¯s lips were pressed together like I¡¯d forced him to bite into a lemon. His stocky mare seemed a bit nervous. ¡°Is that how they treat their horses in the Scarlet City?¡± Scythas asked disdainfully, leading his own horse over by the reins. He¡¯d tacked his horse already, the beastrger abreast than mine with slightly shorter legs. He hopped up onto its back with superhuman grace and sneered at me as if he¡¯d proven a point. ¡°It isn¡¯t,¡± Sol said, walking up with his own beast in tow. ¡°He¡¯s just impatient.¡± Exasperated shouting and Selene¡®s delightedughter drifted out of the stables behind him. Her horse was giving her a fight, it seemed. ¡°You can¡¯t treat a horse you intend to ride like that,¡± Khabur said, the old Thracian finally finding the words to express his difort. ¡°Especially not a Thracian mare. She¡¯ll hate you til she dies.¡± ¡°She can hate me in the underworld if it suits her,¡± I said easily, gripping a handful of her glossy ck mane in lieu of reins. ¡°So long as we understand one another.¡± The white mare tossed her head and snorted, shaking thest of her dizziness. She returned to what she¡¯d been up to before I mounted her, dancing in ce and casting around for a good ce to run. She¡¯d do fine. Though I could have likely made better time without her. The cost of doing business in Thracia, ording to the good Hero. Vicious Thracian cursing and a young woman¡¯s shriek preceded the final member of our party, a ck stallion exploding out of the stables with Selene bncing precariously on its back. Her eyes were wide, but the mes behind them burned merrily and her smile was pure white. ¡°I told her to avoid that one,¡± Scythas murmured, trying and failing to be more aggravated than amused. ¡°Mean lookin¡¯ bastard, he is,¡± Khabur agreed, stroking his coarse red beard while the stallion bucked and screamed furiously. Selene, for her part, whooped and waved excitedly as they spun in our direction. Two young men sprinted out of the stables with panic writrge across their faces. A third staggered out a beatter, clutching his side and gagging. ¡°The reins!¡± one of the stable hands shouted. ¡°Pull the reins!¡± Selene did so, heaving back on the rope. She was a slender girl, utterly dwarfed by the horse underneath her, but a Heroine was a Heroine. The stallion¡¯s head snapped back so hard it looked for a moment like it had snapped its neck. ¡°Not like that-!¡± Then he screamed furiously and whipped his body around so hard that Selene was spun clean off his back. Scythas winced and Khabur hissed sympathetically as she hit the ground and rolled. Her stallion snorted and snapped its teeth in satisfaction, thick bs of muscle coiling in its legs. It braced and shot forward in the opposite direction of the stable. Sol caught its naked reins as the stallion passed and nted his feet. The horse was as tall as my father, and likely weighed more than Scythas¡¯ and Khabur¡¯s maresbined. It took half a step more before the reins went taut in the Roman¡¯s hand and the whole beast whipped back like the string of a loosed bow. This time, we heard its neck snap. The stable hands howled in dismay while our own Thracian sea dog buried his face in his hands, unable to stand the grotesque sight of the stallion¡¯s legs spasming and kicking in its death throes. Scythas¡¯ lips moved soundlessly, a silent prayer - whether for the horse¡¯s spirit or his own patience, I couldn¡¯t say. Sol¡¯s eyes rolled. ¡°Up.¡± He kicked the dying horse in its side. And, with an irritated snort, it stood. ¡°A faker,¡± I said, impressed by its sheer gall as the massive beast shook itself off. Evidently no worse for wear. Sol tossed aside its reins and the broken bridle attached - the sound we¡¯d mistaken for the stallion¡¯s neck snapping - and jumped up onto its bare back. ¡°Take mine,¡± he told the holy girl as she found her feet. Selene saluted, giggling breathlessly, and stumbled over to the docile mare that Sol had chosen. ¡°¡®Suppose that is how Alikons treat their horses,¡± Khabur said faintly. Scythas inhaled deep and slow. ¡°Our transportation is secured,¡± I reported, swaying with my mare as she trotted in ce. Antsy from the spectacle and itching to run. An attitude I could appreciate. I raised an eyebrow at the Hero of the Scything Squall. ¡°Where to now, herdsman?¡± It was the Gadfly¡¯s intent to keep us out of civilized society until he saw fit to allow us back in. Without a doubt, he wanted to avoid another Unkindness until at least the games were settled, if not the entire question of session in the Raging Heaven. And so long as we desired the end result butcked the means to achieve it ourselves, he knew he could feed us just enough that we wouldn¡¯t starve. A single drop of liquid gold at a time. But that was assuming we knew nothing about Bakkhos¡¯ heroic deeds. An assumption rightly made - up until the moment Chilon¡¯s scroll and my dear uncle¡¯s story had jogged the memories of every Heroic cultivator in ourpany. ¡°Khabur,¡± Scythas said wearily, in lieu of a straight answer. ¡°Where¡¯s the nearest vineyard?¡± ¡°Why?¡± Sol asked, his fuming stallion snapping at my mare as it drew close. She was unimpressed. Shielding his eyes with a hand, the Hero of the Scything Squall appraising the sun above. ¡°It¡¯s time we offer our thanks to those below.¡± Chapter 1.78 Chapter 1.78 The Son of Rome ¡°The kyrios of the Raging Heaven was a Hero before he was the Tyrant Riot,¡± Scythas spoke softly as we rode beneath the light of stars. ¡°And before that, he was only a man. Dutiful, andter wise, but ultimately no greater or lesser than any other mortal soul.¡± A half moon rose steadily up above while we traversed the Thracian countryside. Griffon led the way with his virtue, rosy pankration hands hanging likenterns around our heads and drifting with the current of his thoughts. The constructs of pneuma idly flexed their fingers, clenched and unclenched, contorting in various ways while they cast their light. asionally my horse would snap at a limb that got too close, but the others didn¡¯t seem to mind. ¡°Cultivators in the fourth realm rarely speak of their lives prior to winning glory in the third realm, as a rule. Even the most insufferable of them will never offer up details of their mortal lives without good reason. A quirk of their status, I suppose.¡± ¡°A preventative measure,¡± Griffon said, unbraiding his white mare¡¯s mane. He¡¯d yet to find a style that suited his tastes- or hers, maybe. Scythas grimaced. ¡°It¡¯s the likely answer, yes. The most treacherous path is the one that no man has walked before - the climb is far easier when you know how those ahead of you did it. It wouldn¡¯t surprise me to discover they kept the past to themselves so no one could follow their unique examples. Any knowledge could be useful.¡± That much I knew was true from the tales told in the Fifth. The more recent story of Damon and Anargyros Aetos¡¯ first heroic deed was simply the point proven. ¡°That much is true,¡± Griffon agreed. ¡°But it isn¡¯t what I meant.¡± ¡°No?¡± ¡°As young schrs of greater mystery, we are taught that knowledge is a strength all its own. Even if all a man knows is the question and not the answer, one eye is better than full blind. To know that you do not know a thing is the first step to understanding it. The spring from which virtue and refinement flow.¡± ¡°Yes, I¡¯m a cultivator too. What does that have to do with this?¡± It was the thesis statement of Greek cultivation, their culture¡¯s core conceit. The grander theplexity and the more opaque the mystery, the more there was to be gained from understanding it. In one of my boyhood lectures, Aristotle had exined Greek cultivation to me as the untangling of a knot. In Rome we knew cultivation as the session of a soul. In the time since my world had ended, most of the Greeks I had encountered referred to it as the refinement of a soul. But Aristotle had told me that every man was a tangled mess inside his soul, and so he had dered the act of cultivation to be the untangling of that knot. Your Romans call this progression the course of honors, the Macedonians call it the hitching of stars, and many Greeks call it the stairway to heaven. Don¡¯t confuse yourself, boy. Think of what we do in terms of simple tangled rope. The Greek perspective was that a man¡¯s external reality mirrored his internal reality - or perhaps vice versa, or even both at the same time. Their great works of architecture and miracles of civil engineering were the direct result of this mindset. The Greeks desired beauty of self, order over chaos, and so they also imposed that beauty and order on the world outside of themselves. Their cultivation was the same. There is a mystery inside every man¡¯s soul. A question that he spends his entire life trying to answer. The Greek mystiko seeks to unravel the external mystery of their worldly faith at the same time as they seek to unravel their own internal mystery. We call that virtue. External and internal, inextricably linked. Even in death, a king could be distinguished from a ve by the monuments built in their memory- a grand mausoleum as opposed to an undecorated mound. That was why every Greek child coveted initiation in a cult of greater mystery. Because every cultivator wanted to believe that the mystery in their soul was more profound than any other. And there was no external reflection more profound than the indescribable subjects of greater Greek mystery. As I understood it, the source of inspiration for a Greek cultivator''s virtue was itself an omen of things toe - nearly a prophecy for their own personal journey. To draw virtue from exposure to greater mystery meant that Olympus itself was within your potential. On the other hand, to draw your virtue from a citizen¡¯s simple life meant you were bound for a citizen¡¯s simple death. A rule of thumb, as Aristotle hadbeled it with some disdain. Themon interpretation is that cultivation is set once foundation is settled - one virtue, one mystery, and only one path to heaven. It follows that the mystery studied must be profound enough to reach heaven alone. Think of the cultivation realms as the distance between heaven and earth. Your ce among them is however far the rope can reach. To advance was to untangle a bit more of the knot. Ascending to heaven, climbing Olympus Mons, meant bridging the gap between mortality and divinity with understanding. If your mystery was too simple, too crude or uninspiring, you could untangle the entire knot andck the rope needed to make it to heaven. But if the tangled rope within was the one a man used to pull himself up to heaven, why did it matter from where without he took his inspiration? Because, boy, a man is an arrogant and prideful creature - and a Greek is even more so. We assume that the gods sculpted our bodies in their image, as we assume they gave us the spark from their own souls. In all things, within and without, we hold this to be true: As above, so below. A pankration hand drifting by my head snapped its luminous fingers, drawing my focus back to the present. Griffon and Scythas were both watching me expectantly. Khabur, plodding along on his mare, looked like he might fall asleep out of his saddle any moment. ¡°They want to know what you think,¡± Selene whispered covertly, the dappled mare I¡¯d passed off to her trotting alongside my stallion. The stallion snorted andshed his tail in the mare¡¯s face, but didn¡¯t otherwise bother her. ¡°What I think about what?¡± I asked, and she hushed me as if everyone including the Thracian Saylor hadn''t heard her ¡®whispering¡¯. ¡°I¡¯m of the opinion that knowledge is power, and knowledge of a thing gives you power over it. Even a Tyrant,¡± Griffon exined, tilting his head towards the Hero of the Scything Squall at the same time his floatingntern hands all swiveled to point at him. ¡°This one believes otherwise.¡± ¡°Knowledge alone is not strength,¡± Scythas asserted. ¡°Strength is strength. Knowing how a man became strong is not the same as gaining that strength for yourself.¡± ¡°I never said that.¡± ¡°Then what did you say?¡± ¡°Knowledge is power. Not strength.¡± An expression came over Scythas¡¯ face that I had only ever seen while he was talking to Griffon. A look of suffering and resignation. ¡°What is the distinction?¡± ¡°Strength is Sisyphus rolling a boulder up a hill until the end of time,¡± Griffon answered without hesitation. ¡°Power is Sisyphus letting the boulder go.¡± Scythas¡¯ brow furrowed in knee-jerk scorn, before the lines smoothed out and his frown became thoughtful. Selene added to the point. ¡°Strength is the force we can exert,¡± The pressure we can withstand. ¡°Power is freedom to act. It¡¯s our ability to choose how we exert that force, or if we do at all. ¡°And it is the ability to take that choice away from those beneath us. Sisyphus is strong, even in death - but he has no power at all.¡± Griffon nced curiously at the Oracle¡¯s daughter. ¡°Who taught you that interpretation?¡± ¡°My father,¡± Selene said fondly. Griffon hummed. ¡°So did mine.¡± As had mine, though adopted. Another quirk of Tyrants, I supposed. ¡°Then by your definition,¡± Scythas said consideringly, ¡°you¡¯re saying that knowledge of a Tyrant¡¯s mortal life gives you the freedom to act against them - power over them.¡± ¡°I am.¡± ¡°Then I disagree twice. Take your own example - Sisyphus has strength to push the boulder butcks the power to stop. Because the Father condemned him to that fate, and the Father is his better.¡± Griffon nodded easily. ¡°An urate summation.¡± ¡°The Father¡¯s strength is as distant from a Tyrant¡¯s - even the Tyrant that defied death twice - as a Tyrant¡¯s strength is from a Hero¡¯s. Take what you¡¯ve asserted and apply it to Sisyphus. Do you mean to tell me that if Sisyphus only knew our Father in Raging Heaven, had actionable knowledge of him, that would give the Tyrant power over the god?¡± Damon Aetos¡¯ scarlet son tilted his head just a fraction, as if the question confused him. ¡°Yes. Of course.¡± ¡°Irreverent and foolish.¡± Scythas said, beyond disbelief now. ¡°I wish I could say that sentiment surprised me, but I think I finally begin to understand you.¡± ¡°Ho?¡± Griffon waved thirty pankration hands invitingly, interested. ¡°You say whatever it is you believe will shock the other party most andmit further to it when called out, taking refuge in the smokescreen of those absurdities whenever you¡¯re presented with a topic that no longer interests you.¡± ¡°How cruel,¡± Selene whispered, roughly loud enough for Sisyphus to hear her in the underworld. ¡°Very,¡± was all I said, because I couldn¡¯t say I disagreed. Griffon raised an eyebrow along with his pneuma, his influence grasping for the Hero. Scythas¡¯ influence rose up and sharply smacked the former Young Aristocrat¡¯s aside. My stallion snorted and tossed his head. ¡°How is it any fault of mine if the truth appears to you a smokescreen?¡± ¡°The truth,¡± Scythas shot back mockingly. ¡°It¡¯s all too easy to say a im is true when there¡¯s no way to prove it. If only Sisyphus were here, I could tell him the name of god and see for myself what power that gave him over heaven. s, we¡¯ll never know.¡± In the blood red light of the rosy-fingered dawn, Griffon¡¯s smile was sharp. ¡°No need for the Tyrant. Tell me the Father¡¯s name if you know it. I¡¯ll call him out myself.¡± Raging heaven rumbled. ¡°Hua!¡± the old Thracian jerked up in his saddle, blinking sleep out of his eyes as he looked up and around. ¡°Rain already?¡± ¡°No,¡± Selene whispered. I red up at clear and starry skies. ¡°Just thunder.¡± ¡°Well?¡± Griffon invited the Hero. Scythas stared at him. ¡°I disagree with both of you,¡± I decided, drawing all eyes to me. ¡°And what do you propose?¡± Griffon asked curiously. ¡°Why else would a Tyrant keep their past a secret, if not to prevent others from gaining power over them?¡± ¡°Or following in their footsteps,¡± Scythas added. As always, they had made things more convoluted than they needed to be. That was to say, they were being Greek about it. ¡°Do either of you remember the first time you stood under your own power?¡± I asked. Scythas blinked. ¡°Physically? Or¡­¡± Aside from the obvious meeting, it was also a fairlymon phrase in certain cultures to describe a cultivator¡¯s awakening. ¡°Both.¡± ¡°Of course, then. Every cultivator remembers that,¡± he said matter of factly. Griffon, meanwhile, had started to chuckle quietly to himself. ¡°What¡¯s funny?¡± Selene asked him, curious. He shook his head, golden mane of hair burning blood-orange in the low light. ¡°I¡¯ve just witnessed a miracle. A Roman having an insightful thought.¡± I grabbed a glowing hand of his intent out of the air and folded four of its fingers down. He guffawed. ¡°What?¡± Scythas demanded. ¡°Enlighten me, if you¡¯ve already figured it out for yourself.¡± ¡°I remember the day my soul awoke and I stood under my own power, that¡¯s true enough,¡± Griffon exined through a smile. ¡°But I certainly don¡¯t recall the infant memory of physically standing up for the first time. If a man exists that does, I¡¯d be surprised.¡± ¡°And?¡± the Hero pressed, looking to me. ¡°Was that the whole thought?¡± ¡°Everyone remembers one of those memories, and everyone has forgotten the other. Both of them are foundational moments in any cultivator''s life, though. Both were crucial steps in their development, something their parents would surely brag of in their ce. But what about now?¡± ¡°Ahh,¡± Selene breathed, understanding. ¡°Here and now, would you be proud to brag about the very first moment you didn¡¯t need someone else¡¯s strength to stand up straight? Is that something either of you want to do?¡± I syed both hands out invitingly. ¡°I¡¯ll listen if it is.¡± ¡°I already have,¡± Griffin said smugly, content knowing that the memory would be seared into my mind forever because the bisected corpse of the fallen sun god had been there to make it memorable. ¡°¡­ no,¡± Scythas admitted. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t.¡± ¡°Why not?¡± I asked him. ¡°Those were key moments for you at the time. Are you afraid I¡¯ll use the knowledge against you?¡± He grimaced. ¡°No. They¡¯re just not worth mentioning.¡± I¡¯d seen a grimace not unlike that one on my great-uncle¡¯s face every time I asked him to tell me a story from his younger days. The same expression every time, and nearly the same answer to follow it up. The only parts that ever changed were the ages cited. Why should I waste my time bragging about a thing I aplished at thirty, when Alexander did it at eighteen? I shrugged. ¡°For a Tyrant, all mortal memories feel something like that.¡± We rode in silence for a long while after that. Eventually, Khabur led us to our vineyard. I¡¯d been skeptical about an old man¡¯s ability to navigate andscape he hadn¡¯t traversed in years during pitch dark night, but the Thracian sailor hade through in the end. Our horses moseyed slowly through shadowed rows of grape vines, spilling across thendscape as far ahead as the light of Griffon¡¯s virtue allowed for us to see After an amount of time that felt random but hopefully wasn¡¯t, Scythas raised a silent hand and hopped down from his horse. With one hand he stroked the dark mare¡¯s head, and with the other he pulled a ripe red apple from a fold in his attire and fed it to her one bite at a time Then, once she had finished eating, the Hero whistled a single high note and a scythe of wind separated cut her head cleanly off her body. The head struck the dirt amidst coiling grape vines, and a momentter the body copsed bonelessly beside it. Gushing blood pooled in the soil, and the grape vines drank greedily of it. ¡°As I was saying before,¡± he said, just barely audible over the screaming of the other horses, ¡°most Tyrants won¡¯t speak of their lives before they entered the Heroic realm. As was the case in most aspects of his life, however, Bakkhos was an exception.¡± Scythas held both hands parallel above the earth, palms facing down. Khabur¡¯s mare whinnied and danced away, the sailor having dismounted from her to kneel in the dirt and pray with closed eyes and sped hands. To my right, Griffon leaned forward on his starlit mare with rapt attention. To my left, Selene had plugged both of her ears with her fingers and was watching the decapitated horse¡¯s blood seep into the earth with distasteful expectation. ¡°The kyrios of the Raging Heaven was foreign-born, if you can believe it,¡± Scythas continued, the Heroic mes behind his hazel eyes rising steadily. ¡°Born on this very soil, raised on one of these very vineyards. He confided in me once, when I was still new to Olympia and the Raging Heaven Cult, that the best winemakers in the world died centuries and millennia before any of us were born.¡± The Hero of the Scything Squall nced at Griffon, and then at the mare¡¯s corpse on the ground. ¡°Burn it.¡± Thirty hands of burning intent gripped the corpse and rendered it to ash and charcoal. I heard a faint whisper in the dark. ¡°The best drinking days are behind us,¡± Scythas said, imitating the mad Tyrant¡¯s voice and, somehow, invoking something in the earth as he did it. ¡°These days, if you want a good cup you¡¯ll have to go digging for it.¡± ¡°Praise be,¡± Khabur whispered, in steady repetition. ¡°Praise be, praise be, praise be.¡± ¡°Praise be to the Hero,¡± Scythas intoned, and the whispers turned to shrieks. My stallion reared up, screaming his own challenge in reply. Before our eyes, a massive hand like sculpted squid ink rose up from the soil and the vines and closed around the burnt remains of Scythas¡¯ dark mare, dragging it under. The shrieking rose to a crescendo, and then the soil copsed into the hole left behind by its passage and the eerie nose ceased. Griffon and I shared a wide eyed look. Scythas inhaled deeply. ¡°Chthonic Hero, whom I have long admired,¡± he spoke gravely, in the same voice as the man that had broken the Tyrants of every greater mystery cult and arrayed them at his feet. He spoke with grave intent. His words carried weight. I felt the pressure in my soul, something like gravita- ¡°Where can I find a decent drink around here?¡± I stared as a second chthonic hand rose up from the earth. And pointed. Chapter 1.79 Chapter 1.79 The Young Griffon For the concept of a greater to exist, a lesser was required to give it meaning. For a man to be notably tall, for a distance to be notably far, or for a body of water to be notably deep, there had to be a corresponding norm that each of them surpassed. It followed, then, that for a greater mystery cult to exist, there would have to be a corresponding lesser. Something profound enough to inspire virtue, and opaque enough that no living Greek had ever unraveled its mystery - but less so than the institutions that the great city-states called their own. These lesser mysteries were the source of inspiration for most men of virtue. Logistically, it was impossible for things to be any other way. A Greek cultivator was an exceptional existence, but the greater mystery cults were even more exceptionally selective than that. A man had ten choices and ten choices alone if he coveted the pursuit of highest virtue. This was the first and in some ways most important decision he would have to make in his life. The pursuit of heaven was a hopeless dream no matter where you stood. But for a child uninitiated, the pursuit of membership in a greater mystery cult seemed very nearly as hopeless. The choice of which to pursue was crucial. Each cult valued different things in a mystiko, required skills that more often took years than months to properly hone. In deciding on an institution to pursue, you weremitting yourself to one at the expense of nine. As a young man, or even a boy, you were forced to invest all of yourself into that singr goal and ignore the possibility - the greater likelihood - that your true unknown potential resided somewhere in the other nine. The considerations of filial expectation, geography, and financial logistics limited most burgeoning cultivators¡¯ options to greater or lesser degrees. The final choice, however, remained theirs. Families advised and a man¡¯s means confined, but universally known was the reality that every cultivator faced heaven alone. In the end, the young man decides. In the end, even the boy must choose. Responsibility of that magnitude is a cruelty when thrust upon a child. It is a necessary cruelty, though - the first of many more toe. Making that choice and suffering what follows is fundamental. It changes a person. For better and for worse, it is the first time in a cultivator''s life that it truly matters that they are alive. Their first act that no one but themselves could have possibly put forward. A joy and a sorrow uniquely theirs. Unless, of course, they were born into a greater institution. In that case there was no need to worry. No trials were required for them to take in hand what less privileged souls were fighting and wing and desperately living to one day possibly achieve. No, certainly not. Nothing so unsightly for the brightly shining heirs. It was only natural that the free world¡¯s fortunate sons would receive as gifts what the masses had no other option but to steal - like cursed fire from the heavens. Men like zon and Gianni Sca were above that lesser struggle. Children like my cousins had greater pursuits to upy their time. As did I. All my life, I had never once been cursed with a choice. At any rate. Eight city-states were home to ten greater mysteries. It simply wasn¡¯t enough for even an above average cultivator to win admittance. Let alone an average cultivator, or even worse, an unrefined soul. Perhaps if the kyrioi were more generous these institutions could have found ways to spread their wonders to the masses. But they were not. If they had been, it was doubtful they¡¯d ever have made it to where they were today. Instead, those less privileged than the free world¡¯s prodigies and her aristoi built what monuments they could with the materials avable to them. They observed what there was to be observed. They cultivated what virtue they could find. Andcking the greater mystery of, say, a fallen sun god, they instead contemted humbler phenomena. Down-to-earth discoveries, some would call them. Though under the earth was perhaps a more apt description. ¡°What was that?¡± Sol finally asked once the second chthonic hand receded, that storm shing in his eyes as he red daggers at the earth. The riptide pull of his influence doubled and redoubled, drawing our horses unconsciously towards him even as they screamed. I smacked my white mare on her neck, breaking his sway over her with my own. She huffed and danced nervously away. ¡°You¡¯ve never seen a lesser mystery before?¡± Scythas asked quizzically, wiping horse blood off on his faded green attire. ¡°I¡¯ve seen many things that could be called mysteries. None of them have looked like that.¡± ¡°Ah, true. I suppose this is a different vor of madness than what you¡¯re used to.¡± The Hero nced in the direction the ink-ck hand had pointed, then down at the soil where his mare had been dragged under. The hand had taken even the blood from the soil. All that remained were the drops on the grapevines and what he had on his own hands. ¡°You¡¯ll need another horse,¡± Selene observed, unplugging her ears. The scarlet mes behind her eyes flickered and cast uncertain embers from their corners. ¡°Those directions weren¡¯t very specific.¡± A poor reward for the sacrifice offered. Of course, she didn¡¯t say that out loud. Not while we were still standing overtop of the receiver. ¡°It¡¯s enough,¡± Scythas assured her. ¡°In the meantime, I¡¯ll walk.¡± ¡°Impossible,¡± the old Thracian said at once. Khabur heaved himself down from his dappled mare, patting her nk. ¡°I¡¯d never sleep another wink if I let a Hero walk while I rode a horse he¡¯d rented for me. Take her.¡± ¡°I appreciate your intent,¡± Scythas said, a bit awkwardly. ¡°But, the pace we¡¯ll be keeping¡­¡± ¡°You¡¯re too slow, old man,¡± I told him frankly. Khabur grunted and smacked his thighs, each impact a meaty sound. ¡°Don¡¯t waste your worry, ?ib¨´t?. This old dog¡¯s still got a few years left in him,¡± he assured me. It wasn¡¯t difficult to believe him. Of all the worthless sea dogs that we had left the Eos to, he was perhaps the least useless of them all. He was tall, even a bit taller than Scythas, which was remarkable for a man that had never refined himself. He had been skin and bones when we took him from the ve galley, but already he had filled out to something nearly formidable again. Broad-backed and thick-wristed. His hands were asrge as mine and littered with calluses and scar tissue that stood out from otherwise leather tanned flesh. He had no hair on his head. Perhaps a cosmetic choice, perhaps a product of very¡®s stress, or maybe just Kronos leaving his unshakeable mark. He still had his beard, at least, and most of it had even retained its striking auburn shade. The rest of our sea dogs were each a ruinousbination of too small, too weak, too stupid or belligerant to be of value even in a field. Khabur the Thracian, to his credit, was merely old. In his time, I could imagine him making a go of what he was suggesting. Even more beyond that. If Sol and I had found him before Kronos, then¡­ Well. It didn¡¯t matter now. ¡°Get back on your horse,¡± Solmanded, and Khabur had no choice but to obey. ¡°We can ride together, at least -¡± ¡°The mares are too small to ride double.¡± I smirked faintly at the betrayed look Khabur sent my way. ¡°The Hero has offered to walk and is assuredly faster than you. You¡¯ll learn to sleep with the guilt, or the Eos will have gained a tireless oarsman. Neither oue will upset me.¡± I didn¡¯t dislike the old Thracian, but that didn¡¯t mean I¡¯d humor him. ¡°The stallion is strong enough for two,¡± Sol decided. As if it had understood him, the ck horse with the cker attitude snapped its teeth and pounded the soil with broad hooves. Scythas eyed the beast doubtfully. ¡°It¡¯s just a horse,¡± Sol said impatiently. The stallion red at Scythas. Its eyes were yellow and hateful. ¡°It can¡¯t be helped,¡± Selene said, sounding not at all exasperated as her words implied. The girl in the sunray silks and philosopher rags swung her legs around so she was sitting side saddle, braced her hands on her mare¡¯s back, and pushed. Her mare shifted its legs like it had been lightly shoved, but the daughter of the Oracle soared up and across the gap between her horse and Sol¡¯s, flipping head over heels andnding adroitly behind him on the stallion¡¯s bare back. He cocked an eyebrow at her, and she smiled winningly. ¡°I knew we¡¯d meet again,¡± she said, rubbing the ck horse¡¯s nk. ¡°Let¡¯s get along this time, hm?¡± The beast threw its head back and reared up on its hind legs, screaming as it sought to throw her- Sol wrapped an arm around the stallion¡¯s neck and viciously choked it. ¡°You werementing that I chose you before, weren¡¯t you? I could hear it rattling around that empty head of yours,¡± I said soothingly to my own slender white runner. ¡°I bet you don¡¯t regret it anymore.¡± My long-legged mare whinnied softly and leaned into the pankration hands that were currently stroking her head and massaging heat into her fatigued limbs. ¡°You¡¯ll break before I do,¡± Sol, by contrast, was promising his stallion while it gagged. ¡°He just needs a little discipline, that¡¯s all,¡± Selene insisted, one arm wrapped around Sol¡¯s waist to keep steady. Her eyes lit up in the literal sense. ¡°And perhaps some encouragement! Treat him like one of your soldiers!¡± Sol tightened his choke hold and leaned in by the ck beast¡¯s ear. ¡°I will bind you in a sack, fill it with snakes, and throw you into the river.¡± The stallion¡¯s eyes bulged. In the end, Scythas took on the docile mare that had first passed from Sol to Selene, and the two of them rode the stallion. We rode hard through the night, the Hero and the Thracian discussing the different tribes in the region and our likelihood of passing through each of them. The hand of liquid shadow had pointed us vaguely, the girl hadn¡¯t been wrong about that; but Scythas seemed confident enough, and Khabur¡¯s familiarity with the area was sufficient to fill the gaps that did exist in his mental charter. As we rode, the raven in Sol¡¯s shadow reached out to mine. What the fuck is a lesser mystery? He red at me when my shadowughed, its gurgling caw a sharp and ugly sound. You acted like you knew. I said I¡¯ve seen mysterious things in my life. I then rified that I¡¯ve never seen anything like that. That was a Hero¡¯s cult, my shadow exined to his, amused. A chthonic institution, lesser to the likes of the Rosy Dawn and Raging Heaven. What cult? Where? We were in the middle of a vineyard. Where was the temple? Where were the initiates? I shrugged. Same ce as the Hero, I¡¯d imagine. The underworld. Some things were simplymon knowledge. Before now, I had never personally seen a direct appeal to a Mystery Hero¡¯s chthonic cult, but I had known since I was young that there was a reason we distinguished between Philosophers and Heroes the same way we did between unrefined souls and cultivators of virtue. A man was mortal all the way up to the tenth rank of the Sophic Realm. Past that point, he was more than a man. Not quite yet a god. Something in between, semi-divine. That being the case, if our faceless divinity could persist beyond death, it followed that our Heroes could do something simr. Perseverance, not through death as the divine might. But within it. A half remembrance. Lesser. Yet still profound. They of thend, and the deeper rtion between the greats and their lessers. This was all knowledge that any Greek cultivator could be expected to know. s, Sol had been brought up in a legion, and Aristotle was a bastard. I was left with no choice but to make up for theirck. My raven exined the circumstances surrounding a cultivator¡¯s first unlikely pursuit, and what remained for them if they failed, as we rode through the Thracian countryside and dark gave way to dawn. There were worse ways to pass the time. A cultivator has ten choices if they desire the best of what this world can offer them. I had assumed your mentor would have taught you that much if nothing else at all, but it seems the Father of Rhetoric had other ideas for you. Why bother priming me on Greek mysteries I had no intention of seeing? Sol replied, defensive of the men that had failed to properly raise him as always. Aristotle couldn¡¯t have known I¡¯d end up here. I wondered about that. Whatever the case. Before a cultivator¡¯s journey begins, there are ten high roads that they can walk. Should they choose to brave our cruel and perilous West, to mark their worth in passing days and burn their soul asunder, the sunlight cults might take them. If coals can be tread and dark thus traversed, they just might make it through the hallowed mountain halls of the fallen sun god. Whether by light of Rosy Dawn or heat of Burning Dusk, they can find their faceless faith in the Scarlet City of Alikos. If the cultivator possesses deep and noble roots, they can venture to theuded Coast and prove their worth in the heart of free civilization, there twice submerging their soul. If they can part the waves like a seaside cliff, the Broken Tide might break them. If they can brace the lines like a campaign foot, the Brazen Aegis might shake them. Either way, they can find their faceless faith in the twice-exalted Coast. If they are rather she, or else man enough to defy Her, they can stalk throughnds of eastern silk and there let fly their soul. If their aim is true and their rhythm in-tune, through shadowed groves the Blind Maiden might hunt them. United as sisters or deflowered as lovers, the cultivator can find their faceless faith in the Obsidian City of the Amazons. If bound for blood and mad at heart - if calmer minds won¡¯t have them - they can march to south Peloponnese and re-cast their soul in crucible iron. If pain is their first and closest friend, and provided the threat of death excites them, the Infernal Frenzy might descend and in the press incite them. Assuming exsanguination does not take them before virtue, they can find their faceless faith in the war torn city of Lacedaemonia. If they know and wee their hunger, they can measure their worth in the weathering of gales and cry out their name into the tempest that upended the bread basket. If their voice is sweet sin and their ears are sharp as wheat sickles, they may just hear the Howling Wind reply. In the event that they make it up, they can find their faceless faith in the floating city of the Hurricane Heights. If not by the coast and not by the colony - if not by Greek maind at all - they can rig up their worth and try for the sea, to settle their soul in isles of shifting baster. If their stride can match the Strider and their words can reach the deafened, the Waning Wax might melt them. With golden thread to guide them there, they can surely find their faceless faith among those baster Isles. If they are no Greek at all, a free citizen by technicality alone, they can scrounge for their worth innds of ancient wonder and in Egypt there find their lost soul. If their stomach can stand the sight of their fellows, and their lips resist the urge to sneer, they will likely be wee in the cult of Scattered Foam. Unlikely as it is, if they retain what is theirs and do not emerge a mongrel Macedonian hound, they can find their faceless faith even there in the Conqueror¡¯s Pearl City. And of course, if they are great enough for any and all of those greater institutions, they can set their sights as high as holy Olympia. If they are everything a free city desires, curious and passionate and hungry, they¡¯ll find their virtue lurking somewhere inside the immortal storm crown. In baptismal lightning, the Raging Heaven might even anoint their soul. Without question, they can find their faceless faith in the Half-Step City. These are the roads most coveted and least often traveled. That being said, they are far from the only options avable to a cultivator. If none in ten decide to take them, their mother in the earth will always provide. We¡¯veid to rest our Heroes and their Golden Age has passed, but that isn¡¯t a reality they¡¯ve necessarily epted. And as you well know, a Hero¡¯s nature is the same in every era. Defiance of greater imposition, came Sol¡¯s pensive reply. Just so. Even the final imposition, greatest of them all. I¡¯ll tell you a story about one of those Heroes, I decided. So pay attention. This man was foreign-born, just like you, and when he died he was one of our own. Thoughpared to you, he was easier on the eyes and sweeter with a lyre. He yed? Sol¡¯s raven warbled, interested. I hummed, nodding. The story goes that even bees could be charmed out of their honey when they heard him pluck his strings. We called him the Thracian, while Thracians called him the Augur. In the course of his life, most knew him only by his heavenly hands and the splendor of his voice. In the end, however, his name was Orpheus. On the second day, we reached our kingdom of savages. Chapter 1.80 Chapter 1.80 The Son of Rome The Thracian kingdom could hardly be called as such. In my time I had seen some truly dpidated capitals, and borne witness to some heinously destitute kings, but they had always carried with them a sense of primitive weight. The Celtic kings were at least properly crowned, the hulking Gauls could at least build serviceable walls, and for all that the Egyptians disgusted me in a deep and personal way, I could not deny the magnitude and grandeur of their cultural works. For all my qualms with the kingdoms through which Gaius had campaigned, there had been no other way to describe them. What Scythas led us through after two days¡¯ hard riding was not at all like that. To call the sprawling settlement a kingdom at all was a disservice to the name. It was hardly more than a loose collection of nomads and their camps. Wagons and beasts of burden abounded: the stench of horse shit was so pervasive that it soon drifted into the background of my sensory perceptions, upying the same ce as the sound of my own breathing and the taste of my own saliva. Shaggy hunting dogs ran wild alongside herding hounds, ying roughly or otherwise provoking the livestock and the children of the settlement. This particr tribe called themselves the Korpiloi, or at least that was what the Greeks called them. The Thracian in our group hadn¡¯t cared enough to correct them. There were a few oddities of that nature that I had noticed since the Babel shard had settled itself inside my soul. On asion, I would hear the same concept delivered by two different cultural sources, and recognize two entirely different words despite the subject being the same. For example, the river that this valley tribe of Thracians had spread themselves along - the Ebros River. The Ebros fed directly into the Aegean sea, and had for various reasons been the point of entry Scythas had decided upon. When he had indicated it on the map and Griffon had spoken its name aloud, I had heard the underlying word that he spoke in his native Alikoan, Ebros, but the Babel shard had tranted it as wide. Ebros, the wide river. When our Thracian sailor hadter repeated it, the underlying word had been the same, Ebros - but the Babel shard had told me ssher. The same word, but a different meaning applied by each culture. Regardless of whether the name was theirs or what they had been given, they were the Korpiloi to us. And no matter what they called themselves, they were hardly fit at all to be called a kingdom. The Republic hadn¡¯t qualified as a kingdom either, of course, but that was a product of cultural progression. This, as far as I could tell, was a regression from the barbarian standard that I hade to expect. The only other race I had seene close to this was the Britons, and even those vile swamp people had rallied around their vile swamp king. These Thracians just¡­ Wandered. Up and down the winding valleys and through the mountain trails. They wererge on the average, taller than the average Greek or Roman though without the overbearing bulk that made the Gallic tribes so fearsome. The inhabitants of the loosemunities that we rode past, and in some cases, through, by andrgecked the sculpted definition that the Greeks so famously aspired towards. They wererge, yes, but painfully lean or otherwise sloppily built. Whether that was a gic trend or or a trait unique to this tribe, I couldn¡¯t say. Khabur had warned us that the mountain tribes were far and away more vicious than those that hugged the valley rivers. Perhaps that hard mountain living tranted to finer physiques. Or, more likely, it brought them closer to the legion aesthetic than the Greek. Rugged Bodies to match their minds, both well suited to war. I doubted it was a meaningful difference in the end, though. Docile valley tribe or brutal mountain men, they were all barbarians. My formative years had prepared me for ventures like these, but the first step into a new world was a shock no matter how many times you experienced it. Like diving headfirst into the frigid sea in winter. I was able to distance myself from the initial wonder quickly enough, falling back on the familiar expectation of a legionary far from home - I was here to aplish something. For as long as that was true, nothing would sway me from that purpose. No matter how alien or bizarre. Unfortunately, Griffon and Selene had no such restraint. ¡°The further we progress, the less I believe the Tyrant Riot was born and raised in a ce like this,¡± Griffon said, while we settled our horses by the Ebros for a brief stopter that afternoon. The timber of his voice was familiar. Equal parts deep disdain and baffled wonder. I remembered being almost exactly the same when I first ventured into Germania and saw what people lurked in the shadowed groves of their nation spanning forest. He hid it well, and maintained his usual facade of leonine apathy, but he couldn¡¯t hide his true response from me. The former Young Aristocrat of the Rosy Dawn devoured the Koripiloi tribe with his eyes, drank their river dry with every deep and relishing breath. He sneered at most everything he found, but he had not once withdrawn his curious influence since we reached the outer limits of the settlements. ¡°And why is that?¡± Scythas asked, dismounting from the mare that I had initially chosen and stretching while she dipped her head and drank greedily from the river. Griffon gestured vaguely at a nearby cluster of wagons and cloth tented homes. A group of over a dozen men sat bundled up around a raging fire, though it was more like they sprawled. Their faces were flushed nearly the same shade as their auburn hair, and every man carried a horn cup in his hand. Periodically, their children and wives woulde out to refill their horns before returning to their tents. They were rowdy, and they were loud. Deep within their cups. ¡°Look at how they drink,¡± Griffon said as if that was an answer enough. As far as a Greek is concerned, I suppose it was. ¡°A thinking man knows how to handle his wine. These savages clearly do not. Tell me, Khabur, Is this behavior umon among your kind?¡± ¡°Can¡¯t say it is,¡± the old Thracian admitted. His expression was wistful as he looked over at the drunken congregation. ¡°Far as I know, we all take our drinking a bit more serious than your lot.¡± I had experienced both sides of that coin. The Greeks viewed libation as a civilized practice, and water their wine down to the point where they could drink it throughout the day without it overwhelming their senses. Even kykeon, the spirit wine that their cultivators drink, was only ever imbibed at its fullest strength during periods of religious significance. The rights at the Rosy Dawn had been my first time tasting undiluted Greek spirit wine. After that, I had understood why they diluted it. The patricians in Rome followed a simr practice, associating the drunken mania of overindulgence as barbarism simply put. If a man¡¯s cup was deep enough, even the consul could be regressed to a vering beast at the bottom of it. That was a shame that no patrician wanted to suffer, and so my time at the vi had been characterized by watered down wine as well. In the legions, however, luxuries were taken as they came. For better and for worse. God help a man if he overindulge and shirk his duties as a consequence, because his centurion would not - but if a legionary did what was expected of him and buried himself in undiluted drink during his leisure hours, a blind eye was generally turned. Life on campaign was cruel enough as it was. And, of course, as the first of Gaius¡¯ legions to ept the tribals into her ranks, the fifth tended to enjoy those small luxuries more than most. Having been on both sides of the cup, I couldn¡¯t say I disagreed entirely with Griffon¡¯s mindset. Though there was a time and a ce for letting go. A few of the drunken men sitting around the fire waved and hollered as they noticed us. Invitations toe drink and taunts about our state of dress, Griffon¡¯s in particr. The former Young Aristocrat snorted and ignored them, raising an eyebrow at Scythas. ¡°How can these be his people? I confess I didn¡¯t know Bakkhos like you did, but I assume the man that presided over the nexus of the civilized world for centuries was not a worthless rowdy lush.¡± Scythas winced. Scarlet eyes narrowed. ¡°No,¡± Griffon said, a t word. ¡°It is in the name, after all,¡± Selene said simply. She tore her wandering eyes away from the greater mountains rising up around us just long enough to offer him a briefly sympathetic look. In contrast to the other sunkissed member of our group, she had been open and unashamed of her fascination since the Eos had set sail from Olympia. Every sight was one she hadn¡¯t seen before, every sound and smell, and each of them came as a joy to her, without any of the apanying disdain that Griffon projected. It was difficult not to look at her and feel a bit lighter. ¡°Bakkhos,¡± Scythas said, lest he forget it again. ¡°Loud. Riotous. He didn¡¯t take that name by mistake.¡± Loud and riotus were apt descriptions of the campfire crowd hackling us further up the river. ¡°The Mad Tyrant,¡± I mused, invoking another of his titles. Wine mania was amon affliction the further one strayed from civilized cultures. Still, there was something¡­ ¡°Bakkhos isn¡¯t his true name either?¡± ¡°It is and it isn¡¯t,¡± Scythas said, wavering his hand in a half-truth gesture. ¡°Meaning?¡± I asked. Griffon, meanwhile, was staring into the middle distance while the hands of his violent intent cut his chin and dug their knuckles into his temples. ¡°The kyrios was born and raised in Thracian fields, but his parents weren¡¯t the ones to raise him. He grew up with a vine keeper¡¯s family, and when he was old enough to understand it they told him the truth of his origins - left abandoned in a field of teeming grape vines by his true parents, half-buried in the soil like they had tried to bury him alive and given up part way. Like he was just another sprouting vine. ¡°The vine keeper exined this to him, and knowing then that that family was not his family after all, the kyrios decided to name himself. Bakkhos was his choice. Bakkhos, he told me, because the vine keeper had once confessed that he was the noisiest infant in the world, and that was the only reason he found him.¡± ¡°A trait he carried with him into adulthood,¡± I extrapted wryly. Scythas sighed and nodded. ¡°Bakkhos was unmatched in many respects. Restraint was not one of them.¡± ¡°You mean to tell me,¡± Griffon said slowly, biting out each word like it caused him visible pain, ¡°that the greatest man Olympia had to offer, the towering central pir of the Raging Heaven¡¯s virtue, was a hedonist?¡± ¡°Not a hedonist,¡± Selene corrected him. ¡°The hedonist.¡± Griffon¡¯s pneuma rose. For a man so vain, he despised the reflection of a mirror more than most. A ball of bunched up wool hit the ground and rolled towards us, thrown by one of the drunken men around the fire. I watched the man to do it stand up and condemn himself, taking a pull from his hollow horn cup and cupping his empty hand around his mouth so his voice would carry. ¡°Cover yourself up! Even a Greek woman ought to show a bit of modesty!¡± he jeered, the Babel shard even tranting his drunken slur. ¡°Hold on,¡± Scythas said, as Griffon slid wordlessly off his horse and retrieved the bundle of wool with a pankration hand. It unfurled into something like a cloak, long enough to fall past his knees and stitched with bright designs of color, winding horizontal lines that gave an effect ofyering. A few more of the drunkardsughed and hollered for him to try it on. Griffon started walking their way. ¡°They¡¯re only drunk!¡± Scythas tried. ¡°Remember what Solus told you at the funeral- diplomacy!¡± Ah, right. I had said that, hadn¡¯t I. ¡°Things will go smoother for us if we remain on good terms with the locals,¡± I put forward, to which Scythas and Khabur vehemently agreed. I knew it was wasted breath. ¡°I agree,¡± Griffon said withplete sincerity, donning the woolen cloak and smiling sharply at the fireside crowd¡¯s howlingughter. ¡°This is a fine garment. The least I can do is thank them for it.¡± He strode with purpose over to the Thracian crowd. Whether or not they were cultivators, I couldn¡¯t tell. But there were over a dozen of them, and a couple were nearly asrge as Kyno. Each and every one turned to watch curiously as the Greek approached. They had norger weapons at hand that I could see, but several of them were using daggers to cut meat from a spit-roasted boar. ¡°Get back on your horse, Khabur,¡± I told the Thracian. ¡°We¡¯ll have to rest themter.¡± ¡°He¡¯s not going over there to thank them, is he?¡± Selene murmured knowingly. ¡°No,¡± I sighed. ¡°He is.¡± I didn¡¯t hear exactly how he phrased it, not from that distance, but the Heroic cultivators with me did. At the same time they winced and grimaced, the cocky and jovial faces of the Thracian men around the fire darkened. One of them snapped something, stepping towards the scarlet son and brandishing his carving knife. Griffon replied. ¡°Fuck me,¡± Scythas hissed, and kicked his mare into a gallop away from the crowd and further up the river. Khabur followed directly on his tail. ¡°Should we leave him to it?¡± Selene asked, peering over my shoulder as Griffon roundhoused the first man to take a stab at him. If only. ¡°Give us a minute,¡± I told her instead, dismounting from the ck charger. When the stir-crazed warhorse shifted its weight ominously, I wrapped as much of my hand around its muzzle as I could and pulled its head down so its eyes met mine. ¡°Stay.¡± I turned up the river bank and cracked my neck as the air filled with Thracian howls and curses. Time for a brawl. Chapter 1.81 Chapter 1.81 The Young Griffon On the third day, we sent the sea dog home. Thends of Thracia were an unmarked expanse of snow capped mountain ranges and lush river valleys, with civilized settlements slim to none. My own Scarlet City had nestled itself between two mountain ranges and straddled a river, but the monuments and workings of stone that a city state required had altered thatndscape in a profound way. Made it difficult to trulypare thend of my birth to these northern wilds. Fertilend was a luxury in the greater western colonies that the Scarlet City presided over. And the lush fields on the outward facing edge of the eastern mountain range were a key contributor to an otherwiseckluster agricultural profile. Coarse bush ins and gnarled groves of olive trees were the norm, and so when it came time to fill his stomach, a man¡¯s focus was drawn most often to that crystalline Ionian and the bounty beneath her waves. We had our grazers and our fleet-foots of course, and natural treasures besides - sulfur and salt most prominent among them. The title of bread basket, however, was firmly out of reach for us. What I had seen so far of Thracia could have grasped that lofty title, and in the future still could if finer hands refined it. Lush fields of green and earth that sank beneath your feet, mountain basins full and overflowing with crisp clear water from the region¡¯s frequent rains. The tribal nations themselves were an unfortunate stain, with their roving vagrant cities of wagons and temporary constructions. The region made up for them, though. For every gangly red haired Thracian in a ridiculous hat and pants, there were hundreds of timeless pine trees and fruit bearing junipers within shouting distance of the Ebros river¡¯s winding banks. Wild boar abounded in the thickets of their forests along with burnt auburn foxes and golden orioles. The good existed in far greater number than the Thracians, almost enough to forget them entirely. And it was still only winter. This far north, that meant something. Closer to the Aegean, on the southern coast where the Greek colonies within Thracia were clustered, the chill was mild enough that the vineyard we had offered our sacrifice in was only lightly frosted over. But the further we progressed, the more frigid it became. Brutal Boreas had hidden half the nation beneath his winter veil, and it was still a marvel of natural fertility. By our third day all the world seemed painted white, and every breath emerged as steam. The woolen heat of my new Thracian cloak was a substantial barrier against the chill, though it wasn¡¯t as if I needed it. A true son of scarlet mystery was never bothered by heat, orck thereof. Still, it had been a nice gesture from a friendly foreigner, so I wore it anyway. Scythas bore it with a Hero¡¯s advanced constitution, taking by heart me what nature denied him and whistling the asional tune to disrupt the breezes that carried the worst of the cold. The girl, though never properly anointed in light of dawn or dusk, was equally unbothered. A product of Heroic me or oracr inheritance, or more likely both. Sol suffered the chill as he did most things in his life - with stoic resignation. The old sea dog we had brought along to help Scythas guide us seemed least affected of all, despite being the oldest and most frail by far. If anything, his expression grew brighter and his off-key singing warmer the further north we went. Until we reached the reason for it, the humble frozen settlement among a hundred of its type that Khabur had once called home. Even had I tried, I couldn¡¯t have distinguished between the wandering city of tribals ahead of us and the ones we¡¯d left behind us. The Korpiloi closest to the coast, or the Brenae above them. The distinction his eyes saw might have been in the patterns sewn into the cloaks and hanging tapestries that lined the tents and wagons of the nomad city, the nkets tucked around their children''s shoulders or over their horses¡¯ backs. Maybe it was their silly hats. More likely, he saw it in their faces. Old Khabur slid off his horse with a young man¡¯s haste, a whisperingpression of snow beneath his odd fawnskin boots when hended. He had wasted no time acquiring regional attire when wended days ago, spending all that he had managed to earn while using Niks¡¯ heroic vessel as a fishing skiff. He looked ridiculous, with his colorful hemp cloak and his phrygian fox cap, to say nothing of the variegated bags his people called pants. But donning them had visibly moved him, and now he looked right at home with the vagrant city just down the frozen hill we¡¯d crested. The old Thracian sea dog stared longingly at his nomad city, but he took only one step towards it. ¡°I don¡¯t suppose this is our stop?¡± he asked Scythas, forcefully clearing his throat when his voice cracked partway through. ¡°No,¡± the Hero of the Scything Squall denied, though it pained him to do it. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. We¡¯re not there yet.¡± ¡°Right,¡± Khabur rasped, licking frost-chapped lips. That weathered face turned to me, and Sol beside me, ¡°I only ask because I¡¯ve seen these gs before. That¡¯s the Diobesi down there. Well known for their brews, you see-¡± ¡°And their ugly old men,¡± I ventured. Khabur flinched. ¡°¡­ aye, them too,¡± he admitted ruefully. ¡°Forget I mentioned it. I¡¯ll just-¡± ¡°Go,¡± I said. The old sea dog stared at me. ¡°Zibute?¡± Unwilling to hope. ¡°We¡¯ll find our way without you, and I¡¯m tired of looking at that unfortunate face. Return to your fellow barbarians and enjoy what¡¯s left of your life.¡± Wide eyes, closer to the pale milk hue of the Broken Tide Oracle than the Aetos¡¯ own bright sky blue, darted from my face to Sol¡¯s. Searching for insincerity and finding none. The old man¡¯s broad hands trembled. ¡°I¡­ thank you, but I can¡¯t. I still owe you boys a debt-¡± ¡°You paid your debt at the oar,¡± Sol informed him. ¡°Every day until your chains were broken. What followed has been a voluntarybor.¡± Looking down from his towering dark horse while a holy young woman held him from behind, leaning sideways to measure the old man for herself with eyes of burning scarlet glory, the Roman cut a certain figure. Khabur was an old man and a sailor, until recently a ve - and before all that, he was a Thracian. He felt the captain¡¯s presence even so. He stood up straighter. His trembling hands clenched into fists. ¡°Is it enough?¡± he croaked. I raised an eyebrow. ¡°We said it was, didn¡¯t we? Now and once before. You chose to be foolish when we offered you salvation in the Rosy Dawn¡¯s gratitude. Learn from your mistake, and take this secondary constion before it too is lost.¡± ¡°Rest now, traveler,¡± Selene said kindly, affected majesty in her voice and her bearing. I suppose she could have been worse. ¡°The journey ends as it began.¡± ¡°Your odyssey is over,¡± Sol dered. ¡°Son of Thrace, free sailor of the sunlit seas, I hereby retire you. Take your horse and go.¡± ¡°My horse?¡± Dazed and hopeful as he was, Khabur nheless had the presence of mind to protest onest time. ¡°I can¡¯t take her too. Please, boys, don¡¯t curse me with that generosity. Not when the Hero-¡± A hand of my violent intent covered his mouth. His eyes met mine, the pupils shivering. ¡°Begone,¡± I told him. It was an ugly thing to see an old man weep. ¡°That was¡­ Kind,¡± Scythas said to me sometimeter, while our horses crept through high mountain passes and the fourth night descended. ¡°You sound surprised,¡± Sol observed. The Hero of the Scything Squall pursed his pouting lips. ¡°I¡¯m not surprised you agreed to it,¡± he said to my Roman brother. ¡°I¡¯m surprised that he initiated it.¡± I considered the brumal glory above. At this elevation, treading near the peaks of Thracia¡¯s frozen mountain ranges, the snow fell often and it fell heavy. Streamers and nkets of pure white kes clouded the skies above and coated thend below. If not for her ck mane and tail, my pure white runner would be all but impossible to see. The opposite was true of Sol and his ck stallion. ¡°What do you see when you look at me, Scythas?¡± I asked the Hero, reaching up to catch the kes of frigid heaven in my hand. ¡°What do I see?¡± He gestured for me to give him more. ¡°Physically? Spiritually? Now, or in general?¡± ¡°There are no wrong answers,¡± I informed him, peering closely at the fragments of glory I had caught in my hand. Just as my foundational mystery could call rosy heat to my palms, so too could it call heat away. The snowkes did not melt in a palm that was colder than mountain stone. You¡¯re tempting the Fates, the hungry raven lurking in Sol¡¯s shadow reached out to inform mine. How so? An invitation of current spection is an implication of future exnation. Such refined artiction, the raven in my shadow cawed mockingly. Roman minds must have trembled when you spoke. Sol sneered. Scythas will expect you to borate if you tell him his read of you is wrong. Then I will. What do I have to hide? Arrogant, irreverent Greek. Next time you provoke an unnecessary fight, I¡¯m going to join in on the opposing side. Promises, promises. Our joined shadows undted slightly, distorted by the ravens within as they beat their wings challengingy at one another. Just don¡¯t expect me to soothe your ego when he batters it, Sol¡¯s raven said. Ho? You think I¡¯m that fragile- Both of us flinched and jerked back from stabbing pain. The taste of the Rein-Holder¡¯s starlight bone marrow flooded my mouth, blood from a wound that I had never taken before in my life. I looked left, and at the same moment Sol looked behind, both of us staring at the culprit. The daughter of the Scarlet Oracle had a spear in her hand, drawn from a fold in her myriad silks and rags. It had a ceremonial look to it - the bone white wood of its pole was covered tip to tip in borate carvings, some of them etched so deeply that the pole couldn¡¯t have been thicker than a finger¡¯s width in some ces. The spearhead was freshly polished bronze. Ruinously fragile, the whole thing. Common sense and woodbel it an ornament. Selene held the ceremonial spear out at her side. For all appearances, she had stabbed it down at the open air. It was the shadow the ornament cast, the penumbra spear, that had skewered our chattering ravens. Her lips moved silently. ¡°It¡¯s rude to carry on two conversations at once.¡± She mouthed the words, trusting us to read her lips. She had noticed our shadowed conversation, as Anastasia had, but she could not join in herself. And she knew that any other form ofmunication would be heard by the man who was beloved by the wind. I smirked and nodded fractionally. ¡°Fair enough.¡± Scythas, riding ahead of us on the high mountain trail, nced back curiously as the girl talked her spear away again. The moment its shadow pulled away, Sol and I drew back our own silhouettes to nurse wounds we hadn¡¯t known we could suffer until a moment ago. Selene smiled and waved pleasantly at the Hero. Scythas hesitantly returned it. Eyes of hazel me and golden embers shifted to me. ¡°When I look at you,¡± he mused. He looked me up and down, and I shifted and posed obligingly for him. Rather than annoy him, it seemed to cement the thought in his head. ¡°When I look at you, I see a runaway me.¡± The snow fell freely. ¡°In what way?¡± I asked, rxing from my artful pose and simply reaching up. Catching more snowkes in my hands. ¡°On the night I met you, and every moment since, you¡¯ve been doing everything in your power to disrupt the world around you,¡± Scythas exined. ¡°Not once, not even for a moment, have you stopped.¡± He swiveled in his saddle to fully face us,fortable enough with his mare and a Heroic cultivator¡¯s poise to cross his legs ankle over ankle on her hind end and recline against her neck like she was a dining couch instead of a horse. ¡°Correct me if I¡¯m wrong.¡± I added hands of pankration intent to my efforts, grasping skyward and catching snowkes in their incorporeal palms. ¡°But there was a distance of weeks separating our game of bone knuckles and our reunion in Bakkhos¡¯ estate. You and I didn¡¯t cross paths once during the intervening time.¡± ¡°We didn¡¯t,¡± he admitted, ¡°but I heard from those that did.¡± ¡°I only spent marginally more time with the Reaver than I did with you,¡± I pointed out. ¡°I¡¯m not just talking about Jason. I¡¯ve heard dozens of people speak about the twin ravens that hunger, hunting the hunters and terrorizing the terrors that keep junior mystikos up at night. I¡¯ve heard rumors of the man that stalks the sanctuary city in the attire of a cult that he can¡¯t possibly belong to - in silks that haven¡¯t seen representation in Olympia since Damon Aetos swept the Olympic Games twenty years ago and spit in Old ¡®Zalus¡¯ eye.¡± Sol¡¯s shadow reached for mine. Seleneid her chin on his shoulder. The raven withdrew. ¡°It doesn¡¯t help your case that they look like they belong to a mangled corpse,¡± Scythas said, flicking a finger distastefully at the ragged robes of scarlet and white that hung down from my waist. ¡°Half the people that have seen you suspect you stole those from a grave, and the other half are convinced they are yours. And that you walked out of that grave yourself.¡± Selene hummed. ¡°Seems unlikely.¡± ¡°It does. But so do most things rted to the Rosy Dawn.¡± The Hero pulled a scarf of green silk from paradox logic and wrapped it loosely around his neck and jaw. With his faint stubble covered, he looked like no man at all. If anything, the crown of snowkes on dark brown curls and the frost that clung to his eyshes lent him an almost ethereal beauty. ¡°You make no effort at all to hide where you¡¯re from, which made me think at first you weren¡¯t from there at all,¡± the Hero of the Scything Squall continued. ¡°For a long while, I assumed you were hiding your true affiliation the same way you were hiding your true standing. Pretending toe from the Rosy Dawn when you obviously had not, just as you were pretending to be a low-rank Philosopher when you¡¯re anything but.¡± ¡°He is, though,¡± Selene said. She tilted her head, indicating the Roman whose shoulder she was leaning on. ¡°Solus is too. Can¡¯t you feel their pneuma?¡± I couldn¡¯t see whether or not his lips parted beneath his green silk scarf, but the sh of panic in Scythas¡¯ eyes was inly apparent. ¡°She doesn¡¯t know?¡± ¡°The only one here that doesn¡¯t know is you,¡± I said, fanning out my pankration hands and their snowke bounties around me. ¡°Then why-?¡± Scythas¡¯ eyes closed. ¡°Solus. Tell me there aren¡¯t two of them now.¡± My stoic Roman brother nced my way. I cocked an eyebrow. He looked down at the Oracle¡¯s daughter, her chin still propped on his shoulder. She offered him a wink. ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± he apologized to the Hero. Scythas quietly groaned. ¡°I¡¯m better than her,¡± I said, honestly offended. ¡°You¡¯re older than me,¡± the girl had the audacity to reply, as if she was correcting me. ¡°And I suppose, as a member of my own mystery faith, that makes you my senior brother in a way. But age is hardly the only virtue. Youthful vigor has its own value, you know.¡± ¡°Are you calling me old?¡± I asked her incredulously. ¡°Ancient brother whom I have long admired,¡± Selene solemnly intoned, tucking her chin deeper into Sol¡¯s shoulder in lieu of a bow. ¡°I have no doubt that you were a terrible force in your prime, but the world has changed since then. ¡°We¡¯ve moved on with modern innovations - for example, the wheel.¡± Sol smothered his amusement with a cough. Scythas¡¯ canted eyes curled, not even bothering to try. ¡°I¡¯ll break the wheel over your head,¡± I promised the smug Heroine. ¡°These days, we solve minor disputes with an innovation called discourse-¡± A snowball struck her in the face and exploded. ¡°It¡¯s rude to interrupt a conversation in progress,¡± I admonished the sputtering young woman. My precocious junior sister in scarlet faith stuck her tongue out at me. In return, nine more pankration hands pelted her face with snow. ¡°You were saying?¡± I invited the Hero, speaking over the Heroine¡¯s giggling protests. Scythas shook his head, but obliged me. ¡°I was saying that I used to think your Rosy Dawn attire was as authentic as your Sophic status.¡± A profound insight. ¡°But the more I looked and listened for a truth to contradict the lie, the less I found. You immediately gave away the fact that you¡¯re more than just a Philosopher-¡± ¡°But he is-¡± Selene began to insist, shielding her face from me with her hands. Sol pped her with his own handful of snow while her focus was on the external enemy, swatting her like a bug on his shoulder. Her cry of ¡°Sabotage!¡± was muffled by a mouthful of snow. ¡°-yet, the more I heard about your actions in Olympia, the less certain of that I became.¡± The Hero crossed his arms, eyebrows furrowing as he thought. ¡°You came here with a Roman. You swagger through ces you have no business even approaching, and you smack around young Philosophers of the Raging Heaven when they challenge your presence there. Like they¡¯re your own junior initiates. Like they aren¡¯t right to be suspicious of you. ¡°You present yourself as a lowly sophist and in the same breath challenge a Heroic Young Aristocrat¡¯s authority - while standing in a club his family owns. You im to be a junior Philosopher while your mouth is full of infernal bone marrow, and chase the agents of our Tyrants through the Raging Heaven¡¯s halls as if they¡¯re nothing more than the scavenging crows we named them after. You punch the Gadfly in his throat, and ridicule us for not doing the same. For not doing every mad thing you do. ¡°And then,¡± he snapped, leveling a damning finger at the space between my eyes, ¡°You have the sheer gall to throw our standing back in our faces. You have the audacity to cite your fabricated standing while you shame us, as if to say that a fresh Philosopher¡¯s strength is all that¡¯s required to do the things you¡¯ve done!¡± ¡°Scythas,¡± came the Roman¡¯s voice. Sharp and lined with steel. The Hero clicked his tongue and whistled a note that made my ears ring, and the screaming gale winds that had risen up with his ire flickered and were abruptly silent. ¡°Apologies.¡± He exhaled slowly. When his eyes met mine, they were steady. ¡°Since the day that Bakkhos died, in your every interaction, you¡¯ve done whatever you can to evoke from the world what you nearly just evoked from me. The more I hear of you and the more I suffer you personally, the more I am convinced you¡¯re from the Scarlet City after all.¡± I waited patiently, recalling the ten pankration hands pestering Selene with snow and using them to catch more snowkes. ¡°When I look at you, I see a starving dog that¡¯s slipped his leash,¡± Scythas said, and theck of heat behind the words made them twice as damning. ¡°Sprinting away as fast as he can, confronting everything in his path with mad aggression born of hunger.¡± Scythas uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, riding fully in reverse. ¡°When I look at the palette used to paint you, I see the blessing of the sun. When you reach out with the hands of your intent, I feel that blessing too. But a truth universally known is that a wise man keeps his distance from the sun, because it¡¯s all too easy to burn. All too easy to be blinded. ¡°I believe you¡¯re from that locked and bolted city because of how you act,¡± he told me. ¡°Like you¡¯re in possession of a map that charts the path straight up to heaven, and at the same time like a blind man that¡¯s just stumbled out of a cave into the wider world. Like a starved dog or a runaway me, devouring whatever you can reach. Heedless of the consequences, uncaring of who you hurt or how or to what degree. Lying as easily as you breathe. I believe you¡¯re from that cursed ce because I believe nearly nothing else you¡¯ve ever said. ¡°It surprised me that you would take the initiative to free a good man for no gain but his joy,¡± Scythas concluded with firm conviction, ¡°because when I look at you I see a scarlet son. Every story I¡¯ve ever been told about the blinding dawn and scouring dusk, all the arrogance and the cruelty and the greed, like you were made instead of born. ¡°Like Damon Aetos molded you from y himself.¡± ¡°That¡¯s enough,¡± Sol decided. The Hero of the Scything Squall hummed, swiveling with inhuman crity to ride his mare in the proper orientation once more. ¡°As you say. I was finished anyway.¡± For the first time since I had known him, the Hero came away from a conversation with me sounding powerfully satisfied. Sol¡¯s shadow reached for mine, hesitated, and then connected when Selene nodded shallowly against his shoulder. For some reason, the girl looked sad. I warned you, the hungry raven warbled, not unkindly. Downright tenderly, by the Roman standard. Ah. I was being looked down on. ¡°I have another question,¡± I dered. Scythas sighed and waved a hand without looking back, brushing my words aside. ¡°I¡¯m not going to debate this with you, Griffon. You asked me what I saw, and I told you. Whether or not you agree, you won¡¯t persuade my eyes-¡± ¡°Not a debate,¡± I rified. ¡°A simple question.¡± A weary beat passed. One more, and none after that. ¡°I won¡¯t ask you for another word,¡± I promised. ¡°For the rest of the day. And tomorrow.¡± I¡¯d give him one better than that. ¡°Until we die or each ascend, I won¡¯t ever ask you anything again.¡± ¡°I¡¯m serious.¡± ¡°So was I.¡± Scythas seemed to give up on haggling, waving me on. We need him, Sol¡¯s raven reminded mine. There was weight behind the words that hadn¡¯t been there when he cautioned me against confronting a group of drunken Thracians the day before. There was care, this time. And he¡¯s been broken down enough. I understand, I said. Sol frowned, but drew away. ¡°Who told you those things about me?¡± I asked. ¡°My encounter with the young Philosophers of the Raging Heaven, the fact that it was me to challenge the Young Aristocrat in his family¡¯s club and not Elissa or Kyno or Lefteris. Any of the things you imed to have heard about me. All of them. Who told you?¡± ¡°No one.¡± I nodded, satisfied. Snow crunch beneath plodding hooves, the only sound between us. ¡°¡­ that¡¯s it?¡± Scythas nced back at me, confused. ¡°No follow up?¡± I shrugged. ¡°I gave you my word.¡± The Hero scoffed and faced forward again. ¡°The Howling Wind Cult deals in air as the Scarlet City deals in fire. No one told me those things directly. No one had to. They told their stories to the people they trusted, or otherwise wanted to impress, and I overheard them.¡± ¡°You were that close?¡± Sol asked. Scythas shook his head. ¡°I didn¡¯t have to be. Since I joined the Raging Heaven, every word spoken on Kaukoso Mons has been carried to my ear if I desired it. So long as the wind knows that I want to hear it, and so long as I¡¯m kind, the breeze will bring it to me.¡± ¡°That.¡± Three sets of eyes settled on me. ¡°That?¡± Scythas echoed, his voice clear despite the scarf covering his mouth. He didn¡¯t have to raise it to be heard, because the wind would carry it to our ears as surely as it would our words to his. ¡°That is why I treat you all the way I do.¡± I considered the hands of my violent intent arrayed in rows around me. Raising them up close to my eyes, one by one, I considered the snowkes they¡¯d caught. Their shapes and simple symmetries. ¡°I was born in a locked and bolted city, as you said, and raised on stories of greater souls than those I saw around me. Wisemen, innovators of creative thought - architects and weavers and sweet voiced singers that invited tribtion simply because they were better at what they did than even the divine.¡± My long-legged runner raised her head, snuffling quietly, and caught a snowke on her tongue. In the instant before it melted, I saw that its shape was unlike any other in my hands. ¡°I grew up in a cave, captivated by the shadows I saw dancing on the walls,¡± I admitted, because it was true. ¡°Cast by light of rose dawn, every one of them was a story. Each of them was someone worth telling stories of, a virtue in and of themselves - uniquely excellent souls. I thought that¡¯s what every Hero was.¡± I called light without heat to my palms, a phenomena of natural mystery, illuminating the finer details of every snowke so each of mypanions could see. Not a single one was exactly like another. ¡°I¡¯ve never in my life heard of a man being able to sweet talk the wind that carries a spoken word,¡± I said, and didn¡¯t bother hiding my wonder. ¡°As far as I know, that is a virtue unique to you. Scythas, the Hero of the Scything Squall, and no one else. If it weren¡¯t for that, if I hadn¡¯t seen those glimmers of unique excellence that each of you carry in your souls, I might have been able to convince myself that none of you were Heroes at all.¡± Scythas. Elissa. Kyno. Lefteris. Jason. Anastasia. ¡°But I have seen them,¡± I admitted in regret. ¡°And I can¡¯t pretend I didn¡¯t. Which means as much as I hate that it¡¯s true, you are the stories I was told, the glories that I was promised If I ever scaled the heights. You, the men and women that refuse to venture forward and risk what¡¯s needed for the gains that you desire. You, the Heroes and Heroines that are hesitating because you know that no one has done what you have to do, ignoring the fact that no one has ever tried it with the abilities unique only to you. ¡°You are what I left that cave to find. I slipped my leash and burnt past my boundaries in search of the greater souls casting the shadows of my childhood idols, and outside I found only you. ¡°I am ravenous,¡± I said with quiet understanding. ¡°And everything I¡¯ve eaten since the day I left that cave has only made it worse. And unlike Khabur, I have not been voluntarily released. I act the way I do because I know what follows behind me, what seeks to leash me once again and douse me down to embers. ¡°That¡¯s why each of you disappoints me. That is why I shame you. Not just because I am cruel, not just because I am arrogant, not only for my greed. It¡¯s because I left my world to find you, and I thought you would be more.¡± Heat returned to match the rosy light of dawn. The snowkes melted in my hands, pooling together as water in my palms. ¡°In a way,¡± I murmured, ¡°I suppose that too was an appeal to higher power.¡± The Hero Scythas didn¡¯t speak another word for the rest of the day. I didn¡¯t prompt him to. I¡¯d made a promise, after all. On the fourth night, we found our cup of wine ensconced in Orphic mystery. Chapter 1.82 Chapter 1.82 The Son of Rome After three days and four nights spent wandering the boundlessnds of Thrace, we found our first true city. More than just a collection of brutal nomads and whatever burdens they could carry - like a haggard Roman legion with no clear chain ofmand - or a system of mountain passes and caves overflowing with hulking redheads, this was a permanent settlement. One built tost. Unsurprisingly, it was a Macedonian addition. Even less surprising than that, it was a desecrated shell of what Alexander had first ordered built. Honest fortifications, walls and ramparts of sun baked brick, were betrayed by ack of Macedonian souls to man them. What remained of the city''s southern gate hung agape, broken and kept open indefinitely by stakes in the earth and rubble stacked against it as stoppage weight. We rode side-by-side, three mounted horses passing through with room to spare in between. ¡°This is Ionic architecture,¡± Selene murmured as we progressed. Her burning scarlet eyes roved over the works that remained, fascinated. There were decorative arches, grand columns topped by stone ornaments like unfurled scrolls that the Ionic aestheticbeled volutes, and triangr pediments atop those voluted columns in most of the public constructions. Some of those pediments still retained a portion of their painted and carved reliefs, hinting at past purpose, but Kronos had long since drawn his thumb across their finer details. I caught glimpses of what this ce had been before, here and there in portraits of urban decay. There, frozen pools of tainted still water in massive stone basins, the city¡¯s once proud baths. Here, an inner courtyard garden revealed through the gaping wound of a residential estate¡¯s copsed outer walls - a pristine peristylium, in its day, constructed in the same style as the one containing the Aetos family¡¯s filial pools. But the garden in this abandoned home had long since spilled over its cultivated boundaries. Gnarled, frost-covered vines strangled every column and rail that lined the courtyard. The more suggestions I saw of the once proud polis, long since dead, the worse my throat ached and the worse the chambers of my nose burned. Thesh too far was the facade of a statue in the center of the broken city, a wide-open pavilion that might have once served the same purpose as a forum or an agora. As soon as I spotted it in the distance, I nearly choked on soot. ¡°Here,¡± Selene said quietly, removing one arm from around my waist just long enough to pull the canteen out from a fold in her silks. Two shells of polished iron joined in the middle by copper bands. I drank deeply from it, ignoring the vor. I had seen her fill it with clean, crisp river water just a few hours ago. Yet somehow, it tasted like the Adriatic. ¡°There aren¡¯t any Greek colonies this far from the Aegean,¡± Griffon said, picking the ruins apart with his eyes and his wandering pankration hands. He sifted idly through rubble as he rode, illuminating remnant signs of what had once been. ¡°Junior.¡± ¡°Yes, senior?¡± Selene replied. They had decided to stick with that dynamic, apparently. ¡°Do you know where we are?¡± ¡°No clue at all.¡± The former Young Aristocrat hummed and continued with his search. We rode, a slow and wary plodding toward that central pavilion. ¡°You aren¡¯t going to ask me?¡± Scythas seemed to regret the words even as he spoke them. ¡°Of course not.¡± The Hero scowled. But he didn¡¯t look our way. Since theirst conversation, he had kept his horse either in front of ours or on the other side of mine, avoiding even a glimpse of the scarlet son. For once, Griffon had ignored the opportunity to prod an open wound and let him be. ¡°Do you recognize this ce, Scythas?¡± Selene asked, for his sake as much as ours. The daughter of the Oracle had been subdued as well since that baring of hearts, more the version of herself she had been when Scythas first came to us in Bakkhos¡¯ courtyard. Tempered and grave. ¡°In a way,¡± he answered, nodding. ¡°This is one of the ces where Bakkhos used to live. Before he came to Greece.¡± ¡°How can you tell?¡± ¡°The hand,¡± Griffon answered in his ce. ¡°The hand is still pointing him the way.¡± Scythas blinked, and for the first time in several hours looked past me towards Griffon. ¡°How did you-?¡± ¡°Just a feeling.¡± Scythas looked at him strangely. ¡°We¡¯ve been together this whole time,¡± Selene pointed out. ¡°There hasn¡¯t been an opportunity for you to summon it again, not without us seeing.¡± After a beat, hazel eyes and golden coals flickered and turned to us. ¡°I don¡¯t have to summon again what was never fully dismissed. It¡¯s taking a different form than what you saw in that vineyard, but it¡¯s still here. And it has been the entire time.¡± ¡°The wind,¡± Griffon guessed. ¡°A whisper so faint, none but the Hero of the Scything Squall could possibly hear it.¡± Scythas¡¯ jaw flexed. ¡°The kyrios told me once,¡± he ground out, ignoring the statement with some effort, ¡°that in his day, he had seen wonders the likes of which the world no longer offers. Not because it will not, but because it can not. What the Gadfly sent you out to scavenge ingredients for, Bakkhos called his brew. In his words, it was the closest approximation he could manage to a vor long since lost to time. A pleasant echo.¡± An approximation. What Socrates called divine nectar, Bakkhos called an approximation. Was the Gadfly overestimating the elixir''s ability to heal? Wasting our time on purpose, perhaps? It seemed too cruel for him. I hadn¡¯t known the master of my master¡¯s master for more than a few weeks, and the circumstances of our first meeting had been far from ideal, but somehow I felt confident about that much. Socrates was a Gadfly through and through, a critical old man with little patience for most things. But he wasn¡¯t malicious. Not in the way a man would have to be to deceive an ill mother¡¯s child into thinking they could have her back healthy and whole. If the Gadfly was telling the truth as he saw it, though. If this pleasant echo he called nectar truly was potent enough to make well what the finest physicians could not even diagnose, then what did that say about thete kyrios¡¯ standard? How high had he set his sights? What had Bakkhos been drinking before? ¡°The only reason he was able toe as close as he did to that past pleasure, so he said, was because there were still some that remembered what the earth had long since forgotten,¡± Scythas continued, his focus drifting into recollection. ¡°Dwelling beneath it.¡± Two nights ago, in a voice that was not his own, Scythas had called upon a chthonic hero. Chthonic. Another word for infernal. Both descriptors of those that dwelled beneath, in the bleak underworld. And in response to the call, a dead man had answered him. ¡°He gathered his materials from the dead,¡± Griffon mused. ¡°From the only fields that no man alive could harvest. From the only markets that wouldn¡¯t ept any man¡¯s mortal currency.¡± ¡°It would exin why he was the only one to brew it,¡± I said, taking another pull of freshwater that tasted like brine. ¡°Bakkhos forbade its synthesis,¡± Selene reminded me. ¡°For as long as he lived, even in his kinder years, he made it clear he wouldn¡¯t tolerate that sort of challenge.¡± ¡°Bakkhos was hated as much as he was loved,¡± I replied. ¡°Likely even more so. If the materials were readily avable, someone would have puzzled out the steps to synthesize it eventually. Someone would have taken the risk. But they weren¡¯t avable, were they? Not above ground.¡± ¡°Not here, at least,¡± Scythas confirmed. ¡°The other locations marked on that map¡­ I¡¯m not sure. I might have a few ideas we can test, but none are as promising as this one here.¡± It was why he¡¯d volunteered toe, rather than split off to cover more ground as Jason had. Our first destination was the one he felt he¡¯d be most useful in. ¡°A golden cup of spirit wine,¡± Selene murmured. ¡°Why from here?¡± Scythas shrugged. ¡°The kyrios had a saying he liked to share from time to time. As an Oracle in his care, I¡¯m sure you¡¯re even more familiar with it than I am.¡± The Hero of the Scything Squall cleared his throat, and once again spoke in a voice that was not his own. ¡°The space where other tyrants keep their hunger-¡± ¡°I instead reserve for my thirst,¡± Selene finished, nearly groaning the words in her exasperation. ¡°Yes, I¡¯m familiar.¡± ¡°Exactly. To hear him tell it, his early years were an endless revel. He imed once to have walked every step there was to walk in thend of his birth, drinking whatever there was to drink, wherever there was a drink to be found. Supposedly, the only reason Thracia is still spoken of as and without boundaries is because he was never sober enough to mark them on a map. His words, naturally. ¡°In his mad wandering, he made his friends and he made his enemies. By the time he imed his ce in Olympia as the Tyrant Riot, the only difference between the two was how he¡¯did their corpses to rest.¡± My brow furrowed. ¡°You don¡¯t mean¡­¡± ¡°He didn¡¯t kill them. At least, he didn¡¯t kill his friends as far as I know. He didn¡¯t have to. The kyrios was old by any standard. He was a man that had outlived his own era, drinking on while his contemporaries perished by the de or by the bolt. Those that mortal wounds and tribtion could not strike down, Kronos took for himself in the end. Bakkhos simply outlived his peers until he was the only one left to bury them.¡± How old was Bakkhos, really? the raven in my shadow asked the one in Griffon¡®s. Under the cover of night, our shades could still mingle freely without Selene noticing. Old enough, Griffon¡¯s raven cawed while he contemted the wreckage surrounding us. ¡°He buried his friends with full honors,¡± Scythas continued. ¡°He gave them coin to cross the infernal river and refreshment tost them the journey, promising each in their passing to someday share a drink again. And though he never joined them-¡± ¡°Until he did,¡± Griffon remarked distractedly. Scythas scowled furiously. ¡°And though he never joined them, he still made good on his promises. He came back when it was within his power to summon them, though so much had been lost in the passage of time that the wine he brought to share was hardly worth the name,pared to what he¡¯d buried them with. And in sympathy for the fond friend that had paid their way across the river, those long forgotten heroes returned the favor he had once done for them. They gave him a drink.¡± ¡°And his enemies?¡± I asked. Scythas tried for a smile, but it was an uneasy thing. ¡°Thracia is famous for its vineyards. Once, when he was ruinously drunk, Bakkhos exined to me that he had cultivated those vineyards himself, that he was as much the cause of their thriving as the nation¡¯s fertilend. ording to him, a grape vine¡¯s growth was a question of nurture as much as it was nature.¡± ¡°¡®It¡¯s all in what you feed them¡¯,¡± Selene concluded with her chinid on my shoulder, a calm recitation of a mad Tyrant¡¯s quote. Ah. ¡°That¡¯s not important, though. What¡¯s important is how he buried his friends.¡± ¡°And where,¡± Griffon realized. He looked at our bleak surroundings with new eyes. ¡°One of them is buried here. That¡¯s why this ce looks like a Greek built it with a Thracian¡¯s hands. Bakkhos came back a more civilized man to visit the friend he¡¯d buried, and when he did, he built a city over his corpse.¡± I shook my head. Griffon blinked. ¡°Ho? Am I wrong?¡± ¡°Half wrong. Bakkhos didn¡¯t build this city.¡± The signs and Scythas¡¯ own words pointed to a chthonic friend being buried somewhere in the area, that we agreed on. But I had known from the moment we entered it that this city was a ruin entirely separate from the Greek diaspora. In spite of its simrities. Because of its simrities. ¡°And you know who did?¡± Griffon pressed me, skeptical. I nodded. ¡°I suppose you know what they named it, too?¡± ¡°More likely than not.¡± ¡°You do?¡± Scythas asked, surprised. ¡°Tell us,¡± Selene urged me, squeezing my waist just hard enough to make me wince. ¡°What¡¯s the name?¡± There was only one man that could have inspired the tragedy I¡¯d seen in the wood of that gaping southern gate. When it came to naming his cities, he tended to follow a trend. ¡°Alexandropolis,¡± I named it. Scythas flinched at the word, and Selene¡¯s grip tightened reflexively around my waist, hard enough to make me briefly see stars. Griffon turned narrow eyes upon me. The raven in his shadow spread wide its wings and let loose an eerie, gurgling cry. ¡°What led you to that conclusion?¡± ¡°On the face of the gate when we entered,¡± I recalled, waving back the way we hade. ¡°There was a symbol. A star with sixteen rays, or a wheel with sixteen spokes depending on who you ask. The mark of the Argead dynasty.¡± ¡°There was no such thing,¡± the former Young Aristocrat immediately denied. ¡°I looked.¡± ¡°And you saw it. You just didn¡¯t realize that you did, because someone had already scoured it from the gate. Burnt it beyond all recognition.¡± ¡°Beyond all recognition but yours?¡± I lifted one shoulder in a shrug, making Selene¡¯s head bob. ¡°I¡¯ve seen ruins like these before. They all bear simr marks.¡± I lifted my chin, gesturing up ahead. The broken facade of a once grand statue loomed close enough now to see the finer details of it even in the dark. The statue was missing its entire upper half, but what remained still stood proud and tall. It was bare now, but I knew that in the past, when the tragedy of this city was still fresh, it had been draped with fine fabrics and whatever ornaments of wealth could be bnced on its frame. There would have been flowers. Copious offerings of food and blood. There would have been sorrow. Those material markers had long since eroded or been stolen away. All that remained now was the echo of their hopeless pleas. Griffon brandished rosy palms of violent intent, illuminating the broken sculpture. In the rity of the dawn, the words carved into the marble base of the statue were in to see. Here at your feet we beg your forgiveness. Won¡¯t you turn the wagon around? Won¡¯t youe back for us, Alexander? - Your cast off sons of Macedonia ¡°This was a military colony,¡± I said with certainty, because I had seen its like before. ¡°Built by the Macedonians, for the Macedonians.¡± ¡°And someone tore it apart,¡± Scythas whispered, staring wide-eyed at the desperate inscription in the marble. ¡°Who would dare-?¡± ¡°No one,¡± I said wearily. ¡°No one but themselves.¡± In the course of my travels, I had seen these sites before. I had seen for myself these haunted, broken ces, hollowed out by the same hands that had first built them. I had seen Argead Stars scoured off of every surface, as well as bleak appeals carved into every holy monument. The empty cries of abandoned children. These broken shell cities of Macedonia had unsettled me when I first beheld them as a legionary of a vibrant, thriving Republic. Now, they were worse. Now they hurt. It had seemed absurd to me at the time, the idea that after everything they had done, a nation as great and powerful as Macedonia could fall to civil war in the end. How could internal strife be the de that pierced their heart, when every external foe had only made them stronger? What could have possiblypelled them to castthemselves down on the precipice of unprecedented glory? I hadn¡¯t understood it. Not then. I understood it now. Standing in the rubble of a Macedonian city¡¯s corpse, all I could see was Rome. Chapter 1.83 Chapter 1.83 The Young Griffon The Conqueror¡¯s polis was not entirely abandoned. The husk of a city - what Sol insisted had once been a military colony - was all but rubble now, nearly every structure bearing scars and infirmities. There was not a stone column remaining without a few cracks or missing chunks. Every wall was at least partially copsed, every door torn down or left hanging morosely in its frame. Decorative carvings had been scraped away. Murals had been scoured off the walls or otherwise painted over. All in all, it was a desecration tooplete to be the work of Kronos alone. However, there was one building that still stood without any signs of wear. Ironically, in this abandoned city of scattered bricks and marble rubble, the only monument left intact was made of wood. A humble odeon - also known as a singing house. A smaller iteration of a Greek theater, with a shingled roof of sun-baked y added onto the design to facilitate better acoustics. A pair of Thracians sat at the entrance, one on either side. Scythas pulled ahead with his mare as they came into view, making a beeline towards them. As we drew closer I saw that one was a man and the other a woman. The man was a typical example of his breed, red-haired andrger than the average unrefined Greek by the full span of a hand. The details of his physique were mostly obscured by his ridiculous Thracian pants and voluminous chiton, but his crossed arms were bare andyered with muscle. Vibrant blue tattoos stood out starkly from the man¡¯s pale skin, patterned like ivy leaves growing up and down his arms. The woman was a sharp departure from the mothers and wives we had seen tending to the children and men of Thracia¡¯s wandering cities. Her clothes matched the style of the man beside her, as did the tattoos on her arms, and dark makeup shadowed her eyes while also coating her lips. Her brown hair fell freely without braids or cloth to bind it. The only ornament on her head was a crescent band of gold, less than a crown but more than a tiara. As we approached, I saw a pattern of hexagonal shapes pressed into the gold. Like it was made of honeb rather than metal. Scythas stopped his dappled mare a respectful distance from the Thracians and the entry they were guarding. Sol and I shared a doubtful look. ¡°This¡­ doesn¡¯t seem promising,¡± Selene said quietly, leaning sideways to look around Sol at the wooden singing house. ¡°I can¡¯t sense anyone besides those two at the door.¡± ¡°Neither can I,¡± Sol confirmed, and I made a noise of my own agreement. It was surprising enough that I could feel something from the two sitting guard. They were Thracians, that much was in to see from their features and the clothes they were wearing, but even so I could feel it as their notice brushed over me and their influence parted around mine. The sensation of their vital essence was odd, familiar and yet alien. I was all but certain they were cultivators of some kind, but I couldn¡¯t intuitively grasp their standing the way I could a Greek¡¯s. ¡°It could be a veil of some kind,¡± I said, considering them as we drew closer. Thracian gatekeepers in a ruined Macedonian city. ¡°Or it could be that everyone inside is unawoken.¡± ¡°Could be that there¡¯s no one there at all,¡± Selene murmured. I nced sidelong at the daughter of the Oracle, reaching across the distance with a pankration hand and lightly shoving her shoulder. She blinked, breaking her gloomy focus. ¡°We don¡¯t need it to be packed full of rowdy barbarians,¡± I reminded the girl. ¡°So long as there¡¯s wine and a golden cup to pour it in, we¡¯ll have found our way.¡± ¡°Scythas knows what he¡¯s doing,¡± Sol assured her, and though the words were spoken at a solemn volume, I saw Scythas straighten up a fraction in his saddle up ahead. ¡°Our destination is inside,¡± the Hero informed us when we joined him, Sol on his left and myself on his right. ¡°All that¡¯s left to do is pay.¡± I looked down on the woman wearing a half-crown of honeb gold. She raised an eyebrow at me, expression disinterested. ¡°I have no money,¡± I told her. This close, I could count thebs of her half-crown and see the individual kes of gold strung through the hem of her chiton - grape leaves, to apany the ck threads woven to look like vines. I could also see the faint glitter of gold dust in the shadowed makeup around her eyes when she blinked and tilted her head. ¡°You have a horse.¡± The price of doing business in Thracia. It seemed Scythas had been speaking more literally than I¡¯d first thought. ¡°I¡¯ll work for it,¡± I offered instead, politely ignoring Sol¡¯s disgusted sigh. The Thracian woman was seated on the right hand side of the wooden stairs leading up to the singing house¡¯s entrance. Aside from her maroon chiton and garishly patterned pants, she had nothing at hand to protect her from Boreas¡¯ cruel winds or the snow covering the steps. Nothing but a hollow horn cup filled with white liquid, emitting no steam. Yet her bare arms did not shiver, neither her fingers nor her naked toes were ckened by frost, and as she sipped from her frigid beverage she seemed entirely unbothered by the weather. I waited patiently while she considered my offer. ¡°No.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t be fooled by my ugly cloak,¡± I said, plucking at the gift I had received from the men of the Korpiloi tribe. Manifesting the limbs of my violent intent, I blessed her briefly with the heat of my cult¡¯s foundational mystery. ¡°A Greek Philosopher is offering you his service in exchange for admittance to this derelict theater. Ask me any question and I¡¯ll answer it truthfully. Assign me any task and I will see it done. You have my word.¡± ¡°Griffon,¡± Scythas snapped. I raised an eyebrow of my own at the gatekeeper. She took another sip from her horn. ¡°In that case- no.¡± ¡°No,¡± I echoed her, considering the barbarian woman. ¡°But if I gave you this horse, that would be enough?¡± The woman eyed my horse critically. Finally, she nodded. ¡°Just barely.¡± ¡°So then,¡± I said mildly, continuing the thought. ¡°What you¡¯re telling me, ultimately, is that everything I am capable of saying and doing is worth less to you than a horse without a saddle.¡± To her credit, she did not hesitate. ¡°Yes.¡± I smiled sharply. ¡°Tell me, barbarian, are you familiar with the concept of discourse? Would you like to exchange some?¡± ¡°Griffon,¡± Sol rumbled in low warning. I nced left and saw the storm in his eyes. He was serious. His pneuma rose to match mine, an unspoken ultimatum - if I started another brawl here, he¡¯d make good on his prior warning to join in on the opposing side. Doubtlessly, Scythas would join him over me. A hopeless fight. I considered it. ¡°Enough.¡± Scythas growled. ¡°Why are you trying to find another way? Acquiring horses we didn¡¯t need and shackling ourselves to their pace, that was for this moment. You didn¡¯t even pay for yours - I did.¡± ¡°That¡¯s true,¡± I agreed. ¡°Then what¡¯s the issue?¡± Iid an open palm against the side of my slender runner¡¯s head. She leaned into it, huffing softly. With my other hand, the one that I had fisted in her mane forck of reins to hold, I thumbed the glossy ck braids that I had decided suited her best. ¡°I was considering naming her,¡± I told the Hero. For a moment, he was lost for words. ¡°There¡­¡± Scythas sighed. ¡°There will be other horses, Griffon. Unless you nned on making the rest of this journey overnd at her pace, we wouldn¡¯t have been able to take her with us anyway. She¡¯d despise the Eos.¡± ¡°Perhaps.¡± I leaned forward, tapping the pure white mare to get her attention. Her dull yellow eye settled on me. ¡°What say you? If I gave you a name and spared you this bleak fate, would you tolerate an unsteady deck and wide open seas?¡± I spoke each word carefully, enunciating with such rity that my boyhood mentors would have wept tears of joy to hear it. I searched her eye for a hint of understanding. Some semnce of a spark, like the expectation in Sorea¡¯s eyes whenever the eagle looked at Sol. The Thracian mare stared back at me with an animal¡¯s vacant curiosity. I frowned, leaned away, and dismounted. As I slid off her back, I pulled the fingers of my violent intent through the ck hair of her mane and undid its braids. ¡°Fine. Take the beast. While you¡¯re at it, tell me why I¡¯m giving it to you before I change my mind.¡± ¡°Neither of us told you toe here, Greek,¡± the muscled Thracian man on the left edge of the stairs remarked. He raised his own horn of cold white liquid to his lips and drank noisily, eyes shut innguid bliss. He belched when he was done, and once his eyes finally drifted open to regard me, there was a dull enjoyment in them. ¡°You¡¯ll have to excuse him,¡± hispanion said with grant insincerity. ¡°He was raised in a savage culture, you see. He doesn¡¯t know any better.¡± ¡°Do you find my manners distasteful?¡± the man asked me. Upon further inspection, I saw hints of blue ink on his scalp in the gaps where his hair naturally parted. More than just his arms, the Thracian had tattooed his own scalp. ¡°I find nearly everything about you distasteful,¡± I told him honestly. He chortled around his next sip. ¡°What is this ce?¡± Sol asked, remaining on his stallion while Scythas joined me in dismounting and began stripping his mount of her fastenings. ¡°This is a sanctuary of various faces,¡± the Thracian man answered him, wavingnguidly at the destitute odeon behind them. ¡°A ce to sing, a ce to take shelter from the storm, a ce to be lost-¡± ¡°-And a ce to be found,¡± hispanion added. He tipped his horn cup to her. ¡°Certainly that,¡± he agreed. ¡°This here is the first monument built in our humble settlement, and thest one left intact. The Orphic House, should it suit your pleasure.¡± ¡°Orphic,¡± Sol muttered, immediately making the connection to the story I had told him just a couple nights before. I nodded fractionally, confirming it. He turned doubtful eyes on the wooden construction. ¡°Of all the structures torn down, this was the only one to escape the fall unscathed? The oldest of them, built of the least enduring material? It looks-¡± ¡°Ramshackle,¡± I said, pressing my foot down on the first wooden step and listening to it groan. My glowing pankration palms flitted over the southern face of the singing house, illuminating the discolorations and impurities in its wooden panels. ¡°It¡¯s in the best shape of any building here. However.¡± Even Scythas couldn¡¯t fully ignore the state of it. ¡°Infirm would be a kind word for it.¡± I sneered, disgusted the more of it I saw. This was where we were meant to find our golden cup of sacred wine? Itcked sanctity. Itcked presence. Why bother maintaining a vigil here after the rest of the city fell to ruin if these barbarians weren¡¯t going to maintain it? Where had they found the audacity to refuse my payment and take my horse for admittance to a glorified barn house? Why did it look like we¡¯d arrived here centuries toote? ¡°Why does it look like it was made of broken wagons?¡± I demanded, unable to endure in silence. ¡°Because it was.¡± The Thracian woman reached back, towards the ink-ck silhouette cast by my rosy palms, and Scythas sucked in a sharp breath as her arm plunged elbow-deep into her own shadow. She watched me with hooded eyes as she rooted through it, the specks of gold dust in her eyeshadow catching the rosy light. Her gaze held mine and then drifted, slowly and deliberately, down. Settling on my own silhouette. She blinked, breaking the spell, and pulled a kithara from her shadow. An instrument with seven strings, like a lyre, butrger and with a body better suited to professional y. The lyre¡¯s modern sibling. Unlike its humble brother, it was one that not just any Greek aristocrat could be expected to know how to y. The mongrel womanid the sophisticated instrument across herp with its neck pressed to her shoulder, and she began to strum. The sound that sprung forth was undeniably pleasant. ¡°A word for the wise, and another to the uninitiated,¡± the Orphic gate keeper said in a lilting tone. Her fingers danced across the strings. ¡°This is a holy ce, as much as it is a humble one,¡± the crude man opposite her on the steps spoke. He set his horned cup aside and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, assuming the role of orator to match her kitharode. ¡°A great manys here at rest. He was buried by an even greater man, a sworn brother that mourned him more than most. Andter, muchter, an even greater man than that built this humble mausoleum over his tomb as a tribute to his memory. ¡°The reason the Orphic House stands where all the rest inside these walls have fallen,¡± the gatekeeper informed Sol, answering his prior question, ¡°is that the sons of Macedon love their king more than they hate themselves. In their grief and in their rage upon returning from the east, they tore this city apart and drove their own wives and children from their homes. That was one thing. They didn¡¯t think twice about it. But tearing down the Orphic House was entirely another. Not even the most inconsble soldier would have considered it.¡± ¡°Why?¡± I asked, suspecting the answer as I did. The Thracian tilted his head, back to the destitute singing house built out of broken wagons. ¡°This ce is special, unlike any other building in the city. The king that ordered this colony erected, the man you call the Conqueror - he built this one himself.¡± Chapter 1.84 Chapter 1.84 The Son of Rome ¡°If we¡¯re going,¡± Scythas said, when the story had been told and thest strings had been plucked, ¡°then now is the time. The hand guided me here, Solus. I promise you, if the reagent the Gadfly needs is anywhere in this nation, it¡¯s here.¡± There was an undercurrent of desperation to the words. He wanted me to believe him, to believe in him, and worried that I wouldn¡¯t. From the beginning, I had seen a downtrodden reflection in him. A soldier that wanted nothing more than to be epted into the ranks. To stand shoulder-to-shoulder with his peers and know that no matter how miserable the road ahead might be, he would not have to march it on his own. An outcast in search of belonging. In the past, I might have been able to offer him that. Before, I could have brought him into the fold of a fraternal band unsurpassed among heaven and earth. But those days were gone. All I could offer him now was the bare minimum. Scythas desired a Heroic peer by his side, that much was painfully apparent. He deserved the support that could only be found in the press of a shield wall. Brotherhood baptized in war. He needed it, for what he had ahead of him. The support of a first rank Philosopher with fractured foundations was a poor substitute for either of those things. It was all that I could give him. I nodded once. ¡°I trust you.¡± The relief that overtook him at the words was painful to see. Griffon ascended up the wooden steps without a word, a pensive air about him. As he passed between the two Thracians guarding the entrance to the singing house, the woman with shadows painted around her eyes and on her lips offered up her horn cup. ¡°For your thirst,¡± she offered. Griffon didn¡¯t stop or look back, but one of his pankration hands took it and carried it up behind him. ¡°This is where we part ways,¡± I informed the ck stallion that had served me thus far, more or less against his will. Dismounting, I stepped around the charger and met it re for re. The stallion¡¯s nostrils red threateningly. ¡°I have never seen such hatred in a horse before,¡± I confessed, as if it could understand me. ¡°But I¡¯ve seen your rage. I¡¯ve seen that hungry look before.¡± Before a Roman could lead his fellow man, he first had to master his horse. I had served as an equite long before I ever gave a legionary an order. Tomemorate my promotion to the patrician rank of mounted cavalry, my great uncle had gifted me a horse himself. More than that, he had gifted me his own horse. A midnight charger, fearless and angrier than any I had ever seen before. When we took to the field, it felt less like I was driving him forward, and more like he was pulling me along. Taking Caesar¡¯s horse into battle had felt like riding a hurricane wind. Like the righteous fury of the Republic itself was delivering me forward. Without fear or hesitation, no matter what dark barbarism opposed us. I had felt something nearly simr while suffering the Thracian stallion. The rage, though, was aimless and tainted by hatred. The beast¡¯s belligerence was untempered. It did not fear because it had never encountered something worth fearing, not because it was brave. Maybe those imperfections could have been sanded away with time. A firm hand might have been enough. It was toote for that now, though. ¡°It¡¯s a shame,¡± I said quietly, gripping the back of the stallion¡¯s neck and dragging it down to my level. Its fierce yellow eyes narrowed. ¡°You¡¯d have been happier at war.¡± I turned away and climbed the steps, epting the offered horn cup from the Thracian man with the tattooed scalp as I passed him. Scythas followed close behind, along with a girl that had covered herself with rags of anonymity as we approached and hadn¡¯t made a sound since. We only had three horses to pay with, after all. One of us would have to sneak in. Thankfully, the philosopher¡¯s rags were as effective now as they had been on the Eos- ¡°You haven¡¯t paid, girl,¡± the Thracian woman said, ncingzily sideways, directly at Selene. The daughter of the Oracle froze. Scythas tensed, inhaling quietly and gathering his Heroic pneuma around himself. By this point, Griffon had reached the top of the steps andid his palms t against the gated doors of the singing house. So close. ¡°The stallion is worth two,¡± the scarlet son said. He turned his head just enough to regard the woman with a single scarlet eye. She hummed. Shared a look with her fellow Thracian. And shrugged. ¡°I suppose it is. Enjoy the Orphic House.¡± Griffon snorted and pressed open the ivory gates leading into the decrepit theater of repurposed wood, striding inside. We followed him through. Into the shadows. We called him the Augur because he sang like a bird, and fortune followed him wherever he went. His name was Orpheus, and there has never been a man more nimble with a lyre - mortal or divine. He could charm anything with those heavenly strings. Men, women, and children. Animals of every kind. Even the stones in the earth and the trees reaching fruitlessly up to the skies were helplessly enamored when he yed. He was a ¡°kyrios¡± in his own right, you know. The founder and the prophet of a many-faced faith, our own Orphic mysteries. In the course of his years he erected more cults than there are greater Greek mysteries, and each time he did it himself - personally. He would find himself a sturdy ce to sit wherever in the world he happened to be, and he would begin to pick and strum his humble lyre. He roused the stones beneath the earth. He serenaded the trees that so ensconced him. And while the ivy wound itself adoringly around his arms, he would bid the earth itself to spring up around the subject of Orphic mystery that he had found. And every time, without fail, it would. Mausoleums and master craft estates would simply¡­ grow. Sprout from the earth like vines. A gift from the mother that so loved her child¡¯s music. A token for the Augur. The earth and all her children mourned the Augur when he died. But none, not even his own people, mourned the Hero Orpheus as deeply as his sworn brother. Bakkhos was the one to find Orpheus torn apart and scattered across the nation of his birth. Over the course of weeks and months, the mad vine keeper walked every step a man could walk in Thracia, gathering up the pieces of the Orphic corpse. Sobbing all the while, loud enough to wake the dead beneath the earth as he passed. Bakkhos found thest of Orpheus here, the heart of the once great Hero still burning. He dumped the portions of the corpse that he had gathered and remade the Augur for his funeral. When with ivy and vines he bound the pieces together and covered the grotesque lines where they met, creating the facade of an Orpheus at rest - encircled by adoring vines as he had been in life. The weeping vine keeper ced a coin in Orpheus¡¯ mouth and a drink in his hand, and sent him off to the underworld a Hero made whole once again. In sorrow at his death and joy at his reunion, the earth rose up and enfolded the Orphic corpse in her embrace. A singing house sprung up over the burial mound just as all of the mausoleums and estates of the Orphic mysteries had. Even the Augur¡¯s swan song carried his charm. Now, I can see you¡¯re wondering about the contradiction. The story goes that the Orphic house built itself. But, as a Greek surely knows, not every truth is told in the strictest sense. A thing that one man experiences is not necessarily the same as what another will see. The king of Macedonia came to this ce in the earliest course of his campaigns, hardly more than a boy and yet already stronger than any man had a right to be. More fearsome than the mad one, and as brazen as they came. He broke the people of this ce over his knee and when the battle was done he dragged their elders and their chiefs to a humble tomb enshrouded in ivy. He forced old men and warrior kings all to their knees in front of the lonely tomb and demanded to know what they had done to the Orphic House that should have stood over top of it. Yes. He had heard the story of Orpheus. It was why he¡¯de in the first ce - to pay his respects to the man with the holy hands. ¡°We beg the Conqueror,¡± the wise men said, bowing their heads and scraping at the dirt in supplication. The warriors kneeling beside them were still young enough to value their pride, even then, but the elders had lost that along with their eyes. ¡°Understand that we couldn¡¯t have touched what was never there to begin with,¡± opined one. ¡°The Orphic house was never built,¡± spoke another. ¡°Some stories are just that,¡± came a third. The king of Macedonia, already greater than the greatest of them despite the fact that his years could be counted with fingers and toes, considered their words with reason and grace. Though his generals and his confidants urged him to punish the lot, he insteadid the de of his sword on the back of a single neck. Not the leader of the tribe, the king among kings. No. Alexanderid his de against the neck of the tribe¡¯s oldest man. The one with eyes like curdled milk, whose legs had failed him long before he was forced to kneel. ¡°You are nomads, are you not?¡± Alexander asked him, while the wise man¡¯s grandchildren and great grandchildren howled and fought against their bindings. ¡°We are, young king.¡± ¡°When did youe to this ce? How long have you been here, that the wheels have fallen off your wagons and such weeds have grown between their boards?¡± When the ancient man spoke, even the loudest of his descendants paused their howling shouts. In perfect silence, his voice was only just barely heard. ¡°My eldest son was only a boy when I brought him here, so long ago that my eyes could still see. We¡¯ve lived in this ce ever since.¡± ¡°Whatpelled you to stay here, when no other valley or field could contain your kind for more than a season?¡± ¡°Point me to the tomb,¡± the old manmanded the king, and though the sons of Macedonia bared their teeth and promised him pain for his presumption, the kingid the t of his de against the blind man¡¯s cheekand turned his head to face the ivy-covered tomb. ¡°Does ivy still embrace it?¡± he asked the king. ¡°Ivy strangles it,¡± Alexander answered, and the ground beneath their feet trembled at his ire. ¡°Ivy protects it,¡± the ancient Thracian corrected the Macedonian king, against allmon sense. ¡°You¡¯ve seen the state of our wagons yourself. The seasons here are not kind, and neither is the passage of time. The ivy preserves the Orphic corpse in its ce of rest. There, and nowhere else for days and days at a swift horse¡¯s pace, the ivy grows thick and with purpose.¡± The old man reached up andid frail fingers on the t face of the king¡¯s de that was pressed against his cheek. His warrior descendants shouted threats at the king while his junior wisemen pleaded for him to stop. Instead, he traced blind fingers up the de, to the hilt and the hand that held it. The Macedonian king did not stop him, knowing he had nothing to fear. When the ancient Thracian found Alexander¡¯s hand, he gripped it tight. The trembling of his own hand had nothing to do with fear or bloodlust. It was simply an effort for a man submerged up to his waist in the underworld. ¡°Look upon the Augur¡¯s tomb and be at ease. There was truth to the stories you heard. Do not confuse an epic¡¯s exaggeration with falsehood - the echoes of his song may not have been enough to charm an Odeon from the earth, but that ivy shroud is proof he was adored. Look upon it, young king, and see that it¡¯s enough.¡± ¡°No,¡± Alexander decided, withdrawing his de. ¡°It isn¡¯t.¡± Then, to the confusion of all men present, he went to the nearest defunct wagon and heaved it up out of the earth and the vines that had overtaken it. He returned to the tomb and the Thracian leaders awaiting their execution, dropped the wagon unceremoniously to the ground, and went off to grab the next. Each Macedonian soldier he passed straightened and saluted, but did not ask if he required help. His presence was too vast and unapproachable to the rank and file man. His highest officers, the men that had known him personally as a friend before he was the king, watched him work with calm patience. They knew him well enough to leave him to his inspiration. When thest wagon had been salvaged and the Thracian leaders had been surrounded by towering piles of time-addled wood, Alexander set about ripping them apart. nk by nk, with his own two hands. ¡°What is the young king doing?¡± The most ancient elder asked, and the Alexander answered for himself. ¡°The Orphic legend was not wrong, and neither were its details exaggerated. The nature of the tragic resolution is what you and I have misunderstood, elder. I see now that resolution was a prophecy. History¡¯s greatest musician has been waiting all this time on the turning of the wheel.¡± The chiefs and lesser elders shared furtive and bewildered looks, while the king¡¯s officers smiled and chuckled knowingly. The ancient Thracian¡¯s blind eyes were thoughtful. The king continued. ¡°I have heard the echoes of his swan song, and so I havee. The legend says that the stones themselves could be charmed by Orpheus¡¯ lyre, that all the bounties of the earth were enthralled when he yed. So enthralled, in the end, that the earth itself rose up in his absence and built him a singing house, a fell memorial to catch the echoes while he plucked his strings in the underworld. ¡°I am Alexander, the man who will inherit this earth. The legend says the earth itself will know his charm, and sure enough I was enthralled. The legend swears that Orphic echo willpel the earth to rise and manifest a singing house.¡± Alexander, risen king of Macedonia, nted the first weathered nk before the tomb. ¡°And lo, I¡¯vee to build it.¡± Entering the odeon with the Thracian gatekeeper''s tale still ringing in my ears, I looked upon the fruits of Alexander¡¯sbor. ¡°No,¡± Scythas breathed. The ivory gates mmed shut behind us. ¡°It¡¯s empty?¡± Selene whispered, the scarlet mes behind her eyes shedding some small light on the empty benches and unimed seats. I stopped beside Griffon. He stood with his arms crossed over his chest, the pensive look in his eyes unchanged. Together, we appraised the odeon¡¯s rundown interior. Descending tiers of benches built in the Greek inspired Macedonian style made up the bulk of the seating. There were more than a few wooden chairs, though, situated in balconies that looked like they could barely support the dust coating them. Support beams,posed of the thickest portions of a wagon all nailed together, bore the weight that the rafters could not. Cobwebs and wood rot abounded. The singing house was as quiet as a corpse, and smelled something like one too. The only signs of lifey on the stage at the bottommost tier of the horseshoe benches. On the tomb, enshrouded by vibrant green ivy. ¡°Scythas,¡± Selene spoke up behind us. ¡°Are you sure the hand was pointing you here?¡± ¡°It was. I know it was. As soon as I stepped inside I felt it fall away. This is where we¡¯re meant to be. This has to be it.¡± The Hero of the Scything Squall passed us, descending down the benches two at a time. Selene followed him, the lights of their heart mes dwindling the further they moved away. Without the rosy light of Griffon¡®s palms, the shadows rushed to enclose us in their absence. ¡°Do we need another sacrifice? Could that be it?¡± Though she faced away from us, Selene¡®s voice carried easily, almost reverberating off the walls and vaulted ceiling. ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± Scythas snapped, the torch lights of his eyes sweeping across the empty stands and unupied balconies. ¡°That shouldn¡¯t be it. A sacrifice here¡­ it doesn¡¯t make sense. The way he exined it-¡± The Hero froze, and turned to face the ivy tomb atop the stage. He cleared his throat, and spoke his next words in another man¡¯s voice. ¡°I¡¯vee to visit, old friend. Care to split a drink?¡± The Heroic cultivators below us held their breath, awaiting the chthonic Hero¡¯s response. In the bleak silence of their eroding hope, Griffon¡¯s raven reached out to mine. The more I see, the more that I am vexed. I¡¯ve noticed, I replied, while I watched Scythas¡¯ shoulders slump a fraction more with every passing moment. I was certain that escaping the Rosy Dawn was all it would take to step out from the cave. The world seemed so bright that it was nearly blinding, when I was looking out at it from the confines of the Scarlet City. When I met you and saw what even a barbarian state could produce, it felt like the point proven. When Niks returned and I saw what the wider world had done for his soul, I knew that I had to leave or nothing would ever change. And yet, the raven in my shadow warbled. Selene went back to searching and Scythas sat heavily on an empty bench. And yet. The further that I¡¯ve ventured and the more that I have seen, the less this world resembles what I know that it should be. The world, I mused, or the people that inhabit it? For a long moment, neither of us spoke. I feel as if I never left that cave, he finally admitted. Quietly, every raw word a confession. Lately, I¡¯ve wondered if there was ever a cave at all - whether those shadows I saw were shadows at all, or whether they were simply lies. Piercing scarlet eyes observed the Hero Scythas as he leaned forward on his bench, covering his face with his hands. You¡¯re worried that everyone you meet will disappoint you, I said in summation. Even the legends that define your culture. I was. A part of me still is. Griffon uncrossed his arms, taking the horn cup from his unburning hand of pankration intent. But now, I¡¯m wondering if the fault lies with my own interpretation. Go on, I said, though I was confident our idea was the same. I can¡¯t hear the faintest echo of the Augur¡¯s music in this worthless shack, but maybe that¡¯s my own failing. It¡¯s possible the sound would disappoint me, even if I could. Maybe the taste of nectar, too. Another echo of something that was better long before I was born. Maybe all the world is like that. Griffon looked to me. I met his searching gaze without judgment. Are we the shadows, Sol? There was only one way to find out. As one, we pulled our shadows over our heads and donned our mantels of ravenous hunger. My ragged cloak of midnight ck, and his tattered robes of the same color - hanging down around his waist, exposing his bare torso and the blood red tattoos winding across it. We stepped into the Orphic House together. I heard the lyre. Emerging from the shadows, we beheld a singing house at full capacity. Every bench was lined by men and women of varying creed, wearing cloth and armor from every corner of the modern world and every era to precede it. Thracians, Greeks, Macedonians and Asians and Africans. Torches lit their faces, revealing the creases at the corners of their eyes as they smiled andughed and sang. Griffon sighed in slow satisfaction. ¡°Wee to the odeon, boys,¡± a man spoke beside us, carrying a tray of ivory cups and grapes. He offered them to us like an attendant, despite the fact that he was dressed in threads of spun gold and every one of his teeth was an imnt of carved baster. ¡°Care for a drink?¡± I shook my head. ¡°No, thank you.¡± ¡°We brought our own,¡± Griffon exined, and we each held up our horn cups. The attendant dipped his head, the mes behind his eyes flickering mirthfully to match his smile. ¡°So I see. Then by all means, enjoy the show.¡± I didn¡¯t need to see the smile behind Griffon¡¯s raven veil to know it was there. ¡°I intend to,¡± he said. We moved with purpose into the crowded stands. Down on stage, Orpheus plucked his scarlet strings. Chapter 1.85 Chapter 1.85 The Young Griffon First, we mingled. There was a certain etiquette that even a dead man could be expected to follow. In a theater, it wasmon sense that the stage belonged to those performing. A spectator could heckle if the act warranted it, but you never joined the actors on the stage unless you were first invited. In a symposium, although the lounges might be arranged around the room with equal prominence, a partygoer did not approach the organizer of the event while he was otherwise preupied. The details were different but the sentiment remained the same. Engagement was eptable. Interruption was not. This was neither a symposia nor a theater, but something in between. Therefore it could be argued that both etiquettes applied. Of course, it could also be argued that neither did. However, the fact that the Augur sat alone on his ivy tomb down on center stage, unapproached and unspoken to, made me suspect the former over thetter. Never let it be said that the young Griffon of the risen sun was entirely without manners. Sol and I stepped carefully through the horseshoe tiers of benches while chthonic men and women chattered andughed and intermittently sang. All the while, the low strumming of the lyre served as an undercurrent to every conversation and song. It was easy to leave him to his music when the sound of it was so pleasant. ¡°Neers, eh?¡± spoke a man out of time as Sol and I leaned against a thick wooden beam. A handful of the revelers surrounding him looked curiously our way as well. Hispanions, or at least his afterlife acquaintances. ¡°First time,¡± I confirmed, the sound distorted by the sheer midnight veil that covered my face. ¡°I thought as much. It¡¯s been some time since we¡¯ve seen rags like those.¡± He nced up thoughtfully, at the same time nudging a woman sitting next to him close enough for their thighs to touch. ¡°How long has it been since we¡¯ve seen a raven, darling? Three hundred years? Four hundred?¡± ¡°At least two thousand,¡± the woman said, looking back at him like he was simple. ¡°Impossible.¡± ¡°You¡¯re both wrong,¡± another man a few spots down piped up, leaning forward to look down the row at us. ¡°It¡¯s been four thousand bare minimum.¡± The first man to speak and the woman beside him both rolled their eyes. ¡°Right,¡± the first man drawled. ¡°And I¡¯m the king of Egypt.¡± ¡°In your dreams, perhaps!¡± came a voice from up above, a man on one of the torchlit balconies looking down on us with his crossed arms on the rail and an ivory cup dangling negligently from two fingers. My eyes lingered on his features. ck curls of hair and pale skin, almond-shaped eyes a dull brown-ck, and a strong jaw untouched by any beard. His nose gave him away most clearly of all. He was a Macedonian. Yet, his eyes were lined and shadowed the same twilight blue shade as his painted lips, and in ce of any armor or cloak he wore only a belted skirt of pleated linen - and, of all things, a juvenile elephant¡¯s scalp as a mantle. Macedonian features. Egyptian fashion. ¡°No one¡¯s speaking to you, Phdelphus,¡± a different woman shot back at him, throwing a handful of figs up at his face. The Macedonian in Egyptian clothes caught one of the projectile fruits in his teeth and bit down on it with pleasure, letting the juice fall freely back down onto the woman¡¯s head. ¡°What brings the young blood to this humble theater?¡± the man named Phdelphus asked us curiously, while he chewed on his fig and the woman below him spat curses and threw more fruit at his balcony. ¡°Business or pleasure?¡± ¡°Business,¡± Sol said, at the same time that I answered with ¡®Pleasure¡¯. Phdelphus raised a sculpted eyebrow. ¡°It seems your purposes conflict.¡± ¡°One raven speaks only the truth,¡± I said lightly, ¡°the other raven lies.¡± ¡°I despise you,¡± Sol said with remarkable conviction. I waved. ¡°See?¡± ¡°Pleasure disguised as business,¡± Phdelphus said understandingly. He rolled his wrist,zily saluting us with his ivory cup. ¡°That¡¯s my favorite sort of work.¡± ¡°We know,¡± one of the hecklers seated around us groused. He ignored them as easily as he breathed. ¡°Tell me, young blood - how goes the campaign? Is the wheel still turning, or has the king of kingse home?¡± ¡°Alexander is dead,¡± Sol answered. Phdelphus threw back his head andughed. It reverberated through the rafters above, a rich and rolling sound. ¡°You are the liar, aren¡¯t you? At least try and make it a challenge - that¡¯s half the fun of the whole charade.¡± ¡°The Conqueror is dead? Truly?¡± the first man to speak to us on the benches spoke up, hope and a vicious, building joy bringing him halfway to his feet. If his Peloponnesian ent and burning heart mes had not already given away his heritage, his reaction to Sol¡¯s statement certainly would have. ¡°You¡¯ve seen his corpse yourself?¡± the woman who had been sitting with her thighs pressed to his piped up next, reaching out to grasp Sol¡¯s forearm. ¡°You¡¯re certain?¡± I dipped the tips of my fingers into the cool white liquid that my horn cup contained, and I flicked the droplets that clung to my skin at the pale woman. One drop, perhaps two,nded on her outstretched arm. The chthonic Heroine shrieked as if burned and jerked away from us both, tumbling over the side of her bench and down into the lower tiers. Several long-dead souls from all walks of this life shouted and groaned as she knocked the food and drink from their hands. Her man shot us an ugly look, burning eyes darting down to the horn cups in our hands before he decided against a fight and turned down the stands to assist his woman. The man up on the balcony watched them go with naked amusement. Drawn by the noise, a woman appeared next to him to peer out over the balcony. She had the same dark features as the man with the elephant scalp, the same nose and almond shaped eyes, as well as the same Egyptian garb - the key difference being the curling Ram¡¯s horns behind her ears in ce of an elephant scalp mantle. Standing shoulder-to-shoulder, it was unmistakable that they were rted. Phdelphus wrapped an arm around his sister¡¯s waist and pulled her flush against his side. Sheid an idle hand against his stomach and let it driftnguidly down. My nose wrinkled. ¡°Egyptians,¡± Sol muttered like a curse. ¡°Young blood, after all this time,¡± Phdelphus¡¯ sister remarked wonderingly, her eyes drifting over us each in turn. ¡°You must be Oinops¡¯ boys.¡± Oinops. Wine-dark. ¡°That was my thought as well,¡± Phdelphus agreed. He rolled his wrist again, this time urging me on with the motion. ¡°Go on then. I¡¯ve heard the raven¡¯s lie. I¡¯m ready for the raven¡¯s truth. Where is Alexander now?¡± I shrugged. ¡°India swallowed him up nearly three hundred years ago. The western world has not seen him since.¡± ¡°The wheel keeps on spinning,¡± Phdelphus mused, disappointed but unsurprised. ¡°In that case I¡¯ll leave you to it. Don¡¯t have too much fun, eh?¡± Sol was already walking away, towards the other side of the horseshoe tier rather than down. I was halfway to his side when the Macedonian in Egyptian garb tossed something at my head. I caught the ne, a simple string of leather contrasted by a fine tablet of gold dangling from it instead of a jewel or beads. I blinked, reading the words inscribed on the small slip of gold. I am the son of earth and starry heaven, but of heaven is my birth¡­ Another ne of simr design hurtled at me a momentter and was caught. I tilted my head back to the balcony, where Phdelphus and his sister were lounging against their rail. Phdelphus raised his ivory cup in anotherzy salute. His sister winked conspiratorially. ¡°A gift for the young blood. You¡¯ll need those sooner orter, where you¡¯re going.¡± I considered the totenpass skeptically. ¡°I don¡¯t intend to die.¡± ¡°Neither did I,¡± Phdelphus said easily. ¡°Yet here I am regardless. If not as a necessity, then take it as a gift. A token for the new initiates of our humble Orphic faith.¡± Well, that changed things. The golden tablet clinked musically against the ruby of the ne I¡¯d stolen from the Aetos filial pools. Sol had already made it to the other side of the horseshoe tier now, and had somehow been roped into a conversation by what looked to be a gaggle of hetairai. If his stiff posture and white-knuckled grip on his horn cup was any indicator, he was in need of rescue. As I waved and departed, Phdelphus called out one more time from his balcony. ¡°The next time you¡¯re in Alexandria, deliver my warm regards to whichever dim descendent sits the pharaoh¡¯s throne. Let them know they¡¯re a disappointment to Ptolemy when you arrive, and remind them once more of it before you go.¡± ¡°How do you know they¡¯ll be a disappointment?¡± I asked him over my shoulder. ¡°Isn¡¯t it obvious? Because I¡¯m the greatest of my line, and it was their misfortune to be born after me!¡± Iughed. Chapter 1.86 Chapter 1.86 The Son of Rome I¡¯d never cared for the lyre before meeting Aristotle. As the Young Patrician of a notable family, I was raised under a certain set of expectations. It was a given that I would be educated. It was all but guaranteed, looking back at my father and my great-uncle¡¯s careers, that I would serve my time in the legions and make the climb up the cursus honorum. How far I progressed in the end was something no one could predict, but it was a safe bet that I would im that first honor if not any more to follow. It wasn¡¯t enough to be learned if a man intended to take up the reins of the Republic, even if only in a senator''s small way. It wasn¡¯t enough to serve. Those things were required but not enough alone. In order to carry forward what the greatest statesmen of the past had entrusted to us, a man had to embody the virtues that defined his city. The Greeks possessed four cardinal virtues, four that defined their cultural identity and sculpted the greatest of their sons and daughters: Temperance. Wisdom. Courage. And of course, Justice. Just as there were eight rounds in the progression of a Roman soul to contrast the four a Greek traversed, so too was the Republic defined by eight virtues instead of the Greek cardinals. Virtus Integritas. Theplete virtues - four for the city and four for the man. It was a given that a Roman statesman would embody at least one of these eight qualities, And that expectation only grew higher as they progressed up the course of honors. The four for the city were the highest social virtues, the qualities that a man extended to his fellow Romans whether they were patrician or plebian. First of the four was Honestas, the honor that a man wore like a triumphal crown. It was his reputation in the eyes of the state, and if his heart was true then Honestas was his pride just the same. Fides, the good faith that a man acted with at all times. His reliability to the ones that served beneath him, and his loyalty to the ones that stood above. Innocentia, the selflessness with which a man pursued the interests of his city. It was the charities born of his easy generosity, and it was the simplicity that made his soul so utterly incorruptible. And finally, there was Iustitia. A man¡¯s justice, fourth of the four and brother to the Greek cardinal virtue. It was a man¡¯s empathy for those wronged in the Republic, for the Republic - even, at times, by the Republic. It was his sense of equity and his ever unsatisfied desire for structured order. Most importantly, it was the responsibility he took when the burden of judgement wasid at his feet. His eptance of whatever followed. If the four virtues that a Roman citizen kept for himself - pure Salubritas, dutiful Pietas, resolute Constantia, and heavy Disciplina - were internal qualities, expectations he had of himself, then the four social virtues were the external qualities that his people and his city could expect from him. And did expect, more so the higher he climbed. The internal virtues had been hammered into me and pressure treated by the soldiers and centurions of the fifth legion that my father had entrusted me to. The social virtues, generally speaking, required a softer touch. Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on who you asked, Aristotle was the one that shaped me to them. From the day he caught me picking pockets in the forum to the day he saw me off to the legions, beginning and ending with justice. The ovep of twin excellence between our two cultures. Aristotle had opened my eyes in more ways than one, exposed me to aspects of myself and the world around me that I had never before considered in my brief life. He had taught me lessons that no other man in Rome could have conveyed, inrge part because he was the only man my mother would not mutte for sending me home from a lesson bruised and bleeding. Back then, irreverent little bastard that I was, I had tried more than once to have my pitiless mentor fired. No matter what I said, though, my mother would only stroke my head and tell me to bear with it. In time I¡¯d let go of my resentment and became grateful for her sudden shift to firmness, but I never did understand it. Not in the legions, nor in the Scarlet City. It wasn¡¯t until I went to Olympia and met the mentor of his mentor, until I saw for myself the depths of his resolve in the story of the brothers Aetos, that I finally understood why even my adoring mother would not deprive me of his teachings. It was all but guaranteed that a Young Patrician would receive a fine education. For the Young Patrician of a family as infamous and esteemed as mine, even the finest education a Roman could give wouldn¡¯t be out of the question. But I had received neither. Instead, I had been given one of the finest educations in the world. As mad as it seemed, I shared a mentor with the same Damon Aetos that haunted the free Mediterranean nearly twenty years after his withdrawal from it. I was a link in the chain that went all the way back up to the Schr himself. No one, Greek or Roman or savage barbarian, was guaranteed such a mentor. What had I done to deserve such an education? Nothing. And what have I done with it? Even less than that. That wasn¡¯t Aristotle¡¯s fault, though. He had done what he could with me, and corrected as many of my ugly traits as he could. If I had been better from the beginning, I knew in my heart and the marrow of my bones that I could have learned so much more. Even still, Aristotle had ounted for my feelings and instilled in me skills and qualities that would benefit me regardless of whether I fully understood the reasoning behind them. Such as the lyre. ¡°You must be-¡° ¡°Thyoneus¡¯-¡± ¡°Lampter¡¯s-¡± ¡°Lyaeus¡¯-¡± ¡°Mnaegis¡¯-¡± ¡°Eleuthereus¡¯ boys!¡± Pleasantries came and went and came again, a dozen introductions and pithy conversations, followed by a dozen more. It seemed like every chthonic spirit saw a different face in the cowls of the ravens, remembered a different man that surely must have sent us in his ce. Some greeted us with naked joy, others with thinly veiled hostility, but curiosity was universal. Young blood, thete Ptolemy had called us. I supposed that made the chthonic revelers the sharks. ¡°No,¡± replied the tattooed raven by my side. ¡°Never heard of him,¡± he informed another spirit. ¡°Disgusting lush. Close your mouth when it¡¯s full,¡± he said to the next, smacking the man lightly on his shoulder as we passed to take the sting out of his words. The man¡¯s friends jeered at him while we continued on, prodding his flushed cheeks and snatching the grapes off his te. Griffon navigated through a symposia attended only by the dead like it was the most natural thing in the world to him, as if he had been raised for environments like these. In some ways, he had. Though he may have cast off his status as Young Aristocrat of the Rosy Dawn, he still carried that upbringing with him wherever he went. It revealed itself in the elegance of his speech, betrayed him even while uttering the foulest sentiment. It was there when he walked, in themanding swagger of his stride. It was in his eyes most of all. In their distant amusement - and in their disdain. I ignored the pleasantries that I could and allowed Griffon to engage with the rest, because even though we had both enjoyed the privilege of a sophisticated upbringing, I have never been the man that thrives in social waters. At best I could keep my head above the current and avoid shaming myself. I was no author of conversational flow, never the man whose wordmanded every ear in the room. Not like my father had been, and certainly not like Gaius or Aristotle. That was Griffon¡¯s domain more than it had ever been mine. Aristotle had identified this failing early on, ming it often and in a tone of long-suffering on the poison of a doting mother and the cruel praise of sycophants. Prior to bing his student, I had been surrounded by the children of lesser patrician families and enjoyed the delusion that they listened intently when I spoke because I was worth listening to. I allowed them to convince me day after day that they agreed with me because I was convincing, and not simply because their parents had urged them to find my good graces. A boy whose age could still be counted on his fingers, and I had been convinced that I was already a paragon of social virtue. When Aristotle had challenged me to match action to words, bundled me up in anonymous rags and taken me to the forum, there had been no doubt in my mind that I would carry whatever conversation he had me take part in. To this day, the memory still ached. That was the day that Aristotle showed me the immensity of the gap between the boy I truly was and the socialite I had always thought myself to be. I never forgot that lesson, only learned it again and again as time went on. Eventually, whenparing myself to my role models became too painful, I gave up on my rhetoric all together. Though by this point I was aware of how shameful my past behaviors had been, I regressed anyway, fell back on familiar petnce and refused to engage with Aristotle¡®s lessons on discourse and persuasion. I even used the benefits of his other lessons against him. No matter how many times he smacked me around, no matter how deeply he cut me with his words, I only drew the bruises and the reprimands around me like a cloak. Stacked them like bricks between me and him and refused toe out from behind them. So, being that I was a stubborn child and he was as wise as he was impatient, Aristotle changed his approach. Rather than try to scale the wall I had built between us, or perhaps break it down, he instead bypassed it all together. Though I hadn¡¯t realized it at the time, he never stopped tutoring me in the sphere of social grace. He simply approached it from a different angle. From the side. First, he taught me how to y the lyre. The melody drifting up from the sunken stage did not disrupt the flow of any of the conversations taking ce in the odeon, nor was it muffled or overburdened by the various songs being simultaneously sung. Orpheus¡¯ strumming did not disrupt the flow, nor was it disrupted by it, because here in the Orphic House it was the flow. The rhythm and the ambience that the chthonic spirits in attendance were matching themselves to was the product of an instrument that could be made from a tortoise shell and sheep guts. The great Hero didn¡¯t have to say a word to hold the entire singing house in his open palm. Rhetoric was the art of persuasion, and the conveyance of intent. Nothing more and nothing less. Some men, like Aristotle, conveyed the contents of their soul through the spoken word. Others, like Alexander the Conqueror, persuaded through overwhelming force. Through words, through actions, through music and acting and art. There were an endless number of tools that a man could use to make himself understood, eloquently and with grace. The lyre was one of those tools. The first, but far from the only one. Aristotle had pressed as many of those tools as he could into my hands before my father took me on campaign, and Gaius had done what he could in the years that followed to refine my skills with them. And in time, leading the way by example, to make me at least passable in my areas of greatestck. I would never take to these environments the way that Griffon did, with ease and clear relish, but I could avoid embarrassing myself. With the proper tools, and in the proper circumstances, I could convey my intent as eloquently as any Young Aristocrat. And about as boldly, too. Every voice in the singing house went silent when I plucked my first string. The Orphic House was small even for an odeon. Still, it contained seating enough for hundreds of spectators, and every one of those seats was currently filled. Dozens of conversations and songs, spoken in a vast array ofnguages from the mouths of men and women all over the world. All of them, every single one, mmed to a dead halt as I began to strum an instrument that I had not possessed only moments before. Down on his stage, the fingers of thete Hero Orpheus paused on his strings. He looked up for the first time since our arrival, puzzled. I felt his eyes on me, felt the brush of his influence against my raven attire not as the touch of a hand, but more like the dissonant chill a lingering hand left behind when it withdrew. I focused on my strings and worked to fill the horrified silence. My seat was less a dedicated space and more a gap in the benches created by a wooden support beam. Leaning back against it, I did what I could to convey myself to thete Hero. This is outrageously rude, Griffon remarked, leaning against the same vertical beam and crossing his arms. Bemused, but curious enough to let me finish. Just as before. In both of the stories I had heard about the Augur thest couple days, first from Griffon and then from the Thracians standing guard outside the Orphic House, a special emphasis had been ced on the chthonic Hero¡¯s appeal. Charming to the point of absurdity. Charming beyond that point, at times. To charm an animal with music was a less likely prospect than charming a man, but not impossible. Charming the earth, though? Charming sticks and stones so they would avoid his face when thrown at him? That was ridiculous. Utterly absurd. Entirely Greek. Aristotle had taught me all that he could, and evidently it had been enough to leave its mark in the foundations of my soul. But I still felt like a foreigner in this culture that was at least nominally a part of me. I still didn¡¯t know enough. I was still grasping, blindly, in the shadows. I understood intuitively the difference between myself and a man like Gaius. In theory, I knew what it would take to progress through the course of honors, what it would take to see the session of my Roman soul to its end. It was because of that understanding that I knew that way was lost to me now. Session was no longer possible, which meant refinement was my only hope. The Greek path to ascension. What did that entail, though? The more I learned the less I understood. Reason, spirit, and hunger. Principle, passion, and purpose. Discoveries, deeds, and domains. Philosopher. Hero. Tyrant. There was no unified path to heaven if you traveled the Greek way, and the most sessful of the culture¡¯s cultivators were considered utterly mad by the standards of even their own people - even their own brothers. Socrates had advised me to strengthen my body after he thrashed Griffon and I, but was that because the Greek way demanded it or simply tobat the burden my Roman virtue imposed upon me? The Gadfly had warned me not to take my Roman virtue for granted while among Greeks, but he hadn¡¯t offered any specifics as to why. Because he himself didn¡¯t know where one half of me ended and the other began. I was a Philosopher of the first rank by the standards of a Greek, yet I had stood above the Roman equivalent of that the day the fifth legion fell and Damon Aetos took me into his city. How can I progress one way but not another? What had I done to progress through the Greek Civic realm before I knew I was even a part of it? How did life in the Roman military trante to Greek philosophy? What had I done before? What did I have to do now? I hadn¡¯t been lying when I promised our Heroicpanions that I would do whatever it took to see Carthage destroyed. The Roman way was closed off to me, but every Greek stands alone against the wrath of raging heaven. Whatever was required, I would see it done if it meant I could stand alone in fields of salt and ash. I¡¯d do it if it meant I could drag the stars down from heaven, like Griffon¡¯s father had so casually done, onto the heads of every cursed dog. But I only vaguely knew what was needed. There was no marked road to follow, especially not for me. There was a suggestion of structure, I could almost see it, but every time I thought I nearly had it something would take me by the shoulders and rattle my brain in my skull. An old man would grab me by the head and leap up a fucking mountain like he was vaulting a rose bush, or the insatiable Young Aristocrat that called me his brother would casually reveal to me a fever dream of his uncles and father burning a ship to make it steadier at sea, fighting dragon spirits with wooden des, and manifesting a hand of scarlet glory the size of a city to simply¡­ pick up an ind. It wasn¡¯t that the Greeks were stronger than the legions in their prime. Even now, I knew that like I knew that water was wet. It was just that they were so godforsakenly ridiculous about it. What did I need to do to be a man like Damon Aetos, or thete Tyrant of Tyrants himself? How much of Bakkhos¡¯ strength was a product of the nectar he so jealously hoarded, and how much of it was due to some other absurdity? I had agreed to this errand quest because as far as I could tell, each exnation was as likely as the other. Who could say how it was a Greek became strong? Certainly not me. What was the difference between a genius and a madman, in a world where man could defy nature''s wrath if he waspelling enough about it? What separated a Hero from the souls both above and below them, that they alone could linger centuries after their death in a house built out of repurposed wagons for any baffled Roman or irreverent Greek to wander by and see? Are we the shadows, Sol? How much of this path was an illusion? Where did the shadows end and the light begin to shine? How far could I progress off of implication alone? Instinct by itself couldn¡¯t possibly be enough, or else every man would end up a god eventually, but nothing else felt real when I grasped it in my hands. Maybe I was the man that cast the shadow on the wall of the cave, or maybe I was nothing but the silhouette. If that was the case, why shouldn¡¯t I be able to do something that should¡¯ve been impossible, for no other reason then because it was enthralling? If the Greek approach was nothing but sh and illusory thunder, it followed that I should be able to change the shape of my shadow if I only adjusted my silhouette and let the light catch it from a different angle. Shift my stance - physical, mental, spiritual. Contort myself until it hurt. And lo, there upon the wall, something that looks nearly like a lyre is in my shadow¡¯s hands. I plucked and strummed an ivory lyre that I¡¯d pulled from the shadows, one that I had not put there first or ever seen before, and the sound of it was deceivingly sweet. I put everything I had into its wispy shadow strings, conveying through melody alone the reason why I hade to this ce. I put all of my confusion, my uncertainty, and my desperation for rity into my song, and I willed the chthonic Hero to understand it. Aristotle had told me once that a song was at times a better conveyance than any spoken words. I had seen enough of his culture to take that sentiment literally now. I yed myst bewildered cord and weathered Griffon¡¯s solitary apuse. Looking up, I locked eyes with the Hero Orpheus down on his stage. He was smiling. ¡°It seems you have some questions,¡± he said, because of course he¡¯d understood. He raised his golden lyre to his forehead in a friendly salute and beckoned us down with a voice like molten honey. ¡°Come, friends, and join me on stage. It¡¯s been far too long since I¡¯ve spoken to a raven.¡± Chapter 1.87 Chapter 1.87 The Young Griffon We descended thest few tiers of benches, brushing past the aghast souls of long dead Orphic initiates. Orpheus sat on his own ivy covered tomb. There was room on either side of him, but Sol disdained the implicit offer to sit side-by-side. Instead, he pulled an ivory stool from the same ce he had pulled his lyre, which was to say nowhere, and sat directly across from the Augur with his back to the stands. Not to be outdone, I manifested every hand of my violent intent and built myself a shadowed throne of thirty open palms. I crossed my legs and propped my chin up in a hand of flesh and blood while Sol adjusted the strings of his lyre as if they weren¡¯t made of shadow and illusion. The Augur¡¯s smile deepened a shade at our unspoken refusal. ¡°Wee to my home. My name is Orpheus, keeper of the strings. What are yours, friends?¡± ¡°Griffon,¡± I answered. ¡°Sol,¡± the Roman replied. ¡°Ah, I see. We make quite a set, don¡¯t we?¡± Thete Hero leaned back, one arm bracing him while the other idly tapped the golden neck of his instrument. ¡°Three men named, and three names discarded.¡± Sol¡¯s fingers went still over his shadow strings. ¡°Orpheus isn¡¯t your real name?¡± I asked curiously. ¡°It¡¯s as real as yours,¡± the Hero replied. I inclined my head, conceding the point. ¡°Why Orpheus?¡± ¡°I was the product of an unfaithful union,¡± he exined. ¡°When my father discovered the truth of things he cast me out. The name Orpheus denotes an orphan. Though I had been raised with a man I called my father, and though in time I came to know the ones responsible for my birth, I knew from that moment of exile that I was and would always be a child without his parents.¡± He spoke with the ease of a man who had long since moved past his hardships. I suppose that was fitting. The concerns of the living hardly mean much to the dead. ¡°I was raised Lio Aetos,¡± I said, returning truth for truth. The keeper of strings chuckled. ¡°I suppose the name speaks for itself. Tell me, then: Sol has made his questions known. What brings you to my humble home?¡± ¡°We¡¯re here for a good cup of wine.¡± It was the proper answer. The reason we were here, after all, was to find a golden cup of spirit wine for the Schr. We had sailed the full length of the Aegean Sea and traversed the frozennds of Thracia for this purpose alone. One week had passed since we set sail from Olympia, one of only twelve. If we found our divine reagent here now and returned to the Eos with all possible haste, we might be done with the first of the Gadfly¡¯s errands after a week and a half. It was a slower pace than what I desired. If we were to traverse these ten destinations and find every infernalponent of thete kyrios¡¯ nectar before thepetitors were required to show for the Olympic Games, we would have to be faster. Even now, every moment that passed was one that I could not afford to spend. But even so. Despite the fact that Kronos was against us, I couldn¡¯t stop myself from uttering the words that came next. I couldn¡¯t stop myself from wondering. ¡°What did you mean a moment ago? How has my brother made his questions known?¡± That faint smile deepened again. ¡°The two of you are young.¡± It wasn¡¯t a question. Sol nodded shallowly, confirming it anyway. ¡°There are a multitude of discoveries that lie ahead of you. A thousand revtions that have yet to shake your hearts - experiences that can only move a man once. It¡¯s enough to make me jealous.¡± My eyes rolled behind my veil. ¡°A meaningless response.¡± The chthonic Hero stood. It was a truth universally known that the line between mortality and divinity was drawn at the precipice of the Heroic Realm. Before that, every man and woman was equally frail in all the ways that truly mattered. When a man was born the Fates waved his destiny and swaddled him in it - the progression of his soul, the events that would define him, the pinnacle of his growth and the degradation of his health. Everything. All of it. Height, beauty, temperament and disposition. Whether you were the lowest of the low Citizenry, or a captain of the Sophic realm, the ceiling was the same. Your reality was fixed. Predetermined. It wasn¡¯t until - unless - a cultivator reached beyond their mortal standing and grasped the first handhold of their brazen epic that the constraints of fated humanity could be defied. Beloved by the Muses. Reviled by the Fates. A Hero was an existence that wasrger than life. Every deed done and every rank advanced only emphasized that fact. My father and my uncles stood taller than any mortal man could hope to grow. The disgraced kyrios of the Burning Dusk was much the same. When Sol and I were standing, we saw eye to eye with one another. We were both nearly twenty hands tall, a height that put us noticeably above most mortal men. When Orpheus stood, he towered over us. Even if Sol had stood from his ivory stool and I had risen from my throne of shadowed palms, the Hero still would have dwarfed us. Twenty-five hands tall at least. Perhaps more. This was a Hero¡¯s stature. That ourpanions still existedrgely within the boundaries of mortal measurement was a reflection of theirck. They should have loomed over us in every aspect. They should have towered- ¡°Take my seat,¡± Orpheus told me. I blinked, looking up at him strangely. Though he couldn¡¯t have possibly seen my expression behind the midnight veil of the raven, he seemed to infer it anyway. ¡°Take my seat and give me yours,¡± he bid me again. ¡°You want to be center stage, don¡¯t you?¡± I stood. At my full height, the crown of my head only just reached the Augur¡¯s corbone. He was as tallpared to me as my father would bepared to him. He sat unceremoniously on the throne of my pankration hands, and I took his ce atop his tomb. The ivy rustled and shifted as I sat down on it. I wondered idly if the tomb was empty in this shadowed reflection of the Orphic House. Above and all around, hundreds of spirits stared at me in rapt displeasure. ¡°How does it feel?¡± the Augur asked me. I hummed, considering their res and simmering disdain. ¡°I¡¯m not against it.¡± ¡°You can stay there, if you¡¯d like,¡± he offered, and I saw dozens of long dead souls visibly bite down on their protestations. ¡°The lyre is properly tuned, and there are picks hidden in the ivy if you prefer to use one. y us a song.¡± I picked up the golden instrument, weighed it in my hands and considered its scarlet strings. I tucked the tip of my finger beneath one, pulling it back. What sound would the lyre make, I wondered, when it was a Philosopher plucking the strings instead of the Augur? Rather than release it, my finger slowly returned the straining scarlet string to its original position. I pulled my hand away without it making a sound. ¡°I can¡¯t,¡± I decided. ¡°Not like you.¡± ¡°Why not? You have everything you need, do you not?¡± My head tilted. ¡°You¡¯re sitting in a Hero¡¯s seat,¡± Orpheus exined. Familiar eyes of scarlet me danced as he leaned back and made himselffortable in my pankration palms. You have a Hero¡¯s instrument at hand, and you bear the mark of higher power¡¯s blessing. That should be enough to do what I do, shouldn¡¯t it?¡± The founder of the Orphic mysteries raised an eyebrow when I didn¡¯t reply. ¡°Is it not enough?¡± he asked me knowingly. ¡°How long have you been listening to us?¡± Sol asked him. ¡°Since you plucked that first cord.¡± ¡°Liar.¡± More than one restless spirit came to their feet in the stands and elevated balconies, their outrage clear to see. Orpheus raised a hand without looking back, forestalling them. ¡°What did you call me?¡± he asked Sol. Rather than repeat himself, the raven from Rome returned his fingers to the smoke serving as his lyre¡¯s strings. Sol yed three simple cords, the sound traveling to every corner of the singing house, carried by its fine acoustics. The sound of them was shrill, more so than the first song he¡¯d yed to grab the Augur¡¯s attention. Orpheus leaned an elbow onto the open air, scarlet mes burning behind his eyes, andid his cheek against a loosely clenched fist. ¡°That¡¯s twice,¡± he said, though Sol hadn¡¯t spoken a word. ¡°Call me a liar in my own home one more time.¡± ¡°Can you really understand my intent to that degree?¡± Sol asked. He sounded like he wanted to disbelieve it, but couldn¡¯t quite bring himself to. When Orpheus nodded, he sighed. ¡°What about Griffon? He only spoke once between my first cord and your invitation to take the stage, and that was just to call me rude. You¡¯re the Keeper of Strings, you can hear the words the lyre says in my ce, fine - but he hasn¡¯t plucked a single string in this house. What voice spoke for him that you could hear his underlying intent?¡± ¡°This voice,¡± Orpheus spoke, andid his unupied hand over his heart. ¡°Is this a joke?¡± I asked incredulously. ¡°You heard my heart speak?¡± ¡°It wasn¡¯t as if I had a choice. It¡¯s all but screaming.¡± ¡°Your myth didn¡¯t mention an ability like that.¡± Sol¡¯s veiled head turned to me, seeking confirmation. I shook my head. ¡°Is that a chthonic ability?¡± ¡°No,¡± Orpheus said at once, but decided against it a momentter. ¡°Well, it shouldn¡¯t be. These days, though¡­ maybe so.¡± My heart and Sol for a straight answer. ¡°Where do the two of you stand?¡± Orpheus abruptly asked, spearing first me and then Sol with pointed expectation. ¡°What does my heart say?¡± I asked blithely. ¡°It says it¡¯s disappointed. It says it aches to burn. Mostly, it despairs that the brightest souls are the ones that are smothered first. It¡¯s been saying that since I first started listening. So, again - where do you stand?¡± ¡°¡­ Sophic Realm. Second rank.¡± ¡°Sophic Realm, first rank,¡± Sol chimed in. ¡°I thought so. Tell me, what do the two of you think a Hero is?¡± Sol and I shared a look through veils of raven shadow. ¡°There are no wrong answers,¡± Orpheus said invitingly. I grimaced. Was he a liar that had been listening to us in the underworld all this time, or was it sheer coincidence? To what extent was my virtuous heart betraying me? ¡°More,¡± I said. If he was telling the truth, it was all that needed to be said. Once more, Sol turned to his lyre in ce of words. The song he drew next from the smoke was slow and somber, each cord a bittersweet pleasure. Chthonic souls leaned forward on their benches and over the rails of their balconies to listen as it dragged tortuously on. I saw thete Ptolemy watching raptly, his sister-wife listening with her eyes closed and her back pressed against his chest. Sol curled his fingers against his palms when thest string was plucked, scraping them as if to rid them of a residue that he misliked. ¡°So that¡¯s it,¡± Orpheus murmured, as if he really had heard the full exnation in the intervening beats. ¡°That song, was it your own creation? Or does it have a name?¡± ¡°The Trojan Marches Home,¡± Sol answered. A song about Aeneas, then. Fitting choice, for a Roman. ¡°Thank you,¡± Orpheus said genuinely. ¡°I¡¯ll remember it.¡± Sol inclined his head, and this time a few scattered apuse came down from the stands. He didn¡¯t look back. ¡°To the prior point, however, I think I¡¯ve spotted the issue. You¡¯re both horribly confused and unsure of how to proceed with your lives as they stand, and you¡¯vee here in search of rity using gold and wine as your thin pretense. Not umon, as these approaches go.¡± ¡°If our hearts¡¯ desires are so transparent to you,¡± I said, the raven¡¯s distortion veil doing nothing to hide my irritation, ¡°Why don¡¯t you humor us, and fulfill them?¡± ¡°Why should I?¡± ¡°Sol yed you a nice song.¡± Orpheus chuckled. ¡°That he did. He even brought his own instrument to perform it.¡± The Augur leveled a finger at me. The ivy vines enshrouding his tomb shifted in response, digging against my skin where I touched them. ¡°You, on the other hand, refuse to y the one I loaned you myself. How am I to suffer such disparity in my own home?¡± ¡°So if I y you a song,¡± I said slowly, ¡°That would be enough?¡± ¡°It would.¡± I tapped the face of his lyre thoughtfully. The gold chimed every time my nail struck it. ¡°I still refuse.¡± ¡°Just y the man a song,¡± the Roman raven snapped, as if I was one of his toy soldiers tomand. ¡°Don¡¯t tell me the young aristocrat doesn¡¯t know how to strum a lyre.¡± ¡°Of course I do.¡± ¡°Then y.¡± ¡°No.¡± Sol threw down his ivory lyre in disgust. Rather than rebound off the wooden stage, though, it simply fell into his shadow and vanished. Like a broken ship subsumed by wine-dark waters. ¡°You know you won¡¯t do it justice,¡± Orpheus surmised. Or perhaps he¡¯d heard it in my heart. Who was to say? ¡°An alternative, then. Youck the required finesse in your strings, but what of your voice?¡± ¡°There isn¡¯t one better in all the world.¡± ¡°Oh?¡± Scarlet mes flickered, amused. ¡°And under it?¡± ¡°Not there either.¡± ¡°Oh ho. That¡¯s a im I¡¯d love to hear proven.¡± The Hero Orpheus made a beckoning motion with one hand, and ivy vines entangled the golden lyre, dragged it out of myp. I watched, nonplussed, as they grew across the gap between Orpheus and his coffin to hand over the instrument. ¡°Lend me your voice, Lio Aetos, and open your heart. I¡¯ll supply you the lyrics.¡± Before I could ask him what exactly he meant by that, the Augur began to y. It was as lovely as his earlier y, but this tune didn¡¯t flow cidly through the undercurrent of conversation like the one before. These cords were not content to be spoken over. They thrummed, bright and proud, echoing through the rafters of the high house. They seized the ears of every spectator in the odeon. They seized me. And not unlike the first time I had felt the brush of pneuma on my cultivator¡¯s sense, not unlike the first time I noticed the thrust of rhetoric with my sophic sense, I felt something beat against my chest. Something directly outside of the cage that contained my heart. Something that wanted in. Orpheus the Augur- no. Orpheus, the Keeper of Scarlet Strings, matched his beat and the scarlet mes in his eyes to the rhythm and heat of my own heart. Through that resonance, he spoke to me. He spoke through me. My voice rose to sing a hymn I had never heard before this moment. Zagreus I call, loud-sounding and divine, fanatic vine-keeper, a two-fold shape is thine: Thy various names and attributes I sing, O, first-born, thrice begotten, Bhic king: Rural, ineffable, two-form''d, obscure, two-horn''d, with ivy crown''d, euion, pure. Bull-fac''d, and martial, bearer of the vine, endu''d with counsel prudent and divine: Triennial, whom the leaves of vines adorn, of Thunderer and Kore, ultly born. Immortal d?mon, hear my suppliant voice, give me in meless plenty to rejoice; And listen gracious to my mystic pray''r, surrounded with thy choir of nurses fair. The stands erupted into cheering ovation. I hunched forward, panting - abruptly breathless. Such a short hymn shouldn¡¯t have taken anything noticeable out of me to recite. But it had. I gasped for breath while Orpheus set down his golden lyre and joined the rest of the dead souls in apuding me. Sol¡¯s hand was a firm support as it settled on my shoulder. His voice was colder than ice when he spoke to the Augur, made more unsettling by the raven¡¯s grim distortion. ¡°What did you do?¡± ¡°I said a prayer.¡± Orpheus shrugged lightly, unconcerned by the raven¡¯s rising pneuma. ¡°The two of you are strangers in my home, and so I have treated you well despite the insults you¡¯ve offered me. You wear the colors of an old and dear friend, and so I¡¯ve decided to answer your irreverent questions. But make no mistake. You are not my friends. And if your bodies can not handle the answers your hearts have requested, that is your hubris repaid.¡± ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± I wheezed, bracing a hand on my knee and pping Sol¡¯s bicep reassuringly. ¡°I can-¡° I gagged. Forced myself to speak through the sensation. ¡°-feel it now. It¡¯s-¡± ¡°I¡¯d suggest catching your breath,¡± Orpheus interrupted. ¡°The first time is-¡° I jabbed a finger at his face. ¡°You. Augur. Shut up.¡± In an instant, the goodwill my singing had garnered me in the stands evaporated. More than that, though, for the first time since our arrival I saw the Chthonic Hero himself grow angry. ¡°Excuse me?¡± I sucked in a long, whistling breath that felt like it would never fill my lungs. Until it did, and the breathless spell passed. I pped my chest and the winding scarlet tattoos that the raven¡¯s mantle brought to the surface of my skin shed briefly. ¡°You¡¯re too loud. I¡¯m trying to listen,¡± I exined. The Augur¡¯s anger subsided. ¡°Listen to what?¡± Sol asked quietly, still gripping my shoulder. ¡°To the heart.¡± With a sense I hadn¡¯t known I had until Orpheus forced it upon me with his prayer, I felt it. A warmth, and a beat. A deathless phenomena entombed in poisonous ivy. The Orphic mystery. Drink. My brow furrowed. ¡°The heart? What heart?¡± Drink. ¡°Griffon?¡± Drink. I shook my head. No. Drink. I refuse. ¡°He won¡¯t stop,¡± Orpheus said knowingly. He was standing, now. At some point my pankration hands had flickered and vanished, leaving him without a seat. He didn¡¯t seem concerned by it. ¡°He¡¯s always been that way. Best to just drain your cup and be done with it.¡± DRINK. I grit my teeth, gripping my head for all the good it did. Obnoxious tyrant. Be silent. D R I N K My knees hit the floor. Moments after discovering it, my new sense was overwhelmed by the entombed beat. I was blinded, deafened - disheartened. Sol gripped my jaw, forcing my mouth open, and poured the horn¡¯s contents down my throat. It was sweet and nothing but. Utterlycking in any of the underlying burn inherent to alcoholic beverages. I had seen the same liquid in every ivory cup, in every drunken spirit¡¯s hand. Milk and honey. It was only milk and honey. Where was the wine? Thest thing I saw before the world fell out from under me and all of my senses spiraled away was the sight of Sol shifting his midnight veil aside to down the contents of his own horn cup. Thest thing I heard was Orpheus¡¯ voice. ¡°Enjoy the rites, boys.¡± Chapter 1.88 [???] Chapter 1.88 [???] ??? You are born. Your infant cries herald the end of endless spring and the first dawn of the summer sun. The sun beats warmly down. Your mother seeks shelter for you in the shade, while the first seeds are nted and the seasons begin the first of their tireless revolutions. The wheel begins to turn. The world is silver-bright. You are betrayed. [Bring that golden lyre, yes, bring it.] A Titan is to an Olympian what an Olympian is to a Man. The oldest generation takes the youngest generation in their hands. You are torn apart, limb by limb, before you speak your first word. You scream in a voice so loud that their ears bleed and the heavens shake in their frame, but it is not enough to rouse your murdered mother. It is not enough to stir The Mother¡¯s wrathful heart. The Titans consume you one limb at a time. They bite into your organs and split them like overripe fruit. They crack your bones open and suck out the marrow therein. They crush to pulp the lungs in your chest to silence your wailing. It¡¯s almost a mercy when they finally deprive you of your senses. They take your ears, and you no longer have to hear the sound of their chewing. They take your nose, and you no longer have to smell their fetid breath and the stench of your own exposed innards. They take your tongue, and you no longer have to taste your own blood. Of course, even in their unavoidable kindness they are cruel. They take your eyesst of all, so that you have to watch until the very end the feast they¡¯ve made of you. The Titans devour you in the Fall, and your father who is The Father doesn¡¯t notice until they¡¯ve eaten everything but your heart. Heaven rages. Lightning scours the earth and turns every Titan to ash. You alone remain, a senseless beating heart. Salt water falls from the clouds above. The Father mourns you as the world grows cold and the first winter digs its frigid fingers through the earth. You die. The wheel turns. [But leave that string of blood out.] You are born. Again. The world is less than it was before, but still silver-bright. You grow to speak your first word. For a hundred years you grow alongside the other children. When you are finally a man, you venture into teeming fields and cultivate your first vine. The first grape you pick is sweet and ripe. It pops between your teeth, and you taste in it thebors of every man toe before you. The Mother sees you one day as you tend your fields. She finds you as unsightly now as she did before. She curses the men and the women you shared a childhood with. In their madness, they tear you apart limb-by-limb and consume you. You beg them to stop until you can no longer form the words. You beg them with your eyes until those too are taken. When nothing remains but your senseless beating heart, lightning scours the fields and salt water falls upon the ash that¡¯s left behind. You die. Again. The wheel turns. [Bring a cup of versing rules.] You are born. Again. Your friends are long dead. The world has lost yet more of its silver luster. Holy women take you into their arms and hide you away in mountain caves. They feed you milk and honey until you are grown. They feed you milk and honey to make you strong. In time, they teach you the nature of the world and reveal to you its mysteries. They tell you stories of the golden souls that came before you. They warn you of your fellow men. You venture out from your mountain cave and discover for yourself how a foreigner is treated in a dim, irreverent world. The Mother hardly has to lift a finger to see you to your end this time. The King of Earliest Dawn is mad enough already. By the time you realize he¡¯s tainted the food and drink offered under guest right with ivy poison, you¡¯ve already ingested far too much of it. In your delirium and your sickness, you hardly feel it at all when the mad king¡¯s dogs tear you limb from limb. Senseless heart. Raging heaven¡¯s wrath. A kingdom reduced to ash, and a deluge of saltwater grief to wash it all away. Your father, The Father, floods the world and starts anew. You die. Again. The wheel turns. [Oh, and mix some metres in it.] You are born. Again. It was your father¡¯s sin, not yours, but The Mother doesn¡¯t care. The world is cruel and growing crueler. No longer bright, no longer silver at all, but now a burnished bronze. Its men are merciless and strong, carved from ash trees and well-suited to war. There are more mad kings than sane, now. The king that rules over thend of your birth is no different. The Mother whispers the truth of your origins into his ear, and he locks both you and your mother into a trunk and consigns it to the sea. No matter how loudly you wail, there is no one on the open waters to hear you but your mother. When she dies, there is no one to hear you at all. When your trunk finally washes up on shore and you are found in the embrace of your mother¡¯s bloated corpse, you¡¯ve be a bit mad yourself. The woman to find you is no holy spirit, no priestess of your father, but she is kinder than most. She raises you in a field, and reminds you of the man you used to be one day at a time. You cultivate another field of vines, and though their grapes don¡¯t taste as sweet as they did before, the memory is fond enough. War finds your humble farm before The Mother does. The woman that raised you is vited and murdered. The men responsible disdain your howling rage andsh your limbs each to a different one of their horses. They pull you apart. They burn your vines and salt the earth. You die. Again. The wheel has ten spokes. [I will sing, then I¡¯ll be dancing.] You are born. Again. You die. Again. It goes. The world is burnished bronze, and so you make war. You are a stranger in everynd, a foreigner no matter where you go. You do not belong and The Mother makes certain you are never wanted. So you force yourself upon the world. You live in it regardless. Out of spite. Defiant. You march, and you fight. You gather men of simr minds to you, and you make that war together. As far as the Indus River, where The Mother takes on a native woman¡¯s form and urges them to repel you. You fight, and you conquer, and you thirst. Every vine in everynd bears less tantalizing fruit than thest. Your father looks upon your works and despairs at the man you¡¯ve be. He scours the world away in saltwater floods. Another deluge. Another death. Turn. [Not a drop of sense left in me.] You are born again. The world is¡­ better. No longer dimly lit by cruelly burnished bronze, it¡¯s lit by defiance of noble souls. Thends are defined by great men and great women, cultivated as you cultivate your vines. Among them you find friends. Among them you find brothers. One among them is your favorite. The Mother hates him nearly as much as she hates you. She curses him with madness, as she cursed you, and breaks his back withbors. He suffers these tribtions with greater poise and grace than you ever did. He stands tall. He struggles on behalf of those that suffered before him, and those that will suffer after. He is a Champion. You have nothing you can give him in support but your own senselessly beating heart, and so you do. He takes even that, and improves it. While it beats in his chest, it burns. It takes on his shade. It bes something glorious. It bes something triumphant. For the first time, you feel something in the senseless beating of your heart. You experience passion. And then your little brother is cut down. You feel it in your heart now. The pain is worse because of it. The wheel groans. [I will dance to horn and zither.] You exist. The world is iron now. Every vine you cultivate bears tainted fruit. The grapes fester and grow bitter, and when you bite into them you understand what the Titans must have felt when they devoured you. The juice drives you mad if not first diluted. You treat it with spices and herbs, with milk and honey, but it¡¯s never quite the same as it was before. Even the memory is bittersweet. These days, every king is a tyrant. You are no exception. When The Mother finally dies, all that you feel is a dim satisfaction. You gather your followers and your ves in the fist that isn¡¯t busy holding your cup, and you go to her grave and revel over her corpse. You drink until it finally kills you. The wheel- [Crying out the cries that wine makes.] You are born. The world is¡­ golden-bright? [Bring that golden lyre, yes, bring it.] Yes. The world is gold. [Oh, but leave that string of blood out.] Twin ravens, twice-anointed in twice-born faith, sit together in a shadowed grove of sweet delusion. Eventually, theye to their senses. Eventually, they realize they are not alone. ¡°You look parched, brother. Here. Have yourself a drink.¡± From behind the hungry ravens, from a direction neither can turn their head to look, a voice sounds and a hand reaches out. Offering a drink to quench their senseless thirst. A golden cup of wine. Chapter 1.89 [An Unkindness] Chapter 1.89 [An Unkindness] An Unkindness Horn is fulfilled. Ivory deceives. Two ravens and two Heroic souls had entered the Orphic house through gates of ivory - or perhaps it was horn. In the empty stands and shadowed rafters, the ravens had heard the echo of a lyre where the Hero of the Scything Squall had heard nothing at all. And thus they had ventured into the true singing house, immersing themselves in chthonic shadow that a crow could only briefly traverse. Prior to that, two initiates of the Thracian Orphic mystery had seen the stirring of once awoken shadows. and so they had offered each raven a drink that they would need to make it through their second anointment. A gift from Senior to Junior, each of them a cup of hollowed out horn - or perhaps it was ivory. Their drinks were simple milk and honey, same as every intoxicated soul in the singing house. It wasn¡¯t the alcohol that intoxicated a man of Orphic faith, after all. It was enthusiasm. The inspiration of divine essence. To be anointed once, a man had to be made aware of the truth that lurked beneath the shadowed earth. From horn, the truth. From ivory, only lies. To be anointed twice, and stand proud as a full initiate of chthonic mystery faith, a man had to see that truth for himself. To experience it, as the first and most reviled son of scarlet sin had, and thus be reborn. If their cups were of horn and the rest of the spectators cups of ivory, then that would mean these rites were true. If the opposite, then everything the ravens had seen would have to be lies. The raven who was Lio ¡°Griffon¡± Aetos knew his cup was made of horn. He knew it. But he was beginning to doubt. ¡°I didn¡¯t know it was possible for you to look this pitiful,¡± Lydia Aetos spoke, seated beside the raven in the shadowed forest grove. ¡°To think I¡¯d live to see you make such a face. The world must be ending after all.¡± The raven did not respond to the yful jab. Neither did he turn his head. But he couldn¡¯t stop himself from looking at her out of the corner of his eye. Lydia Aetos regarded him fondly, her features lit by a warm fire light that was entirely out of ce in the otherwise shadowed grove. She sat on the ground - sprawled, really - with one leg folder over the other in leisure and one elbow to prop her up. She was dressed not in her usual cult silks, but in midnight cloth and leather dyed white. Where the ck cloth shifted on her shoulders and parted, It revealed the bronze breastte she wore like a second skin. Her actual skin was still marble smooth and just as pale, but marred now by the faint silver ofsting scars She was taller than she had been in hisst memory of her. The lines of muscle in her legs and arms were more pronounced than before, and if the breastte was as skintight as it looked then the muscles of her core had been further refined as well. She was further refined. A woman now, more than a girl. A warrior. And a Heroine. Her eyes burned with the light of her heart¡¯s me as she regarded him. She wasn¡¯t real. Every word she spoke only made him more certain of it. Every moment he suffered her delusion, he grew less sure that the cup he had drank from was horn and not ivory. ¡°What¡¯s wrong, Lio?¡± Myron Aetos asked him, seated at his other side. Lit by the same nebulous fire light, his appearance was an even more startling contrast than the Young Miss¡¯. ¡°You haven¡¯t spoken a word since you got here. This isn¡¯t like you.¡± The boy, now nearly a man, sat with his legs crossed and an elbow resting on each knee. Many people, most people in fact, were unsightly until they refined themselves. Myron though, had been born cherubic. An adorable infant,ter a precocious young boy with the promise of a handsome man in the shape of his jaw and the noble bridge of his nose. The young man the raven now spied from the corner of his eye was that promise delivered. The delusion of Myron Aetos frowned, his brow furrowing. a familiar expression now entirely changed. He had retained the fairest of his features and grown into the ones that always gave his youth away when he tried emting his elders as a boy. His unconscious, concerned scowl was no longer amusing and cute. His narrow eyes were fierce, now. Made all the more so by the vibrant blue mes burning behind them. The little kyrios was older but not yet grown, not like the delusion of Lydia, but he was a Hero nheless. An unprecedented standing for a cultivator that was still as close to boyhood as he was the prime of his maturation. He wore a breastte and greaves, with a helmet topped by scarlet feathers resting on the ground by his hip. He wore leather boots. In ce of Lydia¡¯s scars, he had a scarf wrapped around his neck that was soaked through with blood. He wasn¡¯t real either. The raven ignored him just the same, though it made him doubt a little more. ¡°What am I meant to do with you if you won¡¯t even look my way?¡± Castor Aetos murmured up above. Perchednguidly in the overhanging branch of a tree, illuminated by fire¡¯s light, the foot that he let dangle flexed rhythmically while his head bobbed. He had a swordying across hisp and a whetstone in his hand. Each swipe of the stone across his de¡¯s edge was a punctuation of a beat only he could hear. His features were as fair as the raven remembered, his long dirty blonde hair braided and bound by rings of gold in a ponytail that dangled nearly as far down as his foot. His face was cleanly shaven, and in ce of armor he wore only unadorned white cloth riddled with tears and cuts. He wasrger, as well. Larger than the raven, even. His eyes could not be seen behind the strip of linen he tied over them, but the light of his Heroic soul could be seen bleeding through the fabric. He wasn¡¯t real. But even so. ¡°You can talk to me, you know,¡± Rena Aetos assured the raven. Above and to the right, she hung upside down from a different tree branch, her arms dangling freely along with her hair while her legs kept her steady. She smiled and winked at the raven, knowing he could see her at the edge of his vision. ¡°Just this once, I don¡¯t mind being the one that listens.¡± Her arms swayed, and the iron manacles afixed to each of them nked and rattled audibly against one another as they did. Four of them on each arm, severed chains dangled from each one. The same was true of her legs - four bands of iron for each calf, stacked one atop the other in a line. She wore them like bangles and bracelets. She even had a cor of cruel iron sealed around her throat. Yet it didn¡¯t seem to bother her in the slightest. In fact, she had inscribed it. A serpent had been carved into the surface of the ve¡¯s choker, the head meeting the tail at the center of her throat and devouring it. Somehow, she didn¡¯t mind. Somehow, despite the fact that she was bonded in iron nearly twenty times over, the mes of her Heroic spirit still burned warmly behind her eyes. She wasn¡¯t real. He doubted. ¡°You¡¯ll break this silence,¡± Niks Aetos said with unshaken conviction. ¡°It¡¯s what you do.¡± Of the raven¡¯s myriad delusions, this one alone was nearly unchanged from his most recent memory of the cultivator in question. Niks wasrger than he had been before, nearly asrge as the chthonic Hero Orpheus, but Heroes grew fast and the young prodigy of the Rosy Dawn grew faster still. His skin was still ruggedly tanned, his eyes the same burning blue, ck hair cropped nearly as short as Sol¡¯s, and he still wore the same armor and sailing leathers. Aside from his increased stature, there were only two real differences. His wedding ring was gone, and the hilt of the sword sheath at his side was changed. He was by far the closest to reality, but he was the fakest of them all. The raven knew it, because he knew that hilt. It was attached to the de that the raven carried at his side, in that very moment. The raven knew without question his cousins were not there in that shadowed grove with him, like he knew there was no fire to illuminate them and no way for Niks¡¯ de to have a hilt that he was himself carrying. But he had also known that his cup was horn and not ivory. Just as he had known that the world outside of the scarlet city, beyond the reach of Damon Aetos, was a vast and vibrant thing filled with people worth telling stories of. The raven known as Griffon had known many things. He had thought that, anyway. ¡°After all this time, I finally get to see you somber,¡± the delusion that could not be Castor mused, the rag that covered his eyes glowing faintly. ¡°I thought it would be peaceful. Now I realize it just makes me feel uneasy.¡± The light did not shift, not even once. His eyes weren¡¯t moving - but his dangling foot still tapped away at the beat of an unsung song. ¡°Something happened,¡± the delusion that could not be Myron Aetos guessed. The young man massaged his temples, burning blue eyes flickering fitfully as he thought hard. ¡°Something¡¯s wrong, I can tell. Hold on, just let me think-¡° in the sourceless fire light, the drops of blood that fell from his soaked scarf glimmered nearly gold. ¡°You¡¯ll feel better if you speak it, no matter how bad it may be. That¡¯s what you¡¯ve always told me, isn¡¯t it?¡± Hanging upside down from her tree, the delusion that could not be Rena reached precariously for the raven. the tips of her fingers were adorned with wicked golden ws. The severed chains of her myriad shackles rattled and glinted in the light. ¡°Manifest it, Lio. Speak the words so I can help.¡± The delusion that could not be Niks waited patiently. Content to let the raven have the next word, however long it took. He stroked the hilt of his sword with an idle thumb as he basked in the fire¡¯s warmth. ¡°Son of sullen silence,¡± the delusion that could not possibly be Lydia murmured, tilting her head while she regarded the raven. ¡°What could possibly be terrible enough to seal your lips?¡± She looked at him like she was seeing a mirage, or a half-forgotten dream. Something nearly there, but not quite. Ivory deceives. Horn is thus fulfilled. The most potent deception was the one that convinced. Convincing a skeptical man of a lie was nearly impossible, if he knew enough to look for it. Such a man would have to convince himself. But what could possibly motivate a skeptical man to turn away from truth in order to embrace a lie? He had to want it to be true. In the end, the difference between ivory and horn was nearly impossible to tell from the outside looking in. You had to crack them open. You had to see what was inside. If you found marrow, it was horn. Otherwise, a lie. The raven known as Griffon remembered the Orphic house they had entered. Traversing shadows to converse with echoes of what had once been great souls. Imbibing milk and honey and falling under its psychedelic sway. This forest was a continuation of that intoxication. These facsimiles of his cousins were not real. But he wanted them to be. ¡°The Fates are truly cruel,¡± the raven finally spoke. Each of his ivory cousins - or were they horn? - perked up at the sound of his voice, focusing intently on him. The ravenmented. ¡°As if it wasn¡¯t enough already. My own elder cousin, whom I have long admired, gone away to find what could not be found at home. As if it wasn¡¯t enough. The older generation, bound by brotherhood and greater than their greatest children.¡± As if it wasn¡¯t enough that the raven had fled the nest in search of glory, and found the world nothing but grim. ¡°Treacherous heart.¡± The raven gripped his chest. His nails carved bloody furrows in his flesh. A delusion or a real and present injury? He wouldn¡¯t know until he woke up. ¡°Unsightly hunger. What use is spirit if the only me that burns is hateful? What use is desire if the only thing I want is the one thing I¡¯ll never, ever have?¡± ¡°You¡¯re not making any sense, Lio,¡± the false Hero Myron Aetos said, concerned. The young man that should have been a boy leaned further towards the raven, illuminating further the design threaded through his blood-soaked scarf - an elephant run through by a spear head. ¡°Nothing makes sense. The world is not what it should be.¡± ¡°Then we¡¯ll change it,¡± the false Heroine Rena insisted, twisting at the waist and lifting her chin so she could look at him properly rather than upside down as she hung. ¡°That¡¯s what a Hero does, isn¡¯t it? When something is wrong, they make it right. That¡¯s what you do.¡± In the sourceless illumination, the self-consuming serpent engraved in her ve cor shimmered and seemed to writhe. ¡°¡®When something is wrong, a Hero makes it right¡¯. I thought that¡¯s what a Hero was. That¡¯s what a Hero should be. But these days, a Hero can be anything at all - so long as they burn.¡± ¡°Can be. Should be. What does any of that matter?¡± the false Hero Castor asked the raven impatiently, dashing his whetstone against the earth below and pulling the linen bindfold down from his eyes. The hollow sockets settled unerringly on the raven, the mes within crackling. ¡°The world is. We are. Since when has the Young Aristocrat cared enough about reality toment its cruelty?¡± ¡°I¡¯ve always cared. About all of it. Everything. That¡¯s why this world infuriates me.¡± ¡°Because it¡¯s less than what you thought it would be,¡± the false Hero Niks said knowingly. He caressed the Talon¡¯s hilt, the relic of histe father, with a hand unadorned by any ring. A hilt that in truth hung at the raven¡¯s hip. A hilt he could have had if he had stayed in the Scarlet City, if he had broken free alongside his cousins and taken what should have been his to inherit. ¡°Because you want it to be more.¡± ¡°Because I know that it was more. Because I¡¯ve seen the world in every shade, because I know it could be golden bright, but the life I was given is iron. No more kings and queens of glory. No evesting providence. Only Tyrants, and the faceless corpses the pantheon left behind in its passing.¡± What was the point of scaling the mountain when the view from the top was so grim? What pleasure was there in triumph when all of your opponents were weaker than they should have been? Weaker than their ancestors that came before them? ¡°When I won the Daylight Games, it stung worse than if I¡¯d lost. I thought that bitterness would remain behind when I left the Scarlet City, but it followed me instead. Everywhere I go. No matter what I do. The best of what I find is what¡¯s already dead and gone. The dregs are all that remain. That hollow victory is all that remains.¡± Surrounded by beautiful delusions, the raven despaired. The Hero Niks had shown him that there were still things worth experiencing in this life, when he returned home for his marriage burning brighter than he ever had before. The brothers Aetos had proven to him that family could reach for the heights together, side by side as equals. Now here, in the shadowed grove of the Orphic mystery, the Fates had chosen to taunt him with what he might have had. His cousins sat at the edges of his vision as they could have been, if they had been born earlier or he had been bornter. If they had been courageous instead of cowardly. If they had been tempered rather than pretentious. Wise, and not foolish. Righteous, instead of petty. They each bore scars ofsting tragedies, but the marks had not made them less like they had Scythas and the rest of Olympia¡¯s Heroic cultivators. They had only refined them. They had only made them more. The raven known as Griffon refused to look at any one of the false Heroes that could have been his cousins, because he knew that if he did he¡¯d never look away. ¡°I could have had this. I could have had you. Instead, I burn alone.¡± The chthonic Hero Orpheus had sung his song through Griffon¡¯s heart, ced the words on his tongue with a form ofmunication unique to him - but in so doing, he had opened the raven¡¯s senses to something only a Hero was meant to perceive. The delusions that wore his cousins¡¯ faces were fake, everything about them. That included the words they spoke with their hearts. Every day since Niks had left, the raven had wondered why he hadn¡¯t taken him along too. Every day that followed, he had wondered why his younger cousins weren¡¯t as vibrant as the elder prodigy. After experiencing Chilon¡¯s story, he had wondered why his father had enjoyed thepany of brothers that hungered like he hungered, while his cousins had contented themselves with the petty business of cult politics and the aristois. What had Damon done to deserve hispanions? What had Griffon not? His answer came from all sides, spoken from the hearts of the cousins that he had always wanted but never had. From the Heroic souls that the raven had always known he belonged amongst. His equals. Every one of them was disgusted by him. The false Heroine Lydia Aetos looked upon him sadly. ¡°You are a shadow, aren¡¯t you?¡± Was the cup ivory, or was it horn? Either way, the pain was real. Chapter 1.90 [An Unkindness] Chapter 1.90 [An Unkindness] An Unkindness Through horn, truth. By ivory, lies. The motif was a quirk of the Aeolic Greek dialect and nothing more. That was what the raven from Rome had been taught. Aristotle, his mentor and the Father of Rhetoric, had exined it in this way: The Greek word for ¡®horn¡¯ struck the ear nearly the same as the Greek verb ¡®to fulfill¡¯, while the Greek word for ¡®ivory¡¯ sounded almost identical to the Greek verb ¡®to deceive¡¯. The fact that these two materials were visually all but indistinguishable was a miraculous linguistic coincidence, one that the great poet Homer had made full use of in his epics and tragedies. Aristotle had stressed, however, that a coincidence was likely all that it was. There was no observable property in either horn or ivory that could be meaningfully associated with prophecy or delirium. Horns could be hollowed out and used as drinking cups or brass instruments, and ivory was a precious material coveted for art of all kinds. None of those properties lent themselves to religious euphoria. Compelling men tellpelling stories. But you have to understand, boy, whether it¡¯s Homer or the Muses themselves whispering in your ear, you¡¯ll never truly know a thing until you¡¯ve seen it for yourself. The Odyssey was a story worth telling, that much is true. But a clever turn of phrase does not necessarily a natural phenomena make. The wizened philosopher had couched his skepticism in terms of ¡°likely¡± and ¡°not necessarily¡± only because, in his own words, Heroic cultivators were a ridiculous existence that only asionally followed natural convention. It was unfortunately possible, then, for a story from their Heroic Golden Age to be just as absurd in its events while also being true. Either way, his experiments and his observations had not informed him enough to say for certain. He couldn¡¯t, or wouldn¡¯t, say the dichotomy was a false one. A man had to see the way of things for himself. The raven known as Solus epted a golden cup of wine from an outstretched hand, cradling it in one hand while the other held his horn cup of milk and honey. The golden cup was ufortably warm, hot enough to scald a lesser cultivator. The wine simmered and bubbled, just short of boiling. ¡°Go on,¡± the voice behind him urged. ¡°There¡¯s no need to hold back on my ount.¡± ¡°Who are you?¡± the raven asked. He did not look back. His back burned. The sensation was just short of unbearable, like sitting at the edge of a bonfire and waiting to catch me. ¡°¡®Who am I¡¯, he says,¡± the man behind him chuckled, and that tanned hand pped the raven on his shoulder once and then twice for good measure. He felt the immediate burn it left on his skin. ¡°I suppose it hardly matters now. I¡¯m the man that¡¯s offering to quench your thirst. How¡¯s that?¡± ¡°¡­ My thirst isn¡¯t for wine.¡± ¡°No. It never was. But in a bind, the next best thing will do, won¡¯t it?¡± The raven sneered behind his midnight veil at the stench of sea salt and cloying ash. He had seen for himself what the next best thing was worth. He had been reminded of that reality every day after his father passed. The Fifth Legion, his father¡¯s legion, had suffered the consequences of that next best thing. ¡°It won¡¯t.¡± Not now. Not then. Not ever again. ¡°No? It always did before.¡± After a thoughtful pause that the raven from Rome didn¡¯t bother to interrupt, the man behind him continued. ¡°I see it now. You¡¯vee here for a different sort of satiation. So be it - give me back my cup of wine and we¡¯ll talk.¡± ¡°No.¡± ¡°Ho?¡± The raven¡¯s shoulders tensed. If the man behind him took offense to his hubris, truly took offense, he would die. It was something he understood instinctively. An animal¡¯s primal intuition. The man chuckled. ¡°You¡¯vee to be greedy. You are a raven, aren¡¯t you?¡± ¡°I am many things, and few of them are good.¡± ¡°Isn¡¯t that the truth? Well enough - keep the sour wine. And tell me, brother, what is it that ails you?¡± The raven known as Solus nced sidelong at his bare-chested brother. The raven known as Griffon stared sightlessly ahead at the shadowed grove of trees they had both ended up in. If their roles had been reversed, the silence might have been overlooked. But he had known hispanion too well for too long. Something wasn¡¯t right. His brother wasn¡¯t engaging with the conversation, a choice entirely unlike him. If nothing else, he should have had a pithyment or a biting remark of some kind to interject with at the most inappropriate moment of discourse. That he hadn¡¯t reacted at all meant he had to still be under the sway of the milk and honey¡¯s delirium. Seeing and hearing less than what the raven from Rome could. Or perhaps more. ¡°What¡¯s wrong with him?¡± ¡°A question with more than one answer, I¡¯m sure.¡± He amended his question. ¡°Why hasn¡¯t hee back to his senses yet?¡± ¡°Who¡¯s to say he hasn¡¯t? What makes you so sure that you¡¯re the sane one, here? You¡¯re the raven cawing at itself.¡± ¡°I¡¯m talking to you,¡± the raven said, irritated. ¡°You are?¡± ¡°I am.¡± ¡°Then look at me.¡± The raven grit his teeth. ¡°I¡¯ll die.¡± ¡°Perhaps.¡± The raven turned his head- And his shadow rose up from its ce on the forest floor and covered his eyes with its hands. Not yet, it whispered in his ear. Not until the battle¡¯s won. ¡°Why would one of us return before the other?¡± the raven asked instead, gripping his cup of hollowed out horn tightly. ¡°Neither one of us took the drinks we were offered in the Orphic House. We should both have been lucid, or equally delirious. Truth in horn or ivory delusion, the sources of our cups were the same.¡± ¡°Were they?¡± The raven''s eyes widened behind his shadow¡¯s protective palms. One raven speaks only the truth. The other raven lies. It fell seamlessly into ce within him. One of the Thracian gatekeepers had given them a cup of ivory. The other had given them horn. A man and a woman in nearly identical cult attire. Which was which? It was toote to tell. ¡°¡­ It doesn¡¯t matter.¡± ¡°It doesn¡¯t? How so?¡± ¡°Whether you¡¯re a delusion of my mind or a mystery annoyance, it doesn¡¯t matter to me. If you can give me the rity that I seek, then you¡¯re real enough.¡± The man behind snorted. ¡°Pragmatic, I suppose. Go on, then. Ask the question you truly want to ask.¡± The raven from Rome exhaled slowly, and let fly the question that had been burning in his mind ever since he pulled the Scarlet City¡¯s shackles off his wrists. ¡°How do I refine myself?¡± The man behind did not hesitate to answer. ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡± Worthless, vacuous Greeks. Chapter 1.91 [An Unkindness] Chapter 1.91 [An Unkindness] An Unkindness ¡°You don¡¯t know,¡± the raven known as Solus said dully. He knew he shouldn¡¯t have been surprised. Socrates, the Schr himself, hadn¡¯t had an immediate answer for him. Why should this faceless man? There were even odds that there was no man at all, just a figment of his deceptive imagination, but even if there was a man in the business of handing out golden cups of wine, who was to say he¡¯d also be handing out the secrets to Greek cultivation? The raven had used up all his good fortune early in life. From here on, it would be struggle. Going forward, he knew he couldn¡¯t hope to be given what he desired - what he needed. He would have to take it. ¡°Are you a Greek at all?¡± he asked. The raven had assumed that whatever he encountered in this ce would be cut from the same cloth as the cult whose rites sent him here, but that wasn¡¯t necessarily the case. Aristotle had warned him that true answers to ill-formed questions were at times more detrimental than lies. The Gadfly had hammered into him the practice of asking until the proper question was found. ¡°I am a son of raging heaven.¡± Thunder rumbled in the shadowed grove. ¡°How did youe to be the man you are today?¡± Try, and try again. Until the proper question was found. ¡°I was born. I¡¯ve lived. Soon enough, I¡¯ll die.¡± Another. Substance could be found even in the vagueries of Greek thinkers. As a young man, the raven had scoffed and turned his nose up at the barbarians epted into his father¡¯s legion when they had leveled that sentiment towards Rome. These days, he empathized with them just a bit. To a Gaul, a Roman¡¯s diction might have seemed nearly as frivolous as a Greek¡¯s was to a Roman. That did not mean they had nothing to say that was worth hearing, though. ¡°You inherited your strength?¡± ¡°What strength?¡± the man asked, amused. ¡°What have I done that seems strong to you? Offered you a drink and called you greedy?¡± The raven considered the words carefully before he spoke them. ¡°The further a man advances, the more he bes.¡± ¡°More of what?¡± ¡°Himself. Everything. He bes greater and more terrible, in a way that can be felt by the world around him. By the Greek standard, a Civic cultivator could stand out in a crowd of a hundred crude souls. A Sophic cultivator could bend the minds of a hundred Citizens. A Heroic cultivator could blind a hundred Philosophers. And a Tyrant could take a hundred Heroes into their hand.¡± ¡°And? Whates next?¡± the man behind pressed him, expectant in the way a parent was expectant of their adolescent child. Amused, knowing they wouldn¡¯t get a proper answer, but willing to be pleasantly surprised. ¡°Who stands above a hundred Tyrants?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± the raven named Solus murmured. ¡°You haven¡¯t told me your name yet.¡± The manughed delightedly. The heat on the raven¡¯s back grew hotter. ¡°You¡¯re making an outrageous assumption, greedy raven. Can you justify it?¡± ¡°To a Citizen, a Philosopher is a profound existence,¡± the raven exined himself, cognizant of the unspoken threat and the fact that his fellow scavenger still hadn¡¯t moved or contributed a word to the conversation. ¡°To a Philosopher, a Hero¡¯s presence is an overwhelming glory. To a Hero, a Tyrant¡¯s focus is an unspeakably heavy burden. The gap between a single realm is substantial enough. If the contrast is greater than that?¡± The divide between an unrefined Greek and a newly ascended Philosopher was stark enough for a crude fisherman to offer the bounty of his full day¡¯s work in exchange for a pithy word of advice from a Sophic cultivator. I had experienced for myself the overwhelming pressure of a Tyrant¡¯s unrestrained focus when Damon Aetos had rendered judgment on me the day I arrived in his city. Even shackled and chained, deaf and blind to pneuma, I had felt that weight as a physical thing. ¡°I am a Philosopher of the first rank,¡± the raven continued. ¡°I have weathered the ire of barbarian kings and cruel kyrioi, met their disdainful res with my own and shrugged their notice off my shoulders. But I can¡¯t bring myself to look back while you¡¯re sitting there behind me. Being this close to you burns.¡± Whatever it was that sat behind the raven from Rome, it wasn¡¯t a Tyrant. ¡°True statements,¡± the man admitted, ¡°But not one of them is proof. If you¡¯re going to make that sort of assumption, you need to prove it. You still haven¡¯t done it.¡± He still wasn¡¯t asking the right question. The raven closed his eyes. ¡°What is the first virtue?¡± The man hummed. In amusement, he answered. ¡°Fortitude.¡± Searing light washed away the shadows of the forest grove, golden rays piercing through the raven¡¯s veil like spearheads and prying into the seams of his eyelids. The raven¡¯s midnight mantle went up in mes, the smell of his own burning hair filling his nostrils. He couldn¡¯t breathe, so he held his breath and throttled the instinctive urge to choke and gag. The raven from Rome burned. He forced himself to bear it. Forced himself to ask the proper question. ¡°And what,¡± he rasped, ¡°is fortitude?¡± ¡°Courage, always. Courage then, courage now, and courage every day thereafter.¡± With every word, the heat burned more unbearably and the light grew ever brighter. The man didn¡¯t raise his voice because he didn¡¯t have to. Baring the virtue of his soul was enough. Pulling back the veil was already more than the raven¡¯s mortal frame could take. ¡°When all the stars have fallen from the sky, when every father has been buried by their daughter and every son has returned to their mother, fortitude is the virtue of that which remains. Fortitude is that which endures, even when the world is bleak and cold. ¡°I am that which endures,¡± he rified, and the raven hunched in on himself as the fire rose again. He wrapped his burning cloak around himself and tucked his face into his crossed arms. It wasn¡¯t enough to escape the heat. ¡°I am courage in the face of future tragedy. I am the timeless acknowledgement of life¡¯s cruelty and the enjoyment of it in spite. I am fortitude. I am a promise.¡± ¡°A promise of what?¡± The raven couldn¡¯t hear his own voice over the roaring of his own blood in his ears. Fortunately, the man behind him could. ¡°That no matter how many times I fall, I will rise again tomorrow.¡± The sensation of flesh burning and blood boiling in its veins flickered and vanished like a snuffed candle. The raven tensed as the man behindid a bracing hand on his back. Cool serenity flooded his body from that point of contact, scorched flesh and half-cooked organs mending themselves as quickly as they¡¯d been harmed. The taste of burnt blood faded from his tongue. The stench of his own burning body cleared out of his nostrils. Even still, the raven did not rx until the hand withdrew. ¡°Some things can¡¯t be inherited,¡± the man informed him, not unkindly. ¡°Some things can only be taken.¡± ¡°How?¡± the raven asked, though he knew it was the wrong question. He shook his head, frustrated with himself more than any Greek. Beside him, the raven known as Griffon continued to stare sightlessly ahead. His lips were moving, murmuring in a low voice, but the raven couldn¡¯t hear the words. He was uninjured and unphased. Was it proof that the raven from Rome was the one that had received the ivory cup of lies? Maybe. Was it a quirk of nature, a scarlet son¡¯s immunity to grasping hands of me? How was he to tell? He had no idea. He had nothing at all. Only his intuition, and a lyre made of ivory lies. The raven set his golden cup of wine and his cup of ivory or horn on the ground and pulled the instrument from his shadow. He strummed its strings in search of the proper question. The man behind him listened patiently, asionally humming along as he yed. Only when thest chord had been plucked and the music had faded from the grove did he speak. ¡°You think too much.¡± The raven blinked. Of all the reproaches he hade to expect from the sons and daughters of Greece, that one was unique among them. ¡°I¡­ do?¡± ¡°Every age that passes, man understands a bit more of the world, and shackles himself a bit tighter to that understanding. In my time, what you call cultivation, or refinement of the soul, we called living. You¡¯ve tied yourself into a knot, worrying about citizens and philosophers, heroes and tyrants. You are a man before you are any of those things. Live your life, brother. That¡¯s all any of us have to do.¡± ¡°It isn¡¯t enough¡± the raven from Rome immediately denied. ¡°I have to advance. I need to ascend. The world isn¡¯t what it was in your time - what you have, I could never achieve simply by surviving.¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t tell you to survive. I told you to live.¡± The raven grit his teeth and clenched his ivory lyre so tightly that it began to crack. ¡°What is the difference?¡± ¡°The journey.¡± The man behind withdrew for a brief moment, the sound of rummaging cloth and the sensation of receding heat the only signs that the raven could bring himself to perceive. When he spoke again, it was with the Gadfly¡¯s exasperated patience. Aristotle¡¯s merciless honesty. Gaius¡¯ grave expectation. His father¡¯s concern. ¡°Seek fulfillment in all things, and you¡¯ll never have to worry whether your cup was carved from ivory or from horn. Decide what it is that defines you, and master them - refine them, and in so doing you will refine yourself. Climb this divinedder that your ancestors built if you feel you must, but know that it is not necessary to achieve what you desire. A man doesn¡¯t need to be strong to live well.¡± ¡°Carthage must be destroyed,¡± the raven from Rome asserted with his soul, with weight behind every word. ¡°Until I¡¯ve done unto them what they did unto me, I won¡¯t be able to live. Not until I¡¯ve burnt their legions to ash and salted what remains.¡± The man behind him sighed. ¡°Do you know why it is that we call a gathering of ravens an unkindness?¡± ¡°No.¡± ¡°Because each of you is a grim messenger. You bring about grief and misfortune, always. Whether it¡¯s news of infidelity, the death of family or the loss of a friend, a raven carries only sorrow in its cruel talons.¡± ¡°The truth is often cruel.¡± ¡°It is,¡± the faceless man agreed. ¡°And cruelty can be necessary. But in its proper ce, and at its proper time. One tragedy is enough tost a man months, years, even a lifetime. A raven on the roof is a reality that no man can avoid forever. We all suffer our own sorrows. ¡°However.¡± For the first time in their brief conversation, the man behind the raven spoke in wrath. ¡°Anything more beyond that is senseless inhumanity. Carthage wronged you, so you¡¯ll burn them to the ground. Fine. That¡¯s a tragedy, but perhaps a necessary one in the end. But that isn¡¯t where you¡¯ll stop. That isn¡¯t all you¡¯ll do, is it?¡± The raven from Rome lifted his chin. He lifted his lip and bared his teeth behind his burnt and twice-ckened veil, though he knew the man behind him couldn¡¯t see it. ¡°It isn¡¯t. I¡¯ll salt the city that begot them, too, just as they salted mine. I¡¯ll wipe them from this earth and all of its histories.¡± ¡°Why?¡± the man asked, though he already knew. ¡°So nothing can ever grow there again.¡± The same tanned arm as before reached out, into his peripheral vision, and ced a second golden cup of wine next to the first. ¡°An eye for an eye.¡± He sounded disappointed. ¡°No.¡± Tragedy for tragedy wasn¡¯t enough. An eye for an eye was too little. Vengeance for himself was only a fraction of what was owed. The raven¡¯s name was Solus. He was all that remained. ¡°I am Roman, and I am Greek,¡± he said, the realization stirring his soul. His pneuma rose. ¡°My story is not mine alone. I am a man, and I am three thousand men as well. I am one, and I am legion.¡± Alone, a grim messenger. But together? ¡°I am a raven. And I am an unkindness.¡± Driven by the weight of an ideal, a principle discovered and internalized, the raven advanced. The raven known to some as Lio Aetos and to others as Griffon blinked and abruptly turned away from the delusions of his dream as his brother¡¯s pneuma surged. Doubling and redoubling again. Advancing from the first stage of the Sophic Realm to the second, to join him on the twelfth step. His heart lightened. Joy banished the false Heroes from the corners of his eyes. He turned to regard his brother. ¡°Worthless Roman, it took you long enough-¡± His breath caught in his throat. Chapter 1.92 [Selene] Chapter 1.92 [Selene] Selene It was a pitiful truth that a person¡¯s demons resided within as often as they did without. Selene had learned this truth early on, internalized it within herself and built the monument of her soul around it. Humanity was its own worst enemy. From the grandest scale of war between nations of thousands and millions, all the way down to the tragic conflict of a single tortured soul. She was only sixteen years old, a blink of an eye by the standards of people like her father, but already she had seen sights that would make any man sick to his stomach. She had suffered tribtion and unending despair, ck resentment that made the fine hairs on the back of her neck stand up whenever she recalled its oily touch. Even if only by proxy, she had felt these feelings. She had seen for herself how ugly a human heart could be. Burn down a man¡¯s home, take from him his friends and family, steal away all that he¡¯s ever loved. Do all of those things, do more, and it still wouldn¡¯t be enough to make him hate you as viciously as Selene had seen cultivators hate themselves. In her role as the Scarlet Oracle, she had offered counsel to Heroic cultivators that reviled themselves more than the Fates ever could. She had seen great men and women torn apart from the inside, ravaged from within as if they¡¯d caged a feral animal in their chest rather than a beating heart. She¡¯d seen Heroes that had stood on top of the world long before she was born scrape and grovel at her feet for some peace while blood poured out of their every orifice. She had cradled in her arms Heroines twice her size and many times stronger while they wept and choked on their own ck bile. Selene had done the best she could to ease their pain, but there was only so much an unanointed Oracle could do. She could take their troubles in and sleep on them, perhaps find an answer when the morning came, but by then it was often toote. By the time a troubled soul found its way to her, their pain was so dire that only an immediate solution could save them. Cultivators were stubborn in that way. They rarely sought salvation in another unless they were all but entirely submerged in the River Styx already. Her father had done his best tofort her, early on. He had promised her that whatever she could do for the people brought before her was more than enough - more than they deserved. He had rubbed soothing circles on her back and brushed the bitter tears from her eyes, and he had told her that some people were simply too far gone to save. No matter what you did, not even if you were perfect. Some people couldn¡¯t be protected, even by a shield of peerless adamant. Some people just wanted to die. ¡°It should be here,¡± the Hero of the Scything Squall muttered, voice muffled by his own hands. The breeze carried the words to her ear anyway. ¡°It should be here, and it isn¡¯t.¡± ¡°We don¡¯t know that,¡± Selene disagreed, crawling on hands and knees to peer under the rows of benches that sat empty in the Orphic House. ¡°Not yet. Not until we¡¯ve scoured every corner. There could be a cup or a barrel tucked away in any of these shadows.¡± Scythas dug his fingers into his scalp, hunching over further. His despair was palpable. At this point, he was hardly even trying to hide it. Since his confrontation with the Rosy Dawn¡¯s scarlet son, his heart had withdrawn like a turtle into its shell. Hiding away, jealously guarding any signs of the effect that Griffon¡¯s words had had on him. Now, those insecurities were bleeding out of the wounds he¡¯d tried so hard to keep staunched. Even if Selene hadn¡¯t been herself, she would have felt it in the air. Nothing under the bench but cobwebs and wood rot. Her silks and stolen rags scraped and caught on the jagged seams of roughly joined nks. She was covered in dust and surrounded by the stale odor of abandoned architecture, but she refused to give in to her fellow Heroic cultivator¡¯s despair. Not now. Not when there was finally hope - a light in the near distance. Within her reach atst. If the circumstances weren¡¯t what they were, she would have given Scythas¡¯ grief the attention it deserved. Solus had done his best to pull the man back to his feet, but some wounds never healed unless they were directly treated. She could have tried. But that was a risk she couldn¡¯t take now. She couldn¡¯t afford to get lost in another cultivator¡¯s heart anymore. Not while her mother¡¯s cure was on the line. ¡°I don¡¯t understand it.¡± Scythas shook his head, his pneuma rising and fell tempestuously. ¡°It doesn¡¯t make sense.¡± ¡°Why not?¡± she asked, dousing her annoyance. There were words and symbols carved into the benches and walls, even the pirs that held up the weight of the odeon¡¯s roof. None of them were relevant to their purpose here, though. Names, brief messages, insults andpliments and etched drawings of people and their horses and the ces that they had been. Mementos, carved by Thracian hands into the wooden wagons that had carried the weight of their entire lives for generations before the Conqueror came and tore them apart for building materials. ¡°I spoke it in his voice. His voice, and none other. Bakkhos told me that his voice alone would be enough to secure me a drink if I was ever in Thracia,¡± and here the Hero¡¯s voice changed. Shifting, to mimic thete kyrios of the Raging Heaven Cult as it had before, ¡°after all, it isn¡¯t as if they can see who¡¯s talking, eh?¡± It was more than a mimicry, in truth. When Selene closed her eyes and listened to him speak in that voice, it wasn¡¯t Scythas she saw in her mind¡¯s eye. It was the kyrios, grand as he¡¯d ever been, lounging with his cup in hand and that distant amusement in his eyes as he regarded her. When Scythas spoke with Bakkhos¡¯ voice, it wasn¡¯t his breath that formed the words. It was the breeze that did it. A perfect echo, carried by the wind at his request. It was an ability that Selene had never encountered before, one that had shocked her when he first revealed it their first night in Thracia, in that moonlit vineyard. A unique excellence, as the scarlet son had put it. ¡°Did he specify what kind of drink you¡¯d receive?¡± Selene asked him, running her hands along the bottom ridge of a wall-mounted viewing balconies before gripping it and pulling herself up to peer through its rails. Nothing but dust. Not even a scurrying insect. ¡°Socrates sent us here for wine, but that isn¡¯t necessarily what the kyrios meant, is it?¡± And in the end, two of their party had been given drinks. ¡°No.¡± ¡°No to which question?¡± ¡°No to both. He didn¡¯t specify, but he couldn¡¯t have meant anything else. I refuse to believe it. He wouldn¡¯t have sent me all this way just for milk and honey. He wasn¡¯t that cruel.¡± ¡°Are you sure?¡± Selene asked him quietly. The Hero didn¡¯t respond. Finally, when she had looked under every bench and peered through every rail, climbed along the rafters and checked every corner of the odeon, Selene allowed herself to admit that there was nothing to be found. There was only one ce she had yet to look, one ce she had yet to look inside, and it was resting center stage. Sacrilege was an ursed act no matter which corpse was being defiled. To tear away the ivy and crack open the tomb where a Heroy at rest¡­ that was hubris, even by her standards. She bit her lip. Still¡­ ¡°Solus,¡± she called, looking back up the stands. ¡°What should we-?¡± Selene gasped. Scythas pulled his hands away from his face, eyes going wide. They were gone. ¡°What?¡± Scythas breathed, rising to his feet. The hazel torch light of his eyes swept over the Orphic House, a breeze kicking up and throwing the dust coating every surface up into the air. Selene squinted through it, but still she couldn¡¯t find them. ¡°Where did they-?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡± She rushed up the benched stands, two tiers at a time, and stood in the ce that Solus had been standing. There was nothing. No trace of either of them. She turned back to Scythas, her heart beginning to hammer in her chest. He looked as stricken as she felt. ¡°You¡¯re certain you didn¡¯t see them go?¡± he pressed her. ¡°You didn¡¯t hear them?¡± she asked him in return. He shook his head, eyes darting to every corner of the singing house. ¡°Solus?¡± he tried, and when no answer was forting he grit his teeth and tried the other. ¡°Griffon?¡± Nothing. They couldn¡¯t have left the way they¡¯d entered, not through that heavy gate of ivory. Scythas would have heard them. Anyone would have heard them. Yet there was no sign of them here. Where could they have gone? What could they have done? Selene considered the shadows lurking on the edges of the light case by their hearts¡¯ mes. ¡°Maybe-¡° There came a sound from outside of the odeon, back the way they¡¯de. The dull sound of iron cutting through flesh, and the impact of something heavy hitting the snow that covered the earth. Two of the three horses they¡¯d given as payment screamed, Griffon¡¯s white mare in fear and Solus¡¯ ck charger in fury. She heard, distantly through the wooden ts, the sound of the Thracian man and woman grunting as the horses fought them. The dull sound of iron biting into flesh rang out again. Griffon cried out in agony. Selene¡¯s heart flew up into her throat and she lunged at the entrance. Scythas made it there before her, despite the fact that he¡¯d been twice as far away a moment ago. He wrenched at the ivory gates, snarling in frustration when they refused to budge. Locked. Through the scant barrier of the gate, she heard Solus shout a furious challenge. The sound of struggle and shattering wood followed. ¡°Solus!¡± Scythas yelled, panicked, and disdained the gates in favor of attacking the decrepit walls of wagon wood. Somehow, impossibly, those rotten nks rebuffed his fists and the shrieking gale winds he leveled against him both. ¡°Together!¡± Selene hissed, nting one foot against the wall beside the gates and pulling with all her might. Scythas mirrored her, veins bulging in his neck and the sinew of his arms as he heaved. She gave it everything she had, until her vision blurred white and it felt like her arms would tear away. Scythas screamed in tortured effort. The ivory gates cracked and groaned open. Scythas dove and Selene lunged underneath, both of them slipping through the gates as they immediately swung shut again. The sound of their closing was monstrous, like they weighed a thousand-thousand times more than they should have. But when theynded, it wasn¡¯t outside. It wasn¡¯t anywhere at all. Selene stared at sloping walls of shadowed brick, rising up all around her like the inside of a beehive. ¡°Where are we?¡± Scythas asked, crouching warily and casting around with every sense avable to him. ¡°Where are the others? The horses-?¡± She realized what they had done. In the center of the beehive tomb was another ivy-shrouded coffin. As the torch light of their hearts¡¯ mes fell upon it, the vibrant green leaves rustled and swayed. Behind them, the ivory gates loomed. Chapter 1.93 [Selene] Chapter 1.93 [Selene] Selene They panicked. The ivory gates had spat them out into an underground tomb, a beehive tholos with only the central coffin and its ivory shroud to fill the space. Scythas rounded on the gates and wrenched at them again as soon as he realized what he was looking at, and Selene turned to help him. The gates fought and groaned, but they got them open again. Hero and Heroine slipped back through the same way they¡¯de. Instead of stepping back into the empty Orphic House, though, they found themselves in another beehive tomb. ¡°What is this?¡± Scythas demanded. Not so much talking to her as he was the ivy-covered coffin in the center of the tomb. ¡°What do you want?¡± Something stirred in the shadows behind the coffin at the words spoken in the kyrios¡¯ voice. Selene inhaled sharply. A low buzzing noise rose up from the dark. Selene turned and drove her shoulder into the gates they¡¯d just crossed through, stoking her heart¡¯s me while it hammered away in rising panic. The gates groaned open. Scythas whistled a terse note and moved to confront the sound behind the shadows- Selene grabbed him by the faded green scarf around his neck and yanked him through the open gates. The Hero of the Hurricane Heights hit the ground and rolled, gagging. He held his neck, looking up at her incredulously. ¡°Why?¡± Another underground tomb. Selene cast around, peering through the shadows with every one of her mortal and refined senses. ¡°How much did you know of the kyrios and his interests?¡± she asked him, creeping warily into the tomb. She pulled her spear of holly and bronze from the folds in her sunray silks, its carved prophecies catching the light of her eyes and shifting in quasi shadow motion. Scythas coughed and cleared his throat, pushing himself up with a hand. ¡°More than I wanted to. Less than I could have.¡± That sounded about right. Exasperation joined unease in her heart. ¡°Did you know that he cultivated his own honey?¡± she asked. The pretty Hero blinked. ¡°He was a beekeeper?¡± ¡°The first of them,¡± she confirmed. ¡°Or first among them. He was always so drunk when he spoke of it, it was hard to tell exactly what he meant. But yes, he kept his own hives. Dozens of them, wherever he could find a dark and damp enough space to fit one. Do you know why?¡± ¡°I¡¯m guessing it wasn¡¯t for the honey,¡± Scythas muttered, rising to his feet and pulling his sword from its sheathe. He held it firmly, in a proper grip, but somehow the image of it in his hand was wrong. The Hero eased away from the ivy-covered coffin she had nearly tossed him straight into, joining her in casting around for movement in the dark. ¡°It was for the honey.¡± She smiled briefly at his confused nce. ¡°It¡¯s just that along with the honey came other¡­ marvels.¡± The kyrios had called them blessings. When her father had spoken of the kyrios¡¯ buzzing hives to her, he hadbeled them curses. It was no coincidence that the cracks and crevices that riddled the darkened caverns of the earth were so often filled bybs of gold and the buzzing drone of nature¡¯s honey makers. In the same caves and dark ces that served as gateways to whaty beneath, it was not umon to find bees and their hives. The kyrios had exined to her once, intoxicated as he tended to be, that each bee was the soul of a son or a daughter that was yet to be born. He had exined to her their chthonic nature, and the ce they upied within his domain. Pacing around the room, Selene idly rubbed her thumb against a faint pinprick of a scar on the tip of her index finger. ¡°Once, when I was too young to climb onto my scarlet tripod without someone else first lifting me up, the kyrios showed me one of the hives he kept in his estate.¡± She strained for any distant sound, any flicker of beating wings and little bobbing bodies in the shadows, but found none. The hand that had her heart in a vice slowly began to loosen its grip. ¡°It was in a corner of a room deep within his quarters, bereft of anything else. Cold and damp.¡± Above, at the highest point of the faux-vaulting ceiling of the beehive tomb, she heard a faint buzz. Rearing back her spear, she heaved it with everything she had straight up. The moment before it left her hand, the scarlet glow of her eyes rushed up the length of the spear¡¯s shaft and filled every carved groove in the wood. The glowing prophecies lit up the tomb as the spear shot straight up- And vanished. Gone, to somewhere else. In the brief moment before the spear disappeared from her senses, they saw theing swarm. ¡°Out!¡± she shouted, and they each leapt for the ivory gates. ¡°A pair of mad men are having an argument-¡° ¡°Exchanging discourse, you mean?¡± ¡°If you¡¯d like to call it that. Each of them believes they are the greater king and that the other is their lesser. One of them is ruler of a grand marble city, and the othermands the shadows that lurk in every corner that the light won¡¯t touch. Tell me, girl - which of their domains is greater, and which of them is lesser?¡± ¡°The first one is greater. He¡¯s king of an entire city and the other one is only king of shadows - that¡¯s the same as being king of nothing at all.¡± ¡°Incorrect.¡± ¡°What!¡± ¡°The first man is king of only one humble city. Within its borders he reigns supreme, but only within its borders. The second man is king of every shadow, in every kingdom and beyond them, too. The domain that can be marked on a map is ever less. The domain that exists in every corner, no matter how small a part, is always more.¡± ¡°But they¡¯re only shadows!¡± ¡°Shadows, and whatever those shadows contain. The king of a marble city is king of all that resides within his domain. The king of shadows is just the same. All that persists in the shade is his tomand - like these bees here.¡± ¡°Even the bees?¡± ¡°Even the bees. Here - beckon with a finger, and see if onees.¡± ¡°As if a bee would listen.¡± ¡°Is that so? Well, look what happens when I beckon one.¡± ¡°Wha-!¡± ¡°I called him, and so he came. Have you ever seen a honeybee rest like this on the finger of a man?¡± ¡°¡­ maybe.¡± ¡°Ho? Cheeky girl. In that case, have you ever seen one dance?¡± ¡°!¡± ¡°From thumb to pinky, then index and ring. To the middle he returns, the center of his fingerling stage. Go on, p for him. He put on quite a show - just listen to him buzz.¡± ¡°How do you know it¡¯s a boy?¡± ¡°I¡¯m looking at his soul. He¡¯ll be a handsome thing when he¡¯s born again, someday.¡± ¡°Born again? As a person?¡± ¡°Of course. That¡¯s what every bee is, after all. An unborn soul. It¡¯s why they buzz around in my shadows, straddling the line between life and death.¡± ¡°So that bee will be a baby someday?¡± ¡°He would have been, yes.¡± ¡°AH! You- what are you doing!? Why are you squishing him!?¡± ¡°Because I can. See how he doesn¡¯t sting me, even now? Do you know why that is?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t care, just let him go- ow!¡± ¡°Ah. You killed him.¡± ¡°¡­ why?¡± ¡°Why what?¡± ¡°Why did he sting me?¡± ¡°Because he was fearful and in pain, and I wouldn¡¯t allow him to sting me.¡± ¡°B-but¡­¡± ¡°None of that. It¡¯s only a bee sting. Nothing worth crying over.¡± ¡°What¡¯s going to happen to his soul?¡± ¡°The same thing that¡¯s going to happen to yours.¡± ¡°What does that mean?¡± ¡°It means it¡¯s time for you to fetch me another drink. Quickly now. I won¡¯t be here forever.¡± ¡°The shadows aren¡¯t safe,¡± Selene whispered harshly, balling up her fists and punching the sloping walls of yet another beehive tomb as hard as she could. She had seen what a punch was supposed to look like, in the boxing events at the Olympic Games and in the memories of those that came to her for guidance. She knew her form wasn¡¯t what it could have been. Still, even her sloppy punches should have been enough to shatter these glossy brick walls. It shouldn¡¯t have felt like she was still a girl too young to sleep alone at night, unrefined andcking strength. It shouldn¡¯t have felt like her hands would break long before the tholos¡¯ smooth masonry, and yet it did. After a few more jabs she gave it up and wedged her fingers into the thin gaps between the finely cut bricks, trying to pry them out one at a time. All she got for her troubles were broken nails and bleeding fingers. ¡°It¡¯s all shadows,¡± Scythas whispered, just as harshly, abruptly by her side and pulling her hands away from the bricks. His eyes were wide, the white lit up by golden coals. ¡°It¡¯s all shadows, Selene.¡° It was the first time he¡¯d called her by her name. ¡°Why isn¡¯t it safe? Where are we?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t know-?¡± His head suddenly cocked, hearing it a moment before she did. The bees. Scythas growled in frustration and rushed after her, back to the gates. They fled. From tomb to tomb, beehive to beehive, each one just different enough to be distinguished from the one that came before it and the one that followed after. One of them was covered wall-to-wall with stone-carved women in bombastic curling skirts, each of their arms raised entreatingly up to heaven - or whatever it was thaty above the subterranean tomb. Piles of golden buttons spilled over and out of the pots and chests settled around the room to contain them. Another had painted walls, a grand fresco overlooking the tomb¡¯s ivy-covered coffin. The painting showed a depiction of a wild boar, two faceless men attacking the beast from either side. One of them hunted on horseback with spear in hand. The other was naked, and rearing a double-sided axe up over his head to swing. They fled through tombs filled with gilded breasttes and the bones of horses, beds of granite and the remains of stone-ring fire pits. They passed frescos of every color and subject depiction, nts and animals and men and women. They tripped and stumbled over full sets of ornate silver horse armor. They passed through a tomb supported by a single marble column of the Doric design, with a stone sun disc casting shadows instead of light from the top of it. They fled. And they were followed. Time seemed to pass, but there was no way to really tell. When Selene finally copsed with her back against the ivy shroud of yet another coffin, she couldn¡¯t tell if it was the panic or the fatigue that had made her limbs feel heavier than lead and filled her head with fog. Scythas copsed next to her, sweat-slicked and panting harshly. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the ivy, inhaling slowly. The wind whistled as he breathed it in, and in a single breath the frantic rise and fall of his chest slowed. When the Hero opened his eyes they were not any less panicked than they had been before, but he had caught his breath if nothing else. A quirk of his city, she supposed. ¡°We can¡¯t run forever,¡± he told her. As if she didn¡¯t know. She saw a flicker in the dark, and forced herself to move. Scythas tried to fight them. To his credit, he put on quite a show. But in the end, he was only swinging blindly in the dark. ¡°So what if they catch us?¡± he asked her, panting again. It took him longer to realize it this time, and when he did he spat a curse before invoking the wind to replenish him. ¡°So what if we get stung a few times? They¡¯re only bees.¡± Some timeter, a dozen tombs and as many minutes- or perhaps hours - after he¡¯d asked the question, a stray honey maker stung him while he was swinging madly at the shadows. Selene didn¡¯t see it happen. She only heard him grunt in surprise and saw him stumble back with a baffled expression. Whatever his eyes were looking at in that moment, it wasn¡¯t the tomb that they were in. The back of his legs hit the ivy-covered coffin and he tumbled over it onto the dirt floor. Selene slung his arm over her shoulder and dragged him through the ivory gates. ¡°It¡¯s still hurting, hm?¡± ¡°Just a little.¡± ¡°That¡¯s not what your father said. To hear him tell it, you could lose that finger any day now.¡± ¡°¨¢tta worries too much.¡± ¡°Or perhaps not enough. He sent you back to me, after all.¡± ¡°Only because you won¡¯t let him take me away.¡± ¡°Smart girl. Come, show me the finger.¡± ¡°It doesn¡¯t hurt.¡± ¡°I thought it hurt a little?¡± ¡°Hmph.¡± ¡°What a ghastly sight. And the finger looks bad, too.¡± ¡°Hmph!¡± ¡°It¡¯s good that he sent you back. This wouldn¡¯t have healed on its own.¡± ¡°Really?¡± ¡°Really.¡± ¡°But it was only a bee sting.¡± ¡°Even a bee has its venom. And the bee that did this was one of mine, you know. I cultivated his hive myself, with my own two hands. Everything about his hive was greater than it would have been without my hand to guide its growth. Its honey was sweeter and more fragrant than any other, and its queen was fertile enough to fill a dozen more hives with all of her children. In the same way, the hive¡¯s warriors were greater than any you could find in the wild. Their stingers were sharper, and their venom twice and twice again more fearsome.¡± ¡°Could I have¡­ died?¡± ¡°With that father of yours watching over you? I doubt it. But you certainly would have suffered if you¡¯d let it fester much longer. My bees have venom that can addle the mind. Generally it takes a greater dose, or a longer span of time, but you¡¯re small enough that I had wondered if you¡¯d feel its effects. Fortunate for you that you didn¡¯t.¡± ¡°¡­¡± ¡°Oh? Am I wrong?¡± ¡°¡­ Last night¡­ I had a strange dream.¡± ¡°What sort of dream?¡± ¡°It was silly. It didn¡¯t make any sense, and it was so loud-¡° ¡°My girl, those are my favorite kinds of dreams. Tell me all about it.¡± ¡°Selene,¡± the Hero Scythas slurred, his eyes ssy and distant. She pressed the back of her hand against his forehead. It was hot enough to scald a mortal¡¯s skin. ¡°Slne¡­¡± ¡°Yes?¡± she murmured, pulling what she could from the folds in her silks. A y jug of water and a cloth, a tied bundle of cloth containing goat cheese and grapes. ¡°Don¡¯t feel well,¡± he murmured. His eyes rolled in his head. She reached out to dab with the damp cloth at his forehead, and he abruptly flinched. Lashed out, knocking the jug of water to the floor and shattering it. ¡°Don¡¯t touch me!¡± He snarled like an animal, looking through her like she wasn¡¯t there. Like there was someone else behind her. When she looked back, all she saw was the bees. ¡°It¡¯s time to go,¡± Selene said urgently, tossing the rag down on top of the y shards. ¡°Up! Up!¡± ¡°No,¡± he hissed. There were dozens of welts on the skin of his arms and legs now, dozens of bee stings that Selene hadn¡¯t been fast enough to pull him away from. We can¡¯t run forever. Selene grabbed him by the shoulders and dragged him to his feet. The mes behind his ssy eyes red, and his lips twisted hatefully. The Hero of the Scything Squall whistled a sharp note, and Selene gasped as a hurricane hand mmed into her gut and lifted her clear off her feet. She hit the far side of the tomb, cracked the back of her head against its bricks, and tumbled bonelessly to the ground. Darkness crept in from every side of her vision, pulling her into bleak unconsciousness- No. Her heart mes roared, and Selene nted a hand beneath her. Forced herself to rise. Scythas red at her warily from across the tomb. There and somewhere else at the same time. Her gaze slid past him, to the gates behind. Her heart sank. She could hardly see the ivory. The bees had covered every inch of it. The sound of buzzing grew louder and louder as more of the insects flooded into the subterranean tomb, coating the walls thicker than any paint. The temperature rose along with the noise. The vibration of their buzzing wings shook the ground beneath her, discing dust from the walls and making the vibrant ivy shroud rustle and sway over the coffin. The coffin. Selene forced herself to rise, even as the infernal buzzing and the rising heat made her vision blur at the edges. She buried her hands into the ivy and tore it away by the fistful, heedless of the burning rash that dug into her skin wherever the poison leaves brushed. The coffin underneath it was the grandest thing in the entire tomb, nearly as green as the ivy that had clung to it and studded with a hundred gem stones. Lapis Lacedaemonius. Selene heaved the sacred coffin¡¯s lid aside and dashed it against the ground, where it cracked and split apart with a thundering boom. Scythas whistled another violent note when she approached him. This time, she was prepared for it. She braced her feet and narrowed her eyes against the wind, pushing through it oneborious step at a time and seizing the delirious Hero by his hair. ¡°Stop it! Stop! Don¡¯t touch me!¡± Selene reared back and mmed her forehead against his as hard as she could. Then she dragged his limp body by the hair across the tomb, back to the defiled coffin in its center. Yawning open, bereft of a corpse. Bereft of anything at all. Looking down into what could only be described as a gaping abyss, a tunnel into the earth where there should have been a corpse, Selene felt a faint and reasonable unease. Unfortunately, the deafening buzz of thousands of bees and the heat of their vibrating bodies drowned out all rational alternatives from her mind. Ah well. ¡°In you go,¡± she said, and tossed the Hero down into the abyss. He vanished from sight in an instant. She waited a breath, then two, then three. When she didn¡¯t hear him hit the ground after ten breaths, she groaned softly. This would hurt. Vaulting the lip of the coffin and hurtling down into the abyssal chasm within, Selene heard the sound of the bees shift and change its pitch. Rhythmic, and bright. Like they wereughing. A guttural crack split the silence of the sunset domain in the Raging Heaven Cult. The Tyrant Polyzalus, reclining on a feather-down bed and breathing rhythmically with hisatose wife tucked against his side, returned to full alertness in an instant. He sat up abruptly, staring in disbelief at the far corner of the room. Another crack wrenched away the sunset silence. And then, all at once, the marble statue of the Heroine Selene broke apart and tumbled to the floor in pieces. Chapter 1.94 [Selene] Chapter 1.94 [Selene] Selene Cultivators had a reputation for fearlessness. In many ways, it was well-earned. In the course of their journey, a cultivator¡¯s refinement steadily uplifted them body and soul in a way that put mostmon worries beneath them. An unrefined mortal feared the bite of a knife because they knew their body was a fragile thing and prone to failure. A cultivator in the Civic Realm could hone their body and suffer the damage gracefully, survive long enough to seek a physician or even close the wound themselves if they had the proper control. A Sophic cultivator worth their rank could survive almost any mundane gouge, assuming the knife could pierce their skin at all. Beyond the mortal realms of cultivation, where men and women transcended the limitations of their feeble humanity - if only in the smallest of parts - mundane wounds were so far beneath their notice that many forgot they had ever been a cause for concern in the first ce. Why should a Hero fear a stabbing in a back alley, when their body had already weathered the blows of monsters and virtuous beasts and their own fellow legends without faltering? How could a Tyrant fear the stopping of their heart, when they had already given it up for their coronation? It was all too easy to forget that even the greatest of them had been fragile flesh and blood at one point or another in their lives. As a man became further refined, it became more and more difficult for him to empathize with the concerns of the crude mennguishing at the foot of the divine mountain. As a womanid the foundations and raised the pirs of her ego within her soul, the subjugations that unrefined women crept through night time streets in fear of seemed as distant to her as the clouds in heaven above. They simply didn¡¯t understand. The scope was too small. Of course, the opposite also tended to be true. ¡°The daughter of the First Son to Burn is afraid of the dark. The daughter of the oracle whose majesty illuminates the furthest corners of whatever room she steps into fears a world without light. The Fates do love their little ironies, don¡¯t they?¡± ¡°You promised you wouldn¡¯tugh.¡± ¡°And look. I¡¯m notughing, am I? Now, if I¡¯d been there to see your father spit blood when he first discovered this little affliction-¡° ¡°It isn¡¯t little! And ¨¢tta doesn¡¯t know.¡± ¡°Ho? He really will choke on his own biles if he finds out you came to me first, you know.¡± ¡°You can¡¯t tell him.¡± ¡°I can do whatever I want, girl.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t tell him! Please!¡± ¡°Fine, fine. Your heart will be the one to bear the secret¡¯s weight. Now why did youe to me with this?¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t¡­ I didn¡¯t used tobe afraid of the dark.¡± ¡°Is that so? And when did it start?¡± ¡°After your bee stung me. When I started having those dreams.¡± ¡°Go on.¡± ¡°You said treating it with honey would make it go away-¡° ¡°And it did. All that remains of that putrid wound is a scar the size of a stinger¡¯s tip.¡± ¡°But the dreams didn¡¯t stop! They only got worse.¡± ¡°Worse?¡± ¡°They didn¡¯t make sense before, b-but after the honey¡­ they¡¯re scary now.¡± ¡°Go on.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t want to. I don¡¯t like it.¡± ¡°Describe them.¡± ¡°No!¡± ¡°Why?¡± ¡°Because I hate them! They¡¯re scary, and they hurt! I don¡¯t want to talk about them, and I don¡¯t want to think about them - I don¡¯t want to go to sleep and I don¡¯t want to close my eyes! I-I¡¯m even scared to blink! Like I¡¯m just some little girl-¡± ¡°You are a little girl.¡± ¡°No I¡¯m not! I¡¯m a cultivator. I¡¯m refined. I shouldn¡¯t have to talk about these things. I shouldn¡¯t be afraid of anything at all.¡± ¡°Cultivators can¡¯t be afraid? Is that what you think?¡± ¡°¨¢tta isn¡¯t afraid of anything.¡± ¡°I can assure you that isn¡¯t true. Everyone fears something in the end - even your father.¡± ¡°Even you?¡± ¡°Even me.¡± ¡°What are you afraid of?¡± ¡°An empty cup. Quickly, girl, deliver me from my fear. When you get back, we¡¯ll see about delivering you from yours.¡± Fallen into a world of unbroken shadows, Selene couldn¡¯t see the Hero of the Scything Squall. But she could hear him. It was less helpful than it might have been. ¡°Get away,¡± he hissed, and though the sound of it came from her direct right, Selene only grasped empty air when her arm whipped out to grab him. ¡°Scythas,¡± she hissed right back, knowing that even if she was facing the opposite way he would hear her. ¡°You aren¡¯t well. Let me help you.¡± ¡°Fuck you.¡± She had been foolish to toss him down into the coffin¡¯s dark chasm. The impact at the end of their fall hadn¡¯t been enough to meaningfully harm cultivators of their standing, but it had been enough to wake the delirious Hero from the daze her headbutt had put him under. In the bare second that had separated their descent, he¡¯d escaped from her reach and evaded her ever since. Her heart¡¯s me couldn¡¯t pierce these shadows. And now the wind was against her, too. She was blind. Worse, she couldn¡¯t trust her ears. Until this was over, her other senses would have to do. Before they could help Solus and Griffon, they needed to escape. Before they could escape, she had to return the Hero to his senses. She needed honey. Selene navigated the dark caverns beneath the earth with the only senses she could trust. She cast off her sandals so that her bare feet could grip the cool, slick rocks beneath them and feel their minute shifting as she walked. She inhaled deeply with each breath, through her mouth as well as her nose, tasting and scenting for anything beyond the damp smell of subterranean stone. Her refined senses were all but worthless to her, unfortunately. Her civic sense for pneuma was curiously numb, her sophic sense finding no trace of another¡¯s influence no matter how far she cast it out. As for her heroic sense. Well. ¡°Don¡¯t look at me,¡± the Hero snapped, shielding his cracked and bleeding heart from her with howling gales of wind. Selene tucked her chin and hunched her shoulders, gripping the slick stone with her toes as best she could while the breeze buffeted her from alternating angles. It sought to knock her off her feet. She wouldn¡¯t let it. ¡°Your heart is not your own, cultivator,¡± she warned him for the second time since she had known him. She couldn¡¯t hear herself speak, but she knew he would. She grit her teeth and pressed forward. Another blind step. Another deep breath. ¡°It¡¯s yours now, is that it?¡± Scythas spat, his voice echoing from all around her. ¡°I refuse. You can¡¯t have it. You can¡¯t have me.¡± Selene heard the screams of vited souls on the wind. She heard the whistle of des cutting through the air, and the grotesque noise of their impact in frail human flesh. She heard the snarls of beasts and the sound of limbs being torn from their sockets. She heard anguish in the repetition of heavy breath and the rhythm of flesh impacting flesh. She heard the end of all things in the howling of the wind. Selene didn¡¯t fear the dark. Not anymore. But she still despised it. ¡°The dark is a silly thing to fear.¡± ¡°Not as silly as an empty cup.¡± ¡°Ah, but you don¡¯t know why I fear an empty cup. I, on the other hand, know exactly why you fear the dark. That¡¯s why I find it silly. And that¡¯s how you ovee your fear.¡± ¡°?¡± ¡°By understanding it. You say your dreams don¡¯t make any sense, and their contents frighten you - so understand them.¡± ¡°How?¡± ¡°How should I know?¡± ¡°You¡¯re useless!¡± ¡°So I¡¯m told. If understanding is impossible for the moment, there are other ways to ovee your fears.¡± ¡°Like what?¡± ¡°You could learn to live with them. ept that your heart will race whenever you close your eyes, resign yourself every night to the fact that your dreams will be mad and frightening things. Know that cold sweat will wet your skin whenever you step into a darkened room. Brave it. Live your life regardless.¡± ¡°¡­ I don¡¯t like that way.¡± ¡°Well, I suppose there is another.¡± ¡°¡­ What is it?¡± ¡°You can take your fear in hand. You can consume it.¡± You can make it yours. Selene tripped over a shaft of warm wood. She inhaled sharply, and the sweet scent of honey filled her nose. Its sweet tang coated her tongue. The daughter of the Scarlet Oracle picked up her spear and pulled from its tip the beehive that she had skewered when she¡¯d thrown it. ¡°I¡¯m going to mend you now, cultivator,¡± she exined in a calm voice. Howling wind mingled with the echoing death throes of the fallen sun god in her ears. She closed her eyes and every one of her other senses, gripping her spear tight. The pantheon was dead and gone. That was in to see in every faceless statue and stricken holy text. Only epitaphs remained in ce of names. Only echoes could be heard these days, even by an oracle. But an echo of divinity was still itself divine. As a woman both healthy and whole, Selene had five senses with which she could perceive the world. Sight, sound, smell, taste, and touch. They were all useless here. As a cultivator in the third realm, the Heroic Realm, she had three additional senses that she could use, each of them more refined than thest. They were useless as well. As an Oracle, if only by blood, she had one more beyond that. An echo of a dead god¡¯s perception. Another eye that stayed closed at all times. Unless, of course, she gave it a reason to open. Selene bit into the beehive and swallowed down its chthonic honey. Her oracle¡¯s eye cracked open a sliver. She spun on her heel and lunged, spearing Scythas through the heart. ¡°Bakkhos.¡± ¡°That¡¯s my name.¡± ¡°I have a question.¡± ¡°You usually do.¡± ¡°I lost another one today. A man twice my age and three times my size. He clung to my legs like I was his mother and begged me for an answer to his troubles while his insides tore themselves apart. He wanted me to cure him. He died.¡± ¡°Tragic.¡± ¡°Father told me it wasn¡¯t my fault. It¡¯s what he always tells me. ¡®An oracle is only a messenger, Selene. It¡¯s no fault of yours that some people need a mending far more than they need a message.¡¯¡± ¡°I have yet to hear a question asked.¡± ¡°Years ago, you told me that I could take my fear in hand. You taught me that I could make it my own.¡± ¡°I did.¡± ¡°What about someone else¡¯s fear? Their grief and their sorrows? Can I take those, too?¡± ¡°I¡¯ve never seen it done.¡± ¡°So it¡¯s impossible.¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t say that.¡± The gates of horn groaned and creaked open, and they tumbled out into the frigid Thracian night. Scythas sank into the snow, staring up at the full moon above. His arms and neck were marred by angry red welts, each of them thered in honey that shimmered gold in the pale moonlight. He had a satisfied smile on his face. It had been his abilities that guided them out in the end. He¡¯d traced the familiar Thracian winds through the darkened underworld, all the way to their source - seeping through the cracks in the horn gates. His eyes were clear, the mes within them burning brighter than they had at any point thus far in their Thracian venture. Those eyes flickered to her, wonder and appreciating brightening them further. ¡°What did you do to me?¡± Selene raised an eyebrow. The Hero chuckled, pressing a palm to his forehead and shaking his head once. ¡°Right. What did you do for me?¡± ¡°I applied honey to your bee stings.¡± Apitherapy. Thete kyrios¡¯ favorite form of medicine, and the same method he¡¯d used to treat her own bee sting so many years ago. ¡°That can¡¯t be all,¡± Scythas said, clenching and unclenching his free hand into a fist and lifting his hips to kick idly at the night sky. ¡°I don¡¯t just feel like I did before. I feel better. I haven¡¯t felt this good in my entire life. I feel like-¡± ¡°Like yourself.¡± He snapped his fingers and smiled. ¡°Exactly.¡± Selene watched him sadly as he marveled at something that should have been a simple reality for him. ¡°I feel light as a feather,¡± he continued, twisting his body to and fro and whistling a little note that caught the falling snowkes in the air and twisted them around in a dozen different strands of wind currents. ¡°I feel good. Strong, and healthy.¡± Like a hero. ¡°The honey will heal the welts,¡± Selene informed him, because she couldn¡¯t bear the sight any longer. She had to tell him the truth of things. ¡°But the rest of what you¡¯re feeling is temporary. If you carry on as you did before, it will fade. You¡¯ll go back to what you were before. It might be worse than before, knowing how far you¡¯ve fallen from what you could be.¡± The Hero Scythas sat straight up, panic warring with his good mood. ¡°What? Why?¡± Selene considered the moon above. The snowkes as they whirled, each one a unique wonder. ¡°When was thest time you advanced, cultivator?¡± she asked him softly. ¡°¡­ two years ago. From the tenth rank of the Sophic Realm to the first rank of the Heroic Realm.¡± ¡°Two years ago. And tell me, Scythas of the Scything Squall - was your ascension triumphant?¡± ¡°No,¡± he whispered. It was said that tragedy was an inevitability in the course of a Hero¡¯s journey. All that changed from legend to legend was whether that tragedy struck at the end of their Epic. Or the beginning. ¡°Then it¡¯s good you haven¡¯t advanced since then.¡± ¡°Why?¡± She hummed, running her fingers up and down the carved prophecies that decorated her spear. ¡°Cultivation makes us more of what we already are. Good as well as bad. The further we refine ourselves, the more wondrous we seem to those that stand beneath us. Beyond a certain point, we growrger than thergest non-cultivator could ever hope to be. We be stronger, and more beautiful, and wiser beyond the years of any mortal soul. But with triumphes tragedy. And those pains advance alongside us just the same.¡± A mortal man humiliated and ridiculed in the middle of a crowded agora might feel as if his world was falling out from under his feet, like his heart would hammer out of his chest at any moment, but in reality the worst that shame could generally do was invoke a cold sweat. Perhaps if the blow had truly cut him deep, it might ruin his appetite along with his mood. A cultivator¡¯s shame, like all the rest of their soul, was more than a non-cultivator¡¯s. Their shame could do more than ruin their appetite and make them sweat. They could spit blood like they¡¯d been run through with a sword if another¡¯s words hit their ego in just the right ce, at just the right time, among just the right people. ¡°You are standing in a dangerous ce,¡± she informed him with as much weight as she could impart. She tried to make him understand. ¡°The most dangerous ce, in some ways. Every rank we advance, we be more than what we were before. Advancing through a realm, though - that adds more than just ayer to our soul. It deepens us. It makes us exponentially greater. And it makes our deviations exponentially more terrible. ¡°I¡¯ve glimpsed a portion of what torments you,¡± she admitted, an apology as much as a confession. She¡¯d had no choice. Once she stepped into another¡¯s heart, their demons had a way of divulging things they would never speak to on their own. She could only nod at the panic and the shame that overtook the Hero as he realized what she had seen. ¡°I¡¯ve excised what I could from your heart, but I can¡¯t reach the roots. I can¡¯t stop it from growing back, more terrible than it was before. That¡¯s something only you can do.¡± Scythas swallowed. ¡°And if I don¡¯t?¡± Selene closed her eyes. The constetions above were familiar to her, but subtly off. They had escaped the Orphic House¡¯s ivory delusions, but they had not returned to the world in the same ce that they had left it. Thend around them looked like Thracia, but it wasn¡¯t any portion of it that Selene had seen before. ¡°A deviation of the soul is what we call it when a cultivator loses their way. When we go against the truths and ideals that made us who we are, when we betray the desires and the deeds that drove us to the heights we so enjoy looking down from, we stray. And there are evils that lurk along the path to heaven. ¡°A Hero¡¯s heart is what sets them apart from those both above and below them. For better and for worse. In triumph as well as tragedy. Standing at the nexus of refinement where one realm meets another is dangerous regardless of where exactly you stand - you have be something deeper than you were before, and you don¡¯t yet fully understand what that means. Your woes are deeper in a way that you can¡¯t grasp until they¡¯ve sank their fangs into you. Luckily for you, your woes haven¡¯t gotten their bearings yet either.¡± ¡°What are you saying?¡± Scythas asked her, frightened and confused. ¡°You¡¯re talking about my trauma like it¡¯s a living thing, as if it can think and plot against me.¡± She smiled bleakly. ¡°I call them heart demons.¡± ¡°You call them what?¡± Selene raised the chthonic hive to her lips without opening her eyes and took another bite out of its honebs. Her oracle eyes cracked open, just a sliver, and gazed upon the heavens above. Ah. The gates of horn had spit them out further afield than she¡¯d thought. ¡°Then you¡¯re saying,¡± Scythas began, the spark of divinity within his soul contorting in on itself in its confusion, ¡°that¡­ that once the demon understands its strength, it¡¯ll use it? Against me?¡± ¡°The second most dangerous tribtion a cultivator faces is in the transcendence of realms,¡± she recited, a lesson she had learned years ago. A lesson she had seen reflected in dozens of pitiful men and women, groveling at a girl¡¯s feet in search of salvation. ¡°Whether it¡¯s a tribtion of lightning or something else entirely, citizen to sophist, sophist to hero, hero to tyrant - the chasm is endlessly deep and the leap that must be made to cross it is perilously long.¡± ¡°And the most dangerous?¡± Scythas asked quietly, though he already knew. She answered anyway. ¡°The very next one. From the first rank to the second.¡± In every realm of cultivation, the mostmon ranks for a cultivator¡¯s journey to end at were the first and thest. In a shadowed grove of Orphic mystery, the hungry raven known as Solus advanced to the second rank of the Sophic Realm- And choked as a hand rose up from his shadow and mped its fingers around his throat. The hungry raven known as Griffon lunged across the grove, reaching out for the Roman while he snarled and fought his own shadow. A dozen more arms reached up from Solus¡¯ shadow and gripped his head, his shoulders, and his arms. Pulling him. Dragging him down. The raven from Rome sank into his own shadow. He vanished. Chapter 1.95 [Sacrament of Salt and Ash] Chapter 1.95 [Sacrament of Salt and Ash] Son of Rome Wrathful hands seized me by the neck. They gripped fistfuls of hair that I had allowed to grow far too long, palmed my face, hauled on the white cloth of my chiton and dug their fingers into the gaps between my skin and the beaten bronze breastte given to me by the Gadfly. My own shadow took me in its hands, and it dragged me down. Down, into the depths. Down, to my knees. Fight. Until thest man falls. I nted my right hand t against the ground, a finger¡¯s width all that separated my knees from the earth. The veins in my arm bulged from the strain. The shadowed hands that had pulled me down shifted their grip, settling on my shoulders and pressing. I dug my fingers into the dirt, snarling my effort. ¡°I am a raven,¡± I said, epting the head rush of an ideal faithfully followed and inhaling sharply as my midnight cloak roiled and pressed up against the grasping hands. I took that strength, the Greek exceptionalism within my soul, and I flooded my body with it. Muscles flexed. I rose - but cially slow. Too slow. My eyes narrowed. ¡°And I am an unkindness-¡° ¡°I am a soldier.¡± My knees mmed to the ground. The midnight veil was torn from my face. Torn away by a man that could not possibly have the hands to do it. I¡¯d seen him lose those hands. A dull keening fought my heart¡¯s thunderous beating for prominence in my senses. The man¡¯s eyes narrowed in disgust at the sight of me, and he reared back his other hand. A sh of blinding light and a deafening pain nearly drowned out the crack of the vine-staff breaking my left cheek bone. The blow threw me back, away from the dead man, and into the arms of yet more merciless shadows. ¡°What-?¡± I breathed, but another set of hands mmed down onto my face and covered my mouth. ¡°As a soldier, I swore to faithfully execute all that the Captainmanded - and so I fought.¡± The soldier¡¯s voice echoed in my ears, countless others speaking with him and over him at the same time. The same words, all of them. My heart stuttered in my chest. ¡°I swore to never desert my service, and so I stood my ground instead.¡± No. ¡°I swore not to seek the avoidance of death for the Roman republic. And so I died,¡± the First Spear of the Fifth Legion spoke, every word a harder flogging than any vine-staff could deliver. Every word hit harder than thest, because I recognized them. I knew them. I had received them, personally, three thousand times before. The sacramentum militare. ¡°These oaths we swore to you, and not once did we stray.¡± The first spear reared back his boot while the men of his cohort pressed and pulled me down. ¡°But what of you?¡± The senior-most centurion of the Fifth Legion buried his boot in my gut and flung me back. I rolled and gagged, vomiting blood on the ashen earth- Ashen. I heaved and looked up and around me, at a field of rolling hills and broken shields. I looked further up, at the roiling ck clouds of heaven above, and saw they weren¡¯t clouds at all. They were crows. Thousands upon thousands of them, wheeling through the skies and cawing ravenously. In the distance, I heard the howling of wolves. ¡°What of the captain?¡± A different dead man asked. A whip cracked against my back and tore the raven¡¯s midnight cloak along with the flesh beneath it. I grunted, lurching forward. ¡°What of Roma¡¯s favored son? What of your vows?¡± A boy¡¯s voice rose above the rest. My voice. ¡°This soldier swears that he shall faithfully execute all that the Generalmands,¡± I heard myself swear, less than a decade and more than a lifetime ago. The whip cracked a second time, striking the back of my head and flinging me to the dirt. The men of the Fifth spat on my back and pressed me down. When I managed to raise my head again, I found myself in what remained of the General¡¯s tent. It was nothing but a ring of broken stakes and mangled scraps of tent cloth now. The cot was in pieces, the sand table overturned in the mud. All that remained intact was a humble wooden chest. The chest that the General sat while about his business. ¡°Have you done as hemanded?¡± The Fifth Legion¡¯s senior logistico, the wise man of war that Gaius had taken from his own favored legion to guide me, twisted my ear and wrenched my head to the side. ¡°Did you listen?¡± Fight. Fight until thest man falls. ¡°I-¡° ¡°Be silent.¡± The dead man flung me out of the tent and Inded in the sea. The water was colder than any mediterranean sea could be. The shock of it stole my breath from my lungs, made my body¡¯s instincts betray me and gasp for air where there was only salt water. I choked and kicked at the hands yanking at my heels. I reached, precariously, breaking through the water and catching the wood of a ship¡¯s rail. I pulled myself up, even as fingers dug and wed at my fingertips and sought to pry them from the rail. ¡°This soldier swears that he shall never desert the service.¡± Coughing up seawater and heaving for breath, I looked upon the battered deck of all that remained of Rome¡¯s navy. A shattered mast and a sail ruined by des and arrowheads. All around, for spans and spans in every direction, Roman warships groaned and sank beneath the waves. No matter where I looked, there was nond to be seen. Nothing to be heard but the cawing of crows above, and the distant howling of wolves. ¡°Have you moved on?¡± The magister of waves asked me, perched atop hisst sinking ship¡¯s broken mast. He had a hand ballista cradled propped up on his thigh. The tip of its bolt was leveled at my heart. ¡°Or are you still a legion man?¡± ¡°I¡¯m-¡° The string released and I lunged sideways. The ballista¡¯s bolt punched struck the flesh beneath my left shoulder instead of my heart. I tumbled back over the edge of the ship, bleeding freely. Inded in the mud. The howling of wolves wasn¡¯t distant anymore. ¡°This soldier swears that he shall not seek to avoid death for the Roman republic!¡± The sacramentum militare was a holy Roman oath. Beneath the light of raging heaven, it bound the man to the legion. If ever broken, it rendered him sacer - given to the gods. Thy heart and soul for Rome. I raised my head. The Fifth Legion stared usingly back at me. Scattered and broken, their throats torn out and their armor cratered into their own broken bodies. The dead and the dying. The victims of my one and only campaign. Some of them had no eyes left at all, but I felt their res regardless. ¡°Captain of Salt and Ash,¡± a guttural, growling voice tore through the howling and the chatter of crows. ¡°Have you avoided your righteous end?¡± I shouted and surged up, nting my feet and struggling to rise. My fingers dug into the mud and found the haft of my spear. I strained with everything I had to bring it up. ¡°You owe your men a death,¡± the Carthaginian hound spoke. Lectured me. ¡°I intend to pay them,¡± I said furiously, left arm trembling as I forced it up while the hands of a dozen armored legionaries sought to press it down. ¡°Come then. Stand, if you can. Kill me, if you can. It won¡¯t matter in the end - not in this ce.¡± I seethed. ¡°In here, out there, it doesn¡¯t matter. I¡¯ll kill you twice.¡± I lunged. I fell. ¡°You owe your men a proper death.¡± The dog of heaven stalked away while the men of the Fifth piled onto me one-by-one. Weighing me down and pressing my face into the mud. ¡°Why!?¡± I thrashed, abandoning my attempts to rise and focusing all of my efforts, all that remained, on holding on to my spear. ¡°The enemy is there! Punish me when the dogs are dead. Try me in the courthouse of their broken city, condemn me overtop their corpses! Our work isn¡¯t done!¡± If I had a weapon, I could still fight. If I drew another breath, I could still fight. If- The first spear took my weapon in hand and tore it from my grasp. ¡°Our,¡± he repeated. His scorn made my skin crawl. ¡°Our. As if you¡¯re one of us. As if you¡¯re the Captain that we called you. As if you¡¯re any Roman at all.¡± The soldiers that had helped raise me took me by the shoulders and threw me up against a wall of charred brick. It cracked and fell apart, infirm already, and I tumbled through the rubble. Around me, the city of Rome burned. ¡°¡®I am Roman,¡¯¡± one of five thin-strip tribunes hissed in my ear, the young officer mming a knife through the back of my knee while I struggled to rise. I bit down on an agonized sound and put my weight on the other leg. ¡°¡®And I am Greek.¡¯¡± A second thin-stripe finished the quote, hammering his own dagger into the back of my other knee. Both men, junior officers that were nheless years my seniors, twisted their knives and condemned me in synchronicity. ¡°I am both of those things,¡± I said, my voice raw with pain and heated weakness. ¡°I am both, but I am Roman first! First, before, and above all else!¡± ¡°You are nothing. You are no one.¡± I bared my teeth and called upon the captain¡¯s virtue- And saw stars. Stars and fallen statuary. Bricks, shards of painted y, the remains of fallen columns - a build had copsed overtop of my head. I struggled to clench my fist, even so. Gravita- Knees and elbows and unforgiving fists. ¡°Your father was a good man,¡± a veteran legionarymented, forcing my head down. I recognized his voice, picked it out of the hundred others speaking the same words overtop of it. His name was Calvus. He¡¯d served in the same cohort as my father, before my father became the Fifth¡¯s captain. ¡°Your uncle was a great man,¡± Gaius¡¯ senior logistico mourned, forcing the length of a whip between my teeth when I tried to bite through the fingers holding me down. Bridling me like a horse. ¡°You are neither of those men,¡± the first spear condemned me, as frank as he had ever been. He knelt and met my re with wrathful disappointment. ¡°And you are neither of those things. You can y along, that¡¯s true enough. The Greeks taught you well, and you studied Caesar close enough to act the part that he assigned you. But you aren¡¯t a captain. You aren¡¯t one of ours. You never were, and even now you can¡¯t recognize it - because the East has overtaken the portion of your soul that could.¡± It was a struggle to speak around the whip. I tried. He shook his head and gave me the vine-staff again. ¡°We respected your father. We believed in Caesar. But we loved you.¡± My eyes went wide. ¡°And what did we receive for our love?¡± ¡°You swore to execute the General¡¯smands,¡± a young man whispered, nearly as young as me. His eyes were torn out and the flesh of his mangled throat parted like half-opened curtains every time he inhaled and exhaled. ¡°You swore. So why did you stop fighting!?¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t,¡± I said hoarsely. He spat at me. ¡°You swore to never desert the service,¡± another snapped. ¡°Yet here you are, entire worlds away. Sailing further east every day!¡± ¡°I have to get stronger.¡± ¡°In the Greek way,¡± the First Spear spoke disdainfully, and stomped the middle of my back, forcing me back down. ¡°Where Caesar and all his legions failed, you alone will triumph. You alone are worth more than Roma and all of her legions.¡± ¡°No!¡± I pounded my fists against the broken cobble streets. ¡°That isn¡¯t what I¡¯m saying-!¡± ¡°It¡¯s what you mean.¡± A strain was building in my spine. ¡°In Greece or in Thracia, wherever your barbarians take you, a captain may be something else. But in Roma, a captain gives more than he takes!¡± The first spear mmed his vine-staff over my back, and the men of his cohort roared their approval. ¡°You strut through the East while your soldiers rot in salted fields and have the audacity to brag about having led them! As if you earned that honor! As if it were yours!¡± The man that had saved Caesar¡¯s life personally on the battlefield struck me again with his martial instrument. The man that had earned the epitaph Virgus, the Staff, struck me with the implement of his discipline. Sextius Baculus, the First Spear that had struggled the most of any man to make up for myck as Captain of the Fifth Legion, struck me a fourth and final time - and broke his vine-staff over my back. ¡°You think you can be a better Greek than you were a Roman? By all means, show us.¡± They waited while I gagged and wheezed. When I finally managed to suck in a breath, I could barely manage a word. ¡°How?¡± ¡°How does any Greek begin their journey? Any cultivator at all?¡± Three thousand handsid themselves upon my shoulders, and then three thousand more. ¡°Stand,¡± the Fifth Legionmanded me, pressing down with all their might. I struggled and strained worthlessly. I couldn¡¯t even raise my knees from the rubble. They threw me through toppled buildings and fountains of ash-tainted water. I rolled to a stop in the middle of the Forum. Before the Twelve Tables, or what remained of them. ¡°Stand under your own power!¡± Six thousand hands mped down again, pressing, pushing, crushing. I screamed my effort to the crow-ckened skies and pushed back with everything I had. I rose a fraction, a hairsbreadth, before the strain in my spine turned to searing pain and my knees mmed back to the earth. ¡°We bolstered you,¡± the Fifth thundered, in my ears and all the world around me. ¡°From the day your father died until the day we left to join him, you stood under our power. You took from us, and all we had we gave to you!¡± I howled until my voice cracked and broke apart. I dug my fingers and toes through stone in search of purchase, tore the nails from them as I scrabbled and strained for leverage. At an unspoken signal, all three thousand of them drove my head through the cobbled stones and then heaved me up, into the air, before driving me back down. ¡°You swore you¡¯d die for Rome¡¯s republic, yet here you are. Alive.¡± ¡°Until the work is done,¡± I rasped, delirious with pain. ¡°The work-¡± ¡°There is no work! There is no Rome any longer - you failed! You lost!¡± ¡°Even so-¡° ¡°STAND.¡± ¡°I can¡¯t.¡± I clenched my eyes stubbornly against the building heat. I whispered the words hoarsely, like a prayer. We don¡¯t weep until the battle is won. ¡°You can¡¯t. You couldn¡¯t. You never will.¡± Three thousand dead men mmed a dius hilt-first into the rubble so that its gleaming de pointed to heaven. The metal was polished and gleaming. Unmarred by war. Untested and untempered. No. Not yet. ¡°You reaped the rewards of your father¡¯s service without any of his efforts,¡± the man that had served in my father¡¯s first cohort judged me. ¡°You stood on our shoulders and called yourself our captain. Made us carry your weight, while wenguished with our own.¡± ¡°No longer. It¡¯s your turn to bear it.¡± The Fifth Legion pulled me to my feet onest time. The dius¡¯ de gleamed beneath me. ¡°You¡¯re going to carry that weight.¡± The weight of three thousand worlds fell upon my shoulders all at once, and I went blind from the pain. I felt the ground crack, brick crumbling to dust beneath my heels. My knees shook, and the agony in my spine doubled. Redoubled again. I felt something crack inside of me, hairline fractures running along the pneumatic channels forged by the Rein-Holder¡¯s marrow. ¡°All you¡¯ve ever done is fall,¡± the legion that raised me spoke, each of them as one. With a synchronicity that I could not match, because I was no part of them anymore - if I¡¯d ever been at all. ¡°If that¡¯s all there is to you, then fall. If you can¡¯t stand like a Captain, then the least you can do is fall like one.¡± ¡°No,¡± I groaned, straining beneath the weight of three thousand broken soldiers. ¡°You want to be Roman? You want to be ours? Then be what you im to be! Be a Captain, for once and never again! What does a Captain do when he loses his legion!?¡± They pressed me down further. A finger¡¯s length at a time. Their hands pressed and their fingers wed at whatever they could grasp. I resisted with all that I had, and then more after that. Not yet. They howled and raged. Rome fell. ¡°If not in life, then in death - die. Die a Captain¡¯s death!¡± Not until the work was done. ¡°FALL ON YOUR SWORD.¡± Light bloomed in the darkness of the fallen city. The crows above cried out and screamed as their wings were burnt and their frail bodies broken, their fragile flesh fried by lightning currents. Scavengers plummeted from the sky. Griffon lunged up from my shadow and grabbed me by the shoulders. The mutted shadows of the Fifth reached out for him, and he struck them down with twice as many searing hands. Some of them burned, some of them crackled with fierce lightning, but every pankration hand glowed. ¡°Arrogant mongrel corpses. Don¡¯t touch my brother.¡± The Scarlet Son of Alikos kicked the captain¡¯s dius out of the rubble and spat phlegm into the Fifth Legion¡¯s eyes before pulling me back down into my shadow. Then up and out of it. We emerged from the shadows and delirium, in the Orphic House once more. I sagged, head falling back limply as darkness encroached from every corner- Griffon pped me hard across the face. ¡°Are you out of your mind?¡± he demanded wrathfully, tearing the midnight veil from his face and ring furiously into my eyes. ¡°Demons within. Were the ones that tore down your city not enough for you?¡± I moved my lips, but I didn¡¯t have the strength to give the words the breath required. He snarled and shook me by the shoulders, before turning and throwing me up against a wagon-wood support beam. It cracked and groaned, bending dangerously. ¡°Have you forgotten what we came here to do? Have you forgotten what lies ahead?¡± He gripped me by the chin, his pneuma zing through the uninhabited Orphic House. His pankration hands seized benches and chairs and tore them apart, tossed them at the walls and up into the rafters in his fury. ¡°You can¡¯t affordindecision anymore! You have to choose, Sol.¡± ¡°Choose?¡± I rasped, struggling to stand. Under my own power, for once in my life. My limbs felt heavier than they ever had before. The weight on my shoulders was more punishing now than I could ever remember it being. ¡°You¡¯ve stood stagnant since the day your legion fell,¡± Griffon said, scarlet eyes boring into mine. ¡°The path ahead is forked and you¡¯ve wasted a year of your life trying to walk both roads. You have to pick one. I don¡¯t care which it is anymore. Be a Roman if you¡¯re a Roman. Be a Greek if you¡¯re a Greek. But pick one! Pick one path and walk it! Show me conviction!¡± Griffon all thirty of his pankration hands and banished the shadows from the Orphic House. ¡°Show me Sol!¡± I admired the men that raised me, each of them for different things. My father for his pure and unshakeable tenacity. Aristotle for his wisdom and his way with spoken words. Gaius for the weight he carried on his shoulders, always, like it wasn¡¯t there at all. But no matter how many times I¡¯d tried to deny it since that night a year ago, the truth of it remained. No one had ever inspired me like Griffon could. We forced open the horn gates of the Orphic House and staggered out into the frigid winter air, our breath clouding like steam as it left our mouths. Griffon abruptly stopped before the first wooden step, and I nted the tip of my celestial spear in the wood to halt my own momentum, straining against the weight on my shoulders and the infirmity of my wounds. Griffon stared down the steps in disbelief. ¡°What.¡± Three horses we had given to the Thracian gatekeepers in exchange for admittance to their holy house. One horse had been offered to the earth. The docile mare that I¡¯d originally picked out, before passing her on to Selene and then Scythas,y dead in the snow with a bleeding axe wound in her neck. A second sacrifice had been attempted after that. It had failed. The ck stallion and Griffon¡¯s white mare stood over the crumpled corpses of the Thracian gatekeepers, each of their muzzles drenched with human blood. As we watched, aghast, Griffon¡¯s slender runner dipped her head and took a dainty bite out of the Thracian woman¡¯s thigh. The cause of the woman¡¯s death was impossible to miss, her skull split open like an overripe fruit and its contents scattered across the snow-covered steps. The man¡¯s cause of death was as apparent - there was a crater in his chest, his ribs broken and curling away from a central point of trauma like the limbs of a spider. The culprit behind both deaths raised his ck head from the man¡¯s corpse, bone cracking between his teeth as the stallion chewed. He had an axe wound on his left nk, near his neck, but it didn¡¯t seem to bother him much. Wrathful golden eyes met mine, brighter than they had been before we entered the Orphic House. He snorted, and the steam that rose from his nostrils and mouth was thicker than what came from ours. I felt the heat from the top of the steps. ¡°Griffon,¡± I spoke, my voice like shifting gravel. ¡°Remind me how an animal refines itself.¡± Slowly, the Scarlet Son began to smile. ¡°The same way we do,¡± he said, stepping down the first step. His bright white runner whinnied softly, eyes burning with a curious anticipation that reminded me of Sorea. ¡°They eat.¡± He leapt off the steps and his mare bolted. At the same moment, the stallion reared up on two legs,shing out with monstrous strength at the airborne Greek. My bronze spear struck the stallion in his side. It staggered him just long enough for Griffon to shoot past, whooping in glee to match the starlight mare¡¯s spirited whinnying. The midnight warhorse recovered in the beat of a single moment and screamed a challenge up the steps at me. I ced one foot on the stairs and immediately fell through them. ¡°Your name is As,¡± I dered, prying the rickety wooden boards up and tossing them aside. Steam seethed through the stallion¡¯s teeth at my presumption. I advanced through the snow, one painful step at a time. ¡°You and I are going to bring raging heaven down on the city of Carthage.¡± The midnight charger tossed his head and dug furrows through the frozen earth. A refusal if I had ever seen one. I inhaled slowly. ¡°I wasn¡¯t asking.¡± As charged, and I moved to meet him. Chapter 1.96 Chapter 1.96 The Young Griffon By sunset we had returned. Thends of Thracia were vast, and we had traveled them for long days and longer nights. Cultivators of our stature could have made the trip on foot in better time, Heroic cultivators like Scythas and the Scarlet Oracle¡¯s daughter even faster than that - a day, perhaps two. When a refined man wasn¡¯t burdened by a horse¡¯s fragile constitution, much could be done. A mundane horse, that was. Kronia and As returned us to the southern coast that lined the Aegean Sea in a quarter of the time that it had taken them to deliver us to the Orphic House. The sun was still shining on the horizon when we caught sight of the Eos¡¯ sails, not even a full day since we¡¯d drank from cups of ivory and horn. Not even a full day since we¡¯d lived, and died, and lived again through the eyes of a higher power. This world was not what it should have been. I had known that for some time now, though I had avoided the fact. What Sol and I had seen in that ce, what Scythas had shown us in the midnight field of Thracian vines, every shambling tribe up and down the River Ebros, it had all only hammered the point home. Thends beyond the Scarlet City were dim and fallen from their prime. But this world had been golden-bright once. As we approached my family¡¯s ship and the Heroes waving at us from the docks, I wondered if it could be again. Kronia delivered me to the docks first. She was smaller than Sol¡¯s charger, but I¡¯d known from the moment I saw her prance out of her stable that she was a beast built for speed. Now, she was even more so. Scythas looked her up and down in awe as she ran circles up and down the docks, knowing the journey was done but itching to keep moving even still. The white mare¡¯s joy had been a warm and infectious thing ever since she¡¯d taken off running from the Orphic House. She had always loved to run, and after having her first taste of virtue she was better at it than any mundane animal of her kind. She was swift. She was graceful. She was mine. ¡°She¡¯s awake,¡± the Hero said as we cantered by him for a third time, unable to believe it. ¡°What did you do-?¡± ¡°Where did you go?¡± the daughter of the Scarlet Oracle asked the more pertinent question. Scythas shook himself of his wonder. ¡°Right. Right! What the fuck happened back there?¡± ¡°We could ask you two the same thing,¡± I said mildly. ¡°Without a word - without even a word. One moment we were all in that odeon together and the next moment the two of you were gone! Where have you been?¡± As arrived, the sturdy wooden docks that had taken Kronia¡¯s weight withoutint groaning and creaking dangerously beneath the Roman and his warhorse. The charger lowered his head, steam billowing from his nostrils and out from the creases between his teeth, and red imperiously down at the Heroic cultivators on the docks. What the newly woken stallioncked in speed, he more than made up for in presence and strength. He looked like he¡¯de charging straight out of the underworld itself. The axe wound that the gatekeeper had left in his side still bled, agitated by our sprint across the unborderednds of Thracia - along with the hole left behind by the Roman¡¯s own spear. Naturally, my idiot Roman brother had the wounds to match his horse - self-inflicted of course. ¡°Solus,¡± Selene said, aghast while her eyes traced the worst of it. ¡°You¡¯re hurt.¡± Crusted blood on both legs, the evidence of stab wounds in the backs of both knees. A puncture wound just to the left of his heart, not unlike the one that a certain bastard pirate child had inflicted upon me with a gastraphetes. Numerous ugly bruises, growing darker and uglier by the hour, inflicted by fists and boots and staffs of tightly bound vine. He looked like he had juste from exactly where we¡¯d juste from. Mypleteck of wounds by contrast likely made it even more startling. ¡°The two of you have seen better days as well,¡± Sol observed. ¡°What happened?¡± Scythas asked him, and I could only guess as to the monsters responsible for the damage that he was picturing in his head. Sol cleared his throat and spat a mouthful of blood onto the dock beside his horse. ¡°We spoke to Orpheus.¡± ¡°Orpheus the dead man?¡± ¡°Both of you?¡± Selene asked. The question after that she left implied - why was I in fine condition, while the Roman here was mangled? ¡°We took part in the Augur¡¯s mystery rites,¡± I exined. I shrugged at their dubious looks. ¡°The gatekeepers gave us cups of ivory or horn, each of them filled with a mixture of milk and honey with psychoactive properties. The standard fare for any cult¡¯s initiation, just¡­ a bit more potent.¡± Sol snorted. It was admittedly an understatement. Scythas looked the Roman pointedly up and down. ¡°And then?¡± During the ride back to the southern coast where we¡¯d docked our ship, Sol and I had discussed many things. The first among them had been what exactly each of us had seen after imbibing our cups of milk and honey. We¡¯d realized quickly that each of us had suffered the same exact visions of thete and future Zagreus¡¯ life. It wasn¡¯t until afterwards that our experiences had diverged. For me, it had been the delusions of cousins that could have been. For Sol, it had been something entirely different. The Roman grimaced, his eyes distant as he recalled it. ¡°There are greater and lesser mysteries. Corpses of heroes and corpses of gods. I don¡¯t know if the subject of the Orphic faith stands among the greats, but he was far more than just a hero.¡± The Scarlet Oracle¡¯s daughter blinked. ¡°He?¡± ¡°You met him,¡± Scythas said wonderingly. Making entirely the wrong connection. ¡°You remember him. His identity, or - his appearance, maybe? His name? Can you remember his name?¡± ¡°I remember asking for it,¡± Sol said, irritated at the memory of it. ¡°He said it didn¡¯t matter.¡± ¡°You spoke to him?¡± Selene asked, stepping forward excitedly and reaching up to grip his shins. As snorted warningly, but the stallion didn¡¯t stop her. ¡°And he responded?¡± ¡°You spoke to a dead god,¡± Scythas said, making certain of it. Had it been a god? Had any of it been real at all? Or had we seen what we¡¯d wanted to see, been told what we wanted to be told, all within the boundaries of our milk and honey delusion? I still wasn¡¯t sure. Sol sighed. ¡°Maybe. But it was brief, and it ended in disagreement.¡± I rolled my eyes as another absurdity took shape in Scythas¡¯ mind. Was misfortune alone to me? That had been my first instinct. It had been my first conclusion, the one that I found easiest to ept. Every cultivator that coveted the heights knew the Fates were against them, if not today then tomorrow or the day after that. It was easy to me my circumstances on the women that toiled at heaven¡¯s loom. It made things simple. But if I epted that, then I had to ept that everything was their doing. I had to give to them my all of my joys as well as my sorrows. I had to credit them with my triumphs along with my tragedies. If I wanted to hide behind their skirts and me my discontent on their destiny threads, I had to surrender all that I was, all that I had been, and all that I would ever be to the Fates. I refused to give myself to them. I¡¯d die before I did. Who to me, then? me my father, who had suffered under a Tyrant¡¯s yoke in his youth just as I had? me my cousins, who had shed blood and tears trying save me from my own discontent? me my aunts and uncles, me the elders, me the Rosy Dawn and Burning Dusk, and Raging Heaven besides? me the Father. me the bisected corpse of the fallen sun god. me the world. Ridiculous. The sea dogs that sailed the Eos took a break from their rowing sometime after the moon passed its zenith. The stars above the Aegean Sea lit the waves and guided our way, while the unseen hands of my intent steadily worked the ship¡¯s oars. Our sailors sprawled across their benches and curled up with their backs to the ship¡¯s rails, dropping off into dreams as soon as they found afortable ce. They¡¯d run themselves ragged, the memory of their liberation still fresh enough that they were eager to please us. Kronia and As were sound asleep at the aft deck, their exhtions like campfire heat on our backs. We¡¯d been forced to shift benches and move men to amodate them, but we had done it and the virtuous beasts hadplied with the journey. They were fatigued enough from their journey and awakening that I imagined they could have fallen asleep in that sack filled with snakes that Sol had threatened the stallion with days ago. Sol sat cross-legged at the front of the ship, by her wood-carved figurehead. Scythas sat facing the Roman on the bench just beside him. They were conversing quietly, the Hero of the Scything Squall shaking his head or gesturing shallowly with his hands. It had been a necessity to seat the Roman opposite the horses, as we¡¯d discovered when As stepped off the dock with Sol on his back and nearly capsized the ship. The issue of the beasts was self-evident, As weighing as much as ten men all on his own, but the Roman had been a surprise. Whether it was his advancement or his brush with deviation that was to me, he walked now with a weight that he hadn¡¯t carried before. Scythas and Selene had both had their theories as to the cause, but Sol hadn¡¯t volunteered the likely cause. I hadn¡¯t forced the issue for him. It would have hardly been fair, seeing as I had no intention of volunteering my own tribtion either. I leaned my head back against the Eos¡¯ mast. On the other side of it, the daughter of the Oracle hummed a quiet tune under her breath. I contemted the lunar glory. ¡°Honey and wine,¡± I murmured. ¡°And two horses, besides,¡± she replied. ¡°I¡¯d say this first venture was a sess.¡± ¡°Perhaps.¡± Returning to the Eos had been the correct choice in the end. Our Heroicpanions had chosen the same course of action, though they¡¯d been flung nearly as far afield as the Orphic House had been, in an entirely different cardinal direction. Lost in chthonic hives, wandering the underworld in search of a true way out - a gate of horn instead of ivory. We¡¯d traded stories while the Eos pulled away from the Thracian coast and the sun fell out of the sky, interjecting with the asional jab or disbelieving demand for further detail. When pressed, Sol had presented a single cup of golden wine from the depths of his shadow. A gift from the faceless man that he had spoken to while I was conversing with my familial delusions. It seemed that even while his legion had dragged him down into the dark, he¡¯d had the presence of mind to snatch it as he fell. To back their own ims, Selene had pulled an honest to god bee hive from a fold in her sunray silks, marred by teeth marks and oozing honey. Honey to heal the chthonic stings, and clear their psychoactive venom from the Hero¡¯s veins. But why had she eaten it? ¡°Perhaps?¡± the daughter of the Oracle asked, puzzled, and tilted her head to look at me from the other side of the ship¡¯s mast. ¡°What about it was a failure?¡± She¡¯d lied to us when she told her story. I didn¡¯t know how, or why, but I knew that she had. I could feel it, in the whispered echoes of her heart. Something vaguely overheard, in the same way I had overheard with my Sophic sense the whispers of Socrates¡¯ rhetoric while he thrashed Sol and I in his cave. A cultivator could refine their senses the further they advanced and open themselves up to novel ones in turn. That did not make us omnipotent, though. We could detect another cultivator¡¯s pneuma with our Civic sense, gauge their rtive standing so long as it was not too far above our own, but only if that other cultivator chose to show their strength to the world. To speak it, rather than hold it in. It was the same for the Sophic sense, the Philosopher¡¯s perception that allowed them to detect and respond to the rhetoric of their peers. When I invoked a principle or dered a truth for all the world to hear, it meant I wanted to be heard. Anyone with an ear for rhetoric would hear it if they wanted to. Socrates¡¯s invocation of truths in that cave hadn¡¯t been presented to us in this way. He¡¯d kept it to himself. He¡¯d made us work to hear even a trace of it. It made his rhetoric nearly impossible to directly counteract - it was the difference between a whisper and a shout. As it happened, this held true for Heroes as well. I could feel the whispers of Selene and Scythas¡¯ hearts in a way that I couldn¡¯t any other soul on the ship. There was feeling there that I could perceive, like the faintest tapping on my ribs. Too quiet and tightly guarded to fully understand, impossible to put into words. If I had topare it to something, it was like the mes behind their eyes. Ever burning, but not hot enough to feel the heat. Not bright enough to blind. But I could feel the mes flicker when their hearts were provoked, and that was enough to guess. Selene had lied, through omission if nothing else, and so had Scythas. Which portions of their story, I couldn¡¯t be sure. But I had felt the mes flicker. I had listened, straining as hard as I could with the new perception that Orpheus had awoken in me, and I had felt their momentary hesitance. ¡°I¡¯ve learned more in these five days than I did any given year at the Rosy Dawn, studying under the wisest men the Scarlet City could provide me,¡± I finally said. ¡°I¡¯ve seen sights I had only heard stories of before. I¡¯ve meet men and women as different from me as I am from Sol, and I¡¯ve seen for myself the disparity in our cultures. Weeks like these are why I left my home. Experiences like these are what I knew from the beginning that I desired beyond all else. Yet here I am at the end of it, and I feel emptier than I did before. How? Why?¡± ¡°You think too much.¡± I blinked. ¡°Excuse me?¡± Selene shrugged, brushed golden hair out of her eyes and shifting her sunset veil away from her face. ncing back at me while I nced back at her, she smiled faintly. ¡°Thracia is a beautiful nation, isn¡¯t it?¡± I raised an eyebrow. ¡°Which portion of it?¡± ¡°Its yellow mountain ranges and the lush valleys between. Its beasts - the bears and the snuffling pigs that lumber through its undergrowths, and the foxes and hopping goats that wander its heights. The rivers that run through it from the Aegean to its furthest unknown boundaries. And the snow. The snow that coats every thistle and pine once you¡¯ve gone north far enough. A true northern winter, not the faint approximation we feel in our cities. Wasn¡¯t it all incredible to see?¡± I considered that for a long moment. It was a struggle, a titanic effort, to separate the sights from the disappointment that had tainted them in my memory. But when I did¡­ ¡°It was,¡± I realized. ¡°It was beautiful. All of it.¡± And I had ruined it for myself. Not Scythas with his stories of thete Bakkhos. Not the people of Thracia or the gatekeepers of the Orphic House with their crude irreverence. Me. ¡°I haven¡¯t left the city of Olympia in years, and when I did I never went far,¡± the daughter of the Oracle said knowingly. ¡°This is all new to me. Every sight and sound seems more vibrant, somehow. Lighter-¡° ¡°Golden-bright,¡± I whispered. ¡°Exactly.¡± She nodded happily. ¡°You¡¯ve seen things in five days that most people would give their arms and legs to experience, and you¡¯vee out of it with a horse that any cultivator would pay a fortune for. I don¡¯t know what it is you thought you¡¯d find out here, Griffon, but you¡¯re letting it blind you to what you did. You do that a lot, I think.¡± I scoffed. ¡°You¡¯ve only known me for a week.¡± ¡°I¡¯ve known you longer than that,¡± she disagreed. ¡°Solus speaks about you often.¡± The moon was bright tonight. ¡°And while I may not have Scythas¡¯ ear, I do pay attention to the gossip on the mountain. You make waves wherever you go, it seems. Why? Why provoke people the way that you do?¡± I shrugged. ¡°It amuses me.¡± To my shock and my rage, I felt my own heart flicker. I hadn¡¯t spoken a lie. Ugly, treacherous heart, I hadn¡¯t spoken a lie. ¡°That isn¡¯t all,¡± Selene murmured. My lip lifted from my teeth. ¡°You have high expectations. I understand that. And I also believe, from what Solus has told me and what I¡¯ve observed of your actions in our short time together, that you want people to meet your expectations. You want to help them exceed them.¡± ¡°Junior sister, tell me more.¡± ¡°dly, senior brother,¡± she said, unbothered by my sarcasm. ¡°You are an arrogant man that thinks the world of himself, because you have yet to be proven wrong in any way that matters.¡± ¡°Ho, I see.¡± ¡°Unfortunately, the more that you are proven right, the more that you resent the world for failing to prove you wrong. Because you know the way you act is cruel - like the world and all its people are made of iron. Like you can temper their weak points if you only apply enough heat.¡± I stood. ¡°It¡¯s admirable that you want them to be better,¡± she said, remaining seated with her back to the mast. She looked up at me earnestly, the scarlet lights behind her eyes burning brighter as she expressed the truth of it with her heart. ¡°But not everyone is made of iron, Griffon. For some people, the fire only burns.¡± I turned away from her and walked up the deck, towards Sol and the Hero of the Scything Squall. As I did, the Oracle¡¯s daughter offered me onest piece of advice. ¡°Try being honest!¡± Chapter 1.97 Chapter 1.97 The Young Griffon Scythas and Sol¡¯s quiet conversation abruptly ended when I joined them at the front of the ship. The Hero nced at me uncertainly, having no doubt overheard my conversation with Selene - as he overheard most all things that he cared to. Sol acknowledged me with a nod and twisted to lean an arm against the ship¡¯s rail, looking out over the waves pensively. I stepped through the gap that separated the two of them and climbed up onto the Eos¡¯ figurehead, a woman carved from wood with both hands cupping her cheeks. In the vision of my father and my uncles that Chilon¡¯s story had shown us, the wooden woman had been reaching wantonly for the horizon. I leaned against her with my back to the sea, crossing my legs at their ankles and my arms over my chest. At some point, she¡¯d changed. ¡°I saw my family,¡± I said without preamble. I had their attention at once. ¡°While Sol was speaking to his faceless friend, I saw the boys and girls that I grew up with - but as men and women instead. It was the final stage of the rites. A delusion.¡± ¡°What?¡± Scythas asked, confused. I frowned, considering the figurehead¡¯s expression as she considered the sea. The naked desire of her first rendition was gone, reced by a puzzled wonder. ¡°Every greater mystery cult has its theme,¡± I said, and Scythas nodded once. Sol was still confused, so I borated, ¡°The Rosy Dawn is governed by light and the Burning Dusk by heat, both of them the me. The Broken Tide by the waves. The Howling Wind, and so on. These traits are foundational. They¡¯re the first tools that an exceptional mystiko uses to build upon their cultivation.¡± ¡°Your point being?¡± Scythas asked. ¡°Bakkhos was born and raised in Thracia. He loved Orpheus like a brother and buried him with honors. And if he was telling you the truth, he would even return from time to time, to share a drink with his friend beneath the earth. Bakkhos was the kyrios of the Raging Heaven, but he did not study there - not in his formative years. It isn¡¯t lightning that defined him. His domainy elsewhere.¡± ¡°The Mad Tyrant,¡± Sol realized, eyebrows raising as he followed my train of thought. The fell thread that connected our misadventure to ourpanions race through chthonic beehive tombs. ¡°Delusion. Madness.¡± The ivory gates had confounded Scythas and Selene just as the milk and honey had addled our senses. They¡¯d told us that it was our voices they had heard on the other side of the gates, and that was why they had tried to leave. In reality, the mad acoustics of the singing house had fooled them, twisted the sounds of the Thracian gatekeepers trying to murder our horses. Sol and I had seen things I had few words for, and themonality in every shifting vision had been the madness - inflicted by the Mother, inflicted by the deaths of friends, inflicted by the turning of the wheel. ¡°You¡¯re saying he studied the Orphic mysteries?¡± Scythas murmured, a growing frown on his lips. They found him in a field of grape vines, half-submerged in the dirt. Like his parents had tried to bury him and given up partway through. I sighed. ¡°I¡¯m saying that if anyone rose to the heights that Bakkhos rose to by using what Sol and I just experienced as their foundation, Mad Tyrant would be an entirely appropriate title. You knew him better than we did, though you denied it at his funeral-¡± Scythas grimaced, but didn¡¯t gainsay me. ¡°-so I can only specte.¡± ¡°Did thete kyrios have any interests or abilities that would coincide with what we all went throughst night?¡± Sol asked him quietly. ¡°A passion for singing? A talent for the lyre?¡± ¡°The kyrios had a talent for most things,¡± Scythas said. I hummed, considering the fading red marks on his face and arms. His stings were healing swiftly, based on how ugly they had been before in Selene¡¯s recollection. Sol followed my eyes, his train of thought matching my own. ¡°Including beekeeping?¡± The Hero¡¯s expression didn¡¯t shift in the slightest degree. But his heart did. ¡°Bakkhos was a beekeeper,¡± I said, considering that new knowledge. Scythas¡¯ eyes flickered, chagrined. ¡°And he was also known for his madness. Perhaps the connection is there. Perhaps it isn¡¯t. Either way, while under the influence of the Orphic mystery, I saw grim delusions designed to cut me to my core.¡° And so did you. I didn¡¯t say it, though I was nearly certain that it was true. Had we been having this conversation even an hour before, I would have. Not everyone is made of iron, Griffon. For some people, the fire only burns. Instead, I offered up a portion of myself. ¡°The sons and daughters of the Rosy Dawn and Burning Dusk have no reason to fear the light of day, nor the heat of scouring me,¡± I said, raising a hand and unfurling its fingers. The rosy light of dawn bloomed in my palm and crept up each digit, glowing brightly and throwing off heat like a campfire. ¡°Our bodies are tempered by the sun.¡± ¡°I¡¯m familiar with your city, yes,¡± Scythas said, rolling his eyes. ¡°And I¡¯m still waiting for you to get to your point.¡± I felt his heart flicker and betray his feigned irritation, another whisper of sensation that wasn¡¯t meant to be shared and so I only dimly overheard. Something like fear, maybe, or at least a deep unease. He¡¯d seen the trajectory of the conversation, and he didn¡¯t like where it lead. ¡°It¡¯s alright.¡± Sol reached out and pped the Hero on the shoulder, storm gray eyes not wavering from me as he did it. ¡°This isn¡¯t an attack.¡± Only once the words were spoken did Scythas¡¯ expression flicker, showing his unease. The Hero exhaled and nodded. But it wasn¡¯t until a beatter, when the whispers of his heart had fully receded, that Sol squeezed his shoulder once and let go. As if he¡¯d known to wait. As if he¡¯d felt it for himself. The raven in my shadow reached out for Sol¡¯s. In the dead of night, sitting as close as we were, it didn¡¯t stir our silhouettes. ¡°You can feel it, too?¡± Sol frowned faintly. ¡°Feel what?¡± ¡°His heart. You weren¡¯t responding to his heart just now?¡± The Roman looked at me strangely. ¡°I suppose, if you want to be Greek about it.¡± It was a struggle not to let my irritation show. ¡°I¡¯m not being florid. I¡¯m asking if you¡¯ve gained a Hero¡¯s heart sense as well.¡± ¡°No. I don¡¯t need to ¡®feel¡¯ his heart to know that he¡¯s uneasy.¡± Like he was simply reading the room. Ridiculous, empathetic Roman. I raised thirty more pankration hands around me, each of them unfurling like the blooming petals of a rose. Calling up the light of dawn. Perhaps my approach had been wrong from the start. ¡°Tempered by the sun,¡± I said again, a quiet prayer. ¡°In the Scarlet City, it¡¯s considered good fortune to be born during the day. If a mother is lucky enough to give birth while the sun is still up, the first thing she¡¯ll do is raise her child to it. It¡¯s said that if the first thing a newborn sees is the blinding light above, they¡¯ll be better suited to its study when they¡¯re older. This continues into the child¡¯s formative years. ¡°Tempered by light. Tempered by heat. Blinded and burned, because the foundational techniques of the Rosy Dawn and Burning Dusk are as dangerous to the user as they are to the target. The Rosy Fingers of Dawn and the Burning Edge of Dusk.¡± Cultivators refined the body as well as the soul. We grew stronger, taller, and better defined physically at the same time that we grew wiser, more spirited, and hungrier. A powerful body with a weak soul was a senseless, worthless beast. A powerful soul with a weak body was an ember in a bed of dry leaves. A bnce was required. Scythas knew this as well as I did. He¡¯d been tempered in his own way, as had every cultivator - the ones that had made it to his level of refinement, at least. Any cultivator that could call upon the Rosy-Fingered Dawn had been tempered by the sun. In the same way, any cultivator that could bend the wind to their whims like Scythas had been tempered by the tempest. All that changed was how the tempering was done. Not every man was made of iron. ¡°When I was four years old, my father taught me how to make a fire,¡± I exined. Of my two flesh and blood hands and thirty manifested hands of intent, only one was still dark and cool. Idly, I rubbed together the thumb, index, and middle fingertips of that hand. Slowly, the motion generated warmth. ¡°He took me out into the forest and showed me the proper wood to gather, taught me which materials would serve best as kindling. Tell me, Sol, if I asked you to light a fire right now, how would you do it?¡± ¡°I¡¯d use one of those,¡± he said at once, gesturing to my thirty-one burning hands. I nodded. Using a pre-existing me was the easiest and mostmon method. It was why every Greek citizen kept a hearth lit in their home. ¡°And if there was no me around to borrow from?¡± ¡°There¡¯s always me around,¡± the Hero said, his eyes flickering hazel and gold. I smiled faintly. ¡°Granted, for you. But we¡¯re only Philosophers of the second rank. Our hearts have yet to burn.¡± The Hero snorted in disbelief. To Sol, he offered a sarcastic slow p, ¡°So you advancedst night, from the first rank to the second. Congrattions, Solus.¡± ¡°Thank you,¡± the Roman said genuinely. Scythas groaned. To me, he answered, ¡°Without another me I¡¯d use a flint.¡± ¡°Right. And if you had no flint?¡± ¡°Friction,¡± Sol answered, eyeing my fingertips. I raised them up so Scythas would see them too, feeling the heat build where my skin rubbed together. ¡°Exactly.¡± I confirmed. ¡°We used sticks. It was difficult, and I was young, but my soul was awake and I was strong enough to see it done. He instructed me on how to nurture that me, first with my breath and then by feeding it kindling. Soon enough we had a robust campfire. And my father took my hands in his, told me that it was these hands that had done the work alone. From beginning to end, I had cultivated that me. I was ecstatic.¡± I chuckled softly at the memory. ¡°Then he pulled our hands into the fire, and held them there.¡± Two heart¡¯s flickered. The one belonging to the Hero, as well as the one belonging to the Heroine doing her best to pretend she wasn¡¯t eavesdropping. ¡°My hands healed, as you can see,¡± I said, flourishing my rosy fingers while the unburning fingers continued to rub together. ¡°The next time my father told me to build a fire, I was somewhat less enthused. But I built it, this time without any instruction, and when it was lit he congratted me on a job well done. Then, as before, he took my hands in his.¡± ¡°That¡¯s barbaric!¡± Selene protested from further down the ship, causing the sea dogs around her to stir and grumble in their sleep. ¡°Ho? You¡¯re calling my father a barbarian?¡± Abandoning her attempt at privacy, she gathering up her sunray silks and philosopher rags and crossed the deck to join us at the front of the ship. She sat down directly across from me,pleting our little diamond formation, and crossed her arms over her chest. ¡°I¡¯m calling a cruelty a cruelty,¡± she said firmly. ¡°That couldn¡¯t have been the only way to temper you. At four years old, no less.¡± ¡°Not the only way, no,¡± I agreed. ¡°He would also make me stare up at the sun with him on particrly bright days.¡± ¡°Greeks,¡± Sol cursed wearily. The daughter of the Oracle just stared up at me, aghast. ¡°Perhaps it was a cruelty, and perhaps it wasn¡¯t necessary,¡± I acknowledged. ¡°But whether it was by coincidence or by design, I was tempered far beyond the rest of my peers when it came time to take the dawn in hand. With time, the pain faded and the scars healed. It¡¯s amon failing of the Rosy-Fingered Dawn that its own users can be blinded by its light if they aren¡¯t careful. I¡¯m sure you¡¯ve all encountered for yourselves the double nature of the Burning-Edged Dusk, scorching its wielders as often as it does their opponents. ¡°The more a scarlet son is tempered, and the stronger the me that does the work, the more they can withstand when their soul invokes their mystery faith. But even then, there is generally a limit.¡± I snapped the fingers that I had been rubbing together, creating a spark that quickly turned to me, spreading down my thirty-second hand and burning cheerfully in the night. ¡°I haven¡¯t suffered a burn since I was a child,¡± I said, shrugging shallowly and staring into the searing lights. The Heroic cultivators and Sol all looked away. It was too bright for them. ¡°In the end, the fire was what I needed. It made me stronger. And I suppose it was my hubris to assume that this was a trait I shared with every man and woman.¡± Try being honest. ¡°The children I grew up with weren¡¯t raised the way that I was,¡± I admitted to the Heroes and to Sol. ¡°All this time, I was certain that that was the reason why they ended up lesser than they could have been. I knew, deep within my heart, that if they had only been raised the way that I was raised, they would have been stronger. Greater. Better. ¡°But while I was under the influence of the Orphic cult¡¯s milk and honey, I saw that ideal image made real. I saw them as I¡¯d always imagined they could be, as men and women I¡¯d be happy to stand beside no matter where we were headed or what stood in our path. I saw them as my equals, in heart and soul.¡± There was something in Sol¡¯s face, something I couldn¡¯t discern. If he had a Hero¡¯s passionatemunication, I might have been able to glean it from his heart. And if I had his empathy, I might have recognized it regardless. But he didn¡¯t, and neither did I. You are a shadow, aren¡¯t you? ¡°They couldn¡¯t stand the sight of me,¡± I whispered. ¡°It was a delusion,¡± Sol said at once. ¡°Nothing real.¡± ¡°Perhaps.¡± The lights of dawn flickered and went out one by one. ¡°Perhaps.¡± We sat in silence, waiting for the waves to bring us home. I sent my pankration hands out to work the oars once again, formless and without heat. The steady sounds of water parting around them beckoned us peacefully to the realm of dreams. A cultivator could do without sleep for a long while, but the past week had been more eventful than most. Eventually, Selene drifted off, sprawling out on the deck with her head on Sol¡¯s thigh as a cushion. The Roman kept on brooding, his eyes half-lidded and distant while the storm rumbled behind them. Thinking about where he was going and how he intended to get there, I imagined. Eventually, my eyes drifted shut too. ¡°Closer to a Scythian than a Greek.¡± My eyes flew open. Scythas stared steadily back at me. The shadows of the night cast by stars made his expression look haunted. ¡°Hm?¡± Sol rumbled, turning his head to regard the Hero. ¡°It¡¯s a Greek saying,¡± I exined, because I could see in his eyes that the Hero expected me to. ¡°Mostmonly spoken in the Hurricane Heights, which are furthest north and closest to thends we just departed. In reference to a Thracian and their culture, despite the fact that they share borders with each of our nations - even so, they¡¯re closer to a Scythian than they are to a Greek.¡± ¡°You can tell when people are lying, or at least you think you can,¡± Scythas continued, not breaking eye contact with me. I nodded shallowly. Now more than ever, that was true. ¡°So can I. Not always, and not in every context. But there is one circumstance where I can always tell.¡± ¡°That being?¡± Sol asked. I didn¡¯t raise my pneuma, and neither did he. If the Hero chose to start a fight here and now, he¡¯d be dooming himself as surely as he¡¯d be dooming us. He was on our ship, and from horizon-to-horizon therey nothing but the open sea. ¡°A name given to a child by their parents, and a name that they¡¯ve chosen for themselves. I can always tell the difference.¡± Sol and I shared a look. ¡°You weren¡¯t born Griffon,¡± Scythas told me. Didn¡¯t ask. His eyes finally shifted away from me, just for a moment. ¡°And you weren¡¯t born Solus.¡± ¡°Griffon is my name.¡± ¡°And Scythas is mine,¡± the Hero agreed. ¡°But we chose those names for ourselves. Tell me I¡¯m wrong.¡± I didn¡¯t. Chapter 1.98 Chapter 1.98 The Young Griffon ¡°You¡¯re a Thracian,¡± Sol said, the pieces falling into ce in his mind as they were in mine. ¡°I was born in Thracia,¡± Scythas corrected him, with the weariness of long practice. ¡°I was raised in the Hurricane Heights. Since the day I stood under my own power, I¡¯ve refined myself in the Greek style. In every way that matters, I am Greek.¡± I began to understand. ¡°And yet.¡± ¡°And yet,¡± Scythas murmured, ¡°To the natural born citizens of the free cities, I am Thracian. I was, I am, and I will always be. The day my father died in Thracia, so long ago that I can¡¯t even remember what he looked like, my mother bundled my newborn brother and I up in our wagon and rode our horse to death trying to reach the free cities. When the horse died she sold the wagon and all of its contents, everything we owned except for the clothes we were wearing and the meat from our horse. And she carried us the rest of the way.¡± ¡°Why?¡± Sol asked. Scythas shrugged. ¡°Prosperity, she told me. A better life. Her health was already at risk back then, having just recently given birth. The journey took most of her health from her, and when we reached thends of northern Greece the squalls took what remained. She worked when she could find work to do, but the kind of work a weak and foreign woman is offered is sparse and often vile. It was difficult. We starved most days. The only reason she fed herself at all was because she knew my brother needed the milk. Once she had weaned him off of it, she hardly ate at all.¡± Scythas sighed and looked up at the heavens. ¡°My soul awoke the day she died. I was still too young to be worth anything as aborer. Seven, maybe eight. I can¡¯t remember. My brother had just learned how to walk. I was too young to be of use in the overturned breadbasket of the Free Mediterranean, but I was old enough to know it. ¡°My mother had always told me to seek the city in the sky, the City of Squalls and its Howling Wind Cult. That was prosperity. That was our salvation. Once every year the elders of the Howling Wind would descend from their airborne city and venture out into the mangled fields that had once served as the free world¡¯s breadbasket, and they would sift through the detritus in search of promising souls. Those they found would be taken back to the city and subjected to the trials that preceded the rites. That was our only chance. ¡°We avoided the winds and lived off of scraps that I could find for us in the dirt until that the time for recruitment came. Men and women in cloth of vibrant green descended from their city, and all but one of them looked past us without hesitation.¡± I scowled. But I wasn¡¯t surprised. The Rosy Dawn turned away far more hopeful Civic cultivators than it admitted. The rest of the greater mystery cults were little different in the end. ¡°We were just skin and bones,¡± Scythas said, and oddly enough, his tone was almost fond as he recalled it. ¡°Filthy and savage, hardly anything at all. Fortunately for us, one of the elders had no interest in leaving the eye of the storm, and was content to take me for no other reason than that my soul was awoken. He even let me bring my brother. For a moment, I thought I¡¯d finally managed to grasp what my mother had been fruitlessly searching for since my father died.¡± ¡°But you failed,¡± I said, because I understood that attending the trials that preceded the rites in a mystery cult was not the same thing as bing an initiate. ¡°I failed,¡± Scythas confirmed. ¡°I was skin and bones, and I had never received a formal education. I had no idea how to cultivate. My first attempt at carving a block of spirit marble with my pneuma was hideous to behold.¡± ¡°What happened then?¡± Sol asked him quietly. ¡°When a hopeful initiate fails, they are encouraged to try again the next year and escorted from the city,¡± Scythas exined. ¡°Another year down in the hurricane wastes would have been a death sentence for my brother and I. Thankfully, apathy saved us once again.¡± It wasn¡¯t funny at all, but I couldn¡¯t help it. I chuckled. ¡°The elder didn¡¯t want to escort you back down.¡± Scythas¡¯ lips twitched at their corners. He shook his head. ¡°Elder Demeas was many things. Dutiful was not one of them. He took one look at me and my brother, both of us in tears - me because I¡¯d failed and my brother because I was crying - and he just¡­ waved us off. He knew we had nothing waiting for us down below, but he didn¡¯t care enough to take us in. So he cast us out into the City of Squalls and told us to begone from his sight until the next year¡¯s recruitment came around. If I was still alive by then, he¡¯d sponsor my next attempt so that he could avoid descending from the city at all.¡± ¡°Kind of him,¡± I mused. ¡°And cruel, as well. A foreigner is only ever wee for their wealth.¡± Scythas snorted. ¡°A lesson I learned quickly.¡± Scythas whistled a soft, errant note, and the winds traveling west along the surface of the Aegean abruptly shifted and whirled up into the Eos¡¯ sail, filling it to its limit and doubling our pace alongside the rowing of my pankration hands. ¡°You made it to the next year¡¯s trial,¡± Sol observed. ¡°Did someone else take you in?¡± ¡°No one.¡± Scythas shook his head. ¡°Just the wind. There was no one in a city of Civic cultivators that would hire on a filthy Thracian street rat, no matter how well I spoke thenguage or how hard I swore to work. So I did the only thing I could do to keep my brother healthy and whole.¡± ¡°No one would give,¡± I mused. ¡°So you took.¡± The light behind the Hero¡¯s eyes flickered, in time with the beating of his heart. Just the slightest bit mischievous. ¡°In their own way, a thief can be a schr of the wind as well. The breeze can mask noise as well as carry it. Carry the smell of a grimy street rat to an unsuspecting merchant¡¯s nose, or otherwise away from it, depending on which direction they approached from. And in the City of Squalls especially, the wind can cut purse strings as well as any knife. ¡°When the initiation trials next came around, I had refined my cultivation several stages and was no longer skin and bones. Elder Demeas was intrigued enough by my progress and healthy appearance to personally advise me in the moments before I carved my spirit marble, and with his wisdom I passed. I gained admittance to the Howling Wind Cult, and in so doing secured a prosperous life for my brother and I. Just like my mother wanted.¡± ¡°If that¡¯s so,¡± Sol said, knowing the false resolution for what it was, ¡°Then why are you here?¡± ¡°As it turned out, the thieving life had done my body and my soul a service,¡± Scythas said, and the levity in his voice ran directly counter to the ck wavering of his heart. ¡°I was no longer skin and bones, and my rapid ascent through the early ranks of the Civic Realm had refined me into something less repulsive to the eye. After I¡¯d had a proper bath and a set of cult robes allotted to me, a few of my fellow junior mystikos even remarked on my appearance.¡± The Hero of the Scything Squall smiled, lovely as any marble beauty. ¡°They said that I looked pretty. Almost like a girl.¡± A lead weight settled in my stomach. ¡°I fell into the daily duties of a junior mystiko without issue. I struggled at first with the mathematical lessons, even with Elder Demeas doing his best to tutor me when he bothered toe out from behind closed doors. Still, I more than made up for it in my martial pursuits. The wind was with me from the start. My seniors said they¡¯d never seen anything like it in someone my age. My peers envied or admired me, more often than not both. ¡°A year passed. Then two. Before I knew it I had be something of a rising star within the Howling Wind Cult. At twelve years old I ascended to the Sophic Realm. It was an achievement worth celebrating, even by the standards of a greater mystery cult. Worthy of an entire day¡¯s celebration, with all of the cult in attendance. At the end of the feast, I was invited to approach the true Eye of the Storm, the kyrios¡¯ own throne, to receive a reward for my efforts from the head of the cult himself. ¡°Naturally, as I had progressed through the Civic Realm, I had further refined my body - and grown older besides. By that point, it had be a running joke among my peers that I was easier on the eyes than any of the cult¡¯s young beauties,¡± Scythas exined, rolling his eyes good-naturedly. I leaned back into the ship¡¯s wooden figurehead, away from the ck thumping of his heart. Sol straightened up from his slouch against the rail. His expression steadily darkening. ¡°As it turned out, the kyrios agreed.¡± ¡°No,¡± I said, unable to believe it. I refused to believe it. ¡°As a reward for my exceptional efforts in refining my soul, I was gifted three y jugs filled to their rims with the Howling Wind¡¯s finest undiluted kykeon, as well as a sack full of spirit olives and a set of silk robes that only senior mystikos had the privilege of wearing. However, to my great fortune, the Tyrant that rose in the Hurricane Hierophant¡¯s absence decided to reward the exceptional refinement of my body with an offer of personal tutge.¡± ¡°What,¡± Sol said tly. That storm was raging in his eyes. ¡°A Thracian boy with nothing to his name but what his cult had given him. How could I have been anything but thankful?¡± Scythas¡¯ smile was an objectively beautiful thing. Yet the longer I looked at it, the more furiously sickened I became. ¡°He took me under his wing, taught me the secrets hidden in the hurricane winds. For the next ten years, I served directly underneath him.¡± Among heaven and earth, there were certain immutable truths. One of them was this. ¡°As his catamite.¡± A Tyrant¡¯s hunger was an insatiable thing. The Hero of the Scything Squall pulled back the veil around his heart, locking eyes with me again. Just long enough for me to feel what he felt. Every oar in the Eos groaned and snapped out of its frame, wrenched to pieces by the clenching of my violent intent. Miraculously, the men of the ship didn¡¯t stir at the mad cascade. For the same reason that the daughter of the Oracle hadn¡¯t once stirred from her slumber since Scythas had spoken up, if I had to guess - the wind had carried the sound of it away at his request. ¡°I¡¯m unfamiliar with the culture in Rome, Solus, so this may sound odd to you,¡± the Hero said to Sol while maintaining eye contact with me. ¡°But in Greece, there is a practice known as pedarasty.¡± ¡°Boy love,¡± Sol echoed, as disgusted as I¡¯d ever seen him. Scythas inclined his head. ¡°A physical union between a man and a boy, with the offer of mentorship often implied. For ten years, this was my arrangement with the kyrios of the Howling Wind Cult. Under him, I grew and climbed the ranks of the Sophic Realm, all the way to the peak that lingers at the edge of mortality - Captain of the Sophic Realm, and only just over twenty years old. A magnificent feat. During that time, my brother grew older and awakened his own soul. Close as the kyrios kept me, it was only a given that my brother would be epted into the cult as well. ¡°Our lives were prosperous. We¡¯d found our salvation,¡± Scythas exined, while his heart bled ck bile over my new sensory perception. I muscled down the urge to gag. ¡°In the end, my brother inherited our mother¡¯s fine features as well.¡± ¡°Son of a bitch,¡± I whispered. I felt ill. ¡°Ten years I suffered his touch.¡± The Hero¡¯s expression cracked, the truth of his heart showing in the gaps between it. His voice hitched, but only for a moment. ¡°And I was content with that. My brother was healthy and whole, thriving as much as any Young Aristocrat - he¡¯d been so young during our starving days that he couldn¡¯t even remember them. That made it worthwhile. As far as I was concerned, that was the scale bnced. ¡°But when the Eye of the Storm turned away from me to look at him, that was a step too far. If heid his hands on my brother as he had on me, then all of it was for nothing. All of it was for nothing. I was defiled for no one. My virtuous heart wouldn¡¯t allow it. ¡°The moment I heard the whispers that the kyrios had offered my brother a private lesson in his own estate, I flew into a rage. I went to his quarters immediately and I told him I would strike him down where he stood if he ever Boy whore. They were nothing new, and because of that they couldn¡¯t hurt me. But when I made him swear our oath on the Styx, made him swear it beneath the view of raging heaven, he went a step further than that. He found the words that could still cut me. ¡°Closer to a Scythian than a Greek.¡± He said it in another man¡¯s voice. One that I hadn¡¯t heard before - the Eye of the Storm¡¯s voice. The kyrios of the Howling Wind Cult. I engraved it in my memory. ¡°He called into question my right to invoke the Styx. He called into question my identity as a Greek, when that was all I¡¯d thought of myself as since the bleakest early days of my life. It surprised me how much it stung.¡± Scythas syed his hands, offering the truth up to me in all its ugly splendor. ¡°When those bees stung me, I dreamt I was a boy again. I dreamt that all the world had been consumed by the hurricane, and all that remained was the Eye of the Storm. I dreamt that I was in his quarters, and felt his hands on my body. I dreamt I was a catamite once more.¡± All at once, the veil mmed down over his heart once more and the Hero sagged back on his rowing bench like he¡¯d just run a hundred marathons. ¡°I wasn¡¯t Scythas when I came to Olympia,¡± he muttered, cradling his head in his hands and rubbing at his temples. ¡°Not until Bakkhos took me into his confidence and shared his story with me. I don¡¯t know how much he knew explicitly, and how much of it was just a feeling. But he¡­ he understood. Not every element of it, maybe, not personally. But he understood. ¡°Everywhere you go, you¡¯ll be the foreigner,¡± Scythas said in Bakkhos¡¯ voice. ¡°ept it now or when you¡¯re dead. That truth will never change.¡± He chuckled faintly. ¡°He was never soft, but he was kind in his own way. He was the one that told me a name chosen was worth just as much as a name received. Sometimes more. He told me I could take a Greek name to rece the Thracian one that my mother gave me. He said it might help, at least in the cities where I wasn¡¯t known.¡± I shook my head, marveling at the audacity of it. ¡°So you chose the most Thracian name that you possibly could, short of Thrascas.¡± Scythas. The Scythian. In every way that mattered, closer to a Scythian than a Greek. Chapter 1.99 Chapter 1.99 The Son of Rome There and back again in just under two weeks. All told, it was one of the faster expeditions I¡¯d been a part of. It had taken us three days to sail around the southern tip of the Peloponnesianndmass where Olympia resided, and north up the full length of the Aegean Sea to the unmarkednds of Thracia. It had taken us four more days and four more nights of horseback riding and chthonic wandering to find our infernal drink and return to the Eos with golden cup in hand. We¡¯d made good time sailing back thus far, despite the added weight of our cargo and the briefplication of Griffon breaking all the oars. By the dawn of our third day back at sea, the coast was on the ship¡¯s starboard side once more. Ourst and maddest night in thend of indefinite boundaries had cut the four of us deeply, but time and the steadypping of the waves had worn the edge of our mania away as surely as a seaside cliff. By the second night, I was able to sleep. As the rosy dawn broke over our third morning back at sea, Selene revealed to us that Griffon wasn¡¯t the only one on board with a sweet singing voice. ¡°Whenever Bakkhoses, Iy my cares to rest,¡± she sang, swinging her legs idly over the deep blue waves of the Ionian. She spoke with a cultivator¡¯s universal tongue, conveying the meaning of the words to every sailor¡¯s ear. The men of the Eos belted out the following verse with bawdy enthusiasm. ¡°Bring me the cup, boy! Oh, bring me the cup!¡± ¡°I dream I¡¯m rich as Croesus, and it makes me want to sing.¡± If Griffon¡¯s voice was wine-dark deep and rolling smoke, then Selene¡¯s was light like honebs and falling snow. More than charming enough to put a smile on every sailor¡¯s face. ¡°Bring me the cup, boy! I said bring me that cup!¡± Griffon and Scythas sat beside the horses at the rear edge of the deck, speaking more cordially than I had ever seen them before. It likely helped that half the Hero¡¯s attention wasmitted to the mare, Kronia. I¡¯d noticed back when he was buying the beasts that Scythas had an eye for horses born of passion. That passion was on full disy now, the Hero¡¯s admiration for the white-haired beast of virtue clear to see. Kronia hadn¡¯t allowed him to touch her at first, perhaps remembering what had happened to thest two horses he¡¯d ridden, but Griffon had convinced her with some cajoling words and a vigorous massage with thirty formless hands. They both poked and prodded at the mare while they discussed the finer mechanics of beast cultivation, searching for changes in her body that hade from the consumption of a higher power. Scythas hadn¡¯t even bothered with As. It was likely for the best. ¡°Ivy-ganded I lie, but through my heart I walk the world.¡± ¡°Bring me the cup, boy! Boy, bring me the cup!¡± For my part, I had taken to passing the time in my usual way. Dice carved from a sea bream¡¯s bones ttered and rolled across the deck. Eight dice in all, every one an octahedron with various number carved into each of their eight faces. They weren¡¯t the prettiest, but I¡¯d been working with substandard materials from the start. And they looked pretty enough when theynded with the numbers I desired. ¡°I win!¡± a wiry pirate boy with vibrant red hair dered gleefully, already groping for the small pile of berries on the deck between us. My hand came down, covering the mound of fruit before he could snatch it away. The boy¡¯s grin immediately turned to a scowl. He scrabbled at my fingers, heaved with all his strength at my hand, but no matter what he did he could not lift my hand from the pile. ¡°Cheater!¡± he used me. ¡°You said the highest number gets the prize!¡± ¡°I did.¡± ¡°And I won!¡± ¡°Did you?¡± The pirate child looked at me like I was simple. ¡°Thirty-one beats thirty.¡± ¡°It does,¡± I agreed. ¡°But thirty beats twenty-nine.¡± ¡°Wha-?¡± I counted off the values of his dice, adding them as I went. ¡°Five, seven, eight, sixteen, twenty, twenty-two, twenty-five, twenty-nine.¡± ¡°Thirty-one!¡± the boy protested, jabbing a grimy finger at thest of the bone dice. ¡°That¡¯s a six! The I goes after the-¡± He blinked, abruptly realizing his mistake. ¡°The I goes before the V,¡± I corrected him, tapping the die in question. ¡°If you look at it so that the Ies after, the V will be upside down. It¡¯s a four, not a six. You lose.¡± The boy slumped, his forehead thumping against the deck. ¡°I¡¯m hungry,¡± he said pitifully. I hummed. ¡°Unfortunate.¡± I popped a raspberry into my mouth and savored its tang. The little pirate spat an oath and pounded his fists against the nks. ¡°Get it ready and I¡¯ll drink: bring me the cup, boy!¡± Selene cheered, and the oarsmen brought the song home. ¡°Bring me the cup, boy! Now bring me that cup!¡± It was only a brief reprieve. We distracted ourselves with pleasant things, got to know the men that had kept the Eos safe in our absence and amused ourselves with dice and fishing and idle talk. But though the passing days had dulled its edge, we still felt the echoes of that night spent in the Orphic House. It haunted each of us in its own way. Griffon had insisted at the beginning of this Thracian venture that we keep going until the ingredients were gathered, but that had been before we¡¯d seen for ourselves what one reagent alone required. If we had any hope at all of finding more, we¡¯d need a light to guide us at the very least. Or, failing that, an old man¡¯s wisdom. It came to us unexpectedly - hours before the Eos would have reached Olympia¡¯s southernmost dock. A wee cry from above heralded the return of my eagle, Sorea¡¯s grand wingspan blotting out the sunlight briefly as he wheeled overhead. Selene jumped off her seat at the starboard rail and waved excitedly up at the bird, calling out his name. I held out an arm and the messenger beastnded gracefully on it, curling his talons around my forearm and squeezing just tight enough not to cut through skin. His form of greeting, I supposed. I offered him a berry from my pile. ¡°I was wondering when you¡¯d make it back. How was your-¡° As groaned and rose up, the muscles beneath his dark nk clenching and spasming around the wounds the gatekeepers and I had given him. His golden eyes red daggers at the bird. After a long beat of silence, unbroken by the sailors that rightfully feared the devastation they could bring down upon a ship, he snorted threateningly. Despite the fact that we were far from the frozennds of Thracia now, the air still left the charger¡¯s nostrils as steam. Scythas watched the stallion warily, ready to bolt out from his immediate reach if necessary. Griffon continued to stroke his mare¡¯s head, ncing between the eagle and the stallion with naked curiosity. Selene, for her part, was too busy rummaging through barrels for scraps to feed Sorea to care. Sorea cocked his head at the grandstanding horse and slowly, with deliberation, lifted his wings. Somehow, I felt like I could almost understand their silent exchange. As screamed a challenge. The oarsmen nearest to him shouted and scrambled away. Disgusting, ugly pheasant! Who gave you permission toy talons on my Roman? Sorea shrieked his own reply. Junior, you dare? He was mine long before he was yours! As dragged a hoof against the deck, carving furrows into the wood. The little morsel is tempting the Fates. Apologize to this stallion a thousand-thousand times and I¡¯ll consider breaking your neck before I eat you. Why did I imagine both of them speaking with Griffon¡¯s voice? Wretched ass, you have much to learn of heaven and earth. Come, let¡¯s exchange discou- ow, fuck! Griffon flinched and recoiled from Selene¡¯s penumbral spear, stabbed cleanly through his shadow. His shaded silhouette withdrew from mine, and the voices of ¡®Sorea¡¯ and ¡®As¡¯ abruptly vanished from my mind. I really should have known better. Virtuous beasts were a natural phenomena well known to any cultivator, though what was known of them was dangerously vague. It was an issue in many ways simr to the delineation of cultivators - it was easy enough to differentiate the Legate from the Consul, the Consul from the Censor, just as it was to separate Philosophers from Heroes, and Heroes from Tyrants. But though it was the case that Caesar and Antony had reigned as Consuls together for a year¡¯s time, they were far from the same political animal. We had stories to roughly outline the scope of what a given animal was capable of bing - tales of the Champion and his beastlybors most prominent among them. But the Nemean Lion was not the rule when it came to a lion with an awakened soul. It was only the standard, just as the Champion himself was the standard for a Heroic cultivator. Not every lion was the Nemean Lion. Not every Hero was the Champion. That variance made them unpredictable. It made them dangerous, in a way a mundane beast was not. A war elephant was a terrifying sight, but it was a force that could be opposed. Through struggle and through wit, with the knowledge that countless men before us had suffered to rue, they could be put down. They were terrifying. But they were a known quantity. A war elephant that had woken its sleeping soul, though? That was an unknown terror. Somehow more primal, in spite of its refinement. I had seen for myself what a virtuous beast was capable of, more than once in the course of my years. I knew that they were capable of incredible things. They were still animals. ¡°y nice,¡± I said, exasperated, and flicked the underside of Sorea¡¯s beak mid-shriek. It snapped shut, choking off the beast¡¯s impressive war cry. His talons dug into the flesh of my arm, threatening to draw blood. I didn¡¯t need Griffon narrating in my head to know that he was offended. As¡¯ lips peeled back from his teeth, and the ck charger whinnied mockingly at my messenger bird. I took one of the bone dice I¡¯d been rolling around in my hand and flicked hard enough across the deck and through his open mouth that I heard the wet ping of it striking the back of his throat. The stallion gagged, steam pouring out of his nostrils and from between his teeth as he choked. The members of the crew watched in mingled horror and relief as the stallion copsed, throat undting as he tried and failing to dislodge the bone die from its obstructing ce. His legsshed out,rge and strong enough to shatter the ship¡¯s wooden benches and break bone if anyone had been close enough to get hit - Scythas dodged with his usual crity and Griffon justid his head against his mare, where As¡¯ hooves miraculously never struck. My horse choked onest time and fell still, his massive head hitting the deck with an echoing thump. The redheaded pirate boy inched towards him, reaching out a wary finger to poke the dead animal¡¯s muzzle. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t,¡± I warned him. One of the sailors lurched forward and grabbed him by the back of his chiton, tossing the boy back across the deck to safety. ¡°Thank you. Now, you,¡± I said, shifting my arm so that Sorea was facing me. ¡°What have you got for me?¡± For the first time in my life, I saw an eagle grimace. By the time Sorea was done vomiting, there were five scrolls of rolled papyrus on the deck of the Eos and even my ¡®dead¡¯ horse had cracked an eye open to stare in abject disgust at the bird. Selene rubbed the bird¡¯s spine, murmuring soothing words to it. ¡°You could let us tie them to your legs,¡± I suggested. ¡°I know you¡¯re strong enough for it.¡± Sorea snapped his beak at me, close enough to my nose to feel the discement of air, and then beat his wings and shot up to the top of the ship¡¯s mast where he settled in to sulk. ¡°I was wondering where the bird went,¡± Griffon mused. ¡°What has he brought us?¡± I had a feeling I already knew, but I cracked each of them open and read the opening lines just to be certain. With each one, the tension in my frame rxed a bit more. By the fifth, I felt a faint smile on my lips. ¡°Replies from our friends,¡± I said, and tossed three of them up into the air. Griffon caught two with pankration hands and the third with palm of flesh and blood. His brow furrowed as he read the first few lines. Abruptly, he unfurled the rest of the scroll and looked at the name signed at the bottom of it. His eyes widened. ¡°Elissa? Why is she-?¡± ¡°I wasn¡¯t just making hidden conversation with Selene while I was writing those letters before,¡± I exined, shrugging. I unfurled one of the two I¡¯d kept for myself, a written in a fine and flowing Greek script that that Babel shard tranted as it hit my eyes. Wee news from Anastasia, for once. ¡°I was writing Jason and Anastasia anyway, so I thought I¡¯d extend an olive branch to the other three.¡± ¡°And they responded.¡± ¡°They did,¡± I agreed. I nced up from Anastasia¡¯s message, eyeing him. For some reason, the Scarlet Son seemed to be almost at a loss. ¡°Sometimes, a no isn¡¯t really a no. Time and space apart to consider can be a more persuasive argument than any rhetoric. I had a feeling they¡¯de around in their own time, in their own ways.¡± I had seen the truth of it when I¡¯d looked around that table, in the aftermath of the story of the Brothers Aetos. Griffon¡¯s three had been shaken, each for their own reasons, and they had wavered. For that precarious moment, they had bnced on the edge of throwing in with us and withdrawing entirely. They had needed a push, not from me, but from him. Unfortunately, he hadn¡¯t been in a proper state of mind to give them one at the time. But they couldn¡¯t stay bnced on the knife¡¯s edge forever. Left to their own devices, they would fall eventually. On one side or the other. I hadn¡¯t known which side that would be, and I hadn¡¯t known if reaching out through Sorea would push them to our side or away from it, or if it would have any effect at all. I¡¯d taken a gamble with stakes that weren¡¯t mine to y. A bad habit. But this time, at least, it had paid off. m. Scythas jumped up in rm a moment before everyone else, rushing to the port side of the ship and nearly flinging himself over the edge entirely as he lunged to grab whatever had hit us. What he pulled from the waves wasn¡¯t a wayward swordfish or a crocodile far from home. It wasn¡¯t a sea creature at all. Scythas heaved the Gadfly up over the ship¡¯s rail and onto the deck, scattering salt water and blood across the wood. I lunged up and briefly saw stars, the wounds from my recent brush with tribtion and the weight on my shoulders nearly buckling my knees. I pushed through it and knelt heavily at the old philosopher¡¯s side while he panted and bled across the deck. ¡°Socrates?¡± I hissed, unsure of where to touch him. His body was a mess of blood and ckened flesh. Griffon slid across the deck in a crouch, kneeling at his other side andying hands of flesh and blood and pankration intent across the old philosopher¡¯s body. The Gadfly grunted and waved a burnt hand at the former Young Aristocrat. ¡°Off.¡± All thirty pankration hands were sted away as if by Scythas¡¯ gale winds. Griffon sneered. ¡°Old man, I¡¯m trying to mend you.¡± ¡°Not yet. Turn this ship around first. Now.¡± ¡°What?¡± Scythas asked, rmed. ¡°Why?¡± ¡°Because all of you except the girl are going to die if you dock it at Olympia.¡± ¡°What?¡± Selene hissed, the scarlet mes behind her eyes ring up. ¡°Why!? What¡¯s going on-¡° Socratesshed out with an arm nearly as ck as coal, long fracturing lines cracking the skin apart, and grabbed Selene by her sunray silks. She yelped as he yanked her down, baring his teeth furiously. ¡°Because you didn¡¯t listen. Because three days ago you died, and Old Polyzalus came howling for my head. Your father has left his domain, girl. Nowhere in Olympia is safe for these men. Nowhere.¡± His eyes were ssy. He had Selene¡¯s face nearly pressed to his, but he wasn¡¯t really looking at her. Could he see her at all? Could he see anything at all? ¡°How did you find us?¡± I asked him urgently, as the energy slowly but surely slipped out of him. His grip ckened and fell away, releasing Selene and allowing her to draw back. ¡°¨¢tta did this to you?¡± the daughter of the Oracle whispered, horrified. ¡°Socrates! How did you find us?¡± ¡°Followed your bird,¡± the Schr muttered. His sun-blinded eyes drifted shut. ¡°Turn the ship around¡­¡± ¡°Socrates? Socrates?¡± I pped him in the face, but the old man didn¡¯t respond. ¡°Griffon!¡± Thirty pankration hands and two of flesh and blood settled over the old man¡¯s burnt and battered body. Within moments, the Scarlet Son snarled a curse and pulled back. ¡°This is beyond me. Son of a bitch.¡± ¡°Do any of you know anything of medicine? Anyone?¡± I cast around, but found no salvation among the sailors. Scythas shook his head silently, eyes darting up and down the philosopher¡¯s mangled frame. I looked to Selene. ¡°Honey,¡± she whispered in a choked voice. ¡°I have honey.¡± ¡°Will it be enough?¡± Steam drifted up from the corners of her eyes. ¡°No.¡± ¡°Sorea!¡± I snapped. The eaglended on a bench beside the Gadfly, looking down at in a brief, distantly curious sort of way, before turning expectantly to regard me. ¡°Can you get me Anastasia?¡± Somehow, I knew he was offended that I¡¯d even had to ask. ¡°Go. Now!¡± The virtuous beast spread his wings wide and surged up into the sky, rocking the Eos with the force of his departure. He left us with a parting shriek that I chose to interpret as assurance. He¡¯d find her, and he¡¯d bring her to us. There was no other way. ¡°What do you think you¡¯re doing?¡± Griffon snapped, and I turned to see two of the oarsmen freeze, halfway across the deck. Halfway across to the opposite benches, where two men already sat manning their oars. ¡°We-¡° The first to speak hesitated. The second finished. ¡°We¡¯re going to help them correct on their side. It¡¯ll turn us faster-¡° ¡°We¡¯re not turning around,¡± I dered. Further down the line of benches, another man protested. ¡°But the man said-¡° I rose. The deck groaned beneath my feet. Every freedman fell silent, staring at me in naked trepidation. ¡°This man is my mentor,¡± I told them, lining every word with steel. ¡°He is my mentor, as he was the mentor of my mentor¡¯s mentor. My actions brought this harm to him, so it will have to be my actions that see it delivered from him. There is a physician in Olympia that can mend him. We are not turning around.¡± ¡°Solus,¡± Scythas said quietly,ying a hesitant hand on my shoulder. ¡°There are physicians in other cities. If Griffon mans the oars and I fill the sails with wind, we can be at Krokos by dusk-¡° ¡°No,¡± I said, just as quietly. ¡°Look at him, Scythas. Do you think he¡¯llst long enough for us to find another Anastasia?¡± Burning hazel eyes met mine, searching. Whatever Scythas found in my eyes, it was enough. He nodded shallowly. ¡°Row.¡± Imanded the crew. Nine men and one pirate boy heaved against their oars, shouting in unified effort. An inexplicably kind wind began to fill the sails, rising in tandem with the Hero¡¯s pneuma. Selene and Griffon were still knelt at the old philosopher¡¯s side, spreading honey over his wounds from a beehive that she¡¯d pulled out of her silks. ¡°Old ¡®Zalus thinks we killed his daughter,¡± Scythas told me in grim resignation while the Eos picked up speed. ¡°If he did this to the Gadfly¡­ when he finds us, he¡¯ll burn us all to cinders before we can exin a word.¡± Griffon looked up from his healing work, scarlet eyes alight with wrath. ¡°He¡¯ll try.¡± Heat and cinders smoldered up from underneath the deck. Chapter 1.100 [Nikolas Aetos] Chapter 1.100 [Niks Aetos] The Stark de, Niks Aetos Don¡¯te back. Not until you¡¯ve found something worth sharing - a wife,panions. Your passion. Niko¡¯spanions had harbored their fair share of doubts and misgivings leading up to the wedding, his wife included among them. They had readied themselves for a fight, gathered up any material advantage they could get their hands on, steeled their hearts and grit their teeth as the Eos braved the Ionian Sea again for the first time in years. And why not? Even Nikohad harbored his concerns - and the Scarlet City had treated him well. There was just something about sailing into the setting sun, further west than any civilized Greek cared to go, and knowing that Damon Aetos was waiting for you on that distant shore. Mortal or Heroic, the prospect unsettled. But Niko was blessed in more ways than one, and the friends he¡¯d made were true. They followed him in spite of their misgivings, and Iphys acquiesced to his destination wedding in the end. When all was said and done, the surprise wasn¡¯t that things had ended in disaster. It was how they¡¯d fallen apart. And because of whom. In some ways, it was easier to take the measure of a man by observing the world in his absence. The days passed agonizingly slow. The Olympic Games were most of half a year away when Niko and Iphys exchanged their marital rings. Now, there were hardly more than three. Some days it was like he had never left. The sheets on his bed were the same, the gymnasium was just as rowdy as he remembered it, and the baths were somehow still upied by the same old men no matter what time of day or night it happened to be. Their evening meals tasted just how he remembered them. He could still name almost every ve and mystiko in the estates. He memorized the new arrivals in the first week. But other days, it was ringly apparent that the Rosy Dawn that Lio had left was not the same Rosy Dawn that Niko remembered. ¡°Niko!¡± Thaum heaved an exasperated sigh, but he sheathed his borrowed sword obligingly and stepped back from their afternoon discourse. One of therger members of their group, and by far the most restless, the fourth rank Hero had taken to the de in an effort to pass the time. It wasn¡¯t his preferred weapon, which made it fair to challenge anyone and everyone that wore the Rosy Dawn¡¯s attire. ording to him, anyway. Niko inclined his head and extended his own de in mock salute. The burly Hero waved him off. ¡°Go on, then. I¡¯ll see if anyone is up for a round in the gym.¡± ¡°Easy,¡± Niko chided him. ¡°The only people on your level here are us and my aunts and uncles. You¡¯ll scare everyone off if you keep it up.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t want to hear that from you,¡± Thaum said, looking pointedly over Niko¡®s shoulder at the boy sprinting their way. Myron still had bruises. ¡°Cousin,¡± Niko greeted the boy as he skidded across the frozen surface of a river that had been flowing freely only a couple hours ago. ¡°Is now a good time?¡± the ten year old asked between panting breaths, his hands on his knees. Knowing him, he had sprinted all the way down the eastern mountain range to get there. Blue eyes darted furtively to Thaum¡¯s retreating back. Niko smiled and ruffled his cousin¡¯s hair. ¡°I always have time for my cute little cousins.¡± Myron huffed and smacked his hand away. ¡°I¡¯m not cute,¡± he denied cutely. He stood up straight and puffed out his chest. At his tallest, the crown of his head could just barely brush the underside of Niko¡®s chest. A difference of five or six hands. ¡°You¡¯re adorable,¡± Niko said frankly. His cousin scowled. ¡°If your mother wasn¡¯t so fierce, I¡¯d worry for your purity around the cult¡¯s senior sisters. I bet they offer to trade pointers with you day and night.¡± ¡°How did you-?¡± Myron shook his head, dashing the tangent from the air. A seriousness overtook him, entirely out of ce on his cherubic face. ¡°Enough. I¡¯m ready for the next lesson.¡± Niko sighed and sat down on the surface of the frozenke. His youngest cousin mirrored him, legs crossed and back straight. ¡°You couldn¡¯t have possibly mastered it that quick,¡± he said, though he had learned in the past few months not to doubt the absurd things his cousins told him. ¡°It took me months to form the first one. Don¡¯t tell me you¡¯ve been staying up through the night again.¡± ¡°Okay. I won¡¯t tell you.¡± ¡°Cheeky little brat. Show me, then.¡± Myron nodded sharply and closed his eyes, a portion of his body rxing while his pneuma rose in a smooth sublimation. It was a warm afternoon, and the early signs of spring were in the air. Niko had forgone the scarlet silks of the Rosy Dawn¡¯s Young Aristocrat and instead ventured out in the bronze armor and leathers that had be far more familiar to him in his years spent abroad. A scarlet scarf was the least of what he could get away with to mark his status, and so it was all that he wore. Myron, for his part, wore the white silks and intricate scarlet trimming of a senior member of the cult, though they were ragged and rumpled. Clearly past due for a cleaning. Niko wondered how long it had been since his cousin had taken a bath. For that matter, he wondered how long it had been since he¡¯d eaten or spoken to his parents. Thest time he had slept. The ten year old inhaled a slow, deep breath, and held it. And held it. Then he opened his eyes, and without exhaling that first breath, he took in a second one. An impossible feat. The lungs could only take in so much air at a time, after all. But in this case, that first breath hadn¡¯t stopped at the lungs. Niko¡®s cousin hadn¡¯t known what the hunting bird¡¯s breath was only a few short weeks ago. And already he had formed a pneumatic chamber within his body. ¡°How long can you hold it for?¡± he asked, leaning forward. ¡°As long as I want.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t have to exaggerate, cousin,¡± he told the boy, rapping his knuckles against his forehead. ¡°It¡¯s impressive enough that you managed it at all. Being able to speak while you maintain it is the next step and you¡¯ve already conquered that too. You have nothing to be ashamed of. Just be honest with me.¡± ¡°I am being honest,¡± Myron insisted. ¡°Is that so?¡± Well, he supposed he hadn¡¯t been much better at that age. Young and eager to please, even more eager to prove himself. It wouldn¡¯t hurt to humor him. ¡°Enlighten this lowly sophist, then. Why didn¡¯t you maintain it on your way here?¡± The hunting bird¡¯s breath was a maniption of pneuma in its most primal, basic state; it was a breathing technique that allowed a cultivator to store their breath¡®s vital essence in a chamber within their body like an eagle. By hollowing out portions of their body, they could use that extra space to store an extra breath, or two, or three, and so on. Each breath was fuel for an application of virtue. Each breath was vitality in its purest form. If a cultivator with no pneumatic chambers could cast ance of fire and light from their palm with the vitality of a single breath, then a cultivator with eight chambers could cast ninences of fire and light in the same brief moment - one from the lungs as the first cultivator had, and one from every pneumatic chamber simultaneously. The hunting bird¡¯s breath was a breathing technique that had been in the Aetos family for as long as they¡¯d had their name. Every scarlet son to bear the eagle¡¯s name had learned it from their father, who had learned it from his father, who in turn had learned it from his father, all in an unbroken chain spanning back to the first and oldest ancestor. Except. Somehow, where Niko had been given this ancestral birthright, his cousins had been denied it. Somehow, Myron had never heard of the hunting bird¡¯s breath before Niko had mentioned it in passing weeks ago. Despite the fact that Myron¡®s father, Niko¡¯s Uncle Stavros, had been the one to hand it down to him. It didn¡¯t make any sense. It wasn¡¯t the only thing that didn¡¯t. ¡°It isn¡¯t enough to maintain the chamber while at rest,¡± he exined for his cousin¡¯s benefit, because although it was a fundamental aspect of the breathing technique, the boy apparently had no one but Niko willing to inform him of it. ¡°You have to be able to control it under duress. The same way you learned to control your breathing in the octagon, or on a marathon run - only now you have to learn how to do it twice. Like you have another set of lungs. When you sleep, when you run, when you speak. If you don¡¯t maintain it, it will copse. And the moment when you¡¯ll need it, without fail, will be the moment that it¡¯s the hardest to maintain it - and if you lose your grip in a fight, you¡¯ll be fortunate if you live to regret it.¡± The hunting bird¡¯s breath was one of the most versatile pneumatic techniques in the world. It was also one of the most difficult to maintain. Years ago, Uncle Stavros had informed him in a voice of fondly remembered suffering that it had taken him almost a year to fully internalize his first pneumatic chamber. It had taken Niko months to fully master his first, and every step along the way had been an infuriating struggle. So why did his littlest cousin look so smug? ¡°I know all that already.¡± Myron exhaled, his pneuma flowing out in a wave as his lungs emptied. He exhaled a second time, draining his pneumatic chamber as well. ¡°That¡¯s why I didn¡¯te looking for you until I could maintain two.¡± And he exhaled a third time without inhaling, pneuma pouring out of a second internal chamber. Niko stared. ¡°I wanted to make sure I had the trick of it, so I went to the gymnasium first,¡± his youngest cousin exined, pride overtaking Myron¡¯s usual somber seriousness as he flexed a bicep and smacked it. ¡°I kept one chamber filled in reserve, and waited until the end of myst fight to drain the other one.¡± It was a warm spring day and yet they were sitting on the surface of a frozen river. Somehow, that was only the second most absurd thing about the conversation. ¡°Myron,¡± Niko said faintly, raising one hand and cradling his head in the other. ¡°You promise me you¡¯ve never used this technique before?¡± The boy tilted his head, confused. ¡°Why would I lie?¡± Right. Two chambers in less than a month. Two chambers hollowed out of his body by his own intent. Two channels carved through his bones to connect the chambers to his lungs. The pain he had to have endured, pain that his father had spread out over the course of a year - pain that Niko himself had diluted over the course of months and still remembered the bite of. He had condensed that pain into scant weeks, and he had done it twice. Five years ago, his youngest cousin hadn¡¯t even awoken to his ce in the world. He wasn¡¯t even a cultivator. Now here he was. At the eighth rank of the Civic realm, and growing faster than a weed. ¡°How many times did you lose your grip on it in the gymnasium?¡± he asked, because no matter how miraculous the boy was, no one was perfect. ¡°Maybe a dozen,¡± Myron answered readily. ¡°The first time was bad. I had to skip dinner because I couldn¡¯t stop coughing blood and I knew mom would have my head if she saw it. The second time was worse, but the rest after that were only partial slips.¡± ¡°Twice,¡± Niko echoed. In the end, he couldn¡¯t even be mad. It was his fault for not keeping a closer eye on his cousin. Still. ¡°Why didn¡¯t youe to me after the first slip? Why didn¡¯t youe to me after the second?¡± Myron looked utterly confused. ¡°Why would I? I knew what I had to do.¡± He was too young to be this way. ¡°You hurt yourself,¡± Niko pointed out. ¡°At the very least, you could have told me that. We could have gone over the technique again. I could have helped you. If I had known you were already that far along, I would have told you to slow down. This process is easier if you give your body time to adjust to it.¡± ¡°Why would I want it to be easy?¡± Myron asked. Ah. ¡°Right or wrong, fast or slow, easy or difficult.¡± The boy ticked off a finger for each category. ¡°If I can do it right, and I can do it fast, why should anything else matter?¡± ¡°You carved away pieces of your body to make those chambers,¡± Niko said quietly, as if the boy didn¡¯t already know. Heid a hand on his cousin¡¯s shoulder and squeezed it. ¡°Wasn¡¯t it painful?¡± ¡°It was.¡± Matter of fact, like he was observing the weather. ¡°Cultivation doesn¡¯t have to be painful, cousin,¡± Niko informed him kindly. Only ten years old. Not a hint of stubble on his chin. He was too young to be treating his body like a practice de. ¡°We temper our bodies, yes, but gradually. ¡°A scarlet son has to be able to withstand incredible heat to call upon our foundational virtue - as I am now, I can stand in the center of a bonfire and not shed a drop of sweat. But I reached that level of resistance over time. I didn¡¯t go plunging into an open me on my very first day.¡± ¡°Lio did.¡± It had been five years since Niko left the Scarlet City. In those five years, Lio Aetos had changed. It was only in his absence that Niko was beginning to understand just how severely. In the marks that he had left behind. ¡°So what¡¯s next?¡± Myron pressed. Lio had changed. And he had changed their cousins just the same. Chapter 1.101 Chapter 1.101 The Young Griffon Sorea returned before the sun fell, wheeling above the coastline off our starboard side. The virtuous beast shrieked once to make sure he had our attention and then dipped, diving back over the seaside hills and vanishing from our sight. ¡°Stop,¡± Solmanded, and every oar froze. Scythas¡¯ favorable winds went out of the Eos¡¯ sail like a hitching of breath. Our humble sea dogs awaited their orders with grim resolve. ¡°We¡¯re getting off here.¡± ¡°We can¡¯t leave the ship!¡± one of the men protested. ¡°Of course not,¡± I agreed. Several ragged sailors twisted and swiveled on their benches to regard me, opposite the ship from Sol. Beneath my healing hands, the Gadfly¡¯s chest rose and fell - shallow, and slow. ¡°We¡¯re getting off here. The ten of you are sailing this beautiful vessel to kinder waters.¡± ¡°But, ?ib¨´t?-¡° ¡°We can¡¯t-¡° ¡°Enough of barking dogs.¡± Unfortunately, I didn¡¯t have a hand to spare towards waving them off. The old philosopher¡¯s body was a nightmare mess of burns and ckened flesh. The Oracle¡¯s daughter had brought honey from beyond the border of life and death, but its chthonic nature did not make it all-healing. We applied it anyway, and since then I had focused on doing what I could with what Anastasia had taught me. It wasn¡¯t enough. Not nearly. My eyes narrowed, looking but not focusing at what was in front of me, while I traced my pneuma¡¯s path through the old man¡¯s mangled body. ¡°Sail to another city,¡± Sol said, taking back their attention as he forced himself to his feet. ¡°North or south. It doesn¡¯t matter, so long as you aren¡¯t here.¡± The ship dipped and listed to the side at the shifting of his weight. For as long as I had known the Roman, he had lived his life as if with a yoke across his shoulders. That demeanor hadn¡¯t changed when he shed his ve chains. It was a portion of what had convinced ourpanions of his ¡®high¡¯ standing. And now, it was as much literal as it was metaphorical. When he stood, the ship moved as if a far greater weight had shifted in its ce, because a far greater weight had. The Roman¡¯s shoulders tensed, and the muscles up and down his body flexed with the effort. Rising against a pressure that sought to press him down. ¡°Sir,¡± one of the men spoke furtively. He had an odd ent, Anatolian maybe. ¡°What if you need a ship again? If your need is urgent, surely we¡¯d be better suited pulling her ashore here?¡± ¡°No.¡± Sol¡¯s voice was t. Not dangerous, but with a promise of danger should he be disobeyed. Across the deck, behind me, As rose to his feet to match his rider. The ck stallion loomed over the men. ¡°If our need is urgent, it means we¡¯ve been found. You¡¯ll be wiped out in an instant.¡± ¡°We can hide her in in sight,¡± another sea dog suggested, with light brown hair sheared in rough patches from his skull and cheeks, leaving a bristling beard and mustache to grow freely. ¡°Tear down her sails and bring her in at night.¡± ¡°I know a crone at the docks ¡®makes paint,¡± another dog entreated the Roman. ¡°We¡¯ll give her a fresh coat, make her look brand new. We¡¯ll park her in one of the gorgon¡¯s breakers, no one¡¯ll be the wiser-¡° ¡°Dozens of people saw us board this ship justst week,¡± Scythas said tly. The sea dogs shared looks of a particr kind. ¡°Honored Hero,¡± one spoke, with careful respect. ¡°Cultivators and fishmongers¡­ they live in different worlds-¡° Scythas cut him off. ¡°If a Tyrant is asking, they will remember. They will talk. And you will be found.¡± ¡°If we-¡° ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter how well you disguise the ship,¡± Sol said, shaking his head and turning to the rail. He lifted a foot with some effort and braced it on the rail. The wood groaned. ¡°Sorea will find you if we need you. If he does, follow him. He¡¯ll lead you back to us.¡± His words brooked no further argument. His tone dared any man to defy his judgement. ¡°What if the bird¡¯s not fast enough? What if it¡¯s dead, and the Tyrant finds you?¡± The mongrel pirate boy red up at Sol. In Kabhur¡¯s absence, he had taken up one of the oars as best he could. His face was nearly as red as his hair. ¡°How will we know?¡± ¡°If our need is that urgent, it¡¯s better you don¡¯t know,¡± the Roman said frankly. ¡°If Polyzalus finds us, he¡¯ll burn the entire dock city to cinders - all of you included. Even the best ship is only wood and cloth in the end.¡± The Eos dipped precariously as Sol stepped up onto the rail, the figurehead woman nearly kissing the surface of the waves, and then rocked back up as he stepped off into the sea. The sound of his impact was deeper than it should have been, like someone had dropped a boulder instead of a man off the side of the deck. Scythas followed close behind him, vaulting the rail and slipping soundlessly into the sea. ¡°I¡¯ll bring him,¡± I informed the daughter of the Oracle, still hovering over the Gadfly. Her scarlet eyes flickered, along with her heart, but she nodded and dove over the side as well. Lifting the Gadfly gently with the hands of my intent, I looked over our sea dogs. They were conflicted, I could tell. Half a step from anguish. ¡°Arrogant dogs,¡± I scoffed. A few of them flinched. The pirate child clenched his fists, ring mutinously. ¡°We¡¯ll be fine without you. Consider this your ounts settled, and thest offer you¡¯ll get from either one of us - take your freedom and go. The old man was wise enough to return home the second time we told him. Follow his example. Live.¡± I paused at the rail, considering our beasts. As was standing stock still on the deck, eyes riveted on the waves between us and the shore. For a horse, he was rather expressive. I could see his mood getting darker by the second. His chest expanded and contracted feverishly, nostrils ring and shooting steam. ¡°Drop the horses off by Krokos,¡± I decided. ¡°They¡¯ll find their way from there.¡± Then I stepped over the rail and into the sea with the Gadfly in tow. I swam to shore swiftly, the Gadfly¡¯s unconscious body bobbing on a raft of pankration hands behind me lest the salt water further irritate his burns. Somehow, I wasn¡¯t thest one to reach the beach. Scythas was pacing the sands while Selene sat with her knees tucked up to her chest, both of them watching the waves between us and the distant Eos with mounting concern. Just as Scythas seemed ready to go diving back in after him, the man in question came trudging out of the waves. Walking. He was too heavy to swim. Sol stalked past the Gadfly and I, the sunset rays above casting his shadow briefly across mine. I frowned faintly. ¡°Surely the legions taught you how to swim,¡± I said after a beat. He gave me an ugly look and carried on. Sorea called out to us. Over the hills, but close enough. ¡°Alright.¡± Sol ran a hand through sea-soaked ck hair, slicking it back. ¡°Let¡¯s fix this.¡± As an initiate of the Rosy Dawn, I had seen more than my fair share of heinous burns - and suffered them just the same. I knew the scouring agony as well as I knew my name, and I had seen men die despite the best efforts of seasoned physicians because the fire had simply taken too much from them. In the end, some burns healed and others could be mended with ointments and good fortune. But not burns like these. We found Anastasia in a shadowed copse of firs, her eyes riveted on the skies above where Sorea was circling. She was whistling softly, an unassuming reply to each of the eagle¡¯s cries, and her cultivator¡¯s sense brushed against mine nearly before I¡¯d noticed her. Her eyes swiveled to us at once, curious and bright burning green. ¡°Griffon? What¡¯s this-?¡± The acid burning waves of her influence brushed over the Gadfly¡¯s body behind me, and her eyes red in the dark ofing dusk. A momentter, she was behind me. ¡°Easy!¡± Scythas hissed, casting around with every sense avable to him. We were far enough from the city of Olympia that I couldn¡¯t sense anything of it, but that didn¡¯t necessarily mean no one there could sense us. A Tyrant¡¯s reach was long. In most cases, anyway. ¡°This is Socrates?¡± Anastasia asked. The damage was severe enough that it warranted question. I nodded, and she joined her hands to the mending effort. Immediately, she winced. ¡°I heard the rumors, but this¡­¡± I blinked, looking up from my work. ¡°Rumors?¡± ¡°Can you heal him?¡± Scythas asked the Caustic Queen, tense but hopeful. ¡°If it were anyone else, I¡¯d say it was impossible,¡± she said, kneeling in the dirt and pulling from a fold in her onyx silks the tools of her trade. Delicate surgical knives, one after another, that she handed off to my pankration hands with careful deliberation. ¡°Burns like these should have killed him on the spot. But if the rumors are true, and it seems like they are, then he¡¯s survived them for days. If it¡¯s the Gadfly¡­ perhaps.¡± ¡°What rumors?¡± I asked her again. Anastasia frowned. ¡°These rumors.¡± She nodded down at the charred old man, passing my healing hands thest of her surgical des andying her palms over his heart and his forehead respectively. ¡°Rumors that the Tyrant Polyzalus and the Gadfly had a spat, and nearly burnt down the Scarlet City¡¯s portion of the Raging Heaven estates in the process.¡± ¡°How could this have been a mere rumor?¡± I pressed, with growing suspicion. ¡°How is the entire city not in mes?¡± Anastasia nced up at me with hooded eyes, distant in their calctions. ¡°Why would it be?¡± I felt the wrath build in the beating of my heart. The old man was a liar. ¡°How do we fix this?¡± I asked my mentor in mending, forcing my fury aside. ¡°Hecks the healthy skin for a graft, and the damage is too severe for anything else. Enlighten this lowly sophist - if not by balm, and neither by excision, how do we heal this man?¡± ¡°For this, excision is the only way,¡± she said, and drew her own surgical knife carefully through a cked patch of skin. I watched her intently, and then mirrored the motion with each of the pankration hands she had armed with feather-thin obsidian des. ¡°A donation will be required.¡± Ament about Scythas¡¯ skin being far too smooth for the Gadfly¡¯s weathered body was on the tip of my tongue before I consciously realized it. I swallowed it down. The taste of it was sickening. ¡°If I must,¡± I said instead. But the Heroine only sighed and shook her head. Anastasia reached back into the fold in logic within her onyx attire, and spoke a solemn oath. ¡°First, do no harm.¡± And from that paradox logic, she pulled a corpse out of her robes. Scythas cursed and lurched away from the body. I stared down at it. A man, shriveled and hunched in death - at a nce, old enough to be the Gadfly¡¯s same age, though cultivation made it so he could have been centuries older or younger for all my eyes knew. Iid a hand of my own flesh and blood over his heart, coaxing my pneuma through the corpse. Seventy-eight years old. I found the cause of death soon after. Ack of breath - the source, hemlock poisoning. ¡°Are you ready to learn?¡± Anastasia asked me, intent in a mountain cat¡¯s way. Ready to fight. All the world a tarnished iron. ¡°Always,¡± I said, and turned my des upon the corpse. The work was done when the Gadfly finally came to. It was night, and the stars were bright above the forest of firs. It was pleasantly cool, even by a mortal¡¯s standards. A far cry from the frigid chill of northern Thracia. Socrates returned to the world of the living reluctantly. As soon as his eyes cracked open, he scowled and sat up. ¡°Don¡¯t,¡± Anastasia ordered,ying both hands carefully on his bandaged shoulders. The old philosopher grunted and shrugged her off like she was the gadfly instead of him. ¡°I¡¯m fine, girl.¡± He rolled his shoulders, and flexed his fingers and toes, grimacing as he observed our work. Our robes were stained by his blood and the streaks of char his ckened flesh had left behind. The old man, by contrast, was wrapped up nearly head to toe in linens. Like an Egyptian corpse. Socrates peeled back one of the bandages, ignoring Anastasia¡¯s exasperation. His eyes narrowed. ¡°Whose skin is this?¡± ¡°Yours, now,¡± Scythas answered, peering down at us from the tallest tree in the grove. In the night, his eyes looked like a pair of distants. The Gadfly sneered and dug a finger into the gastro thread we¡¯d used to sew the grafted skin in ce. He made to pry it out. I struck him with the truth of my lived experience- A Titan is to an Olympian what an Olympian is to a Man. The oldest generation takes the youngest generation in their hands. You are torn apart, limb by limb, before you speak your first word. You scream in a voice so loud that their ears bleed and the heavens shake in their frame, but it is not enough to rouse your murdered mother. It is not enough to stir The Mother''s wrathful heart. The Titans consume you one limb at a time. They bite into your organs and split them like overripe fruit. They crack your bones open and suck out the marrow therein. They crush to pulp the lungs in your chest to silence your wailing. -and then I punched him in the mouth. Socrates¡¯ back hit the dirt. I had only a split second to savor the stinging pain in my knuckles before the thousand-thousand whispering truths of his rhetoric surged and heshed out at me with a donkey kick. I mmed through the trunks of four separate firs and toppled every one of them before my momentum bled enough for the fifth one to catch my weight. Linen-wrapped legs appeared in my hazy vision, a raw red hand fisting through my hair. The Gadfly pulled me up to eye level, as irritated as he ever was. Even in the haze of my double vision, I could see the blood from his split lip. I smirked faintly. ¡°What was that?¡± the Gadfly demanded furiously, acting for all the world like he hadn¡¯t been on death¡¯s door just a few hours ago. ¡°If I attack you with reason you¡¯ll just brush me off, because reason is your trade,¡± I exined, kneading with pankration hands at the spot on my hip where he¡¯d kicked me. The bone was cracked but not broken. ¡°But if I inundate you with mania, even the great Socrates must take a moment to separate himself from the madness. At least until you¡¯ve built up a tolerance to it - like a cup of wine. Isn¡¯t that so?¡± Bakkhos had peddled in madness. Because of its very nature, it was difficult to picture an ability like that in your mind. The elements were simply inparison - fire blinded and burnt, and could be made by any mortal man. The wind, while invisible to the eye, could be heard and felt within and without. But what of madness? How could thete kyrios of the Raging Heaven have struck out with madness in the same way that I struck out with the hands of my violent intent? How could he have scoured his enemies with madness the same way I did with me? It was exceedingly difficult to intuit. But I was beginning to understand. ¡°You¡¯re a pest,¡± the Schr rendered judgement upon me. ¡°And you¡¯re a liar,¡± I responded in kind. ¡°I¡¯m a liar?¡± ¡°¡®Polyzalus has left his domain. Nowhere in Olympia is safe.¡¯¡± I repeated his delirious words from before, mocking him even as he threw me to the ground. I caught myself with pankration hands and rose. ¡°You made us think he was on the warpath. You made us think he wasing for us. You lied.¡± ¡°He did leave his domain, when the girl¡¯s statue first broke apart. He came after me, and he put me through my paces. And I had little choice but to suffer it, because in my old age I was foolish enough to assure him his daughter wouldn¡¯te to harm with the two of you around her. Every word I said was true enough. None of it was a lie.¡± The Gadfly crossed his bandaged arms over his bandaged chest and sneered at me. ¡°Is that sort of truth not good enough for you, boy?¡± These hands of mine had made him whole. They could take him apart again just as well. ¡°You¡¯re going to pull the grafts out of your body if you don¡¯t rest,¡± Anastasia warned the philosopher, though she maintained a safe distance from him as she paced through the wreckage left in my passing to kneel beside me. Searing heat wound through my body, coalescing in my hip where the Gadfly had struck me. Distantly, as if an afterthought, she said to me, ¡°You dug out new channels while you were gone.¡± I traced the paths left behind by the starlight marrow months ago and realized she was right. They had changed again. They were further linked, now, every strand connected. A more refinedwork. A wheel. ¡°I stretched the truth, I¡¯ll give you that much,¡± the Gadfly admitted, settling into a cross-legged seating position across from me and rubbing irritably at the bandages on his thighs. He didn¡¯t tear them off, though. ¡°But tell me this - has the girl gone running back to her father?¡± ¡°She has,¡± Scythas answered, a whisper that all of us heard despite the fact that he was still up in his distant tree. ¡°Then all is well. The girl is stubborn and foolish, and stronger than she has any right to be thanks to the meddling of old men, but she¡¯s still a girl. My wounds frightened her, and the thought of what her father would do to any of you if he got his hands on you frightened her more. She¡¯d have dug her heels into the earth and fought me every step of the way if I tried to drag her back to her father the honest way, but like this, she¡¯ll return to him herself.¡± ¡°You convinced Old ¡®Zalus to wait,¡± I said, knowing in my gut that it was true. ¡°He burnt you, but he didn¡¯t kill you. And he didn¡¯t leave the mountain. Just his room.¡± Socrates shrugged. ¡°Even that much was a torment for him. He hates to leave his wife unattended.¡± ¡°You knew we wouldn¡¯t turn the ship around,¡± I continued. ¡°I hoped you would.¡± I scoffed. ¡°You yed us.¡± ¡°Sometimes, even if a child knows that a thing is just and correct, they won¡¯t do it unless they believe it was their idea to do it first.¡± The Gadfly had led us to believe that all of Olympia was a danger above any other, that a wrathful Tyrant could be hiding behind every corner. He had made us believe that none of us were safe from Polyzalus - and by association, none of the people we had associated with up until now in the city of Olympia. Anyone that we had spoken to that could feasibly be used to find us. And in so doing, he had made a mistake. ¡°You¡¯ve erred, wise man.¡± ¡°Is that so?¡± the Gadfly waved a hand. ¡°Enlighten me.¡± ¡°You¡¯ve made an assumption that, in fairness, greater men than you have made. But just because you¡¯re in esteemedpany doesn¡¯t make you any less wrong.¡± ¡°And what assumption is that?¡± I leaned forward. ¡°You assumed that I was the mad one of the two of us.¡± I watched his brow furrow, his lips pull down into a frown. To his credit, it was only a brief moment of confusion that preceded realization. The Schr rose abruptly to his feet. ¡°Where is the boy?¡± I pped with hands of flesh and blood, and when that wasn¡¯t enough I pped with thirty more of my intent. ¡°You yed us like a lyre, old man,¡± I praised him, while understanding slowly dawned on Anastasia¡¯s face. She had been wondering about Sol¡¯s absence, but she hadn¡¯t taken the further step to ask about it until now. ¡°You put on such a show, put such a horrifying image of a mourning father¡¯s wrath in our heads, we couldn¡¯t help but believe you. Selene was so distraught at the idea of her father doing to another innocent what he had done to you that she went straight home.¡± The Gadfly¡¯s pneuma rose. I smiled mercilessly in the face of his panic and his rage, returning it with my own. The waves of our influence mmed together and roared like tidal waves. ¡°Sol was mad enough to me himself for allowing the girl to sneak aboard our ship in the first ce,¡± I continued, my smile shifting with every word. Until, in the end, it was nothing but a pleasant snarl. ¡°He took your death upon his shoulders. And so, to avoid any more casualties, he went with her. To bargain.¡± ¡°With Polyzalus?¡± Socrates thundered, shaking the trees. ¡°No,¡± the wind replied. Above us, Scythas gazed grimly in the direction of the distant Half-Step City. ¡°With Aleuas.¡± A Tyrant for a Tyrant. Chapter 1.102 Chapter 1.102 The Son of Rome At some point in our journey through the Augur''s Orphic faith, the raven¡¯s mantle had changed. The furthest outpost of the Howling Wind Cult estates on Kaukoso Mons was manned by a Sophic cultivator near the peak of his realm. He was an imposing figure, likely chosen for his stature as much as his advancement, with scars and a permanent scowl to ent the controlled malice in his dark eyes. In the faint light cast by his ironntern¡¯s me, he looked menacing by any man¡¯s standard. He flinched when I stepped into hisntern¡¯s light. The ravenous shadows of the raven¡¯s mantle had taken on different shapes for Griffon and I, back when we first consumed and internalized the Rein-Holder¡¯s starlight marrow. Griffon had chosen to wear the rags carelessly around his waist like he did his own Rosy Dawn attire, and so as a raven his midnight cloth pooled around his feet and merged with the shadows of the night. It made it seem as if he was waist-deep in shadow wherever he went - like he hade from Tartarus itself, and a portion of him still resided there. Though it hadn¡¯t been a conscious decision at the time, I¡¯d donned my mantle like a legate¡¯s cloak - draped over one shoulder, bisecting my body with shade. On the second night of our hunting, Griffon hadughingly remarked that I looked like I was peering out from around a corner, no matter where I happened to be. Both of us had covered our faces with shrouds, obscuring our easiest identifying features. That was before we had our second taste of madness. Now, the raven¡¯s mantle was changed. The man on guard was my senior in cultivation, yet he took three steps back as I stalked further into his light before finally oveing his unease. He clenched his empty fist and set his feet, standing up straight while I closed the remaining distance. ¡°Stop,¡± hemanded. I took two more steps. ¡°Stop.¡± His pneuma rose and his influence clenched into a white-knuckled fist. I stopped just inside of his reach. He was an imposing figure, nearly as tall as me and more heavily muscled. It didn¡¯t mean much. Before, the raven¡¯s mantle of midnight cloth had appeared to an untrained eye as if it was made of pure liquid shadow. The raven¡¯s ability to store and retrieve items from our actual shadows had lent itself to that illusion. That was all that it had been, however. An illusion. It was an illusion of a different kind, now. I reached into the liquid shadow of my raven mantle. The guard tensed, ready tosh out. The attack never came. The grizzled night guard stared in bafflement at the olive branch I had pulled from my cloak and held out to him. The entire limb was made of ivory. ¡°What is this?¡± he asked, looking up at the shadowed void of my veil. ¡°Why are you here?¡± ¡°A peace offering,¡± I replied. ¡°I¡¯vee to speak to Aleuas.¡± ¡°You¡¯re out of your mind.¡± I waited patiently. In the distance, an eagle¡¯s cry echoed alongside the Storm Crown¡¯s thunder. The man on guard grimaced and reached out to take the ivory olive branch. ¡°Fine. Peace. I¡¯ll send word to the main estate-¡± His hand slipped through the branch like it wasn¡¯t there at all. I stepped past him, and when he reached out instinctively to grab my shoulder, his hand moved through the raven¡¯s mantle like it wasn¡¯t there either. ¡°No need,¡± I told him. From the moment I¡¯d stepped into hisntern light, I¡¯d tasted the ash of burnt chestnut wood in the air. ¡°He already knows.¡± I stalked into the shadows of the Hurricane Hierophant¡¯s domain and vanished. ¡°You must be Solus.¡± ¡°I must,¡± I echoed. ¡°By what measure must I be anyone?¡± Aleuas scoffed behind his viridian curtain. ¡°By mine. You may be nobody out there, but while you¡¯re here in my domain you are whatever I deem you to be.¡± The marble floors of the Hierophant¡¯s estate were cool beneath my bare feet. The private bedroom of the Tyrant¡¯s hurricane domain was a clear contrast to Bakkhos¡¯ own subterranean quarters. Bakkhos¡¯ private rooms had been impressive in their own way, carved as they were out of the depths of Kaukoso Mons, but they hadn¡¯t been nearly as opulent as the courtyard he¡¯d built to house his oracles. Aleuas¡¯ bedroom was far more grand, covered floor to ceiling in fine windchimes of every shape, size, and material. Precious statuary abounded on every shelf and table space, and silken finery worth more than an average citizen¡¯s entire estate hung negligently over the backs of chairs and lounging couches. There was an artful chaos to it all, reminiscent of the meditative mess that Socrates had made of Bakkhos¡¯ room for one of my lessons. The statement was clear - what the average man, even the average cultivator, might hand down to their children and grandchildren as a priceless relic, the Tyrant could discard upon the floor without a moment of regret. It was a powerful statement. And it was an illusion, as much as my olive branch of ivory was. Bakkhos¡¯ private quarters were simply furnished byparison, because he had an entire mountain and city of wonders to act as his disy. Damon Aetos¡¯ office was nearly bare, because there was no one west of the Ionian that he felt he had to impress. In the end, the Hurricane Hierophant¡¯s statement of his standing was as thin as the viridian curtain that separated his side of the room from view. He could still kill me with a thought, of course. ¡°So I am,¡± I conceded. I pulled another ivory olive branch from my cloak and offered it to the silhouette of Aleuas behind the curtain. ¡°Your son-inw said you wanted to thank me in person.¡± Aleuas barked augh, rattling the chimes throughout the room. ¡°The sheer audacity. That¡¯s four times you¡¯ve insulted me, now.¡± ¡°Four?¡± Behind the viridian curtain, the Hierophant raised a finger. ¡°First you ignored my graceful invitation, extended from the hands of my own adopted heir, like I was some barking dog beneath your notice.¡± A second finger rose. ¡°Next you took from me. Sank your teeth into my influence, consumed my strength, in the moment when my need for it was greatest.¡± The curtain whipped and fluttered along with the wind chimes, the Tyrant¡¯s ire rising steadily. The nature of his tyrannic pressure was simr to Damon Aetos¡¯ judgment, but the quality of it differed. It was far more furious, and less finely controlled. It wasn¡¯t enough to send me to my knees. Not yet. ¡°You took from me again.¡± A third finger. ¡°Stole my own heir out from under me, stole my daughter¡¯s groom-to-be. Stole my hero.¡± I had thought long and hard about my approach to this conversation, while we waited tensely on the Eos for Sorea to return with Anastasia. I had spent the trek back to Olympia refining that approach, cementing it in my mind¡¯s eye. If things went the way I intended them to, I would leave this opulent chamber with an ally to match against the First Son to Burn. Otherwise, I would die. ¡°Fourth and finally,¡± Aleuas intoned, the threat of death in howling wind. ¡°Having done all of that, youe to me now with a shrouded face and ask me to thank you for the privilege.¡± I ced a foot against the back of a plush leather lounge and kicked it aside, sitting down in the now empty space on the floor. The Tyrant¡¯s pressure mmed down onto my shoulders. It was more of the same. ¡°Is my furniture not to your liking, scavenger?¡± he asked me mildly. ¡°It wouldn¡¯t carry my weight,¡± I answered, crossing my legs and settling my elbows on my knees. ¡°So you cast it aside and make a mess of my domain?¡± My face was covered, so I made a show of twisting my head around to regard the hurricane suite¡¯s controlled chaos. ¡°My mistake,¡± I said at length, and helding the ivory olive branch out again. ¡°I apologize - four times for before, and a fifth for kicking your couch. I¡¯vee to bargain.¡± ¡°To bargain. Tell me, then, boy. What could a raven possibly hope to offer this king?¡± We stared at one another, each of us behind a veil. ¡°Your son,¡± I told him. After a long and heavy silence, during which not a single wind chime stirred, Aleuas reached out with a hand of focused wind for my offering of peace. Of course, it was the same branch that I had offered the man at the estate¡¯s outpost - an ivory deception. It wasn¡¯t real. It wasn¡¯t something that mortal hands could grasp. The Tyrant in his domain plucked it from my hand and carried it back through the viridian curtain on a current of wind. His silhouette twirled it between his fingers. ¡°Bargain,¡± hemanded me. Now came the difficult part. Chapter 1.103 [Aleuas Pyrrhos] Chapter 1.103 [Aleuas Pyrrhos] The Hurricane Hierophant, Aleuas Pyrrhos When the kyrios came for Aleuas, he was dressed in nothing but shadow and rags. That had been over five hundred years ago. Five hundred and fifty-four years to be exact. In fact, two months from now it would be five hundred and fifty-five. In the course of his years, time had loosened its grip on Aleuas - as a child, so long ago now that entire civilizations had risen and fallen in the intervening centuries, a year had seemed like a wondrous eternity. As a man grown, a year had seemed like a short time after all. A decade, though, was certainly still a daunting prospect. When Aleuas became properly old by the standards of mortal men, he realized that a decade was hardly any time at all. But a century? That was a mystifying prospect indeed. These days, it seemed as though he¡¯d miss a century if he blinked. Men and women lived and died, left behind descendants that lived and died, left behind monuments to their great ancestors that eroded and fell to pieces in the earth, and Aleuas drifted through it all. Past a certain point, perhaps since the fall of his own dynasty, time unwound itself from his notice and his care. It ceased to matter what year it was, let alone the month. Holidays came and went. The seasons passed. So long as he remained on this ursed mountain, there was only one measure of time that mattered. And so it was the only one that Aleuas kept coalescent in his mind. It had been five hundred and fifty-four years since the Tyrant Riot took his crown from him and dragged him from his throne. In two and a half months the Olympic me would be lit in anticipation of the Games, and it would be five hundred and fifty-five. Five hundred and fifty-four years ago, the Tyrant Riot came to Aleuas¡¯ kingdom in shadows and rags. He didn¡¯t have a strip of leather for his feet, not a sack of cloth to carry his belongings - not that he had any belongings in the first ce. When he came to Aleuas, the kyrios was seemingly no kyrios at all. The Tyrant Riot did not approach the Hurricane Hierophant as a superior. He didn¡¯t even approach him as an equal. When the kyrios came to Aleuas, it was as a pauper without a drachma to his name. He came to him as a foreigner. ¡°I am a stranger in a foreignnd,¡± the raven known as Solus spoke, his voice a sea of thousands, each one¡¯s whispering imposed over the rest. ¡°I came here, to this city, on the night of your kyrios¡¯ funeral. On that day my goals had nothing at all to do with you or your contemporaries. I came here to find an old mentor and ask him for his wisdom. Nothing more.¡± ¡°And since then?¡± Aleuas asked, shifting idly on the massive plush lounge that the Tyrant Riot had built for him with his own hands. No matter how much time passed or how many cushions he heaped upon it, it was never any morefortable. ¡°Since then, I¡¯ve seen acts of such atrocious cruelty that it makes me sick to remember them.¡± The raven tilted his head back, and though he was hardly more than half the Hierophant¡¯s size, Aleuas knew the scavenger was looking down his nose at him. ¡°I¡¯ve seen citizens of Olympia curled up on the streets with bleeding ears, screaming in helpless agony while their city¡¯s strongest souls mercilessly beat their drums. I¡¯ve seen members of the Raging Heaven stolen off the streets, stolen out of empty halls, stolen from their beds - each time by their very own brothers and sisters within the cult.¡± ¡°Truly foul behavior,¡± Aleuas said sympathetically, considering the bone-white olive branch bnced between his fingers. It was light. Lighter than air, it seemed. And at the same time, heavy enough for even a Tyrant to notice its weight. ¡°Foul. Yes.¡± The Hurricane Hierophant tucked the olive branch behind his ear. ¡°So to right the wrongs of we sovereign souls, you added on your own?¡± he asked the raven pointedly, applying a portion of his ethos to the words. If the scavenger felt the pressure, he didn¡¯t let it show. Aleuas frowned and added more. ¡°You took from all of us a portion of our strength. You took our marrow. You took our crows. You took our Heroes.¡± The scavenger¡¯s eerie, faceless veil did not waver. In his hurricane domain, Aleuas could see whaty beyond the viridian curtain as clearly as anything else. But when it came to that midnight veil, he might as well have been looking through the curtain with mortal eyes. Either way, it was nothing but a ckened silhouette. The raven cawed mockingly at him, in his voice of three thousand shadowed whispers. ¡°I only took what begged me to be taken.¡± There is an old and oft forgotten concept known as xenia. The ritual of friendship between guest and host. The reciprocity of kindness between two strangers. In the distant, distant past, before even Aleuas¡¯ time, there was a universal expectation of hospitality in the civilized Mediterranean. In those mad and glorious days when the divine walked the earth alongside their lessers, it was understood that any vagrant could be a god or goddess in disguise. Because of this, and because the Father was known to check, every free citizen with sense enough to breathe showed an enduring sympathy for those that darkened their door as guests. You never knew, after all. For their hospitality, a kind host could find themselves rewarded with blessings and wealth beyond their wildest imagining. For their abuse, a cruel host could find themselves struck down. Suffering, endlessly, for a crime against a higher power that they hadn¡¯t even known they weremitting until it was already far toote. It was an old understanding, dated by its presumptions. Chief among them, of course, was the presumption that a king in his domain could be threatened in any way at all by a maligned pauper. After all, the world that Aleuas had been born into, the world that he had risen through, was not one of mad glory. It was cold and abandoned. As Aleuas had stood at his peak, only a heavenly body could have hoped to match him on his throne. And the only heavenly bodies to be found beneath the curtain of heaven were corpses. The tyrants of the world had stopped caring for the ritual of friendship long before Aleuas was born. A king in his domain could decide things for himself. They could ept a guest andvish them with gifts, or they could return them to the earth. The result was the same in the end. Everyone knew that the Father wasn¡¯t checking anymore. Why suffer the insult, then? Xenia was before the king¡¯s time. And so, when a man in shadow and rags came to him with nothing to offer but mad ramblings and a pair of empty, outstretched hands, Aleuas did not regard him as a friend. He regarded the vagrant as he was. Nothing. No one. The Half-Step City of Olympia was a safe haven, a sanctuary that stood apart from the myriad conflicts and crises that so often gued the free city-states. Since its inception as a venue for the Olympic Games, it had stood shining and unchallenged by any of its sister cities. And in that same way, so had the Raging Heaven Cult stood uncontested by its sister cults of greater mystery. The Raging Heaven Cult had eight elders - one for every greater mystery cult outside the Half-Step City, sans the Rosy Dawn. Each of these elders was a Tyrant beaten and dragged from their domains. Each of these elders, Aleuas among them, was a sovereign soul that the Tyrant Riot had disanointed in grant disregard for their ethos. The kyrios had taken Aleuas and each of his fellow elders in hand, taken them from their homes and ced them beneath him. And when that was done, he had gone a step further beyond. When that humiliation was not enough to satiate him, he had added another insult to their injuries. He had given to them a portion of himself. Hunger was a Tyrant¡¯s curse. A cosmic cruelty handed down by their absent Father in Raging Heaven. Where a Philosopher wondered unto death, and a Hero burned themselves to ash, a Tyrant hungered. A Tyrant starved. And inevitably, a Tyrant died. Hollow. Malnourished. Empty. It was in their nature to consume everything they could until that bleak future became a present reality. Even if they could only ever temporarily fill that void, a stay of execution was better than nothing at all. So they ate. They devoured. And they took what they could. Because some things were simply true. And every king knew that while he could afford to be generous in certain material ways, he could never part with the wealth inside his soul. And in spite of that, the Tyrant Riot gave a portion of himself to each of them his broken elders. A portion of his own marrow, the wealth within his bones. No matter how many centuries passed, Aleuas would never forget the moment that string of blood touched his tongue. He would never forget the way it burned. Like starlight itself. ¡°You¡¯re worth less now than you were before,¡± the kyrios had spoken over Aleuas¡¯ broken body, pouring his scarlet marrow into the Hierophant¡¯s open mouth- Aleuas blinked. ¡°Come again?¡± ¡°You¡¯re worth less now than you were before,¡± the raven known as Solus repeated. ¡°You¡¯re a shadow of yourself.¡± [My shadow, now.] ¡°I¡¯ve killed men for far lesser insults than that.¡± Aleuas¡¯ hurricane domain roiled at his discontent. The windchimes in his quarters ttered and struck one another in a grating cacophony of noise. The viridian curtain snapped and fluttered violently, remaining in one piece only because he willed it to be so. Had it been any of the Howling Wind Cult¡¯s mortal cultivators sitting in this room with him, they would have already been prostrated and in hysterics, if not unconscious. The raven was unmoved. ¡°And yet here I am. Alive. Why is that?¡± ¡°I¡¯m beginning to wonder the same thing.¡± Had they both been standing, the wretched scavenger wouldn¡¯t have been much taller than the Hierophant¡¯s navel. There was nothing tyrannical about his stature. Nothing remarkable at all about him. And for all that Aleuas could have willed himself to be nearly any shape or size he wished here in his hurricane suite, that was because it was his domain. The same was not at all true for the raven. So why did it feel as though he¡¯d lived this moment once before? A vagrant enters the City of Squalls and begs its kyrios for the grace of his hospitality. He is a ragged sight, covered in scrapes and scratches from the storm. He stinks of sour wine and staggers like a drunk through the marble halls of the Hierophant''s estate, because that is what he is. A lush without the sense to know what it is he asks, and who he asks it of. Yet he climbs one of the serpent lines that dangle from the floating city, and he navigates the shadowed city with such familiarity that it¡¯s as if he built it all himself. He appears on the threshold of the king¡¯s quarters before his elders and his aristois can so much as blink. And in a pitiful whisper of gravel and pain, he asks the Hurricane Hierophant for a ce at his table - among his confidants. Only until the sun rises, the vagrant assures the King of Seers. Just until dawn. Bemused, the king asks him what he has to offer in return for an honor that any of his citizens would kill for. The vagrant spreads his empty hands, and says that he can only offer the Hierophant a story of the world outside of his domain. Knowledge is the best that he can do. The king bids him to speak. ¡°As I was saying, the Tyrant Aleuas before me is a shadow of his former glory. Your contemporaries are the same. Eight elders, eight tyrants imprisoned by the Tyrant Riot. Confined to quarters for centuries.¡± The Hierophant sneered. ¡°¡®Confined to quarters,¡¯ he says. As if I¡¯m a prisoner in my own domain.¡± ¡°Aren¡¯t you?¡± ¡°You were at the man¡¯s funeral. You know that I was there.¡± As Aleuas knew that the man known as Solus had been there, too. There, in the scarlet and white attire of a cult that had no business in the Half-Step City. He had been there with another, and both of them had stuck their noses into business that wasn¡¯t theirs. Both of them hadid their greedy hands on the property of Aleuas and his rivals. ¡°One night out and not another one since,¡± the raven mused. ¡°Why is that?¡± ¡°Perhaps you¡¯re too young to understand,¡± Aleuas said. ¡°Two months is no time at all for those of our standing. Past a certain level of refinement, a man can spend decades behind closed doors before emerging for hunger or thirst.¡± ¡°I see,¡± the raven murmured. ¡°In that case, will you still be behind closed doors when the kyrioie for the indigo throne?¡± ¡°You dare?¡± The hierophant asked quietly,yering threat over top of ethos. The shadowed cloak that the raven wore over his left shoulder undted in the flickering candlelight. ¡°I care. I¡¯vee to you in good faith, alone, because I found this city in a state of crisis and I have good reason to want it made whole again. You take offense to being called a shadow, but how could I have meant it as an insult? I¡¯m a shadow, too.¡± The raven spread his empty hands. Aleuas stared hard at him through the viridian curtain. ¡°I am worldly but not altogether wise, so please enlighten me: if you are not a shadow, then why won¡¯t you leave your ivory suite unless your fellow elders have left theirs first?¡± The Hierophant was silent. ¡°I¡¯ve seen this sight before.¡± ¡°Is that so?¡± he rumbled. The curtain quivered. ¡°Each of you covets the same prize, but only one among eight can have it in the end. You were kyrioi once, unchallenged above all, but that was centuries ago. Captivity has stolen your edge. Time has made a shadow of you. You all refuse to act, because the first to move will be torn apart by the rest. Yet there is a deadline to this uneasy peace, and each of you knows it. ¡°Seven sovereign souls ispetition enough. In two months time, however, thepetitors will arrive for their mandatory month of training prior to the Olympic Games. The city of Olympia will be full to bursting with glorious, defiant souls. And a month after that, the kyrioi of the greater mystery cults wille from every corner of the free world, the lords anddies that took your thrones, and the number of Tyrants in your way will have doubled overnight.¡± ¡°The raven has eyes,¡± Aleuas finally said. ¡°Tell the king, then - where is Olympus Mons?¡± ¡°Half a step from here,¡± came the reply. The vagrant tells tales of the outside world, and every one of them is a lie. He is unwell, that much is clear to see. He won¡¯t drink water, only wine, and that is surely a part of it. He rants and raves about past disasters that couldn¡¯t have possibly taken ce, natural catastrophes that would have scarred the earth in its entirety if they had trulye to pass. No matter how many of the king¡¯s court challenge him, he insists up and down that every story is true. And he warns the king. He warns him that the world is changing. He warns him that if he doesn¡¯t change alongside it, he¡¯ll be crushed beneath the wheel. Just like his serpent-mother. ¡°You understand that this is a sanctified city,¡± Aleuas said, waiting for the raven to voice his agreement. ¡°I do.¡± ¡°And knowing that, do you think I¡¯m mad enough to wage war here? Do you think any of my peers are that mad?¡± ¡°I do.¡± ¡°Who among them?¡± ¡°Polyzalus.¡± ¡°... and if he does? You propose to stand with us against a member of your own city?¡± ¡°Alikos isn¡¯t my city.¡± Who are you to lecture me? The monarch demanded. Where is your crown? What is your domain? Who are the people that call you king? I have no crown, replied the stranger. No name worth knowing either. I am the king of nothing. King of no one at all. The monarch sneered. Then who are you to speak to me as an equal? ¡°You said you¡¯d return Scythas to me. When?¡± the Hurricane Hierophant asked. As he did, he was cognizant of the young woman listening furtively just outside the doorway that the raven had entered through. He¡¯d known she was there from the start, of course. She might have been able to slip by the raven¡¯s notice, but a daughter couldn¡¯t hide from her father. ¡°Soon.¡± ¡°Soon,¡± he echoed. ¡°Why should I believe you?¡± ¡°Because we share amon enemy.¡± ¡°Oh?¡± ¡°The Eye of the Storm.¡± The viridian curtain flung itself apart, and Aleuas Pyrrhos stood up from his lounge. At his full height, he towered over the raven. He took a single step forward and was abruptly in front of him. That midnight veil tilted up to regard him. ¡°Scythas told me about you, before you stole him away,¡± Aleuas said intently. ¡°So tell me, Solus, why would a son of Rome want my sessor dead? What reason do you have to hate the man that rules in the Hurricane Heights?¡± ¡°Because he deserves to die.¡± ¡°By whose measure?¡± the Hierophant demanded, though he did not disagree. ¡°Rome¡¯s?¡± ¡°By mine.¡± Aleuas sneered at the ragged man in his cloak of shifting shadows. ¡°And who are you?¡± The raven considered the question for a long, pensive moment. When he answered, Aleuas heard it echoed through three thousand voices. And through five hundred and fifty-four years, as well. ¡°I am a son of raging heaven.¡± Every one of his senses told Aleuas that the boy sitting before him in a raven¡¯s cloak was nothing more than what he¡¯d appeared to be the night of the funeral. A junior Philosopher, hardly worth the effort of dismissing from existence. A Tyrant trusted their own instinct above all else, and Aleuas¡¯ instinct told him to put an end to him now, before the boy could think to offer him another insult. His gut told him to strike. And yet. Even so. ¡°You must be thirsty.¡± Aleuas reached into the open air and pulled from it a cup of water. Leaning down, he offered it to the raven. ¡°No need. I brought my own.¡± That said, the raven reached into the shadow of his cloak and pulled from it a golden cup of wine, the smell of it all too familiar. If the Tyrant still had a beating heart in his chest, it might have stopped at that moment. The concept of xenia dictated that a host should treat each and every stranger as a friend, because you could never be sure of what lurked behind anonymity¡¯s gossamer veil. The Tyrant Aleuas Pyrrhos had ignored that sacred obligation five hundred and fifty-four years ago, and thrown a mad man out on his head after he¡¯d grown tired of his rambling. In return, the shadows of his own kingdom had risen up and overthrew him. Up until that moment, up until the veryst instant before madness consumed him and all that he had gained was taken from his hands, Aleuas had been certain that he was dealing with somebody entirely inconsequential. He had erred. He wouldn¡¯t err again. Chapter 1.104 Chapter 1.104 The Young Griffon A man''s credibility was his myth made manifest. Through reputation, renown. From renown, credibility. In credibility, ethos. If a schr dealt in logic and a champion in his passion, a conqueror dealt in credibility. He spoke not as an impartial observer nor a proxy protector, but as a nation in and of himself. He spoke for others. Not to them, nor in the defense. The conqueror spoke from a position of authority in all things within his domain, and no one questioned him when he did it - because he was not trying to convince through theory, nor appeal to emotion. Damon Aetos was Damon Aetos. He did not need to convince the Scarlet City to listen when he spoke. He did not need to make them weep tears of sorrow and joy with his words to convince them of his views. He was above that, just as Bakkhos had been above that in the Half-Step City. A theory could be argued. Emotion could be questioned. These things were portions of a man, but only portions. To deny a man¡¯s credibility was to refute all that he was. It was an open invitation, a p to the face, and a mocking interdiction - You are not who you say you are, your soul is not what you im it to be, and you have no right to speak for those that suffer under your yoke. I refuse to allow it. Naturally, this was a difficult stance to take against a Tyrant in their domain. It rarely ended well for the user, after all. But assuming the Tyrant was not who they imed to be, assuming they did not deserve to speak for those beneath them, those they had imed as a portion of their domain, it was possible to tear the crown from their head. It was possible to depose them from their throne. It was possible to unmake them. So long as they were not who they imed to be. So long as they strayed from the framework of principles they had sworn themselves to, they could be disanointed. If they stayed true to their domain, though? If they were who they imed to be in all things, at all times, in all ways? Well. If you were lucky, and the Fates were kind, perhaps they¡¯d leave your family an intact corpse to burn. Sol was ying an outrageously dangerous game, and the hrity was that he wasn¡¯t even aware that he was ying it. Not really. The world seen through his storm-gray eyes was as cruel as it was ungrateful, though he wouldn¡¯t put it in those words. As he saw it, a man¡¯s credibility was a blown-ss statue. Unmarred and upright in the light of day, it dazzled all who looked upon it. But under duress, upon failure, a captain¡¯s credibility did not chip or crumble like stone. It did not bend like a willow tree, surviving though the storm pressed it down. No. As my foolish Roman brother understood it, a captain¡¯s ethos was as dazzling as ss. And just like ss, it shattered before it shifted. Because of this bleak understanding, because his credibility as a captain was ss shards scattered at his feet, Sol didn¡¯t view his actions for what they were. He deluded himself into believing that all the world saw things as he did, and so he didn¡¯t even consider the reputation that he was constructing for himself in the hearts and minds of those his actions reached. It made perfect sense to him that the speech he¡¯d given in the wake of Chilon¡¯s story had settled the question of his standing, because he¡¯d only really heard a portion of it - even as he himself was saying the words. ¡°The city of Rome is salted ash. The half of my soul that lives in Rome wasn¡¯t enough to bring down the demons from risen Carthage. The half of my soul that is Greek will have to do the rest.¡± I failed, admits the captain, and in Sol¡¯s rigid framework of military expectation his credibility shatters like so much ss. I survived, the Heroes and Heroines of Greece hear the captain say, And because they failed to kill me I will do alone what fifty thousand men failed to - because even half of me is enough. Even half of me is worth more than all of you. Perhaps it was a cultural gap, or else a nascent sense of humor from the primal shard of Babel that tranted discourse exchanged between cultivators. Whatever the case, he failed to realize that a Greek ced a greater weight on one sentiment than the other. And so he carried on, assuming they continued to follow him out of unspoken camaraderie and not because he weighed every word that left his mouth like the Father himself was listening in Raging Heaven. Not because he took the burdens of others upon his shoulders like it was an expectation as much as a courtesy. He had been everywhere in the world that was worth going to, it seemed. He spoke the Conqueror¡¯s name without a grimace on his lips, observed his ruined cities and spoke to the sorrows of the fallen Macedonian empire as if he was speaking from personal experience. Because, from his point of view, his city had been every bit as glorious as the Conqueror¡¯s, and so her fate had been every bit as tragic. He spoke of a Tyrant¡¯s mindset as though he was simply giving his own opinion, because his great-uncle¡¯s lessons and behaviors were sacrosanct to him. How could Scythas or anyone else listening mistake that deference to his mentors for anything other than what it was? Surely his intent was perfectly clear. Surely. You spoke to a dead god, the Hero of the Scything Squall rifies. Maybe. But it was brief, and it ended in disagreement, the Roman says, irritated and covered in burns, bruises, and bleeding wounds. But alive. One of Sol¡¯s earliest introductions to Greek mystery cults had been the Rosy Dawn¡¯s own initiation rites. Then, in Thracia, he had seen Scythas speak to a lesser mystery as if the chthonic hero was a drinking partner. If a lesser mystery could be spoken to, could be heard from, why not a greater mystery? What was the distinction, in the end? He had no frame of reference. It was all equally absurd to him. And of course, when the mentor of his mentor¡¯s mentor, the teacher he shared with the kyrios of the Rosy Dawn Cult, ms into the side of our ship and is pulled burnt and half-dead from the sea, what does the captain do? Does he shy away from the wrath of the Tyrant Polyzalus, First Son to Burn? Does he heed the fiercemands of the Schr himself to turn the ship around and sail far, far away? Naturally not. How could he? This was his responsibility, after all. How could he run in any direction but towards it? No, Sol doesn¡¯t turn away from the Tyrant on the shore. He vaults the rail and marches toward him. He tells Scythas what he intends to do, and when Scythas allows him to do it, he assumes it¡¯s because Scythas has faith in Aleuas¡¯ benevolence. Scythas thinks he¡¯s off to offer terms as an equal. The problem with manufactured reputation, of course, was that eventually, someone challenged you. Some time, some ce, as inevitable as the dawn that followed after dusk, credibility had to be proven. At some point, you had to be the man that everyone thought you to be. Otherwise, your ethos suffered. It might not shatter, not like ss as Sol saw it, but it would crack. It would crumble. And finger length by finger length, hand by hand, it would be made less. And in the same way that failure weakened ethos, triumph made it even stronger. ¡°He did it,¡± Scythas whispered, golden wonder burning behind his eyes. We were at the furthest edge of the Raging Heaven Cult¡¯s boundaries, crouched in the shadows beside the stairway to heaven, but that didn¡¯t hinder the Hero. We were on Kaukoso Mons, and while Scythas was on the mountain, the wind carried every spoken word to his ear. The Hero turned to me, whispering in fierce excitement, ¡°Griffon, he did it! Aleuas agreed!¡± ¡°The terms?¡± I murmured, brushing the raven¡¯s midnight cloth away from the path of his shifting feet. The Hero hurriedly ryed them to me. They were about what I¡¯d expected. Sol hade to this mountain expecting a fight like none he¡¯d ever faced alone before, and so he¡¯d kept his demands simple and sinct. Aleuas would stand with us against Polyzalus if and when the need arose. In exchange, he¡¯d return to the Hurricane Hierophant his favored Hero - eventually. He¡¯d refrain from harassing the Howling Wind faction on Kaukoso Mons. And someday, if and when the opportunity arose, he¡¯d murder the Eye of the Storm and cast him down from his Hurricane Heights. On that point, we both agreed. They were the best terms Sol could hope for, given the circumstances. It was simply misfortune that he was operating under a false premise, and reaching out for allies that he had no business speaking to as a result. ¡°Has the Gadfly made a mess of things yet?¡± I asked. Scythas shook his head, frowning even as his eyes flickered and went distant. He listened intently, but couldn¡¯t hear anything. ¡°I can¡¯t hear him. But¡­ that doesn¡¯t mean he isn¡¯t there.¡± Socrates was many things, most recently a fool, but he wasn¡¯t an idiot. Our surgery had made him whole again, but he needed time to mend and he knew it. His mad dash back to Olympia had torn open enough of our surgical threads as it was, and he¡¯d lost more blood in thest few hours than most mortal men had in their bodies to lose. He was weak. He was vulnerable. And though he would surely step in anyway if he felt Sol needed the help, he wouldn¡¯t make things moreplicated than they needed to be. For now, Sol had made his case. And in so doing, he¡¯d further cemented his credibility in Scythas¡¯ mind. Iid the back of my head against the mountain and contemted the immortal storm crown above. ¡°You admire him,¡± I said, and Scythas blinked owlishly down at me. ¡°Solus?¡± I hummed, confirming it. ¡°And if I do?¡± The Hero¡¯s brow furrowed, his influencepping like low tide at the edge of my perception. ¡°Are you saying you don¡¯t? He¡¯s your mentor.¡± My mentor. A truth, technically. Sol had taught me more than any of the old men assigned to me as tutors in the Rosy Dawn, directly and indirectly. I considered him a master in the fields that suited him best, because I¡¯d never met a soul with greater resolve than his. But did that make him my mentor in the spirit that the term was meant? ¡°I have a question,¡± I dered. The Hero rolled his eyes. ¡°I thought you weren¡¯t ever going to ask me anything again.¡± ¡°Until we died or each ascended,¡± I agreed. And we had died, each of us in a way. Our current predicament was the product of Selene¡¯s spirit marble statues crumbling to pieces, because for a brief moment the two of them had stepped out of thend of the living and into the darknd of the dead. Sol and I, on the other hand, had died a much more literal death - with each turn of the wheel, we had felt thatst scarlet thread of life leave us. It had been a true lived experience, even if it hadn¡¯t been exactly ours. My heart flickered in my chest, a bare murmur to my new Heroic sense. I frowned faintly up at raging heaven, contemting the distinction. All this time, I¡¯d been more than happy to stoke the me of misconception and that which resided between truth and a lie. ¡°How did you be a Hero, Scythas?¡± I asked. The fair Hero¡¯s heart stuttered in his chest. ¡°... I already told you-¡± ¡°You told us you threatened the Eye of the Storm in his own domain,¡± I overrode him, watching lightning sh a dozen times in the span of a bare heartbeat. There was something about the Raging Heaven¡¯s estates that blunted the noise of the storm, but it was always there. Impossible to ignore. ¡°You painted us a picture of a Philosopher on the brink of glory, but you didn¡¯t light the me. The kyrios of your cult backed down, in the end. So what drove you over the edge? How did you be the Hero of the Scything Squall, and how did you end up here in Olympia while the brother you risked everything to protectnguishes alone in the City of Squalls?¡± Scythas bit his lip, wavering between knee-jerk denial and his heart¡¯s desire to speak the truth of things. I gave him the final push he needed. ¡°The morning after the funeral, in that drinking club.¡± A quiet intonation. The fight went out of him. ¡°I told you Sol hade from afar to visit your city for a taste of true culture. Do you remember what else I said?¡± We both knew that he did. ¡°You said that he was fighting demons,¡± Scythas whispered. ¡°Demons, on the western front,¡± I echoed. ¡°Anastasia didn¡¯t react to that statement at all, in any way that I could see at least. Maybe she already suspected. Jason was surprised, but not half as much as you.¡± Demons on the western front, I¡¯d said gaily, and Scythas had turned to regard my Roman brother like a drowning man regarded an approaching ship. ¡°There is a gap between the day you spit in the Eye of the Storm and the day you first climbed this stairway to raging heaven,¡± I concluded. ¡°What took ce within that gap?¡± If I¡¯d asked the question a week ago, he wouldn¡¯t have even considered answering. But Thracia had changed things. For all of us. ¡°The kyrios¡­¡± Scythas eventually said, and the tone of his voice made it clear he wasn¡¯t talking about Bakkhos. ¡°He couldn¡¯t stand the sight of me after that day. He didn¡¯t want anything to do with me, but he couldn¡¯t admit why because it would weaken his image. So he entrusted me with a task suitable to the Howling Wind¡¯s prodigious son. Something that anyone could agree was of vital importance.¡± ¡°That being?¡± ¡°Expansion,¡± he said, and his eyes turned west. Haunted, in a way that was all too simr to Sol¡¯s when he reminisced on his legion days. ¡°Thend that houses the City of Squalls used to go by another name - the Breadbasket. Before the winds tore the crops out of the earth like a thousand-thousand scythes, it was a nation of plenty. Every year was a sessful harvest. Hunger was a distant, impersonal threat.¡± ¡°Until the hurricane,¡± I mused. ¡°Until the hurricane. Since then, thends have been destitute and the City of Squalls has been dependent on the imports of its more prosperous neighbors for the basic necessities of grain and wine. That dependence is a weakness. But what else can we do? The storm is there to stay. What else is there to do but expand?¡± ¡°And your kyrios chose to expand west, across the sea,¡± I realized. ¡°Why not?¡± Scythas smiled mirthlessly. Shrugged. ¡°There¡¯s nothing across the Ionian but scarlet sons, barbarians, and stades and stades of lushnd just waiting for the touch of a civilized hand. The Eye of the Storm gave me a band of my brothers and sisters within the cult to apany me in my expedition, for appearances sake and to rid the cult of those fondest of me and my brother, and he told me not toe back until I¡¯d secured a sustainable colony for his city.¡± The Hero tilted his head, looking knowingly down at me once more. ¡°Do you know what we found on the western frontier, Griffon?¡± Salt and ash, and howling on the wind. ¡°How many of you made it back across the sea?¡± I asked. The Hero stared silently down at me. ¡°Ah.¡± The truth of the Hero¡¯s journey was the tribtion was a certainty more than it was a threat. Tragedy came for us all at one point or another. The only question was whether it came at the beginning or the end. Damon and Anargyros Aetos had ascended to the Heroic Realm in glory. Scythas had ascended in tragedy. ¡°... Why do you ask?¡± Scythas pressed me after a long beat. On the horizon, the first slivers of dawn were beginning to make themselves known. ¡°You admire Sol,¡± I said, because it needed to be said again. When Scythas rolled his eyes and made to speak, I waved him silent. ¡°You¡¯ve decided to throw in with him, and that¡¯s fine. So long as you know what you¡¯re throwing in with. So long as you¡¯re prepared for whates next.¡± ¡°What do you mean?¡± he asked, puzzled. ¡°Sol has decided he¡¯s going to help you murder your Tyrant, and so we¡¯ll see it done,¡± I dered, and my heart did not waver at the truth of it. ¡°But are you prepared to stand beside him, as he¡¯s prepared to stand beside you?¡± ¡°Of course-!¡± ¡°Are you?¡± I pressed, rising to my feet and leaning in close. I didn¡¯t harry him with pankration hands, or leer as I might have before. I stared intently into his eyes. After a moment, he found his grit and red right back. ¡°I am.¡± ¡°Good,¡± I said, my eyes narrowing. ¡°Because when all is said and done, he isn¡¯t going to sit himself down on this city¡¯s indigo throne and content himself with Bakkhos¡¯urels. He¡¯s going to take everything he can get his hands on, he¡¯s going to throw it all across his shoulders like a yoke, and he¡¯s going to march across the Ionian while he sings a legion song.¡± Scythas¡¯ jaw clenched. But to the Hero¡¯s credit, he did not look away. ¡°You both escaped the demons once,¡± I said in quiet warning. ¡°But Sol will never be content with just surviving. If you¡¯re with him, you¡¯re against the western horde.¡± Scythas turned his head, finally breaking our staredown - And spit on the amethyst veins that lined the Raging Heaven¡¯s mountain. ¡°Good.¡± I felt myself smile. This world was iron. Its Heroic souls were battered and dim, made less by Tyrants and their tragedies. It was a shadow of what it should have been. But it didn¡¯t have to remain that way. Chapter 1.105 [Chilon] Chapter 1.105 [Chilon] Chilon The Obol Orator Every institution had its daily routines - the underlying maintenances and mechanisms that an outsider looking in might not necessarily see. Naturally, the more prestigious the institution and the grander its scale, the more opaque it became. There was appeal in a veil of transparent silks, as there was mystique in the shifting silhouettes behind a cloth curtain. What, then, lurked beyond the marble wall? A mystery. As a boy in a no-name vige far from any civilized ce, those separations had been thin indeed. Children at y and students about their studies had mingled freely with their parents and mentors, the cleansing of garments and bodies had both beenmunal, and what hierarchy there had been paled inparison to the stratification of the proud Greek city-states - to say nothing of the greater mystery cults housed within them. Growing up, Chilon had known exactly who was harvesting the produce and butchering the meat that appeared on his table. He had known exactly who washed his clothes, how they did it, where and at what time of day. He knew who made those clothes, as he knew who made the pottery that held his wine and water. He¡¯d seen for himself how his home was run. They made no secret of it, after all. The Raging Heaven Cult was a different existence altogether. It prided itself on its secrecy, as all mystery cults did, and that mentality was reflected at every level. Even down to the minutiae of daily living. Chilon woke with the dawn. At his level of refinement, a cultivator on the eighth step of the Sophic Realm, sleep was an indulgence more often than it was a necessity. In the course of his forty-odd years as an initiate of the Raging Heaven, he¡¯d spent maybe a tenth of that time at rest. In his experience, the further he advanced through the realm of thinking men, the more his thoughts kept him up at night - and the less his body protested theck of sleep. Recently, though, his routine had changed. Rather than wandering Kaukoso Mons or the wilds beyond the city, Chilon stayed in his quarters at night. More often than not he kept a torch at hand and passed the time with a scroll of papyrus or a stack of y tablets at his side, but asionally he allowed himself to rest. He wasn¡¯t alone in this shift, he knew. Since the kyrios¡¯ passing, the mountain trails of the Raging Heaven¡¯s estates had been conspicuously empty past sunset. Her polished stone halls went untraversed. No one wanted to be caught outside their rooms when the crows came calling. They had all suffered in the weeks and months since the kyrios¡¯ funeral, and none of them could say a thing about it - not to anyone capable of changing things. The Elders were on the hunt, and anyone caught in the middle of their game was nothing but an unfortunate casualty. The knowledge grated on Chilon, made him weary, and he saw that same weariness reflected in the hearts and minds of his juniors. His own peers, senior Philosophers whose wisdom would make waves in any other corner of the world. Here, they weren¡¯t even worth the consideration of a warning. But it would be a disservice to those that worked behind the marble wall to say that Chilon and his peers were the ones suffering the most from this hostile environment. It was easy to forget, easy not to consider it at all, but beyond the frightening majesty of the Storm That Never Ceased and the trappings of the indigo cult, there were flesh and blood servants that made the smallest wheels turn. Not cultivators like Chilon and his fellow initiates. Just men and women. Just ves, at the mercy of grim scavengers. Chilon rolled out of bed, scattering sheets of papyrus covered corner-to-corner in yesterday¡¯s scribblings. There was a fresh set of silk robes folded neatly at the threshold to his quarters, predominantly white cloth with interweaving bolts of cerulean and crimson threaded through it. The senior members of the cult, the prodigies and predominant families, wore indigo. The lowest juniors wore pure white. Those like him, somewhere in between, wore a blend of white, indigo, red, and blue, depending on their rtive standing within the cult. Chilon donned cult attire that hadn¡¯t been there when he went to sleep, and took a handful of berries and thoughtfully arranged meats from a table that hadn¡¯t been there when he closed his door the night before. Absently popping a cut ofmb into his mouth, he drew his fishing shut and heaved its contents over his shoulder. Ready to face the day. Someone had made those things happen. It was something the juniors didn¡¯t think about all that often, especially those that hade from aristocratic families already, but it was the truth all the same. A servant hade to his room in the night and quietly taken his unneeded things and left fresh ones in their ce. It was so obvious that it didn¡¯t warrant observing, really. But in a ce like this, it was easy to forget that the silks didn¡¯t spin themselves, and the wine didn¡¯t spring from the mountain¡¯s amethyst veins into their waiting cups. The Philosophers of the Raging Heaven Cult cowered in their rooms every night, while the servants carried on as always. Spinning the wheels that no one cared to see. Suffering the cruelty of crows because they didn¡¯t have the choice of staying home until dawn. It was wrong that they suffered, the servants as well as the initiates. But what could a man alone do? Nothing but his best. ¡°Easy,¡± he corrected a boy that was young enough to be his son and nearly his equal in cultivation, a mid-rank philosopher in robes of deep cerulean and lightning threads of crimson. The boy stiffened and stood up straighter, the opposite of what Chilon had advised. He nced warily back at him, eyeing his attire and the fishing full of scrolls and tablets he carried over his shoulder. ¡°Senior brother?¡± the boy asked, letting his sword fall to his side. He was polite, but only just. His annoyance at being interrupted was clear enough. ¡°Your stance is too stiff,¡± Chilon borated, moving up beside him. He¡¯d glimpsed the boy practicing with his de in the shade of a stone-garden grotto, and immediately picked out the leading w in his approach. ¡°Let me guess - you¡¯re trying to imitate the Sword Song?¡± The boy¡¯s irritation shifted at once to knee-jerk offense. He spun and jabbed his de at Chilon¡¯s chest. Chilon jerked back a step, and the boy sneered up at him. ¡°This lowly sophist thanks his wise senior for his attempt at guidance, but you¡¯re mistaken. My style is mine.¡± ¡°You and I both know that isn¡¯t true,¡± Chilon said patiently, skirting around the threatening edge of the de and poking the boy¡¯s wrist. ¡°Again, you¡¯re too stiff. You¡¯ve done an admirable job of imitating the final step in a long and borate dance, but you don¡¯t know any of the preceding steps or how to connect them. You can¡¯t hear the song.¡± ¡°I told you-¡± ¡°Rx,¡± he urged the young mystiko, leaning down to press a hand against the back of his right knee so that it would reflexively bend. When the boy hissed and spun around with his de, he quickly jerked away from it again. ¡°These stances aren¡¯t meant to be this stiff - the Sword Song was named for her fluidity, the grace of her motion. Every step should contain a portion of the step that came before and the step that follows after. Continuous-¡± ¡°Enough!¡± the boy snapped. His pneuma rose, his influenceshing out in the beginning of a tantrum. ¡°Enough. I don¡¯t need advice from a scribe without a de, and I didn¡¯t ask for it. Leave me be.¡± Chilon looked him up and down with a critical eye. That had been better, in that moment where his temper nearly overcame him. ¡°Have you tried thinking less about the forms?¡± The boy blinked owlishly at him. His pneuma whirled around him. ¡°You¡¯re telling me to stop thinking?¡± ¡°It seems to be working against you,¡± Chilon agreed. The boy¡¯s lips drew back from his teeth, an ugly expression to match his form. ¡°Old man,¡± he seethed, tensing, ¡°Let¡¯s exchange discourse.¡± All at once, his pneuma surged and his de surged forward with his full weight behind it, a coiling thrust that Chilon had seen before in a far more sophisticated form. Shifting sideways and letting the de blow past him, Chilon swung the fishing full of stories from over his shoulder and mmed it into the boy¡¯s unguarded side. The breath exploded out of the young sophist and his de flew from his fingers, tumbling end over end in the grass while the boy flew across the shadowed grove and bounced off the face of Kaukoso Mons with an ugly crack. Chilon winced. A bit too hard, then. ¡°Do you know why that didn¡¯t work?¡± he asked the boy, kneeling beside him and cing his sword gingerly outside of his reach. The young mystiko red blearily up at him, his eyes unfocused by the blow he¡¯d taken to his head. ¡°Take your time,¡± Chilon told him. The boy vomited on the grass between them. More than a bit too hard. Something to keep in mind for the future. ¡°Y¡¯er my sen¡¯r,¡± the boy slurred, once he¡¯d finished heaving up the contents of his breakfast. ¡°Stronger. Fast¡¯r.¡± ¡°Hardly.¡± He shook his head. ¡°I¡¯ve never been much of a fighter. But I didn¡¯t have to be, when I knew what you were going to do before you did it. You¡¯re too stiff - it makes you transparent to an opponent that cares to look.¡± ¡°But the Sword Song¡­¡± ¡°The Sword Song might use a thrust like that,¡± Chilon agreed, ¡°but she¡¯d do it as one part of a greater sequence, and her opponent wouldn¡¯t be able to dodge it as easily as I dodged you, because she¡¯d already have them cross-eyed. Each movement feeds into the next, and is fed into by the one that came before. It¡¯s a simple style when you look at the individual steps, but together it¡¯s profound.¡± The boy forced himself up onto his hands and knees, wincing and squinting past the disoriented nausea. He reached falteringly for his de, and Chilon guided his palm to the pommel. ¡°I don¡¯t know the whole style,¡± he finally admitted, a fraction ashamed and a fraction horribly frustrated. ¡°Only bits and pieces.¡± ¡°You¡¯ll be better off looking elsewhere, then,¡± Chilon advised him. ¡°It¡¯s not a style that will serve you well in independent portions. You need the whole thing.¡± ¡°How do you know?¡± the boy demanded,shing out again. ¡°How are you an expert when you don¡¯t even carry a sword!?¡± It was a child¡¯s anger, a child¡¯s grief. Hopeless, impotent frustration, driven to a premature high by the tension every mystiko within the cult had been suffering since the kyrios¡¯ death. The boy was a prodigy for his age, but that wasn¡¯t good enough. He wanted to be stronger. Strong enough to feel safe when he slept at night. A few weeks ago, Chilon might not have bothered engaging with him at all. He was a tragic sight, but there was no shortage of that on a mountain crawling with cultivators. Every day was a new conflict, a new series of highs and lows. Before, he would have shaken his head, perhaps uttered a quiet prayer for the boy, and continued on. It wasn¡¯t as if he had any advice worth giving, after all. Except, well. Perhaps that wasn¡¯t true. ¡°I¡¯m no expert,¡± he said, and when the boy drew up in outrage, he continued, ¡°But I¡¯ve seen an expert in action, and I remember the sight of it vividly. And I can tell the difference between an amateur, a master - right now, you aren¡¯t either. You¡¯re only pretending.¡± The boy¡¯s shoulders slumped. ¡°I understand,¡± he muttered. ¡°This lowly sophist thanks his senior brother for his guidance.¡± He forced himself to stand on wobbling legs and staggered away, towards the stone-carved trail that led back to the estate he shared with his fellow young prodigies. Chilon frowned, watching him go. That hadn¡¯t gone how he¡¯d wanted it to. Unfortunately, he really wasn¡¯t a martial expert - he couldn¡¯t even be called a novice, really. What more could he do? The fishing of fables was a conspicuous weight on his back. He set his jaw and made a decision. ¡°Wait, little brother,¡± he called, and the boy begrudgingly paused. A momentter, he flinched and grasped clumsily for the papyrus scroll Chilon had thrown his way. Chilon winced. Right. The blow to the head. He probably should have handed it to him. ¡°What is this?¡± the boy asked once he¡¯d secured it, squinting at the symbol embossed across its outer surface. A fuschia de beneath a long-faded sun painted in blood. ¡°The full picture,¡± Chilon said, and turned back down the mountain. ¡°If you truly want to be the next Sword Song, study it. That¡¯s the story of the men she studied when she was your age.¡± ¡°Wha- this¡­¡± The boy stammered while Chilon descended the steps towards the city of Olympia. ¡°Thank you, senior!¡± he finally shouted. Chilon smiled over his shoulder, waving a light goodbye. It had been a priceless story, that one. He¡¯d miss it in its absence. But that was alright. It wasn¡¯t meant for him, in the end. His fishing was a ponderous weight on his back, but it was lighter than it had been a few weeks ago. And it was growing lighter every day. If he was ever to be the subject of inspiration and not simply the conveyer of it, he would need to be a man worth telling stories of. In order to advance, he had to refine himself in all ways. Body, mind, and soul. It was another one of those obvious truths that were all too often forgotten. Chilon was a schr far more than he was an athlete, he knew that well. But that wouldn¡¯t ever change unless he made it so. There were countless opportunities offered to the members of the Raging Heaven Cult, whether they be lectures or athletic venues and equipment. The grandest of those opportunities by far, though, was one offered only to the upper echelon of the cult - which Chilon was just barely a part of, thanks to his modest refinement and the decades he¡¯d spent faithfully toiling as a disciple of Raging Heaven. Though the masses would never in their entire lives set foot on its hallowed ground, the privileged members of the Half-Step City¡¯s indigo cult were allowed the unsurpassed privilege of using the Olympic Stadium itself for their martial pursuits. Whether it be athletic training in preparation for the legendary games that the stadium would y host to in just a few short months, or whether it was a more lethal sort of practice not suitable for the cramped courtyards and precarious teaus avable on the mountain, the stadium was open only to a precious few. So despite the fact that he was like an ant among ravenous lions, despite the fact that every day he was looked down upon by the Heroic cultivators that would soon bepeting and the senior Philosophers that had devoted themselves to the martial path, Chilon made the journey every day and worked his body to the brutal edge of exhaustion. It was the least he had to do if he wanted to be a man worth knowing someday. The sun was high in the sky when he finally reached his usual ce, in a secluded section of the stadium¡¯s pit close to the stands. It was far enough from the handful of greater cultivators already at work training that he wouldn¡¯t step on any toes, and wasn¡¯t in danger of being stepped on in return. He let his fishing drop to the sand and unfurl, the scrolls and tablets remainingrgely in ce but for one that rolled away. He let it go and began his stretches. He¡¯d gather it upter- A formless hand that was as invisible to his eyes as it was vibrant to his cultivator¡¯s sense plucked the scroll up and ced it back on top of the pile. Chilon blinked, and turned to face the pneuma limb¡¯s source. Ensconced in the shadows cast by the empty stands, a junior philosopher¡¯s familiar scarlet eyes peering out at him. ¡°Griffon?¡± Chilon blurted, astonished. What was he doing here? He couldn¡¯t possibly be among those allowed entrance - he hadn¡¯t even gone through his rites yet. How had he gotten in? The young man smilednguidly and rolled his shoulders, raising his left leg and then his right in a casual stretch. ¡°Hello again, senior,¡± the supposed scarlet son greeted him, and promptly manifested twenty-nine more hands of violent intent. ¡°It¡¯s been a while. What brings you to my domain?¡± ¡°¡®Your domain¡¯,¡± Chilon repeated, and couldn¡¯t help but chuckle at the cheek of it. ¡°You have some nerve, junior.¡± Nothing for it, he supposed. It didn¡¯t seem like anyone else had noticed his presence yet, or if they had, they didn¡¯t seem to care. ¡°If you must know, I¡¯m here to cultivate mass to match my virtue.¡± ¡°What a coincidence,¡± the scarlet-eyed philosopher said pleasantly. ¡°So am I. Shall we trade discourse?¡± Thirty hands of formless intent reached out to him in open offer, and were joined by one more of the boy¡¯s own flesh and blood. Chilon shook his head, but reached out anyway and smacked his palm against the scarlet son¡¯s. ¡°One round,¡± he acquiesced. ¡°But be warned, I¡¯ve already rattled one junior¡¯s skull today. I don¡¯t want to hear youining when I make it two.¡± Griffon grinned. ¡°Of course, senior brother.¡± Chapter 1.106 Chapter 1.106 The Son of Rome The storm-crowned mountain was divided nine ways - eight grand estates acting as envoys for the greater mystery cults, each with its own Tyrant ruling in their constion domain, and the rest of the mountain serving as the truly neutral ground that the Raging Heaven Cult¡¯s otherwise unaffiliated initiates called their own. When night fell and the Elders sent out their scavengers, there were few truly safe ces for the independent cultivators of the Raging Heaven. An ambassador from the Howling Wind Cult, for example, could rest easy at night within Aleuas domain so long as the Tyrant epted their presence there. An initiate of the Burning Dusk knew that the First Son to Burn would turn to ash any that reached into his domain for the things he considered to be his own. Of course, that meant you had to spend your nights in a Tyrant¡¯s domain. It was something most avoided - when they had the luxury of avoiding it, at any rate. Jason, Scythas, and Kyno had chosen to remain in their Raging Heaven quarters, risking midnight scavengers every night when the alternative was suffering the suffocating pressure of their Tyrants¡¯ domains. Elissa, for her part, had secured lodging in the city of Olympia, separated entirely from the mountain cult. Anastasia did whatever it was Anastasia did. And Lefteris hid in a cave. There were only so many ces a man could go once he¡¯d caught the eye of the Raging Heaven¡¯s Tyrant Elders. The city of Olympia was an option, but it had no inherent protections - Elissa was gambling each and every day as much as the Raging Heaven¡¯s neutral cultivators were. Gambling on anonymity in the masses, and the hopeful presumption that the Elders wouldn¡¯t care enough tob through the city¡¯s streets looking for her. Outside of the city? No. Not as things were. On the mountain itself, on Kaukoso Mons, there were only three ces that an Elder wouldn¡¯t dare tread. First, and most obvious, was another Elder¡¯s domain. Second was the Oracles¡¯ den, deep within the mountain¡¯s heart. The first wasn¡¯t an option for me, no matter what Aleuas offered. I wouldn¡¯t step into his hurricane suite ever again if I could avoid it. The second had beenpossible before, when I was recovering from my first encounter with the Gadfly, but that had been before - back when I was a neutral party. That left the third option as my only option, thest ce on Kaukoso Mons that an Elder would dare approach. The Storm That Never Ceased. There was a reason that the junior initiates slept in the estates nearest to the peak of the mountain, while the Elders had built their estates almost at the foot of it. The immortal storm crown was like a ward against their presence. Even, somehow, against their perceptions. The wandering eyes of Tyrants tasted like salt and ash on my tongue, something I had noticed the night of Bakkhos¡¯ funeral and fully understood the night I stepped into Aleuas¡¯ domain. That chestnut smoke had followed me into and out of his personal quarters, up the winding mountain path nearly to its highest visible teau - and then, when I finally reached the point where Socrates had carved out his hidden cave, close enough to the storm crown to feel its cool condensation in the air, the Hierophant¡¯s eye turned away from me. Though it was less from me, and more from the storm. For one reason or another, the peak was a safe haven. The only safe haven avable to me after I barged into the one ce I had no business being and made a mess of everything. So I followed in the footsteps of the Gadfly and sequestered myself beneath the crown where no one bothered to look. For the moment, I needed a ce to fully recover from the wounds I¡¯d suffered in Thracia. I needed a ce to train my body, to contemte the new weight that I carried in a far more literal sense now than I had before. I needed a ce to think. When I left the Hurricane Hierophant¡¯s domain and began my slow, painful climb through the shadows up the mountain, Socrates came to me in a rage. Wrapped up in bloodied linens like an Egyptian, and far more lively than he¡¯d been thest time I saw him cradled in Griffon¡¯s pankration palms. I¡¯d been so relieved by the surgery¡¯s sess that I¡¯d hardly registered the actual words he was saying. But I had. And they¡¯d hit me harder than a ballista bolt. Aleuas had invited me to his estate the day after Bakkhos¡¯ funeral, ostensibly to thank me for ¡®helping¡¯ Scythas in his pursuit of hunting crows, and I had ignored him for a reason. As things stood on this mountain, neutrality was a precious state of being. And while it could be said that our actions as ravens were as far from neutral as one could get, the fact was that we had attacked all of them equally. We weren¡¯t affiliated with any of them. We weren¡¯t beholden to anyone but ourselves, for better and for worse. I¡¯d changed that the night I walked into the Hierophant¡¯s estate. But it had been a necessary evil. With Polyzalus on the loose, maddened by the loss of his daughter, none of us were safe, no matter where we went. If we were fortunate, Selene might find him before he found us. If we were beloved by the Fates, he might even ept what had happened without ripping our throats out anyway for the risk we¡¯d taken with his daughter¡¯s life. I was wise enough to know the Fates despised me, and luck was rarely on my side. So I did the only thing I could think to do, and Imitted. I reached for the only suitably powerful ally avable to me. Because this was my fault, and because it was all that I could do. Then, afterwards, Socrates exined to me that Polyzalus was still in his domain after all. He exined that it had been a ploy, a scheme to frighten us unruly children into doing the right thing, because he didn¡¯t trust us to do it at his word. He told me it had all been for nothing after all. For no one. He¡¯d lied. ¡°You want this king¡¯s support? Those are my terms.¡± ¡°Deal.¡± ¡°Swear it.¡± ¡°I swear.¡± ¡°No. Properly. You¡¯re a son of Raging Heaven, aren¡¯t you?¡± ¡°I swear it. All of it, heart and soul, these terms upon the River Styx.¡± ¡°Upon the River Styx. And if either of us should waver, should either man break his word-¡± ¡°May Raging Heaven strike him down.¡± Days passed. My wounds were many and severe, but they were less debilitating every morning. The starlight marrow within me was somehow a more potent healing force now than it had been before, and after my first few hours of heavy exertion I realized the channels it had burnt through me were changed as well. They¡¯d expanded and joined together, forming a cohesive spiralingwork within my body. While I waited out the days in Lefteris¡¯ abandoned cave home, secluded beneath the light of the immortal storm crown, I passed the time by honing my body. Socrates had told me in one of our first lessons that my split foundations had led to an imbnce in my cultivation. The portion of me that was Greek wasn¡¯t strong enough to handle the portion of me that was Roman - that was his theory as to why I couldn¡¯t perform even a single pushup while pressing down on myself with Gravitas. My experience in Thracia had muddied the water on that theory, made things even moreplicated than they had been before, but they had also made things simpler for me going forward. The why was a mess of possibilities, but right now the why of it didn¡¯t matter. What mattered was that there was a weight that I was struggling to carry. And there was only one thing to do if I wanted to more easily carry it. The sun rose and fell and rose again, and I honed my body beneath the curtain of raging heaven. Push-ups, sit-ups, sprints and long jumps and boot crawls across the stone. I worked myself to the brink of exhaustion, and then I worked myself beyond that. Over and over, until my body gave out on me and I copsed. Unable to move, let alone scrounge for food and water. Each time I did, an old man covered head to toe in bandages would sit down beside me and set a cup of water and a te of food within my reach. Each time, I ignored him. ¡°Boy.¡± I forced myself to rise, to reach for strength that I had already depleted hours ago. ¡°Boy. I told you, this wasn¡¯t what I intended.¡± Though it felt like dying, I forced myself to stand. ¡°You can¡¯t ignore me forever.¡± And I made use of the alliance I¡¯d wagered my soul to secure for no reason at all. Every day, the Howling Wind Cult¡¯s mystikos brought me y jugs of water and an odd sparkling kykeon, along with baskets overflowing with produce and fish of every type. They never delivered it to me directly, of course. They left it all just far enough from the storm crown that when I limped down the mountain to retrieve it, I would feel the brush of Aleuas¡¯ wandering eye and taste the chestnut smoke in the air. It was a statement to his rivals as much as it was one to me. Griffon and I had taken a piece of several of the Elders, maybe even all of them, and then we had aligned ourselves with the Gadfly. And now Aleuas had imed a portion of that alliance through his connection to me. Every time he sent his cultivators up the mountain with jugs of wine and baskets of food in in view of anyone that cared to look, he made a statement. The raven and I are of one mind. It shouldn¡¯t have mattered. In a sane world, it wouldn¡¯t have. Days passed, then a week. One day, when I staggered down the mountain in search of food and water, I found the cultivators sent to deliver it still there in their viridian silks. And opposing them, I found three more in cerulean silks. They were so absorbed in their vicious argument that they didn¡¯t notice me until I was nearly upon them, the rumbling of the nearby storm and the uneven terrain masking my approach. When they did notice me, the man and woman from the Howling Wind went abruptly silent and stood up straight while their heads bowed. ¡°Good morning, sir,¡± they both said at the same time. Like I was someone worth greeting with respect. I frowned and dragged a hand through my hair, slick with sweat and long enough now that it fell into my eyes when it was wet. ¡°What is this?¡± I asked, and they both winced. They were the first words I¡¯d spoken in days, and my voice hade out harsher than I¡¯d intended it to. ¡°Apologies,¡± the man said, ring out of the corner of his eye at the three from the Broken Tide who in turn were warily looking me up and down. I couldn¡¯t imagine I was much to look at. ¡°We were just making sure these three didn¡¯t disturb you.¡± ¡°The Coast has a grand reputation,¡± the woman from the Howling Wind exined, her tone as ugly as his re, ¡°And its junior cultivators have a bad habit of mistaking their city¡¯s renown for their own. They tend to forget they¡¯re not the center of the world if they don¡¯t have someone with sense around to remind them.¡± One of the men from the broken tide snorted. ¡°Be silent, little bird. The adults are going to speak for a moment.¡± The man and woman nking him on either side whistled mockingly at the duo from the Hurricane Heights. The messenger from the Broken Tide eyed me appraisingly. He was tall, sculpted beneath his cerulean silks and heavily tanned. His dark hair hung in a thick braid down his back, and his eyebrows were studded with what looked to be thin rods of bronze. He smiled, and his teeth were serrated like a shark¡¯s. His eyes burned with the low light of a Heroic me. It spoke to the courage of the man and woman bringing me my food and drink that they¡¯d stayed to argue with a Heroic cultivator for as long as they had. Or perhaps it simply spoke to their confidence in my association with their faction. ¡°What do you want?¡± I asked the Hero with the shark-tooth smile. ¡°I want to know what it is exactly that the Hierophant sees in you,¡± he said, and extended a folded slip of papyrus towards me. When I reached out to take it, the acrid taste of pine smoke coated my tongue. ¡°As does my honored Elder. He¡¯d like to break bread with you tonight. Assuming, of course, you¡¯re not otherwise indisposed?¡± In a sane world, the allegiance of one battered Philosopher shouldn¡¯t have meant a thing to a stalemate between kings and queens of virtue. ¡°Tonight,¡± I acquiesced. Unfortunately, this wasn¡¯t a sane ce. This was the Raging Heaven Cult. Chapter 1.107 Chapter 1.107 The Young Griffon Not everyone is made of iron, Griffon. For some, the fire only burns. ¡°Griffon?¡± A woman¡¯s wee voice woke me from my dozing. I opened my eyes and smilednguidly up at the Heroine standing over me, incredulous at the sight of me. ¡°What are you doing here?¡± Above her, the marble columns of the indigo stadium jutted up into the clear blue skies, winding like vines up a formless tree and reaching vainly for heaven. The Olympic Stadium was an architectural wonder in an entirely different ss from my home city¡¯s Scarlet Stadium, where I had peted¡¯ for glory in the Daylight Games more than half a year ago. Where the Scarlet Stadium was a product of man¡¯s creation, carved out of the earth with mortal implements by mortal hands, the indigo amphitheater was ever more. It rose up, a goliath of pristine marble in colonnades and archway paths that wound in a spiral up towards the clouds above. There were nine rows of marble columns, each level separated by entature statues - carvings of men and women bracing their feet on the columns below and hunching their shoulders beneath the weight of the columns above. Each of them was carved as if in motion, the tendons in their legs rendered in profound detail, immortalizing the struggle of a step that they would forever be frozen in the middle of taking. They were all marching up that winding path, carrying their colonnades with them up to heaven - the pirs of virtue each and every one of them had built within their souls. As my senior brother Chilon had informed me after our exchange of discourse, beaten and bloody but satisfied with his progress, every statue was a former victor of the Games. Every marble man and woman was someone that had stepped into this stadium a Hero and walked out of it a champion. The indigo amphitheater wasrger than any man made monument had a right to be, and its stands could seat nearly a hundred thousand spectators at its fullest capacity. It was an intimidating venue, more than any other I had ever set foot in. In its own way, empty as it currently was, it was more unsettling than anything I had seen in Thracia. It also had a veryfortable sand pit. ¡°Elissa,¡± I greeted the Sword Song, shifting and patting the sand beside me invitingly. ¡°The shade is pleasant here. If youy in just the right spot, Diocles blocks the rays.¡± Across the indigo amphitheater, atop the first row of colonnades, the statue of a seven hundred year old champion strained against the weight of all eight levels above as he marched tirelessly up the spiraling path to heaven. ¡°You know that isn¡¯t what I meant,¡± she said, rearing back her leg andying a kick into my side. I caught it with a pankration hand and twisted sharply with two more, seeking to pull her off her feet. The Sword Song pulled the bronze de from the belt on her hip and drove it down through my violent intent, skewering me as surely as if through flesh and bone. I cleared my throat and turned my head, spitting a mouthful of pink saliva onto the sand. ¡°Incredibly rude.¡± Her eyes rolled. ¡°This isn¡¯t a public estate. More importantly, this isn¡¯t safe. Look around you - this pit is crawling with cultivators from every faction in the Raging Heaven. What are you going to do if you¡¯re recognized? What are you going to do if you¡¯re confronted?¡± ¡°What do you think I¡¯m going to do?¡± I asked her, honestly curious. She sighed. ¡°I don¡¯t know why I bother.¡± ¡°What about you?¡± I continued, rising up onto one elbow and looking the Heroine up and down meaningfully. She was in her proper cult attire again - fuschia robes ented with winding lines of white and gold, and she had her eponymous bronze de hanging unsheathed from the leather belt slung across her waist. Thest time we¡¯d spoken to one another in her home, she had been disguised in in clothes without her weapon at hand to give away her identity. Now here she stood, scolding me in in view of the Raging Heaven Cult¡¯s favored sons and daughters. A Heroine stolen in the night by hungry ravens, returned healthy and whole to the wider world. ¡°What are you going to do if someone tells your Elder they saw you here, speaking to me without any iron bands to bind you?¡± I asked the Sword Song. ¡°What are you going to do when they realize you weren¡¯t taken after all - that you went with us willingly?¡± ¡°Haven¡¯t you heard?¡± she asked archly, procuring a rolled slip of papyrus from a fold in logic within her fuschia robes. ¡°My shadowed captors have set me free.¡± Elissa dropped the message on my chest, and I flicked it open with the hands of my intent, lighting the words with the rosy glow of dawn. The handwriting was unfamiliar, but the contents of the message itself quickly identified the author. ¡°A message from your Elder,¡± I murmured, scanning each line with mounting admiration. I felt my lips twitch towards a smirk. ¡°It seems your master¡¯s been busy,¡± Elissa said, feigning neutrality and failing utterly. Audacious Roman. We¡¯d only been back for two weeks, and he¡¯d already made a mess of things. ¡°He sold you back for favorable terms.¡± I chuckled. ¡°Who else has the Roman offered back to their distraught city?¡± ¡°Scythas was the first.¡± She walked past me and leaned back against the marble walls that separated the lowest level of the stands from the pit. ¡°Nearly two months ago he vanishes without a trace and no one in Olympia can find him. Then your master is spotted with the Gadfly on his way out of the Howling Wind¡¯s estate, and the next day Scythas is out and about in his cult silks like nothing happened in the first ce. ¡°After that, the Broken Tide reached out. They were¡­ displeased when Kyno was kidnapped. When he walked out of that meeting in one piece, the rest of the Elders seemed to realize there was a game to be yed. Soter brought him into his confidence the next day, and that night I received this from his eagle.¡± ¡°Making you a free woman again. Congrattions,¡± I said, saluting her with the letter and flicking it back to her. She tucked it away, that neutral re cracking at its edges. Hidden from me but not entirely silent, I felt the beat of her heart as it churned uneasily. ¡°What happened in Thracia?¡± she asked me. ¡°When Solus sent us those letters, he made it sound like you¡¯d be gathering up ingredients all at once. He said you wanted to have everything ready before you came back here. What changed?¡± What had changed in Thracia? What had shifted in the Orphic House, and fallen firmly from its ce on the journey back down the Aegean Sea? My heart stirred in my chest. There were any number of answers I could give to that question, each of them true - or rather, none of them a lie. But only one of them would answer her question in the spirit that she¡¯d asked it. ¡°We met Orpheus,¡± I said, and my heart beat steadily in my chest. ¡°Griffon,¡± Elissa sighed, exasperated. When I didn¡¯t smile or otherwise react, her brow furrowed, creasing the brutal lines of scars on her face. ¡°You¡¯re serious. You - what, you went to his tomb?¡± ¡°We did,¡± I confirmed. Again, I could have left it there, allowing her to draw what conclusions she would from that statement. But would that have been the truth? I borated, ¡°And Sol and I spoke to his shade, ensconced inside his chthonic singing house.¡± ¡°You what?¡± Elissa appeared over my head, staring down at me with wide eyes. ¡°You¡¯re lying,¡± she used me. I stared steadily up at her. ¡°You can¡¯t possibly be serious.¡± How cruel, that a woman I had never lied to in my life would regard my word with such suspicion. Though, had I ever told her the truth? ¡°Why didn¡¯t youe with us, Elissa?¡± I asked the Sword Song. The desert-heat mes behind her eyes flickered in time with her heart, and she looked away. ¡°You know why.¡± ¡°Pretend that I don¡¯t,¡± I invited her. ¡°Enlighten me.¡± ¡°You know,¡± she insisted. ¡°You can¡¯t tell me you don¡¯t know how ridiculous it all sounded. How convenient it was. The Gadfly decides he doesn¡¯t like what we¡¯re doing and ambushes us outside a bathhouse, drags your master up the mountain and throws you up into the storm crown - then, what? He decides it was all a misunderstanding? Solus makes amends, and they spend the next month as teacher and student in Bakkhos¡¯ estate? ¡°Then youe roaring in and punch him in the throat, make a mess of the Oracles¡¯ shared domicile and risk the wrath of every Tyrant on the mountain in the process, and the Gadfly rewards you with a quest? Suddenly, there¡¯s a cure for the Scarlet Oracle where there wasn¡¯t one for thest decade and a half? And the only way to synthesize it, of course, is to travel the full breadth of the free Mediterranean over the course of weeks and months when the Games are only a couple months away.¡± ¡°It was convenient,¡± I agreed. ¡°For him more so than us.¡± Sol and I had known it from the start. The Gadfly didn¡¯t know us nearly as well as he thought he did, but he¡¯d known us well enough to know we¡¯d jump at the opportunity if he waved it over our heads. ¡°And yet. Serving his purposes, serving ours - do the two have to stand apart from one another? Bakkhos knew how to synthesize nectar from mortal materials. If he could do it, why not the Gadfly? Why not us?¡± ¡°You aren¡¯t Bakkhos,¡± Elissa hissed. Frustrated that she even had to say something so obvious. ¡°You aren¡¯t Bakkhos, and you aren¡¯t the Gadfly either. You¡¯re just-¡± She spat a curse and turned away, stalking along the perimeter of the stadium away from me. ¡°You don¡¯t believe,¡± I called, and she stopped in her tracks. ¡°You think you don¡¯t believe it¡¯s possible, but there¡¯s a part of you that knows it can be done, because Bakkhos did it. You don¡¯t believe we¡¯re capable of it. You don¡¯t believe you¡¯re capable of it. Why not?¡± The Sword Songid her palm on the hilt of her bronze de. Her heart roiled in her chest. ¡°You said it yourself,¡± the Heroine muttered. ¡°We¡¯re all cowards in the end.¡± Not every soul was tempered in me. I stood. ¡°Your master. Why did he leave?¡± ¡°What?¡± Elissa blinked and turned to face me fully. Distantly, across the vast sand arena that served as the staging ground for the Games themselves, cultivators from the Sophic Realm to the Heroic trained and fought and reveled in the midday sunlight. ¡°Why did your master leave the city of Olympia?¡± I pressed her, stepping across the sand. ¡°And wherever he was going, why didn¡¯t he take you with him?¡± After Bakkhos¡¯ funeral, I had shared drinks and yed games with Elissa, Kyno, and Lefteris in a crowded club while they told stories of the man in remembrance. One of those stories had been about Elissa¡¯s master. ¡°They¡¯d always been on friendly terms, but when my master decided he was leaving Olympia for good and severing all ties, the kyrios offered him a wager. A single sword exchange, no pneuma involved, and if the kyrios won my master had to keep his faith. They squared off in an octagon of marble and gold¡­¡± That story had ended the way that every story of its kind ended for the kyrios - Bakkhos was victorious, and in the end he got his way. Well, the same story every time except for one. ¡°What does it matter?¡± Elissa asked, confused. It was a fair question. The truth of things was, I didn¡¯t know. I only had my suspicions. Since the day Sol and I had stepped off the Eos and into the city of Olympia, that was all I¡¯d ever had. Suspicions, educated guesses, and instinctive impressions. Sol and I had decided on our way out of Bakkhos¡¯ estate that we wanted to know these people, these Heroic souls that we had imed within our hearts as ourpanions. We had each agreed that they were worth knowing. Yet, what had I done to know them? What overtures had I made in good faith? It wasn¡¯t a coincidence that of the six Heroic cultivators we¡¯d grown so fond of, Sol¡¯s three had agreed to lend themselves to our cause immediately, where mine had drawn back in suspicion and doubt - doubt of me, and doubt of themselves. When we first met them, Elissa and Lefteris had derided Scythas and Jason as cowards. They had carried themselves with an unmistakably greater confidence, and that had drawn me to them over the Heroes that Sol had taken under his wing. And now, hardly two monthster, Scythas walked as if with an entirely new purpose, with fire in his eyes, and Elissa turned away from prying eyes and called herself a coward. What had changed them? Who had changed them. Which had been for better, and which had been for worse? I had seen them for what they were, and simply made that fact known. That was what I¡¯d thought at the time. What I¡¯d known to be true. How could they improve upon themselves if no one had the temerity to make their weaknesses known? I was only challenging them. I was only reminding them that they were more. That had been my intent. But what had been the result? ¡°You want people to meet your expectations. You want to help them exceed them.¡± In the end, the girl had been right. ¡°You know why I¡¯m here,¡± I said, and ignored the flickering of my heart. ¡°What of the Sword Song? What is it you¡¯re hoping to grasp alongside your glory when this stadium is filled end-to-end with spectators and the Olympic me is lit?¡± What did you see in the story of the Brothers Aetos that shook you to your core? Elissa stared hard at me, gripping the hilt of her de so hard that even her pale fingers visibly bled white from the pressure. Finally, she came to a decision. ¡°Tell me what really happened in Thracia. Trade me truth for truth.¡± I tilted my head. ¡°I already did.¡± ¡°You already lied,¡± she said derisively. ¡°¡®Spoke to Orpheus¡¯, as if you were just passing through the underworld on an evening stroll-¡± I reached up and grasped the thin te of gold that I wore around my neck, beside the scarlet-jewel ne I¡¯d taken from my ancestor¡¯s statue in the Aetos filial pools. I pulled the gift from Phdelphus up over my head and tossed it to Elissa. She caught it, confused, and at my inviting gesture began to read from it. Her lips moved silently, and I followed along - I¡¯d already long memorized the contents of the totenpass. You will find a spring on your left in the Unseen halls, And by it the cypress with its luminous sheen. Do not go near this spring or drink its water. You will find another, cold water flowing from Mnemosyne¡¯ske; Its guardians stand before it. Say: ¡°I am the son of earth and starry heaven, but of heaven is my birth.¡± I am parched with thirst and dying: quickly, give it to me; The cool water flowing from Mnemosyne¡¯ske.¡± And they will give you water from the sacred spring, And then you will join the Heroes at their rites. This is darkness, folding you within it. This is the end. ¡°What is this?¡± Elissa whispered, when she was done. My answer was mild. ¡°Directions for a stroll.¡± Chapter 1.108 Chapter 1.108 The Son of Rome As a melting pot of Greek culture, the city of Olympia celebrated more holidays and religious festivals than even the twiceuded Coast - it was said that a citizen of the Half-Step City worked about as rarely as a ve enjoyed a day off, and that statement wasn¡¯t all too distant from the truth. Over the course of my year as a servant in the Rosy Dawn¡¯s estates, I was offered two holidays of rest. Naturally, Griffon stole the first of them from me by sponsoring me through the cult¡¯s initiation rites. The second, the Kronia that he¡¯d named his starlight mare after, was the celebration of sessful harvest and unity wherein ves sat at the same tables as their masters. The day that ves were served instead of serving had been my one and only day of true rest. The more I interacted with the various factions present on Kaukoso Mons, the more I became convinced that the saying was true after all. It seemed like nearly every morning brought with it another celebration, every night a religious ceremony. As always, it was a mystery to me that the city-states could function at all. Their citizens, it seemed, did nothing but revel. Though there could have admittedly been other motives at y. ¡°Sir,¡± a mystiko greeted me as I stepped out of my cave, his vibrant cult cloth of white-gold and canary yellow brushing the stone as he bowed respectfully to me. Deference to the man living in a cave and clothing himself in scraps of ragged cloth. I wondered if his ancestors were spitting blood at the sight of him. ¡°Good morning, and well wishes from-¡± ¡°Why are you here?¡± I asked the initiate of the Waning Wax Cult. The man blinked, looking up at me in faint apprehension. ¡°I¡¯m sorry?¡± He was a product of the baster Isles, though which of the scattered inds he¡¯de from was as much a mystery to me as the location of his cult. He looked like most of his ilk here on Kaukoso Mons - fine features and an aesthetic build free of scars, with well-kept silks to entuate the body and make their sophic nature in as day to anyone who cared to look. He wasn¡¯t a fighter, despite what the man himself might have thought in the privacy of his own ego. I stepped up closer, staring tly down into his eyes. The senior sophist went very still. ¡°Why are you here?¡± I asked him again, quietly. ¡°When you know that the others have nevere this close before?¡± The mystiko from Jason¡¯s baster Isles summoned up his bravado and stood up straight, putting our eyes nearly on the same level. He tilted his chin up so we¡¯d be looking straight on at one another, masking it as a haughty gesture. ¡°I¡¯m here because the others aren¡¯t,¡± he asserted. He offered up a smirk. ¡°Why fight the other suitors for a moment when I can walk another stade and have you to myself?¡± ¡°Have me to yourself,¡± I mused. ¡°Do you know why no other mystiko has ventured this far up the mountain before you, philosopher?¡± ¡°The storm crown,¡± he said at once. ¡°Most can¡¯t stand the sight of it after going through the rites - it¡¯s one of the better passive motivators that drives junior initiates to advance through the Raging Heaven¡¯s hierarchy. The further you progress, the further down the mountain you¡¯re allowed to go.¡± He seemed pleased with his answer. Doubtlessly, he¡¯d been sent here this morning to invite me to his cult¡¯s portion of the mountain for some holiday or another, and here he¡¯d found the perfect method to secure my time before anyone else. All he had to do was suffer the storm crown for a few moments. It was noble, really. ¡°No,¡± I said, dashing his hopes, andid my hand on the crown of his head without applying any particr pressure. The philosopher¡¯s head mmed back down into a bow like I¡¯d dropped a boulder on his head. His eyes flew open wide, his knees bending beneath the weight of a hand that had no business being as heavy as it was. ¡°Hngh-!¡± ¡°It¡¯s disrespectful to harass a man before his morning piss,¡± I informed the wisened schr of Greek virtue. ¡°And it¡¯s foolish to tempt him, when the perceptions of your Elder stop at the line that you¡¯ve so brazenly crossed.¡± ¡°What?¡± he breathed. I nodded gravely. ¡°That final stade you chose to walk is a stade your Elder will not trespass.¡± I tightened my grip on the crown of his head. His hair was soft and slick with olive oil, like he¡¯d just taken a bath. ¡°Do you think he¡¯d send anyone up here to get you, should you note back down? Do you think he cares more for you than he does his own image?¡± We both knew the answer to that particr question. ¡°Apologies,¡± the schr of Waning Wax rasped. ¡°This lowly sophist begs the raven-¡± The raven. It was what they all called me, when they called me anything besides ¡®sir¡¯. For all of our better intentions, Griffon and I had thoroughly failed in our attempt to maintain a usible separation between our day and night personas. I was better known as the raven on this mountain than I was as Solus. ¡°Enough.¡± I let the man go and gently pressed an open palm to his chest. He staggered back three steps before regaining his bnce. For a long beat of a moment, neither of us moved. I sighed. ¡°I¡¯m going to take that piss now. Leave.¡± ¡°Ah- yes, sir! Apologies, again, I¡¯ll just-¡± I stared tly at him until he shut his mouth and rushed back down the mountain from whence he¡¯de. When I finally made my way down the mountain to the line that the Elders¡¯ wandering eyes would not cross, I found a delegation from the Coast¡¯s Broken Tide, one from the Howling Wind, one from the Scattered Foam, and of course, the man with the oiled curls that hade to speak for the Waning Wax. They offered me food, water, and wine, in different styles and delicacies ording to the bounties of their respective cities. Each of them offered me a ce at their tablester that day, for some fabricated celebration or another. The man in silks of white-gold and canary yellow was thest to step forward and make his case. The knowing looks from the other mystikos made it clear that they¡¯d been waiting here when he went strutting past the unspoken boundary that separated the storm crown¡¯s domain from the rest of the mountain. And they¡¯d been waiting here still, when he came slinking back down to wait like the rest of them. ¡°Well?¡± I asked him, armsden with gifts that reminded me all too clearly of the iron manacles I¡¯d worn pped around my wrists for the better part of a year. ¡°What did youe here to say?¡± Reluctantly, the man from the baster Isles made his pitch. ¡°Today is the Adonia, you see, and the marble sisters of the cult were hoping you¡¯d assume the role of Adonis-¡± ¡°Get out of my sight.¡± His rivals watched him go with vindictive amusement, some more politely than others. The delegate from the Coast, a man with teeth like a shark¡¯s and fishbone studs in his eyebrows, didn¡¯t bother hiding his satisfaction at all. He chuckled openly, the mes behind his eyes dancing. ¡°The audacity of these juniors,¡± he said ruefully, shaking his head. The long braid of his dark hair swung to-and-fro with the motion, each glimpse revealing the razor sharp tooth of carved bronze hanging from it like a il. ¡°They¡¯ll say anything to get what they want these days. Not a drop of shame in them.¡± I eyed the Hero from the Broken Tide. ¡°And you¡¯re above that, are you?¡± ¡°Of course,¡± he said, grinning sharply. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t dare insult the raven by calling him a swan. Beyond a certain point, a ttering lie is more of a cruelty than a kindness, you know?¡± I raised an eyebrow. ¡°Are you calling me ugly?¡± ¡°I¡¯m calling you to dinner.¡± I inhaled slowly. Diplomacy. Exhaled. ¡°Fine.¡± In the course of my years as a legionary, I had learned more from Gaius Julius Caesar than most men would ever know in their entire lives, and in the end it had only been enough to give me a proper frame of reference for all of the things I still did not understand - might not ever understand. Still, a modest education in diplomacy was worth its weight in gold, and a lesson taught by the General of the West was worth far more than that. I didn¡¯t have the breadth and depth of Gaius¡¯ experience, it didn¡¯te nearly as easily to me as it did Aristotle, and I¡¯d never have my father¡¯s ir, but those were Roman standards. For this ce? These people? It was enough. ¡°Wicked, presumptuous raven-¡± ¡°Arrogant, thieving shade-¡± ¡°Foolish, starving child-¡± Three Tyrants called upon him each in their domains, postured and insulted him each in their own special ways, and in the end made the same demands all three times. ¡°¡°¡°Solus, son of Rome-¡±¡±¡± ¡°¡°¡°Let my Hero go.¡±¡±¡± Gaius had taught the raven diplomacy, but that wasn¡¯t all. He¡¯d taught the raven strategy as well. The raven knew that he was nothing to these Elders, no one at all. The only reason they courted him and haggled with him, like fishmongers instead of kings, was because he possessed a resource they could not live without. A Tyrant, even a crippled existence like the Elders of the Raging Heaven, was above mortal concerns. The Civic and Sophic cultivators thatnguished beneath them weren¡¯t worth much to them in the end, certainly not a moment¡¯s inconvenience. There wasn¡¯t a single one among them that would risk their reputation for a lowly mortal cultivator, regardless of their allegiance. A Hero, though? That was a different existence altogether. That was a significant existence. Before the raven¡¯s father passed, in the early days of Gaius¡¯ campaigns, he¡¯d offered the raven a kernel of profound military wisdom. It went something like this: In the forum, where food and drink was plentiful and no one truly wanted for anything, a loaf of bread and a jug of good wine cost just one brass coin - a single sestersius. But that same loaf of bread, and that same jug of good wine, when presented to a starving man on the furthest western waste of the uncivilized frontier? That bread and wine was priceless. The exact amount was immaterial in the end, because that starving man would pay any price to have his hunger fed. Or he¡¯d kill the merchant, and feast over his corpse. The raven met with three Tyrants after the Hurricane Hierophant, and each time he knew that they wanted nothing more than to kill him where he stood and devour everything of worth he had. But they couldn¡¯t, because he never brought the bread and wine with him. He kept it out of sight. Out of reach. Avable to them, but only in the event that they settled to his terms. At least, that was what he led them to believe. In actuality, the raven known as Solus had no control at all over the Heroic cultivators that he had seemingly snatched from their sleeping beds. But that ivory lie was as good as horn when it suited Scythas, Jason, Kyno, and Elissa just as well to y along as it suited him. And once the terms were set and properly sworn, that ivory became horn after all. ¡°They¡¯re getting bolder every day,¡± Socrates observed, sitting cross-legged beside me while I forced myself through another set of push-ups. He was still covered head-to-toe in linen bandages, but he¡¯d swapped the blood-stained ones out and had yet to stain the fresh ones. ¡°The more you humor them, the worse it¡¯ll get.¡± I silently counted out my repetitions, focusing on the beat of my heart and the sweat dripping off the tip of my nose. The worst of my injuries from Thracia had been lessened to manageable hurts with time, good food, and dogged exercise. It was still an effort to move in even the simplest ways, little actions like blinking and opening my mouth to speak that I had never considered a luxury before what felt like lead weights were attached to every portion of me. Every day the burden became just a bit less. Every day it became just a bit easier to rise. But the road ahead was long and grimly lit. Once, and only once, I had attempted to invoke Gravitas as I had so many times before my advancement to the second rank of the Sophic Realm. It had mmed me t, face-first through the mountain stone, and it was at that moment that I¡¯d realized what I had only bleakly suspected before. It may have felt as if I was carrying the weight of three thousand men since leaving the Orphic House, but the reality of things was far less impressive than that. As I was now, doing my daily calisthenics, I was only suffering a fraction of that weight. Not even a tenth. A hundredth, maybe. Thirty men and no more than that. I still had a long way to go. A thousand miles left to march, and hardly any time at all to see it done. The Elders of the Raging Heaven Cult were consolidating their forces and reaching for every weapon avable to them. Among those weapons, their Heroic cultivators stood proudly above the rest. Griffon and I had disrupted them with our interference, more in the seizing of their Heroes than in the actual hunting of their crows, because the truth of things was simple. A crow could be made to seem like more than they were, could even be given a shadowed sliver of their Tyrant¡¯s strength, but that was all it was. A shadow. In the light of day it would be banished to the furthest corner of their soul, and they would be themselves again. A Hero, though? A Hero was himself regardless of imposition. Glorious. Defiant. Triumphant. A conflict was brewing in the sanctuary city of Olympia. In theing weeks before the kyrioi came to see the Games, there would either be a peaceful consensus on the question of indigo session, or there would be bloodshed. In our irreverent meddling, Griffon and I had ced our fingers on that precarious scale. And then Socrates had lied to me, and I¡¯d leapt up onto that scale without a second thought. Whatever came of this conflict now, a portion of that me would be mine to take. ¡°You¡¯re going to carry that weight.¡± I grit my teeth and pressed against the stone. Chapter 1.109 Chapter 1.109 The Young Griffon It was said that there were as many paths to heaven as there were stars in the night sky. That titude was one that countless cast-off sons and daughters of Helen clung to every day, assuring themselves of its absolution as soon as they awoke and seeking its coldfort in the fleeting moments before Hypnos delivered them to rest. The sentiment was appealing, there was no arguing that. Cultivation favored the bold, and it was the nature of bold men to chafe at the bonds of those that came before. It was only justice that a cultivator should walk his own path to the peak of the divine mountain. It was only virtue that he take for himself what none who came before could provide him. Yet, the reality of things was that there was a difference between defiance for the pursuit of greater things, and defiance for the sake of defiance. The truth of the matter was that the young generation had a choice - take for themselves what their ancestors had spent their lives scraping through the dirt to achieve, and build upon that foundation a grander monument than any who¡¯de before could ever hope to match. Or, in spite, discard it, and spend their life scraping through the dirt just as their forefathers had. It was a fine line to walk, and so crity of the spirit was required for any sessful soul. Toocent and you risked bing a filial son, beholden to your betters and doomed to never outpace them. Too spiteful and you tempted the Fates, ignoring even the best aspects of your ancestry simply because you resent the association. We loved the solitary rising star, but that didn¡¯t change the fact that we cultivated within a framework based off of the best of our older generations. We refined our reason, our spirit, and our hunger, as distinct and meaningful portions of our bodies and souls, because a wise man of our older generation had spent his life scraping through the dirt for that insight. We sought virtue and lived in ordance to higher ideals, we yed monsters and liberated our fellow men, and we did much and more because we wanted to measure ourselves against the greatest of the champions that had lit the walls of our nursery caves with the light of their passionate souls. I¡¯d walked the line between defiance and spite since I was a boy. No one sprang from the womb a master of all things, not even me, and so I took what deserved to be taken from the older generation when they offered it to me. From the charting of stars to the production of art and song, all the way to glorious pankration, I had learned early and often that irreverence was apetent man¡¯s luxury. Only a fool wasted an opportunity to refine himself. And regardless of what the wise men of the world might think, I was no fool. ¡°It¡¯s still too crude,¡± my senior brother in Raging Heaven reproached me, dispelling the rushing wave of my rhetoric without much effort. Chilon clicked his tongue, circling around me in the sun-bathed sands of the stadium pit. ¡°You¡¯re prioritizing speed over substance. You can¡¯t win an argument by speaking over your opponent - not in any way that matters.¡± Following our first encounter in the Olympic Stadium over a week ago, Chilon had offered up his experience with rhetoric in exchange for my humble guidance in the art of violence. How could I say no? ¡°Ho?¡± I raised an eyebrow, stretching my armsnguidly while he circled around me. I was pleasantly tired, but my senses were as sharp as they¡¯d ever been. ¡°An argument of this nature is decided by thest man standing, is it not?¡± I leveraged a in truth, took from its simple strength and cast it out - battering the senior Philosopher with it like a storm¡¯s wave battered a stranded ship. [Better an ugly flower in full bloom than a withered rose bud.] The storyteller¡¯s lips twisted in distaste and I felt through my sophic sense the stirring of his own rhetoric as he readied a response. I pivoted on my heel and lunged, scattering his focus and tackling him bodily to the pit sand. His breath exploded out of him, and despite being my senior in age as well as refinement, his immediate attempt to slip my grapple was just shy of pitiful. ¡°If you can¡¯t manifest your im, what does it matter if it¡¯s closer to the truth?¡± I demanded, rearing back and punching him squarely in his jaw. He grunted and thrashed like a beached fish, for all the good it did him. ¡°If I can make my statement and prevent you from ever making yours, how can I be anything but the victor?¡± Chilon opened his mouth to respond, and I pped him across the face with a dozen pankration hands each from a different angle in a cascading sequence. ¡°If I silence your rhetoric before it can challenge mine, I win by default. Is that not so?¡± ¡°No-¡± he managed to get out, before I pped him silent again. ¡°No? Here I am, speaking every word I care to say while your rhetoric lives and dies trapped inside your throat. What does that make me if not the victor?¡± [A Tyrant] he intoned in the voice of his soul, and the force of it struck me across the face like a wild haymaker. I spun backward, rolling to my feet and working my jaw while Chilon did the same across from me. My senior initiate scowled at me in exasperation, prodding a loosened tooth with his tongue. ¡°Suppression is a crutch,¡± he exined to me, advancing forward. I strafed to the right, maintaining distance between us while I listened. ¡°You¡¯re faster than me, and you¡¯re stronger - in a fight, you can keep my mouth shut if you really want to. But at that point, it can¡¯t be said that we¡¯re exchanging discourse. A conversation is a mutual endeavor, and suppressing the other party is as far from that spirit as one can get.¡± ¡°And that¡¯s an issue,¡± I surmised, ¡°because eventually I won¡¯t be able to suppress my opponent.¡± ¡°With how you act?¡± Chilon snorted. ¡°I¡¯d be surprised if you could go a year of your life without drawing a stronger cultivator¡¯s ire. Especially in this city.¡± Well, he wasn¡¯t wrong. ¡°It is possible to be stronger than someone and also be right,¡± he exined. ¡°Just because you can overpower an opposing sophist¡¯s argument doesn¡¯t mean you should. Debate a weaker man in good faith and win, and the result will be the same as if you¡¯d beaten him down and choked him with his own unspoken rhetoric.¡± ¡°Is that not a point in favor of my approach?¡± I asked him curiously. ¡°The result is the same, but the time wasted in debate is less.¡± I ducked as he abruptly pivoted and swung a sloppy kick at my head. His speed was respectable for a man that spent far more time studying than training his body, but his form was still atrocious and full of tells. Ished out and pped the side of the knee that was carrying his weight, buckling it and nearly sending him back down to the sand. Grimacing, he regained his bnce and carried on. ¡°Your approach saves time at the expense of your own growth,¡± he said, kicking sand at my face to mask a roll towards my blindspot. I rolled my eyes and kicked sand right back in his face and he rolled past. His next words were forced out between sputtering coughs: ¡°Debate a hundred weaker men and win a hundred honest times, and you¡¯ll have the weight of each of those experiences behind you when you finallye across someone you can¡¯t suppress with strength alone. Beat down a hundred men before they can speak their minds because you¡¯d prefer not to waste the time, and you¡¯ll be as worthless as a Citizen when ites time to debate a man that¡¯s stronger than you.¡± ¡°And what if there isn¡¯t a stronger man?¡± I pressed with intent while he squinted in search of an opening. ¡°What if I alone am the strongest man I¡¯ll ever meet?¡± ¡°Arrogance,¡± was all he said before closing the gap again. Where he delivered verbal instruction, I instructed my senior with physicality alone. He gave the exchange everything he had, though he was utterly out of breath and far from my equal in martial pursuits. I corrected the most egregious of his missteps with carefully ced pankration hands - pping, poking, and prodding at the sensitive junctures of joints and tendons that were bearing too much or too little of his weight. He swung at me with a right hook that was far more shoulder than it was hip, and I pped it aside before demonstrating the proper form. I saw him realize his mistake a moment before I mmed the right hook into his kidney and folded him over my fist. ¡°There is always a bigger fish,¡± he wheezed. I hummed, conceding the point. ¡°For now.¡± Pivoting, I gripped the back of the tunic he¡¯d insisted on wearing even here for some bizarre reason, and heaved him up over my head before smashing him back down on the sand. ¡°Do it right ny-nine times when it doesn¡¯t matter, in preparation for the hundredth time when it does,¡± I summed it up while he struggled to rise. ¡°That¡¯s obvious enough. But you still haven¡¯t exined to me why it¡¯s wrong to favor speed over ¡®substance¡¯. If I¡¯m against a stronger man, speed and sinct rhetoric will allow me to make my point before he can suppress me.¡± I¡¯d put to practice that theory against the Gadfly twice now, once leveraging the formative memory of my first time meeting the bisected corpse of the fallen sun god, and the second time assaulting him with the mad remembrance of the Orphic faith¡¯s initiation rites. Both times, the speed and iprehensible severity of my rhetoric had bought me a free moment to strike where every other attempt had flowed past him like water off a duck¡¯s back. How could that be the wrong approach, when it was the only one that had shown the slightest bit of sess? ¡°Speed will give you an opening to speak,¡± Chilon allowed, jabbing twice with a left and once with a right before attempting another hook, this time focusing on the strength supplied by his core. He exhaled sharply, putting his pneuma into it, and I caught it in three oveid hands of pankration intent with a satisfied smirk. ¡°However! You¡¯re focusing on the wrong aspect of this.¡± ¡°Go on,¡± I encouraged him, matching his rising knee with my own and winking when he snarled a pained curse at the crack of bone-against-bone. ¡°Manifesting rhetoric is still an effort for you!¡± His voice rose in response to exhration and pain, and his pneuma rose to match it. ¡°You have to think about it, and the moreplex a statement, the longer it takes you to put vital breath to it! True?¡± ¡°True!¡± We struck one another in rapid session, each blownded another point proven with martial strength alone. The storyteller struck me across the cheek and staggered sideways when I mmed a kick into his side. I struck him twice in the gut and then once in the throat when he lowered his arms to guard, and was pleasantly surprised when he struck back even while gagging. I danced back out of his reach, panting happily. Hacking and staggering across the sand towards me, Chilon brought his lesson home. ¡°You can make a shallow point in a split second or a thoughtful statement in five! The way you¡¯re approaching a debate right now, you¡¯d rather make five of those shallow points than a single well-reasoned remark.¡± ¡°Because a split second is all any man has when defying higher power!¡± I fired back, leaning right to avoid his uppercut and mming my forehead into his nose. The philosopher staggered back, clutching his nose while it poured blood onto the sand. ¡°Which is why I¡¯m telling you your mentality is wrong.¡± Jaw clenching, he rushed in and tackled me to the sands. And so he sealed his fate. ¡°You¡¯re approaching this- urk!¡± Twisting gracefully and bringing my leg up and around his neck, I locked my other leg ankle-over-ankle and pulled his face down into my stomach. He thrashed and struggled against the choke hold, but it was in vain. There was no escape for him now. ¡°You¡¯re approaching this from the wrong direction,¡± he ground out, his face turning redder by the moment. ¡°You don¡¯t have to discard long-form sentiment in favor of speed. Instead of looking for arguments that you can fit into a single breath, refine your delivery.¡± I tilted my head, looking down on him in rapt interest. ¡°How?¡± ¡°Have you read the Broad¡¯s Republic?¡± Chilon said with a purple face. I blinked. ¡°I have.¡± ¡°Do you¡­¡± The philosopher¡¯s eyes rolled up into the back of his head. I loosened up my choke hold just enough for him to heave in a breath. ¡°Do you remember the Gadfly¡¯s analogy of the ship?¡± ¡°Of course.¡± ¡°Recite it to me,¡± Chilon demanded in a faint voice, his limbs hanging limp in the sand. ¡°Like a philosopher.¡± Frowning, I gathered up my influence and did so. Within the framework of the Republic, the Gadfly had presented an analogy of a ship that suffered without a captain as an example against the rule of all - the democracy of an unfit mob. His argument had gone something like this: [These men don¡¯t understand that a true captain must pay attention to the seasons of the year, the sky, the stars, the winds, and all that pertains to his craft, if he¡¯s really to be the ruler of a ship. And they don¡¯t believe that there is any craft that would enable him to determine how he should steer the ship, whether the others want him to or not, or any possibility of mastering this alleged craft or of practicing it at the same time as the craft of navigation. Don¡¯t you think that the true captain will be called a real stargazer, a babbler, and a good-for-nothing by those who sail in ships governed in that way?] The true thrust of the argument, that a democracy was only as good as its worst man and that the specialized men most suited to the task of leading were the ones least likely to have the role thrust upon them, was typical of the Broad Philosopher King. I felt the sentiment flow out of me over the course of precious seconds, a tidal wave of rhetoric. With no opposing argument to match it against, it dissipated in the air around us, but the weight of it was impressive on its own. It was a shame that it was such a mouthful. I¡¯d never get through even half of it against a half-decent opponent, let alone the man that had first delivered it- [Democracy is a hammer in every hand, and all the world a nail.] My eyes widened as I traced with my sophic sense that self-same wave, just as I had felt it before, crashing into the empty air. Formed in a bare fraction of the time, but nearly every bit as potent. ¡°I see.¡± I released Chilon from the choke hold and let him roll away gasping. I stared up at the cloudless skies of oing spring. A long-form argument condensed down to a single thread of rhetoric, with the proper consideration and delivery, could be almost as potent as the original. Perhaps, with the proper delivery, it could even be more. Sinct, yet borate. ¡°Simple,¡± I mused. ¡°Yet profound.¡± Panting like a dog and leaking blood from his broken nose, Chilon weakly raised a hand and pointed it at me in a mentor¡¯s satisfied affirmation. Chapter 1.110 [Myron] Chapter 1.110 [Myron] The Little Kyrios He had done his best. It was a coldfort, he knew, but it was what he clung to in the end. In the business of cultivation the results were all that mattered - the tribtions were hardly worth mentioning, so long as they were ovee. Hubris unending was permitted, so long as one advanced forward in the end. And in that same vein, no amount of well-meaning virtue would make a difference in a man¡¯s final judgment if he sumbed to the unforgiving defamation of a bottleneck. Yet even so. Myron had done everything he could. Was it really his fault that he¡¯d failed in the end? Well, yes. Obviously. ¡°Niko!¡± he called out to his eldest cousin, one morning and every morning, the same routine every day. Spotting a space on the side of the bench not upied by his cousin¡¯s wife, Myron squeezed in beside the Hero and looked up at him expectantly. ¡°Yes, cousin?¡± Niko ruffled his hair, today and every day just a bit faster than Myron¡¯s attempt to dodge his reaching hand. ¡°When are we leaving?¡± he asked. Today, and yesterday, and the day before that. And today, as he had every day before, Myron¡¯s eldest cousin winced and turned his burning gaze to the distant y-shingles of their family¡¯s estate. ¡°Not today. But soon.¡± ¡°You said that yesterday,¡± Myron pointed out. At this point, he was too familiar with the feeling to let his disappointment show. Niko sighed and nodded, returning his attention to his meal. ¡°That I did.¡± It had been months since Lio and Sol ran away from the Rosy Dawn, across the Ionian Sea to Olympia. Every day that passed was another day¡¯s travel put between them. Though Niko insisted that they¡¯d find them soon enough once they set sail, Myron was beginning to wonder. And more and more, he was beginning to feel something he¡¯d never expected to feel in regards to his eldest cousin. Doubt. ¡°We¡¯ll trainter, alright?¡± Niko said around a mouthful of salted sea bass, nudging Myron with his elbow. ¡°You just focus on your own refinement for now - if you keep progressing the way you have been, you¡¯ll be handing Griffon his hide all on your own when the timees.¡± They both knew that wasn¡¯t true. Or rather, they should have both known. For some reason, the version of Lio that existed within their eldest cousin¡¯s mind was entirely different from the true Young Aristocrat that had beaten Myron, his older brother, and each of his cousins sans Niko like unruly dogs for daring to stand between him and his wanderlust. Had the five years between Niko leaving and returning to the Rosy Dawn really been all it had taken to change Lio so severely? Had he not always been himself? Myron didn¡¯t know. He¡¯d been too young in the days before Niko left to remember more than a handful of vivid moments. But in his gut, his deepest instinct, Myron suspected that Lio hadn¡¯t changed. He¡¯d only revealed more of his true self with time. That was what cultivation was, wasn¡¯t it? But saying these things wouldn¡¯t make them true in Niko¡¯s eyes. If it were that simple, Lydia would have convinced him weeks ago. So rather than make another scene, Myron just nodded and reached for a te of bread and goat cheese. ¡°Okay.¡± He¡¯d tried. ¡°Myron?¡± Heron eyed him strangely, halfway through the marble entry to the room they¡¯d shared for as long as Myron could remember. ¡°What are you doing?¡± ¡°What does it look like?¡± he replied archly. ¡°I¡¯m cultivating.¡± Admittedly, his methods might have appeared a little strange from the outside looking in. But Niko had told him that the Hunting Bird¡¯s Breath was a technique that required precise control in every situation, under every duress. The more oddities he exposed himself to, the better able he would be to maintain the pneumatic chambers within his body when he truly needed them. To that end, he¡¯d experimented with as many odd environments and scenarios as he could think of. At the moment, that involved hanging upside down from their shared room¡¯s ceiling while a brazier burned merrily underneath him. Myron inhaled deeply, with water eyes and a heavy head, all the while carefully cradling both of the pneumatic chambers within his body even as he coughed on the smoke rising up from the brazier. ¡°Another one of Niko¡¯s lessons?¡± his older brother asked, a faint undercurrent of discontent beneath his exasperation. Heron shook his head and walked on by, shedding his cult attire as he went and copsing face-first onto his bed. ¡°They get more ridiculous every time. What¡¯s this one meant to teach you?¡± ¡°Control,¡± Myron coughed. ¡°Control,¡± Heron muttered into his pillow. ¡°Right.¡± Theypsed into a silence that was just a bit too heavy to befortable. Ever since Lio had left - no, before that. Ever since Myron had broken through his bottleneck and advanced past his older brother, there had been a tension between the two of them. It wasn¡¯t anything Heron had put into words, and so Myron hadn¡¯t either, but it was there. And it was only getting worse with time. It had gotten worse when Lio left. Heron had been nearly as happy to see him go as their parents, and that made Lydia furious. She ignored him outright, now, and while the rest of their cousins remained cordial with him, the line had been drawn. On one side stood Heron and Castor, at odds with Lio for as long as Myron could remember, and on the other side stood Myron and Lydia. For now it was only a theoretical divide, but that was because Heron and Castor still didn¡¯t know what they had nned. And because they didn¡¯t know what Niko intended to do, it made his disproportionate focus on Myron and Lydia sinceing home all the more galling to Myron¡¯s older brother. ¡°Alright, fine!¡± Heron abruptly snapped to no one in particr, shoving himself up out of bed. Had he taken Myron¡¯s silence for something else? It wouldn¡¯t have been the first time. ¡°What are we controlling?¡± ¡°We?¡± Heron waved impatiently at the full picture of Myron¡¯s admittedly odd meditation training. ¡°If I have to share a room with you and suffer this nonsense, the least you can do is clue me in on the lesson. We¡¯re brothers, aren¡¯t we?¡± Myron bit down on the first response that came to his mind. When was thest time Stavros Aetos¡¯ sons had gotten along? When was thest time they¡¯d treated each other like brothers - like Lio treated Sol, and Sol treated Lio? Myron heaved a weary sigh - and promptly choked on smoke and coughed so hard he fell from the ceiling and into the lit brazier. ¡°Son of a bitch!¡± Heron snarled, and the world spun as Myron was dragged roughly from the searing hot iron basin and thrown onto his bed. ¡°Are you out of your mind!? Control, my ass-¡± ¡°It¡¯s called the Hunting Bird¡¯s Breath,¡± Myron croaked while Heron rushed across the room to retrieve a y jug of clear water to douse him with. The water was a pleasant shock, soothing and bright blue-cold. ¡°The what?¡± Heron snapped, still a bit wild-eyed. ¡°It¡¯s a breathing technique,¡± he exined, dragging damp hair out of his eyes and looking up at his older brother¡¯s confused face. ¡°An Aetos breathing technique. Passed down from father to son for as long as we¡¯ve had our name.¡± ¡°An Aetos technique,¡± Heron repeated doubtfully. ¡°Then why is Niko the one teaching you this, and why haven¡¯t I heard of it before today? If it¡¯s father to son, our father should know it, shouldn¡¯t he?¡± ¡°He does,¡± Myron said quietly. ¡°Wha-¡± His brother¡¯s eyebrows furrowed. ¡°That doesn¡¯t¡­ why?¡± Why would their father keep such a thing from them, or why would Niko lie to Myron about it? Or, perhaps, why would Myron lie to his own brother about something like this? And if none of those, if Heron believed him and believed what Niko had told him, then why was Niko teaching Myron this secret inheritance and not Heron? It could have been any of them that Heron was asking. It could have been all of them at once. So Myron told him the truth, though he knew it was likely a bad idea even as he did it. He was his brother, for all their disagreements. He deserved to know. So Myron exined their n to his brother, even as his jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed, even as his pneuma rose precipitously with his ire. Even as he turned his back on Myron and gathered up his clothes. Only when his brother had stalked out of their room and left him alone did Myron stop. He pressed his burnt hands over his eyes and sighed heavily. Within his body, the two pneumatic chambers of his Hunting Bird¡¯s Breath remained intact. ¡°I tried,¡± he muttered to the empty room. He had done his best. ¡°You want to do what?¡± Castor demanded, in the quiet hollow where he carved the fruits of his cultivation into the trees. ¡°Myron, he doesn¡¯t want to be here. He doesn¡¯t want to be with us. Why in the world would you risk your life just to suffer another heartache when he tells it to you a second time?¡± Truly, he had. ¡°Go after him?¡± Rena whispered, aghast, in the privacy of her mother¡¯s library. ¡°Myron¡­ I miss him too, but you remember what he said. The way he spoke to us, like all this time we were only in his way. I just - what if he never changes his mind? What if he only hates us more the next time we meet?¡± But effort hardly mattered in the end. ¡°Be patient, Myron,¡± Lydiamanded him, in the alcove that they the young pirs had carved out of the eastern mountain range for themselves and no one else. Sitting cross-legged beside her was the ve that had so often been in Sol¡¯spany, breathing deeply while a newly awoken Citizen¡¯s pneuma whirled clumsily around her. ¡°Niko told us he¡¯d get Uncle Damon¡¯s permission in time. Until he does, and until we have a ship, there¡¯s nothing we can do but wait. Refine ourselves. When the timees, we¡¯ll be ready. Focus on that.¡± In the end, the result was all that mattered. All that remained was the sweet thrill of triumph. Or failure¡¯s bitter edge. ¡°Enter,¡± a deep and resonant voice spoke a bare moment before his knock struck the door. Myron exhaled slowly, marshaling his courage, and pressed open the door to the kyrios¡¯ private office. ¡°Uncle Damon,¡± he greeted the kyrios of the Rosy Dawn. ¡°Are you busy?¡± ¡°Always.¡± Myron¡¯s uncle beckoned him forward with one hand anyway. He had a letter in his other hand, which he folded and tucked away while Myron approached his desk. On the sliver of papyrus- ¡°What brings you to my domain, nephew?¡± Let it be known that Myron had done his best to be patient. Chapter 1.111 Chapter 1.111 The Son of Rome The day that we boarded the Eos and set sail for distant Thracia, Griffon and I had been of one mind. It was the Gadfly¡¯s intent to keep us busy - to keep us safe from ourselves and the higher powers we had provoked with our unkind marauding. Mostly, it was to get us out of his sight. Griffon and I had understood that, and we had afforded that sentiment about as much respect as it deserved. We¡¯ll do it all at once. That had been our silent agreement, spoken through the ravens in our shadows. At first I¡¯d disagreed with him, but the return of the Eos and her irreverent sea dogs had convinced me. Leveraging the experiences of our ship¡¯s worldly crew, as well as our Heroicpanions¡¯ connections, we would travel the Free Mediterranean and the greater boundaries beyond as outlined in the Gadfly¡¯s map. We¡¯d walk in-step the same path that Bakkhos had walked before us, and we would discover as he had discovered the reagents to divine sustenance. That had been the n. And then, on our very first stop, we had been afforded a glimpse at the Tyrant Riot¡¯s true nature - thepany that he had kept, the foundation that he had established, and the virtue at his core. Griffon and I, and to an indirect degree Selene and Scythas, had each drank from the Mad Tyrant¡¯s cup and suffered a portion of his mania. We had been humbled, each in our own ways. The decision to turn back to Olympia after all had been grudgingly made, but there was too much we didn¡¯t know. There were too many mysteries to solve them all in a bare handful of weeks, and Griffon was still as adamant as he¡¯d ever been about being in the Half-Step City when the Olympic Games began. So we had returned. And the Gadfly had betrayed us. Now here I stood, trapped beneath the immortal storm crown that hung over Kaukoso Mons. Entangled by the infernal web of the Raging Heaven Cult¡¯s politics. An unwitting, unqualified participant in a great city¡¯s conflict of session. Again. Stranded though I was beneath the storm, I wasn¡¯t entirely deafened. As surely as the breeze, Sorea carried the words I couldn¡¯t say to the cultivators that needed to hear them and delivered each of their responses faithfully back to me. Solus, The road to Lacedaemon is long and treacherous with Spartans - I¡¯ve never seen so many Infernal sons in my life, and I think I was a happier person for it. This morning alone I¡¯ve seen three separate exchanges of ¡°discourse¡± between schrs of this rusted mystery faith, and two of the three ended in death. The third would have as well, had I not stepped in to save the losing party¡¯s life. Would you believe that the miserable wretch had the audacity to spit on my silks and use me of obstructing his refinement? These dogs would rather die than be humbled even one single time. I swear to you, it took every drop of temperance within me not to stomp his fool head through the earth. These roads are bad enough, though, and he¡¯d already been mauled so savagely that a kiss on the cheek might have killed him - let alone a kiss from my boot. Anyway. Your eagle is giving me an ugly look, so I¡¯ll get to the point. I¡¯ve searched these mountains and their valleys and paced up and down the city¡¯s coasts. I¡¯ve learned just shy of nothing and found even less. There are an endless number of merchants ready and willing to sell me wine along with its various reagents, and a disappointing proportion of them are just as willing to lie to my face and im that they have the key to nectar itself hidden in their moth-bitten bags. But there are vanishingly few who actually knew of Bakkhos and his exploits here, and none at all who knew him personally as far as I¡¯ve found. I¡¯m sorry, Solus. If it was Naxos I¡¯d have found the damned reagent already. Maybe¡­ if you sent Scythas south my way, along with Sorea, I could guide him through the Isles. Even if I can¡¯t be on the ship myself- At any rate, I¡¯m just outside of Krokos now. I¡¯ll wait here until the eaglees back. Might do some hunting in the meantime. I haven¡¯t found any thousand year old grapes, but there are more virtuous beasts skulking around these roads than there are men with sense. Just yesterday a traveling metic swore to me on his father¡¯s ashes that he¡¯d seen a feral stallion break a brown bear¡¯s back and eat its beating heart. I¡¯d be lying if I told you I wasn¡¯t interested in seeing a creature like that with my own two eyes. Hope all is well on your end. Take care. Jason I skimmed it once, quickly, and thenbed through the missive line-by-line a second time while Sorea tucked his head under his wings in the darkness of my cave dwelling and went to sleep. He deserved it, with the miles I was putting him through. After my fourth pass through Jason¡¯s letter, I sighed and stood. The cave that Socrates called his own was only a stone¡¯s throw away from the dwelling I¡¯d imed in Lefteris¡¯ absence. Close enough to see the whites of his eyes if he was standing at the mouth of his cave and I at mine. In any other case but this one, I would have struggled to believe that the Heroic archer could have lived this close to another cultivator for so many months without having even the faintest inkling of his presence. But the Gadfly had mentored the Broad, who had in turn mentored Aristotle - and I had more than enough experience with my old master¡¯s anonymous wanderings to know that it was all too easy to overlook a real philosopher when they had no intention of being known. Trodding heavily up the mountain path to the Gadfly¡¯s hidden cavern home, I considered my options once again. Each letter returned by the Heroic souls Griffon and I had entangled ourselves with had been another option crossed off my list. Each letter returned was another dead end, every journey a marker on the map wasted. With Scythas and Bakhur, we had been able to find our mark even in the vast borderlessnds of savage Thracia. It had been my hope that given a bit more time to make up for theck of extra hands, Jason and Anastasia could have managed the same sess in the other parts of the free Mediterranean that the Gadfly intended to banish us to. It had been a naive hope, but I had hoped for it nheless. And when two of Griffon¡¯s three had returned my letters with their reluctant support etched into the papyrus, that hope had doubled and redoubled again. But a passing familiarity with thete kyrios could only take them so far. Each of our Heroicpanions had known Bakkhos just as well as Scythas, all of them in their own ways, but unlike Scythas they hadn¡¯t had any idea what they were looking for. They¡¯d traveled far and wide, burned days and weeks they¡¯d all have rather spent training for the Games, and they¡¯d found nothing for it in the end. There were four golden markers on the centralndmass of the free Mediterranean, and so I had sent four Heroic cultivators to scour them for theponents of divine nectar. Jason had gone to the marker furthest south - the free-city of Krokos in thend of Lacedaemon, home to the Infernal Frenzy Cult. He had found nothing there but a cult full of restless soldiers with no one but themselves to cut their teeth on, and a countryside crawling with virtuous beasts. Elissa had gone east over mountains Boeon to the closest marker rtive to Olympia, the city-state of Levanta. A fruitless trip. Kyno had ventured further south and close to home,bing through the city of Paleta just north of The Coast. A wasted endeavor. And finally, Anastasia had gone north along the western coast as far as one could go without crossing into Macedonian soil, traversing the uninhabited breakers in search of that vaguelybeled Aornum. And what had she found? Nothing. All of them, nothing. Because of who? ¡°You,¡± I spoke, and the word rebounded with heat off the cavern walls. The man known as the Schr exhaled slowly and opened one eye, staring at me upside down like a bat. Bncing on the bald portion of his skull with his legs crossed above him like he were sitting on air, he looked about as ridiculous as an old man could look. But he was as heavily muscled as he¡¯d ever been, and he was mended enough from his encounter with Polyzalus that he¡¯d been able to remove his linen bandages without bleeding out on the cave floor. ¡°The boy speaks.¡± Socrates snorted and rolled forward, smoothlying to his feet and brushing the dust from his head. ¡°After three weeks and a meeting with nearly every dangerous authority on this mountain, the raven finally graces my humble estate with his presence. Can I offer you a drink? A ss of wine, perhaps?¡± ¡°I brought my own,¡± I snapped, and pulled a golden cup of spirit wine from the shadows of the raven mantle I wore over my left shoulder like a cloak. I watched the Gadfly¡¯s eyes trace over the cup, watched the shock set in as the fingers of his influence brushed over the cup and its contents and recognized it for what it was. Then, in disgust, I threw it to the cavern floor. The old philosopher moved with speed and grace at odds with his old and muscled frame, crossing the distance between us in a split second and stooping low to catch the cup just a bare moment after it left my hand. He spun around and up, following the arc of wine as it flew from the cup and collecting it back into its golden bowl before a single drop could hit the stone. Socrates looked at me in disbelief. ¡°Is this-?¡± He paused and took a deep breath of it, inhaling an aroma that I still couldn¡¯t properly describe a month after my meeting with the faceless presence at the center of the Orphic faith¡¯s initiation rites. He looked at me like I¡¯d grown two more heads. ¡°You found it?¡± he demanded. ¡°All these weeks you¡¯ve had it, and you haven¡¯t told me?¡± He was right to be irritated with me. He was right to be outraged, even. Following my meeting with Aleuas, I¡¯d been so furious with the Gadfly that I hadn¡¯t even wanted to see his face. I¡¯d kept the golden cup of wine hidden in my shadow out of spite and spite alone, because in showing me he had no trust in my judgment he had made it clear that I couldn¡¯t afford to put all of my trust in his. I had kept it to myself because a part of me had still held out hope that we could do this ourselves. I had held on stubbornly to that hope, refined my body day and night and broken bread with the various feuding factions within the Raging Heaven Cult, all the while waiting for just a single letter toe back as a sess. It had been in vain. So here I was, in the Gadfly¡¯s cave. Appealing once again to a higher power. Reaching into my shadow cloak a second time, I pulled Socrates¡¯ map out and crumpled it into a ball in my fist. He watched me silently as I tossed it down between us and spat on it. ¡°¡®Go here and find me a golden cup filled with spirit wine,¡¯¡± I echoed his words from a month before, the orders he gave us the day he banished Griffon and I from the Half-Step City. ¡°¡®Return it to me without spilling a drop. I, your grandfather, will handle the rest.¡¯¡± ¡°You were listening after all,¡± Socrates said, his irritation rising along with his pneuma. ¡°Tell me, then, boy. Why did you wait three weeks to give me this? Why waste the time?¡± We had failed to find a single other ingredient we were confident enough in to risk ruining the wine we had with incorrect reagents. We had been too naive, hadn¡¯t given ourselves enough time to see it through. Each of our Heroicpanions had known Bakkhos, but none of them had known him like the Gadfly had known him. Jason¡¯s letter, thest of the bad news carried by Sorea back to me, had been the point proven. I couldn¡¯t justify abandoning this quest in full, no matter how much I wanted to. Not when Selene hadn¡¯t emerged from the Rein-Holder¡¯s sunset domain even once since our return. Not when her mother stillyatose. Not when I could see it through. ¡°All that a liar gains by falsehood is suspicion when they tell the truth.¡± It was another quote. This time, a quote from my true mentor - Aristotle. One of the lessons he¡¯d hammered into my skull as a boy, though with mixed results. Socrates scowled. ¡°Make your point.¡± I drew the raven¡¯s midnight veil up from my face and met his re with mine. ¡°You call us fools at every opportunity and handle us ordingly,¡± I said tly. ¡°You build a maze around us with nectar at the end of it, because you don¡¯t trust us to do the right thing unless a higher hand has guided us to it. And you wonder why, when I return with a treasure you didn¡¯t actually believe I¡¯d be able to find, I don¡¯t immediately offer it up to you? ¡°You treat us like children - you treat me like a child. When I was ten years younger and far more deserving of it, Aristotle never treated me that way - he was wise enough to know that if he did, I¡¯d treat him like a minder more than a mentor worthy of my confidence.¡± I sat down heavily, the weight of thirty men pressing ceaselessly down. Looking up at the Gadfly, I spread my hands in supplication. ¡°You¡¯ve made it clear I¡¯m no student of yours,¡± I said, lifting my lip. ¡°Nothing to you, and no one at all but a nuisance to be led away from trouble. Fine. But just this once - one time, here and now if never again, spare me the noble lies and tell me the truth.¡± With every word I spoke, the Gadfly¡¯s expression grew colder and harder. Like stone. His voice was like a falling de. ¡°Ask a proper question if you want to hear the truth.¡± I obliged him. ¡°You gave us a map with ten markers on it yet only one ingredient to find. You didn¡¯t withhold the other nine from us because you were unsure of what they were - if your ¡®conjecture¡¯ was really that weak, you wouldn¡¯t have given Selene that false hope to begin with. You knew what we¡¯d need, and you knew where we¡¯d have to go to find it.¡± The Gadfly waited silently for the full thrust of my question. I folded a single finger of my supplicating hands. ¡°We¡¯ve given you one of ten. Of the nine ingredients remaining for the synthesis of divine nectar, how many are stowed away in your folded logic cloth?¡± No one believed a liar, even when they told the truth. I wouldn¡¯t believe him, no matter what he said. He¡¯d broken that trust. So he answered me with action instead of words. The Gadfly reached into a fold within his filthy rags and twisted it, pulled as if it was a bag he was turning inside out- And poured a river of precious metals, vibrant herbs, and coal-ck salt onto the cave floor. With slow deliberation, Socrates ced the golden cup of wine down in the center of the pile. ¡°Ten.¡± Chapter 1.112 Chapter 1.112 The Young Griffon Half a year hade and gone since the day I stood alone in the center of the Scarlet Stadium and epted everyurel crown the Daylight Games could offer me. Standing tall and proud, as unfulfilled as I was triumphant, I had understood something crucial about the nature of my father¡¯s city and its people - of Alikos entire. They were all ves. Every single one of them. And so was I. This city was the chain. That conscious acknowledgement had spurred my soul beyond its limits, forcing through the bottleneck in my refinement and carrying me forward from the ninth rank of the Civic Realm to the tenth. At the time, it had felt like opening my eyes. In the months that followed those games I had looked upon the Scarlet City, her citizens and her metics, her freedmen and her ves, and I had seen for myself the manacles that bound their wrists. Not the iron manacles that Sol had worn with his weary resignation, but manacles of cruel scarlet thread. No matter his standing, every man in the Scarlet City wore those strings of blood around his wrist. And at the other end of each of those scarlet strings was the same clenched fist. My father¡¯s fist. At some point between the events of Chilon¡¯s tale and my earliest waking memory, Damon Aetos had imed his ind in the sun. The Scarlet City was his, and every man within it was his ve. In my naivety, I had decided that that was a trait unique to him - that all the world outside of his domain would be glorious and true. And so when my cousin returned home more vibrant than he¡¯d left, I¡¯d taken that as my cosmic confirmation and taken the only opportunity avable to me at his wedding - the one and only night of the year that my father would be preupied by the fallen sun god¡¯s wonder and I would not. I had escaped, escaped, with Sol at my side, and in that moment I had believed from the bottom of my virtuous heart that freedom was waiting for me just beyond that rosy dawn in the greater mediterranean. I¡¯d been mistaken. In my euphoria, I had erred. Boarding the Eos and setting her sails for Olympia, I had allowed myself to believethat my father was a uniquely overbearing existence. That the world I¡¯d been born into was still golden-bright, in a distant ce that I could travel to. I was wrong. Olympia and its Raging Heaven Cult taught me that. Thracia¡¯s Orphic mystery drove the point home. Every man in the Scarlet City was a ve to the Tyrant Damon Aetos, but that wasn¡¯t unique. It wasn¡¯t because it was the Scarlet City. It wasn¡¯t because it was Damon Aetos. Every man was a ve to a Tyrant in their domain. There were no kings and queens of glory left remaining in this world - the distance that separated me from that golden ce could not be measured in stades or miles. It could only be measured in years. In centuries and millennia. I had missed it. I had missed all of it. This world was iron, now. Its gods were dead and gone, its kings and queens were tyrants. And its heroes? Its burning souls, its champions of glory? They were little more than sparks. As envious of the world¡¯s greater imposition as they were defiant of it. As likely to covet a Tyrant¡¯s yoke as they were to resent it. As likely to punch down as they were to punch up. ¡°Junior, it¡¯s time to go.¡± Half a year hade and gone since the Daylight Games, and the wheel kept turning after that. The month of mandatory training that preceded the Olympic Games was almost upon us, and the closer we drew to it the morepetitors came. First a trickle, then a stream, and now a rushing flood of Heroic cultivators from all over the known world. It wasn¡¯t the case that every Heroic cultivator in existence would bepeting in the Olympic Games, but it felt almost like it as the days passed. Every day saw the arrival of a fresh face in the Olympic Stadium, a new pair of burning eyes and a passionately zing heart there to size up thepetition. As spring secured its grip on the city of Olympia, that fresh face turned into fresh faces, a handful every day. Then dozens. As these mighty cultivators sought an empty patch of sand in the Olympic pit to call their own, a ce to practice for the Games that would define the rest of their lives in just a few short weeks, it was only natural that their juniors would make room for them. As such, every Hero that arrived at the pit was another Philosopher gently pressed out. It only made sense, after all - while the stadium was technically open to the Raging Heaven¡¯s favored initiates all the up to the lighting of the Olympic me, what junior would be so rude as to deny an actualpetitor the space they needed to hone their bodies? Never mind the fact that the Games were a test of martial cultivation, of pure bodily refinement. What did it matter that a Heroic sprinter needed no more room to run hisps than any other man? It was the principle of the thing. A matter of respect. ¡°Junior!¡± Chilon hissed, reaching out despite his misgivings and grabbing my arm. Sorea, perched on that same arm while I read his delivered missive, snapped his beak in warning and spread wide his wings. The Obol Orator grimaced but held my arm tight. ¡°It¡¯s been a bad idea for days and I let you talk me into it regardless, but the time for games has passed.¡± ¡°The time for games is yet toe,¡± I told him without looking up from the letter. Though I couldn¡¯t see his face, I felt his frustration and his fear in the beating of his heart. To my senior¡¯s credit, the Heroic heart sense that Orpheus had awoken in me was the only sense that betrayed Chilon¡¯s true panic. His pneuma did not rise, and his sophic influence was only an insistent current against my own. If not for my time in Thracia, I wouldn¡¯t have had any indication that at this moment Chilon thought he was going to die. The more Heroic cultivators that came to stake their im in the Olympic Stadium¡¯s grand sand pit, the more Sophic cultivators gave up their spots in deference to them. Soon the Sophic majority had leveled out into an equal proportion, and then in a cascade of Heroic arrivals and Sophic departures given way entirely to a Heroic majority. The more Philosophers that fled, the greater the scrutiny those that remained were made to suffer through. The apathetic tolerance I¡¯d first observed gave way to expectant nces as the days passed. That expectation soon turned to irritation. The nces turned to res. Chilon and I had been thest two Philosophers remaining in the pit for nearly a week now. Chilon hadn¡¯t liked it, but he¡¯d liked the idea of leaving me to my own devices even less. Thankfully, secluded as we were in our humble patch of shadowed sand near the stadium¡¯s western entrance, that Heroic irritation had remainedrgely passive. It was an enormous stadium, and there was still plenty of room for everypetitor in the city despite the way they postured. But all good things inevitably ended. In this case, it was a Hero who I had met once before that was ending them. A familiar face from a rowdy drinking club, one of the Raging Heaven Cult¡¯s own Young Aristocrats, had just been forced out of his ce in the pit. The aggressor was argerpetitor who I could only assume was his senior in refinement. Now the disced Hero was headed our way, a fire in his eyes and murder in his heart. ¡°Griffon,¡± Chilon spoke firmly. ¡°We have to go right now. Trust me in this.¡± Even now, as the terror built in the frantic beating of his heart, he restrained himself and scolded me like a mentor scolded an errant student. He was trying to save me without terrifying me. Attempting to guide me out of harm without bringing the harm to my attention, worried that I¡¯d panic and trip headfirst into it if I knew that it was there. Protecting me as my senior from the consequences of my own bravado. ¡°I¡¯m not leaving,¡± I told him, reading Sol¡¯s letter intently. On my arm, Sorea shrieked a warning cry into the Obol Orator¡¯s face. He flinched, and a portion of his panic seeped through the cracks in hisposure. ¡°Listen to me, now! This isn¡¯t our ce! We have to leavewhile we still can, while he¡¯s affording us the time-!¡± ¡°Greetings, Philosophers,¡± the Hero zon insulted us, his pleasant voice a stark contrast to the ugly rage inside his heart. ¡°You¡¯ve taken my spot.¡± I felt a powerful sense of d¨¦j¨¤ vu. ¡°I don¡¯t see your name on it,¡± I said, the same as I had the morning after Bakkhos¡¯ funeral, in a drinking club owned by the Hero¡¯s own family. At that time, there had been three Heroic cultivators at my back and three more on their way. Now I alone remained, with only a Philosopher of the eight rank to speak on my behalf. And to the old man¡¯s credit, Chilon did speak. ¡°Excuse these lowly sophists,¡± the Obol Orator said, mastering himself at once and masking his fear to all but a Hero¡¯s heart sense. It wasn¡¯t enough, but it was an admirable effort. He gripped my arm and raised it up demonstrably. ¡°This one¡¯s intentions are good, but I fear he¡¯s spent too much time out here in pursuit of refinement - the sun has addled his senses, you see. If it pleases the Hero, I¡¯ll escort him out-¡± ¡°It does not please me,¡± zon said tly. ¡°You may go, sophist. But I have business with this one.¡± I was surprised. An offer to take his life and run - it was more grace than I would have expected from the spiteful Young Aristocrat. I was surprised again when Chilon refused to take it. ¡°Honored Hero, please - he¡¯s hardly more than a boy. We were all young and foolish at one point, weren¡¯t we? Of course some grow out of their inadequacies sooner than others, but isn¡¯t that why old men like us exist? To guide our juniors down the path that every man once walked alone? Is that not a wise man¡¯s virtue?¡± ¡°A withered old man¡¯s virtue, perhaps.¡± zon dismissed him, and I heard the Hero advance another step through the sands. His rage was beating harder against my ribs with every moment that I refused to look up from my letter. ¡°But I am not old like you are old. There is no we. If you im to be a wise man, you should understand the difference between us.¡± ¡°I implore the great Hero, turn your eyes from our differences and towards the traits that we share as sons of Raging Heaven-!¡± ¡°One more word!¡± zon snarled, his pneuma rising andshing out like a snake, the sudden crashing wave of his influence nearly throwing Chilon off his feet. ¡°One more word, you wretched failure, and you¡¯ll wish that immortal storm crown had never spit you back out. One more word and I¡¯ll send you back to your worthless vige in a thousand wizened pieces! Begone.¡± Chilon didn¡¯t say another word, but neither did he move. He stood between us while terror and shame hammered at the seams of hisposure, knowing he was going to die and standing his ground regardless. ¡°What is the champion¡¯s virtue?¡± I mused. There was a moment of silence. Distantly, beyond our humble patch of sand, I felt the myriad streams of curious influence shift away from zon and Chilon, converging onto me. It was hardly the first time there had been a confrontation in the pit, but it was surely the only time that the argument had taken ce between a Hero and a Philosopher. These Heroic souls hade from all walks of life, from every corner of the free mediterranean, bearing the proof of their standing in each of their burning eyes. No one Hero was the same as any other. Each of them was unique. Each of them was glorious. Each one a yer of monsters, a liberator of men. And somehow, here and now, each and every Heroic cultivator paying attention to our little spat was content to let it run its course. ¡°Speak up, junior,¡± zon demanded, though I knew he¡¯d heard me clear as day. ¡°What is the champion¡¯s virtue?¡± I asked him again. Sol¡¯s letter was written as sinctly as could be, but that didn¡¯t make its contents any easier toe to terms with. I read it again. It hardly made a difference. ¡°You¡¯rea champion, aren¡¯t you? You¡¯re here topete.¡± ¡°No. I¡¯m here to win a crown.¡± ¡°It¡¯s the crown that matters,¡± I murmured, reading the letter again. Not thepetition. Not the struggle. ¡°Victory alone is a champion¡¯s virtue?¡± ¡°How did you make it to the Sophic Realm at all? Idiot colonial, it¡¯s right there in the name. A champion stands above.¡± The crown was only worth the effort it took to seize it. I¡¯d learned that lesson in the Daylight Games. How was it that I understood that and not him? How could a lowly citizen know in the fullness of their soul what a legendary hero had yet to grasp? This world is iron now, Zegreuas had dered in my vision of his madness. I was beginning to see what he¡¯d meant. In a golden-bright world, in a righteous world, it wouldn¡¯t be this way. That a Tyrant could exist at all was a sign that we had been diminished. That a Hero forced from his ce by a greater imposition would choose to turn away and force his will upon his juniors, to punch down instead of up, was evidence that this ce was lesser. I read Sol¡¯s message one final time. That a Philosopher could lie as easily as he breathed was proof this world was iron. My heart flickered in my chest, and I burnt the papyrus to ash. ¡°Let¡¯s exchange discourse,¡± I decided, looking up from the ashes and rising to my feet. ¡°Griffon!¡± Chilon snapped, wheeling around on me in a wide-eyed panic. Sorea took flight, the virtuous beast tracked by the hungry eyes of more than a few Heroic cultivators. A virtuous beast was valuable in many ways, though consuming it was the least interesting of them all by far. I considered the shadowed sands around me, humming thoughtfully, and then reached into my shadow with formless pankration hands. zon¡¯s eyes red. ¡°I thought you¡¯d never ask-¡± He stopped short, blinking at eight pankration hands as they pulled eight stone des from my shadow and drove each of them into the sand. Spaced equally apart, they formed an octagon of a size you might find in any mystery cult¡¯s gymnasium. Chilon choked, his eyes flying open wide. ¡°That¡¯s-!¡± The de that Chilon had cut himself upon during his initiation rites, the de once buried in the tribtion statue of the Twice-Killed Tyrant Sisyphus, jutted proudly up from the sand along with its stolen sibling swords. ¡°What is this?¡± zon asked me warily. His eyes flickered left, then right. He was as conscious of our growing audience as I was. And though he didn¡¯t know it yet, he¡¯d made a crucial mistake. ¡°Every Hero¡¯s spirit is a pittance to the me,¡± I said, stepping into the octagon that separated us. ¡°A Hero¡¯s standing is their key to admittance in the Games, but it¡¯s their body alone that wins them glory. There are ten events a man can win. Tell me, zon, which crowns do you covet?¡± The Hero red at me, but he didn¡¯t step through the boundary of my swords. Not yet. ¡°Long jump and the sprint,¡± he said at length. I smiled. ¡°Then I¡¯ll offer you a third. As your senior in-¡± ¡°You are not my senior in anything-!¡± I struck him with a memory of my lived experience, a drop of Orphic madness, and he leaned back as if I¡¯d pped him. ¡°As your senior in pankration, I¡¯ll offer you a chance at a third crown,¡± I said magnanimously, and pulled off one of the twourel leaf crowns I kept wrapped around my biceps. I held it up for all the stadium to see, and then I cast it down into the center of the arena I¡¯d outlined with swords. ¡°Step into my domain and face me as you would an opponent in the Games - with martial excellence, with your body¡¯s refinement alone. Match your violence against mine and prove that you deserve this lowly sophist¡¯s ce in the pit, or get out of my sight.¡± I couldn¡¯t have ignored the ck rage in his heart if I¡¯d tried. ¡°You think I¡¯m afraid of your master?¡± he demanded of me, the mes behind his eyes ring. ¡°You think the Raven will protect you here? He won¡¯t. And neither will that worthless gossiping bumpkin!¡± The Hero jabbed a finger at Chilon, hovering just outside the perimeter of swords opposite him. The Obal Orator clenched his fists. ¡°The audacity of it - to set terms, to make demands of me like I¡¯m the outsider. A lion¡¯s time is better spent!¡± I could have responded with any number of insults and jeers, could have driven him that final half-step over the edge in front of all of his peers and ruined his name. But that would be a disservice to my senior brother Chilon. Goading him into a rage, forcing the otherpetitors in the sand pit to step in to preserve the sanctity of their space, that would have been the safest of my options. But it would have been far too long winded. Far too crude. My response was simple, yet profound. I delivered it to him with the voice of my soul. ¡°Attend.¡± zon¡¯s critical mistake had been assuming that I was a coward just like him. His ego left him only one choice. The Hero zon stepped into my octagon. Chapter 1.113 Chapter 1.113 The Young Griffon Violence told a story. The Young Aristocrat of the Raging Heaven Cult stepped into my octagon of swords and immediately moved to end the fight. He didn¡¯t bother shedding his twice-bronzed silks - naturally, he didn¡¯t need a naked fighter¡¯s mobility to beat me. He didn¡¯t wait for my word or the word of a third party to start the match - of course, I¡¯d forfeited all courtesies when I treated him as my lesser. And most importantly, he didn¡¯t present his wrists to be pped in iron chains, as was the standard for Heroes ying in the pit - it went without saying that I wouldn¡¯t be able to push him to the point that he¡¯d draw upon his pneuma, even out of reflex. The Hero struck first and with finality, making a statement through action alone that everyone in the pit could understand. It was a gesture I was more than happy to match, especially with regards to the chains. Not for all the treasures of Heaven and Earth, not for a single frozen moment, would I ever be a willing ve again. zon was from the brazen Coast, a cityuded in times of war for the valor of its fighting sons. He was a legendary Hero on top of that, grander than any mortal man could be. But that did not mean he was grand in all things. It should have. It should have meant that he wasrger than life, glorious in every sense of the word, in every aspect of himself. But here we were. My fellow Young Aristocrat lunged straight for me with his right hand outstretched, faster than mortal eyes could track, and grasped nothing but the open air. ¡°Wrong!¡± I admonished him sharply, finishing my pivot right andying a vicious kick into the side of his leading knee. The Hero¡¯s breath hitched, caught just before he could call upon his pneuma, and his leg went out from under him without that bracing strength. In an instant, the dull curiosity of the athletes in the pit was sharpened to a cutting edge. zon turned his fall forward into a graceful roll and came back to his feet as if we¡¯d choreographed the exchange together, but his crity alone was not enough to change the truth of it. He¡¯d tried to end this before it was begun and save himself the shameful hassle, but he¡¯d failed. Now his peers were moving from their spots. Gathering around in naked interest to see the spectacle unfold. To see the story told. The upstart cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders, while the Olympic athlete across from him pped sand out of his silk robes. ¡°You¡¯re not fast enough for that,¡± I informed him, and moved a bare moment before he did. Ducking low and to the right, I avoided the blur of a leaping roundhouse kick that would have shattered my skull and seized him by the back of his bronzed attire. I nted my feet and pulled him out of his trajectory. ¡°You¡¯re not fast enough to be fast alone!¡± He thrashed free just before I could bury him, spinning sideways in the air andnding in a crouch just within the octagon¡¯s northernmost boundary. His eyes were wide, his heart incredulous. There came an appreciative whistle. zon twitched and nced back at a lithe and ruggedly built man with umber mes in his eyes, leaning with both hands on the pommel of one of my boundary des and watching us with naked interest. Our first Heroic spectator, though assuredly not ourst. Only then did zon ept my challenge in full. His eyes hardened, and in their cold light I saw more than just the promise of a broken ego. I saw my death, and the death of the humble orator as well. Unfortunately, that wasn¡¯t a story I had any interest in being told. The Hero took two bounding steps across the octagon and into my reach,shing out with a straight right jab and feinting a left hook when I leaned away from it. I stepped into it, caught it on my forearm and struck him once in his kidney. It was like striking a brick with my bare fist. He exhaled sharply, forced himself not to bring to bear his pneuma when he sucked a new breath in, and in that moment of conscious restraint I struck him twice again in the liver and then the gut. zon lurched back to make space and I nted a foot on the trailing hem of his cult attire. It didn¡¯t make him stumble, but the sound of ripping silk and the sight of his attire unraveling halfway from his frame may have been worse. A Heroine off to our right guffawed, and another threepetitors traded amused grins as they crowded in around the octagon. ¡°The Fleet Foot, zon.¡± I addressed him by his title carved in stone. I knew it not because I¡¯d asked around, but because I¡¯d memorized every name worth knowing on the cult¡¯s stairway to heaven. I¡¯d found him there on the twenty-second step. ¡°Young Aristocrat of the Brazen Aegis - or at least, Young Aristocrat of her humble colony faction here in Olympia. I¡¯m curious. Who taught you how to fight?¡± My opponent spat at my feet and rushed in with bright eyes zing. His next three blows were cautious, his footwork lighter as he moved. The jabs were weak enough because of it that I could catch them on my raised arms and only suffer the pain of future bruises. I raised my knee at the same time that he raised his and smiled through the lightning-whitence of pain when they collided. zon snarled a curse and hopped sideways, flexing the offended limb. ¡°This brazen inexperience.¡± Off to my left, a Hero in a golden loincloth groaned at the pun. ¡°Tell me who¡¯s to me for it!¡± ¡°Enough of barking dogs!¡± The Fleet Foot Hero snapped. He closed the gap again and again he was rebuffed. He swung each clenched fist with more punishing force than the mightiest unawoken man could produce with a hammer and two hands. His legs moved him faster than a mundane horse could run without any active pneuma to bolster him, nearly as fast as I could move with all the swiftness granted by my vital breath. And neither fact mattered, because he didn¡¯t know how to fight. Oh, he thought he did. And perhaps by the standards of themon man it was so. His form was clean enough, and a swift body with strength behind it made up for much in most situations. If this had been a fight at our fullest strengths I would have been at a ruinous disadvantage. Yet here in my octagon, what was any of it worth? ¡°A family from the Coast and a ce of prominence in the Raging Heaven Cult. The question isn¡¯t if you were taught, but by who,¡± I reasoned, striding around the perimeter of the octagon and epting the jibes and nudges of the athletes gathering in to watch. zon¡¯s eyes followed me calctingly. ¡°Who did you the disservice-?¡± He exploded across the octagon just as I was passing Chilon. By the time the Obol Orator had begun to cry out a warning, I had already begun shifting my feet in the sand. I ducked his haymaker and lunged up into him, wrapping my arms in a bear hug around his torso and taking his momentum for myself. He kneed me frantically while he tried to escape the hold, but it was toote. Spinning on my heel, I fell back and mmed him into the sand. The Hero¡¯s breath exploded out of him. Our little crowd hollered and rained insults down upon the fallen aristocrat. In the distance, yet more Olympic athletes turned curiously our way. I rolled sideways and away from zon while he gagged. Three times he¡¯d kneed me while I was pulling him from the air to nt him in the earth, and three times he¡¯d broken bone. Pacing again with my back straight, I ignored the urge to hunch over my battered ribs and instead filled the wheeling channels inside me with air. Not that I¡¯d do anything with it. Not yet. ¡°Tell me who failed you,¡± I demanded. ¡°Give me their name!¡± ¡°Stop talking!¡± zon seethed, pressing himself up with one arm. ¡°Be silent forever! For even a moment!¡± I refused. ¡°Who let you strut through this city with that fire in your eyes? Who led you to believe your heart me made you something else, when it only ever made you more of what you are?¡± We existed body and soul, each in three parts. From the earth was the first man¡¯s body sculpted, and from the heavens came his soul. We cultivated reason, spirit, and hunger with both halves in mind. Though we were children of the earth, we refined our heavenly souls every day in the hopes that one day they would match the starry skies above. Though we were reaching ever for the heights, we remembered our earthly bodies and tempered them in the pursuit of an aesthetic matched only by masterwork marble. zon was faster than me, that was evident to anyone with eyes, but it was a runner¡¯s speed. He¡¯d beat me in a sprint every time he chose to run it, but that meant little enough in the octagon. This wasn¡¯t a race of that kind. He could race around the pit as long as he desired, but he had toe to me eventually. The Fleet Foot moved and put that thought to practice, rushing in low at a speed I¡¯d have been hard-pressed to react to if I hadn¡¯t read his intent a moment before he did it. His eyes had lingered too long on his target, and the shifting of his hips had betrayed him. He only rose halfway to his feet before exploding forward into that low sprint, but how could it surprise me when his body had already warned me he¡¯d do it? I pivoted and brought my right leg up, avoiding his knifing jab and hammering my knee into his chin. He staggered past me, assaulted by the siren song of his peers¡¯ disdain. Diving after him, I put my shoulder into the small of his back and took him to the ground. Pushing him off bnce felt like pressing a tree out from its roots. It felt like toppling a marble arch. But when we hit the sands, the weight of his body kicked up no more sand than mine. ¡°Who failed you?¡± I whispered in the Hero¡¯s ear, riding him like an unruly horse while he thrashed and bucked. ¡°Who let you walk out from under their wing in ignorance? Who sent you here tonguish in the shadows of greater men?¡± ¡°Are you out of your mind?¡± zon hissed, and it was a genuine question as much as it was an insult. He threw his head back, searching for my nose with the crown of his head. I had already drawn back, kicked my legs out to the side and dug my toes into the sand while I wrenched my arm around his neck. The Hero¡¯s next words were choked, but audible: ¡°I¡¯m a hero. Men tell stories about me. I have the adoration of the Muses-¡± ¡°Had,¡± I interjected, and leaned back. zon¡¯s face darkened as my choke hold tightened well beyond the point where a mortal man would have fainted. ¡°You had their adoration. You were a soul worth speaking of. But you erred somewhere along the way from that moment to this one - you lost your golden glory. Tell me something, zon. When was thest time the Muses spoke to you?¡± ¡°Fuck you,¡± he snarled, mming clenched fists into my sides and wing at my skin when that didn¡¯t put me off him. ¡°Fuck you, scavenger!¡± ¡°Who condemned you to the Fates? Who brought you here and made you less?¡± He twisted and flopped around in the sand like a fish, for all the good it did him. Body and soul. Heaven and earth. In a righteous world, those scales would be bnced. In a just world, zon would be my better in all things - in all three portions of his tripartite soul, and in every martial prowess. But he wasn¡¯t. He was wildly far beyond me in the fields in which he specialized, but that is all he was. The golden age heroes I¡¯d grown up on stories of wererger than life, grand in all ways. Even the least martially inclined were terrors in a fight. Even the Augur, gentle Orpheus, had been a towering presence the night I met him in his tomb. He was a man of the lyre, a man of poetry and heartfelt song, and there hadn¡¯t been a single doubt in my mind when we spoke that he could tear any man apart with his bare hands if he so chose. Orpheus was a gentle man, yes, but capable of unspeakable violence. That¡¯s what a hero was meant to be. Twisting and rolling in the center of the pit amidst a crowd of rowdy men and women further along the path to heaven than the average soul could ever dream of being, I found myself locking eyes with the solitary Philosopher among their number. I remembered the story he¡¯d given me as a gift, more valuable than any precious weapons or relics. I remembered how it had ended. In glory. In gold. ¡°This is Justice,¡± spoke Calliope the Muse. The Goddess with the Heavenly Voice cradled Damon Aetos¡¯ jaw in her ethereal hand andid her golden crown upon his head. ¡°Remember his face.¡± ¡°Glory begets a crown,¡± I told the Hero zon. ¡°Not the reverse. It isn¡¯t theurel leaf that makes you a champion. It¡¯s everything else!¡± ¡°You don¡¯t know anything,¡± he forced out through grit teeth. The fires behind his eyes flickered ominously. ¡°Junior Philosopher sitting smug inside your well, lecturing your betters when they appear above your head. When they step into your little ring to humor you! I¡¯ve ovee trials you couldn¡¯t imagine. I¡¯ve done it twice. I¡¯m a Hero. What are you, to me?¡± What other answer could there be? ¡°I¡¯m free.¡± The Young Aristocrat snapped. I released my choke and flung myself away as malice exploded from his soul. The mes behind his eyes surged, his Heroic pneuma rose, and he turned on me with murder pounding in his heart. He took one step toward me and was struck down by a sh of tanned skin and a golden loincloth. Another Hero¡¯s vibrant pneuma rose as zon struggled against one of the men that had been spectating our fight, and any question as to the oue was quickly put to rest as the struggle was joined by two more against the Young Aristocrat. I supposed that even these sorry souls had a sense of sportsmanship at the end of the day. I snorted and withdrew my tribtion des back into my shadow, while the rest of the crowd wandered off and returned to their training. ¡°Apologies, senior brother,¡± I said, turning back to Chilon. ¡°Where were we-?¡± I blinked. Had I missed them in the crowd, or had they only arrived as the fight was ending? Standing outside the now invisible boundary of my octagon, Elissa, Kyno, and Lefteris regarded me as if for the first time. I stood up straight and offered them each a smile, setting aside the pain of my broken ribs and battered flesh. ¡°Hello, friends,¡± I greeted the three of them happily. ¡°What brings you in to my domain?¡± Chapter 1.114 [The Caustic Queen] (Pt.1) Chapter 1.114 [The Caustic Queen] (Pt.1) The Caustic Queen Cultivators lived long lives. It was known that a crude woman could live to see a hundred years if she was both healthy and fortunate. The nature of refinement was continuous growth, the changes to the cultivator made greater and greater the further they advanced - one above matched ten below. That being said, there was a reason the true climb started at the second realm and not the first. Civic cultivators tended to live longer than the average unrefined soul, but a century was still their limit. A wise woman that understood her ce in the world, standing at the peak of what the Peloponessians had dubbed the Sophic Realm, had taken twenty steps up the divine mountain. She had refined herself ten times as a Citizen, and then ten times again in the realm above, and her lifespan was extended ordingly. History showed that a Captain of the Sophic Realm could live to be a thousand years old if the years were kind to her. It followed that a Heroic soul at its peak could live ten thousand years, provided the Fates were kind. And if that was the case, then it held true that a Tyrant at the uppermost limits of their dominion could live for a hundred thousand. Provided the Fates were kind. Beyond the mortal boundary of the Sophic Realm, the Fates were never kind. But the distinction between ten lifetimes and a hundred, a hundred lifetimes and a thousand, was meaningless to the young soul that had yet to live even one to its limit. A cultivator¡¯s longevity was staggering, and it made them more in every way. Stronger. Wiser. Hungrier. The Despoiled Queen of the Amazons sat discontent upon her throne of ivy and bone, the Tyrant Thalestris towering over all that crept through her domain. If it were toe down to physical stature alone, she would tower over every soul in Olympia, including her rivals. The royal huntresses of the Blind Maiden Cult had always stood tall, even among other cultivators. The queen stood tallest of them all. Seated on her throne of elephant bone, Thalestris presented an image that transcended mortal authority. She looked greater than a Tyrant. Larger than mortality. Yet here she sat, in the shadowed grove that thete kyrios of the Raging Heaven Cult had so thoughtfully prepared for her three hundred years ago. Here she ruled, far from any game worth hunting. The only woman of her standing in the Raging Heaven Cult. Outnumbered and outcast. She was the second oldest of her sisters, but the truest heir to the queens that came before her. In the Blind Maiden¡¯s hallowed temple, she was the only one of her generation that could stand eye-to-eye with the ancestral statues standing guard. Penthesilia¡¯s armor had fit her and only her. And so, young and old, all of her sisters had knelt for her anointment. Thalestris had ruled for centuries. The weight of those years was carved into her soul, and she carried it with her wherever she went. Longevity had tempered her as surely as any cultivation technique. Longevity had given her perspective. It had given her sight, where before she had been blind. Her years had informed her of her purpose in the grander scope of the Amazons. And longevity had tormented the Despoiled Queen when she failed in her pursuit of that purpose. For centuries after, and for centuries yet still toe. There came a rustling of feathers in the shadow of her soul. Pursing her lips, the midnight messenger kneeling at the Despoiled Queen¡¯s feetid the unkind thought to rest. It was not her ce to question. Only to serve. The cawing crow serves nine generations of Tyrants and their purposes. Each of them that donned the midnight veil was at once a crow, unique and fragmented in their goals, and also the crow. Simultaneously the shard and the mosaic that the fragment had chipped away from. Beginning at the moment they took that starlight marrow into their bodies and swallowed it down, from the instant that they epted the subjugation of the hungry hand behind it, they became something else. When the sun rose and they drew their midnight veils away from their faces, when the night was beaten back, they looked just the same as they had before. But the truth was in their blood. It didn¡¯t take much. Even the briefest taste of starlight marrow was enough to make a crow out of a man. One drop was enough to spoil the blood. A year ago the Raging Heaven Cult had been home to nine Tyrants, eight elders and one lord above the lot. Now there were only eight, and the indigo throne sat empty beneath the immortal storm crown. It wouldn¡¯t be empty for long. The Half-Step City was the hallowed nexus of the Free Mediterranean, the only city that had suffered neither famine nor war since the inception of her Olympic Games, and the kyrios of the Raging Heaven Cult was king within her walls. It was inevitable that the vacancy would be filled sooner thanter - the indigo throne wouldn¡¯t be empty for long. But who decided, in the end? A vote among eight elders would return eight results. Seniority was a reasonable consideration in any other institution in the world, but when it came to the elders of the Raging Heaven it was nearly a mark against them. After all, none of them had joined the cult willingly. What did seniority matter, when it only meant your knees were first to fall? The ink-ck bird that lurked within the shadows of her cloak cawed a soft warning. Of course, she¡¯d never say such a thing out loud. The crow snapped its beak, and a portion of her pneuma vanished. The crow swallowed noisily and settled back to rest in her shadow. ¡­ If the kyrios had named a sessor upon his passing, that might have made things simpler. But he hadn¡¯t, and somehow in spite of his proclivities the man had left behind no heirs willing to im his name. What, then, were they to do? The kyrios had chosen an unfortunate time to die. The Olympic Games had been only a few short months away the day of his passing, and now with thepetitors at their door they were no closer to a consensus than they had been before. Soon enough the Elders¡¯usurpers, the men and women that had taken up the mantles of kyrioi following their disanointments, woulde to see the Games. Naturally, they would being to weigh in on the question of session just as well. The Elders of the Raging Heaven were each and every one of them mighty, each of them once a kyrios in their greater days, but the lords anddies of the greater mystery cults were kyrioi today. Some of them would argue that that fact meant something. Some of them would offer themselves up as contenders instead. ¡°I won¡¯t allow it,¡± the crow within her robes hissed in a woman¡¯s voice. It was the voice of the blind-eye turned, the one and only betrix to ever be abandoned by her sisters - left to rot alone in the city of Olympia following her subjugation. ¡°I¡¯ll tear this city down before I kneel to another man,¡± Thalestris dered aloud,pleting the sentiment. ¡°Of course,¡± the midnight servant murmured. She was only a single chip of stone in the tessete of the Despoiled Queen¡¯s influence, which itself was only a small section of the vast mosaic that was the Crow. Deference was all she could afford. A vote was pointless, and a naked power struggle threatened the stability of every Elder¡¯s standing. What remained in the end? What was the only option any of the eight would tolerate? A crow¡¯s diplomacy - cloak and dagger, and a thousand shifting shadows. They were only shards, but even the smallest jagged stone could leave its mark. A humble scavenger in the realms beneath Tyrannic couldn¡¯t hope to strike an Elder¡¯s tempered body, but they could chip away at their influence. They could undermine them in the smallest of ways. A crow¡¯s highest purpose was simple, yet profound in its impact. Harass, distract, and goad. It was the best a scavenger could hope to aplish, when they stood so far beneath the weakest of the eight Elders. [They say that in the legions¡­] No. It was all a scavenger should have been able to aplish. ¡°Tell it again,¡± the Despoiled Queenmanded her, shifting in her throne of bone and ivy. Powerful legs, each themselves as tall as the servant, uncrossed and crossed again, right-above-left shifting to left-above-right. Her fingers drummed against her biceps loud enough to make a lesser woman¡¯s ears bleed. Restlessness was unbing of a huntress, to say nothing of a queen. It was a testament to the severity of the situation that Thalestris let her agitation show at all. ¡°Again,¡± the servant sighed, bowing her head in acquiescence. ¡°Exin it to me in the simplest possible terms,¡± the Tyrant of the Blind Maiden Cult said with quiet rage. ¡°Like I¡¯m twenty.¡± Her lowly crow exined. When she firstid eyes on the Roman, she saw that he was nothing worth acknowledging. His pneuma was weak and fractured in its purpose. It was a subtle dissonance, but one she noticed right away. Standing among thete kyrios¡¯ favored initiates while the funeral drums boomed, he had appeared to her entirely out of his depth. She dismissed him readily from her mind. Too readily, in the end. She didn¡¯t see him again until the chaos had already set in and her des were wet with the blood of crows from rival factions. They were in the shadows of Olympia¡¯s alleyways, in the darkness where crows crept and blind maidens hunted. One of thete kyrios¡¯ favored children had been captured by rival scavengers, and another had mistaken her for one of his captors. She had responded to his hostility with equal force, and battered him bloody. Before she couldplete her kill, the Roman came charging into her shadows with his paltry essence zing. Like he could aplish anything against her. She had seen that he was no one worth remembering. Even restraining herself as she was in the confines of the city, his strength was nothingpared to hers. And then he dared to taunt her. ¡°You¡¯re not very good at this, are you? A real throat cutter is never seen unless they choose to be.¡± He was young and arrogant. He had yet to reap the rewards of his longevity, the perspective of centuries, and it was toote for him now. She drew hundreds of des from the shadow of three, poison coating every single one, and flooded the shadowed alley with death. She returned him to the earth. Rather, she tried. ¡°To Caesar you¡¯re assigned!¡± Her oldest and first defiled dagger was nearly at his throat when the words fully registered in her mind. That was the moment she realized the Roman was a Roman. Recognition corroded her disdain, ate away at it and left it something darker. Sheshed murder at his throat, and only then did she see the lightning in his eyes. ¡°They say that in the legions.¡± The force that struck her from the sky was beyond anything a Sophic cultivator could ever hope to muster. And as she burned her heart¡¯s blood to right herself and retaliate, the dissonance she had observed in him earlier resolved itself in her mind. Not the product of a shoddy foundation as she had first disdainfully believed. The product of a split foundation. He had climbed eleven steps up the divine mountain, but that was only the Greek portion of his soul. But the Roman portion- It struck her down. Sent her spinning to the dirt. ¡°The meals are mighty fine,¡± he informed her, and the oundish nature of the statement had nearly distracted her from what it was. What he was doing. The Roman was calling a cadence. The young man belted out lines like he expected a response, like he demanded one, and every one was punctuated by a sh of seething lightning in his eyes. If she wasn¡¯t a Heroine, she wouldn¡¯t have seen it at all. If she wasn¡¯t herself, she wouldn¡¯t have known what it meant. She felt her poison surging through his veins, felt the inferiority of his physique from the inside, and yet the Roman fought her like he had an army at his back. Like he couldn¡¯t possibly lose. And with every line of his cadence, he grew stronger. ¡°They say that in the legions!¡± he roared, and kicked her like a wild dog. The Roman struck her with strength far beyond his standing, stronger than anything a Sophic cultivator his age could possibly im as his own virtue. ¡°The pay is fine it¡¯s great!¡° Every blow was an insult. Every strike was a reminder. ¡°For every coin you gather!¡± She hated him. ¡°The captain gathers eight!¡± He tossed her through a stone wall like she was garbage, and she vowed within herself that she would kill him no matter what it took. ¡°You failed,¡± Thalestris informed her daughter. The crow¡¯s lips twisted, but the Despoiled Queen waved her rage aside. ¡°Continue.¡± Chapter 1.115 [Caesars Edict] Chapter 1.115 [Caesar''s Edict] ¡°A young maiden is foraging in the woods one blind night. She¡¯s about your age, and, oh, about your size. With eyes and mind as pure as moonlight. She is too kind to hunt, you see, but her hunger won¡¯t be sated by kindness. While she scraps and scuffles for whatever fruits the earth has left behind for her, she finds herself a wolf. ¡°Or, perhaps more likely, the wolf finds itself a maiden. ¡°It is a massive beast with cruel fangs and ws the length of knives. But those fangs are stained by wolf blood, and those ws are chipped and broken. There are arrows in its back. Though it has found itself a likely meal, itcks the strength to secure it. ¡°The wolf is starving.¡± The unwed, man-eating Amazons. The title was an unkind one, and not at all umon in its sentiment. The warrior women of the Aegean¡¯s eastern shores were an ufortable constant in the histories of the Free Mediterranean, dubbed horse-lovers and war-makers and king-yers. Their vicious Queens and roving bands of war sisters were a recurring presence in the grand cycle of epics, a constant threat to the enlightened civilizations across the Aegean Sea. Before the Conqueror discovered the greater mystery of the Scattered Foam Cult and forced his Pearl City upon the Free Mediterranean, the Amazon city of Nkri was considered the most foreign of the free polis by far. The Amazon city was reviled by its peers for much the same reason the Conqueror¡¯s Alexandria was - the Amazons had discovered a greater mystery that was undeniable in its origins, and had entrenched themselves so deeply in thends surrounding it that the effort needed to dislodge them would have ruined any one of their rivals. They refused to conform and made themselves impossible to deny, and they were hated for it. The Blind Maiden Cult was named for reasons few men would ever find out, but it was an appropriate name regardless of the deeper mystery behind it. Whether or not the infamous hatred of men so often attributed to the Amazons was true or not, what could be proven was that they took no husbands and refused to suffer a king. They were a matriarchy in its purest sense. Equal to any man in agility, strength, and stature even before the question of refinement was put forward, the Amazon was a looming presence on the eastern frontier of enlightened civilization. From the grasnds of Scythia to the sand dunes of Egypt, they had traveled and warred as much as any empire nation long before the Conqueror was born. They tolerated men for one purpose, and one purpose alone. Dual cultivation. ¡°The wolf stalks the young maiden. But she is only hungry, and it is wounded and starved. It can not catch her, no matter how it tries. She was never too slow to hunt, this girl, neither too weak nor too blind - only now and forever too kind. The maiden dances through the woods, always just outside the wolf¡¯s reach. ¡°Eventually, its wounds and empty stomach bring it down for her. Itys dim-eyed in the dirt, panting and bleeding as the arrows do their work. ¡°Against all better judgment, the maiden turns back to it.¡± Inside the temple of the Blind Maiden, where sisters of the Amazon faithe on dead moon nights to pay their respects and honor the natural phenomena that defines their journey, there is a shadowed grove containing two pools. In one pool is a potent poison, capable of killing all but the most resilient initiates in moments. In the other pool is the antidote. Though the positions of the pools don¡¯t change, their contents do. The questions of how and why are a portion of the mystery that confounds all who follow the Blind Maiden¡¯s faith. The dichotomy is foundational. Embedded in the shadows of the grove, carved into the bark of its trees and reflected on the surface of its pools, there are suggestions of the divinity that had once hunted and danced in the moon¡¯s silver light. A hunter and a midwife. A poisoner and a physician - both the ailment and the cure. No matter how much man reviles woman, and regardless of how much woman reviles man in turn, the fact remains that neither can exist without the other. Life springs from the two pools joined. The mingling of the father and the mother, this primordial exchange, is the first and mostmon basis for the phenomena known as dual cultivation. Though, of course, it is not the only one. Dual cultivation is at every level an exchange. An exchange of the body¡¯s fluid humors, and often, yes, the vital essences that blend to form a child. But beyond that, an exchange of the minds¡¯ principles and higher ideals. An exchange of the hearts¡¯ passions, its joys and sorrows alike. And of course, an exchange of the soul¡¯s ravenous desires. It is called dual cultivation for a reason. It is more than just a lifegiving act. It is more than just manifest desire. It is a form of refinement all its own. However, while dual cultivation is by definition an exchange, it is not necessarily an equal exchange. The Amazon is known by many names, and few of them are kind. Her first and most venemously spoken title is Man-Eater. It is not an inurate one. ¡°The maiden is hungry, and even in its sorry state the wolf isrge enough to feed her for a month. But she is kind, too, and she fears the taking of a life. ¡°So although it snaps and ws when she reaches out to it, although it snarls at her soft words, she waits outside the wolf¡¯s reach until it¡¯s lost the energy to fight her. And then, while its dull eyes watch her, she tugs the arrows from its back and fills the rancid wounds with herbs and honey. ¡°The maiden is hungry, but she is kind, so she gives what little she has gathered to the wolf. It isn¡¯t much. Hardly enough to be called a morsel - a handful of berries. It is enough. ¡°When she returns the next day with hunger in hand, the wolf is gone.¡± Dual cultivation is, fittingly enough, a double-edged sword. It is possible to take more than is given, to drink deeply from the pool of another¡¯s advancement and surrender only a drop from your own, but that is not necessarily a benefit. The fruits of refinement are sweet, and at the same time they are bitter. A cultivator carries within themselves both the poison and the cure, and it is impossible to drink of one without also drinking of the other. It is all too easy to consume, to devour, when that first sweet drop of vitality touches the tongue. But it is just as easy to overindulge, and to sumb to what lurks deeper in the blood. The Amazons of the Blind Maiden Cult, and the Amazons alone, have found the solution to this problem. They¡¯ve found it in twin pools at a shadowed grove. One pool a poison, and one pool the cure. When an Amazon has found herself a man worthy of giving her a daughter, she exchanges discourse of a deeper kind with him and drinks as deeply as she pleases. When the child has settled in her stomach and the fruits of her advancement have taken root in her soul, she returns to the temple of her ancestors and submerges herself in the pool of her choice. Poison or panacea. In either case, the result is the same. The bitter impurities of man are purged, and what remains is the sweet fruit of the sister soul. It is no coincidence that the Amazons give birth to daughters and never sons. It is not by mistake that each generation of warrior women stands taller than thest, stronger and wilder than those that came before them. It is blind design. This is how the Amazons have advanced for centuries. Theirs is a pure line of true session, each branch better than the one that came before it. It is the foundation they¡¯ve built their cultural identity upon. It is only natural that their royal line of Queens would be the epitome of this sacred trend. It is to be expected that the Queen would stand tallest, strongest, and wildest of them all. It is demanded that her daughter be even more so than her. For this reason, among others, the Amazon Queen is most selective of all her sisters when ites to partners in dual cultivation. Hers is a line of blood so pure and strong that only a king¡¯s essence will do. The father must surpass the grandfather if the daughter is to exceed her mother. It is a heavy expectation, and with every generation it grows heavier still. By the time Queen Minythyia is ready to take on that daunting task herself, there is only one man in the world fit to spur her people forward. The Greeks won¡¯t speak his name. Instead, they call him the Conqueror. The Queen assembles three hundred sisters and travels to Verkana to visit the Conqueror in his camp. When she leaves thirteen dayster, she is pregnant with a girl. ¡°Time passes. The maiden carries on with her kindness, foraging and finding just enough to remain hungry instead of starving. It is a precarious bnce, and one day an illness upends it. Having never known abundance, she has no excess food to fall back on while bedridden. Without food to nourish her, the illness sinks its fangs into her and doesn¡¯t let go. ¡°It is in that state, while she¡¯s at the mercy of the world around her, that the wolf finds the maiden once again.¡± Minythyia¡¯s daughter is born healthy and whole, and she has all of her mother¡¯s finest features. The pewter city of the Amazons celebrates for thirteen days and thirteen nights, dering her Queen of Queens, blood of the Conqueror and Amazonsbined. Rumors and spection as to her future abound through the city for years after her birth. The most popr prediction is that she¡¯ll outstrip her mother by a foot¡¯s length at the fullness of her height. Thirteen feet tall - one for every day it took to conceive her. By the time Minythyia¡¯s daughter turns thirteen, she is only five feet tall. At that same age the Queen had stood at nearly seven feet. Every year the daughter doesn¡¯t grow is another mark against the Queen. Every year another drop of poison. The prideful title given to her upon her birth, Queen of Queens, blood of the Conqueror, dwindles on the lips of her sisters until it falls entirely out of use. Until, yearster, it returns as an insult. Queen of Queens, blood of the Conqueror. The words don¡¯t change, but the intent behind them bes an ugly thing. When Minythyia¡¯s daughter reaches the fullness of her natural growth, bolstered by all the treasures of the Amazons and their Blind Maiden Cult, she is only six feet tall. The Queen of the Amazons stands taller than her sisters in all ways, and the expectations heaped upon her are heavier as a result. It is expected that her daughter will exceed her, because her daughter is the living symbol of the next generation. If the heiress stands taller, so too will the rest of the young blood. But if nothing else, if nothing else at all, they have to stand as equals. If the daughter can¡¯t stand eye-to-eye with the mother, then they will never progress as a people. They will never reim the glorious heights of the Amazonomachy. Never be themselves again outside of nightfire stories. Minythyia¡¯s daughter isn¡¯t just inferior to her mother. She is inferior to her sisters in the Amazon city as well. In the crystalline pool of that pure and royal bloodline, she is undeniably other. A taint that cannot be ignored. A single drop of poison. When the Tyrant Riotes to Nkri and ims the Queen as his due, it is almost a relief. The warrior sisters of ages past had fought tooth and nail every time that a man had dared to think himself equal to one of theirs. The Amazons had waged horrific, bloody war because a man had possessed the audacity to take one of their sisters from her home. But when the Tyrant Riot takes Minythyia in his hand, they turn their eyes away from her. They let him go. She isn¡¯t Minythyia, Queen of the Amazons, by that point. She hasn¡¯t been for years. Her sisters have given her a new name behind their closed doors and in the silence of their shadowed groves, whispering just loud enough for her to hear them. Thalestris. The Despoiler. On his way out, dragging the Queen across the ground by her hair as if she wasn¡¯t twice his size, the Tyrant Riot spots a young woman just shorter than himself and is struck by the shortness of her stature. He asks the Despoiled Queen who she is, and Thalestris spits out an answer. ¡°She is nothing. She is no one.¡± The Tyrant Riot gives the young maiden a sympathetic nce. ¡°Mothers, eh?¡± And then he¡¯s gone, and the Despoiled Queen gone with him. ¡°The wolf stalks out of the woods just as it had all that time ago, but it is a different beast now. It is healthy and whole, its wounds healed and its hunger fed. It is strong. The maiden knows at once that she has no chance of escaping it. She doesn¡¯t have the strength to stand anymore, let alone run. She¡¯s ill, and she¡¯s starving. She needs food. ¡°The wolf moves closer, and lo - there¡¯s half a rabbit in its mouth.¡± With her mother gone and only a single living heiress left behind, Queendom falls to Ivy. Her aunts have other ns. They make a swift and punishing case against her - they bring a dozen standards to bear against her, and Ivy falls short on every single one. They levy her youth against her, her inexperience, herck of wisdom and purpose. They turn her peers against her, which was a work half-done already. And in the end it is all unnecessary work, because the most important point was proven from the start. The armor doesn¡¯t fit her. Thalestris¡¯ older sister, eldest of the royals, assumes the role of Queen instead. She has three daughters already, and each of them is on their way to being greater than her - perhaps even greater than the Despoiler before her fall. Ivy is allowed to retain her royal status, but she is an outsider in her own city. They treat her like she¡¯s poison, because as far as they¡¯re concerned she is, and every day that passes her heart grows a bit more poisonous to match their view of her. Shees to resent them. She almostes to hate them. But in the end, her shame outweighs her resentment. No matter how much she tries to hate the strangers that are meant to be her sisters, she finds she only hates herself more. It wasn¡¯t her choice to be born this way, but that hardly changes things. The branch is still dead. The line of session has been broken, and it was broken by her. The man that gives Ivy a daughter is no king, but then, she¡¯s no queen either. So long as her daughter can stand eye-to-eye with her, she¡¯ll be content. Even if she can¡¯t, Ivy promises the growing bump in her stomach that she¡¯ll never be treated the way Ivy was by her own mother. Even still, she can¡¯t help but hope her daughter will be more than her. She can¡¯t hope helping that she¡¯ll stand above, and right the wrongs that Ivy¡¯s existence has wrought on the branches of their line. The Despoiler¡¯s granddaughter is born happy and whole, with all her mother¡¯s best features. Her name is Anastasia. Somewhere in the poison of her heart, Ivy finds a mother¡¯s love for her daughter. She raises her daughter to be everything she could not be, to be even more than her grandmother was at her height, and when Anastasia stands eye-to-eye with her for the very first time she nearly bursts apart with pride. Even though she never grows beyond that, Ivy never loves her any less. She¡¯s worth more than her grandmother and all her great auntsbined. But in the end, even she is not able to cleanse Ivy of her resentment. Try as she might, the young physician never finds a cure to their shared affliction. And even if she did, it would only feed the true root of her mother¡¯s poisonous resolve. No matter what Thalestris may have said, and regardless of what her aunts had told her, Ivy desires Queendom. It is her impossible hunger. The ivory height that she strives for every day, no matter how far it might be from her reach. Every day she strains for the edges of her limits, and every day thereafter she strives to move beyond them. Every day she grows stronger. Every day she starves. Until one day opportunity arrives - marching in cadence on her city, and flying the proud eagle standard of Rome. ¡°The maiden recognizes the wolf as the one she¡¯d helped before, and then she sees the rabbit in its mouth. She mourns the small creature¡¯s death, but she is so hungry that she can¡¯t stop her mouth from watering at the sight of it. She realizes the wolf hase back to repay her kindness.¡± The men of the Republic are unimpressive in stature, almost diminutivepared to the warrior women of Nkri, and for this reason the Queen takes their legions lightly. It is a mistake. The Romans fight like stubborn mules. They band together, each of them of a height with or shorter than their opponents in the Amazon city, and yet their strength together drives the sister bands into the ground. It is as baffling as it is terrifying. And even worse than that, they are informed. They know of Ivy, and they seek her out. Though it was her intent to make use of them from the moment they came marching up from Egypt, it hardly feels at all like her n when she joins the legion¡¯s captain in his tent and is presented with an offer. A possible future. Queen Ivy of the Amazons. Friend to the Republic. The Romans divide, and they seek to conquer. It¡¯s simply what they do. Ivy learns that lesson and many more in the months that follow. When she takes the field against her aunts for the very first time, to Roman chants of ¡®Queen! Queen! Queen!¡¯, the hatred they¡¯ve felt for her all alonges roaring to the surface. Ivy isn¡¯t surprised at all to see it. Ivy is surprised when a portion of her sisters take her side. As summer turns to fall, the legions wage a war of three kinds on the city of Nkri - they bleed them in the field with swords, spears, and shield walls. They starve them in their homes, surround their city and hunt down all calls for aid with trained eagles. And perhaps most effectively, they poison their hearts against their own sisters. Propaganda, the captain informs her one night in the sharedfort of his cot, is the purest poison of them all. Untraceable. Untreatable. And if applied properly, it only takes a drop to do its work. A path to heaven presents itself to the Caustic Queens, a path forward for Ivy and her Anastasia. The Romans bleed Ivy¡¯s aunts of their forces in three different ways, and every sister that defects to her banner is another point proven. It is another wrong made right. A balm to her soul. When it bes clear that the Romans will prevail, and her alongside them, Ivy offers Anastasia¡¯s hand in marriage to the captain¡¯s son. He is a strong young man, for a Roman, and they get along well enough. It is an unspeakable departure from tradition, but what¡¯s one more after all of this? Ivy takes the field the next day in the highest spirits since the day of her daughter¡¯s birth. She meets the eyes of her third oldest aunt across the bloody fields that had once been idyllic forest groves and sees her victory in the woman¡¯s hateful re. She knows that victory wille soon. It mighte today. Amazon meets Amazon in a thunderous sh. The legions of Rome surge forward to bolster the Caustic Queen, certain of their sess. And then thunder roars above their heads, and lightning pries open the heavens. ¡°The ill maiden reaches gratefully for the gift of food the wolf has brought her - and cries out when the wolf tilts back its head and swallows the rest of the rabbit down. ¡°Why?¡± she asks, distraught. ¡°Why did youe here if not to help me?¡± ¡°Then she sees the other wolves creeping in from all around her. And in that moment, before they tear her limb from limb, she understands something that she should have known from the beginning. An animal is an animal, and it was Actaeon¡¯s own dogs that ate him in the end. Respect the wild predators of this earth, but do not ever trust them. Waste not your kindness on them. ¡°And never feed a starving wolf.¡± ¡°MY FELLOW SOLDIERS.¡± The sound of it is deafening, truly deafening. Every syble is a crack of rolling thunder, and the pressure alone sends Heroic Amazons staggering. Every mortal woman on the field without a fire burning in her eyes copses to the ground, unable to hold her body up. Ivy has fallen to one knee before she realizes what¡¯s happened, and her aunt is no better off across from her. Both of their weaponsy forgotten in the dirt. Her aunt¡¯s ears are bleeding. She realizes hers are as well. When Ivy casts her panicked gaze around, taking stock of her forces, she finds the men of Rome are not t on their faces like she¡¯d expected of them. Every Roman soldier is standing at attention, right fist pressed to his chest, and they are all staring up at heaven. It is a monstrous effort, but Ivy burns her heart¡¯s blood and raises her head to follow their eyes. ¡°MY NAME IS GAIUS JULIUS CAESAR. HEAR ME NOW, AND KNOW THAT ROMA IS BETRAYED.¡± A colossus of storm clouds and seething light in the shape of a man looms above the Amazon city of Nkri - no, it looms above the Roman legions fighting for control of the city. Narrow eyes of shing lightning regard the men of the Republic with an intensity that strikes even the captain to his core. The man she¡¯d seen turn her city inside out with such steady, maddening surety, stares up at heaven now with clenched teeth and a white-knuckled fist denting his breastte. ¡°CARTHAGE IS RISEN FROM THE ASHES. THERE ARE KNIVES LURKING IN THE DARK. NO PROVINCE IS SAFE, NO LEGION STRONG ENOUGH ALONE. NIGHT HAS FALLEN ON THE CITY OF ROME.¡± Another deafening roar of thunder batters her ears, this time rising from the earth as the Roman legionaries howl their disbelief and outrage. The storm cloud colossus bares its teeth in furious empathy, its lightning eyes shing, and raises a titanic hand. Ivy sees tendrils of what look like ink wheeling between the fingers - crows. From this distance, there have to be thousands of them. Thousands upon thousands of cawing crows. ¡°GO,¡± the colossal specter of Gaius Julius Caesarmands, and its storm cloud hand clenches into a fist like it''s gripping the skies above. Like it''s searching for a gap. A soundes that is not noise, but a pure lightning sensation that starts from the base of her spine and branches out to the tips of her fingers and burns their nails ck. Ivy watches in silent horror alongside her aunt as a jagged line appears in the skies above, pried open by Caesar¡¯s fist. ¡°SEEK SAFER SHORES.¡± The Tyrant of the West tears a hole in the skies above, and the legions of Rome fall up into it like the axis of the world itself have shifted. While they plummet up, screaming and thrashing futilely against Caesar¡¯s will, the colossus addresses them onest time. ¡°DRIVE THE TRAITORS FROM YOUR RANKS. STAND READY WHEN THE CAPTAIN CALLS. KNOW THAT GAIUS JULIUS CAESAR''S WILL HAS CAST YOU OUT, AND BY THAT SAME WILL RECLAIMED YOU.¡± The storm cloud colossus smiles grimly. ¡°STAND PROUD, AND KNOW THE SUN OF ROME WILL RISE-¡± From the ckened skies surrounding it, a hundred des of searing lightning runs Caesar¡¯s apparition through. With a sound like the heavens and earth themselves screaming out in agony, the stormcloud colossus bursts apart in a final mad cacophony of thunder and light. In the next instant, the gaping wound in the skies above ms shut and takes the Roman soldiers with it. The soldiers, their camp followers, their siegeworks and beasts of war. Everything vanishes into the skies above. Everything but a single eagle standard, nted firmly in the ground where the captain hadst stood. For a short and endless eternity, not a single Amazon moves. When Ivy turns and runs for her daughter, her aunt makes no move to stop her. ¡°My little Ivy, you seem upset. Is that not how you thought this story would end?¡± Chapter 1.116 Chapter 1.116 The Young Griffon Three Heroes came to me in the aftermath of zon¡¯s shameful defeat, and all three produced a letter written by a Roman¡¯s heavy hand. Sol had given each of them a destination to search when he first reached out to them through Sorea. All three of them had rejected our grand mission in the aftermath of Chilon¡¯s story, but Sol had given them the information anyway. He¡¯d given them the option, as well as time to consider it. As it turned out, that had been enough for Alyssa and Kyno to change their minds. It didn¡¯t amount to much. The Sword Song and the Heroic Huntsman came back as empty-handed as the Gold-String Guardian, who had never left Olympia in the first ce. Kyno brandished the carefully folded slip of papyrus Sol had sent him. To his right, Elissa¡¯s eyes slid away from me to watch two of zon¡¯s fellowpetitors drag him cursing and struggling out of the Olympic Stadium. On the other side of the Huntsman, Lefteris stared hard at me. His own papyrus message was a cracked and crumpled mess, held in a white-knuckled fist. ¡°Is this the truth?¡± Kyno asked me. Not too long ago, I would have deflected that question without hesitation. Now, I lowered myself to the pit sand and motioned for them to join me. Kino knelt obligingly, though even then he was taller than most mortal men. Alyssa tore her attention from zon¡¯s retreating figure with the ghost of a smirk on her lips and sat cross-legged beside Kyno. I waited a moment for Lefteris to join us in the sand. He stood stone still, glowering down at me. I hummed, considering them each in turn. The Sword Song, the Heroic Huntsman, and the Gold-String Guardian. Three Heroes that I had imed as my own, the same way that Sol had imed Scythas, Jason, and Anastasia as his. Three Heroes that regarded me now as a dangerous unknown. Had I not been every bit as truthful to them as Sol had been to his Heroes? Had I ever once told them a lie? My heart flickered in my chest. An answer, maybe. I ignored it. ¡°Show me and I¡¯ll tell you,¡± I told them. Kyno ced his letter on the sand in front of me. Elissa followed his example, flicking her own missive across the space between us. Lefteris clicked his tongue and threw his crumpled ball downst. ¡°Elissa and I have spent weeks abroad, searching for mythical ingredients without any clue as to what those ingredients actually were,¡± Kyno informed me quietly, dark eyebrows furrowing as he regarded me. He wasn¡¯t quite angry. More discontented. The skinned crocodile he wore like a cloak looked furious enough for the two of them. ¡°We could have spent that time preparing for the Games. Instead, we spent it helping you.¡± ¡°Helping us?¡± A muscle in my neck twinged when I tilted my head. I had shown zon the difference between us, but I hadn¡¯te away from it unscathed. Even the small movements were painful, more so as the moments passed and the numbing thrill of our fight seeped out of my body. ¡°You help yourselves,¡± I corrected him. ¡°You have something you want, and you¡¯re no longer certain the games are the clearest path to achieving it. You don¡¯t believe you can win, not really. You don¡¯t know that it would matter if you did. After all, what¡¯s aurel crown worth beyond the warmth you¡¯d glean from burning it?¡± I leaned forward, an elbow propped on my knee. ¡°A cup of nectar, though? Even if it¡¯s less than a cup - even if it¡¯s only a sip, its value is undeniable. Worth more than any crown.¡± None of them denied it. I turned and spat blood onto the sand. ¡°If it¡¯s a lie, then he lied to me too.¡± I held up my own message from Sorea, and though the exact details of it were different, the thrust of the message was the same. The Gadfly, Socrates, had deceived us. The ingredients needed to synthesize nectar had been known to him from the start - more than that, they¡¯d been in the old wretch¡¯s possession this whole time. The only portion that he¡¯d been missing was the cup of mad wine that we¡¯d retrieved from Thracia. Now that we knew, we could search with clear intent. We could scour the nearest marks on the map with purpose, and we couldb through the wares of merchants traveling from the more distant destinations. And if all went well, if there was wine remaining after the first batch was brewed, we could take the Gadfly¡¯s knowledge and make a second for ourselves. The benefits of nectar were the subject of myth and legend. Immortality, divine constitution, advancement through entire mortal realms, and on and on it went. Even if only a few of them were true, even if only one of them was reality, a cup would be a treasure worth any Tyrant¡¯s favor. A paltry sip would be more than equal to a lifetime of closed doors cultivation. The possibilities were endlessly enticing. It was enough to draw even Lefteris here, in spite of his misgivings. It was enough to draw any sane man away from this stadium in its pursuit. ¡°Then you¡¯d being with us?¡± Elissa asked me. ¡°No.¡± Lefteris¡¯ pneuma shifted dangerously. In my mind¡¯s eye, I pictured it pulling taut like the string of a bow. Ready to loose at the subject of his ire. Me, naturally. ¡°If this was real, you¡¯d happily abandon your time in the pit for it. Not ask us to do it in your stead,¡± he said tightly. The mes behind his eyes brightened. ¡°You have as much to gain from this as we do.¡± I considered that. ¡°Do I?¡± They didn¡¯t know me. Not well enough to say one way or another. In the end, they didn¡¯t care enough to ask. Kyno, Elissa, and Lefteris took back their marching orders and left me in the pit. Off to do the raven¡¯s work, regardless of how much it chafed them to waste time running errands with the Games on the horizon. I hadn¡¯t lied in my goading. They valued the nectar more than they valued their slim chances at an Olympic crown. As for why that was the case? Of course, I couldn¡¯t know. None of them would tell me. ¡°Griffon¡­¡± Chilonid a careful hand on my shoulder. ¡°Breathe.¡± I obliged him. The irritation remained. I became something of a novelty to the Heroes in the pit after my scrap with zon. I supposed that in their eyes, that had been my crucible ovee - it was a grand triumph for a lowly second rank sophist to ovee a Hero in even the most controlled environment. As far as they were concerned, I¡¯d earned myself his ce in the pit. That didn¡¯t make me apetitor, of course. But I was interesting enough to have around until the true games began. I broke bread and exchanged words with more Heroic cultivators in the days that followed than most people would ever see in their entire lives. Some of them wore the colorful silks that marked their mystery faith allegiance, but most didn¡¯t bother. Some of them were kind, offering kernels of their expertise to the young upstart. Some were flippant, calling me over to parade around their peers and daring me to try on them what I had done to zon. It was behavior I¡¯d seen before, in the mountain trails and sparring halls of the Rosy Dawn Cult. They were senior to me, and so my actions didn¡¯t truly matter to them. I amused them. Nothing more and nothing less. Elissa was the first to return with ingredients in hand. Of the three Heroes I¡¯d imed, I had met Elissa first. Sol¡¯s wandering eye had called them all to us through the funeral crowds, but it had been my hand that pped the Sword Song¡¯s face. By my notice alone had she been condemned. She was known as the Sword Song because her master had been the finest de to grace Olympia in generations, and under his guidance she made every de she touched dance. The sword she carried with her was pure and undecorated bronze. She was less brazen with its use than our first meeting had led me to believe. Elissa was kind to her juniors in action if not word. She was quick to anger, and biting in her rage. Her master was gone in search of something she wouldn¡¯t speak to, and he hadn¡¯t taken her with him. Her eyes were the color of desert heat. Her marble-pale skin was marred by ugly scars umon for someone of her standing. She wore the fuchsia silks of the Scattered Foam Cult in Egypt. It was information I could have gathered from any number of loose-lipped sophists on Kaukoso Mons. It was all I knew. Elissa brought me milk in an ornate jug carved from white-gold electrum and sealed by a lid of the same material that interlocked with its container when twisted. The milk was from the cattle ins beyond the mountains Boeon, just east of Olympia. It was thick and rich, coating my tongue like sweet cream when I dabbed a drop of it on my tongue. While I admired the taste of it, she dropped a chunk of brick-red cinnabar the size of my clenched fist in the sand. ¡°Cream from Levanta¡¯s sacred cattle, and quicksilver mined from Giza,¡± the Sword Song dered. ¡°Egypt and back in three days?¡± I asked, impressed. She snorted. ¡°To the agora and back in three hours. The cream was the more difficult prospect of the two - I had to milk the damned cow myself.¡± Her eyes swept over me, and her nose wrinkled. ¡°You look vile.¡± I ran a hand through the golden snarls in my hair. It had grown longer and wilder in the months since I¡¯d left the Scarlet City, and I¡¯d neglected its care recently. Though I could burn away the sand and sweat that clung to me here in the pit, I couldn¡¯t do much for my tangled hair and tattered silks. ¡°I suppose I could use a bath,¡± I mused. I raised an eyebrow up at the Heroine. ¡°Care to join me?¡± Elissa¡¯s eyes rolled. ¡°I¡¯ve wasted enough time as it is.¡± Her delivery done, she promptly toed a circle in the sand and imed a portion of my space for herself. She drew her bronze de and began smoothly working it through the air, limbering up her body slice by slice. ¡°Time spent in goodpany is never truly wasted,¡± I reasoned. ¡°True enough.¡± She continued through her sword motions. I tucked the electrum jar of sacred cream and the chunk of cinnabar both into my shadow and stood, pulling from the raven¡¯s talons in turn one of the des I¡¯d stolen from the storm crown. ¡°Teach me,¡± I demanded, and only then did the Sword Song grace me with her full focus. I stepped over the line she¡¯d drawn in the sand and joined her in her dance. The sun rose and fell, and rose again. The final day before the mandatory month of training loomedrge on the horizon. Soon, the greatest of thepetitors would arrive. Soon, even the Heroes that refused to tolerate a Tyrant¡¯s yoke would have to make themselves known or else forfeit their chance at the Olympic me. Soon, the real Heroes woulde. Lefteris returned second. The Gold-String Guardian had been thest to directly answer Sol¡¯s call at Bakkhos¡¯ funeral rites, though he¡¯d broken off from the trail of the Roman¡¯s influence when he spotted three of his peers gathered in apparent confrontation around a single first-rank sophist. His eyes hadnded first on Scythas, and in the same moment dismissed him with contempt. They¡¯d settled on Kyno and Elissa, wary and questioning. There was history between them, camaraderie that ran deeper than the fragile understanding between Sol¡¯spanions. Lefteris was a known quantity to Elissa and Kyno, just as they were to him. Alone, he may as well have not existed in the Raging Heaven Cult. It was a Hero¡¯s nature to stand out in every crowd, but Lefteris did everything he could to avoid the questing eyes of the masses - besides, of course, not being a member of the most renowned cult in the free mediterranean. He was protective of his secrets and prone to paranoia. Not that he was wrong. The Gold-String Guardian was tall, lean, and tanned a deep bronze by the desert weather of his mystery faith. He wore the same fuschia silks that Elissa did, belted negligently around his waist so that they hung loosely from his shoulders and revealed the bronze breastte he wore at all times. He carried a greatbow with him everywhere he went, and its string was shining gold. I¡¯d learned more about Lefteris from the two boys he watched over than I had from the man himself. A pair of young civic brothers with mismatched eyes and spirits that matched their fiery hair, Lefteris acted as a secret guardian to both Leo and Pyr. Whatever else could be said about the Gold-String Guardian, he took that role seriously. The one and only time he¡¯d struck out at me had been the moment I had reached for his boys in Elissa¡¯s home with apparent malintent. How they¡¯de to be in his care, and why he¡¯d chosen to hide them in the Raging Heaven Cult of all ces, I could only guess. The boys didn¡¯t know everything about their guardian, unfortunately. And of course, he¡¯d never tell me himself. Lefteris tossed a hemp sack and a chunk of yellow ore at my feet while I traded choreographed blows with Elissa. I scooped each up in hand of pankration intent and brought them into my line of sight while I continued moving through our dance. Inside the hemp sack was what looked like shimmering ck sand. When a pankration hand carefully dabbed a crystal to my tongue, it tasted like a rotten egg. The pale yellow mineral chunk was about asrge as the cinnabar that Elissa had brought back, though this one was brittle inparison. ¡°ckva salt from the Himyas and sulfur from Libya¡¯s fire mountains,¡± Lefteris reported. He didn¡¯t wait for me to confirm before adding on, ¡°I want two portions of the brew.¡± ¡°Ho?¡± I raised an eyebrow at him, tilting my head bemusedly and avoiding Elissa¡¯s telegraphed stab in the process. ¡°How greedy.¡± ¡°If he gets two, then I want three,¡± Elissa chimed in. Lefteris shot her an ugly look, and she smirked. ¡°Only fair, Left. You spent all your time in the market - I had to milk a sacred cow.¡± ¡°You are a sacred cow,¡± Lefteris snapped, and sheughed. ¡°If we¡¯re measuring by that metric, the two of you will be lucky to receive a drop,¡± I said lightly. Lefteris¡¯ ire swiveled back to me, while Elissa heaved a sigh. ¡°This story again,¡± the Sword Songmented. ¡°A mad dash through the underworld for the perfect cup of wine, and a meeting with a faceless wonder to crown the journey,¡± Lefteris summarized the story as Elissa had told it to him and Kyno, derision behind every word. ¡°Truly, I¡¯m surprised the two of you didn¡¯t ascend on the spot.¡± I brushed aside Elissa¡¯s bronze de with my own tribtion iron and stepped back, ending the dance. My eyes narrowed. ¡°I showed you the proof.¡± I held up the totenpass from Phdelphus so both of them could see it. When I¡¯d first shown it to her, there had been a moment where I¡¯d seen her waver on the edge of believing me. There had been an opportunity there, I knew. But it had passed before I could grasp it in my hands. Now, Elissa only shrugged. ¡°It¡¯s a pretty ne. Goes well with your ruby.¡± ¡°I can show you,¡± I offered, ignoring the dull roar of blood in my ears and gathering my pneuma around the memory of that mad journey. My eyes flitted from Elissa to Lefteris. ¡°In fact, why don¡¯t we trade? Truth for truth, lived experience for lived experience.¡± ¡°Two portions,¡± Lefteris said simply, ignoring the offer entirely and shrugging off his ck and fuschia silks so they hung around his waist like mine. He pulled his bow up over his shoulder and nocked an arrow to it. ¡°Elissa, get moving. You¡¯re my target.¡± ¡°ording to who?¡± she challenged him. Lefteris hummed, drawing back his golden string. The fires behind his eyes burned brightly. ¡°ording to this arrow, I¡¯d say.¡± Elissa cursed and lunged sideways as he loosed, but she was too close and he¡¯d predicted her. The arrow whistled across the distance in the blink of an eye- And froze as a bright rosy hand caught its shaft out of the air. I gave the Gold-String Guardian his arrow back, dropping my tribtion de back into my shadow as I did. ¡°I¡¯ll be your target,¡± I offered him. Lefteris eyed me for a long moment. Then he nodded, and drew his string again. Every heroic soul was a uniquely excellent existence. Every Hero was a man worth telling stories of, and every Heroine was a woman worth knowing. So why was it the more of them I met, the less I cared to ask their names? Kyno¡¯s journey took him furthest by far, and so he was thest of the three to return. The Heroic Huntsman, son of Broken Tides andrgest of us all. I¡¯d noticed him long before he¡¯d reached us through the funeral crowds, towering as he did over everyone else in attendance. He¡¯d held Elissa back from seeking a second round with me while Sol was busy elsewhere, and the longer I knew him the more it became clear that that was a familiar role for him. In spite of his dark eyes and the cruel power in his hulking frame, Kyno was slowest to anger of the three and moved always with a hunter¡¯s careful purpose. He acted as a bncing force between Elissa and Lefteris, anchoring them when their tempers ran away from them. He was observant, and thoughtful in his way. He wore a virtuous beast like a cloak over his Broken Tide blues, a skinned crocodile that could act on its own volition at any time. He was broad, tanned, dark of hair, and perpetually scowling - though he rarely meant anything by it. The one and only time I¡¯d seen him truly shaken had been in the hallowed temple of the Broken Tide¡¯s Oracle. Slowest to anger andst to speak his mind in rage, I knew him least of all. The Heroic Huntsman sat beside me in the shaded sand while Elissa and Lefteris dueled with knives out in the sun, each of them dripping sweat and intensely focused. Kyno held his spoils out to me and waited patiently until I took them. ¡°A fine bouquet.¡± I epted the bundle of flowers and herbs and raised them to my nose. The smell of them was pleasantly refreshing, and one scent in particr stood out sweetly among the rest. It was the centerpiece of the bouquet, a vibrant blue lily with a golden bud in its center. There was only one in the entire bundle. ¡°Blue Lily of the Nile,¡± Kyno said, nodding to the centerpiece. ¡°And medicinal herbs from Paleta¡¯s healing hills.¡± ¡°Purchased from the agora, I suppose?¡± I murmured, plucking the blue lily from the bundle and twirling its stem between my fingers. Kyno shook his head. ¡°I¡¯m not that fortunate. No, I swam for this one.¡± I blinked. ¡°You swam? From Pelloponesia to Egypt?¡± ¡°I had help.¡± He patted the tail of his crocodile skin, and the creature¡¯s reptilian eyes glinted. I might have mistaken it as a sunlight reflection if not for the fact that we were both sitting in the shade. ¡°Does it have a name?¡± I asked. For some reason, Kyno seemed surprised. ¡°Sah-bakari.¡± An Egyptian name. ¡°You met in Egypt,¡± I said, the piecesing together in my mind. ¡°I met the crocodile in Egypt, yes,¡± Kyno said, smiling faintly. I waved a hand. ¡°No, not the beast. You met them in Egypt,¡± I said, pointing to Elissa and Lefteris as they dueled. Kyno winced and said nothing. I frowned, considering his silence. Perhaps they¡¯d only bonded over it. How long had it taken them to form their current camaraderie? How much of it had been forged beneath the storm crown in Olympia, and how much of it had developed in the south? Had they been in Egypt recently? Had any of them been there to see Sol mount a Roman g atop the Conqueror¡¯s lighthouse? ¡°Kyno-¡± ¡°Another time. It¡¯s not my story to tell.¡± The burning hands of my intent dug furrows in the sand around us, forming a molten octagon. I stood and offered therger cultivator a hand up. ¡°Pankration,¡± was all I said. Kyno nodded and took my hand. I heaved him to his feet. Then I hooked my heel around his and dropped him straight back down to the sand. Three days before the gates were to be shut for the final month of training, Chilon offered me a furtive gift while Kyno, Elissa, and Lefteris were upied. Three papyrus scrolls, each of them with a different image painted on their outer surface. One of them was a bow with a golden string. Another was a bronze de shing against a flute. And thest of them a crocodile with its maw opened wide. For a moment, I could do nothing but stare down at the recorded tales of the Gold-String Guardian, the Sword Song, and the Heroic Huntsman in utter disbelief. ¡°You¡¯ve been spending so much time with them,¡± the senior Philosopher said quietly, tying shut his fishing of myths and legends, ¡°I thought you might like to know their stories.¡± ¡°What makes you think I don¡¯t already?¡± I found the words to ask. Chilon only pped a hand to my shoulder and rose. ¡°Don¡¯t take it so personally, junior. They live in a different world than we do. Be thankful they¡¯ve taken the time to train you. It¡¯s more than most sophists will ever get from a hero.¡± With that he took his leave from the pit for the night, leaving me with that foul sentiment ringing in my ears and a bundle of priceless papyrus cradled in my hands. Each of them was a story I¡¯d been trying to draw out of mypanions directly for weeks, months. Each of them was a Hero¡¯sbor put to paper. And, if I was fortunate, each of them would be an answer to the question I¡¯d been asking them from the very beginning. What are you afraid of? These were the answers I¡¯d wanted all along. These were the stories Elissa, Kyno, and Lefteris refused to tell me, no matter how many times I prodded them or what I offered in exchange. Chilon had given me the gift of their origins. Rosy burning light bloomed in my cupped palms. The edges of the papyrus ckened and curled. Two days before the deadline, Scythas came to me with his and Jason¡¯s share of the reagents cradled in a jar in his arms. He upended it, and a cascade of lead and silver coins poured out onto the sands. I ignored the coins. When he went to announce them, I cut the Hero off with a question. ¡°Would you have told me your story if Sol wasn¡¯t there with us?¡± ¡°What?¡± Scythas¡¯ brow furrowed. His heart flickered in my perceptions. ¡°You mean-?¡± ¡°On the Eos,¡± I rified. I¡¯d separated myself from Elissa, Kyno, and Lefteris, but a few curious eyes turned our way as I pressed him. ¡°If Sol wasn¡¯t there. If it was me, and me alone. Would you have told the same story?¡± Our time in Thracia had brought many things to light. It had given usmon ground. Scythas sighed. ¡°You already know the answer to that question, Griffon.¡± I did. The final day before the deadline, I shattered Chilon¡¯s ribs. It only took a moment of distraction for a fight to turn sour, and my mind had been elsewhere for days. It was an unforgivablepse in concentration. While I was fighting his body¡¯s natural inclination to let him die, Anastasia came to me with a jar of honey and her own healing hands. ¡°Who are you, really?¡± As if the answer mattered. ¡°Not everyone is made of iron. For some, the fire only burns.¡± I¡¯d known it since the day I ventured through the storm crown. From the moment that I tore down that door and stalked into Elissa¡¯s home in blood and wrath and named them all cowards for backing down from the Gadfly, I¡¯d seen it in their eyes. Whether or not they believed that my standing was as it appeared, that made no difference. From that day on I was an enemy to them. An enemy they could work with, perhaps. An enemy they could trust, in some sense. But never a friend. Never what Sol was to his trio. I¡¯d thought that bond was made of iron. But in the end, I¡¯d only burnt it to ashes and scattered them to the wind. I¡¯d left nothing left to mend. ¡°If we can kill what can not die, what''s to say we can''t also mend what can not be mended?¡± The dawn broke over the back of a dead moon night. At the end of this day, any would-be champion outside the city of Olympia would be barred from participation. As the first rosy fingers of morning light reached out past the writhing pir of the storm crown, Sorea came hurtling out of the sky and struck the sand like a javelin. The eagle shrieked, beating its wings and flinging sand around it in a cloud. Before I knew it, I was surrounded by Heroic cultivators, all crowding around the bird. ¡°Sorea?¡± Anastasia reached out, concerned, but the bird only snapped at her fingers. ¡°What is it!?¡± Scythas asked the bird urgently. ¡°Take the message!¡± Elissa hissed. The virtuous beast kept on shrieking, making no move to vomit up a scroll. The only thing of note it was carrying was a scrap of torn white cloth in its talons. It took me a dozen pankration hands and several filthy curses to pry it from the bird¡¯s grip. As soon as I had the cloth in my hands, the eagle beat its wings and shot back up into the sky. Off towards the storm crown. ¡°What does it say?¡± Jason demanded. Behind him, silent but intent, Kyno and Lefteris leaned in for a closer look. The message was a single word scrawled hastily on the cloth. COME We ran like we had lightning in our heels. Chapter 1.117 [The Young Miss-tocrat] Chapter 1.117 [The Young Miss-tocrat] The Young Miss-tocrat Time passed, but slower every day. Niko had promised them, promised her, that he would find a way to get them a ship and their uncle¡¯s permission to sail it east towards Olympia. He had promised to prepare them for the journey ahead, and in that regard he had tried. But the journey was what mattered most, and every day that passed it seemed just a bit further away. Lydia knew she had to be patient. She knew that her chances of bringing Griffon home were far greater with Niko and his crew there to support her. More than that, she knew that if she wasn¡¯t patient, if she let her frustration show through in just the slightest of degrees, it would push her youngest cousin over the edge. He was already so close as it was. Thest time she¡¯d seen Myron had been the day he nearly killed their journey in the cradle before it could begin. She hadn¡¯t known it at the time, but she¡¯d most certainly known it when her siblings came pounding down her doorter that night. Myron had told her siblings of their n. He¡¯d told Rena and Castor in the hopes that they would take his side, perhaps help him convince Niko to hurry things along. He had even told his brother, as if Heron could be trusted with such a secret in the first ce. He was just a boy, only ten years old. It was so easy to forget that when his cultivation was only a single step beneath hers. But he was still a boy, susceptible to impatience. He hadn¡¯t found any other allies that day, but he also hadn¡¯t sought her out since. She supposed locking himself in closed doors cultivation was better than the alternative. It kept him busy, at least. Lydia had crept through her family''s estate as if over eggshells the day after, just waiting for her father toe raging through her door. But somehow, miraculously, Heron did not immediately betray them to their parents. Perhaps he¡¯d had a change of heart towards Griffon in his absence. Perhaps he¡¯d simply been waiting for the right moment to sell them out. If thetter was the case, he lost his chance soon after. The very next day, Uncle Damon had cracked open the heart of the eastern mountain range and ventured into its depths alongside the twin pirs of the Rosy Dawn, their wives, and Niko¡¯s entire crew. They¡¯d sealed the way shut behind them, locking themselves into their own closed doors cultivation. Even if Heron had wanted to give them up after that, there was no reaching them now. It was undoubtedly a blessing. But every day that passed and her eldest cousin did not emerge from the mountain with their uncle¡¯s blessing in hand, Lydia¡¯s impression of it grew a bit more sour. The longer this went on, the closer she was drawn to Myron¡¯s state of mind. In those itchy, impatient moments, she turned to old habits and their familiarforts. She honed her body. She honed her mind. She forced herself to breathe. Though recently, even that was not quite so tranquil as it used to be. ¡°I can¡¯t do it,¡± the ve despaired. Again. ¡°You can,¡± Lydia told her without opening her eyes. She inhaled smoothly, and exhaled with equal ease. Her pneuma spun throughout her body in a perfect spiral. Ebbing and flowing predictably, ever in her control. Athis tried again, drawing in a deep breath and attempting to guide it through her body. Lydia felt the girl''s untrained pneuma rise around her, an immediate sign that she was off the mark, and a secondter Athis¡¯ breath hitched and she devolved into a coughing fit. Her pneuma scattered in the wind, dissipating without any greater purpose to guide it. ¡°I can¡¯t!¡± Athis insisted. If nothing else, the bleak defeatism that had colored their early interactions was now giving way to a pure, burning frustration. A step in the right direction. ¡°You can,¡± Lydia repeated. Athis made a helpless, infuriated sound that she smothered in the back of her throat before it could reach the open air. She shifted in ce, skin scraping the stone of the hidden alcove, and stood. ¡°Even if I could, what would it matter? T-this won¡¯t - it won¡¯t make me stronger! It¡¯s a waste of time!¡± Lydia opened her eyes, pleasantly surprised. This was new. ¡°Your pneuma is your vital essence, the source of all your greater works,¡± she said simply. ¡°The way you breathe, the focus behind it - that¡¯s the foundation for everything else that I could teach you. Controlled breathinges first.¡± ¡°At least¡­¡± The mousy girl''s fists clenched as she fought her instinctive urge to shrink away from Lydia¡¯s focus. ¡°At least teach me how to use a spear. Teach me how to move like you do. Please. I can learn both at the same time, can¡¯t I?¡± ¡°No.¡± ¡°Why not!?¡± It seemed the ve had reached the limits of her patience. Lydia didn¡¯t hold it against her. She knew the feeling. ¡°Strength does not spring forth from a void,¡± she informed the ve, and rose abruptly to her feet. Athis stepped back and promptly slipped. Her eyes flew open wide and her breath rushed out of her in a horrified gasp. The ve fell back, over the edge of the cliffside alcove overlooking the Scarlet City. Lydia caught her by the in white dress she¡¯d gifted her and hauled the girl back inside. ¡°You were clumsy your entire life before you stepped into the Civic Realm, and you¡¯re still clumsy now,¡± Lydia said, letting go and watching her sink down to her knees. ¡°Cultivation is a process. It is refinement of your body and soul, and you¡¯ve only just begun. ¡°When I first awoke and became aware of my own pneuma, I did not immediately take to the spear. You have to walk before you start running.¡± ¡°It looks so simple when you do it,¡± Athis whispered. ¡°In the yards, with the other women of the cult. It looks so simple. Powerful, but effortlessly so.¡± ¡°It is,¡± Lydia confirmed. ¡°But in the same way that walking is effortless - none of us were born on our feet. We were all clumsy children once, struggling to carry our own weight and stand without the help of others. Understand that you are still that child.¡± The ve¡¯s head dipped, her momentary ire giving way to morose eptance. ¡°I thought¡­¡± Athis bunched up the fabric of her dress, gripping it like a lifeline. ¡°I thought it would change me. I thought being a cultivator would make things simple.¡± ¡°Cultivation doesn¡¯t raise the ground beneath your feet,¡± Lydia exined, not unkindly. ¡°It only clears the skies above your head.¡± It was a lesson she¡¯d learned herself the hard way, as every cultivator did. Refinement was an endless grueling journey. Cultivation did not remove thepetitor¡¯s need to train; it only removed the upper limits on what they could achieve. A crude soul had limits. A cultivator could refine themselves endlessly, so long as they did what it took to grow beyond themselves. For some, that knowledge was the only encouragement they¡¯d ever need. Athis was not one of those people. Lydia sighed and made a decision. ¡°Come with me. We¡¯re going to the city.¡± ¡°Wha-? Why?¡± Lydia turned and left the cave. Athis scrambled out after her. ¡°I don¡¯t know how to teach you in a way you¡¯ll understand, and we¡¯ll be leaving this ce soon.¡± Soon, Myron¡¯s voice echoed disdainfully in her mind. Lydia grimaced. No, Athis wasn¡¯t the only one tired of sitting around and waiting. ¡°Fortunately for you, I know someone who does.¡± ¡°Who?¡± Athis asked, hopeful and apprehensive in equal measure. It was no secret that the men of the cult terrified her. Lydia gave the ve an arch look over her shoulder. ¡°Rejoice, ve. This Young Miss is offering you an opportunity that her fellow mystikos would leap into an open me for. The chance to learn from my master - the Sand Reckoner himself.¡± And if she happened to bring a request of her own before the wise man? If that request just happened to be nautical in its nature? Well, what was the harm? She would be patient. Niko woulde through for them soon, she knew that. Soon. ¡°Tread lightly,¡± she advised the ve when they reached their destination. It was an unassuming home built in the city¡¯s outer limits, nearly brushing up against the eastern mountain range. The building itself was rundown, just short of dpidated, and the door was unbarred when she pressed on it. Athis hesitated, ncing warily around. They were far from the city center, but that didn¡¯t mean there was no one on the streets. She didn¡¯t want to go in, but she didn¡¯t want to be left out alone either. ¡°Is he¡­ cruel?¡± ¡°Of course not. I wouldn¡¯t have brought you here if he was.¡± ¡°Then, why-?¡± ¡°I was speaking literally,¡± she said, stepping through the open door. ¡°Tread lightly.¡± Her mentor¡¯s workshop was exactly as she remembered it. An utter mess. Everywhere Lydia looked, she saw disaster. The chaos was familiar, but the details of it had changed in the months since she¡¯dst paid her mentor a visit. This ce had once been a home, long before she was born, but her mentor had gutted it of its creatureforts soon after his arrival. Furniture was wasted space, so far as he was concerned. What furniture did remain, tables of varying styles and materials that she knew had been chosen for their varying heights rather than aesthetic belonging, were covered corner-to-corner by the tools of her mentor¡¯s trade and notes scrawled in his spidery handwriting. His reference shapes abounded - cylinders, spheres, and other geometric shapes all carved from wood or chiseled out of marble, piling up on the floor or weighing down sheets of papyrus so they wouldn¡¯t fly away when the winds came in. Lydia stepped carefully through the chaos, making sure not to disturb a single bauble or tool, no matter how frivolously it seemed they¡¯d been cast about the workshop. Controlled chaos, her mentor called it, and heaven help anyone that threatened his control over it. ¡°Oh,¡± Athis breathed, standing in the open doorway behind her and looking in on the madness. ¡°Now I see.¡± ¡°It gets worse,¡± Lydia assured her, creeping through a small maze of copper mirrors on adjustable iron stands. ¡°Close the door behind you and watch every step you take. He¡¯s usually in the courtyard, but he could also be under one of these piles.¡± ¡°He could be what?¡± ¡°Close the door,¡± Lydia said sharply. Athis pulled it shut and pressed her back against it. ¡°Shouldn¡¯t we wait for him to invite us in?¡± the ve asked helplessly. Her pneuma rose and fell around her, flickering fitfully. ¡°You can call out to him, surely-¡± ¡°He wouldn¡¯t answer if I did.¡± Lydia shook her head. She¡¯d learned that lesson long ago. ¡°We have to go to him. We¡¯ll check the courtyard first, and if he¡¯s not there-¡± Athis gasped, and a loud thump sounded from behind Lydia as the ve girl slipped and tried to catch herself on a nearby table for bnce. She closed her eyes at the cascade of noise that followed as the girl brought down the table and all its contents with her to the floor. She supposed it was her fault for trying. ¡°Who dares!?¡± He¡¯d been in the courtyard after all. Athis scrambled to her feet like a wild hare, the white of her eyes showing as she turned back and lunged for the door. She rebounded off it with an ugly sound, and no matter how many times she beat herself against it, despite the fact that it had been open for anyone to trespass just moments before, it would not budge. Lydia mouthed a silent prayer for patience, and then cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted back in the direction of the courtyard. ¡°Your student, Lydia Aetos! I¡¯vee to seek your wisdom!¡± ¡°Impossible!¡± Lydia¡¯s brow furrowed. ¡°And why is that?¡± ¡°My student may be worthless in most ways that matter, but she knows better than to disrupt her master¡¯s work!¡± ¡°Haa?¡± Lydia scowled and lifted her leg to ce the heel of her foot against the side of another table. The sand reckoner howled in frustration as another small avnche of his work went tumbling to the floor. ¡°You¡¯re making a mess!¡± ¡°This mess predates me!¡± She shouted back, wading through the remaining clutter out into the courtyard. Hunched over a dioptra he used to watch the stars at night and measure angles by day, Archimedes looked up from his work only just long enough to re at her as she appeared in his line of sight. The old philosopher was exactly as she remembered him, ragged and unkempt. He wore the same washed-out reds he always had, silks that had once been as fine a scarlet as her own Rosy Dawn attire. His hair was long and wild, as was his beard, and the bone-white color of both gave away his ancient nature as surely as the lines around his squinting eyes. Notugh lines, of course. Her mentor had never been one foredy. ¡°Can¡¯t you see I¡¯m busy?¡± Archimedes demanded crossly, his hands continuing to work blindly with an iron drawingpass and a stick of charcoal even as he red at her. ¡°You¡¯re always busy.¡± ¡°Exactly right. Exactly right. And yet my peace is ever disturbed by yapping children.¡± ¡°The price of wisdom,¡± Lydia said blithely, stepping out into the courtyard. It was no less a mess, but there was at least a path through the chaos out here - a spiral path of stepping stones that funneled from the furthest edges of the courtyard into the central point where the philosopher did his stargazing and deepest thinking. ¡°This one has a favor to ask of you.¡± There came another crash from back inside the workshop. ¡°Two favors,¡± she amended. ¡°No.¡± ¡°I beg the master-¡± ¡°Beg the ocean waves for all that I care! I am busy.¡± Patience. Patience. Lydia counted to ten. ¡°I see that-¡± ¡°You see nothing.¡± The old bastard waved her off with his stick of charcoal, turning back to the masterfully crafted dioptra he was currently using as a work bench. ¡°Would that you had eyes to see - you might actually learn something of what I do here.¡± ¡°You¡¯re drawing circles!¡± Lydia snapped, unable to take it any longer. She reached up to one of the courtyard¡¯s olive trees and pulled off a sheet of papyrus that Archimedes had skewered on the branch for safekeeping. ¡°Here¡¯s one!¡± She grabbed a second, then a third, plucking them like leaves. ¡°Another circle, more circles - oh! My, a cylinder, how exciting. And yet again more circles!¡± ¡°Idiot!¡± he roared. ¡°I am mapping out the future! I am unraveling the scarlet threads of Fate, doing what the Oracles only wish that they could do!¡± ¡°You are drawing circles!¡± ¡°Excuse me-!¡± ¡°WHAT!?¡± Mentor and student shouted at once, and shy Athis cowered in the space between the courtyard¡¯s pirs. ¡°Never mind,¡± the ve whispered. Archimedes snorted and returned to his work. ¡°What do you want?¡± he asked Lydia impatiently. ¡°Make it quick.¡± Lydia held a hand out towards the ve. ¡°This girl¡¯s name is Athis. She¡¯s just awoken to her ce in this world, and I¡¯ve been trying to teach her your breathing technique-¡± Before she could say another word, the sand reckoner drew a scroll of papyrus from a fold in his faded red rags and threw it at the ve¡¯s head. Athis flinched away, banged her head against one of the courtyard pirs, and somehow got hit by the scroll anyway. ¡°There. Go.¡± ¡°I thought a more direct lesson might-¡± ¡°No. I have more than enough students already. Go.¡± It had been too long since she¡¯d been here. She¡¯d forgotten how the man was when he was truly absorbed in his work - which was almost always. ¡°Just one more thing,¡± she said. The old philosopher grunted. ¡°I¡¯ve had a powerful urge to sail as ofte, but Ick a ship and the Rosy Dawn has none to spare. Do you have any¡­?¡± ¡°Ships?¡± Archimedes said tly. ¡°Do I have any ships lying around my workshop? Perhaps tucked away in my-¡± ¡°Schematics!¡± she said quickly. ¡°Do you have any schematics for a ship? Something an amateur could build, perhaps?¡± The design and manufacturing of ships was only one of her mentor¡¯s many des, and one of the trades he spent the least of his time honing, but that made him no less a master of the craft. It was perhaps a touch presumptuous of her to start this process on her own, but surely Niko would understand. He might even appreciate her initiative- ¡°Ask the boy.¡± Lydia blinked. ¡°What?¡± ¡°The boy.¡± He waved his charcoal stick in a circr motion, as if to conjure up the memory of him. He gave it up a momentter. ¡°He came in a few¡­ hours? Days? However long ago it was. He came in and nagged me endlessly for measurements on a sailing skiff. Go ask him for a turn - I won¡¯t waste time drawing another set.¡± ¡°What boy?¡± Lydia stepped towards the center of the spiral, feeling a cold dread sink its talons in her spine. ¡°Master, what was his name?¡± Archimedes scoffed. ¡°As if I asked.¡± ¡°What did he look like?¡± ¡°What does every boy look like?¡± ¡°This tall- look!¡± Lydia hissed, and he grudgingly looked up from his work. She held her hand above the ground, at roughly her stomach¡¯s height. ¡°This tall?¡± ¡°Near enough.¡± Her heart was hammering, she realized. ¡°Blond hair that curls around his ears? Rosy dawn attire, and a belt with two daggers?¡± Lydia pressed him, her panic rising every time he nodded. ¡°Where did he stand? Where did he stand!?¡± ¡°Ninth rank.¡± Lydia sagged against the olive tree beside her in relief. Her youngest cousin was only in the eighth rank of the Civic Realm, and he was new to it at that. For a moment, she¡¯d thought¡­ no, he was only ten years old, but he wasn¡¯t a fool. He¡¯d have told her. Archimedes, for his part, was tapping the points of his drawingpass to his forehead as he dug through his scattered memories. ¡°Little wretch never told me his name. Spent half his time posturing and the other half trying to pluck at my heartstrings. My cousin needs my help, but I can¡¯t get there without a ship! As if he didn¡¯t n on using it to fish-¡± The old philosopher went on grumbling, but Lydia didn¡¯t hear another word of it. She¡¯d already bounded back into the courtyard and burst through the front door¡¯s locks, sprinting back towards the eastern mountain range while Athis cried out and begged for her to slow down. He came in a few¡­ Hours? Days? However long ago it was. She hadn¡¯t seen Myron since the day he¡¯d nearly given them away in his frustration. It had been weeks since then. ¡°No, no, no,¡± she whispered in between spiraling breaths, surging up the mountainside in great bounding leaps. Cresting the mountain, she promptly mmed through a pair of young mystikos jogging along the mountain trail and sent them both tumbling. She kept running, rushing through the Rosy Dawn estates and down the other side of the eastern mountain range. ¡°You only had to wait!¡± In the distance, past the wheat fields and rocky beaches, the Ionian shimmered clear blue in the sun¡¯s light. Lydia fell from the mountain as much as she descended it, leaping off entirely as soon as she was close enough to make the jump without breaking a limb, and rolled through the impact into a dead sprint towards the beach. Birds and ves alike were scattered from the fields as she shot past. Behind her, so distant she could hardly hear it over the pounding of her heart, her fellow mystikos were following her in rmed pursuit. When she finally nted her feet and halted her momentum in an explosion of flying sand, she was at the foot of the Scarlet City¡¯s eastern docks. The same docks where she¡¯d stood less than a year ago awaiting her oldest cousin¡¯s arrival, arm-in-arm with her fiance. She¡¯de here first, fully expecting she¡¯d have tob through every stade of these beaches in search of a sign. And she saw that there was no need. The sign was right there in the center of the docks, buried in the nks. in as day, just waiting to be found. A jagged strip of sloppily-carved hardwood. An amateur¡¯s first attempt at a deck nk, worthless for a ship. But it served just fine as a message post. The message was short, carved into the post by a child¡¯s careful hand. I¡¯ll do it myself. ¡°Senior sister!¡± someone shouted. Several people. She could see it. ¡°Young Miss!¡± There, nearly over the line of the horizon. That distant bobbing speck. ¡°Lydia-!¡± Lydia took two bounding steps across the deck and dove into the sea. Chapter 1.119 [An Unkindness] Chapter 1.119 [An Unkindness] ¡°A raven carries tribtion in its talons. It has ever been so, since thest of the bright birds brought the sun god word of his lover¡¯s infidelity and were scorched ck by his grief. ¡°One midnight messenger is tragedy enough. Any more than that is nothing but a curse. After a certain point, a pile of tragedies bes its own crueledy. ¡°A gathering of ravens is nothing less than-¡± An Unkindness The city of Olympia, known to some as the Sanctuary and others as the Half-Step, is stirring from its four year slumber. The one hundred and ny-ninth Olympic Games are in their starting motions. The final day hase for thepetitors to stake their ims on the chance topete for Olympic glory. The sun is risen, and once it falls in fullness into night, the gates of the Olympic Stadium will close. Any would-be champions still outside of it after that point will have to wait another four years to try again. Once this final night falls, the Heroes of the one hundred and ny-ninth Olympic Games will spend a month in the shadow of the Champions that came before them. Thirty days and thirty nights they will spend in the pit, readying themselves however they can for the bouts thaty ahead. There are ten events in total, each of them with its own gauntlet of heats and elimination brackets. Three sets of three, and one above the rest. The marathon, first and most beloved of the games, is a journey around the stadium track that can and has killed those that strove to conquer it in the past. After that wille the sprints, where the distance between triumph and defeat is, at times, measured by the width of a single hair. The chariot races are third and final of the lot, and perhaps the most exciting of the three. After the racese the tests of skill and precision. The discus, the javelin, and the ball. Distance and finesse are required in equal measures to prevail in any of the three. The martial games require no exnation. Wrestling, boxing, and the de each speak for themselves. And of course, standing above them all is the king of close quarters. Pankration. In just one more month, the names of an era will all be gathered in the city of Olympia to see the crowning of new glory. Over these next thirty days, the citizens of the city will revel in the attention of the Free Mediterranean. The aristocrats and schrs of mystery faith will join them in their anticipation and their festivals, and the far-flung dignitaries from the furthest reaches of the world will stage their own unofficialpetition - apetition to see which of their relics and exotic treasures is most impressive to the sons and daughters of Greece. Starting tonight, every day for the next thirty days will be a grand celebration. At the end of the month, the stadium gates will open to those afforded a seat. The Olympic me will be lit up in the First Champion¡¯s marble heart, and by its light the best athletes of the era willpete for one of only ten Olympic olive crowns. If, and only if, one among them defies every expectation, takes every single glory for themselves, the Half-Step City will be made witness to something far greater than a ceremony of mortal honors. If one amongst the lot can do the work of ten, the free world will be graced by the birth of a new Champion. West of Olympia and across the Ionian, the Rosy Dawn Cult of Greater Mysteries ising alive in a very different way. Rather than the rekindling of a dormant me, this is more like the agitation of a colossal hive of bees. When the Young Misses sprinting up the brick road that connects the Rosy Dawn to the Scarlet City in the valley below, she draws more than a few curious eyes. When she barrels through any initiate that dares to be standing in her way, it strikes the hearts of all those around her with rm. The Young Miss is infamously frigid towards the less sensible men of the cult, but even after the Young Aristocrat¡¯s mad flight from the city she has never been cruel. That she runs into them at all is a sign of umon thoughtlessness. That she doesn¡¯t stop to help them to their feet is entirely unlike her. When Chryse Aetos¡¯ eldest daughter sprints the full distance of the Rosy Dawn¡¯s estates and leaps without hesitation off the other side of the eastern mountain range, her fellow mystikos have no choice but to follow her. The spectacle draws even the eyes of a few of the cult¡¯s own Philosophers, schrs granted a ce of prominence within the cult simr to the Young Miss¡¯ own. But though a few of them order their nearby juniors to apany the Young Miss in whatever she¡¯s pursuing, none of them care urgently enough to follow her themselves. Only minutester, they feel the sting of fierce regret when the fastest of the mystikos to follow Lydia Aetos over the edgee scrambling back up the mountain screaming themselves hoarse. ¡°The Young Miss has gone mad! Lydia Aetos has consigned herself to the sea!¡± Her grief has been known to them all from the moment the Young Aristocrat deserted his family and left the girl behind. But grief is one thing. This? This is entirely another. The schrs cast aside their tablets and scrolls while the warriors sheathe their des and spring from their sparring circles. Soon enough, the entire sprawlingwork of estates are in an uproar. ves, citizens, and philosophers alike are caught up in the press. Most race down to the beaches and leap into the waves to search for the Young Miss. Others make for the city. Some retreat into tight corners and huddled groups within the halls, whispering amongst themselves about what has happened and what is toe. What will be of the Young Miss, and perhaps more importantly - no, without a doubt more importantly, what will be of them when the eastern mountain range cracks open once again? What are they to do when Fotios and Chryse Aetos emerge from behind closed doors and discover their daughter had taken her own life? They receive an omen of that ill fate when the Young Miss¡¯ brother and sister are drawn out of their rooms. The young men and women of the cult that are gathered at the docks, those unable or unwilling to dive into the Ionian themselves, can only turn their heads away to hide their own helpless tears while a young Rena Aetos copses to her knees at the edge of the beach and wails in abject despair. When the flighty middle child of Fotios¡¯ trio of children discovers what¡¯s taken ce, he goes searching through the cult. And when he finds what he¡¯s looking for, a wise man in the realm of philosophers, he asks him if he¡¯d seen his sister crest the mountain. His eyes are not wet with tears when he does it. He is not weak with grief like his younger sister. However, when the honored philosopher admits to seeing her pass, and upon further prompting admits he¡¯d sent his students after the Young Miss rather than disrupt his work to follow her himself, the fair and flighty Castor draws his de and runs the wise man¡¯s writing hand through. When the philosopher screams and tumbles off his seat, turning tail and running from his junior, Fotios¡¯ fairweather son vaults the marble bench and pursues him. Shouting obscenities all the while. No matter how hard the elders of the cult try to get through to those behind closed doors, they cannot budge the mountain stone nor pierce it with their cries. The pirs of the Aetos¡¯ family, along with their nephew and his guests, might as well be in another world entirely. Once sealed beneath the eastern mountain range, no one but the kyrios can hope to disrupt them. s, Damon Aetos was the first of them to close his doors. The chaos spreads down either side of the mountain, spilling out over the beaches and fields as well as the Scarlet City itself. The elder philosophers are forced to split their attention between scouring the Ionian for the Young Miss and managing the chaos atop the mountain. They hardly have time to address the people of the city. In the Rosy Dawn¡¯s absence, the Burning Dusk sends its own cultivators down to appease the citizenry. It is almost a cruelty when the mountain heart cracks open in the Rosy Dawn¡¯s central pavilion, and Niks Aetoses marching out along with his aunts and uncles and Heroicpanions. They could have remained down there for weeks longer, if not months. Yet they emerge at the peak of the hysteria. Soon enough after the incident that Heron Aetos is still breathless from his race down and back from the beaches when he exins it to them in a rush. Soon enough that Rena Aetos is still sobbing fresh tears while her senior sisters try and fail tofort her. Soon enough that Castor Aetos still has breath left in his lungs and heat left in his heart to chase the Sophic bystanders through the Rosy Dawn¡¯s estates, bleeding them with his de and battering their egos. The pirs emerge sooner than any of them had expected. But toote all the same. Every awoken soul on the ind feels it when Lydia¡¯s parents are told the news. The sensation is muted by the Tyrant¡¯s hand, its full impact mitigated such that it only knocks them off their feet and sears their eyes blind for a moment. They feel it once again when Stavros and Raisa Aetos discover their youngest son is nowhere to be found. The Hero of the Scything Squall is first to answer the call. The initiates of the Howling Wind Cult have always skirted the line of the Father¡¯s first and firmest mandate. Every cultivator knows the heavens are off-limits to a mortal man, no matter his allegiance. Flight is the providence of gods and beasts alone. The sons and daughters of the Hurricane Heights understand this, and so they do everything they can to defy this divine mandate without drawing tribtion¡¯s eye. The greatest of them are sessful. For a time. The Hero of the Scything Squall is one of their best, but he has no illusions as to his ultimate fate. Lightning clips every wing eventually. But for now, he soars. Scythas races over top of the Half-Step City like each tiled roof is a stepping stone, and as though the vast distances between them are each a short hop along a river path. Every leap forwardsts longer than it should, the winds carry him higher and cradle him at the apex of every jump, and every time they hold him as long as they possibly can before letting him fall again. The Gadfly had flung himself up over the city, as if fired from a war machine, the day he¡¯d called their band of midnight marauders out as they were exiting a bath. What Scythas does now is every bit as belligerent. He glides upon the winds, and in this way pursues the eagle of Rome. It urs to him, as hends on the twenty first step of the stairway to heaven and braces his weight on the stone, that he hasn¡¯t set foot on Kaukoso Mons without a veil since the day he gave himself up to Solus. For a fraction of an instant he considers this, taking the time to coax a veil around himself, and slows down enough to maintain it. The breeze carries the sounds of a Roman¡¯s struggle to him and he explodes up the stairway and passes the pair of philosophers guarding the entrance to the Raging Heaven cult. He can¡¯t feel the weight of a Tyrant¡¯s gaze the way that Solus can, but he can see the hurricane hierophant¡¯s reaction to his arrival in the raising of his banners as he passes. Up and down the portion of the mountain carved out for the Howling Wind cult¡¯s faction are dozens upon dozens of vibrant green banners. They¡¯re mounted to standing poles, they dangle from the tassels of enormous wind chimes, and proudly wave atop every home in Aleuas¡¯ estate. As Scythas surges by them, his passing threatens to tear every banner out of its ce, whipping them around in a frenzy. When in the next instant every banner smooths and billows out in his direction, tracking him as he ascends, Scythas knows the hurricane hierophant is behind them. When the Tyrant himself calls out his name, the winds that carry it are frantic. He knows he must stop or face his father-inw¡¯s wrathter. But by the time his juniors sweep out of their quarters in pursuit of him, he is already beyond the Tyrant¡¯s reach. Scythas reaches the precipice before the storm crown just in time to see Sorea dive into a cave with talons outstretched. He follows the bird and has only a moment to process the scene inside. The Schr, Socrates of Brazen Aegis and Broken Tide, backhands the virtuous beast out of the air and sends the eagle shooting back out of the cave mouth. There are lines of blood left on his forearm and hand left by the eagle¡¯s talons, but they are little more than an annoyance. The Gadfly¡¯s other hand holds Solus up by his neck, each finger an immovable vise around the Roman¡¯s throat. The muscles of the arm that holds the Roman up are strained to the limit, veins pressing up against the old man¡¯s newly transnted skin like they want to tear themselves out. Like Socrates is holding up the weight of the world with one hand. Both of them are bruised and bloody. In that frozen moment, Scythas can only guess as to how the two hade to blows. He can only marvel at the fact that Solus hasn¡¯t torn the whole mountain apart in his wrath. He wonders at that moment why the Legate is still holding back. Even here, in a cave that no Elder can perceive beneath the storm that never ceases. Then he sees the stone furnace. He understands. The wind carries him forward, into the reach of the man that the coast could not kill. The Gadfly turns a baleful re upon Scythas, the full enormity of his influence rising like a thousand screaming voices in the agora. Terror urges the wind to change - to halt his momentum and toss him back, to deliver him from this certain death. Scythas whistles a note so loud and shrill it could have shattered ss and whips his sword out of its sheath in a crescent arc that ends at a point beyond the Schr¡¯s neck. Socrates strikes him with one thousand unspoken truths, and Scythas¡¯ eyes ze as he burns his heart¡¯s blood and cuts through them all. His de acts as a conduit for the tragedy of his ascension. It cuts through everything it touches like so much worthless chaff. Like a scythe- At thest moment, the Gadfly leans back to avoid the scything de. Before Scythas can arrest his own movements, the old wiseman reaches for him. Sol snarls and brings both feet up against the Gadfly¡¯s chest, kicking off- Scythas hits the cave floor and tumbles once before mming into the far wall. Bleary understanding returns to him along with his vision - Socrates had abandoned his attempt to snatch him out of the air when Solus capitalized on the imbnce in his stance from leaning back. Instead, the Gadfly had only backhanded Scythas into the ground like an unruly ve. Though his vision is still a blur, and the axes of the world are tilting all around him, the hero of the scything squall forces himself up onto hands and knees, while the Gadfly stomps the Legate through stone. ¡°Patience!¡± the Gadfly roars, his lips pulled back from his teeth in fury. He stomps Solus deeper into the stone floor of the cave. ¡°All I¡¯ve asked of you, all that I have ever asked of you, is for you to be patient! Not forever. Not even for long. Arrogant child, the world will not end if you give it time to breathe.¡± Though every stomp of the old man¡¯s filthy, calloused foot drives him deeper into a living grave of stone, Solus suffers the indignity withoutshing out in return. And Scythas knows exactly why. There is something worth more to the Roman than his pride in this cave. There is something he can¡¯t afford to destroy in his anger. A basin full of blood red liquid, bubbling over a steady me. A basin that was now closer to Scythas than it was the two of them. His senses are still shaken by the blow, but when the breeze delivers to his ear the Legate¡¯s raspingmand, Scythas doesn¡¯t hesitate. ¡°Take it.¡± He lunges across the cave and snatches up the stone furnace with its nectar. The Schr¡¯s fingertips brush against his trailing silks as he spirals past, and then Scythas is out in the open air again. ¡°Don¡¯t!¡± Socrates shouts. Scythas races away while the world spins wildly around him. By the time he realizes which direction he¡¯s headed, it¡¯s already toote to change course. The wall of thunderous noise and lightning shocks him to his senses as Scythas plunges up into the storm crown. He has a moment to nt his feet, a moment to gather himself and begin to turn back. Then the Gadfly¡¯s hand punches through the storm wall, grasping for him, and Scythas escapes the only way he can. By plunging deeper into the storm. The other five Heroes marked by the raven¡¯s wings make it halfway across the city before Scythas disappears from their view overhead. Without the wind to guide them, none of them knows where Solus actually is on Kaukoso Mons. When they turn to the young Griffon to ask him, they find he¡¯s not among their number anymore. Each of them digs in their heels, casting around for the scarlet son. They¡¯ve just started debating going back versus continuing towards the mountain when Griffon shoots over their heads, racing along balconies and rope-strung banners put up for the first of thirty evening festivals toe. Five heroic cultivators trade startled looks and leap up after him, tapping into as much of their potent penuma as they can without breaking the city around them. They race past the young Griffon in no time at all. ¡°What are you waiting for!?¡± Jason shouts back at him. ¡°A second note written in his blood!? Hurry up!¡± The young Griffon ignores him, scarlet eyes set on the distant pir of the storm crown as he runs. ¡°You can¡¯t be serious,¡± Elissa says, understanding and profound irritation wrinkling the scars on her face. ¡°Even now?¡± ¡°Solus needs you,¡± Anastasia urges him, her glossy ck hair whipping in the wind behind her as she runs. ¡°Just this once, just until we know what¡¯s happened, surely he wouldn¡¯t begrudge you a moment of the truth!¡± Each of the five heroic souls urge him to keep up, to run faster than any mortal can. To atst reveal his true self and let his heroic heart me burn. The young Griffon runs without slowing, but neither does he speed up to match their pace. His eyes never stray from the peak of the raging Heaven cult. When he speaks, his voice is deathly serious. ¡°I am what I am.¡± No matter how much they press him after that, no matter how many times they call him a liar, he doesn¡¯t say another word. They make good time, but every one of the five knows they could have made it there faster if he¡¯d only stopped pretending he was a philosopher for a moment when it counted. If only, just for a moment, the young Griffon had been truthful, each of them is certain as stone that they would have made it before everything fell apart. The raven¡¯s unlikely alliance boils up the mountain in the wake of the scything squall¡¯s passing. The portions of the mountain not maintained by a living Tyrant¡¯s will are ravaged by his passing. The winds tear trees out by their roots, rip the tiles off the roofs of themunal buildings closest to the path, and send dozens of Raging Heaven initiates tumbling nearly clear off the mountain. It is a hero¡¯s privilege toe and go and do as they please, but this is a special brand of disregard. Cultivators bearing the mark of Howling Wind stream up the mountain first. But not far behind are members of the Broken Tide, Waning Wax, and Scattered Foam. In crowds of green, blue, yellow, and fuschia, philosophers race up the mountain to see what has been done. Themands of their elders drive them forward. Whatever is happening, it is happening out of their sight. For those with a vested interest in the actions of the raven, this is uneptable. They are not the only ones to send forth prying eyes. Members of the Raging Heaven with no ties to any of the other factions pour out onto the path in bewilderment as their peers race by. And although the sun is risen, the shadows in the groves and mountain crevices are alive with the shifting cloaks of crows. No one knows what the hero of the scything squall was chasing. Everyone has their own idea of what it could be. Not one of them is even close. It¡¯s only natural that a gathering of four factions would draw the attention of the other four on the mountain. It¡¯s even more natural that a gathering of so many prideful cultivators from opposing cities, such a riotous confluence of cultivators that have spent thest several months of their lives jumping at every shadow, would collide at the slightest provocation. It hardly takes a spark. Some of them trip and stumble as they scramble for the peak. Some are shoved while others are inly insulted in the mayhem of the press. Spit in the face of a rival, blood in a junior¡¯s mouth. Up and down the mountain paths carved into Kaukoso mons, in pockets of two and three that spread like runaway mes, the crowds pursuing the hero of the scything squall devolve into brawls that spill over the primary paths and into the groves, the bath houses, and even the quarters of those not yet involved. Elders with heroes at hand send them out to put the riot to rest. At first, it seems like it will work. After all, even an army of philosophers would be nothing to a single determined hero. They pierce through the crowds with ease and break up fights without fear of harm, scattering and reforming crowds like happy hounds. Thissts all the way until a heroine from the Brazen Aegis takes issue with the force a hero from the Broken Tide uses to break up a dispute involving her juniors. The words exchanged are short and ugly. The heroic souls were each born of the coast, but on opposing sides. They hate each other more than any other faction possibly could. When they sh, there is no higher power present to break their fight apart. The amethyst veins that wind throughout the mountain burn brighter than a me. The Gadfly hurls Solus so viciously from the cave that if he had been a normal weight, he would have flown clear off the side of the mountain. As it is, he drops like a boulder and crashes through the mountain path like it¡¯s finely ground sand. The rosy hands of dawn halt him in his tracks. The son of Rome hacks and spits bloody phlegm and res up the mountain with bloodshot eyes. Five heroic cultivators fan out around him, the young Griffon a bracing hand at his back. They stand wary but as one while the Gadfly stalks down the mountain. He stops ten feet short of them, matching Solus re for re. Then, without breaking that contact, he addresses the six behind the son of Rome. ¡°Have any of you ever been to war? Step forward if so.¡± Sol bares his teeth in naked defiance and forces himself to one knee. Pankration hands grip his shoulders tightly. Griffon looms behind his back, holding him steady. Above their heads, the immortal storm crown rages. Only one of them steps forward. Anastasia holds her head high. Socrates raises his eyes from Sol¡¯s for just a moment, meeting the caustic queen¡¯s gaze. There is no visible change. No sh of pneuma that any of them can feel. The heroine¡¯s legs simply give way and send her to her knees. Her eyes fly open like a cornered cat¡¯s. The Gadfly turns his re back on Solus, and goes on. ¡°There are evils in this world,¡± he says with quiet anger. ¡°Demons in the hearts of every man. We pursue excellence within ourselves to ovee those evils. We strive to better the worlds within ourselves, to battle those demons in our hearts, so that we can do the same for the world outside ourselves. ¡°For a time, we¡¯ve managed that. For centuries before any one of you were born, we have been at peace. But do not for a second think that we have won.¡± Socrates steps forward and Anastasia flinches back from him. He doesn¡¯t spare her a nce. His eyes remain locked on Solus¡¯. ¡°You have not seen the evils that result when Tyrants go to war,¡± he asserts. ¡°You think that you can fathom it but you can not. The suggestion of it would turn your legs to mush. It would bring tears to your eyes. As it should.¡± The Gadfly finally breaks his re with the Son of Rome, ceasing his onught of the same lived experience that had driven the Heroine to her knees. His eyes turn away in disgust. ¡°Only one of you has any idea at all what coulde of this crisis of session and it¡¯s the one railing hardest against the efforts of his elders - the one among you with least of all to lose.¡± ¡°I¡¯m trying to fix this,¡± Solus says in a voice like salted gravel. ¡°The brew is bad.¡± The philosopher sounds almost tired. ¡°I don¡¯t know where we erred, but it hardly matters now. Polyzalus wouldn¡¯t let it touch his wife¡¯s lips even if it was good. A dozen times I¡¯ve tried to convince him and a dozen times I¡¯ve been denied. He doesn¡¯t trust it. He doesn¡¯t trust you. A thousand cups of nectar won¡¯t change that. I¡¯ve told you this again and again, and yet still you refuse to listen.¡± ¡°You told the girl you had a cure,¡± Griffon uses. ¡°I was wrong. I lied. Pick whichever suits you best.¡± The Gadfly steps past them, down the mountain, and in moments he is gone. Solus rises slowly to his feet. An eagle¡¯s weak crypletes the image, and Sorea swoops down on unsteady wings tond upon his shoulder. The virtuous beast¡¯s talons scrape against his bronze breastte as the wounded eagle fights for purchase. Solus steadies the bird with one hand and reaches down to Anastasia with the other, pulling the Heroine to her feet when she takes it. ¡°Solus,¡± Jason ventures first. ¡°What-?¡± The Son of Rome cuts him short. ¡°Scythas has the nectar.¡± He looks back and Griffon sees that storm there in his eyes. ¡°Where?¡± Kyno asks, though all of them suspect already. Two lowly sophists and five Heroic souls plunge up into the mystery phenomenon of the Raging Heaven¡¯s immortal storm crown, in search of their wayward eighth and the bounty in his stolen furnace. A cup of scarlet glory. Chapter 1.120 [KINDLE RELEASE] Chapter 1.120 [KINDLE RELEASE] The Young Griffon We sprang forth seven strong into the Storm That Never Ceased, and in seconds it divided us. The roiling cloud cover was as oppressive to the senses as I remembered, the roar of thunder just as deafening and the lines of lightning wrath every bit as blinding. It was unchanged since thest time I had suffered it, and it staggered me in spite of that. Beside me, Sol ducked his chin and raised an arm against the storm, marching on without pause. Our Heroicpanions came rushing in behind us at speeds neither Sol nor I could ever hope to match. The storm did not hesitate to humble them. Lightning shed in whipcrack strands and every one of the Heroes burnt their hearts¡¯ blood in anticipation of a punishing blow. Crackling hands of my violent intent mmed twenty des of tribtion iron into the mountain path in a wide octagon around us. I had already begun drawing them from my shadow as soon as we took our first step into the chaos. If I hadn¡¯t, I wouldn¡¯t have been nearly fast enough. The lightning changed its course and plunged through the des, seeping into the mountain stone. Distantly through the storm, I heard the thunder p of barking hounds. When I looked back to ourpanions, just a couple steps behind Sol and I, the only portions of them visible through the storm were the mes behind their eyes. My pankration hands wrenched free each of the des I had stolen from the mountain and held them ready in the air. ¡°With me!¡± Solmanded, and sprinted towards the braying hounds. He did his best to hold us all together, as he always had, but Thracia had stolen from him the use of his virtue. Without it hecked the means to truly guide his loyal toy soldiers. Instead, he began calling a cadence. He drew them into his rhythm and the riptide of his influence, a touchstone in the storm. When a dog of the lightning wrath spring from the cloud cover and was intercepted by one of twenty tribtion des, the reverberation of its impact scattered us worse than if the hound had found its mark. A sound like a giant striking a gong and a tree splitting down its center rang out. Each of us was flung away from the de, all in a different direction. I felt it as the storm consumed them all, and I cast out the hands of my intent. I reached out urgently, grasping for the arms- Elissa iled and met me with her de, stabbing through my lightning palm. The tail of Kyno¡¯s crocodile cloak whipped my reaching hand away. Lefteris flinched back, Jason twisted to avoid me, and Anastasia ignored the limb entirely in her attempt to re-orient herself midair. Was it malice or a Hero¡¯s simple instinct? Did the distinction matter in the end? Now, as once before, the oue was the same. Hurtling through the empty rage of the immortal storm crown, I might as well have been back in that worthless Scarlet Stadium. Why wouldn¡¯t they take my hand-? A heavy hand struck out through the storm andtched onto my own, gripping it tight and pulling me back down to the earth. We hit the ground together and tumbled. My crackling pankration hands swarmed us, bracing against our momentum and pulling us to our feet. Sol released my hand of flesh and blood and plucked a hand of my intent from the air. ¡°I¡¯m keeping this,¡± he dered. Somehow I had tough. We were only moments in and the storm had already divided us. I couldn¡¯t detect a single one of ourpanions no matter how hard I strained my senses. In this ce, it didn¡¯t matter that they could have been a single bound away. The storm that separated us made it an unbridgeable gap. It was as if Sol and I were the only two left on the mountain. The only ones left on this earth. So why was it that my heart was beating easier now than it had been before? Why was it that I felt better about our chances as we resumed our march alone? I pondered it as we climbed. ¡°You never carved out a spirit block.¡± The immortal storm crown of the Raging Heaven Cult was a vicious opponent, even to those that had faced it once before. We took refuge from the storm whenever it was offered to us. At the moment, that was beneath a familiar stone statue. Sol nced sidelong at me, confused. There was blood on his face. The hounds hadn¡¯t touched him, but they¡¯d shattered mountain stone every time they struck and the flying shards had cut him. ¡°My what?¡± ¡°The blocks of marble I had you carting around,¡± I exined. ¡°During the qualifying trials before the Rosy Dawn¡¯s initiation.¡± He grunted, acknowledging the memory. ¡°That wasn¡¯t all for show, not entirely. Chiseling them was a test of skill. A measure of one¡¯s self-awareness, their understanding of their own burgeoning myth.¡± ¡°And?¡± Sol asked knowingly. His eyes scanned the storm ahead. We had yet to reunite with any of the Heroes we had entered with, and we hadn¡¯t found our wayward eighth either. We may have been close. There was no way to know. ¡°And,¡± I continued with a flourish of my pankration hands, brandishing all twenty of my stolen des at the statue of Sisyphus we were crouching underneath. ¡°The result was its own reward. A statue chiseled by your own pneuma, from a block of spirit marble, is a tether to your own refinement. It grows alongside you, refining itself in a direct reflection of your own progression.¡± The Rosy Dawn dedicated entire temples to the keeping of such statues. As a child, I had wandered up and down those shadowed halls and marveled at the spirit marbles of those that came long before me. Immortalized in their final moments, standing strong and tall and proud. ¡°They serve as monuments to our journeys, no matter where the winds might take us. A piece that can be left behind.¡± I nced up meaningfully. ¡°A part of us preserved.¡± The Twice-Killed Tyrant was as I had left him before, straining against his boulder¡¯s weight and hunching down beneath the storm. Cowering at Raging Heaven¡®s wrath. ¡°What a shame, Sisyphus,¡± Imented. ¡°Of all your triumphs and transgressions, this alone is what remains. You waited ¡®til the very end to flinch.¡± A lightning hound howled in the distance. Sol rose to his feet, gripping the same crackling hand of my intent like a tethering rope. ¡°We¡¯re going.¡± ¡°If you were to chisel one out here and now, what sort of bearing would it take?¡± I asked him curiously, rising up as well. ¡°What expression would you find on your face?¡± ¡°The same one as always,¡± the Roman said dryly. That storm shed in his eyes, a mirror image of our surroundings. Somehow, I doubted that. One of my twenty pankration hands spun its tribtion sword around and drove it into the Twice-Killed Tyrant¡¯s back, returning it to its proper ce. I spared Sisyphus onest nce before joining Sol on the path up to the peak. Scythasmanded the breeze that carried every spoken word in the Raging Heaven Cult, but that unique ability ended where the storm crown began. No matter how many times Sol and I called out his name, we never received a response. Though we didn¡¯t find any of what we sought, we were found often enough. Standing back-to-back in a narrow cage made of stolen iron swords, Sol and I gasped for breath while another manifestation of tribtion lightning yelped and howled and was torn apart ¨C dispersed amongst the des. Returned to the earth. It wasn¡¯t the first dog that had found us, and I knew it wouldn¡¯t be thest. The longer we spent in this story, the less likely it became that we¡¯d escape it. Between panting breaths, I knocked my head back against Sol¡¯s. ¡°I have an idea, ve.¡± Sol snorted. ¡°I¡¯m not your ve.¡± ¡°You were my ve,¡± I pointed out. ¡°And I¡¯m feeling nostalgic. Humor me.¡± ¡°No.¡± ¡°Thank you. My idea is thus: we right the wrongs the Rosy Dawn did unto you and give you a proper marker of your refinement. We carve it here and now. Something that will endure no matter where your journey takes you - a statue worth admiring, even if its subject is a Roman.¡± He sighed. ¡°This again.¡± The Roman had his bronze spear in hand, the one we¡¯d taken from the temple of the Father. When another point of light appeared amidst the storm clouds, a static growl betraying its true nature, he didn¡¯t wait for it to test the limits of my cage again. He reared back and heaved his spear through the gap between two swords and struck the hound between the eyes as it leapt forward. The tribtion hound exploded, like it had been struck by a ballista more than any mortal man¡¯s projectile. A hand of my intent darted out past the cage and caught the spear before it could fly off into the distance and be lost forever, returning it to Sol. He had lost his virtue¡¯s invisible touch during our time in Thracia, but he¡¯d gained something else in exchange. He moved with a weight far beyond the limits of his frame now. ¡°We have no time,¡± he said, epting his spear when I offered it back and stepping past the safety of the cage. We continued on, retracing steps that I had walked months before. ¡°We are cultivators. We have nothing but time.¡± ¡°I have no interest,¡± Sol corrected himself. ¡°I¡¯ll join you,¡± I offered. Through shing lights and rolling thunder, the Roman nced sidelong at me in vague disgust. ¡°I don¡¯t want your hands chiseling any part of me from marble.¡± ¡°Worthless Roman, I¡¯ll carve my own. We¡¯ll stand together through the storm.¡± ¡°One immortal vanity isn¡¯t enough for you?¡± I smiled faintly, gathering my des around us as another howl rose up from the east. ¡°I never said I had one either.¡± ¡°It urs to me,¡± I said, a few minutes or perhaps a lifetimeter, ¡°that we might have been better off waiting outside the storm for Scythas to emerge.¡± ¡°Likely.¡± We crept like hunting cats along an overhang that looked down over a pack of hunting hounds. Their lightning hides stood out brightly in the storm. Sol gripped his bronze spear in one hand and one of my stolen tribtion swords in the other. Lacking a third to keep hold of his tether to me, he instead held my lightning limb between his teeth. It gave the impression of a constant snarl. Aside from freeing up his second hand for a de, it also gave him an excuse to only speak to me in single word increments - if at all. Between the former and thetter, I suspected I knew which had been the more enticing factor. ¡°It¡¯s not toote to double back,¡± I said. It would be treacherous no matter what, but we could make it back down. Seeking out something within the storm crown was an all but fruitless effort, but that did not mean it was impossible to navigate it. No matter how the Storm That Never Ceased sought to addle your senses, it could not move the axis of the world. The crown atop the mountain was only that - a crown. It could not change the nature of the mountain. Regardless of the path we took, descending down the mountain would lead us back to the Raging Heaven Cult. Scythas knew that fact as well as we did. Sol shook his head and continued on. I chuckled and raised my hands in acquiescence. Of course, the opposite was also true. No matter how long it took us or which mangled paths we were forced to take, our destination was equally assured. ¡°That¡¯s all I wanted to know,¡± I said. We were finally of one mind. So long as we kept climbing, we were bound to reach the peak. We fought tooth and nail for every step, and the storm crown pressed back harder the higher up we went. By the time we reached the point where I had been forced to turn back alone, we were both a mess of blood and lightning burns. It had been a small eternity since we¡¯d seen another tribtion statue. An untraceable amount of time since we¡¯d had a moment¡¯s rest. ¡°Tell me something, ve,¡± I said, and only just dove out of the way in time to avoid theshing of my own de. Sol didn¡¯t say a word, but he bit down harder on the lightning limb between his teeth and the pain of it was clear enough. I grinned viciously back at him and posed another question. ¡°Why don¡¯t we kill the higher powers?¡± Lightning screamed down from heaven and struck my risen des. Sol eyed me. I took it as the invitation it was. ¡°Before the Schr and before the Conqueror, how did we cultivate virtue? How did a lowly man refine himself before the ages of philosophers and tyrants?¡± ¡°Labors,¡± the son of Rome spoke through a mouthful of lightning. ¡°Labors,¡± I agreed. ¡°The Champion¡¯s path is the eldest and most vibrant of the three. But even Herakles wasid low in the end.¡± The mountain became steep, too steep to walk, and so I took a sword in each hand and stabbed them like ice picks into the face of the mountain as I climbed. Beside me, Sol did the same with sword and spear. ¡°Tenbors he suffered,¡± I continued, pulling myself up higher every hand. ¡°Ten steps up the stairway to promised heaven, and each of them he overcame. And what was handed down from Heaven when the finalbor wasplete? What was his reward for ten?¡± Sol¡¯s answer was grim. ¡°Eleven.¡± The Champion was the pinnacle, the gleaming standard that bright-eyed children in every corner of the Free Mediterranean dreamed of one day standing eye-to-eye with. In many ways, Herakles was the embodiment of the Hero¡¯s journey. He was the me. He was the glory. He was the reason there were ten steps in every realm. Because he had suffered tenbors, ten steps on the path to heaven, and he had mastered every one. ¡°Eleven,¡± I agreed, and lurched another de length up the sheer face of Kaukoso Mons. ¡°The cultivator refined himself ten times, and instead of providence he was given an eleventh step to climb. It was the eleventh step that killed him. It was not the Champion¡¯s side of the bargain that was unfulfilled, not ack of virtue in his heart to me.¡± Tenbors. Ten steps to the peak. That had been the deal, the bargain struck with the Heavens. ¡°The reward for tenbors is an eleventh,¡± I ground out. ¡°The reward for escaping the first realm is the burden of the second.¡± Sol stopped climbing for just a moment and hung from his spear alone, just long enough to take the lightning hand out of his mouth and speak. ¡°What¡¯s your point?¡± ¡°Longevity is a curse upon the younger generation. In this tarnished era just as it was in the Golden Age of Heroes, Heraklesbored under the Mother¡¯s yoke and our Heroes suffer under the thumbs of Tyrants. And for what? Nothing has changed. Our ancestors have erected monuments to reason and to greed, built newbyrinths for their children when they should have been fashioning strings to guide them through instead, and still we¡¯re not any of us closer to heaven!¡± I mmed my knee against the face of Kaukoso Mons and focused on the silver-bright sensation of pain over the cratering of the stone. ¡°The son is not beholden to the father for the simple fact that he was born,¡± I said fiercely, daring him to deny me. ¡°We are not obliged to kneel and press our faces to the dirt so our fathers can stand proud upon our backs!¡± How did you climb the path to heaven when it was only one man wide? I¡¯d asked Lefteris¡¯ boys that question once, on the stairway to raging heaven, and the little king had put to words my sentiment. "You step over top. On the shoulders of the men who came before you." Those words still rang true in my heart. In a righteous world, they would be true. This was not a righteous world. I kept climbing, leaving Sol behind, and my voice challenged the storm crown¡¯s roaring thunder. ¡°Providence is not a consequence of age. A crown is only as worthy as the man that wears it, and these kings and queens, these higher powers - they are not worthy! We can disanoint them. We can take their crowns.¡± My impromptu ice pick stabbed into the open air, and I heaved myself up over the lip with the hands of my intent. Twin hounds of lightning wrath bared their teeth at me, close enough to count their flickering fangs. The hound on the left barked, a thunder p that nearly pushed me back over the edge of the sheer wall I¡¯d just crested. I sneered. I¡¯d had enough of barking dogs. When Sol finally caught up, heaving his ridiculous weight up onto the ledge, I was sitting in a crater with my hands half clenched. The muscles spasmed against my will, fingers curling and uncurling as lightning fought to ovee my body¡¯s will. Grasping lightning in your hand was a mad venture every time, and I felt the fruits of that madness keenly. But the hounds were dead, and I was not. ¡°Why should we appeal to higher power when it¡¯s higher power that¡¯s to me?¡± I asked the Roman frankly. ¡°Ourpanions are battered and beaten down because the Tyrants of this world would rather see their children buried than pass along their crowns. They deserve worse than all that they¡¯ve inflicted, more than the lightning that is cast down on their heads. They deserve true justice. They deserve tribtion.¡± I might as well have been talking to the wind. The son of Rome was as loyal as a dog to the men that had so half-heartedly raised him, up to and beyond his own detriment. He¡¯d sooner throw himself into the me than hold his father to its coals. Worthless, filial- Sol nodded once, and spoke through teeth clenched tightly over lightning. ¡°Agreed.¡± Something had changed in the Roman. I hadn¡¯t noticed it in the chaos preceding our ascent, but the more I looked the clearer I saw it. He was asconic as he¡¯d ever been. The storm in his eyes hadn¡¯t changed. And yet. The initiation rites of the Raging Heaven Cult were not at all like those of the Rosy Dawn. If pressed, I¡¯d guess that they weren¡¯t like any other mystery cult¡¯s on this earth. They could hardly be called initiation rites at all. They were not designed to wee new initiates into the fold. The rites existed only to break them. I had traversed the storm alone my first time and gone further than most before turning, but it had been so long since Sol and I had passed that marker that my past performance seemed like nothing but a poor joke now. It felt like we would never reach the peak. Though I had that thought a hundred times, somehow it never brought my spirits down. Despite the overpowering fatigue and the weight of all our wounds, the steps never got any heavier. If anything, my feet felt lighter as we climbed. We could have been walking for years, and yet it felt like no time at all had passed. When Sol dropped his sword and his spear and fell to his knees, I thought for a moment that I had imagined that feeling, and that the fatigue woulde crashing down on me in the next moment. But it wasn¡¯t weariness that had brought the Roman down. I crouched beside him and joined him in staring at a thin stream of liquid lead as it rolled down the mountain. ¡°Prima materia,¡± Sol named it, taking the lightning limb out of his mouth. ¡°The first material,¡± I mused, dipping the tips of my fingers to it and raising them up. The unnatural smell of it, sharp and brittle as it wound down my throat, invoked a memory that wasn¡¯t my own. The drakaina that my father and my uncles had fought as captains of the Sophic Realm, the monstrous serpent women cursed to wander the earth forever undying, had bled a substance just like this. Aristotle had named it ichor. ¡°Every year that Bakkhos conducted the rites, he¡¯d offer a cup of nectar to any that could reach the top and bring back proof of their passing,¡± Sol exined quietly, eyes flickering to the side. There. Another hair-thin trail a foot away, at the edge of our visible range. ¡°When the initiates failed, he¡¯d offer the Elders the same opportunity. They refused, always. This is what he¡¯d bring back down in their stead. A cup of liquid lead. This is the proof.¡± His brow drew down. I followed the trail of liquid up until I could trace it no further from where we crouched. I frowned. ¡°We could fill a cup from here,¡± I said. ¡°It wouldn¡¯t be proof of anything. We aren¡¯t at the peak.¡± ¡°He lied,¡± Sol said, disgusted. ¡°Bakkhos or the old man?¡± ¡°Either of them. Both of them.¡± Sol spat and rose to his feet. ¡°Whatever the truth is, it¡¯s up there.¡± I stood and stretched my arms high above my head. Liars and Tyrants and poisonous wine. I tilted my head to regard the Roman, grinning boyishly. ¡°Race you.¡± I took off in a dead sprint up the mountain, feet sshing through the thickening trails of liquid lead. The stone shook beneath my feet as Sol raced after me. This world was tarnished iron, less than it should ever be. That had enraged me in the city of Olympia, maddened me in the Orphic House, but the more it discontented me the more I wanted to know. I¡¯d gone all my life without a drop of water on my tongue, and the first cup I¡¯d been handed upon escaping from my father¡¯s domain had been full to the brim with seawater. The more I drank of this world, the less that I was sated. There was a void in my existence, ack that my soul could not withstand forever. That my virtuous heart would not tolerate. Venturing to Olympia had only made that empty hunger more pronounced. So why was it that here and now, I couldn¡¯t feel that gnawingck at all? In this raging storm of immortal tribtion, where the brightest spirits of the Raging Heaven were broken and discarded every year. Where Tyrants feared to look, let alone tread? Why did I feel at ease marching through the worst of Raging Heaven, so long as Sol was by my side? Up above me, like the parting of seas, I saw the clouds begin to thin. I realized I wasughing. Sol appeared beside me and we plunged through the gossamer veil together, out of the mayhem and into the eye of the storm. The peak of Kaukoso Mons. I looked up and saw- To you, the clever and crafty, bitter beyond all bitterness, who has sinned against the gods in bestowing honors upon creatures of a day--to you, thief of fire, I speak. [ ] Faceless wretch of silver Heaven. [ ] Traitor to your sons and brothers. [ ] Titan of the molded y. [ ] Hear the sum of the whole matter in thepass of one brief word ¡ª every art possessed by manes from- ¡°Prometheus,¡± I breathed, grinding to a halt. Sol staggered forward a step and nted his spearhead in the stone to brace himself. ¡°Here?¡± Sol stared up in baffled disbelief. ¡°He¡¯s not supposed to be here.¡± ¡°He¡¯s not supposed to have a name, either,¡± I said faintly. Or a face. Chained to the peak of Kaukoso Mons by chains of swaying adamant, Prometheus the me hung limp. Like a man writrger than any king or god. Like a living constetion. A myth made manifest. How had I forgotten his name? The Titan¡¯s eyes opened, and each one was a burning sun. Chapter 1.121 Chapter 1.121 The Young Griffon A Titan is to an Olympian as an Olympian is to a Man. The Titan Prometheus wasrger than anything I¡¯d ever seen with my own two eyes. Large enough that it almost seemed like I could reach out and touch him, despite the dizzying distance that separated Sol and I from the peak of peaks on Kaukoso Mons. Greater than any Tyrant could hope to be, a hundred hands to the Heroic Orpheus¡¯ twenty-five. He could have wrestled the monstrous dragon spirits of the Brothers Aetos¡¯ epic as easily as I had the Heroic Huntsman¡¯s crocodile familiar, and wrung them out each like bloody rags. He looked like a man writ entirely toorge, but there was an uncanny beauty to his proportions that I understood only btedly. His frame and its features, they were all perfect. Though the Titan hung from the peak of Kaukoso Mons, left arm and both legs suspended by chains of cruel adamant, he did not appear frail. Though his hair was tangled and slick with sweat, like curling rings of smoke stered to his forehead, it did not appear unkempt. The tightness around his eyes and the clenching of his jaw, the impotent pain, it did not make him seem pitiful. It was as if in every shifting moment he had been chiseled out of the mountain by a sculptor¡¯s loving hand - an artist¡¯s idealized depiction of a suffering man rather than the living reality. Larger than life was not a meaningful descriptor. A mortal mind was incapable of constructing a framework capable of containing the Titan me. He defied description. He existed in spite of allmon sense. He was looking at us. Prometheus opened his mouth to speak and the world held its breath to hear him. His teeth and his tongue were stained by glittering liquid gold. ¡°Captain of salt and ash,¡± spoke the Thief of me, with dark and weary humor. His voice shook the blood in my veins and bid every muscle in my body to clench. It made the shing lights of the storm crown burn somehow brighter all around us. ¡°Where have your legions gone this time? You¡¯re ever a sorry sight without them.¡± Sol stared up at the Titan, stricken beyond words. Prometheus chuckled weakly, and the mountain stone rumbled beneath our feet. ¡°What a terrible expression. Am I truly so ghastly? No, don¡¯t answer that - my grief is overwhelming as it is.¡± Those burning eyes shifted and the full weight of the Titan¡¯s attention struck me like aet. There was no pneuma, no influence, no flicker of the heart that any of my refined senses could detect. Prometheus looked upon me inly and it was like I¡¯d stepped into the sun. ¡°And you must be-¡± Surprise flickered in the light of twin stars. ¡°Young blood?¡± ¡°High-minded son and brazen thief of me - against my will and yours, I must bind you with chains of adamant which no one can remove to this cliff face.¡± Scythas, Hero of the Scything Squall Scythas ran with no hope of true escape. The alchemical furnace was an overwhelming weight in his arms, its contents far heavier for their significance than the stone furnace itself. He was forced to run like a drunkard through the Storm That Never Ceased, lurching and stumbling without grace as the lightning pursued him. If he moved the way his body knew how to move, he¡¯d surely spill the brew. Take it. He¡¯d die before he spilled a drop. As the seconds passed and drew their scars across his heart, the fire behind his eyes burned brighter and brighter. Scythas knew that death was not far behind him. The initiation rites of the Raging Heaven Cult were unlike any other in the Free Mediterranean. They were dangerous to every cultivator that dared undergo them. Standing made no difference. Family ties, political power, refinement of the soul - in any other mystery cult, these things mattered. Anywhere outside of Olympia, high standing was its own assurance of sess. The storm crown did not care. When hopeful initiates of the Raging Heaven Cult stepped into the storm, they were only obligated to take a single step away from their peers. One step, one transgression against the heavens, was proof enough ording to the kyrios. They were joined each year by their would-be seniors, advanced Philosophers and Heroic souls that had burnt their hearts¡¯ blood in search of glory. The intent was for their seniors to pierce through the storm crown ahead of the new prospects and clear a path for them to climb. If not to make it easy, then at least to make it possible. Yet each year, those senior Sophists and Heroic souls were some of the first toe racing back down the mountain. Wild-eyed and with their hearts in their throats. Senselessly terrified, every one. Scythas knew this, because he had been the first of the Heroes to turn back when his turn hade. One step alone into the storm crown and no further. He¡¯d taken that first step, realized he could no longer hear the whispers on the wind, and he turned away in naked terror. Jason hade lunging out just a split second after him. Their peers had named them cowards for itter, used them of abandoning their juniors, and Scythas hadn¡¯t been able to deny it. But though they hadn¡¯t been wrong, they also hadn¡¯t been much better. Every one of their Heroic peers had fled the storm crown before thest of the initiates, when they were meant to be the shepherds from the beginning to the very end. They had all failed. Scythas had simply failed first and most profoundly. ¡°Pathetic,¡± the Hurricane Hierophant had branded him, the most disappointed that Scythas had ever seen the man. The Tyrant¡¯s daughter had looked upon him with tears in her eyes, so disappointed was she in her future husband. ¡°Pathetic,¡± the kyrios had agreed the next time they spoke. ¡°Though the king has little room to talk. One step alone is more than he¡¯d ever dare transgress.¡± The schrs of the Raging Heaven Cult did everything they could to distinguish themselves so that they might earn a ce to sleep that was further from the storm. The Heroic souls that hoped to one day challenge the Fates themselves could only measure their time within the storm crown in seconds before they each turned back in shame. The Tyrant Elders of Olympia wouldn¡¯t even look upon the storm. The reason for all three behaviors was the same. A p of thunder and howling wolves threw Scythas from his feet. Tumbling, he clutched the stone furnace desperately and raised it up. He twisted and allowed his body to be battered while he caught the sloshing red liquid out of the air and returned it to its basin. He whistled frantically, burning his heart¡¯s blood, and cutting winds sted out from him in every direction. A hound of seething lightning caught a wind scythe in its teeth and bit down. A strand of tribtion¡¯s light arched through the air between them, tracing Scythas¡¯ pneuma back to him and striking him over his heart. His back arched in helpless agony. Urania! he called out, but his plea went unanswered. The storm crown didn¡¯t care where you stood. It only cared to tear you down. It only sought to unmake you, And it would not cease until its work was done. Tucking the furnace under one arm, Scythas drew his sword with the other and buried it in the hound¡¯s skull when it lunged for him. The dog did not die, but it was flung away in an explosion of concussive force. Scythas fared no better He let the de go careening into the storm clouds and wrapped his numb arms around the furnace, curling his body around it and whistling a prayer to the wind. The further he cast out his pneuma, the more eyes within the storm he drew. Even this much was tempting the Fates, but he had made a promise to himself and a promise to Solus. He would take the risk. The wind caught every drop of nectar that the explosion had flung into the air and returned them to the furnace. The storm dashed it from his control a split secondter. Scythas mmed into an upright column of stone and bit halfway through his tongue. He slumped down, bleeding from his mouth and only seeing half the world through ssy eyes. He wasted precious moments like that, fighting for control of his senses as the storm saught to finish what the Gadfly had begun. When a woman¡¯s familiar face leaned down into his blurred vision, Scythas was certain that he was only seeing stars. Yet as his eyesight slowly cleared, she grew more prominent in his view instead of less. Not a fleeting trick of the storm¡¯s light, nor the nearly transparent constetion that he had known her as since his ascension. The woman leaning over him, peering out from a cage made up of suffering men and women, was carved entirely from stone. ¡°I am with you, hero,¡± the statue of Urania assured him, stone lips curling impossibly into a fond smile as she regarded him. ¡°Now as ever. Here until the end.¡± ¡°Far from all mortal men, where you will never hear a human voice or glimpse a human shape.¡± The Young Griffon A dead man looked down on me with sly eyes, leaning over the edge of the balcony, his ce of prominence inside the Orphic House. ¡°Tell me-¡± ¡°Young blood,¡± the Titan Prometheus said again, a low murmur that threatened to deafen me. He raised his right hand to cover his face, abruptly disoriented. ¡°No, that¡¯s not¡­¡± I traced the dangling chain that hung from the manacle around his right wrist. The manacles were made of the same material as the chains, a dazzling synthesis of ruby and sapphire and amethyst joined. Unbreakable adamant. ¡°Look,¡± I hissed. The lightning limb that Sol had imed reached up and grabbed the back of his neck, forcing him to look down. That the Titan could move his right hand at all should have been impossible. The chain meant to hold his right arm tight against the cliff face hung free instead, swaying with the motion of his arm and terminating at a single broken chain. Who could have done such a thing? No one. It was an impossible question, because it had no answer - adamant was immutable once forged. The impossible answer stood beneath Prometheus¡¯ feet, immortalized in tribtion stone. Barring the Titan Porphyrion, it was the tallest statue on the mountain. It was a man, if such a thing could be believed, both broad-shouldered and heavily muscled even for his size. The clothing carved for him from stone was a humble contrast to the fineries of the Tyrants thatnguished in the storm. Heaven¡¯s hand had chiseled for him only a tunic of in cloth and the monstrous pelt of a lion. The statue had been carved out of a single moment, the man¡¯s shoulder length hair blowing wildly behind him. His head was tilted back, a savage grin carved into his lips. Twin jewels of cut and polished amethyst glimmered in ce of eyes, narrowed in firm defiance. The statue of the Champion held the other broken end of Prometheus¡¯ chain in his right hand, and with his left he pointed a golden de at the skies above. Of all the shameful, suffering souls that I had found within the storm, the immortal memory of Herakles alone stood defiant. ¡°Is it ivory or is it horn?¡± Prometheus whispered, and we couldn¡¯t help but overhear him. ¡°How long could it have possibly been? I feel as if I¡¯ve only just closed my eyes, and yet¡­¡± ¡°And yet?¡± I called when the Titan trailed off, tearing my gaze away from the Champion¡¯s statue. My heart stuttered in my chest and ice shot through my veins when I saw that the fingers of Prometheus¡¯ right hand had parted, and he was staring down at us through the gap. ¡°And yet here you are already.¡± ¡°You know us?¡± Of all the myriad impossibilities, that one should have shocked me least. The Titan had clearly recognized Sol, or at least seemed to think he did beforeying eyes on me. He¡¯d seen my brother and expected me to be someone else. ¡°Of course I do. I must. It was my hand that molded you from y, my hand that stole for you a spark.¡± The Titan was trying to convince himself as much as he was us. He sounded bewildered and fatigued. His free hand dragged down his face, smooth nails digging into his own wless skin. ¡°I may not be your Father, but you are my children all the same. I know you all. I carry you all with me, here.¡± His hand settled over his heart, and my own thrummed inside my chest like a struck gong. Sol caught me by the shoulder and it was only then that I realized I had fallen. I staggered, fine hairs prickling on my skin and cold sweat dousing me like rain water. I cursed my sudden infirmity and forced pneuma through my legs to brace them. Vital strength flooded my limbs and I nearly mmed my head into Sol¡¯s chin as I exploded back to my feet. Sparks danced in my vision as I was all but overwhelmed by the sudden surge of vitality. My lungs felt overfull - no, not overfull. Overfull implied pain, implied ack of space to hold my breath. This feeling wasn¡¯t that. This was something pure. It felt as though my body was not my own, and yet more my own than it had ever been. My breath flowed freely, utterly unobstructed. Like I¡¯d been born anew. ¡°What was that?¡± Sol finally found his voice, and used it to demand answers of the me. ¡°What did you do to us?¡± Us? My nose wrinkled, and I looked down at myself in disgusted understanding. It wasn¡¯t sweat that clung to my skin, but something fouler. A dark, vile substance that smelled awful in a hundred different ways and refused to part from my skin. I saw the same noxious liquid clinging to Sol¡¯s exposed skin and seeping through his tunic, sticking to his face and neck like mud. Scarlet me rose up from my soul and scoured the taint from our skin. Sol tensed but allowed the mes to pass, grimacing at the fumes that rose up around us as it burned. ¡°Impurities,¡± I said roughly. Tracing my own pneuma as it flowed through my body, I realized it was more than that. ¡°Our humors - he bnced us.¡± My body felt more my own than it ever had before, and it was because an outside force had changed it. ¡°Why?¡± I asked. Prometheus clenched his eyes shut, blocking out the light of the sun, and when he spoke his voice was distant. As if his mind was elsewhere, chained up just as his body was here. He shook his head. ¡°Why have I ever needed a reason? Some things exist apart from exnation. Some truths are inly known.¡± Lightning shed overhead and the Titan me grit his gold-stained teeth in pained frustration. ¡°My children are freezing. My children are blind. What else was I to do?¡± ¡°The sun¡¯s hot rays will scorch and age your youthful flesh.¡± Hero of the Scything Squall, Scythas ¡°Join me. Quickly,¡± the Muse bid him, drawing back into her cage of stone sufferers. Scythas lurched after her on hands and knees into the cage. Momentster, he heard a crack and felt the heat of striking lightning behind him. He turned and fell onto his back, clutching the alchemical furnace to his chest, and watched with wide eyes as a hound made entirely of lightning struck the stone cage and was torn apart. A shrill yelp was thest sound it ever made before dispersing into sparks. ¡°You-¡± Scythas choked and turned his head, coughing violently. He¡¯d inhaled a strand of blood from his mangled tongue. Clearing his throat, he looked up through steaming eyes at the statue of the Muse. ¡°You saved me,¡± he croaked. ¡°Thank you.¡± The statue of the Muse tapped a stone finger on the crown of his head. ¡°I haven¡¯t saved you yet,¡± Urania corrected him. ¡°What brings you to this ce?¡± Scythas furrowed his brow. Not once since the day he¡¯d advanced to the Heroic Realm had Urania asked him such a question. She always knew why he was where he was when he called upon her. She always knew exactly where he needed her to be. ¡°You don¡¯t know?¡± ¡°The Urania that exists within you is a Urania beyond my time,¡± the statue of the Muse informed him, allowing her stone hand to trail down from the crown of his head, cupping his chin with care. ¡°I can see her mark on your heart, and it tells me that you¡¯re mine. But I can only guess as to why she chose you. And I can only help you if you tell me why you¡¯re here - and what you need.¡± There had been no response when he first called out to the Heavenly Muse, and Scythas realized this must be why. He¡¯d thought thatnding at the statue¡¯s feet had been her way of answering, and perhaps it had - but it hadn¡¯t been his Muse responding to the call. Not quite. ¡°Where is my Urania?¡± he asked. She shrugged, an uncanny shifting of stone that was made more bizarre by the fact that the carved silks were not silks at all. They did not shift with the motion the way they should have. ¡°With the rest of her sisters, I imagine,¡± Urania answered. She waved a hand vaguely at the world outside her cage. ¡°Anywhere but here.¡± Scythas caught himself before he could pursue that further, cursing his wandering mind. He didn¡¯t have time for questions. Solus had entrusted him with something worth more than any answer the Muses could give him. Every moment Scythas spent here was another moment that the Gadfly could use to find him. Had he pursued Scythas into the storm at all? Had Solus gone in after him? Scythas didn¡¯t know, and that was an inexcusableck. He had grown so ustomed to having the wind on his side that being here, cut off from the whispering breeze, left him feeling worse than blind. ¡°Can you guide me through the storm?¡± He asked the Heavenly Muse, and whether she was his or some other Urania from an age long past, she smiled just the same. ¡°Which path do you seek, young hero?¡± ¡°Socrates,¡± he said at once. ¡°Show me the path to Socrates.¡± If he knew where the Gadfly was, he could go anywhere else to avoid him. The only thing keeping Scythas trapped inside the storm crown was the threat of the Schr waiting for him just outside of it. The statue paused, then shook her head. ¡°I don¡¯t know anyone by that name,¡± she said apologetically. ¡°None that go by it exist within the storm. I can only guide you inside of its boundaries.¡± Scythas sighed. It wasn¡¯t the answer he wanted, but it was information nheless. Socrates hadn¡¯t pursued him. ¡°Would you like to know who did?¡± Urania asked, reading his mind as she always did. Before Scythas could respond one way or another, she cast her hand out and syed her fingers wide. Starlight bloomed within the immortal storm crown. Scythas traced seven distinct constetion lines, five branching along the mountain parallel with his elevation or beneath it. Two paths alone arched straight up towards the peak, so close they intertwined at points. His heart flew up into his throat. ¡°Who are they?¡± The statue of the Muse considered him thoughtfully. ¡°It seems you already know.¡± He needed confirmation. ¡°Show me Solus.¡± Every constetion but one flickered and went out. The one that remained was one of the two that arched above their heads, leading to the peak. ¡°I''m going.¡± Though he dreaded even saying it, the Legate¡¯s will was clear. Solus had decided that even the shadows beneath the storm crown were no longer entirely safe, and had sought refuge in the one ce that even the Gadfly wouldn¡¯t dare tread. If he could suffer the storm, his standing being what it was, then Scythas had no excuse at all. He forced himself up onto one knee. ¡°Why?¡± the statue of Urania asked him. He had to remind himself that it wasn¡¯t a yful jab or an invitation to reconsider. This version of the Muse simply didn¡¯t know. He hefted up the stone furnace in lieu of a response, searching through the storm around them for hounds. There were none in sight for now. He could only hope the stars would guide him around them- ¡°You¡¯re going to poison him?¡± Urania asked, and Scythas froze. ¡°What?¡± ¡°Or is he going to poison someone else?¡± the Muse murmured, tapping a stone finger to her chin in thought. ¡°If that brew is meant for him, you should know that it¡¯s entirely more than is required. You¡¯d be wasting a maul on a mouse. There are easier ways-¡± ¡°No!¡± Scythas blurted. ¡°No, I¡¯m not- this isn¡¯t-¡± He held the furnace up helplessly. ¡°This is nectar.¡± ¡°It¡¯s poison,¡± the Muse said simply, and Scythas couldn¡¯t find any trace of mischief or lie in her stone face. He nearly dropped the furnace as he thrust it out as far as he could away from his face. How long had he been inhaling the fumes? How much damage had been done already? ¡°But that¡¯s not¡­¡± Scythas clenched his eyes shut. His head was still pounding, worse now than before. Nothing made sense. Nothing ever made sense. ¡°We followed the Gadfly¡¯s instructions to the letter. He said he knew. He said he¡¯d seen it done with his own eyes, brewed by the kyrios¡¯ own hand. He said it would work! What are we going to do?¡± Unbidden and against his will, images of his brother danced behind his eyelids. What am I going to do? Cool stone fingers gripped his chin again and lifted it. Scythas opened his eyes and through their blurry vision saw Urania¡¯s kind eyes. ¡°I never said it was wrongly brewed,¡± she told him gently. ¡°I only said that it was poison.¡± ¡°That¡¯s not what it was meant to be!¡± ¡°Are you certain?¡± Scythas was silent. ¡°The man that you call kyrios has had ages upon ages to grow desensitized to his own brew,¡± Urania exined. As she did she reached somehow into her stone robes, parting them like real silk as she searched through them. ¡°Poison for thee, not for He. You did nothing wrong, but youck the constitution required. An iron stomach is needed for a drink like this.¡± From her robes, Urania drew out a wide-rimmed cup made entirely of polished pewter. A bright silvery skyphos, of the same make as the crown of stars upon her head. ¡°Whichever path you n to follow, the storm will break you down. You must rest. You must regain your strength. Until then-¡± The muse withdrew her hand from his chin and cupped both palms beneath the wide pewter cup. She held it out and favored Scythas with a beautiful, dimpled smile. ¡°Kind hero of my heart, won¡¯t you offer me a drink?¡± What else was he to do? Scythas poured Urania a cup of blood-red poison from the furnace and watched her raise it to her lips, tipping it back and drinking it dry in one long pull. He waited for her to say something, to wrinkle her nose in disgust or make a sound of some appreciation for the taste. Anything. Instead, the statue¡¯s stone cheeks puffed out as she swished the poison back and forth in her mouth. Then she gave him a wink. Urania spit their poison nectar back into her cup, and somehow, impossibly, what had gone in the color of spilled blood came out the color of liquid gold. Scythas watched the glittering liquid fill her cup, entirely lost for words. When the Muse offered her skyphos back to him, he could only stare. ¡°The roads ahead of you are long,¡± spoke Urania of the Storm. ¡°Drink of my drink, young Scythas, and be strong.¡± ¡°The day I met you,¡± Scythas eventually said, ¡°you told me that you could only ever help me help myself. Show me the way, but never help me walk it.¡± Somehow, it was the first thing that came to mind. ¡°Then I lied to you,¡± the statue of the Muse said with regret. She didn¡¯t take back her offered gift. Beyond their cage, the storm raged on. Scythas took the pewter cup in hand. "For you, the sparkling stars high in the sky at night will hide those rays and offer some relief." Chapter 1.122 Chapter 1.122 ¡ª Then, in the morning, once again the sun will melt the frost. ¡ª The Young Griffon On the day of my first Thargelia, when I was still young enough to fear the kiss of a burning me, my father had broken with the Rosy Dawn¡¯s traditions and allowed me to sit on hisp and watch the proceedings of the festival with him. I hadn¡¯t understood why this was such a scandalous act at the time, but in retrospect it was obvious. On this holiday above all others, the kyrios was both judge and jury. He was justice. Allowing a child to sit that throne with him had been hubris enough to have the cult¡¯s most pious initiates eyeing the skies in search of lightning. My father hadn¡¯t cared for theirints, of course. The Thargelia was a celebration of life and of beginnings, positioned as it was at the start of summer and the very first harvest of the year. It was a holiday held dear in every Alikon heart, though the unawoken didn¡¯t know exactly why that was - namely, because it was a celebration of our very own scarlet faith. Our fallen sun god was dead, bisected and buried in the hearts of our mountain ranges without a name to mark his graves, but that did not mean he was entirely forgotten. We honored him with the Thargelia, and we sacrificed in his forgotten name as we did for all the pantheon. In this particr case, we sacrificed ourselves. The pharmakos were the most important part of the festival, scapegoats chosen to take the city¡¯s vices and hubrises upon themselves and be punished for them all, so that the masses might be cleansed. Two were chosen every year, one by each of the Scarlet City¡¯s Tyrants, and their punishment was carried out in the valley city¡¯s Scarlet Stadium. Each year, the circumstances of those chosen and their punishments changed. Sometimes it was for vanity - the ugliest of the city¡¯s dregs brought forth and beaten down. Other times it was for retribution - the worst of thewbreakers, profane murderers and the truly unhinged made to ount for their crimes as well as the crimes of others. Depending on the criteria of those chosen, the severity of the punishments varied. Some years the pharmakoslived to dread another Thargelia. But only some. The Tyrants of the Rosy Dawn and Burning Dusk chose their own scapegoat and presided over their punishment as they saw fit, but the manner of their punishment and the severity had to match. It had always been that way, even before my father¡¯s rise to power. Besides that, the only othermonality was the stock from which every scapegoat was chosen. Whether they were selected for vanity or for retribution, the pharmakos were always ves. That year, the pharmakos had been selected for retribution. The wretched pair of ves marched out onto the sands of the stadium pit were criminals of the same kind, charged by Damon Aetos and Yianni Sc both for thievery. In the Scarlet City, themon punishment for theft was the loss of four fingers. That was only for full-blooded citizens, though. For a ve, the punishment was at their master¡¯s discretion. It could be anything, up to and including death. That year, the Tyrants of the Scarlet City chose scourging. The Alikon masses hurled ridicule and condemnation down from the stadium stands while the thieves were brought out and forced to kneel in the sand. It was tradition, naturally, and some embraced it more gleefully than others. The pharmakos were on trial for more than just their own crimes. On that day, they were on trial for us all. Eight unawoken men holding whips surrounded the pharmakos, four to a thief, and at the Tyrants¡¯ orders they began theirshing. It took me no time at all to notice a difference between the two scapegoats. Though they were both undeniably wretched existences, already bruised and battered long before they¡¯d been delivered to the pit, their reactions to the scourging couldn¡¯t have been more different. Though they were in equally poor shape, and though each of the city¡¯s men did their level best to crack their whips with uniform strength, the ve from the Rosy Dawn endured his punishment with grace. While the thief from the Burning Dusk cowered and begged for mercy, crying out sharply after everysh, the thief my father had selected rode hisshes out with as much restraint as any man in chains could hope for. It wasn¡¯t that he couldn¡¯t feel the whip. There were some agonized noises he didn¡¯t have the strength to hold back, pained grunts and breathless groans. But there was something¡­ ¡°You¡¯ve noticed,¡± Damon Aetos had dered. ¡°One man is afraid. The other isn¡¯t. ¡°Do you know why?¡± Naturally, I hadn¡¯t. ¡°These men are thieves, and before that they are ves. It is within my power to have them executed for their crimes. It is also within my power to spare them. Thesh is an uncertain weapon - a half death. It can take a life as easily as it can spare it.¡± That didn¡¯t exin why one man was terrified and the other man resigned. Amidst the screaming condemnations of the citizens, my father had borated. ¡°It is by my judgment that these thieves will be given fortyshes each, delivered by mortal men with in leather whips.¡± My father had raised a finger and pointed at the Rosy Dawn¡¯s thief. ¡°The only difference between the two of them is that I told that man how manyshes he¡¯d receive.¡± At the time, it had felt like a contradiction. Fortyshes was enough to kill a man, depending on the strength behind them. I had puzzled over it while they received their seventh, eighth, and ninth ones. Scourging wasn¡¯t an umon punishment for a ve and often ended well short of the mark my father had set. The ve from the Burning Dusk didn¡¯t know what the number ofshes was, but that could have been a boon. For all he knew, he might only have ten in store - the man my father had chosen knew that he had thirty-three, thirty-two, thirty-one more cracks of the whip until he was done. Shouldn¡¯t that have been the far heavier source of dread? We¡¯d watched, together, as the thief from the Burning Dusk continued to moan and weep after the fortiethsh was done. And we¡¯d watched as the thief from the Rosy Dawn had simply slumped forward into the sand in weary relief, knowing that his suffering was over. Damon Aetos had nodded as if his point had been proven, and exined. ¡°The whip is agony. The uncertainty is worse.¡± ¡ª This never-ending burden of your present agony will wear you down, for the one who is to rescue you someday is not yet even born. ¡ª I took Prometheus¡¯ chain in my hands and wrenched at it with all my might. The adamant links were enormous, each one longer than my torso and thicker around than my arms. I braced my feet against the cliff face that the Titan me was shackled to and strained with all that I had against one of the links holding his left arm in ce. I gnashed my teeth, rosy mes and tribtion lightning pouring off the twenty-nine hands of my pankration intent. ¡°A hand, ve?¡± I called out in a strained voice. There came a crack of lightning and a shock of bright white sensation on my left cheek. I stared at Sol in disbelief. ¡°You pped me with my own hand?¡± ¡°Anything for the Young Aristocrat,¡± he said without a hint of mirth, tucking my lightning limb away and bracing himself on the other side of the adamant link. He wrenched at it with all the strength he¡¯d taken from the Orphic House. ¡°Don¡¯t call me that,¡± I said, horribly offended. He snorted, and I let my own smile break free. ¡°On pull, then - pull!¡± It was at this point that Prometheus came to. ¡°What are you-? Stop!¡± the Titan¡¯s rm was intense, seemingly enough to snap him fully from the throes of his suffering. He reached down for us and my heart did its best to leap out of my chest. His hand was enormous, longer fingertip-to-palm than I was tall. Again, I was struck by the staggering difference between Titan and man. ¡°Pull!¡± I shouted, and Sol and I heaved back on the adamant chain with all that we were worth. The Titan¡¯s hand hesitated just a few feet from us, fingers flexing. I inhaled sharply. ¡°Pull!¡± The adamant held. An unbreakable chain wrought by higher powers, crafted to bind the only one among them worth admiring. I snarled, steam erupting from between my clenched teeth. Lightning shed behind Sol¡¯s eyes. ¡°That¡¯s enough!¡± The Titan me brushed us off. Try as we might, Sol and I couldn¡¯t resist him - though he moved us like we were made of thin and brittle y, Sol and I might as well have tried to hold the sun back from rising. We were both flung away from the Titan, tumbling across the stone and settling at the feet of the Champion¡¯s statue. ¡°These chains are heavenlyw,¡± Prometheus urgently warned us. ¡°It¡¯s impossible to break them. You endanger yourselves by even trying!¡± I reached up and rapped my knuckles against the Champion¡¯s own hand, the one holding a broken link of adamant. ¡°Not impossible,¡± Sol said, putting it to words. There was grief in the Titan¡¯s eyes, sorrow in his sonorous voice when he replied, ¡°Not for him. But the Champion¡¯s time is long past, my own time longer still. Strength alone is no longer enough. In this world of tarnished iron, adamant is immutable.¡± ¡°Then why hesitate?¡± I challenged him. The weight of the Titan¡¯s stare was staggering, but I had been raised by a higher power of my own. I had long since learned to take it in stride. ¡°You could have brushed us off immediately, but you didn¡¯t. You hesitated. Why?¡± I expected the Titan to lie or ignore the question entirely, perhapssh out at me for daring to question him when I was infinitely his lesser. Instead, he told me the truth. ¡°For a moment, I hoped I would be wrong,¡± the Titan me admitted. There was no deceit in the burning suns that were his eyes. Only an ancient weariness. ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter. Whether or not it¡¯s possible, regardless of if you¡¯re ivory or if you¡¯re horn, you¡¯re here too early.¡± The light that he was casting grew brighter, harsher and more stark - everything bathed within that glow seemed to sharpen and grow more vibrant. Sol and I were no exception. [ ] In the Temple of the Father so many weeks ago, Sol and I had consumed the starlight marrow of a Tyrant and been forced to match our souls against it. The Rein-Holder¡¯s will had attempted to break us down and make us ves within ourselves, and until the day I died I would never forget the sensation of it burning through my body. It had been an enemy until I made it mine. It had fought me bitterly, furiously, until the very end. The moment I felt the influence of another, warm beneath my skin, I inhaled sharply and brought all of my pneuma and my influence and my will to bear against it. Beside me, I heard Sol do the same. No matter how unjust the me¡¯s punishment may have been, no matter if slipping into another¡¯s skin was the only way he¡¯d ever be free, it wouldn¡¯t be one of us that made the sacrifice. I refused. I wouldn¡¯t allow it. It was like throwing a punch with all my strength behind it and hitting nothing but the open air. The warmth of a steady hearth seeped into me and immediately joined itself to my will, shaping itself to my image without a fight. No, it was more than that. The me¡¯s essence was helping me incorporate it into myself. Everything the golden glow touched was made better than it had been before. I was abruptly reminded of the sensation of Anastasia¡¯s caustic pneuma burning through my body, cleansing and mending me in a way that I¡¯d considered to be sophisticated at the time. This was so far beyond that, calling it healing felt like a disservice. Whatever he¡¯d done to us before to bnce our humors and expel the excess impurities from our bodies, it had happened in an instant and had only been noticeable in its passing. This was a mending of a different sort. The myriad bruises and bleeding abrasions that Sol and I had suffered on our way to the peak were made well before our eyes. The warmth stayed, added itself to our own vital heat and bolstered us with its presence. And when it was clear that we had it in our control, the Titan relinquished it to us without a fight. The ne I¡¯d stolen from the Aetos family¡¯s filial pools reflected the golden glow, its scarlet gem burning like an ember against my chest. With a start, I realized even the ragged silks of my Rosy Dawn attire had been made pristine again. How do you mend what can¡¯t be mended? ¡°It¡¯s you,¡± I realized. I looked up at the Titan me with certainty in my soul. He was the cure. ¡°Teach me.¡± The Titan shook his head. ¡°I can not.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll break those chains myself,¡± I promised him. ¡°I¡¯ll finish what the Champion started and deliver you from your torment. On the Styx I swear I¡¯ll see it done!¡± ¡°You scarlet sons are all the same,¡± Prometheus murmured, looking at me with pity. Looking down at me. ¡°Griffon,¡± Sol warned, gripping my shoulder tight. I fought for control of thirty pankration fists. Somehow, the Titan¡¯s bolstering essence didn¡¯t make it any easier. Damn it. Damn it. I couldn¡¯t stop my mind from racing, envisioning all the wrongs that could be made right if an existence like the me still walked the earth. Since the day I¡¯d left the Scarlet City, I had spent every day searching for the fireside legends whose stories I¡¯d been raised on. In the months that I¡¯d spent in Olympia and distant Thracia, the only evidence I¡¯d found that those legends were ever true at all had been dead men. It had been enough to make me wonder. It had been enough to make me doubt. A man could endure the whip for half an eternity if he knew that it would stop. He could brave the most treacherous mountain path so long as he knew it would lead him up to heaven. Could ovee ten of heaven¡¯s most harrowingbors if only he knew that the tenth was where it ended. It was the uncertainty that killed you. Crouched beneath the Champion¡¯s towering statue and looking up at a living relic of a golden era, I finally saw the me that cast the shadows in the cave. Here was something real. Here was something pure. Here was what this world of iron needed- ¡°Tell me something, boys,¡± Prometheus spoke, though he almost seemed to dread the answer. ¡°Where do you stand among heaven and earth?¡± I stared up at the Titan in disbelief. Even you? ¡°Philosopher, second rank,¡± I said numbly, after Sol had given his own answer. I should have known. More fool me, I should have known no one was above thedder. We were all of us condemned- ¡°No, you¡¯re not listening,¡± Prometheus said, shing his free hand through the air to dispel our answers and buffeting us both with gale winds. ¡°I asked you where you stand.¡± The Titan me lifted his head up to the ck skies above. ¡°With the heavens?¡± His head dipped back down, piercing both of us with the light of twin suns. ¡°Or against them.¡± ¡ª This is your reward for acting as a friend to human beings. ¡ª Chapter 1.123 [Libertas] Chapter 1.123 [Libertas] Hero of the Scything Squall, Scythas He raised the pewter cup to his lips- And paused before it could touch them. He stared down at his golden reflection in the nectar. ¡°Hero?¡± Urania¡¯s remnant statue whispered, puzzled. The roads ahead of you are long. Drink of my drink, young Scythas, and be strong. Spiraling beyond the Muse¡¯s stone cage, five starlight paths still shimmered in his mind¡¯s eye. Some parallel, others below - none higher than his own ce on the mountain. ¡°May I borrow this cup?¡± Urania¡¯s stone lips curled. ¡ª Though you are a god, you were not deterred by any fear of angering the gods. ¡ª The Young Griffon Where did I stand? It felt like an eternity that I had been waiting. Waiting for someone to ask me that question and for them to truly mean it. The Titan me posed the question with knowing dread. He suspected my answer, perhaps could see it in my soul before he¡¯d even asked, and he understood the scope of it. It worried him. I could see in the tightening of his eyes and the clenching of his jaw that it agonized him to see his children take such an outrageous stance. I could feel his concern in the pounding of my own heart. That didn¡¯t change my answer. My virtuous heart may not have been adamant-wrought, but its convictions were immutable all the same. Sol and I tilted our heads to regard each other at the same time, seeking each other¡¯s answers and realizing at that moment that we both already knew. I smiled brightly while he snorted and failed to hide his smirk. In synchronicity we reached up, up to the towering statue of the amethyst-eyed Champion that we had both cut our teeth on stories of as boys. Up, to the golden de Herakles had brandished challengingly at the skies in his final moments. It was nearly too tall to reach without jumping, but reach we did. Straining, Iid my hand against one edge of the de just above its hilt. Solid his hand against the other side, and as one we drew our palms sharply down. A swift line of burning sensation, and the skin of our palms parted without any jagged edges. Two clean cuts. Prometheus had cleansed us of our myriad filths and brushed away our scrapes and bruises like he was smoothing over wet y. Now we had only a single wound to mark our passage through the storm, even more stark for its singrity. I held my bleeding palm up to the Titan me, and my brother did the same beside me. ¡°I stand against any existence that would rather press downthan lift up,¡± I spoke clearly, staring up into the menacing light of twin suns. ¡°Whatever their reasons may be, they are not good enough.¡± The Titan Prometheus was a uniquely reviled existence. Traitor to his brothers the Titans for siding with the Father in his cosmic Titanomachy, andter a traitor to their usurping sons the Olympians in his theft of heavenly me. Despised by Titans. Despised by gods. Forever cursed to suffer for his care, and forbidden even the coldestfort of fond remembrance by those he¡¯d given up everything for. They¡¯d taken everything from him. From us. We¡¯d forgotten his name. It was the uncertainty that killed a man. My father had taught me that lesson long ago. A man could suffer forty cracks of the whip without breaking down if he knew that forty was all he had to bear. By that same measure, a cultivator could watch lightning fall from a clear blue sky and ignore the terror of his animal instinct if he knew that it would fall. If he knew that advancementy on the other side of tribtion, he could do more than weather it - he could seek it out. He could relish it. To pursue the heights was to tempt the Fates, every man knew that. But he did it anyway, because he knew there was something far greater than any pain at the peak of the mountain. That was why we defied the Fates. That was why the Muses sang stories in our names. That was how it was meant to be. But now the peak was out of sight, shrouded by storm clouds and its highest paths buried in ice and snow. I had spent the entirety of my life wondering why no one acted in ordance with their own words, why the titudes of cultivating virtue so rarely moved in step with the actions of supposed cultivators. I had only begun to understand the scope of it upon leaving my father¡¯s city. I had only begun to suspect the existence of a universal ailment, a sickness of the earth inflicted by the heavens, upon my induction into the Orphic mysteries. It was only here and now that I finally saw the root of that disease. This world was lesser than it should have been, little more than a flickering shadow on the wall, and people clung to that shadow because they knew nothing else beyond it. Not because they had no interest, no. Not because theycked hunger. They had no choice. ¡°They took your name from us,¡± I told Prometheus, and though my heart felt like it would burn me to ashes in its wrath, I couldn¡¯t help butugh. ¡°They hate you! Because you elevated us in the smallest of degrees! Because that was enough to make them wonder!¡± The heavens had stripped us of our greatest shining stars and dared us to climb the mountain in darkness. It was the uncertainty that killed a man. All any man ever needed to seed was an example. All he had to know was that it could be done. Prometheus was one of those examples. Here he was, here was proof that heaven was not infallible. The Titan hung as a living example of heaven¡¯s impotent rage - and it was impotent, for all its grandeur. The chains of adamant, the stone-carved monuments to man¡¯s hubris, and the immortal storm crown in its entirety. None of them changed that Prometheus had won. If only for an instant and in the smallest of degrees. Heaven couldsh Prometheus until the end of time, but it could not take back the me he¡¯d stolen in our name. I remembered that now. I¡¯d never forget it again. ¡°And you?¡± the Titan asked heavily of my brother. Sol¡¯s answer was sinct. ¡°No dogs under heaven.¡± Then in hunger, this dog of heaven shall devour you. The answer only made sense to me because he¡¯d told me how his world had ended, back when we fled from the Rosy Dawn. It would have been nonsense to anyone else, but he seemed to think Prometheus would understand. And why not? He could reach out without cing a finger on our brows and rebnce us, refine us as cultivators as simply as brushing out the imperfections in a y sculpture. Why wouldn¡¯t he be able to reach into our memories as well? My nose wrinkled, lips twisting at some half-imagined taste. What was the point of all the work if it could be undone or done better by a higher power? Where was the security of a sound mind if mortal memory could not be trusted? If all it took was sufficient standing to reach in and change what should have been immutable to all but its owner¡¯s intent- ¡°You¡¯ve only just begun to understand the forces arrayed against you,¡± the Titan me told me like he was answering my question, and with sudden cold fury I realized he was. Prometheus smiled that same bleak smile he¡¯d worn when he firstid eyes on us. ¡°And only the barest sliver of their powers over you. Even their gifts are a pox upon your souls - Heaven is cruel even to those that it wishes well. If you stand against it with purpose, you will suffer. You will be hurt in ways your fellow man could never think to hurt you. Ways you can not possibly understand.¡± I was tired of being overestimated and looked down upon at the same time. Gathering up the eddies of my influence and boiling them with the mad mes of the Orphic House¡¯s initiation rites, I struck out with the truth of my lived experience. Myprehension of Heaven¡¯s cruelty. I had seen Zagreus suffer in the Mother¡¯s hands. For a brief moment, I had been him. ¡°I understand more than you think,¡± I told the Titan me. Sol grunted his rough agreement beside me. For the first time, though, the target of my Orphic experience was not shaken. Prometheus only pounded his unshackled fist against the cliff behind him. ¡°You understand nothing. You don¡¯t even know his name.¡± ¡°Zagreus,¡± Sol said. The Titan shook his head helplessly. ¡°Then who?¡± I challenged. The Titan corrected us both. [ ] What? [ ] Worthless titan, why move your lips if you aren¡¯t going to speak- [KING OF NOTHING] My vision went white. Over the roaring in my ears, I heard Sol exhale like he¡¯d been punched in the gut. [KING OF NO ONE] How much had we forgotten? [TWICE-BORN HEIR TO RAGING HEAVEN] How much had been lost before we were even born? [TWICE-CURSED BASTARD OF FALLEN STARS] How much more did they n to take from us? [TWICE-NAMED AND TWICE-FORGOTTEN] ¡°Dio-¡± the Titan me spoke two sybles of a name, each one ringing my tripartite soul like a bell, and then his breath hitched in his throat. The twin stars of his eyes zed in sudden rm, and he looked up at the storm crown. ¡°Already?¡± In the furthest distance, a pinprick of light appeared. It was a different shade than the lightning, and where the lines of tribtion vanished as quickly as they came, this light lingered. Prometheus¡¯ rm gave way to terror. ¡°Go,¡± he said, and when neither Sol nor I moved he roared, ¡°LEAVE!¡± ¡°Why?¡± I couldn¡¯t hear my own voice over the ringing in my ears. ¡°Too soon, it¡¯s too soon!¡± The Titan shook his head and clenched his eyes shut, quenching their lights and leaving only the illumination of lightning and the steadily growing glow above. I traced the trajectory of the Champion¡¯s golden sword and realized it was leveled directly at the blooming light. ¡°Too soon for what?¡± Sol shouted, but Prometheus wasn¡¯t listening. He groaned in despair and lurched against his adamant bonds, wrenching fruitlessly at his manacles with the hand that Herakles had freed. ¡°The die is not yet cast. The y is still wet, the world is still unwell - the wheel is still turning.¡± The Titan fell into broken ramblings, and the light above grew steadily brighter. The sound of Sol rushing out from under the Champion¡¯s statue was what finally tore my eyes from the light. I whipped my head around and watched him sprint away from the Titan, fleeing back down the mountain. He got halfway there before I struck him like a javelin, tackling him to the stone and sending us both tumbling. ¡°Worthless Roman!¡± I shouted furiously, rolling up into a crouch and bringing each of my pankration limbs to bear. ¡°Where do you think you¡¯re going!?¡± Sol rolled to a stop in a trench carved by his own overbearing weight and propped himself up with one arm, ring balefully at me. Without a word, he reached into his shadow with his other hand and pulled a golden cup of wine from it. I stared at it. It was full to the brim. ¡°You had two-?¡± Sol drank deeply from it, ignoring my outraged cry, and then dunked the half-emptied cup into the liquid lead pool of prima materia he¡¯d been heading towards when I tackled him. Ah. Above our heads, the light had grown blindingly bright and spread further through the storm, suffusing the clouds with shades of crimson and gold. Prometheus¡¯ eyes snapped open, staring up into it, and he bellowed in sudden defiance. It was the loudest thing I¡¯d ever heard in my life, louder than any noise mortal ears were meant to hear. And then it became the second loudest sound I¡¯d ever heard, as a cry came down from on high and utterly overwhelmed it. ¡ª You gave men honors they did not deserve, possessions they were not entitled to. ¡ª Stone Sirens of the Storm Among the dozens of statues thatnguished unseen within the immortal storm crown on Kaukoso Mons, eight alone stood out above the rest. It had been nine, before, but all that remained of Calliope now was rubble. Still, eight. Eight muses carved from hallowed stone, each of them protected from the storm by rings of stone-carved supplicants. Time was a semantic concern at the peak of the mountain. No sun to rise and fall, no moon to wax and wane. Days passed as readily as years and as easily as centuries. Throughout it all, the statues of the Muses remained untouched. They were untainted by the passing of ages and unmarred by the grim light of tribtion. The dull passage of eternity was its own unkindness, of course. It was rare for them to receive anypany at all this far up the mountain. For all of them to receive a visit within the same day was a nigh unprecedented treat, and one they¡¯d remember for ages toe. That it had happened once made this a good decade already. That it had happened again not even a monthter, that had made this a grand decade. Brief as it was, the conversation livened the holy women of the storm crown. It returned them to the earth from their high heavenly musing. Grounded them. When a third guest rounded the mountain to pay their respects within that very same year, the stone sirens experienced a brief glimpse of emotion that they had not experienced in many many mortal lifetimes. Excitement. For four of the eight sirens, there were yet more curiosities in store. Bedraggled and near death, four little glories nheless found their way to the Muses that had marked their hearts just minutes after the third guest had departed them. Each of the four sirens were in such high spirits after their third visit that they didn¡¯t even mind the pitiful sight of the fourth. That they had made it this far up the mountain was enticing enough. ¡°Wee to my humble home,¡± Terpsichore the Dancer sang to the flickering little glory as they dragged themselves into the safety of her cage. A slender-faced young woman, though of course all of her kind were young to the siren, the little glory was ravaged by scars both inside and out. The me behind her eyes was dim, hardly more than warm coals as she copsed to the ground at Terpischore¡¯s feet. The little glory mumbled deliriously, static tremors causing the individual hairs on her haid to rise up apart from the rest. The fingertips of the hand that held her bronze sword were burnt ck. Terpsichore leaned in and watched the little glory as it watched her, dull eyes the color of desert heat flickering in hazy half-recognition. The young woman whispered a name in wonder, and Terpsichore giggled. ¡°I wonder, should I be offended or amused? Even if my face is carved from stone, confusing me for a man is simply too cruel - surely this ¡®Song Yu¡¯ isn¡¯t nearly as beautiful as me.¡± As she said it, a dim remembrance of the men known in the East as the Song of the South flickered in the me behind the little glory¡¯s eyes, close enough to the surface for the siren to see it. The Dancing Muse blinked stone eyes, pleasantly surprised. ¡°That is a lovely face,¡± she murmured appreciatively. The siren cupped her stone chin, then after a moment nodded decisively. ¡°Very well, I¡¯ll forgive your confusion.¡± The little glory visibly forced her mind to clear, biting the inside of her cheek and blinking her eyes rapidly to clear them. Her gaze became searching, flitting up and down the siren¡¯s form and lingering on her crown - a pair of wavy ram¡¯s horns that looked almost out of ce on her brow, so perfectly suited were they to act as the arms for a lyre. ¡°Terpsichore?¡± her little glory whispered. ¡°Erato?¡± rasped another, halfway around the mountain, hunching over to fit within the Lovely Muse¡¯s cage while he cradled a mutted crocodile in his arms. ¡°Polyhymnia?¡± wondered yet one more inside the Sacred Poet¡¯s cage, leaning on his longbow like an overburdened cane when his broken legs refused to support his weight. ¡°Thalia?¡± gasped thest of them between panting breaths, slumping back against the stone cage and spending pneuma as fast as she inhaled it to mend her many wounds. ¡°The very same,¡± each siren answered, and each of them regarded the hearts that their other selves had imed with naked curiosity. ¡°Tell me, hero,¡± each of them bade, ¡°what brings you up the mountain?¡± Their answers varied inposition and intent, but each of their desires was the same. Nectar. Nectar for strength to walk the silk road, nectar for love and the bridging of its gaps, nectar for another¡¯s anonymity, and nectar for a cure. Each of their desires wereid bare before the sirens, and each one alone waspelling in its way. Yet their actions were not matched to their ambitions, and each of the four sirens found themselves disappointed. Perhaps it wasn¡¯t fair of them. They¡¯d received so much exceptionalpany recently, they¡¯d be spoiled again. It was impressive enough that these little glories had made it to them at all. They¡¯d earned themselves a touch of favor, the sirens decided. And even if they hadn¡¯t, it would be far too cruel for them to disregard their third guest¡¯s wishes after he¡¯d fought so hard to see them fulfilled. ¡°You¡¯re in luck, little sword,¡± Terpsichore said, eyes crinkling cheerfully, and reached into her stone silks. ¡°Have hope, lover.¡± Erato pulled a drinking cup of wless pearl from her stone robes, and held it up to the battered glory and his mangled crocodile. ¡°Rest easy, young shepherd,¡± Polyhymniaforted the archer as his grip ckened on his bow and he sank down to his broken knees. She pressed her cup into his shaking hands. ¡°Look no further, sly bird.¡± Thalia the Joy winked, curling stone fingers over the cup of blood red brew she¡¯d pressed into the breathless healer¡¯s hands. Each of the four sirens chipped away a small piece of themselves and dropped the slivers of stone into their cups. And though each of the sirens envied their sister for her choice of glory, they still smiled as their own little ones watched with bright-eyed wonder as the crimson poison in their cups turned to liquid gold. ¡°Drink of my drink and be strong,¡± they urged their guests. When their little glories thanked them desperately, emphatically, the sirens waved their gratitude away. Because they had only done the easiest of the work, and an eternity trapped in stone was no excuse for poor manners. ¡°Don¡¯t thank me. Thank the man that filled my cup for you.¡± ¡°What-¡± ¡°Someone was here-¡± ¡°When did they-¡± ¡°Who?¡± Wistfully, the stone sirens answered. ¡°A hero.¡± ¡ª Because of that, you will remain on guard, here on this joyless rock, standing upright with your legs straight, and you will never sleep. ¡ª Jason, Hero of the baster Depths ¡°A siren¡¯s toying with the heart, I left beneath the sea!¡± Through frigid rain and roaring thunder the captain of the sunken Icarus trudged along a mountain path in search of anything at all. He¡¯d wandered for so long and endured so many hurts that he¡¯d ept anything. Ideally the nectar, yes, but a friend would do just as well. A peer, failing that. Really, at this point he¡¯d be thankful for another suffering statue. ¡°Let it be, let it be, let it be - I¡¯ll find another better one!¡± He dodged unnatural tendrils of grasping lightning, though by smaller margins every time. Every step forward dulled his reflexes just a bit more. Jason came upon a fork in his path and hesitated. One branch continued on up, closer to the peak. The other lead down, retreating from the storm crown and returning to fresh air and sweet safety. Jason wavered between them. The first andst time he¡¯d set foot inside the Storm That Never Ceased, he¡¯d only made it a single step. One step into the storm, and a second that he¡¯d abandoned halfway. Jason growled and turned away from the downslope, continuing up the path. ¡°A fine young heart of wanderlust, I didn¡¯t mean to leave!¡± He couldn¡¯t sing the shanties he¡¯d rowed along to with his crew. His lips just wouldn¡¯t form the words, no matter how he tried to force them. Instead, he sang something new. The verses weren¡¯t as catchy as they could have been, and he¡¯d asionally choke on the lyrics when his wounds asserted themselves, but it centered him. Itcked the magic of Sol¡¯s marching songs, failed to lighten his steps or steady his breath, but that was to be expected. No matter where he went or who he brought with him, Sol remained himself. As for Jason? What was a captain without his crew? ¡°Let it be, let it be, let it be - I¡¯ll find another better one!¡± A howl up ahead warned Jason of the threat before he saw it. A hound of coalescing lightning bounded down towards him in shing leaps that burned his eyes and happened so fast the creature seemed to be springing through gaps in reality itself. Too fast to avoid. Too fast to escape. It braced again, close enough to count its crackling teeth, and he knew the next leap would be thest. Jason exhaled raggedly and dragged the hound beneath the waves. His pneuma flooded out with his breath, catching the hound in midair when it leapt and delivering it to the bottom of the sea. The hound made a strangled sound as his pneuma sought to crush it, but rather than cave in on itself as a real dog would, it burst apart and dispersed through his pneuma like water. Jason had tried avoiding what came next, by physical and spiritual means, but it had never worked. This time he just braced himself as the lightning hound dispersed through his vital essence, through him, and through his feet into the mountain. He wavered like a drunk, tasting ozone and feeling as though he should be spitting blood, yet nothing came out of his mouth. ¡°That siren¡¯s deaf beneath the waves, at least to all my pleas!¡± Inside the storm crown or out of it, that fact hadn¡¯t changed. Euterpe had nothing to say to him. ¡°Let it be, let it be, let it be¡­¡± Another hound. No, two this time. He crushed them both and lurched forward as their currents flowed through him. This time the blinding light only cleared from one of his eyes. He squinted through the rain, searching for anything but another hound. A crackling growl was his answer. If nothing else, he felt grim satisfaction as that growl turn to agonized baying. Then the lightning reached him. ¡°I¡¯ll find another¡­ better one¡­¡± Blind and bleeding from within, the Hero of the baster Isles fell. Strong arms caught him before he hit the ground. ¡°Gah-!¡± Jason flinched, iling weakly in their grip. Only now did he realize how badly the lightning had ravaged his muscles. Every contortion was agony, like a knife grinding against his bones. ¡°Easy,¡± came a low and soothing voice. He shouldn¡¯t have been able to hear it over the cacophony of noise within the storm crown, but it reached his ears all the same. ¡°Drink this.¡± ¡°Who- drink what?¡± No matter how many times Jason blinked his eyes or how tightly he clenched them shut, his vision didn¡¯t return. ¡°You can¡¯t see it?¡± the voice asked after a startled beat. ¡°No,¡± Jason rasped. Another part of him lost forever. Another failure. Turn back or continue on, neither choice had mattered in the end. He was still the captain of a sunken ship. Worthless. Worthless- ¡°Open your mouth.¡± Jason blinked blind eyes. ¡°Ha-?¡± Boiling hot liquid poured into his mouth, and Jason had already swallowed twice in reflex before the taste of it exploded in his senses. It was the sweetest, spiciest, bitterest and most sour thing he¡¯d ever tasted in his life. If kykeon was to wine as wine was to water, then this was the next step above - no, this was beyond that. There was more there, depth and immensity of vor that his tongue had yet to unravel. It was so far beyond delicious it felt like an insult to describe it as such. The more he thought about it, the more he became convinced that trying to describe it with any word would be an insult. Jason realized he could see again. His savior looked down on him, their full lips pursed in concern, and with reluctance pulled the pewter cup back when it was half-depleted. They shook their head once, long blond hair whipping around and sticking to their cheeks. ¡°That¡¯s all I can spare, I¡¯m sorry. We¡¯ll find you a physicianter-¡± ¡°Scythas?¡± Jason eximed, just barely remembering to swallow thest of the golden brew he¡¯d been given before he spoke. The Hero of the Scything Squall breathed a sigh of relief. ¡°So it did clear up your eyes.¡± His lips smoothing out into a faint smirk. ¡°Or you finally recognized my voice.¡± It had done more than clear his eyes up. Jason looked up at Scythas and saw him with greater rity than he¡¯d had before marching into the storm crown. When he desired it, the mes behind his eyes could illuminate the dark corners of rooms or the shadows between trees when he desired it. This, though? This was something else entirely. The world as he saw it was aglow, vibrant and thrumming with energies he¡¯d at times been able to perceive but never so vividly see. His vision wasn¡¯t the only wound that had been mended. The golden liquid coursed through him, burning like good wine if wine were a thousand times more potent, and everywhere it went it healed him. Then it refined him. And then¡­ then it kept going. It wound its way through him and everything it touched was rebuilt, then broken down and rebuilt better still. ¡°Is that-?¡± Jason asked, but cut himself off with a grimace. ¡°Thank you. That¡¯s twice you¡¯ve saved me now.¡± ¡°It is,¡± Scythas answered his first question, wearily amused. ¡°And twice is a stretch. I¡¯d say Solus saved us both in that alley.¡± That may have been true, but it had been Scythas¡¯ hands that pulled him free of the crows. Jason bit down on those words, though, focusing on the first thing Scythas had said. Not an acknowledgement of his thanks. An answer to his question. It is. Divine nectar, in all its golden glory. Jasonughed breathlessly. ¡°The Fates are kind after all.¡± Scythas raised an eyebrow. ¡°My eyes are better than they ever were before, and I still can¡¯t see more than a few feet in front of my face,¡± Jason exined, grinning. ¡°What are the chances that you¡¯d stumble onto me, here and now, in the midst of all this chaos with a spare cup of nectar in your hand? Seems the weavers decided I was due a break.¡± Scythas clicked his tongue. ¡°If only.¡± Jason blinked. ¡°If the Fates were on our side, I¡¯d have gone with my gut and tracked you down first instead of wasting time looking for your Muse. I should have known better.¡± Several questions came to mind at that moment. Jason voiced the loudest of them. ¡°You tracked me through the storm? You can do that?¡± ¡°Of course not. I had help.¡± His bright eyes flicked up. In Jason¡¯s new sight, the pewter crown of stars upon Scythas¡¯ brow glowed silver-bright. ¡ª You will often scream in pain and sorrow. ¡ª The Young Griffon The Broad¡¯s theory of the tripartite soul was universally known among cultivators of the modern age. Even the furthest reaches of enlightened civilization understood that a man existed in three parts, reason and passion and hunger. It was a given. Like the color of the sky and the progression of numbers. Less ubiquitous, but only just, was his theory of Forms. Centuries ago the Broad had proposed the idea of another existence, another state of being that existed apart from us. Above us. A realm of higher existences, of perfect existences, that our sunken earth could only imitate in the clumsiest sense. The Broad insisted that every idea under the sun existed in this perfect realm. That the household pet you called a hound because it walked on four legs, barked, and came when you called it, was only a pale imitation of the real thing. That there existed a higher power, a perfect Hound, whose image every lowly dog was shaped in. Anything that you could think of, anything that had ever been or ever would be, their Forms had their ce above ours. Everything. Even a man. Such was the theory of immutable Forms. Or, as I hade to understand them, Ideals. The source of growing light shrieked, drowning out the storm crown¡¯s thunder and Prometheus¡¯ roar both. I pped both hands over my ears and along with all of my pankration hands and it did just short of nothing for me. I listed sideways, the world wavering around me, and copsed onto my side. Through bleary eyes, I saw Sol follow suit beside me. I shouted a warning that neither of us could hear and reached out with the limbs of my intent, but they swayed and pped into each other like drunkards. I could do nothing but watch as the golden cup of wine and liquid lead slipped out of Sol¡¯s hand and fell, sttering its contents across the stone. It only took Sol a moment longer than me to steady himself, winded as he was by the additional weight of thirty men falling along with him. It was still toote. He lurched out of the crater he¡¯d made and caught the golden cup as it bounced. Empty. The color drained from his face. He looked to me, and there was nothing I could say. ¡°LEAVE!¡± Prometheus shouted down at us. I felt the word more than I heard it. The nectar, Sol mouthed in bleak denial. Prometheus¡¯ jerked in his chains, looking down at us with wide eyes. ¡°The what-¡± The clouds broke and burnt away above our heads. I looked up, and I saw- Light. The story goes that as punishment for his betrayal and his hubris on mankind¡¯s behalf, the Father had ordered Prometheus bound and left to rot forever more. The Father cursed him to istion without end, and because that was not enough, He plucked an eagle from the heavens andmanded it to tear the captive Titan¡¯s liver out and eat it while he watched. He demanded the eagle return the next day, once the me¡¯s body had been made whole again, to do it all again. And every day after. What emerged from the storm crown above was no eagle. It was living light that came plunging through the Storm That Never Ceased, a creature of scarlet me nearly the size of Prometheus himself and free of binding chains. Larger than any beast that walked the earth,rge enough to catch a whale between its talons and lift it from the sea. Outrageous. Indescribable. In his moment of distraction, Prometheus was left unprepared for the attack. The eagle of the caucasus, the phoenix, struck him like aet. Every amethyst vein in sight, along with the Champion¡¯s gem eyes, red pure white. The phoenix shrieked and sank its enormous talons into the Titan¡¯s flesh. Prometheus screamed. I lurched up to my feet, eyes painfully wide, and stared up at a beast above virtue. The living me pinned Prometheus¡¯ only free limb with one foot, talons each the size of the Eos cutting trenches in the Titan¡¯s wrist and cauterizing them in the same instant. The talons of its other foot stabbed straight through the Titan¡¯s thigh, anchoring the predator to him while he thrashed and screamed in agony. If it truly was as the Broad¡¯s theory insisted, that there hung a higher realm above our own where the best of our ideals existed in unmarred perfection, then the question of cultivation was changed. It ceased to be a question of if, and instead became a question of how? Not if a man can ascend, but how. So long as there¡¯s a ce to go, a path there can be found. And if no such path exists, it can be made. All that¡¯s needed is a goal. All that any man needs is a dream to aspire towards. If the Broad¡¯s theory was epted, then it followed that a perfect Man existed somewhere above and apart from us, a higher power that we could emte. That was the basis of cultivation, in the end. Refining ourselves, purging ourselves of our impurities and imperfections, the portions of our body and soul that stood out in ugly contrast to the ideal. If that was true of man, high-minded andplex as he was, the same must hold true for beasts. And how did the baser creatures of the earth cultivate? They ate. Without preamble or remorse for its prey, the eagle of the caucasus dipped its head and tore Prometheus¡¯ innards from his stomach. Liquid gold sprayed out of the wound and fell like rain down on our heads. Prometheus howled, eyes bulging and mouth opened wide enough to crack his jaw. The phoenix tilted its head back in a cruel mirror motion to the Titan, snapping its ming beak as it swallowed down a chunk of flesh the size of a horse. All the while its existence spread through the eye of the storm crown, bathing everything in its gold and scarlet glow and warming all the world around it. The creature¡¯s savage majesty almost seemed to push against the storm itself - no, not seemed to. It was. Before my eyes, its gold and scarlet glory pressed against the edges of the eye and pitted the phoenix¡¯s might against the storm crown¡¯s. The storm shifted, began to give. A bolt of tribtion lightning fell from heaven and struck the phoenix between its wings. Another struck before the first could find its thunder. Then a third, a fourth, a dozen and a hundred and a thousand after that. A thousand-thousand, and a thousand-thousand of those, all of them centered on the eagle of the caucuses. Lightning enough to scour any Tyrant from this earth hammered down on the living me, and in response it cried out a single mocking note and spread its wings wide. Lightning struck every finger width of them, no less concentrated than before, and the phoenix ignored them all as it dipped its head and tore another chunk out of Prometheus¡¯ side. Standing awash in scarlet heat and golden glory, I beheld the manifestation of a higher ideal. Staring up like my savage ancestors before me, I saw a creature unfettered by the chains that bound me to this earth. A beast unbothered by heaven¡¯s wrath. I saw now what they had imagined then, the purest truth to their hollow-boned imitation. A perfect Form. Freedom''s wings. ¡°Libertas,¡± Sol named it with the voice of his soul, and in my heart it was so. ¡°BOYS!¡± Sol and I jerked as if from a dead sleep, cold water sensation dousing our wonder. My eyes shifted reluctantly from the phoenix, from Libertas, and met Prometheus¡¯ gaze. The Titan¡¯s face was eerily statuesque even in this moment, strained as it was by suffering. He groaned loudly through clenched teeth as Libertas shifted its footing and dug its talons deeper into him. Somehow, the Titan retained his focus through it all. If anything, his urgency had redoubled. ¡°Catch it!¡± Prometheus shouted, his voice rising in agony part way through as Libertas took another chunk of flesh from him. ¡°Before it hits the ground! Catch it in your cup!¡± Catch-? ¡°The blood,¡± the raven in Sol¡¯s shadow snapped at mine, and for the first time since the phoenix¡¯s arrival I looked down at the mountain. Golden ichor fell like rain in fat droplets, and heavier from the wounds where the Titan¡¯s life blood flowed thickest. Yet somehow, in spite of that downpour, there wasn¡¯t a speck of gold to be found on Kaukoso Mons. Nothing but overflowing pools and rivers of liquid lead. As Sol rushed forward to catch a golden drop in his empty cup, I saw one the size of my fist hit the ground beneath the Titan¡¯s feet and turn instantaneously to lead. Prima materia. Impossible, mymon sense protested. I smothered it to silence and raced after my brother. As I rushed across the lead-slicked stone, I reached into my flickering shadow with pankration hands and brought forth each of the ingredients ourpanions had gathered for our cause. Chunks of sulfur and cinnabar, a fistful of ckva salt and three more of herbs and spices. A cupped hand full of honey and another full of milk. Coins of silver and coins of lead. A single vibrant blue flower, its petals burning at their edges. Sol nted his feet and raised his cup to a thin stream of falling ichor. I slid to a stop beside him, heart pounding wildly in my chest. We still needed the wine. I inhaled sharply and punched Sol in the gut as hard as I could. He was watching the falling string of ichor above, utterly unprepared, and the blow folded him over my fist. The Roman gagged once and vomited Orphic wine into my cupped pankration hands. I reached up and guided his cup while he recovered, catching the falling strand of golden ichor out of the air and twirling the cup to catch it again when it sloshed out. As I did, I added the ingredients for each of the four phases in a continuous cascade. Solus had described it as a process of slow burning days to progress through the ckening, whitening, yellowing, and reddening of the brew. Here and now, the strand of liquid gold turned to ck, then white, then a bright yellow as quickly as I could dump the ingredients into the cup. Sol sucked in a breath and straightened as thest of the reagents were added in and the tail end of the falling string hit the cup. Sol snapped his wrist sharply around, catching the stray drops kicked up by falling ichor and stirring the mixture with the motion. The whirlpool darkened as it slowed, and when the surface settled the cup was filled and it was done. Start to finish, all of it in a single pour. I looked to Sol, grinning in wild excitement, just in time to see him follow through and bury his fist in my stomach with the strength of thirty men behind it. When I finally stopped dry heaving, I gave the smug bastard a filthy look. ¡°Worthless Roman. I punched you for a good cause.¡± ¡°So did I.¡± We red at each other while the world fought not toe apart above our heads, while crashing thunder and endless falling spears of lightning fell upon the phoenix of the caucasus as it gutted Prometheus alive. I cracked first, lips curling against my will, and that cracked Sol in turn. He didn¡¯t smirk. It wasn¡¯t a faint gesture of distant amusement. For the first time in all the months I¡¯d known him, Sol smiled in excited wonder. In pure and honest joy. Reaching up, I caught a falling string of golden ichor in the hand I¡¯d marked with the Champion¡¯s de. It pooled in my cupped palm, mingling with my blood, and it burned hotter than any me I¡¯d ever held before. I considered it thoughtfully, Sol watching me with expectant curiosity as I did. But rather than drinking from it myself, I offered my cupped palm up to my brother. He stared at it. Then me. Prometheus had warned us both that we stood no chance against the wrath of heaven, and the truth of it still raged above our heads. We were all of us alone when we challenged the Fates, and what man could face this on their own? It was the grim indictment that every cultivator epted the moment they began the climb. It was simply the way of things. Every man faced heaven alone in the end. As if I¡¯d ept that. ¡°No dogs under heaven,¡± I vowed, and thest barrier fell. Sol reached up with the hand he¡¯d cut with the Champion¡¯s de and caught his own stream of golden ichor in hand. He offered it up to me as I had offered mine. ¡°No more higher powers,¡± he vowed in turn, and from each other¡¯s palms we drank of the Titan me¡¯s ichor. It burned beautifully, more potent than any kykeon could possibly be, and I felt each portion of my tripartite soul seize greedily upon it. The next thing I felt was the notice of an otherworldly predator. Libertas stared down at us, head cocked to the side. Curiosity, or perhaps faint surprise. It hadn¡¯t known we were here, or we hadn¡¯t been worth its notice. Not until now. The phoenix of the caucasus beat its wings once and tore its talons free of the Titan me, rounding on us and swooping down- A titanic hand marred by burntcerations wrapped around the phoenix¡¯s left leg and heaved it back. Libertas shrieked furiously and Prometheus mmed it against the cliff face in response. ¡°GO!¡± the Titan me roared, the sound of it turning swiftly from frantic rage to horrible pain as Libertas battered him against the stone with burning wings and turned its talons upon him once more. Still he held it fast, even when it tore out his throat. Even when it gouged out his eyes. Sol and I turned and sprinted back into the storm crown. We bounded back down Kaukoso Mons, terrified and exhrated and enlightened. It felt like flying. ¡ª For the Father¡¯s heart is harsh, and everyone whose ruling power is new is ruthlessly cruel. ¡ª Chapter 1.124 [Nikolas Aetos] Chapter 1.124 [Niks Aetos] The Stark de, Niks Aetos Somehow, even now, the image that appeared when Niko called to mind his cousins was a single night from years ago. The night they¡¯d carved their refuge out of the eastern mountain range had been a warm one, the full moon and its chorus of stars burning bright over their heads. It was Niko that did the bulk of the work, though Lio carved out more than his fair share and the rest of them chipped away as much as they could. When all was said and done they had a cavern of their own making, justrge enough to fit the seven of them and a low burning fire. He remembered the exhausted satisfaction on each of their faces, their expressions glowing in that first fire¡¯s light. They had told each other stories - grand tragedies that they¡¯d all heard before but never tired of retelling, stories of lessons they¡¯d learned from their mentors within the Rosy Dawn Cult, and eventually, mundane stories of their time apart from each other. He remembered Lio¡¯s excitement that night, carefully controlled to the point that Niko was the only one that noticed it, and he remembered how his cousin¡¯s scarlet eyes had shone when it was his time to speak. He hadn¡¯t wasted a moment on preamble. ¡°Today, I did this.¡± And to the astonishment of all of his cousins, the Young Aristocrat had drawn upon his pneuma and in an instant shaped it to his will. Six rosy hands had appeared in the smoke above the night fire, each one distinct from his own flesh and blood limbs. Niko had been approaching the peak of the Sophic Realm at that point, but he¡¯d been every bit as shocked as their younger cousins. More so, perhaps, because he¡¯d been learned enough to fully appreciate the Young Aristocrat¡¯s feat. It was impressive enough that he¡¯d been able to manifest anything at his age and level of refinement, but then Niko had achieved much the same in his own time as a Civic cultivator. No, what made it exceptional was what he had manifested. Not a sword of his intent, as Niko and so many others favored. Not a hammer or an axe or even a spear. He¡¯d manifested hands. Their younger cousins hadn¡¯t understood how incredible that was then. Niko wouldn¡¯t be surprised if they still didn¡¯t fully grasp it today. The issue with manifesting intent, and the reason why every cultivator under the sun didn¡¯t go around plucking whatever tool or weapon they happened to need from thin air, was because it required more than just control. For a cultivator to project Sword Intent, to shape their vital breath and condense it into a corporeal de, they had to understand just what it was they were creating - and to what end. Swordsmithing was an art as much as it was a craft, and Niko had seen for himself the wondrous littleplexities that went into the creation of a quality de. That being said, a sword was simple. A de was even more so. Swords, daggers, hammers and axes and spears, the mostmonly seen manifestations of refined intent, weremon because of their simplicity. The moreplex the working, the more difficult it was to manifest. Adding a hilt to a naked de and making a sword of it, for example, made the venture twice as difficult. There were twenty-seven bones in a human hand alone. Each one connected by joints and ligaments, strips of muscles and flesh functioning in staggering synchronicity. Manifesting just one would have been an outrageous feat. Watching little Lio manipte six hands of his intent as naturally as he would his own, striking at the rising smoke with clenched fists and snatching grapple motions, Niko hadn¡¯t said a word. Yet despite that, regardless of the fact that he was silent while Myron and Heron whooped and tried to catch the floating hands, while Castor pped and Rena cried out in wonder, and while little Lydiaughed in pure joy for her favorite cousin - in spite of all that, Niko knew he was by far the one most impressed by the aplishment. Lio had known it, too. He¡¯d tried to smirk when they locked eyes across the fire, but a child prodigy was still a child in the end. When he¡¯d seen Niko¡¯s honest wonder, the smirk had given way to a toothy smile. His eyes had burned with satisfaction, with pride, and with renewed determination. That was the image of his cousins that Niko kept closest in his heart. When he told stories of them it was the rosy glow of that night fire lighting up his mind¡¯s eye. When he missed them it was theirughter and their joy that he recalled. When he thought of the Young Aristocrat, it was Lio¡¯s smile winning out. Satisfaction overturning arrogance. Niks Aetos had spent his years abroad flourishing and changing as a man, growing into his own and making his mark on the world outside his uncle¡¯s ind. Fool that he was, he¡¯d decided somewhere along the way that he was the only one changing. He¡¯de home expecting to see those very same faces gathered around the fire. Older, to be sure, some of them closer to adults than children, but unchanged in all the ways that mattered. Prodigy of prodigies they called him. Yet no matter how many times he was proven wrong, he just couldn¡¯t make this lesson stick. What kind of prodigy couldn¡¯t recognize what was right in front of his face? What sort of man didn¡¯t take the time to know his own family? No man at all. Niko stood in the knee-high water of a pavilion fountain that had been scattered rubble just a few moments before, as distantly aware of his wife¡¯s grip on his arm as he was the mayhem on the mountain, and stared nkly at a stranger wearing his little cousin¡¯s face. ¡°My fault? My fault!?¡± Heron raged, still breathless and soaking wet from his dash into the Ionian. ¡°You gave him free reign for months! You let him skip his lessons, turned away while he ran wild in the gymnasium, indulged him while he did anything and everything he wanted, and yet it¡¯s my fault-¡± ¡°He¡¯s your brother!¡± Stavros Aetos shouted, blue eyes zing as he strained against the courtyard¡¯s stone guardians that were holding him in ce. The stone statues of past Heroes were unmoved, bolstered by a far greater force standing silent nearby. ¡°Your younger brother. You should have taken action!¡± ¡°Months.¡± Heron stalked up and down the perimeter of the fountain, fists clenching and unclenching impotently. ¡°You let him retrace all of Lio¡¯s steps for months, and now you act like he¡¯s been stolen. As if this could have gone any other way.¡± He was nearly a man himself now, sixteen years old, and had grown half a hand taller just in the months that Niko had been home. He took after his father - and Uncle Fotios by proxy - more visibly every day. He¡¯d grown into his frame, his Rosy Dawn silks clinging to him where they¡¯d hung free before. He¡¯d shed the boyhood fat in his cheeks to reveal a strong jaw that changed his demeanor entirely. His brow, too. He¡¯d always had a heavy brow, but it was more pronounced these days. Or perhaps he simply glowered more. Niko looked closer, searching for that boy who had regarded Lio¡¯s rosy hands of dawn with such wonder. The young Heron that had looked up to Niko and Lio with unmarred admiration throughout their upbringing. Niko¡¯s eyes were sharper now than they¡¯d ever been before. How was it, then, that he couldn¡¯t see the faintest hint of that boy in his cousin¡¯s face? ¡°He¡¯s only ten years old, Heron.¡± Aunt Raisa¡¯s burning eyes were pinched, her voice shaky with fear for her younger son and rage against the stone statues that held her back from sprinting into the sea. Still, she mastered herself as best she could. ¡°If your eyes saw what ours couldn¡¯t, why didn¡¯t you say something?¡± Heron gnashed his teeth and looked away, and for the first time since they¡¯d emerged from the heart of the mountain, Niko locked eyes with his younger cousin. The usation in his eyes made Niko¡¯s stomach clench. ¡°What was I supposed to say?¡± Heron finally said, turning back to his parents. ¡°My younger brother by six years has surpassed me in cultivation, flown by as if he had wings, and you haven¡¯t looked at me the same way since.¡± ¡°That¡¯s not-¡± Raisa began. Stavros didn¡¯t let her finish. ¡°This isn¡¯t about you.¡± ¡°What could I have said?¡± Heron snapped. ¡°Tell me the words that would have convinced you I was concerned for my brother and not resentful of his climb! Show me the action I should have taken against a child two ranks above me - too stubborn to listen and too quick for me to catch. Should I have wrapped him up in his sheets while he was sleeping? Beaten him ¡®til he saw sense?¡± ¡°Heron!¡± ¡°What? That¡¯s the way, isn¡¯t it-¡± ¡°Enough,¡± spoke the kyrios of the Rosy Dawn, and it was like a spell had been broken. Niko blinked, perplexed, and tore his eyes away from his cousin to take in the state of the pavilion. He saw that Uncle Fotios and Aunt Chryse hadn¡¯t moved from the spot they¡¯d been in when they received the news about Lydia. Uncle Damon had stopped them himself, gripping them each by the shoulder and forcing them to their knees in the ruined pool. Though the water bubbled and steamed beneath them, nothing else came of their wrath. The kyrios had smothered the worst of it at once. Niko carefully pried Iphys¡¯ fingers away from his arm, one at a time, and sped their hands together instead. ncing back, he saw that the rest of theirpanions were still with them, though they all looked like they¡¯d rather have been anywhere else. Iphys and theirpanions were proud Heroic souls in their own rights, but the twin eagles and their wives were Captains of the Heroic Realm. They¡¯d spent weeks down in the mountain training and breaking bread together, sharing stories in the quiet moments that lingered between cultivation. Niko¡¯spanions had grownfortable with them, as he¡¯d hoped they would, but perhaps too much so in the end. His wife and his friends had forgotten what his family was. Their anger had reminded them. ¡°You knew,¡± Fotios spoke, ring up at his eldest brother. Damon stared down at him, expression level. ¡°You knew that this would happen-¡± ¡°Could happen.¡± ¡°You knew,¡± Lydia¡¯s father spat just past the kyrio¡¯s scarlet robes. The spittle hissed and turned to steam as soon as it touched the fountain pool. ¡°And you did nothing to stop it. You didn¡¯t leave a single worthy eye to watch over them. Our children, Damon.¡± The kyrios¡¯ hands were full, so he gestured with his gaze instead. His blue eyes speared through a man dressed in charred silks, one of over a dozen sophic cultivators that were kneeling in the boiling waters at the edge of the fountain. The man in question was already pale faced with pain and trepidation. When Damon Aetos¡¯ attention fell upon him, the sophist thrust his hands down into the boiling water to hide their sudden trembling. ¡°I left behind wise men to mind things in our absence, as I¡¯ve always done.¡± ¡°You left behind the dregs,¡± Stavros bit out in a dark voice that promised violence. ¡°You left nothing but the scraps that weren¡¯t worth casting out. You left our children unattended, and my son is gone because of it!¡± ¡°Let us go, brother,¡± Chryse urged him, wrenching her arms against the stone sentinels holding her back. Her vibrant blonde hair hung down over her eyes, her heart¡¯s me shining through the curtain. ¡°Whatever this is, they¡¯ve no part in it. Let us bring them home.¡± ¡°Be reasonable, Damon,¡± Raisa murmured. She didn¡¯t raise her head, staring down at her own reflection in the pool where she knelt. ¡°They¡¯re just children.¡± The kyrios considered them both. ¡°So were we.¡± The twin eagles sagged, Stavros hanging limp in the sentinels¡¯ stone arms while Fotios¡¯ shoulders bowed beneath an unseen weight. Their wives turned to them, helpless, but Niko¡¯s uncles had nothing more to say. Chryse whispered a curse. Raisa began to sob. ¡°Nephew,¡± the kyrios spoke, and though Heron snapped to attention Niko knew their uncle was talking to him. ¡°Go and fetch your cousins for me.¡± Ah, right. Rena was down at the docks, in tears just like her mother, and Castor was hounding the sophists that had watched his sister go. Rena and Castor. He¡¯d seen them both countless times since his return. How strange that the only image in his mind was their delighted apuse, the night fire glow and the light of Lio¡¯s hands dancing in their eyes. ¡°Niko.¡± The voices of four of hispanions hissed his name, and Iphys gripped his hand tight enough to snap an iron bar. Urgent. ¡°We don¡¯t have time,¡± she whispered in his ear. She was right, of course. They¡¯d waited long enough, and all on his behalf. He¡¯d taken months from them - he wouldn¡¯t take another. Especially not this one. ¡°The Games are in a month, uncle,¡± he said firmly. He stepped forward, away from his wife and hispanions and over the lip of the fountain. The boiling water would have been an agony to the philosophers currently kneeling in wait for his uncle¡¯s judgment, but to Niko it was as bath water. ¡°If we¡¯re not in Olympia by sundown tonight we won¡¯t be able topete.¡± He squared his shoulders and faced the kyrios squarely. ¡°My friends came here to see me wed. They came because I asked them - because I wanted them to meet the man that raised me.¡± Niko inclined his head in deference to his uncle, and then he threw everything to the wind. ¡°I didn¡¯t bring them here in chains, uncle. These people aren¡¯t yours to keep.¡± There came gasps, along with a flurry of half-spoken warnings and exmations from all around the pavilion. Uncle Fotios and Aunt Raisa both twisted to look up at him in rm, still trapped by the kyrios¡¯ hand on each of their shoulders. Niko ignored it all and forced himself to match Damon Aetos piercing stare. To stand tall and unshaken. Like his father would have done. ¡°Your friends are guests in my domain,¡± the kyrios finally said. ¡°They¡¯re free to leave at any time.¡± Niko stared at him steadily. Unspoken went his response: Not without me. Damon¡¯s lips curled. ¡°Fetch your cousins for me, Niks,¡± he told him again, sky blue eyes just a bit more fond. ¡°After that you¡¯re free to go.¡± Ah. The Sand Reckoner¡¯s workshop was the same as it always was. ¡°I need a ship,¡± Niko dered, catching a hysterical young woman as she stumbled away from ancing beam of concentrated sunlight. Her eyes were wild and red with terrified tears, her arms and legs peppered by light burns. He eased her back from another beam and handed her off to his wife. ¡°Archimedes! I need-¡± ¡°Please!¡± the young woman cried out, and to Niko¡¯s surprise she squirmed out of Iphys¡¯ arms. Skittishly, like a deer with a broken leg, she advanced forward towards the maze of bronze mirrors and the burningnces of sunlight they cast. ¡°The Young Miss needs help! Please-!¡± An old man¡¯s frustrated shout came drifting in from the humble estate¡¯s courtyard. ¡°Leave me ALONE!¡± The Sand Reckoner, too, was the same as he always was. ¡°I¡¯m not leaving without a ship,¡± Niko dered, and walked straight through the maze of burningnces. Most parted inexplicably to let him pass, and those that did graze him did little more than singe his silks. A pitiful show - the old man could have done better if he¡¯d wanted. Archimedes red balefully at him when he entered. He was still white-haired and rail thin, his bloodshot eyes as manic as ever. He looked like every true philosopher that Niko had ever met. ¡°Master,¡± he greeted his old mentor. ¡°I need a ship.¡± ¡°You and everyone else in this city,¡± the Sand Reckoner snapped. ¡°Take a look around you at the ships I have to give! See any you like, boy?¡± ¡°No.¡± Just piles and piles of garbage. ¡°A shame, truly. Take the girl with you on your way out-¡± ¡°I¡¯ll take that one.¡± Niko pointed a finger at the man¡¯s midsection - specifically, his ragged red attire. Archimedes¡¯ eyes narrowed. ¡°You¡¯re pointing at skin and bones, boy.¡± ¡°No.¡± Niko smiled pleasantly, coaxing the mes behind his eyes to burn bright hot. ¡°I¡¯m pointing at the ship you keep tucked in your cloak.¡± Chapter 1.125 Chapter 1.125 The Son of Rome ¡°GO!¡± the Titan roared, as the phoenix of the caucuses savaged him with its talons- ¡°SEEK SAFER SHORES,¡± the Titanmanded, as the legions of Rome fell screaming up into the sky. We raced down the mountain without a moment¡¯s pause for the Storm That Never Ceased. Our steps were bounding, our energy overflowing. The tribtion hounds that pursued us in our descent were met with Griffon¡¯s lightning limbs and the tip of my celestial spear. Our momentum was unstoppable, as much within as it was without. The Titan me¡¯s golden ichor burned in my stomach, warming me to the tips of my fingers and toes and growing warmer every second. My every step crushed the loose stones on Kaukoso Mons and caused the nearby veins of amethyst to re indigo-bright, but in spite of that my heart felt lighter than it had in years. The weight on my shoulders was heavier than it had ever been, but I no longer doubted my ability to bear it up. ¡°STAND READY WHEN THE CAPTAIN CALLS.¡± It was one thing to see the truth of something with your own eyes, to live through that experience for good and for ill. No matter how harrowing a thing might be, no matter how cruel or improbable, it was human nature to trust what your eyes told you if nothing else at all. The secondhand conveyance of that lived experience was another thing entirely. No matter what the Greeks imed, theirs was not the only way to cultivate - and further, it was not a perfect way forward. Even my mentor, one of their greatest thinkers, had acknowledged that much. Some things had to be seen firsthand. Some things could not be taken on faith alone. When the imposter wearing Anastasia¡¯s face had presented me with her living memory of Caesar¡¯s Edict, my desire to believe her had been desperate. But some things were too oundish to be taken on faith. I had never heard of a philosopher using their rhetoric to convey a lie of lived experience, but neither had I seen a titan of lightning wrath appear above my own legion as I had the men in her memory. I had seen staggering wonders and horrors both during my time afield, but never had my eyes seen anything like that. I still didn¡¯t fully trust the mad visions I had seen in the Orphic house. How, then, could I trust the story of an imposter? The woman wearing Anastasia¡¯s face had struck me with her memory like a club and vanished into the night before I could regain my senses. Then, tragedy of tragedies, Socrates had returned and dered the nectar spoiled. I had wanted to believe in the truth of her lived experience. I had desired it so desperately that I could have spit blood. But I wasn¡¯t that foolish anymore. Then I¡¯did eyes on the Titan me, and realized I knew even less of this world than I¡¯d thought. ¡°KNOW THAT GAIUS JULIUS CAESAR''S WILL HAS CAST YOU OUT." There were cmities in this world that I had never even imagined beyond the boundaries of night fire stories. Buried beneath the earth and chained to unseen mountain peaks were answers to questions I had forgotten how to ask. I had been arrogant. I had dismissed the imposter¡¯s memory not in spite of my desires, but because of them. I had grown so used to having no hope at all that its sudden arrival had felt like thrusting my frost-bitten heart into a roaring me. Who was I to doubt the General of the West, to question what he had been capable of in his final moments? Compared to what I had seen inside the Storm That Never Ceased, what was so impossible about Caesar¡¯s final act? How could his Edict be any more oundish than the enemy that had necessitated it - the legions of unnatural demons that I had seen with my own eyes? Killed with my own hands? Nothing. Nothing at all. Griffon¡¯s joy was dazzling as we burst out of the storm crown and inhaled the open air. I couldn¡¯t have stifled my own smile if I¡¯d tried. I had been aimless the day I set foot in the city of Olympia. The wisdom of an old mentor had been the only thing left for me to cling to, along with the coldfort of my resolve. I had arrived seeking a spark to light my own pyre, and what I¡¯d found instead was something infinitely greater. I had found hope. Seek safer shores. My city had fallen, but Rome was more than concrete and winding roads. I had failed Caesar, failed my legion, but the war was not yet over. I was not all that remained. It could no longer be enough for me to share a funeral me with Carthage¡¯s dogs, not when I was needed elsewhere. Seek safer shores. The legions of Rome were lost. Caesar¡¯s hand had cast them out and only the General of the West knew where they¡¯d been sent. Hundreds of thousands of Roman soldiers and provincial citizens of the Republic, gone as if they¡¯d never been. They were lost. But I could find them. SEEK SAFER SHORES. And I would. I would cover every coast on this earth with the print of my boot if that was what needed to be done. We kept on running without pause, racing down the craggy mountain path towards the invisible line that turned Tyrant eyes away. Griffon caught my eye and clenched the fist he¡¯d marked with Herakles¡¯ de. ¡°Enough of barking dogs,¡± he reminded me. As if I¡¯d forget. I raised my own clenched fist and knocked it against his. ¡°Enough of higher powers.¡± I¡¯d do whatever it took to bring Roma¡¯s lost legions home. And when the work was done, it would be my own hands that nailed their traitorous generals to the cross. ¡ª It had been early morning when we first set foot inside the storm crown, the rosy dawn a bright promise of theing day. When Griffon and I came charging out we found the celestial glory descending swiftly into burning dusk. The final day before the month of mandatory training for the Olympic Games was nearly at its end. In our absence, the Raging Heaven Cult had fallen into madness. We raced down stone-carved steps ten at a time and very quickly found ourselves enveloped in a chaos I¡¯d seen the likes of only once before. Only on the first day of the Rosy Dawn¡¯s initiation rites had I seen such an undisciplined mass of cultivatorsying into each other like this. The difference here and now was the scale of it all. The brawling crowds and spirited games that had spilled across the Scarlet City¡¯s eastern mountain range during the rites had beenposed primarily of civic cultivators, and low ranking ones at that. They had all been of the Rosy Dawn, and though I hadn¡¯t taken the time to count them all back then, I was confident their sum total hadn¡¯t surpassed a thousand. The Rosy Dawn was in some ways only half a cult, and doubly limited in its scope by its colonial status. The Raging Heaven Cult, by contrast, was thergest institution of its kind. The baseline for its mystikos stood an entire realm above the Rosy Dawn, and there were thousands of them. More importantly than either of those facts, though, was what the Raging Heaven inparison to Griffon¡¯s humble colony cult. Even the chaos of the Rosy Dawn¡¯s initiation rites had been carefully controlled by the unseen hand of Damon Aetos. The Raging Heaven, by contrast, hadcked a clear leader since Bakkhos¡¯ death. Its internal factions had been left to stew in that uncertainty for months, jumping at every shadow and eyeing every faction outside their own. All of them waiting for the bones to drop, and all of them dreading their new ce in the mountain¡¯s hierarchy when they settled. I didn¡¯t know whose hand it had been to cast the dice, but it was in to see that they¡¯d been cast. Men and women in torn silks and dangling sleeves of blue, yellow, fuschia, and grass green abounded near the peak. Though there were others caught in the press, most notably the native members of the Raging Heaven with no affiliation to other cults, the vast majority were from the factions I had dealt with since returning from Thracia. Some of them recognized my face as we sprinted down the steps. A mid-ranking Sophic cultivator from the Howling Wind Cult lurched away from the woman he¡¯d been beating bloody and called out frantically to me as we passed. Whatever he said was lost in the dull roar of the hundreds waging crude war all around us, and when he tried to pursue us his opponent took the opportunity to leap onto his back and dig her nails into his eyes. He was far from the only one to call out to us, but we didn¡¯t slow down for any of them. Our momentum was only growing more unstoppable the more of the mayhem our eyes beheld. The Titan¡¯s golden ichor was only growing brighter within me, cycling faster and hotter every time my heart beat. We ran, avoiding what could be avoided and brushing aside what could not with pankration intent and limbs made heavy by the weight of better men. The enormity of it, the aimless violence - there were children in the mix. They were young prodigies with potential far beyond their peers, but it did them little good when adults twice their size broke their teeth against the stone steps. Everywhere I looked I saw the mad injustice of Greece on proud disy. No. This went beyond the worst of Greek culture. This aimless, staggering violence was a cultivator¡¯s sin first and foremost. Griffon and I broke up the worst of what we saw, but only what we could reach without breaking stride. A brawl on this scale was beyond either of our abilities to stop. Wecked the power. More importantly, wecked the time. [Seek safer shores.] Whatever came of this, a portion of it would be on my head. Even so, I wouldn¡¯t waste another day on this mountain. Fortunately, there were forces on this mountain that could raise their hand against this chaos and snuff it like a candle. That one of them hadn¡¯t already stepped in told me the stalemate between the Raging Heaven¡¯s Elders was still holding strong. That changed tonight. ¡°Say this works,¡± Griffon called out to me in the voice of his soul, the words carrying easily through the equally soundless cacophony of weaponized rhetoric. ¡°Assume that Old ¡®Zalus lets us in to see his wife at all, and take it on faith that he loves her enough that curing her wins his favor. What then?¡± Two young men in ragged Waning Wax attire appeared in my path, both of them near the peak of the Sophic Realm. They each shouted a warning, and at the same time they struck out at me with the strength of learned truths. I lowered my shoulder and stepped through their influence, and then I stepped through them. They were both flung back in different directions, bonelessly, as if they¡¯d been struck by a charging bull. ¡°He puts a stop to whatever this is,¡± I answered Griffon. ¡°And when all seven of his peers strike him down for stepping out of his gilded cage?¡± ¡°Not seven. Four. The other four are on my side. With ¡®Zalus, we¡¯ll have the majority. They won¡¯t start a fight they have any chance of losing, not if they can avoid it.¡± Griffon vaulted over a man and a woman that were kicking seven shades of shit out of a boy his cousin¡¯s age, and as he passed his pankration hands gripped each of their heads and mmed them together. He cocked a golden eyebrow at me while the two fell into a limp heap behind us. ¡°They¡¯re only ¡®on your side¡¯ because they hate Zalus more than they revile you. What makes you think they¡¯ll stand with him? What makes you think he¡¯ll stand with them?¡± ¡°Experience.¡± Griffon barked augh. ¡°And after that? Once the dust has settled and we¡¯ve returned to where we started, what do we do about the question of the crown? Even a city like Olympia isn¡¯trge enough for five men to rule it.¡± ¡°It¡¯srger than that. The indigo throne isrge enough to seat eight.¡± ¡°Ho?¡± Scarlet eyes glittered with anticipation. Caesar¡¯s Edict had changed everything, and at the same time it had changed nothing at all. My current purpose had no impact on the actions I¡¯d taken as a raven among crows. The consequences remained the same, and here and now they were spilling over like blood on Kaukoso Mons. Indirectly or not, I could see my hand in this mayhem. If it was a choice between my conscience and the people of Rome, I¡¯d suffer the sleepless nights without a second thought. Thankfully, this situation wasn¡¯t quite that binary. There was work here that I could do before I set sail for safer shores. I couldn¡¯t rece Bakkhos, but that was fine. A city could survive without a king. Even better, it could thrive. Left to their own devices, the Tyrants of the Raging Heaven Cult would sooner drink liquid lead than embrace their fellow Elders in alliance. However. My time as the Raven had proven they could be persuaded. My unlikely coalition, threadbare as it may have been, was proof enough that they could y the game if pressed. A greater theater could force them all to stand together, if only for a time. Unfortunately for the Raging Heaven¡¯s venerable Elders, and fortunately for everyone else in Olympia, that greater threat would be here in a month. What better enemy to bring them all together than the upstart kyrioi that had taken their old thrones? It wasn¡¯t a perfect solution, but the best ones never were. It would have to be enough. Though the words were silent to my ears, the voice of my soul resounded with the pride I felt for my once great city - my still great city. ¡°In Rome, we called them the Triumvirate.¡± ¡ª Chapter 1.126 Chapter 1.126 The Son of Rome The melee grew more chaotic the further down the mountain we went. The junior estates for the youngest and least of the Raging Heaven¡¯s mystikos came and went, and soon enough I saw that it was more than just my own shaky coalition at war on this mountain. I had hoped otherwise, but deep in my gut I¡¯d known. The initiates of the Howling Wind, Broken Tide, Waning Wax, and Scattered Foam had made it furthest up the mountain, but they were not alone. I sprinted through the fork that joined our winding path to the primary steps, those that led straight down to the Raging Heaven¡¯s grand entry gates, and I saw a grim cacophony of refined violence spilling all the way down the mountain. Hundreds upon hundreds of cultivators from all over the free world spat and shouted and raged against one another in countless personal vendettas, acting for all the world as if every single one of them was center stage and all the rest of the mountain their audience. I saw shing des forged from iron and bronze, some studded with gems and others iid with glimmering veins in the style of the mountain¡¯s tribtion amethyst. I saw cult techniques spring forth in the dozens with every passing moment, manifested virtues like crashing waves and gale winds that raged without regard for bystanders. I saw men and women washed away and buried beneath their fellow initiates. In other ces I saw them crushed and burned and blinded - some all at the same time. The brawl unfurled beneath us like a scroll, and every petty feud I saw was a word written in Raging Heaven¡¯s blood - each one burning sullen as a brand. For every sword that cut its intended target, there was another that strayed into a nearby brawl. An unnoticed initiate run through by mistake, a sure blow knocked aside by another cultivator¡¯s strike, and on and on it went. In some ces, even apparent allies in the same cult attire shed like raging bulls. It was a sickening sight, and at the same time it made my palms itch in anticipation. The Roman portion of my soul was at odds with the Greek portion, as was usually the case. I could almost feel it, ridiculous as the thought seemed. Griffon, for his part, was entirely in his element. His pankration hands were a blur of scarlet light around him as he ran down the mountain path, catching and redirecting and casting aside whatever stray techniques and weapons came his way. The further we descended the worse the fighting got, yet his good mood had only grown. ¡°I still don¡¯t like it.¡± His words were damning, but his eyes remained bright. ¡°If everything goes exactly as you want it to, you¡¯ll have only bought them time. The tree has nine roots - one of them is dead and the other eight are rotten. It doesn¡¯t need tending. It needs uprooting.¡± ¡°Maybe so. But are we strong enough to uproot it?¡± Griffon leapt into the air and spun, dodging a volley of shimmering bronze arrows that thrummed with vicious energy. He struck the archer responsible, a junior philosopher from the Brazen Aegis, with a roundhouse kick to the side of the head. The woman was unconscious before she hit the ground. ¡°Not yet,¡± he conceded. ¡°I still don¡¯t like it. It¡¯s naive.¡± ¡°It¡¯s a solution. Nothing is perfect.¡± ¡°Wrong.¡± Griffon¡¯s pneuma red vibrantly, more so than it had been a moment ago and less so than it would be a moment from now. His eyes remained locked on the path ahead of us, but I could tell his mind was back up in the storm crown. ¡°Nothing down here is perfect,¡± I amended. For a long moment Griffon said nothing at all. Then I saw it from the corner of my eye. That ruinous smile. ¡°Not yet.¡± We made it over halfway down the mountain before we caught the eye of someone we couldn¡¯t just run through. Given the state of the mountain and our rtive weakness, we¡¯d been fortunate to make it that far at all. After the months we¡¯d spent drawing ire from everyone we could, it was all but inevitable we¡¯d hit such a wall. He was a stout man in silks the color of rust and dried blood, and his fellow initiates all but flung themselves out of his path as he raced up the mountain to meet us. His stony expression was a foreboding contrast to the screaming fury of his pneuma. He was a captain of the Sophic Realm, and his hoplon shield was covered in blood. Griffon noticed the approaching cultivator at the same moment I did. He took the man¡¯s measure in an instant and found him wanting, shouting a challenge and leaping down to meet him. Together, we might have been able to beat him. With Prometheus¡¯ golden blood coursing through me, I felt like I could beat anyone on that mountain. Even if I couldn¡¯t, I had half a mind to try. Fortunately, it was only half a mind. Griffon trusted me to watch his nk while he engaged, and so he was entirely unprepared for me to pivot and tackle him off the mountain path before he could engage with the captain from the Infernal Frenzy Cult. Griffon shouted in outrage, our pursuer moved to capitalize on our distraction, and I finished drawing the raven¡¯s mantle over my head. I stepped into the shadow of a mountain grotto and left the sophic captain to his carnage. The tempered mantle of the raven did more than just unsettle those who looked upon it. Prior to our trip to Thracia, our ck rags had only resembled shadows. Likewise, our ability to step through shadows had been little more than a trick of the light. It was camouge - exceptionally good camouge, but in the end only that. Thracia had changed that. Stepping through the shadows of the Orphic House had been an eye opening experience in more ways than one. Among the many things I¡¯d taken with me from that ce, this was one of the most useful. Griffon and I moved like ghosts through the shadows of Kaukoso Mons. So long as we stayed immersed we were utterly undetectable, even to the other crows we found skulking around in search of easy targets. It forced us to move slower, more methodically, but not agonizingly so. The shadows of the men and women brawling on the mountain were closed off to us for reasons I couldn¡¯t exin, but in the burning light of dusk we had more than enough mountain crags and grottos to make our way down unbothered. We were nearly there when Griffon spoke up, scaring the ragged assassin we were creeping by half to death in the process. ¡°A problem remains.¡± I seized the crow and mped my hand over their mouth before they could scream. I rifled through their rags with my other hand in search of weapons, and it was then I discovered another boon the raven¡¯s tempered mantle had afforded me. Before, Griffon and I had been forced to wait for our captive¡¯s ink-ck essence to reveal itself of its own ord. Now, my hand closed around a bird¡¯s delicate frame and drew it from the assassin¡¯s rags. The man I was holding spasmed, and the ink-ck construct of pneuma began to shriek as soon as I pulled it free. I crushed the crow¡¯s skull with my teeth and tore its head free, chewing methodically. My nose wrinkled. How could Sorea stand this taste? ¡°I¡¯m listening,¡± I said, offering Griffon the rest of the crow construct and tossing the assassin out of the shadows. He fell in a heap among a group of senior philosophers that were cutting each other to bloody shreds with nothing more than vicious rhetoric, and after a startled beat the sophists turned away from one another and swarmed the ragged crow. ¡°This venture relies entirely on Polyzalus¡¯ love for his wife,¡± Griffon said after he¡¯d swallowed down his share. ¡°It relies on the nectar.¡± I looked sharply at him. After all we¡¯d just seen? ¡°You think the brew is bad?¡± ¡°No. I think it¡¯s exactly what it was intended to be.¡± Ah. ¡°You think Socrates lied to Selene?¡± ¡°I think some things are worth seeing for ourselves.¡± I grimaced. Even if the nectar we¡¯d brewed was pure, who was to say it would actually heal the Oracle? It was a fair concern. One we could test. ¡°Fine,¡± I said, resigned. ¡°We¡¯ll decide it with dice. Loser gets stabbed and takes a sip from the cup.¡± Griffon chuckled and abruptly changed course, bounding through the shadows towards a nearby marble building. ¡°I have a better idea.¡± We emerged from the shadows in the middle of a triage under siege. This had been a physician¡¯s ordered domain once, I could tell, but it had been swept up in the day¡¯s chaos as surely as the rest of the cult. Every upright cot and bed was upied, some of them with two or three injured cultivators upying them depending on size. Nearly as many of the cots had been knocked over in the chaos, though, spilling their patients out onto the bloodied marble floors. From the split second of screaming I heard before we revealed ourselves, I gathered the gist of things - the physicians had taken in as many wounded as they could when the brawl first began, but they¡¯d rapidly run out of space and materials and tried to lock the ce down. The assants that had forced their way in were a mix of cultivators both genuine and dishonest. Some of them were fighting for what remained of the medical supplies so they could help their downed friends. Others were aiming to exploit the chaos and cut down their bed-ridden rivals. All of them, physicians and patients and assants alike, froze like frightened deer when Griffon and I stepped out of the shadows cast by a privacy curtain in the center of the triage. It onlysted a second. Griffon and I made full use of that time. Twenty-nine scarlet hands exploded from Griffon¡¯s soul and flooded the triage unit with their light. I drew my bronze spear from the raven¡¯s cloak and drew it back like it was a javelin, pointing a damning finger at a kind-looking woman whose eyes had been manically locked on an unconscious patient before we¡¯d unveiled ourselves. She dropped the short de she¡¯d been holding in both hands and I pivoted, flinging the spear as hard as I could at another cultivator that had a physician pinned to the bloody marble. The man lunged to the side and my spear took him through the left shoulder and nailed him to the column ten feet behind where he¡¯d been. Griffon stalked up and down the rows of patients while I cleared out the rest of the invaders. His pankration hands darted around the room, some of them assisting with the expulsion but most of them falling upon the patients and wounded doctors. A few of them flinched and screamed, a few more tried to fling themselves from their beds to get away from him, but he would not be denied. One by one he took them in his hands, and one by one their protests went quiet after only a few moments. When thest of the assants had been banished from the healing house, I turned and beheld a miracle in motion. Griffon stood over the bed of a crumpled woman while the rest of his hands flooded the triage with healing light. Bruises were smoothed away like they were smudges of mud, minor cuts were mended in an instant and more serious gauges were sewed shut by deft hands of corporeal pneuma. Other injuries that couldn¡¯t be seen by an external eye were nheless mended, patients suddenly breathing easier with scarlet limbs pressed to their chests, color returning to gaunt faces as if he¡¯d siphoned the rosy light of dawn from his soul and into their flesh. ¡°You again,¡± croaked the physician I¡¯d seen pinned to the floor. He forced himself up shakily. His nose was broken and the wraps around his hands and arms were soaked through with blood to the point that the indigo and the gold fabric were almost indistinguishable from one another. He red at Griffon. ¡°Was this your doing?¡± ¡°Was what my doing?¡± Griffon poked and prodded the woman he was standing over with his own flesh and blood hands. She didn¡¯t protest, only stared up at the ceiling in bleak despair. ¡°This. All of this!¡± the stout physician shouted. He tried to wave a hand at the state of the triage pavilion and abruptly copsed back to the floor, unable to support his weight on just one arm. ¡°I¡¯ve heard the stories about you and your-¡± his eyes flickered to me and he faltered. ¡°You think we caused this?¡± Griffon asked mildly without looking back. ¡°You think two men are to me for the Raging Heaven Cult¡¯s sorry state? You think we had a hand in this madness?¡± Each question beat the physician further down, until he was forced to turn his eyes away. I expected Griffon to leave it at that. Instead, he hummed. ¡°You might be right.¡± Griffon held out a hand to me. I passed him the golden cup of nectar, and every conscious soul in the triage watched intently as he tilted the woman¡¯s chin up. ¡°Harmodius of the Howling Wind Cult,¡± Griffon named her, and I abruptly recognized her pneuma. I¡¯d felt it in the instant that her crow construct had abandoned her, an instant after I had flung her off the side of Kaukoso Mons so many weeks ago. ¡°I¡¯vee to make good on my promise.¡± ¡°What?¡± the bed-ridden woman rasped. ¡°Ick the knowledge to mend you with surgery, and I¡¯ve run out of time to learn.¡± Griffon tilted the golden cup ever so slightly, just enough for a thin stream to spill over the lip and trail down the contour of the cup. It gathered at the bottom in a single drop. ¡°Nectar will have to suffice.¡± Harmodius gasped and the drop fell into her open mouth. The effect was immediate. Harmodious inhaled sharply and every curtain in the healing house pped and billowed towards her. Bloodied sheets flew through the air and the overturned cots without upants to hold them down skittered across the marble towards the woman. It was as if she was sucking all the air on the mountain into her lungs, drawing vitality from it and filling herself to the brim. Her pneuma rose up around her and sharpened in my senses, gaining rity and depth that it hadn¡¯t had before. Her eyes, having rolled up into the back of her head as soon as the drop touched her tongue, abruptly snapped to Griffon¡¯s hooded face. When the former crow spoke, the rasp was gone and in its ce a melodious wonder. ¡°What did you-?¡± Griffon gripped her cot and flipped it. The physicians scattered around the pavilion cried out, the one that had used Griffon moments ago the loudest of them all. A momentter, their protests died in their throats. Harmodius stared down at her legs, baffled. She¡¯d twisted andnded in a crouch with a cultivator¡¯s usual thoughtless grace. She blinked rapidly, tears springing to her eyes. ¡°There,¡± Griffon spoke, and his satisfaction was deeper than the sea. In benevolence, or perhaps in spite, Bakkhos had given each of his Elder Tyrant¡¯s a portion of Kaukoso Mons to rule as they saw fit. Each branch estate was theirs to shape as they saw fit, each one a safe haven wherein their word was heavenlyw. It was no surprise, then, that each of their estates had been built in the image of their lost domains. I¡¯d never seen the Howling Wind Cult¡¯s floating city with my own eyes, nor had I sailed through the Waning Wax Cult¡¯s baster Isles or paid my respects to the city that had made my master who he was. However, I had been to Egypt, and I had been to the ruined cities of the Conqueror in Macedonia, and I had seen both of their marks in the hollow domain of the Scattered Foam Cult¡¯s Elder. I was confident that if and when I did visit the cities that the other Elders had been taken from, I¡¯d see the same resemnce. When Griffon and I stepped out of the shadows just outside the Burning Dusk¡¯s portion of the mountain, it was like being dropped back into the Scarlet City. Polyzalus¡¯ sunset domain was a sprawlingplex of estates with shingled roofs of baked red y,id out in such a way that they caught the light of the falling sun and seemed to catch fire - no, they were on fire. The rooftops burned, the mes giving off no smoke and spreading no further than the y shingles themselves. Beyond that, I saw the hallmarks of the colony city¡¯s culture carved into stone reliefs, stitched into proud banners and flying gs, and brought to life in the form of lush nt life that I had not seen anywhere else since fleeing Alikos. ¡°HALT.¡± The resemnce was clearest of all in the guards that barred the gates. I felt the hairs stand up on the back of my neck and heard the distant howling of wolves as my eyes traced over their bronze armor and the red-feather plumes that jutted up proudly from their helmets. For a moment I was back on that battlefield, shackled and surrounded by the corpses of my men. It passed. ¡°Identify yourselves! Now!¡± One of the men snapped, the one standing in the center of the shield wall barring the gates. I peeled the raven¡¯s mantle off and cast it back into my shadow. Griffon followed suit beside me. ¡°My name is Sol, and this is Griffon,¡± I said, advancing forward towards the shield wall. The soldiers of the Burning Dusk Cult tensed and leveled their spears at me through the gaps. Their formation was cohesive enough, I¡¯d give them that. ¡°Where did youe from?¡± The soldier in charge demanded. His narrow eyes flickered between Griffon and I, lingering on Griffon¡¯s pristine cult attire. ¡°The Rosy Dawn,¡± I answered. I watched it ripple through their ranks, saw their shock and the confusion. ¡°Why?¡± One of them blurted while the lead soldier was still formting a response. Griffonid one hand on the pommel of his stolen de andid his other arm across my shoulders. His scarlet eyes glowed, a perfect match to the burning rooftops overhead. ¡°We¡¯vee to see the Oracle.¡± The collective vitality of the shieldwall reared up like a serpent, outrage and contempt darkening every soldier¡¯s face. The man in charge bared his teeth and mmed his shield back against his breastte, a challenge that every soldier in the line mimicked. The sound was thunderous, drowning out the distant noise of chaos and fighting. It was the first time we¡¯d encountered initiates of the Burning Dusk - outside of crows - since arriving in Olympia. Somehow, despite everything I¡¯d learned about the enmity between the two sister cults, their reaction still surprised me. I¡¯d intended to use the Raven¡¯s reputation to sway whatever resistance we encountered, but this¡­ This was a problem. Just before I made a decision I¡¯d have almost certainly regretted, pneuma like volcanic winds subsumed us all. Griffon and I, and every soldier in the shield wall. ¡°Is that so?¡± Up above our heads, reclining on a burning rooftop asfortably as he would a feather bed, a Hero sat. I hadn¡¯t felt his arrival or seen him appear, hadn¡¯t noticed him at all until he¡¯d spoken. His burning eyes regarded Griffon and I with amused expectation. ¡°Give your men a break, captain,¡± he said, though his eyes never left Griffon and I. ¡°I¡¯ll handle these two.¡± The central soldier whipped his head around like he¡¯d been pped, staring up in disbelief at the Hero. ¡°Butcher, what are you-!?¡± The soldier¡¯s blood-orange cloak abruptly caught me, and he snarled a curse while his fellow soldiers leapt away from him in rm. ¡°Off you go,¡± the Hero drawled, shooing them away. Some of the soldiers took the legendary cultivator¡¯s order for what it was and marched double time back into theirplex. The man that had been in charge of the gates only moments ago threw his burning cloak to the ground and red murderously up at the Hero he¡¯d called Butcher. ¡°We aren¡¯t your men,¡± he seethed. ¡°The kyrios will hear of this, I promise you that!¡± For the first time since his arrival, the Hero turned his burning gaze away from Griffon and I. He cocked an eyebrow at the soldier. ¡°Who do you think sent me?¡± That was enough to convince the rest of them. Griffon¡¯s arm tightened around my shoulder as they drew back and retreated, his knuckles white around the hilt of his de. I held my own spear at the ready, but there was something¡­ The Heronded adroitly in the center of the gateway, glory rolling off of him in waves. He was taller than both of us, not to the scale of a Tyrant or even Orpheus, but taller than any man had a right to be. He had a sword belted to his hip and a well-worn traveler¡¯s cloak hungfortably across his broad shoulders. His breastte and his greaves were pristine, shining brass. He considered us both, his lips quirking up. Then he took a deliberate step forward, stepping outside of Polyzalus¡¯ sunset domain and bringing us within reach of his de. ¡°Let¡¯s speak candidly, boys.¡± Chapter 1.127 Chapter 1.127 The Son of Rome ¡°You¡¯ve done well,¡± the Hero said. Both Griffon and I stared at the towering cultivator, utterly thrown, and heughed. ¡°Not what you expected?¡± ¡°Not quite,¡± I said warily. ¡°We haven¡¯t made many friends here,¡± Griffon added. The Hero chuckled, eyes crinkling in fond recollection. ¡°No, you¡¯ve made a beautiful mess of this ce. It¡¯s to be expected that the bees won¡¯t be happy when you kick their hive. If you ask me, though, the schemers deserve every gray hair you¡¯ve given them.¡± Griffon rxed ever so slightly, his arm no longer an iron bar around my shoulder. I eyed the jovial Hero. ¡°May we pass, then?¡± ¡°Of course not.¡± The Hero waved his hand through the air between us, brushing off Griffon¡¯s poisonous re. ¡°None of that,¡± he chided. ¡°Appreciation of good character doesn¡¯t change the world around us, nor our ce within it. This is the Burning Dusk Cult or near enough to it, and only members of its faith may enter without an invitation.¡± ¡°Some would argue that the Rosy Dawn and Burning Dusk are one face,¡± I said. ¡°Some would,¡± the Hero agreed, cing gentle emphasis on the first word. Griffon cast his own words mockingly back. ¡°Let¡¯s speak candidly.¡± The Roman portion of me grimaced and cursed my idiot brother¡¯sck of diplomacy. The part of me that was Greek readied itself for a fight. All the while, the Titan me¡¯s ichor beat a tattoo against the spokes of the wheel inside my chest, burning hotter and hotter every second. The Hero inclined his head. ¡°Fair enough. Old ¡®Zalus won¡¯t tolerate a single one of Damon Aetos¡¯ ilk inside of his domain, least of all one of his Young Aristocrats.¡± Griffon didn¡¯t rock back on his heels, nor turn his face as if he¡¯d been struck, but he might as well have done both. The utter stillness of his expression gave him away clear as daybreak. When his eyes flickered down, it only drove the point home. Since our flight from the Scarlet City, Griffon and I had been through our fair share of misfortune. We had been battered by cultivators in back alleys and sand pits. We had sailed across the Ionian and then further, up the Aegean and back, in just a few days each way. We had weathered the cruel blizzards of northern Thracia as well as the unnatural storm that hung eternally above Kaukoso Mons. We had been beaten down time and time again by the man known as the Gadfly. We had lived. In that time, my attire had changed frequently. It wasn¡¯t a question of aesthetics. Though my roots were patrician, the legions had long since disavowed me of such vanity. No, it was a question of practicality. My Rosy Dawn attire had already been ruined before we stole the Eos, marred by months of ve work. The indigo silks of the Raging Heaven Cult that I¡¯d acquired after my bath were finely made, but they were still ceremonial. Our midnight marauding had all but unmade them by the time Socrates thrashed me. In the end, the Gadfly had given me his own battered breastte from his days as a hoplite, and that was the only piece to survive our trip to Thracia untattered. The tunic had nearly made it through, only for my bastard horse to tear it in half during our struggle outside the Orphic house. Even the grimiest vagrant had to change out their rags eventually. Yet somehow, throughout it all, Griffon had never once given up his Rosy Dawn silks. He had worn them negligently, shrugged them off his shoulders, and walked around with a bare chest while they hung from his belt, and their designs had been marred by blood stains and tears long before Olympia was a sliver on our horizon. The months that followed had only added on to the damage. They¡¯ve been almost unrecognizable as early as that morning. But Prometheus had made us well, from the hair on our heads to the tips of our toes. Even our clothes have been mended. For the first time in centuries, the Gadfly¡¯s bronze breastte glimmered pristinely without a single dent or scratch. And for the first time since our escape, Griffon¡¯s scarlet silks stood out proudly to anyone that cared to recognize them. Red sun rising, more scarlet thread then there was white. More than just a mystiko¡¯s attire. Griffon''s renovated robes marked him as a young pir. ¡°Mypliments to your tailor,¡± the Hero said easily, breaking Griffon¡¯s tense silence. ¡°I¡¯ve seen good men give up after far less abuse than what you put those robes through.¡± ¡°You have us at a disadvantage,¡± I put forward, mind racing as I did. Where was the path forward? ¡°In more ways than one,¡± the Hero agreed. ¡°Who are you?¡± Griffon asked, intent. The Hero tapped the t edge of the de that hung without a sheath at his hip. It was an ugly, wicked looking thing. Too broad to be a sword and too long to be a cleaver. ¡°They call me the Butcher in this city,¡± the Hero said thoughtfully, and though there wasn¡¯t a hint of a threat in his voice, I felt the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand straight up. The Butcher hummed, then shrugged. ¡°But you can call me senior brother.¡± Griffon snorted, unwinding his arm from my shoulder and stepping forward. He had to tilt his head back to meet the Hero''s eyes, but he still managed to make it look like he was staring down his nose at him. ¡°If you know enough to recognize me by my station, you should understand this much. A Young Aristocrat has no senior brothers outside the airistois. I¡¯ll call you elder.¡± The Hero abruptly grimaced. ¡°Please don¡¯t. I¡¯m not that old.¡± ¡°Weathered Hero,¡± Griffon suggested. ¡°Even worse.¡± ¡°Ancient chain breaker-¡± ¡°Absolutely not.¡± ¡°Tell me then, senior,¡± Griffon continued archly, ¡°why can¡¯t your juniors pass?¡± ¡°I already told you old ¡®Zalus won¡¯t allow it,¡± the Hero said in bemusement. ¡°And if we have good reason to be here?¡± I pressed him, vividly aware of the brawl that continued to rage further up the mountain. A distant roar, but not distant enough. ¡°We have something Polyzalus wants. Something he can¡¯t get for himself. A gift.¡± The Butcher of the Burning Dusk raised a skeptical eyebrow. ¡°I can count the number of such gifts on one hand.¡± ¡°Nectar to cure his wife,¡± Griffon said, and the Butcher¡¯s other eyebrow rose. ¡°That would be one of them.¡± The Hero tapped the hilt of his de and cast his eyes skyward. ¡°Though your chances might be better if you threw in a golden apple to sweeten the deal.¡± He didn¡¯t believe us. That was fine. We¡¯d expected as much. ¡°What if we could prove it?¡± I said, finally stepping onto the golden path forward. ¡°What would your answer be then?¡± Or so I thought. The Butcher shook his head. ¡°Still no.¡± ¡°What?¡± Griffon hissed. ¡°You could convince me the sky was a hammer and its anvil the earth - it wouldn¡¯t change a thing once you passed through those gates,¡± he said, tilting his chin at the gateway behind him. ¡°That¡¯s old ¡®Zalus¡¯ world. And you¡¯ll never convince him of a thing.¡± ¡°We have proof-¡± ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter. He¡¯d cast his wife into the sea before he fed her anything from the Rosy Dawn.¡± ¡°And if you took it to him?¡± I asked, though I knew Griffon would never ept such a solution. ¡°If it was your hand that offered the cup?¡± ¡°Even then. Your role in this arrangement taints it.¡± ¡°Selene told me her father loved her mother,¡± I challenged him. ¡°She told me he¡¯d do anything to see her made well. Are you calling her a liar?¡± The Hero stepped back, leaning against one of the carved columns that marked the boundary between the Burning Dusk faction and the rest of the Raging Heaven Cult. He nced up at the stone relief that each of the columns together propped up - that of a towering king riding in a chariot, reins in one hand and the sun in the other. ¡°Tell me,¡± the Butcher bade us, ¡°what do you know of the First Son to Burn?¡± Griffon and I shared a look. ¡°No, you¡¯re right, this isn¡¯t a lecture and I¡¯m far from a philosopher. Let¡¯s start smaller. What do you think a Tyrant is?¡± There were some questions that existed without definitive answers, whetstones for the mind that mentors used to challenge their pupils. It tested the portion of the mind thaty dormant while a student memorized the truths of the world that weren¡¯t up for debate. On the other hand, there were questions that could only possibly lead to one conclusion - questions that the Pythagorean¡¯s and their like pursued tirelessly. Somehow, I knew this question was both at once. There were countless ways to define a tyrant, and for all that that was true, I knew the Butcher would only ept one. I could spend my entire life searching for that answer and there was no guarantee that I would find it. I could only tell him the truth as I saw it. As I had seen it in the darkness ofmand tents, in the bondage of iron chains, in the grip of mad visions - and in the weeping of this Half-Step City. What is a Tyrant? Griffon and I answered a question with an endless number of possible answers at the very same time, and then, impossibly, our answers were exactly the same. ¡°¡°A prison.¡±¡± The Hero snapped his fingers and pointed at us like we¡¯d given away a secret. ¡°That right there. That¡¯s exactly why.¡± ¡°You didn¡¯t say we were wrong,¡± Griffon noted. ¡°I didn¡¯t.¡± The Hero sounded pleased, but the heart mes behind his eyes were burning low now. ¡°Because you¡¯re right, of course. The problem is, you don¡¯t know why.¡± His heart mes flickered, and a sullen glow began to seep through his de. Within moments, it looked like it was fresh from the forge and ready to be quenched. He nudged the pommel of his ugly cleaver and the de swung in its belt loop, tapping lightly against the marble pir behind him. A line of fire like a hairline fracture appeared in the marble column, beginning at the point where the cleaver marked it and spreading in whisper-thin lines. It surged down the column and across the mountain trail, encircling us before Griffon or I could act. It spread ravenously, as if the butcher had scattered invisible lines of sawdust at our feet. Then as quickly as it had begun it wasplete. The mes kept burning but spread no further. And as we jerked back and spun in ce, I saw that the Hero''s disy had been more than a cheap intimidation tactic. The Butcher had painted a man¡¯s silhouette on the mountain in mes, and he had ced us in the center of it. ¡°Most people your age would say a Tyrant is a ruler,¡± the Butcher exined patiently, as if nothing had happened. ¡°For most, it¡¯s synonymous with king. An Egyptian might call them pharaohs, and Anatolians might insteadbel them emperors. No matter where you go, so long as there is a city of men, so shall there be a Tyrant.¡± He paused, waiting, and when neither of us said a word his grim approval grew. ¡°Most Greek men your age would have denied that sentiment just now,¡± he observed. ¡°We call them the free cities for a reason, don¡¯t we? Surely a Young Aristocrat of the Rosy Dawn knows how the great city-states are governed.¡± Griffon¡¯s sneer was answer enough. ¡°And even the Roman must have some experience with enlightened governance,¡± the Butcher set his sights on me, his tongue as sharp as any cleaver. ¡°In its time, the Republic was a city without kings, was it not? That principle was its very foundation. How did it go again? Ever an empty throne? No, not that. For every crown, a dagger? Hmm. Maybe it was-¡± ¡°Thus always to tyrants,¡± I said quietly. The Butcher grinned. ¡°There it is. So tell me, boys, in and of noble republics and democratic city-states, why didn¡¯t either of you speak up just now?¡± Because he hadn¡¯t been wrong. Satisfied, he continued, ¡°Those were answers any man your age would have given, but you two aren¡¯t just any men, are you? You¡¯re cultivators.¡± The lines of me and the silhouette of a man shifted. Not moving, exactly, but giving the illusion of movement. Some of them burnt low, shrinking down to amber outlines in the stone, while others brightened and surged up to greater visibility. The effect started at the edges and rippled inward, giving off the illusion that the man was shrinking. When the mes settled again, the brightest of them had formed the shape of a man no taller than Griffon and I. ¡°A Greek cultivator would have almost certainly viewed this question through the lens of their refinement,¡± the Butcher exined. ¡°In that sense, a Tyrant is more than just a ruler of men. A Civic cultivator might have said that a Tyrant is someone in the fourth realm. They might have said a cultivator is someone who has climbed thirty steps on the stairway to heaven.¡± The Butcher rapped his de against the column and threads of me seeped out from the silhouetted man, emanating from his head. ¡°You boys are Philosophers, though, and the world looks different to a thinking man than it does to a citizen. A Philosopher might have said a Tyrant is a man that sought refuge in ethos at the expense of logos and pathos. A Philosopher might have called such an existence the unavoidable fate of any great man given enough time to stagnate - curiosity fades and passion burns out, but no man is ever truly free of his hunger. ¡°A Philosopher might have said those things, especially one that benefited from the teachings of men like Aristotle and Socrates.¡± The Butcher''s heart mes flickered, and the silhouette rippled and grew. ¡°But not you two.¡± ¡°Give us the Hero¡¯s answer, then,¡± Griffon challenged him. ¡°Tell us what old ¡®Zalus is to you.¡± He did. ¡°To me, Tyrants are the men that hold me hostage in my own soul. They¡¯re the ones that spend my heart¡¯s blood like it¡¯s their own, though of course theyck the hearts to pump it. They are the weight of Heaven pressing down, the tribtion that persists long after the lightning has struck. They are far more than just the king - they are the kingdom.¡± The Butcher shrugged. ¡°Simply put, they are a prison.¡± ¡°You won¡¯t let us pass,¡± I said slowly, ¡°because our answers are the same.¡± ¡°Our answers are the same,¡± the Butcher said, pointing at Griffon. ¡°Not yours, son of Rome.¡± ¡°The Tyrants must have spent your hearing along with your blood,¡± Griffon said scathingly. The Butcher easily ignored him. ¡°On each answer, thus far I¡¯ve spoken as the authority,¡± he said, ¡°but just as a Hero sees the world differently from a Philosopher, so too does the Tyrant know a different world. Fortunately, I¡¯ve received a Tyrant''s wisdom in my time - I can pass that answer on to you.¡± The burning silhouette grewrger again, recapturing its original size. ¡°Tell me, raven,¡± the Hero bid, ¡°what does a Tyrant see when they look into a mirror?¡± Ill fitting armor; tailored to my frame and yet three sizes toorge. It was how I wore it that was to me. It was the same reason why the creases in my uniform looked sloppy, yet the captain¡¯s pristine white cloak looked shamefully untested. I was wearing the mantle of a greater man, and I did not fit. ¡°A prison,¡± I answered for the second time. The Hero bowed at the waist and flourished his empty hand. ¡°Both of your answers are correct, but theye from different ces. Worse than that, theye from higher ces.¡± He couldn¡¯t have chosen a worse way to phrase it. Griffon¡¯s pneuma rose, pankration hands rising up around him like the wings of an eagle. The Butcher openly admired the manifestations of his intent, neither threatened nor insulted. ¡°In all my years and all my travels, I¡¯ve only seen three manifestations of intent as elegant as that. Do you mind?¡± As he asked the question, the arm of the burning silhouette beneath our feet peeled up from the stone and grass, at one of the floating hands of Griffon¡®s intent. Without hesitation, the rest of Griffon¡®s pankration hands tore it apart. ¡°I do,¡± Griffon said, btedly, after thest of the sparks and embers had fallen and sputtered out. ¡°Fearsome.¡± The Hero tilted his head. ¡°Strange, though. Even the least of a Hero should be greater than the entirety of a Sophist. Those hands of yours are stronger than they should be. I wonder¡­¡± The Butcher abruptly ceased his y acting and speared Griffon with the full weight of his focus. ¡°Tell me, son of scarlet faith. What is the first virtue?¡± Griffon lifted his chin. ¡°Justice.¡± The burning silhouette flickered and went out. The Butcher sighed and leaned his head back against the gateway pir. ¡°I thought so.¡± It was infuriating, watching the knot unravel itself in his mind while my own only grew more tangled. Griffon¡¯s response had solved a mystery for the Butcher and I had no idea what it was, or how it had been solved. The Titan¡¯s ichor burned hot inside my chest, feeding my frustration. I was sick and tired of Greek diplomacy. Humoring them only made them worse. Icked the patience for whatever this was. Worse than that, Icked the time. ¡°Such terrible purpose,¡± the Hero said without opening his eyes. ¡°Casting you as the master was well reasoned.¡± He pointed two fingers at his closed eyes, then at mine. ¡°That¡¯s an old man¡¯s re. You¡¯ve been put through your paces, haven¡¯t you? Seen the sights. How old were you the first time you killed a man?¡± I thought about lying in either direction. Decided it wasn¡¯t worth the trouble. ¡°Fifteen.¡± The Butcher hummed. ¡°And how old were you the first time you ordered a man to die?¡± Griffon¡¯s pneuma rose. Mine did not. ¡°Seventeen.¡± Salt and ash. ¡°Most tragedies never see the light of a night fire.¡± The Hero cracked a burning eye open, regarding me like a moderately intriguing riddle. ¡°Though you may not see it that way. Blindness is amon affliction among men of your stature, isn¡¯t it?¡± Griffon¡¯s eyes narrowed, tracking the implication in a split second. I waited for the Butcher to spell out what we both knew to be true. ¡°Blind to the reality of things. Blind to the harm. Amander spends enough time ying toy soldier in the sand, eventually he forgets that his men aren¡¯t really made of stone. Do you remember his name, captain?¡± He dipped his head, bright eyes burning. ¡°Do you remember the look on his face when you told him it was his time to die?¡± I caught Griffon¡¯sshing hand and forced it down. ¡°His name was Calvus,¡± I said. ¡°And I¡¯ll remember his face long after I¡¯ve forgotten yours.¡± Heart mes flickered. ¡°Do they make every man like you in Rome?¡± ¡°No. They make them better.¡± He considered me. ¡°What is the first virtue, son of Rome?¡± ¡°Gravitas.¡± A smile returned to the Butcher''s lips, slight but deeper than before. ¡°I promised to speak candidly, so candid I shall be. You two are in over your heads. You think you know that, you think you understand, but you don¡¯t. And how could you? You¡¯ve only been given a portion of the script. The most important portion, true, but in some ways that¡¯s worse.¡± The Hero raised four fingers, each one burning with a different colored me. ¡°There are four cardinal virtues that stand sovereign above the rest. Temperance. Wisdom. Courage. And Justice. We tell countless stories of the men and women that embodied these traits in the past. But do you know how many of us pursue any of the cardinal four directly?¡± The Hero didn¡¯t wait for us to hazard a guess. Instead, he lowered one of his four fingers. ¡°On this entire mountain, including you, there are three.¡± ¡°Liar,¡± Griffon said at once. ¡°Courage is the Burning Dusk¡¯s creed.¡± Passion stoked the mes behind the Hero¡¯s eyes. ¡°Courage is Polyzalus¡¯ creed. Why do you think his peers were so eager to band together against him when you asked?¡± ¡°One less rival,¡± I said at once. The Butcher clicked his tongue. ¡°Not good enough. I¡¯ve given you half the answer - this unkindness you¡¯ve brought about is only possible because you named Old ¡®Zalus as your target. Why?¡± Because the Tyrantscked agency. Because none of them were willing to act first and risk the retaliation of the other seven, and my negotiating as the Raven had allowed them to act without acting. Because¡­ A dozen reasons sprung immediately to my mind, but not a single one answered the question. Either because the premise he¡¯d put forward was wed, or¡­ ¡°The rest of them can leave,¡± Griffon answered, and the Butcher inclined his head. ¡°They could, and that is part of it. They won¡¯t, of course - not while the other seven are watching like hawks, and not if they can take the indigo throne for themselves. But the fact remains that they could. They could leave this city and challenge their sessors back home. They could even win. It¡¯s a coldfort, but it¡¯s enough to ground them.¡± Unspoken but inly heard went the rest - Polyzalus had no suchfort. It had been nearly two hundred years since he ruled in the Scarlet City, and even if he could cast out his sessor in the Burning Dusk, it would make no difference. Damon Aetos would be there to meet him at the shore. ¡°But that alone wouldn¡¯t make Old ¡®Zalus a threat worth banding against. The day the young Scarlet Oracle¡¯s spirit marble broke apart, this mountain very nearly followed suit,¡± the Butcher exined, tapping the heel of his foot lightly against the stone. Amethyst veins shed brightly, absorbing the force. ¡°Understand this - none of the Tyrants on this mountain were a match for the kyrios, but in his absence I wouldn¡¯t bet against the First Son to Burn in any single contest. ¡°This isn¡¯t about sophistry - this goes beyond titudes. I told you once already that the world grows clearer the further you advance. What a Citizen can only pay lip service to, a Philosopher can picture in their mind¡¯s eye and a Hero can inly see.¡± He pushed off from the gate, pacing a slow circle in front of it. ¡°The vast majority of cultivators don¡¯t cultivate virtue and never will. Of those that do, the vast majority will cultivate virtues so humble that we don¡¯t even have names for them. The greatest of us are the souls that pursue the cardinal four, but they¡¯re a fraction of a fraction. The only ones fortunate enough to survive the consequences of their hubris.¡± My brow furrowed. ¡°What hubris?¡± The Butcherid a hand over his face, obscuring it. ¡°The hubris to look upon the face of god and decide your features would suit it better.¡± This is justice. Remember its face. The knot loosened. ¡°To cultivate a virtue, to actually cultivate a virtue, is to challenge every man that came before you in its pursuit. Challenge it, or shape yourself to it. The greater the virtue, the longer the shadow it casts. For those that pursue the cardinals, tribtion is more than a grim possibility. It is a certainty. The closer you tie yourself to them, the more this holds true. ¡°The two of you wear your virtues like second skins, and you¡¯re still blind to it. Just looking at you is like watching children juggle knives.¡± ¡°Like boys ying at war,¡± I murmured. Words from an old advisor. The knot unraveled. A spat between two children could go either way unless one of them had a knife. An adult would thrash a child ten times out of ten, but if that child had a knife they might be able to catch the adult off guard. Wound them, if nothing else. But either way, no matter who their opponent was, a child with a knife was as much a danger to themselves as their enemies. A year ago, in the harvesting wheat fields beneath the Rosy Dawn, Griffon and I had cautioned his younger cousin against chaining himself to a virtue too soon. We had used ourselves as the examples against it, though we hadn¡¯t said that part out loud. Yet even then, the shackles in our minds had been purely metaphorical. ¡°You boysck context and that much is bad enough. But worse than that, youck perspective, a sense of scale-¡± ¡°No.¡± The Hero ceased his pacing and raised an eyebrow at Griffon. ¡°No?¡± ¡°We may becking in every other regard,¡± I added, ¡°but there is no man on this mountain richer in perspective than us.¡± The Butcher frowned. ¡°Have I been talking to myself this whole time?¡± ¡°Of course not, senior,¡± Griffon said. ¡°We heard every word. But you¡¯re still wrong.¡± He crossed his arms. ¡°Prove it then. Convince me that you understand the consequences of what follows if this n of yours runs true.¡± ¡°How?¡± I pressed him. ¡°What will be enough?¡± ¡°I¡¯ll know it when I see it.¡± Griffon and I shared a look. Then as one we struck the Butcher with the memory of freedom¡¯s wings. We were hardly more than fresh Philosophers, and he was a Hero, but in this case the message far outweighed the messenger. The Butcher¡®s eyes flew open wide, his mouth falling open as the indescribable fury of the Phoenix and the Titan Prometheus ran wild through his mind¡¯s eye. And then he startedughing. The Heroughed the way only drunkards and the truly deranged could, doubling over with the force of it. It was a hysterical sound, the sort that could turn to violence as quickly as camaraderie. We were halfway to the nearest shadowed overhang when the Hero pped his hands and straightened up, smile wide and eyes zing. ¡°I was wrong about you two. All these months I thought you were nothing more than victims of your own upbringing, but that couldn¡¯t be further from the truth, could it? You¡¯re out of your minds.¡± Griffon smiled right back, sharp and genuine. ¡°We scarlet sons are all the same.¡± The Butcher chortled, stepping away from the sunset gates and pping us both on the shoulder. In my mind¡¯s eye, the golden road glowed bright. ¡°More fool me for doubting. I should have known better - he always gets his way.¡± Griffon blinked. ¡°Old ¡®Zalus?¡± But the Hero had already set his sights above our heads, and in the next instant his influence shot across the mountain in seven grasping currents. ¡°Show¡¯s over,¡± he called. ¡°Come on out and take a bow.¡± I followed his influence with my own, the same way I had followed the smoke signals of a Tyrant¡¯s wandering eye the night of Bakkhos¡¯ funeral. And just like that night, I found Heroic souls at the end of every line. ¡°This is thest chance anyone will ever give you, and one more than you deserve,¡± the Butcher told us, heart mes still burning brightly despite the heavy words. ¡°Leave this city and nevere back. Return to your ind in the sun and spread to others the wisdom you¡¯ve been given. Improve this world as any mortal man can, in the small ways that matter most.¡± Griffon rolled his eyes. ¡°I refuse,¡± I said simply. The Butcher chuckled and pped our shoulders before moving past us. ¡°In that case, a word of advice.¡± Of the seven Heroic cultivators that the Butcher¡¯s influence had grasped, only two of them were known to me. One of those two flickered and vanished, fleeing as soon as the butcher marked it. The other one, along with the five I had never encountered before, converged on us from all across the mountain in seconds. Six Heroic cultivators appeared in a rough circle around us, one from each of the branch factions on the mountain, sans the burning dusk, and the blind maiden. The only one among their number I recognized, the Hero from the Broken Tide with the shark-tooth smile, looked like an entirely different man than he had thest time I saw him. He looked furious. And nervous. They all did. ¡°You¡¯ve made good use of the tools you¡¯ve been given,¡± the Butcher spoke to us, ignoring the bristling ring of interlopers ¡°But shadows and smoke aren¡¯t enough to make up for what youck. A Hero''s senses are so much sharper than yours that they don¡¯t even need their pneuma to spy on you. They¡¯ll see you long before you see them.¡± ¡°What is this?¡± One of the Heroes demanded, a man nearly the Butcher¡¯s size from the Waning Wax cult. ¡°Whatever you¡¯re ying at, Butcher, this isn¡¯t the time,¡± a Heroine from the Scattered Foam bit out, fingers white as they clutched her sword and shield. A slew of simr demands followed. The Heroes from my alliance were here to take me to their Tyrants so I could exin myself and be struck down if they saw fit. The Heroes from the Infernal Frenzy and the Brazen Aegis had likely been sent to kill us. The Raven¡¯s shadows hadn¡¯t fooled them. If the Butcher hadn¡¯t drawn them out, we would have never known they were there. ¡°Always remember,¡± the Butcher said, utterly unbothered by the rising volume of their demands and their hostility. ¡°No matter how high you set your sights, you¡¯re still stuck down here in the mud with the rest of us. Until the day that that¡¯s no longer true, there¡¯s only one thing that truly matters.¡± The Hero from the Broken Tide shouted a warning and glory like crashing tidal waves exploded from his hands. Tense as they had been, the rest of the Heroes surrounding us were only a fraction of a second slower to levy their own foundational techniques. They were all too slow. ¡°Strength,¡± the Butcher intoned, and swung his cleaver around. Six Heroic cultivators crumpled to the ground, each of their chests a cauterized ruin. Faster than I could track, the Butcher had caved in each of their chests and obliterated their hearts. The mes behind their ssy eyes had already guttered out by the time I realized the enormity of what had happened. I didn¡¯t have time to shout. I could only grab Griffon¡¯s arm and brace for the impact. Gravitas. The weight of three thousand men cratered the mountain and mmed me to my knees a split second before thest gasp of six Heroic souls struck Griffon and I like a tornado. I clenched my eyes shut and grit my teeth, battered from all sides and every angle. Griffontched on to me with every single one of his pankration hands, and even still he was nearly flung off the side of the mountain. When thest of their vitality was spent and my own virtue¡¯s retribution had passed, I forced my head to rise. The Butcher of the Burning Dusk strode casually past the broken corpses of six of his peers, twirling his ugly cleaver in his hand. ¡°Onest thing,¡± he said, ncing back at us just short of the entryway. ¡°I owe the young miss a great deal. Look after her, will you?¡± Griffon reached out, caught between following him and helping me rise. ¡°What are you-¡± The next word froze in his throat. ¡°Wait,¡± I ground out, forcing myself up onto one knee. The golden road was crumbling. We were so close. ¡°Wait!¡± The Butcher of the Burning Dusk had cast his cleaver aside, and from a fold within his traveler¡¯s cloak he¡¯d pulled an expertly crafted de. One that Griffon and I had seen once before - From a fold in his cult attire Anargyros Aetos pulled three swords, each of them a work of art that he had long discarded - des that hadn''tsted long in his hands. "I only have these scraps to offer you now, but once the work is done we''ll find you each a weapon worth wearing on your belt." - through the eyes of Stavros Aetos. ¡°You,¡± Griffon breathed, at the same moment I recognized the memory of a man changed by decades and three realms of refinement. His name was Dymas, one of four ves that had joined Damon Aetos and his brothers in their journey to rescue the Scarlet Oracle. ¡°Twenty years I¡¯ve waited. I won¡¯t wait another second.¡± Dymas swept the shining de back and forth, heart mes roaring as his Heroic pneuma rose. With every step he stood just a bit taller. He rolled his shoulders as if he was shrugging off the weight of the world, and his eyes crinkled in pure and honest joy. ¡°Here Ie,¡± he sang, striding through the gates to the Burning Dusk Cult. ¡°The butcher with my de.¡± Burning Dusk fell above our heads, and Dymas cut Polyzalus¡¯ sunset domain in half. Chapter 1.128 [Selene] Chapter 1.128 [Selene] Selene Her father wasn¡¯t a monster. He wasn¡¯t a good man either, and oh, that had stung the first time she admitted it. But Selene wasn¡¯t na?ve. She had seen too much of him reflected in the hearts of those that sought her counsel to remain ignorant of his nature. Some said it was impossible for a cultivator to enter the fourth realm without being tainted by its trappings, and eventually Selene had been forced to acknowledge that her father was no exception to that rule. That wasn¡¯t all there was to him, though. The man known to some as the First Son to Burn, the kyrios to others, and Old ¡®Zalus to others still, was first and foremost her father. He was all of his titles, and he was none of them in their entirety. He had done monstrous things, some she knew of and almost certainly others that she didn¡¯t, but he wasn¡¯t a monster. The man that had raised her, the portion of Polyzalus that was her father, was someone Selene wouldn¡¯t trade for anyone else. That side of him loved like no monster could ever love, more than any man without a beating heart should have been capable of loving. ¡°Heartless? Is that what they told you? How could I be heartless when I have you?¡± Selene¡¯s father loved her desperately, and no matter what the other oracles or thete kyrios himself had to say on the subject, she knew he loved her mother just as much. In some ways even more. The daughter of an oracle was destined to live avish life. The daughter of a Tyrant was just the same. Growing up, Selene had never wanted for anything that could be wrapped up in a bundle and dropped in herp. The only things she had ever truly wanted for were those her father could not give her - things that only the kyrios had the power to provide. Freedom. Companions. Her mother. However, while her father couldn¡¯t give her mother back, he could share his memories of her. Selene knew her father loved her mother more than anything else on this earth, because his memories of his wife were the only gift he refused to give her freely. Only on her birthday would her father share some of his shining recollections, because sharing made them less - though he never told her how. Some memories he¡¯d never shared at all, no matter how she pestered him, such was his love for them both. It was only because she was his daughter that he gave her any of those moments at all. Selene loved her father, and she loved the glimpses of her mother she had seen through his eyes as well. She knew he wasn¡¯t a good man, but in the deepest reaches of her heart she believed that he could be. If only he could be free of this mountain. If only he could see her mother smile again. He was a man in terrible need of an oracle¡¯s counsel, a true oracle¡¯s counsel, and there was finally a path forward for him to receive it. So when she came rushing into his domain in search of a raging lion and was instead swept up into a worried father¡¯s crushing embrace, she returned it. When her father confined her to his domain and forbade her from any externalmunication, Selene fought only until it became clear he wouldn¡¯t budge. And though it chafed every day that followed, she resigned herself to doing what she could for those within the sunset domain. Because Selene trusted him. And because she knew the cure was on its way. With or without her, Sol and Griffon would see it done. The nectar woulde. Days passed. Weeks. All the while she offered up her sacrifices and prayers to the Fates and Muses above. She never lost hope. She never strayed in her purpose. And in time, her patience was rewarded. The Fates answered. ¡ª- The first strike split her father¡¯s domain in two. It happened instantly. Far faster than she could track, let alone react to. As if a giant had driven into the mountain with an ax, the small city of estates was split down the middle like a log. The sound of it was indescribable, like an earthquake and a rock slide and the shattering of a thousand bones allpressed into a single moment. It happened so quickly that Selene could only observe the aftermath, her vision swimming as she picked herself up from her temple¡¯s marble floor. A new scar marked Kaukoso Mons. From the base of the mountain all the way up to the sovereign estate her father called his own, a trench had been carved out of the mountain. It was so deep that an elephant could have fallen in and vanished entirely from view. The impossible result of an impossible attack. Selene was so dazed by the shockwave, so distracted by the torrential rain of falling rubble and the screaming of her fellow mystikos, that she almost didn¡¯t notice the sudden tidal wave of violent struggle flowing in from the rest of the mountain. She didn¡¯t have Scythas¡¯ ears, but Selene was still a Heroine. The moment the enemy struck and broke her fathers veil against the outside world, Selene heard everything that he had been keeping from her. The Raging Heaven Cult was at war. Selene didn¡¯t have time to process any of it. In the time it took to raise her head from the floor, her father had answered the unspoken challenge to his authority. ¡°You dare!?¡± The First Son to Burn appeared as a wrathful silhouette against the setting sun, his voice thundering reprimand that made her ears ring and her teeth vibrate. The Tyrant of the Burning Dusk struck out with ashing hand and gripped the empty air. Cords of writhing me appeared in his fist, like they¡¯d always been there, and the mes that burned on every rooftop in the sunset city rose up to answer his call. They spiraled one and all up into his clenched fist, like the reins of a horse. ¡°You dare attack what is mine - my people, in my city?¡± The very world around her warped, the distant city of Olympia and the storm crown overhead burning away like leaves cast to the earth. In their ce emerged a city Selene had only heard stories of. A city of scarlet wonder. The Tyrant of the Burning Dusk took the reins of his domain in hand, bolstering every aspect of himself at the expense of every aspect of those within its borders, and the intruder was no exception- No. That wasn¡¯t right. Selene blinked the stars from her vision and stared up in bewilderment at the burning lights above her head. ¡°Your city?¡± The first attack had split her father¡¯s domain down its center. Somehow, impossibly, the mes burning on the roofs of the estates east of the chasm weren¡¯t rising up to the Tyrant¡¯s fist. ¡°Even a Tyrant¡¯s greed has limits,¡± a sonorous voice rang forth from the base of the mountain. Selene remembered it. ¡°Only half of Alikos belongs to Burning Dusk. The setting sun has no ce within the eastern sky.¡± The silhouette of Polyzalus cracked his reins and pulled a thousand screaming stallions from the mes west of the chasm. As he did, his other hand reached out to the setting sun and pulled from it a kopis sword. ¡°Turn over every stone on every street, tear from the roofs their shingles!¡± the Tyrant intoned furiously, and the city had no choice but to tear itself apart. In this ce, his word was more than heavenlyw. This world was his word. ¡°You won¡¯t find a single rosy finger! Show me a rising son that dares oppose my rule - do it, and I¡¯ll show you half a corpse!¡± And yet. somehow, the mes east of the chasm refused toe when he called them. Somehow, they were changing before her eyes. Shifting colors. Bing¡­ ¡°As you wish.¡± Rosy. [The dawn breaks] Several things happened at once. Like shattering ss, the eastern half of her father¡®s world broke apart and scattered, revealing the Raging Heaven Cult and distant Olympia once more. Every member of the Burning Dusk on that side of the fault line lurched up out of the rubble and the broken streets like they had been burned and fled blindly in whichever direction was least obstructed. On the western side of the city, the one within her father¡¯s control, every man, woman, and child arched up until it looked like their backs would break and screamed silently up to heaven. Every amethyst vein in the mountain shed so bright it seared their lines into her vision. The Butcher of the Burning Dusk rose up and struck her father like aet flung from a ballista, and nine bolts of lightning fell from the storm crown above to strike them at their joining. The triumphant cry of a heavenly chorus rose up to apany an outpouring of glory and a Hero¡¯s passionate might as the man they called the Butcher advanced to the ninth rank of the Heroic Realm. Selene ran. ¡ª- Selene was only sixteen years old, but she knew more of Heroes and Tyrants than most. She was a Heroine herself, and had seen the acts of Tyrants in the hearts of those that sought her out, and in the dreams thete kyrios warned her not to turn away from. None of it had prepared her for the reality of a Hero and a Tyrant¡¯s sh. She ran towards the sun, moving faster than a hunting cat, and yet it felt like she was wading through mud inparison to her father and the Butcher. The impact of their des striking one another shook the air and made the sun beams waver and distort like a desert mirage. One such impact would have been jarring enough on its own, but they moved so fast that it was less a series of blows, and more a single uninterrupted sh. The mirage effect deepened and spread as the seconds passed, as if the sun was bleeding out across the sky. Her father¡¯s domain churned like it was made of ocean waves instead of marble and y. Buildings that had stood for centuries before Selene was born exploded at the touch of a stray attack, or simply shook themselves apart as the mountain rocked and heaved underneath. Stallions of blood-orange me raced through the air above her head at blistering speed, hundreds of them charging the Butcher head on while hundreds more raced circles around him, seeking to tangle him up in their trailing reins. Polyzalus was the greater of the two of them and it showed in every exchange. More than that, he was a Tyrant in his own domain, even if half of that domain had somehow been contested. Everysh of his de trailed an echoing boom, swift enough to outpace the wind and strong enough to cut through anything short of adamant. The fight should have been over in an instant. Yet, despite the fact that he was as an ant before a lion, the Hero¡¯s pneuma did not once waver. It flooded the world around him, pressing back against her father¡¯s unshakeable authority as it grew, and it didn¡¯t stop. What did it mean for a Hero to fight a Tyrant? It was a topic that lent itself well to sophistry because it happened so rarely outside of epics, and it was the nature of a thinking man to gnaw at any topic that couldn¡¯t bite them back. Some said a sh between the two was a sh of passion against purpose. Others, especially here, likened it to the kindling of a democratic me. Once, Selene had heard a poet describe such an event as spring usurping summer. They were wrong, each and every one of them soughably wrong. This was no high minded exchange. There was no poetry in this. Selene ran like she had lightning in her heels, and with every step she only grew further away from the unraveling of her home. She knew she wasn¡¯t slowing down, that the Butcher was instead raising the pace of the violence at an unbelievable rate. But still, she couldn¡¯t shake the illusion. She had dreams like this. Oundish, abrupt, and always given away by her body¡¯s inability to keep up with her mind¡¯s demands. For a cultivator, that was only ever a concern in one¡¯s nightmares. In fact, maybe this was a nightmare. The more she thought of it, the more it rang true. What else could this possibly be? Rattled and afraid - afraid for her father, afraid for her defenseless mother, afraid for the people of the Burning Dusk and the Raging Heaven Cult - Selene didn¡¯t notice how close she¡¯de to the bisecting line until the vibration of another sh broke the stone beneath her right foot, and sent her stumbling sideways nearly over the edge of it. The shadow of her hallowed weapon - and surely that was another point in the nightmare¡¯s favor, because she had no recollection of grabbing it - stretched across the bisecting chasm, the penumbral spear sliding briefly into the contested half of her fathers domain. Rattled and afraid, and most importantly, off-bnce, Selene was caught entirely off guard, when a hand shot out from the eastern shadows and seized her penumbral spear like it was a corporeal thing. When the hand yanked the shadow back it brought the actual spear along with it. Selene was dragged across the fault line, beyond the boundary of forever dusk- ¡°No!¡± -and out of her father¡¯s world. She fell into the shadow of a courtyard ruin and immediately called upon her full strength. She was too slow as it was. She didn¡¯t have time for this. She- ¡°Solus?¡± She whispered. The son of Rome drew the veil back from his face, and his eyes all but lit up the broken courtyard. They were silver-bright. She had never seen such intensity. ¡°-you hurt? Selene?¡± She gasped, forcing her treacherous limbs into motion. She seized him by the shoulders. ¡°What have you done?! Why are you here? You can¡¯t-¡± she searched his soul reflexively, vainly, hoping he had somehow transcended eight ranks since thest time she had seen him. But no. He was burning hot to every one of her senses, but he was still a Philosopher. ¡°I came to make right what Bakkhos left wrong,¡± he said, and her mind reeled as the name rang her mind like a gong. He nced up at the brutal reality of high minded discourse, and though his eyes narrowed, they didn¡¯t dim at all. They only grew brighter. ¡°I was na?ve, but it¡¯s not over yet. We can still salvage this.¡± ¡°Are you out of your mind?¡± she hissed, shaking him by the shoulders. Without her heart me to bolster her, it barely moved him. ¡°You¡¯ll die. No, you have to leave now! Do you understand me? You¡¯ll-¡± Solus covered her mouth. The skin of his hand was burning heart. He looked alive. ¡°I didn¡¯te here to die,¡± the son of Rome told her, smiling fiercely. Ah. So she was dreaming after all. A burning war horse mmed through thest column still standing in the ruined courtyard, screaming and thrashing in fury and pain. The spell broke and Solus bolted in through the rubble, pulling her along like a banner until she found her feet. They raced up the mountain together, their paces somehow evenly matched despite her higher standing. He moved like a ghost, and bounded like a hunting wolf through the shadows cast by the setting sun. Above their heads, Selene watched her father¡¯s personal militia join themselves to his efforts. Men and women she knew by name after years being guarded by them rose up against the Butcher, senior Philosophers in the dozens. She watched them mount burning war horses and charge up fracturing mountain paths like they were t road. She saw them cast rhetoric of every kind at the everburning star of the Butcher, each of their techniques bolstered beyond their mortal capability by the man that held the reins. The Butcher swept them aside in the dozens as they came, cutting through flesh and living me without breaking the rhythm of their exchange. Those that were knocked back deeper into the western hemisphere of her father¡¯s domain were caught and cast up again, all but the worst injuries burning away like they had never been. Those that the Butcher had cast down into the eastern hemisphere received no such protection. They broke, and they bled, and they burned where the war horses touched their skin. It took an eternity too long, but finally Selene regained her senses. ¡°This is the end,¡± she realized. ¡°Not yet.¡± Dread stole the swiftness from her steps until she was standing still, watching the rubble of her home and the broken bodies of its people rain down. Solus seized her penumbral spear again, but this time she just let him rip it from her hand. ¡°There¡¯s still a path forward,¡± he told her, earnest as she¡¯d ever heard him. Selene shook her head. ¡°No, not anymore. My father won¡¯t stop until one of them is dead, and winning will cost him just as much as losing. This is what the other Elders have been waiting for this whole time. This is the opening they¡¯ve been looking for.¡± ¡°It¡¯s not toote to stop them,¡± Solus insisted, and she grit her teeth as steam gathered at the corners of her eyes. ¡°No one on this earth can stop my father,¡± she said, defeated. ¡°Not even me.¡± ¡°Not even his wife?¡± A second raven joined the first, bare chested and radiating vitality. From his ck feather cloak he pulled a golden cup. Selene¡¯s heart skipped a beat in her chest. ¡°Is that-?¡± Solus offered her spear back to her. She took it. ¡ª-- The sovereign estate of the Tyrant Polyzalus sat near the top of the territory allocated to the Burning Dusk Cult by the kyrios. It was a grand monument,rger than the next tworgest estates put together, and it was where her mother had slept for sixteen years since her daughter¡¯s birth. The ravens ran out of shadowsrge enough to stalk through the moment they entered the estate, but that didn¡¯t stop them for a moment. When the first of the guards sworn to her mother¡¯s service raised the rm and struck out at them with burning rhetoric, Selene hesitated for half a step. It only took her a moment to override her instincts - these were her mothers guardians. She had grown up begging them to tell her stories - but in that time Solus and Griffon acted. Shields shattered and rhetoric parted like water around them when they struck. Griffon punched and grappled with pankration hands alive with rosy heat, and when the disciples of Burning Dusk tried to overpower his foundational technique with their own, he blindsided them with palms of crackling lightning. Solus charged through armored men like they were children, and when Griffon¡¯s pankration hands offered him up a weapon it had scavenged from the floor, heunched it down the hall with a siege construct¡¯s punishing force. Selene knew she wasn¡¯t a fighter. She never had been, and her father had never pushed her to be one. she knew that, and yet somewhere along the way she had deluded herself into believing the rising tide of advancement lifted all ships. She had never seen a battlefield with her own eyes, and only rarely set foot in the gymnasium, but she was still a Hero. Surely, if the need arose, she would rise to the asion. Griffon and Solus ripped through the halls of her father¡¯s estate like violence incarnate, never once betraying themselves in hesitation, and the term martial cultivation clicked into ce inside her mind. In this regard, they were far more than their standing suggested. And by that same measure, she was far less. For the first time, Selene wondered if an oracle could still serve if they walked the martial path. She¡¯d have to ask her mother. ¡ª¡ª The sovereign suite was quiet. It didn¡¯t make any sense at all, but then, it never had. Here, it was always serene quiet, and the sun was always setting just past the veranda. Her father had made a sanctuary of this ce by overriding the kyrios authority with his own. Here, and only here, the kyrios had allowed it. Not for any affection between the two of them. Bakkhos allowed the sovereign suite¡¯s construction out of consideration for the woman housed within it. They entered like a cmity, Sol¡¯s lowered shoulder and Griffon¡¯s violent intent tearing the bronze door out of its frame and sending it skidding across the unbroken marble floor. The moment they stepped foot inside, however, they went still. Their chests heaved while their pupils shivered, the terrible thrill of it all still very much within them. But no more than that. Warm light from a false sun spilled across the Oracle¡¯s sleeping figure and illuminated the portions of her mother that her father loved most. The delicate slope of her neck, the soft, half smile her lips always tended towards, the nails she had always painted the color of her faith. The Scarlet Oracle Calliopey at apparent rest on her birthing bed, looking for all the world like she was only resting briefly. The only sign that gave lie to the illusion was the ornamental knife resting t over her stomach, her limp hands folded over it. The same knife she had used in herst waking act to cut the cord connecting her to her newborn daughter. Selene whispered the same prayer she always did as she stepped into the silent suite. Her voice shook, but only a little. Griffon took a single step forward, then looked down as if seeing himself for the first time. He ripped the raven¡¯s mantle off and cast it aside. In his hand he held the cup of nectar. ¡°Are you sure?¡± Selene asked in a hushed voice. Her heart beat like a cornered rabbit¡¯s. Her mind was in half a dozen ces, but in her mother¡¯s peaceful sleeping face was all she could focus on. She didn¡¯t know what she would do if he told her now. ¡°I¡¯m sure of what I¡¯ve seen,¡± Griffon answered, an odd wonder in his voice. He took another careful step towards the nursing bed. ¡°And I¡¯m sure they¡¯ve never tried this.¡± ¡°Nectar from the me,¡± Solus said, quietly, suddenly by her side. ¡°If this isn¡¯t enough, nothing will be.¡± Though she couldn¡¯t have exined why, Selene remained rooted in ce. Solus remained by her side, steady as a stone. Griffon paused, inhaled and exhaled, and took the final step towards the bed. The manifested hands of his violent intent dipped beneath her mother¡¯s head and lifted her gently until she was halfway between prone and upright. Griffon watched her carefully for any signs of difort, and at the same time he drank the sight of her in with his eyes. Solus sucked in a breath, like he¡¯d been sucker punched. Selene didn¡¯t have a fraction of her attention to split. With one of his true hands, Griffin cupped the Scarlet Oracle¡¯s jaw, and applied just enough pressure to part her lips. With the other true hand, he pressed the rim of the golden cup to her tongue. He tilted the cup, slowly, torturously, and Selene was certain every moment was going to be thest before she woke up from this terrible and incredible dream. Finally, after ten eternities, Griffon drew back the empty cup. He didn¡¯t say a word. None of them did. They only watched. And waited. Waited. ¡­ Waited. ¡°No,¡± Griffon said in quiet disbelief. ¡°More,¡± Selene said. ¡°Give her the rest.¡± When neither of them moved, she gripped Solus¡¯ elbow so hard her knuckles turned white. ¡°Where is the rest of it? You had to have made more than one cup.¡± Solusid a hand over hers and gently pried it away. It trembled in his grip. ¡°That was all of it,¡± he told her heavily. Griffon snarled. ¡°All of it but a drop.¡± Solus looked sharply at him. ¡°A drop wouldn¡¯t have made the difference.¡± No. Not like this. ¡°It made the difference in that healing house.¡± She refused. ¡°And you just fed her a thousandtimes that portion.¡± Selene would not allow it. Griffon¡¯s retort died in his throat as she appeared by his side and dipped her finger into the cup. His livid re turned to razor focus as she ran her finger around the inner rim of the cup. She raised that wine-stained finger to her mouth and took for herself the drop that had clung to the sides. The taste was everything she had ever loved,bined and entuated by perfect harmony. An impossibly good vor. Her oracle¡¯s eye opened wide, and Selene looked upon her mother with a higher power¡¯s sight. And she saw it. The cord cutting de had a handle of polished gold, dented and shaped in such a way that the oracle¡¯s hand would sink perfectly into it when she grabbed it. Selena marveled at how natural it felt to hold as she pulled it from her mother¡¯s listless hands. She saw the questions in their eyes as she raised it above her mothers head. ¡°Growing up,¡± a stranger murmured in her voice. She felt as if she was a thousand leagues away. ¡°When my father wanted tofort me or the kyrios wanted to rile me, they would both tell me the same thing.¡± You are all the greatest portions of your mother. ¡°I took something crucial from her the day that I was born.¡± The nectar burned brighter than a star in her oracr sight, nearly as bright as the golden light pouring out of them, and it coursed through her mother¡¯s body in search of a catalyst that was no longer there to be found. Her majesty. The adamant de cut through the skin of her palm like It wasn¡¯t there at all. ¡°I have to give it back,¡± she dered, and poured her blood into Calliope¡¯s open mouth. She watched it tread the same path as the nectar. She watched it join itself to the heavenly elixir, building, burning- The oracle¡¯s finger twitched. There was a reaction. Some sound, an exmation. She didn¡¯t hear it. She was a thousand leagues away, and at the same time she was frozen in this perfect moment. She watched the blood flow. The more of it the nectar found the more that burning wonder was bolstered. Like a seed nted in the hollow of an uprooted cypress, the Oracle¡¯s scarlet majesty steadily bloomed. Someone said something. She ignored it. A few momentster she was rewarded with the slightest flicker of motion behind the Oracle¡¯s closed eyes. Almost. Just a bit more, and- Sol heaved her bodily away from the bed and the Oracle¡¯s eye mmed shut. Selene gasped like she had been drowning, abruptly aware of how cold she felt. The adamant knife slipped from her fingers. ¡°Enough,¡± the Roman said firmly, lowering her to the floor when it became clear she wasn¡¯t fighting him. ¡°If the first barrel wasn¡¯t enough, a second won¡¯t help.¡± ¡°I saw it,¡± she told him, standing under her own power and letting warmth slowly return to her body. ¡°It¡¯s working. It¡¯s so close, she¡¯s so close, we just -¡° her voice cracked. ¡°We were so close.¡± Sol left an arm around her shoulder. She leaned into it, breathing shakily and struggling to see- Selene froze. ¡°Griffon. What are you doing?¡± ¡°Giving back,¡± he said, and drew the adamant edge across his own scarred palm. He dropped the bloody knife back onto the bed and cupped his palms together. He held them above her mother¡¯ mouth and let the blood pool. He was going to ruin it. Selene lurched forward in terror, only for Sol to nt his feet and heave her back again. She burned her heart¡¯s blood and called upon a Hero¡¯s strength. ¡°Watch,¡± Solus urged her. Her body betrayed her again. She hesitated. Griffon closed his eyes and mouthed something silently. Then he parted his cut hands a fraction, allowing a strand of blood to fall into the Oracle¡¯s open mouth. Calliope gasped. Selene¡¯s entire world shrank down to a single point - her mother¡¯s face. She watched speechlessly as her nose wrinkled, and her eyebrows drew down. She watched the Oracle¡¯s lips purse at what was no doubt an unpleasant taste left behind by human blood. She watched as her golden eyshes fluttered. Selene watched her mother¡¯s scarlet eyes open for the first time since she was born. The full weight of the Scarlet Oracle¡¯s majesty flooded the sovereign suite. Burning heat and scouring rosy light filled every corner of the estate and spilled out over the veranda, reaching out to the false dusk outside. It was like standing in the center of a bonfire. It felt like never being cold again. Calliope stared up at the man above her, a thousand emotions ying behind scarlet eyes. Then, finally, she spoke. Her voice was brittle from disuse, and soft with wonder. ¡°Who are you?¡± Griffon smiled like the sun, and answered. ¡°My name is Lio Aetos. I was born eighteen years ago beneath a scarlet sun and swaddled by my mother in an oracle¡¯s veil. I am the first and only heir of Damon Aetos.¡± With every word, her mother¡¯s wonder deepened. Her lips parted, her eyebrows arched. Griffon leaned in, and their features were a perfect match. ¡°I am your son, and I''vee all this way to see you.¡± A moment and an eternity toote, Selene realized the emotion behind that wonder wasn¡¯t joy or excitement. ¡°Stop!¡± Solus roared, lunging past her. It was grief. It was dismay. With tears in her eyes, Calliope condemned him. ¡°Liar.¡± And she drove the adamant knife into her throat. Chapter 1.129 Chapter 1.129 The Son of Rome The Oracle¡¯s de was adamant-wrought. It plunged through her throat without any resistance, parting flesh and cartge as if it wasn¡¯t there at all. Calliope¡¯s breath hitched as she weakly twisted the knife- I caught her wrist and pressed my thumb against the t face of the dagger¡¯s hilt, locking it in ce. The Oracle choked on a sob and jerked her head sideways, seeking to tear the knife out sideways one way or another. I palmed the golden crown of her head and held her fast. Her eyes quivered as she stared up at me in despair. She looked like she was a thousand worlds away. A fraction of a second. The woman was weak and delirious, not even a Heroine like her daughter. If I¡¯d seen it a fraction of a second sooner, if I hadn¡¯t been weighed down by the weight of thirty men - it didn¡¯t matter. I¡¯d been too slow, and her children had never had a chance to stop her. They¡¯d both been too busy fighting for air, drowning in her presence, to notice the tightening of her fingers around the knife. The moment Calliope had choked out her final word I¡¯d seen the blood drain from Griffon¡¯s face. At that moment, she could have stabbed him instead of herself and he wouldn¡¯t have noticed until he came to in the underworld. For an excruciating moment, they traded one haze for another. Two sets of scarlet eyes stared withoutprehension at the knife lodged in the Oracle¡¯s throat. Thin rivers of blood spilled out from the seams around the wound. Selene cried out. The spell broke. Griffon¡¯s pneuma flooded the room, projections of the Rosy-Fingered Dawn surging across the Oracle¡¯s body and converging on the knife. The first pankration hand to brush against the sliver of exposed adamant was cut open as easily as the Oracle¡¯s throat had been, spilling golden essence like blood from its sudden wound. The same thing happened to three more before Griffon snarled and seized upon the knife with his own flesh and blood hands. The Oracle thrashed with all her might, but for all that this unnatural ce had preserved her, she had still beennguishing in a bed for sixteen years. The full force of her Majesty put up a far greater fight, dragging me back across time and vast distance to Egypt¡¯s cruel deserts. It burned, and it blinded. It was not enough. I held her head and her hand still while Griffon¡¯s pankration limbs swarmed like locusts over her body and pressed her down into the bed. ¡°Amma!¡± Selene wailed. The girl that rushed into the space between Griffon and I was neither the solemn guardian of the Scarlet Oracle¡¯s absent temple, nor the mischievous Heroine that yearned for wider worlds. Selene grasped desperately for her mother, and in that moment she was every bit her age. A stiff palm wreathed in lightning struck Selene in the chest and viciously shoved her back, followed swiftly by eight more. ¡°Back!¡± Griffon snapped. ¡°She¡¯s dying!¡± ¡°She¡¯s not. I won¡¯t allow it.¡± The scarlet mes behind Selene¡¯s eyes red up as she burned her heart''s blood, fighting through the muscle spasms and peeling lightning leeches off her body one by one. Her chest heaved like she was running a marathon. The glory of a Heroic cultivators pneuma poured out of her and shed against Griffon¡¯s, pressing it back. ¡°The knife,¡± she gasped, reaching for it, ¡°take out the knife-!¡± We were clustered so closely together that when I raised my leg and struck out sideways, it was more of a stomp than a kick. I caught her unprepared in the side of her knee with all my strength and weight behind my foot, and it was just enough to send her stumbling. ¡°You¡¯ll kill her if you do,¡± I said firmly when she turned to me in betrayal. ¡°The de is plugging the wound.¡± I was far from a medico, let alone a physician - that had never been my role in Gaius¡¯ legions. Odds were good that even just a few weeks of Anastasia¡¯s guidance and his prior understanding of anatomy had made Griffon my better in medical pursuits. Still, I¡¯d seen enough men bleed out to know that a de like this was best left sheathed. ¡°Not enough.¡± Selene dragged herself up by a bed post with a topper carved like a pine cone. ¡°She¡¯s still bleeding out!¡± ¡°I know.¡± I could almost visibly see the outpouring of Griffon¡¯s pneuma into the Oracle''s body. His influence wrestled Selene¡¯s - no, that was too kind a word. It mauled the Heroine¡¯s frantic glory like a cornered animal. If I had possessed Selene¡¯s vision or Anastasia¡¯s surgical perception, I had no doubt I¡¯d have seen him attacking Calliope¡¯s wound with the exact same ferocity. Griffon¡¯s eyes were wide open, his golden hair rising up on lightning currents and giving him an underwater appearance. In all the time I¡¯d known him, I¡¯d never seen such a look on his face. ¡°Wait- wait! The nectar!¡± Selene reached for my arm but stopped herself just short of jostling it. Instead, she gripped me with a look. ¡°If we pull it out, the nectar will-¡° ¡°Seal the wound,¡± I realized. A drop of the elixir had fixed a broken spine. Calliope, on the other hand, had received a full cup. ¡°Griffon, we can-¡° ¡°Be silent,¡± Griffon seethed. I finally ced his expression. He was terrified. ¡°The nectar isn¡¯t working,¡± he went on furiously. ¡°It isn¡¯t even trying to close the wound. Worthless fucking piss wine, it might as well be running from the de!¡± A memory that wasn¡¯t mine speared up through the crashing waves of panic. Words from my boyhood mentor, though he hadn¡¯t spoken them to me. Mortal means can¡¯t kill what divinity cursed to live forever. But adamant could. ¡°It¡¯s the metal,¡± I told him urgently. It was little more than mad intuition, and if I was wrong her death would fall entirely on my head. But it felt right. ¡°Adamant stifles ichor. We have to take it out.¡± ¡°She¡¯ll bleed out.¡± ¡°Only if the wound itself has the same properties. If not, the nectar will close it.¡± ¡°Her life isn¡¯t yours to roll bones for.¡± ¡°We have to do something!¡± Selene insisted. Griffon bared his teeth and turned his violent intent on the room around us. Two of his pankration hands tore the sheets from the bed and ripped them apart, burning the strips that were soaked through with blood and pressing the clean ones to the edges of the wound. The rest of his manifested hands took to the sparse furniture in the room, smashing lounges and tables apart then seizing upon their broken pieces. Half a dozen blindingly bright hands dove down into his shadow and emerged holding the swords he¡¯d stolen from the storm crown. They took to the broken furniture with their des like they were oversized carving knives, shaving away strips of wood at blistering speeds. He carved over a dozen wooden daggers, imitating the shape of the Oracle¡¯s knife, and discarded every one of them before turning his violent intent on the swords themselves. Terrible seconds passed while Griffon tried and failed to break a suitable imitation of the knife out of whatever was at hand. Wood. Iron. He even wed up the marble from the floor and tried to break it into shape. His intent was clear enough - if we pulled the knife out, and the nectar took too long to regain its potency or else never regained it at all, we could staunch the blood flow with a de of the same shape and a less poisonous material. It wasn¡¯t going to work. Griffon knew it, too - he admitted it by flinging thest of his marble attempts against the far wall so hard they exploded into powder. ¡°We need a surgeon,¡± he said, and when Selene didn¡¯t immediately respond, he hauled her towards the door with twenty hands of his intent. ¡°Now! Every surgeon you can find!¡± Selene struggled out of it, slipping out of the scarlet silks the hands were dragging her by and nting her feet in a wide stance. She would have looked fierce, standing there in her ornate armor, if not for her clear panic. Griffon struck her with pankration fists and furious influence, and she screamed right back in his face. ¡°There are none! My father sent them all away!¡± ¡°Search the mountain, then! Search the city! Swim to Egypt if that¡¯s what it takes!¡± ¡°There¡¯s no time!¡± Griffon strangled a sound of wrath and looked to me. ¡°We need Anastasia.¡± ¡°We left her in the storm.¡± I watched the pupils of his eyes shake, and saw the golden path go up in mes. Griffon and I pulled the de out together while Selene guided us. Griffon¡¯s pankration hands blurred forward the moment it came free, three fingers jamming into the wound to fill the sudden gap. The rest pressed fresh scraps of cloth around its edges. I stepped back from the bed physically as well as mentally, and I watched them struggle. Griffon tried cauterizing the wound, tried every internal trick Anastasia had taught him, and fell back on his own instincts when all of those failed. Selene whispered tearful prayers to her faceless bisected corpse god, to thete kyrios, and to the Scarlet Oracle¡¯s patron muse - or perhaps to her mother - while she scraped everyst bead of moisture from the discarded cup and dabbed it to her mother¡¯s tongue. It was all of it in vain. Calliopey in a shallow pool of her own life blood, no longer resisting through force or Majesty. The mark of a sunkissed physique was tan skin, scarlet eyes, and hair like spun gold. The Scarlet Oracle only matched two of those descriptors now. Her face had grown ghostly pale. Her scarlet eyes were ssy and unfocused. In the end, she died looking up at her children with tears in her eyes. Her final breath was simultaneously far less and infinitely more devastating than the cyclone we¡¯d weathered at the gates. Griffon staggered back from the bed as it rolled over us, slipping on a trail of blood and falling to his knees. He reached for one of the pinecone posts to pull himself up, but abruptly froze. He stared at his blood-soaked hand, transfixed. Selene, for her part, slumped across her mothers corpse and buried her face in her hands. The sobs that followed shook her whole body. Calliope¡¯s final breath swept over us like the kindest expression of her Majesty. It passed as a wave of warmth and soft illumination, chasing every shadow from the room and spreading out beyond it in a soothing flurry. It went beyond the terrace, out towards the false horizon with its painted sunset, and then further beyond that. For a brief moment, all the world knew warmth and rosy light. The moment passed. In the aftermath, the only sound to be heard in the sovereign suite was Selene¡¯s wracking sobs. In my mind¡¯s eye, the golden path burnt away entirely. Ash on the wind. Its smoke filled my lungs and made my eyes burn. Without warning, the false sunset went out like a snuffed candle, plunging the suite into darkness. The light of false stars shimmered weakly, casting faint shadows, and then one by one they all went out too. In seconds we were immersed in true darkness. The only light remaining came from the mes behind Selene¡¯s eyes, and even then it was only the slightest glow seeping out from between her fingers. There was a man standing in the doorway. Prometheus¡¯ ichor roared inside my chest, drowning out everything else. My spear was still in my shadow. In this darkness, I only had to flex my fingers and it would be there in my hand. I didn¡¯t dare try. The silhouette standing in the empty frame didn¡¯t move either. It was too dark to make out any of its features, even its outline. All I could tell was that it was far toorge to be a mortal man. Maybe toorge to be a man at all. A rattling cough broke the stillness, and a sliver of torch light shone forth as a Hero¡¯s eye cracked open. The light was weak, little more than flickering sparks, but it was enough to illuminate the towering figure of the Tyrant Polyzalus. I saw immediately in his face all the features that didn¡¯t match up between Selene and Griffon. He stood taller than all of the other Tyrants I had convened with on the mountain, broad-shouldered and lean. The shadows clung to his face, shrinking only from his eyes. They were scarlet. They were dread. Dymas hung limp and broken in his grip. Every bone in the Hero¡¯s body had been broken, his sword arm had been ripped off at the shoulder, and the skin that wasn¡¯t covered by bloody cloth and melting bronze was burnt ck. In some ces his body was still smoking. He¡¯d only cracked one eye open because the other had been gouged out and cauterized. For all intents and purposes, the Hero that the Raging Heaven Cult had called the Butcher and the Aetos brothers had calledpanion, was already long dead. His spirit simply hadn¡¯t admitted it yet. Somehow, in spite of all his injuries, Dymas managed a smile. That torch light bore into me. Searing to my soul. ¡°Rise-¡° the Hero rasped. Polyzalus crushed the man¡¯s skull in his fist. The Butcher¡¯sst gasp howled loud enough I was certain it would tear the entire suite apart, but not even a breeze passed through the doorway. Full dark fell once more, but I could see it now. Polyzalus stared nkly at the corpse of his wife, and their daughter sobbing over her. The stench of cypris smoke filled the ce. If I had been breathing, it would have sent me into a coughing fit. Years passed. Or maybe just a second. The Tyrant¡¯s dread gaze slid away from his wife and daughter, to me. Then further, dipping down to the scarlet son, kneeling motionless and staring at his own bloodied hands and the adamant knife that one of them still held tight. He took in his Rosy Dawn silks. He took in his stolen sword. He gazed upon Lio Aetos. And he rendered judgment. ¡°Die.¡± The word of a Tyrant in his domain was absolute. What Socrates and Dymas had called ethos, the crushing pressure I had always known as authority, seized both of us and crushed our hearts to pulp. There was no resisting it. This was nothing at all like the deep sea pressure Jason¡¯s pneuma had imposed upon me. It wasn¡¯t a power-y from a Tyrant too wary of a stranger to fullymit. No intimidation. No restraint. Selene jerked up, hands flying away from her face as she finally registered her father¡¯s arrival. ¡°Appa, no!¡± Far and away toote. The First Son to Burn attacked Griffon and I with every ounce of his hatred and his strength. We had no choice but to perish. As the darkness of grim Tartarus crept in and my body shut down alongside my mind, the titan¡¯s ichor burned brighter than the sun. Too little¡­ too¡­ ¡°Why?¡± [Late] Life returned to my tripartite soul in a heady rush, and I inhaled a greedy breath of smoke-stained air before my mind could think better of it. I doubled over, coughing so hard my vision swam and my throat tore and the taste of blood filled my mouth. Selene appeared at my side, shielding me from her father and bracing me so I wouldn¡¯t fall. I weed all of it, and I wondered how it could be. The Tyrant¡¯s death sentence had been real. More than that, it was still there. I could feel it like a de pressed against the back of my neck, like a hand wrapped around my heart just waiting to squeeze. For some reason though, the blow didn¡¯te. It waited. Why? Old ¡®Zalus turned his head and cast his dread re back out into the hall, towards a steadily growing glow. Socrates appeared in the ruined hallway, antern swaying in his hand. He looked like he¡¯d run sprints from Olympia to Egypt and back again, drenched in sweat and hobbling like he was every bit his age. His eyes, though, were as sharp as they¡¯d ever been. ¡°Why what?¡± The First Son to Burn spoke without any inflection. ¡°Why do they deserve to die?¡± Socrates asked,ing to a stop just a few feet away from Dymas. The old philosopher gestured at the mangled corpse with hisntern, grim shadows swaying across it with the motion. ¡°This man betrayed your trust and attacked you in your home, endangering the lives of hundreds in the process. You could argue his death was righteous. But what have these children done to deserve the same sentence?¡± ¡°They killed my wife.¡± The de of his authority bit into my neck. ¡°They only came here to help,¡± Selene spoke up, her voice raw from sobbing. Even so, she drew herself up and mastered her shuddering breaths. She faced her father in grief. ¡°They brought her nectar just like I told you they would, and it worked. She woke up. She spoke.¡± The Heroine¡¯s voice cracked. ¡°I finally got to meet her, appa. That¡¯s all they came here to do. It wasn¡¯t supposed to be like this.¡± The Tyrant¡¯s dread mask cracked as he looked upon his daughter. Just for a moment. ¡°They used you, little heart,¡± he said softly. The de dug deeper. ¡°From the very beginning they yed you for a fool.¡± Selene shook her head angrily, but the battle was lost. ¡°A witness has presented her case,¡± Socrates interjected, each word heavier than the one that came before it. ¡°Who are you to ignore her testimony?¡± ¡°I am Polyzalus. I am king.¡± ¡°These two are members of the Raging Heaven Cult, entitled to the judgment of their peers. Killing them here and now before their guilt can be determined flies in the face of the code you swore yourself to uphold when you arrived here in Olympia.¡± Youck context, Dymas had dered with perfect certainty, and I felt the truth of it now as Socrates wove into existence a prison around Polyzalus that I could barely perceive in the first ce - let alone understand. ¡°Where is Justice to be found in an execution without fair trial?¡± Socrates, pressed. ¡°Where is Temperance in a good man¡¯s full surrender to wrath? Where is Wisdom in the neglect of a hundred dying citizens for the one that¡¯s already dead?¡± All the while that he spoke, the whispering threads of the Gadfly¡¯s rhetoric wound themselves around the Tyrant and his sovereign suite. They spread like spiderwebs, entrapping him. ¡°Where is Courage in the murder of a child?¡± Socrates thundered, and the death sentence fell away from my soul. This is how a Philosopher stood against a Tyrant. Not with cataclysmic violence like the Butcher and his de, but with intent. By means of ideology. Searching not for mortal blows, but aiming instead at the foundation of the monarch¡¯s strength. ¡°The sunset king wouldn¡¯t act in such a way,¡± Socrates asserted. Every line was a grating buzz. ¡°The First Son to Burn wouldn¡¯t leave his subjects to die while he pursued his own petty vengeance. He wouldn¡¯t disgrace the power vested in him by Burning Dusk by turning it against children. This isn¡¯t who you are.¡± Trapping them within the boundaries they had built for themselves, the framework they had designed over the course of their life. A prison fit for a king. ¡°I don¡¯t care.¡± Of course, that was assuming the king cared at all for his kingdom. Polyzalus didn¡¯t even try to debate the man known far and wide as the Schr. Instead, he immediately conceded the point and epted the consequences. His dread authority fractured at its foundation, visible in the sudden flood of real sunlight as the illusion beyond the veranda dispersed and the world outside the estate was revealed to us. And us to the world in turn. Invisible smoke like raging forest fires flooded the room, seven new strains allyered one atop the other, as every Tyrant scattered across the mountain turned their gaze upon old Polyzalus. The dread mask broke along with his foundations, and the First Son to Burn bared his teeth in visceral hatred. Hatred for the Gadfly, for his rivals, or for us? It could have been any. It could have been all. It hardly mattered now. The iprehensible sensation of a Tyrant¡¯s rising pneuma nketed the mountain and spilled over like an avnche, washing over the Sanctuary City of Olympia. The indescribable burden of seven more rose up to meet it. In the distance, light bloomed in the Olympic stadium as hundreds of Heroic souls reared up in instinctive fight or flight. The Tyrants spoke up in their multitudes. Each of their voices was a grim and rolling thunder. ¡°I should have known you¡¯d be the first of us to burn.¡± Leonidas of Infernal Frenzies. ¡°No man exists above thew, least of all you.¡± Drakon of Broken Tides. ¡°It isn¡¯t toote. Cast away, dive deep, and this need not be the end. Even you can be reformed.¡± Solon of Brazen Aegis. ¡°Another treasure wasted on the waves.¡± Midas of Waning Wax. ¡°Not like you at all to afford us such a blind spot.¡± Thalestris of Blind Maidens. ¡°Enough.¡± Ptolemy of Scattered Foam. ¡°So I swore, and so shall I stand.¡± Aleuas of Howling Winds. ¡°Strike the first blow, raven. I¡¯m with you.¡± Socrates met my eyes from across the hall. ¡°Run.¡± Seek safer shores. I spun on my heel and seized Griffon by his hair, bounding across the room and leaping over the edge of the veranda. Selene followed a split second behind us, her scarlet heart mes zing. We soared clear over the edge of the mountain and all of its madness, the force of our jump carrying us fully to the shimmering city of Olympia. Behind us, eight Tyrants flexed their strength for the first time in centuries. Kaukoso Mons erupted. Chapter 1.130 [An Unkindness] Chapter 1.130 [An Unkindness] ¡°One was more than enough.¡± An Unkindness The Scarlet City falls fully into chaos by the time the Rosy Dawn¡¯s pirs emerge from their closed doors cultivation. The people of the valley are crude souls by andrge. Citizens enjoy ces of prominence in the city¡¯s bureaucracy, such is their supremacy, and whenever a philosopher¡¯s sets foot in the city¡¯s humble agora it is nearly a certainty that they will be a schr of the city¡¯s greater mystery cults. In Alikos, as is the case in most every city state aside from the Coast, the people are defined by their greater mystery cults. No matter an Alikon¡¯s standing, the Rosy Dawn and the Burning Dusk are their pride. Beyond that, it is the case that many fathers and mothers living in the valley have sons and daughters living up above in one of the two cults. So when initiates of the Rosy Dawne spilling down the mountain in a horrible frenzy, the panic that erupts is parental as much as it is patriotic. Only a few minutes after the Young Miss dives into the Ionian Sea, mystikos from the Rosy Dawn descend from the eastern mountain range and run screaming through the streets of Alikos. There is no order to it, only a wild purpose. Lydia Aetos didn¡¯t spring from her bed straight into the sea - her peers had watched her crest the mountain on her way back from the city, and so they retrace her steps as best as they can. They scour the Scarlet City for a reason, a threat, anything to exin the Young Miss¡¯ sudden mania. Even the most frantic of them are not bold enough to trespass in the Sand Reckoner¡¯s paltry estate, and because of that not one of them finds the answer to their question. All they manage to do is pass along their panic to those below. In the end, it is the Burning Dusk that seeks to control the situation. Schrs of Burning Dusk stream down the western mountain range just like their peers across the valley, but there is no confusion in their ranks. Citizens and Philosophers alike move through the city with clear purpose, soothing the people of the valley and stopping short their peers from the Rosy Dawn. It is Gianni Sc¡¯s unseen authority that guides them at first, but when the altercations between rival cultivators turn violent in the streets, it is Gianni Sc himself that takes the situation in hand. It has been nearly twenty years since the kyrios of the Burning Dusk walked through the valley without a destination in his mind, but there is only so long that he can stare an opportunity in the eye before he blinks. In nearly twenty years the kyrios of the Rosy Dawn, Damon Aetos, has never once allowed his control of the city to slip. The Tyrant of the Burning Dusk knows it may well be another twenty years before he is afforded another chance like this - a chance to undermine the kyrios¡¯ stranglehold over the ind. Unfortunately, the Tyrant¡¯s timing is the worst it could have possibly been. Had he acted just a few minutes earlier, he could have swept aside every conflict and nted his image in the minds of every citizen, metic, and freedman as the steady order to contrast Damon Aetos¡¯ chaotic frenzy. And had he waited just a few minutes longer, he would have seen the pirs of the Rosy Dawn emerge from behind closed doors before it was toote to turn back. All of Gianni¡¯s work is undone three times in quick session - once when the horrible rage of Fotios and Raisa Aetos res like spread wings across the city, blinding the people of the valley and its lesser cultivators like they¡¯d spent all afternoon staring into the sun. The screaming panic that follows has only just reached its peak when his work is undone again, this time by the wrath of Stavros and Chryse Aetos. Turning back now, fleeing at the mere suggestion of cultivators that should only exist beneath him, would be to unmake all that he is - unmake what little of him remains. Gianni Sc has no choice but to stay his course. Even then, he is damned. Shortly thereafter, the Tyrant of the Burning Dusk watches four Heroic Captains descend like falling stars into the valley city, and wonders why he even bothered at all. Atop the eastern mountain range, Damon Aetos snuffs out the frenzy overtaking his cult like a candle pinched between his fingers. The humbled wise men carry his word through the estates and pavilions, and as abruptly as it came, the mania is gone. The kyrios is here, the wise men assure their juniors. Everything is under control. It is a long while after that when Heron Aetos finally finds his uncle. The kyrios is in a somber hall forbidden from even the most talented members of the cult. It¡¯s a ce that only the scions of the Aetos family are allowed to enter. Heron approaches hesitantly. He waits until his uncle acknowledges his presence, and only then does he kneel by his side. The solemn statue of Anargyros Aetos stares dauntlessly ahead. Like many of the statues in this hall, there is a gap where his eyes should be. That isn¡¯t what gives Heron pause. He¡¯s been here before, seen histe uncle¡¯s unsettling stone face and looked upon his empty eyes. That isn¡¯t new. Heron hesitates because the statue¡¯s eye sockets aren¡¯t empty anymore. His uncle has ced a candle in each of them, one of which is burning steadily away. ¡°I told you to go with your cousin,¡± Damon says. ¡°I did. He told me to track down Rena while he handled Castor, but¡­¡± Heron struggles to find the words. ¡°She was inconsble. I was still trying to snap her out of it when Niko came down the mountain with all of his friends and Castor¡­ and the Sand Reckoner.¡± Heron¡¯s uncle doesn¡¯t say a word. The silence is worse than the outrage he¡¯d imagined. ¡°They left, uncle. All of them. The Sand Reckoner had a ship tucked away in his rags, and Niko - he took Rena and Castor and-¡° Heron freezes as warmth like a mid-summer breeze sweeps over him, passing like a wave through the hallowed halls of the Aetos memorial and carrying with it a rosy light that chases away every mournful shadow. He watches cautiously, wondering what his uncle is doing and why, but it¡¯s gone as quickly as it came. The kyrios reaches for the second candle in his brother¡¯s empty marble socket, the one yet to burn, and lights it. ¡°Why are you here, nephew?¡± Damon Aetos asks quietly. Heron grips the vestments of his status as a young pir, unable to look his uncle in the eyes but unwilling to look away entirely. ¡°The Rosy Dawn needs an heir.¡± Here and now, the words don¡¯t sound half as noble as they had in his head. His uncle¡¯s silence is a damning confirmation of that. Heron stands, feeling like a stranger in his own home, and his voice cracks as he passes on thest of his news. ¡°The Sand Reckoner, he told me to ask you-¡± ¡°I know.¡± What else is there to say? Thest of the young pirs flees his uncle¡¯s judgment. ¡°Ask him if he¡¯s checked his math.¡± The Young Miss-tocrat Terror for her youngest cousin is what drives Lydia Aetos to dive into the sea and swim after a ship that is already near the horizon. Terror, in turn, is what gives her limbs strength they¡¯ve never had before, allowing her to cut through the waves faster than any of her Civic peers. It¡¯s this terror that clouds her senses, and it¡¯s the terror that doesn¡¯t abate. She knows that it won¡¯t until she sees Myron safe. Even so, the longer she fights against the current of the Ionian, the more her frantic mind adapts to the terror. It hunts her like a hound, but after some time the Young Miss of the Rosy Dawn is able to separate herself from it and consider her situation. There are no ships in the Scarlet City¡¯s docks, but it was folly all the same to dive in alone without even an exnation for her fellow initiates. Lydia understands that. There¡¯s no telling when the pirs of the Rosy Dawn will emerge from their closed doors cultivation, but their absence doesn¡¯t make Lydia the fastest swimmer in the city by default. There are dozens of cultivators in the Scarlet City that stand entire realms above her. It isn¡¯t quite that simple. Convincing any member of the Burning Dusk to act on Myron¡¯s behalf was a risk, one Lydia had immediately deemed unworthy of the time it would take to try. Yet that still left the members of her own cult, the wise men and the proud senior mystikos of the Rosy Dawn. Lydia could have enlisted their help, she knows. And therein she finds the problem. Even now, she can¡¯t shake his influence. Lydia remembers the words her fianc¨¦ spoke to her so many years ago, then as now with unshakable confidence. They¡¯re all worthless, every wretched one. Now that Niko is gone, there isn¡¯t a single Sophist in this cult that¡¯s worth your wasted breath. Ignore them. Their help is worth nothing - their judgment even less. Lydia disregards the senior initiates of the cult out of instinct nted in her mind by Griffon. It¡¯s only after the coast of Alikos has shrunk to a thin sliver on the horizon behind her that she¡¯s finally able to admit it to herself. Was it the right impulse? Has she doomed herself and her littlest cousin both? It hardly matters now. Lydia gasps through every stroke, pushing her body to the limits of its strength. No matter how far she goes, though, the ship is never any closer. It only grows more distant. When the distant speck of the ship vanishes entirely beyond the horizon line, Lydia is left alone in the Ionian. She screams in frustration and terror, wasting precious pneuma, and wrings her body out like a wet cloth. Faster. She has to be faster. Without the visible marker of the ship to guide her, Lydia searches desperately through her umted knowledge for a way to keep her path straight. She can swim twice as fast as Myron¡¯s ship, and it will be worthless if she loses her sense of direction and strays the wrong way. She seizes upon nautical tricks every Aetos learns from a young age and discards them just as quickly. In the end, she finds the answer in her first mistake. The terror - specifically, the frantic, gasping panic it had thrown her into. Lydia stops swimming and allows herself to float, forcing her breathing under control even as her little cousin gets further away. She falls back on her breathing technique passed down to her by the Sand Reckoner. She allows it to whirl throughout her body in a forever tightening spiral. A perfect, golden thing. Endlessly converging. Endlessly predictable. Once, when she was still new to his tutge and more frustrated than she was reverent, Lydia had thrown a fit in Archimedes¡¯ estate and demanded to know why she could nevernd a hit on him no matter how she tried. The old philosopher had pped her upside her head for making a mess of his mess, and revealed a secret that cultivators ten times her age would have killed for without any particr fanfare. Fool girl. Your every action leaves behind a golden thread: so long as I know where you¡¯ve been, you¡¯ll never hide from me the way you¡¯re going. It isn¡¯t an application of the spiral breathing technique that she¡¯s even considered before this moment, but the theory is sound and her refinement shines true. Lydia¡¯s awareness of her own pneuma spirals outward behind her, tracing her path all the way back to the shores of the Scarlet City. Ahead of her, it spirals out in reverse, tightening and narrowing into a single point over the horizon. Lydia cuts through the waves with renewed purpose and clear direction, maintaining steady breaths all the while. Unfortunately, direction is only one of two parts required. Lydia¡¯s only indications that her body is slowing are the setting sun and the passage of her awareness through the golden rings of her spiral path. Neither registers to her senses. Such is her single-minded focus that she doesn¡¯t notice her body has given out until she dips her head beneath the waves for another forward stroke and finds she doesn¡¯t have the strength to pull herself back up for air after. As she sinks into the depths of the Ionian, warmth and light like dawn breaking beneath the waves illuminate the darkest depths of the Ionian Sea. In that moment, Lydia sees with her own eyes the myriad reasons why even the strongest cultivators build ships to cross the seas. And those myriad reasons see her in turn. The warm light passes her by. The Young Miss of the Rosy Dawn falls deeper into the depths. When something seizes her by the neck, Lydia turns what remains of her strength upon the creature. She bites and she ws, but it¡¯s like scrabbling at a stone. The creature ignores her efforts, overpowering her without effort, and drags her¡­ Up? Lydia gasps explosively as she¡¯s dragged up out of the Ionian, blinking salt water from her eyes and struggling to resolve the blurry image of the creature - no, the man that had saved her. ¡°Niko?¡± She chokes out between sputtering coughs. Sky blue mes dance in her swimming vision. ¡°I can¡¯t decide which of you is the bigger fool anymore,¡± her cousin says, furious and relieved. He springs from the sea, taking her with him. The setting sun and salt water spray burns her eyes blind. Lydia doesn¡¯t realize her cousin came after her on a ship until it¡¯s looming like a mountain in front of her face. Through the sun and the spray she can only make out a vast watercolor silhouette. Her first delirious thought is that Niko had taken them all the way back tond in a single leap. After all, how could any ship be thisrge? They hit the wooden deck a momentter, and Lydia hardly has time to clear her eyes before she¡¯s tackled onto her back. ¡°Why!?¡± Rena wails, burying her face in Lydia¡¯s neck. ¡°Why would you do that?¡± ¡°Foolishness,¡± Castor reprimands her, his voice a cruel, whip crack. ¡°What were you thinking? Aside from nothing at all!¡± Despite his words, his eyes are wet as they scan her up and down for injuries. Both of them hold on like they expect her to go up and smoke the moment they let go. Lydia stares up at the scarlet banners of over a dozen sails. She strokes her sister¡¯s head and rubs her brother¡¯s back with hands that tremble from her overwhelming fatigue, and she takes in as much of the ship as she can without turning her head. To call it a ship at all is a mistake, she realizes. It¡¯s closer to a floating city. In fact, how does it float at all? ¡°What is this?¡± she rasps. Her little sister¡¯s wailing drowns it out, but she¡¯s heard nheless. ¡°The Alikonia,¡± Niko answers, appearing in her vision and bringing a water skin to her lips. Lydia drinks deeply from it, only then feeling her monstrous thirst. ¡°That¡¯s a terrible name for a ship,¡± the Young Miss mutters in between greedy swallows. Niko snorts, ncing off to the side. ¡°Be grateful he named it anything at all.¡± Lydia follows her older cousin¡¯s gaze, and sees Archimedes scribbling feverishly onto the ship¡¯s deck with hispass and his stick of charcoal. He¡¯s surrounded by Niko¡¯s Heroicpanions - each of them looks livelier than she¡¯s seen them since the night of the wedding. As she watches, the one that looks most at home on a ship leans over the Sand Reckoner¡¯s shoulder and points inquisitively at a circle left half-drawn. Before the Hero can fully vocalize his question, the old Philosopher turns his head and bites the Hero''s hand. The Rosy Dawn¡¯s Young Miss feels some of the tension unfurl within her heart, watching the gaudy pirate Hero yelp and holler at the old wise man while the rest of hispanions heckle andugh. As she watches, a few of them shoot her winks and casual waves. Eight Heroic cultivators, counting Niko, and somehow the Sand Reckoner himself. Idly, her eyes trail past the group and settle on a frail figure, hunched miserably beneath one of the ship¡¯s many masts and clutching a bucket for dear life. Somehow, Athis looks even worse than Lydia feels. The ve girl smiles weakly when their eyes meet, her relief clear from across the deck, and then the Alikonia dips into arge wave and the girl¡¯s eyes cross. Athis wretches loudly into her bucket. ¡°What is this?¡± Lydia asks again. It¡¯s all so surreal that she begins to wonder if she drowned after all. Niko sits by her head, one leg folded underneath him and the other stretching out. Had his legs always been that long? The odd thought vanishes from her mind when she sees the expression on his face. Now that Lydia is safe, Niko¡¯s fury is gone. In its ce is a razor sharp focus. It¡¯s a look she¡¯s been waiting to see on her cousin¡¯s face since the day Griffon ran away. ¡°I¡¯ve decided,¡± Niko says, enfolding each of them in theforting bonfire of his presence. ¡°I¡¯ve been living in the past ever since I came home. It¡¯s high time I get to know the thoughtless people my cousins have be.¡± His narrow eyes burn, locked onto the distant horizon. ¡°All of them.¡± ¡°Never asked? What do you mean he never asked- he promised us he¡¯d convince you! He swore! I waited for weeks, for months! And in all that time, he didn¡¯t ask you once?¡± ¡°No.¡± ¡°Why?¡± ¡°Because he knew what I would say.¡± The Little Kyrios The ship is far from his best work. Myron knows that he is tempting the Fates when he pushes off from the docks. The skies are clear that morning, as they have been for days. He¡¯s as rested as he¡¯ll ever be, his pack is full of bread and salted meats, and he nts a full barrel at each end of the skiff - one filled with water, the other kykeon. He has his daggers and three spare sets of clothing appropriate for every season, among various other necessities. He is as ready as he will ever be. Even so, he knows he is rolling the dice when he finally lets fly his sail. Every young pir of the Rosy Dawn knows how to sail. It¡¯s one of many skills they¡¯re expected to know before the average citizen has been taught how to read - because of this, the oar is nearly as familiar to Myron¡¯s hand as the pommel of his dagger. In fact, that familiarity is the only reason he pursues this mad venture at all. Still, working an oar alongside his father is one thing. Building a ship with his own two hands and sailing it clear across the Ionian Sea, further than he¡¯s ever been - alone? That is something else entirely. The winds are kind enough and the Sand Reckoner¡¯s design is true to his word, and those two facts alone are just barely enough to see Myron through the journey. He realizes, quickly and far toote, that despite the many discarded attempts leading up to thepletion of this vessel, he still hadn¡¯t gotten it quite right. Either that, or the Sand Reckoner had had a cultivator like Lio in mind when he said a single man could sail the ship alone. The Hunting Bird¡¯s Breath allows Myron to store bursts of vital energy within the pneumatic chambers he¡¯s carved out inside himself. ording to Niko, he¡¯ll be able to use the stored breaths in the future to fuel his techniques. For now, Myron uses them to brute force something that Lio could have done while in full recline. When the distant sliver ofnd appears on his horizon, Myron is so exhausted he hardly has the strength to cheer. He does it anyway, of course. There¡¯s no one around to tease him, and his pride in seeding is its own vitality. Close enough to taste it, the Little Kyrios takes up his oars and nts both feet firmly against the bench in front of him. He attacks the waves with a vengeance, and as the Peloponnesian coast line growsrger up ahead, he considers his next step. Crossing the Ionian was the hardest step in some ways, but he still has to find Lio. Olympia is a farrger city than Alikos, and the world beyond it is iprehensibly vast to the young boy who¡¯s never left his ind. Still, even if Griffon had already moved on from this ce, Myron is confident he¡¯ll have left his mark on its people. He¡¯ll scour the beaches first. If he can¡¯t find the Eos, he¡¯ll head to the Half-Step City itself. Even if it takes him all night, all day tomorrow, all week beyond that, he¡¯ll find someone that remembers his cousin. And in the worst case, if a month goes by and he still hasn¡¯t found a trace, he¡¯ll search the stands for him during the games. Myron is so absorbed by his excitement and his ns that he nearly reaches the stone breakwater that buffers the Ionian from Olympia¡¯s dark city before he knows it. In fact, he might have rowed right up onto the distant shore without noticing if not for a sound off his starboard side. Myron blinks, jarred from his musings, and looks right. His eyes grow wide in disbelief. There¡¯s a boy drowning in the Ionian. Myron curses and drops his right oar, seizing the left with two hands and heaving the ship around. Now that he¡¯s listening, he can¡¯t believe he didn¡¯t hear it sooner. The boy isn¡¯t much older than him, if at all, but he¡¯s making enough noise for a man twice his size. He thrashes desperately towards the raised mound of stone that is the breakwater, but as close as he is, his strength is fading fast. His cries for help are muffled by choking panic, loud and clear to Myron, but not nearly enough for anyone at the shore to save him. A part of Myron wonders how he came to be in this position to begin with. Had he tried to swim out beyond the breakwater as a dare, an act of courage? Had he been cast overboard and left behind? Myron doesn¡¯t stop to ponder. Heys into his oars and brings his ship around, ready to dive in the moment the boy slips fully beneath the waves. Fortunately, he manages to tread water just long enough for Myron to bridge the distance in his skiff. ¡°Here!¡± Myron shouts, slipping the right oar from its harness and holding it out for the boy to grab. Hetches onto it for dear life, his mismatched eyes terrified and grateful. With his fiery red hair stered to his forehead, he looks almost like a drowned rat. Myron hauls the poor wretch up out of the sea, draping him over the starboard rail and letting him cough salt water onto the nks. His nose wrinkles. With the worst of the danger past, the Little Kyrios speaks his mind inly. ¡°What sort of ipetent wretch drowns three stades from a breakwater?¡± He says it in his Lio voice, because there¡¯s no one around to tease him for it but the boy, and Myron doubts he¡¯ll- A de presses lightly against the back of Myron¡¯s neck. Abruptly, like the purging of a curse, the drowning wretch ceases his coughing and lifts his head with a devious grin. ¡°The same sort of ipetent that falls asleep at his oars, I¡¯d say. What do you think, Pyr?¡± ¡°I think you should stop handing our names out to anyone that will listen to you,¡± the owner of the knife says, exasperated. Myron can tell by his voice and the angle at which he holds the de that his hidden assant is a boy just the same as them. ¡°You worry too much.¡± The deceiver rolls his mismatched eyes and heaves himself fully up onto the rail, slicking his damp hair back and flicking the droplets of seawater at Myron¡¯s face. ¡°And you¡¯re avoiding the question. Was I right or was I right?¡± ¡°He looks the part,¡± the boy named Pyr admits. ¡°But I can¡¯t say he acts it.¡± Myron stares coldly at the deceiver. The irreverent boy leans in, and as he does his pneuma makes itself known. Civic Realm, seventh rank. ¡°We made a wager, my brother and I,¡± he confides. ¡°Pyr thinks your sail and your attire are a simple coincidence. But a king¡¯s eye is more discerning. And I think you¡¯re one of them.¡± They deceiver hooked two fingers in Myron¡¯s scarlet and white silks. Dampened by sweat and sea spray, they are still visibly the uniform of one that contemtes the dawn. ¡°I¡¯m not convinced,¡± Pyr says. ¡°Strong enough and skilled enough to sail across the Ionian alone in this ragged skiff, but too dim to see through your terrible acting? I can¡¯t believe it.¡± ¡°And I can¡¯t believe you still doubt my ns when they¡¯ve never, ever failed.¡± ¡°Never-?¡± ¡°What say you?¡± The deceiver¡¯s grin sharpens. ¡°Are you a scarlet son, or are you a faker?¡± Myron speaks slowly, enunciating every word. ¡°I am in disbelief.¡± ¡°That makes three of us,¡± the deceiver says lightly. ¡°Tell us, stranger. Which part of this can¡¯t you believe?¡± ¡°The audacity,¡± Myron snaps, and releases the full force of a ninth rank Civic Cultivator¡¯s pneuma. The deceiver¡¯s mismatched eyes widen, and that is all the response Myron allows him. A single palm strike to the chest with a full pneumatic chamber¡¯s force behind it flings the deceiver off the ship and sends him skipping like a stone across the water. The pneuma of an eighth rank Citizen res to life behind him and the boy named Pyr buries a fist in his side. Myron inhales sharply, taking the pain and feeding his second pneumatic chamber to its limits. He throws an elbow back into the other boy¡¯s gut, and when he doubles over Myron wraps his arms around the boy¡¯s neck and heaves him over his shoulder. The boy chokes as his back ms against the unforgiving rowing bench, knocking the wind out of him and rendering him helpless when Myron grabs two fistfuls of his in tunic and swings around him three times like a discus thrower before letting him fly out to his brother. The Little Kyrios spits in their direction and reims his oars, both his side and his pride stinging. He wheels the ship around, determined to forget about this embarrassment by the time he makes it to shore. Unfortunately, the Fates have other ns. ¡°Hold on!¡± The deceiver hollers, cutting through the waves now like a shark. Myron ignores him. He¡¯s nearly at the breakwater now. Would have been there already if not for the event that he¡¯s already forgotten. Four hands hammering insistently against the hull of his skip destroy his short-lived hope. Myron rounds on the two wretched brothers scrabbling at his ship like starving dogs and brings his oar to bear. ¡°Wait!¡± Pyr shouts. Myron beats them both savagely over the head with his oar instead. ¡°Ungrateful, worthless, conniving, deceivers!¡± Myron rages, each word punctuated by the crack of his oar. ¡°I¡¯ll drown you both myself!¡± In between curses and pained yelps, the nameless deceiver shoots a victorious look at his brother. ¡°I told you.¡± ¡°Peace!¡± Pyr cries, ignoring him. His eyes are mismatched, the same as his brother¡¯s, but they¡¯re far more earnest. Or maybe he¡¯s just a better actor. Myron twists at the hips and swings with all his might. Both brothers lurch back in abrupt rm, recognizing the swing for what it is - a killing blow. They¡¯re too slow. Pyr recognizes it and flings himself sideways, putting himself between his brother and the oar. Myron drains his second pneumatic chamber, exhaling it in a rush and stopping the swing in the middle of its motion. It makes his body creak in concerning ways, but it¡¯s worth it to see the look on the smug deceiver¡¯s face. ¡°Peace,¡± Myron echoes, throwing the word mockingly back in their faces. ¡°In which barbariannd does peacee at the edge of a de?¡± ¡°The knife was for show,¡± the deceiver protests. ¡°He didn¡¯t even try to use it!¡± ¡°In which barbariannd does peacee in the form of a clenched fist?¡± ¡°You struck my brother first,¡± Pyr says, meeting his eyes steadily. Myron sneers. ¡°Then if neither of you intended to attack me, why didn¡¯t you just ask me where I was from?¡± Pyr nces back at his brother, whose face promptly flushes. ¡°It seemed like something he would do,¡± the deceiver mutters. Myron¡¯s brow furrows. ¡°What?¡± ¡°Forget it! We¡¯ll start fresh,¡± he deres, heaving himself up out of the water and offering Myron his hand. ¡°Be d, boy - in fifty years you¡¯ll have a story to tell your grandchildren. The story of the day you met the king.¡± His grin is roguish, and Myron can tell he means every word. ¡°My name is Leo, and this is Pyr.¡± Myron stares at them both, pointedly ignoring the offered hand. The ¡°king¡± lets it hang, unbothered by his silence. His brother, Pyr, looks almost apologetic as he mbers over the rail. ¡°How old are you?¡± ¡°Ten,¡± says the king. ¡°Eleven,¡± says his brother. Myron res at the deceiver. He refuses to even think of his cousin¡¯s name in rtion to this wretch, let alone acknowledge it. ¡°We¡¯re the same age.¡± ¡°So?¡± ¡°So don¡¯t call me ¡®boy¡¯ like you¡¯re any different!¡± ¡°I am different, though.¡± Mismatched eyes glitter. ¡°I¡¯m a king.¡± They squabble like this while Myron¡¯s skiff bobs idly just outside the breakwater, heedless of the setting sun and the distant shadow of encroaching storm clouds. The trio of young Civic cultivators continue on, blissfully ignorant of the approaching storm. Until they hear the thunder. ¡°AETOS!¡± Myron wheels around mid-sentence, his breath hitching in reflexive terror. He¡¯s a split second faster than the two brothers, and because of that he is the only one that sees what happens next. In the furthest distance that a Civic cultivator¡¯s eyes can see, countless threads of vibrant light coil and arch up into the sky. Beautiful, Myron marvels in spite of his terror. Then the tallest of those heavenly threads cracks like a whip and crosses the distance between horizons in the time it takes his heart to beat once. The whish strikes a burning line from the distant city of Olympia all the way down to the breakwater. The dock city explodes. Chapter 1.131 [Ethos] Chapter 1.131 [Ethos] Ethos A small eternity after the Son of Rome and the Young Griffone charging out of the immortal storm crown that hangs above Kaukoso Mons, six Heroic soulse tumbling out after them. Four Heroes and two Heroines, each of them marked by the raven¡¯s hand. All six of them are brimming with vitality and joyous defiance. Through the efforts of one, all six have been given the once in a lifetime opportunity to drink from divinity¡¯s cup. Each of them has suffered terrible injuries, but only one of them has the wounds to show for it. The rest of them emerge from the storm crown healthy and whole, better off than they were when they entered it. That isn¡¯t to say that each of them drinks their cups equally dry, of course. Of the six Heroes afforded the opportunity, only the Sword Song chooses to drink every drop of nectar she¡¯s given. The nectar cleanses her of everything but her scars. The Captain of the Depths drinks half a cup in his delirium, and in so doing his sudden blindness is more than just reversed. He looks upon the world with new eyes when he emerges from the storm, seeing more than even a Hero is meant to discern. The Caustic Queen and the Gold-String Guardian each drink just enough to mend their wounds and carry them through the storm. The Caustic Queen saves the bulk of her panacea brew for her mother - and for a physician¡¯s future research. The Gold-String Guardian saves the bulk of his cup for the boys he¡¯s taken in. It¡¯s less than he wanted for them, but far more than he expected to get. Both the Heroine and the Hero lurch out of the storm in painful shape, but that small sip is enough to swiftly make them whole again. The Huntsman touches only a drop of nectar to his tongue. His virtuous beast has taken the brunt of the storm¡¯s wrath on his behalf, and the only reason he takes that drop at all is to see if it works. Once confirmed, the Huntsman pours the entirety of his cup into the open maw of his crocodilepanion. The Huntsman emerges from the storm looking no worse for wear, despite only barely tasting of the brew. The only visible change is in his crocodile skin cloak - steam pours off of it like morning vapor from ake. Finally, thest of the six - and the only one to be offered a cup unprompted - drinks no nectar at all. The Hero of the Scything Squall gives half his cup to the Captain of the Depths, and the rest he holds in reserve. No matter how many wounds he suffers, and no matter how many times his own Muse urges him to take a sip, he never once considers changing his mind. He is ashamed enough that he gave away the majority of the cauldron to his peers, though he knows the Son of Rome would not have wanted them to die just so he could gain. The Hero Scythas holds half his cup in reserve for Solus. Because of this, he emerges from the storm crown in by far the sorriest state. His hazel heart mes burn brightly, unmarred by heaven¡¯s wrath, but his body is so battered that Jason has to hold him up every few seconds when the lingering lightning damage turns his limbs against him. Despite this, he is happier than he can remember ever being. For the first time in his entire life, Scythas thinks triumph is within his reach. Then he staggers out of the storm, and the sound of everything unfolding below strikes him like a hammer. The breeze carries everything to his ear. Everything. The voice of the wind is panicked, and so it does none of its usual filtering to soften the blow for him. Scythas copses to his knees not because his body is at its limit, although it is, but because the cacophony of noise robs him briefly of his senses. The Raging Heaven Cult is tearing itself apart, like a giant driven mad, and Scythas hears every broken bone in deafening rity. The cruel tumult of cultivators beating their peers to death, seniors crushing juniors they should have been protecting and juniors swarming seniors they should have been looking to for guidance. The unspeakable roar of architectural wonders that have stood proud for centuries, breaking apart and cascading down the mountain in man-made rock slides. The heart-wrenching noise of children abandoning their fa?ades of lofty refinement and wailing in pain and fear. Scythas hears it all and in those first few moments is nearly driven mad. Two slender hands of ethereal light are what save him, mping over his ears and blocking out the noise. Normally, something as trivial as a hand¡¯s obstruction wouldn¡¯t have a chance of silencing the wind. But this is no ordinary savior - this is Urania, the true Urania, returned to him now that he¡¯s left the storm. Breathe, hero. The Heavenly Muse whispers, and for a blissful moment her voice is the only thing he can hear. Now brace. Scythas grits his teeth and hardens his resolve, and Urania pulls her hands away. Not entirely - just enough to allow in a fraction of the noise, a portion of it that he can handle. ¡°Scythas?! Scythas! Can you hear me!?¡± It¡¯s Jason¡¯s voice he hears first, but it¡¯s Anastasia that he sees. He flinches, drawing back, but the Caustic Queen holds him firmly in ce. Jason hovers behind her in in distress. ¡°Easy,¡± Anastasia murmurs distantly, biting her lower lip as she focuses. ¡°Almost there.¡± By the time Scythas realizes he¡¯s being mended, the work is nearly done. Together, Urania and Anastasia¡¯s efforts are enough to fully clear his mind of its haze. Scythas immediately casts out his senses and is nearly undone a second time. The first assault was pure, chaotic violence, a hammer blow to both temples. The second is worse. Focused now, Scythas cuts through the myriad voices on the mountain andtches on to the ones that matter most. The reality of the situation strikes him, not like a hammer, but like the lightning fist of god. ¡°How did it get worse?¡± Elissa is demanding just out of his sight. She stands with Kyno and Lefteris, and though theyck his hearing, all three of them are Heroic cultivators with refined senses to match. ¡°We were gone for half the day!¡± She¡¯s saying, furious as she¡¯s ever been. ¡°What have they been doing?¡± ¡°What they¡¯ve always done,¡± Kino answers grimly. Lefteris spits it like a curse. ¡°Nothing.¡± Scythas is so overwhelmed that it takes him a moment to find his voice. In that time, the Sword Song casts her gaze their way and calls out. ¡°You three - this mess isn¡¯t going to fix itself. Are youing or are you-?¡± ¡°Polyzalus,¡± Scythas gasps, watching the confusion bloom in Anastasia and Jason¡¯s eyes and knowing it¡¯s not enough. He lunges sideways, rising into a crouch, and he howls, ¡°Polyzalus is-!¡± The suffocating weight of a Tyrant¡¯s pneuma subsumes them all - eight times in an instant. Scythas heart is already hammering before it happens, but he sees the animal rm take hold of each of his peers. They stagger as if in an earthquake and the mes behind their eyes re and overflow, spilling out from their eye sockets into the open air. Scythas, Anastasia, Jason, Elissa, Kyno, and Lefteris. All of them waver on the edge of fight and flight as the dread intent of every elder on the mountain encircles them like a clenched fist. There¡¯s no time left to move, but Scythas forces his battered body to try. He lunges past his peers, down the mountain path towards Polyzalus¡¯ broken domain, and gets three steps before thunder rocks his feet out from under him. ¡°AETOS!¡± He watches in mute horror as tree trunk thick tendrils of molten heat surge up to their eye level and above it, coiling in the skies around the storm crown like burning serpents. Scythas watches the tallest of the lines contort, and his heart flies up into his throat. He lurches to his feet. Urania! he cries out, and the Heavenly Muse provides the path forward. Scythas burns his heart''s blood, surging along the path of floating stars provided by the Muse and sting each of the other Heroes off their feet with the force of his passing. The instant that he reaches the end of Urania¡¯s charted path, the tallest of the burning tendrils snaps like a striking serpent, burning a line of molten g in the face of the mountain that would have epassed all six of them had they remained where they were standing. The other five Heroes are still tumbling through the air when the burning whip cracks andshes forward. Scythas watches in impotent despair as the First Son to Burn¡¯s opening strike carves a strip out of the city of Olympia and all thends between it and the Ionian Sea. Less than an instant after that, the other seven elders strike. It¡¯s like the world is ending. Urania mps both hands firmly over his ears again, but she can¡¯t block out his vision. The moment unfolds in perfect silence, so slowly that it¡¯s as if the whole world has been submerged in honey. Lefteris is screaming, his eyes locked on the distant horizon where the molten line of Polyzalus¡¯ strike ends. The others are less singrly distressed. They thrash like rabbits caught in a snare, turning every which way, but never moving a step in any direction. There¡¯s nowhere for them to go. Move. Move. Scythas braces his aching legs, but he doesn¡¯t know where to go either. Urania can¡¯t chart him a path forward without a destination. So even though it threatens to unmake him, even though his muse tells him urgently to stop, he pries her hand away from his ear and calls out to the wind. Naturally, it answers. ¡°Oath-breaker!¡± Aleuas roars. His wrath is echoed by a rising hurricane. ¡°Spineless, conniving RAVEN!¡± ¡°Raven?¡± Scythas breathes through the connection, and in an instant feels the Hurricane Hierophant¡¯s ire narrow to a screaming point. It centers on him. ¡°You.¡± The vitriol cuts like a de. Scythas can feel the Tyrant¡¯s ire as a corporeal burden on his soul. ¡°This is your doing. Do you have any idea what you¡¯ve invited into my domain? What your pretender has wrought upon us all?¡± ¡°Solus isn¡¯t-!¡± ¡°I should have seen it from the beginning! I thought he had to be more than what he was because he¡¯d taken you as a hostage. I should have seen the signs the moment you brought him to my attention.¡± ¡°Signs of what?¡± Somehow, though the exchange is painfully swift, the world continues to crawl through honey around him. Scythas wonders if he¡¯s dying. ¡°You were the raven¡¯s hostage, sure enough, but he didn¡¯t take you by force. You ran freely into his open palm.¡± The man that had promised Scythas his daughter¡¯s hand in marriage snarls in disgust. ¡°Look upon his good work, now, and tell me if it was worth betraying your only ally in this world.¡± ¡°You¡¯re lying! Solus didn¡¯t cause this- he was the only one trying to avoid it!¡± ¡°Then why is he running away?¡± A scathing response rears up in Scythas¡¯ soul. And then he sees it. In that frozen moment, Scythas can only stare in abject confusion at the trio of distant specks soaring off the mountain towards the city of Olympia. Solus, Griffon, and Selene are fleeing the mountain at the moment the Son of Rome is needed most. Not a single one of them is even looking back. ¡°Again you¡¯ve let yourself be used,¡± Aleuas hissed through their linked influence. ¡°And this time your weakness has burdened me.¡± Where are they going? Why aren¡¯t they looking back? ¡°Fix this. Bring them down, now, or you¡¯ll never see your brother again.¡± Though the Hero of the Scything Squall has no way of knowing it, he isn¡¯t the only one trapped in that frozen moment. He isn¡¯t even the only one exchanging words with a furious Tyrant. Each of the six Heroic souls held hostage by the raven are dealt the cruelest blow any of the city¡¯s Tyrants are capable of dealing them. They¡¯re told the truth. Scythas¡¯ heart rebels against his mind. He¡¯s unwilling to believe it, but unable toprehend the picture painted by their retreating backs. Where are you going!? Why aren¡¯t you fighting!? For the first time since Solus picked him up off that mosaic floor in the kyrios¡¯ estate, Scythas feels something other than shining admiration for the solemn Son of Rome. Something dark and nauseating. Doubt. The frozen moment ends, torn apart by the force of eight Tyrants shing, and all six of the staggered Heroes explode into motion. Chapter 1.132 Chapter 1.132 The Son of Rome The first instant nearly killed us. Polyzalus was the Rein-Holder, and he had proven that epithet well-earned when Dymas confronted him. Unspoken, yet inly implied, was the fact that a charioteer only needed one hand to hold his reins. The other hand carried his whip. Stripped of half his dominion and challenged in his own throne of power, the Tyrant still moved faster than any of his peers. I didn¡¯t need to look back to feel the dread heat of his rising hatred. I could feel it on my back and in my tripartite soul, a burning brand that marked us all for death. I called upon Gravitas for the second time that day, pping us out of the sky as the Rein-Holder¡¯s first whip cracked. I heard Selene gasp behind us as the captain¡¯s virtue knocked the wind out of her. For her, that was the extent of it. For Griffon and I, my virtue flung us at a diagonal as it had Selene, and then it mmed us straight down as the Fifth¡¯s displeasure made itself known. The burning whip struck the city of Olympia and cut deep, drawing a molten line through the city that carried on into the horizon further than my eyes could see. The proximity heat and the blow back alone would have turned our bones to shrapnel and pulped our insides if not for our refinement. I knew immediately that we were not the only ones marked by its passing. How many had been fragile citizens? How many hadn¡¯t been cultivators at all? In less than a second, the First Son to Burn had killed hundreds of Olympia¡¯s denizens. Perhaps thousands. All for a parting shot that he hadn¡¯t even made the effort to properly aim. The reason for that was obvious enough - we survived that first strike only because he was already turning from us as he cast it out. The rest of his focus and his strength had been reserved for his peers. Griffon and I plummeted straight down into the outskirts of Olympia, Selene soared over our heads, and the elders of the Raging Heaven Cult attacked as one. Or at least, attacked at the same time. I had spoken to four Tyrants in their mountain kingdoms during my stint as the Raven. From those encounters, and from my subsequent visits, I had gleaned the surface level implications of their power. Surprisingly enough, those direct encounters hadn¡¯t been the only opportunities I¡¯d had to gather information on them. Day in and day out, I had been hounded by lesser initiates of the Raging Heaven Cult¡¯s various factions, and I had discovered something that I should have known already from my time in the legions. Whether it was amanding officer or an ancient king, subordinates loved to gossip. They bragged to me about their own elders, seeking to gain my favor on their behalf, and they disparaged the elders of every other faction towards that same end. They talked and talked and kept on talking, as was the way of Greeks - and patricians, if I was being honest with myself. Simrly, most of their words amounted to nothing in the end. But not all. Each of the eight Tyrants acted faster than I could ever hope to track, levying techniques whose origins were as iprehensible to me as the bisected corpse of the fallen sun god. Despite that, when things went awry at the moment of their joining, I had some idea as to why. Their own words and simplemon sense would have led anyone to believe the first strike would be seven against one. In reality, the alliance broke down the moment it was formed. Drakon of the Broken Tide was a monstrous man, ancient even by the standards of his peers, and the members of the Broken Tide Cult had boasted more than once that Tyrants cultivated in pursuit of standards that he had set over half a millennia ago. The man known to his citizens as both Judge and Jury had sworn to me on the River Styx that he would stand against Polyzalus, if and when the time came. His first act just barely stayed true to that vow. The grimwmaker immediately sought to expand his domain, casting out a framework of imposed rule that echoed Socrates¡¯ gossamer web of rhetoric, but writ farrger. The act threatened Polyzalus, to be sure, but it threatened the other six just as much. Everything caught inside his framework suffered a portion of what every citizen suffered within a Tyrant¡¯s domain - the loss of their own soul¡¯s agency. Somehow, by means I still didn¡¯t understand, Drakon could do this without challenging another Tyrant¡¯s domain directly. He could bind them without fear of retribution, because for some reason they had no voice in the discussion. It was obvious enough why any Tyrant would be named Judge, but this ability was why the Broken Tide¡¯s elder was called the Jury. I hadn¡¯t received an offer to enter the domain of the Brazen Aegis¡¯ elder, but I had heard enough to understand why Solon pivoted before the first whip had cracked and locked horns with the Coast¡¯s old Judge and Jury. The specifics of their sh were entirely lost on me - youck context - but the effect was clear enough. Drakon¡¯s framework lurched in ce, ebbing and flowing like the tides, but never quite managing to fully epass the mountain. Midas and Ptolemy moved in ordance to their word, and each of them warped the world around them in their passing. The king of baster Isles turned everything he touched to gold, including the dread essence of his rivals. Polyzalus met him with dozens of the same whips that had carved a trench in the world from horizon-to-horizon, and each of them turned to molten gold as they struck the king, melting to his skin in ordance with his will and forming armor that thrummed with Polyzalus¡¯ stolen strength. Ptolemy¡¯s domain was something I still couldn¡¯t intuitively grasp. Ptolemy the Savior was a Macedonian born and raised, and had ruled in Egypt when the Conqueror cast him off. He was as foreign to the Greeks as the Greeks were to me, and so all that I could understand of the glimpse my senses gave me was the fact that his hollow domain consumed everything it touched. Polyzalus cast hundreds of whips into his face, and in their hundreds they vanished without a trace. Had that been the extent of it, the sh may have been decided then and there. Unfortunately, the moment the two kings had turned their backs, the king of the Spartans and the queen of the Amazons attacked their supposed allies without hesitation. The Savior¡¯s hollow domain unmade the Spartan king¡¯s spear the moment it touched his skin, but Leonidas of Infernal Frenzies only roared and willed three hundred rust-bitten spears into that same empty space. Ptolemy¡¯s bizarre domain ate those too, but it couldn¡¯t get through them all before Leonidas ran him through. Simultaneously, Thalestris of the Blind Maiden Cult loomedrge in her domain and levied a bow the size of a ship at Midas¡¯ back. She closed her eyes as she drew its colossal string back, and from her living flesh a near perfect copy of the queen rose, shining silver-bright and carrying a bow of her own. The copy aimed an arrow of pure onyx straight up. Both visions of the Amazon queen loosed their arrows simultaneously. One struck Midas in the back and erupted as a golden arrowhead out through his chest. The other flew with no apparent target into the skies above. The silver-bright queen¡¯s arrow found its mark and the setting sun vanished, plunging the city of Olympia into starry night. Distracted by treachery and forced aside, the task of Polyzalus¡¯ execution fell to the first bitter king to join my alliance. The king of seers leapt entirely from his domain and dropped a screaming hurricane on Polyzalus¡¯ head. Alone thought he was against the First Son to Burn, it still would have ended there. Selene¡¯s father was weakened, his attention had been split between his enemies, and Aleuas Pyrrhos struck him with the full might of his concentrated rage at my betrayal and his hatred for his rivals. It was enough, just barely. ¡°Why?¡± Or it would have been, had the Gadfly not tripped him up. I crashed through the sloped stone roof of an art house, and the rest of the opening exchange was lost to me while I tumbled. I tore myself free of a weaver''s half-made tapestry while shockwaves rocked Kaukoso Mons above, casting around for Griffon and finding him in a simr state of entanglement. I ripped away threads that he could have burnt to ashes with casual effort, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him roughly. ¡°Griffon. Griffon! You have to move.¡± If he heard me at all, I couldn¡¯t see it in his eyes. They were ssy and unfocused. He stared at his bloody hands and the knife they were holding like they belonged to someone else entirely. I pped him hard across the cheek and it did nothing but make his right ear bleed. Seconds after ournding, Selene descended a stone¡¯s throw further down the street. She was calling out for us as she fell, desperate and at her limit in more ways than one. I caught her in the middle of my stride, tucking her under my left arm while she choked and caught her breath. I spoke before she could demand an answer I didn¡¯t have to give her. Where are we going?What are we going to do?How can this be salvaged? There was nothing I could say to those. No answers, and not a single moment to find one. ¡°Take him,¡± I told her. She reeled, and I cursed every second lost while she gathered herself. ¡°Take-?¡± Her eyes flickered, and her expression twisted when she caught sight of Griffon on my other side. Given hours and Orpheus¡¯ own guidance, I couldn¡¯t have identified half the emotions in her heart then, let alone untangled them from one another. ¡°Why?¡± She finally asked after entirely too long. ¡°Did he break something?¡± ¡°He¡¯s in shock.¡± The arm that Selene was not tucked under held Griffon up as best as I could while running at full speed through an erupting warzone. I wasn¡¯t dragging his full weight, but I wasn¡¯t far from it either. His legs worked listlessly, moving on pure physical instinct and stumbling as often as not. ¡°Help me,¡± I entreated the daughter of thete Scarlet Oracle - the girl whose mother I had just helped take away. The taste of bile and the Fifth¡¯s phantom scorn momentarily overwhelmed the oppressive smoke in the air. I forced it back down into its depths. ¡°Please.¡± Selene¡¯s heart mes flickered between Griffon and I, steam from vaporized tears trailing in her wake. She clenched her eyes shut, shuttering the light, and inhaled a trembling breath. What came over her then was as profound as any oracle¡¯s majesty. For a girl of only sixteen years, maybe more so. ¡°Very well,¡± she whispered. Her eyes opened, and her scarlet re burned with her heart¡¯s resolve. I heaved both of them forward as hard as I could. Selene twisted with a dancer¡¯s grace and slipped underneath Griffon¡¯s arm, slinging it across her shoulders like a yoke and steadying him with one hand on his wrist and the other around his waist. When their feet touched the road she took off without missing a beat, carrying forward the momentum of my toss into a swift run. Thus unburdened, I surged past them and pulled my celestial spear from my shadow. There was no time to convey my gratitude properly. No time to do anything at all but seek safer shores. ¡°Follow me,¡± I told her, Prometheus¡¯ golden ichor pounding a steady drum beat against my channels. ¡°I¡¯ll clear a path forward.¡± Some things were easier said than done. Others couldn¡¯t be done at all. I gripped my bronze armament tight and forced that thought aside. I had no room for it. The Sanctuary City of Olympia had been battered and bruised the night Griffon and I fled the Rosy Dawn, wounded on the surface and also deep within its heart by the passing of the Tyrant Riot. Mastercraft architects and the tireless efforts of thousands had mended the surface level damage in the months that followed, rebuilding homes and repairing broken roads at close to a legion¡¯s pace. Unfortunately, their restoration had only ever been skin deep. The rot within the heart had been left to fester and spread, more disastrous by far, and now it unmade all their efforts. We fled as fast as we could, but it wasn¡¯t nearly fast enough to outpace the cataclysm of eight Tyrants shing. Towering architectural monuments flew apart like they¡¯d been struck by a giant¡¯s hammer, man-made rivers and fountain pools boiled over like neglected cooking pots, and the very earth heaved and lurched like some horrible serpent was writhing just underneath the city. Every construct of flesh and blood that wasn¡¯t already a corpse screamed and begged for salvation not forting - men, women, children, and even the livestock and pets. None were spared. I struck the flying shrapnel from the air with my spear and rushed through heaving streets like a sailor lost at sea. All the while, my mind raced out ahead of me. Each option was bleaker than the one that came before it. Turn back, fight to topple them all, and die. Turn back, fight to preserve my alliance, and die. Turn back to save Socrates. Turn back to save ourpanions. Turn back to save the innocents on the mountain. Fight. Die. With the setting sun shot out of the sky, and the city¡¯s hearths scattered or buried beneath the rubble of sted out homes, the greatest sources of light besides the stars were the echoes of warring Tyrants. Lights of myriad color and intensity red behind us without end, byproducts of elders sinking fang and w into one another with an intensity not meant for mortal frames. The molten scar left behind by Polyzalus¡¯ first whip crack glowed a sullen blood-orange, throwing off light and sulfurous heat while it grew steadily wider, steadily consuming everything in its close proximity. Thest and greatest source of light, of course, came from the Heroes. I heard Selene gasp behind me as lightning briefly lit up the night sky. It fell without warning, thunder, or passing clouds, descending not from the mountain¡¯s storm crown but from the clear skies over the Olympic stadium. Lights like hundreds of zing torches shone through the gaps in the spiraling tiers of statue columns that made up the Olympic Stadium¡¯s outer walls. Those lights were soon joined by the physical sensation of glory and the rising volume of a heavenly chorus. Lightning struck again, three times in quick session. Then, only momentster, five more times in a tighter grouping. The light reached higher with every bleak bolt, and each time the heavenly chorus gained more voices. Heroic cultivators that had gathered in the hundreds topete for the title of Champion ascended one by one in response to the madness, and for a moment I felt hope. But only for a moment. The Olympic stadium loomedrge ahead of us, growingrger as we sprinted towards it. The closer we got the more confused I became. The lightning didn¡¯t lie, and neither did the chorus - the athletes in the stadium were advancing, just as the Butcher had advanced. Yet I saw no Heroes flinging themselves up to Kaukoso Mons in opposition to cruel reality. Through the gaps in the stadium walls, I only saw¡­ Each other? Selene mouthed in silent disbelief as I pivoted on my heel and sprinted away from the stadium. I hadn¡¯t seen any Heroes leaving the stadium because I had been looking up. There were plenty leaving, sure enough, but they weren¡¯t taking the fight to the Tyrants above. They spilled out of the stadium like bees from a kicked hive, powerful pneuma radiating from their souls as they took off in every direction. Some rode on the backs of virtuous beasts, some tapped into movement techniques or camouge and vanished from my senses, and more still simply ran at breakneck speed. As they left, lightning continued to strike inside of the stadium. For reasons that I suspected but hoped I was wrong about, the chain-breakers and monster-yers remaining in the Olympic Stadium had turned on one another. They were tearing each other apart, and the victors were advancing in their multitudes - only to then be torn down by the nextpetitor in line. Some of the cultivators running away may have been taking the fight to the Tyrants on Kaukoso Mons. Some of the cultivators fighting in the pit may have stayed behind to protect their peers from the predation of would-be diators. I didn¡¯t wait to find out. Turn back to the mountain, fight, and die. Carry on to the stadium, fight, and die. Flee east, flee north, flee south. Fight. Fight. Fight. Die. Die. ¡°Die a captain¡¯s death!¡± There was no path forward. My mind raced in search of something, anything that could light our way, but all it found was salt and ash. In ce of paths forward, I found a thousand-thousand golden roads fanning out behind me. Every hollowed out home, every crumpled up corpse, every shining light of a Hero¡¯s misused glory - each of them was a path I could have taken. Each miserable tragedy and all of the city¡¯s most contemptible cowards were elements that I could have taken into ount. They were strengths that I could have made my own, or weaknesses that I could have cut away before the final hour. My treacherous mind seized upon everything I saw and thought back instead of forward, building brick by golden brick a thousand-thousand ways that I could have done this right. Paths that a greater man - Caesar - would have marched down without hesitation, paths that a wiser man - Aristotle - would have navigated around to avert this cmity entirely. It did me no good at all. All of it useless, wasted effort. A grand stoa buckled just up ahead, like an overburdened spine, and caved in on itself entirely as another Tyrant¡¯s strike rocked the earth beneath us. The stone statuary decorating its roof tumbled and fell away like so many stone soldiers. One of them, a man in hoplite armor with a helmet but no face, was in pieces before it hit the ground. The rod it had been holding spun through the air and sank tip-first into the gardenwn surrounding the building. I blinked and stared through smoke and miasma heat at the standard perched proudly atop it. The iron eagle¡¯s wings were spread wide, as if it was about to take flight. Its head was turned to the side, its talons curled tight around aurel wreath. The eagle standard of Rome stared balefully back at me while the city fell to ruin all around it. While my city fell. While Rome¡­ I ripped the rod out of the dirt as I passed it by, smashing it against the fractured steps leading up to the stoa. The standard at the end of the rod, not an eagle forged from iron but a raven chiseled from marble, shattered to pieces. I scoured my mind clean. There was no path forward, fine. What then? Turn back. Fight. Die- I took the second impulse in hand, tracing its startling intensity back to the source. Of course I wanted to turn back. Of course I wanted to atone. But both of those impulses were easily overruled by my duty to Rome¡¯s lost legions. Why, then, when I knew I couldn¡¯t turn back and die, was I still itching for the fight? I found the answer and the way forward both in the same ce, deep within. Pushed to the back of my awareness this entire time while I focused on more important things, Prometheus¡¯ ichor hadn¡¯t dwindled away. It hadn¡¯t even stagnated. Not content to sit idly by, it had grown, cycling through my body alongside my blood and filling every spoke of the wheel carved into my body by starlight marrow and Orphic rites. It had grown hotter, and it hadn¡¯t stopped. Now that I gave it my full attention, I felt it calling out for blood. Fight. Fight. FIGHT. I knew what was waiting for me on Kaukoso Mons. I knew that I couldn¡¯t turn back now, I knew that I couldn¡¯t afford to die today, and it didn¡¯t matter.I wanted to turn back anyway, to fight anyway - because despite everything I had seen, I knew that I could win. Reason told me otherwise. It didn¡¯t matter. My gut, the animal instinct that informed every creature, told me I was prey to the predators warring on the mountain. It didn¡¯t matter. Lived experience and the words of every mentor I¡¯d ever had told me I would surely die if I turned back now, and it did not matter. I could fight. I could win. If I could live through this, I could do anything. I crushed that voice to death and banished it from my mind. A veil I hadn¡¯t noticed until it was too obvious to miss, like stage curtains catching me, was lifted from my thoughts. I formed a shield wall at once around my senses and turned my focus inward as the Titan¡¯s golden lifeblood pounded at the barrier. In the distance far behind us, the despoiled queen of the Amazons shouted a word of wrath and dread power, followed by a sound that I imagined a loosed bow string might have made if it wasposed of metal cords and drawn back by a giant. The Gadfly¡¯s gossamer web of whisper-thin rhetoric bulged, the Rein-Holder cracked his ten thousand whips, and the attack was deflected. The arrow implied by the noise struck the eastern market district closest to Olympia¡¯s agora and exploded. Selene¡¯s rmed cry and the sensation of being flung off my feet by the shockwave were distant things. My body rolled and surged back into a sprint without pause, while my mind focused on the immediate threat. Golden ichor raged inside my body, so hot now that my breath steamed like I was back in Thracia¡¯s winter countryside rather than a burning city. It wed at the shield wall I had formed around my sanity, and when it couldn¡¯t get through the soldiers it shouted over their heads. It promised me I could win. It promised me I could do anything, so long as Imitted everything to the act. It told me I was invincible. ¡°Even their gifts are a pox upon your souls.¡± The Thief of me was humanity¡¯s oldest and most stalwart defender. Even so, he was a Titan. His actions didn¡¯t make him less of what he was - only more. Traitor or not, he remained an agent of the heavens. ¡°Heaven is cruel even to those that it wishes well.¡± He had warned us. I couldn¡¯t afford to be this ignorant. All the gold in Egypt¡¯s coffers wouldn¡¯t be enough to afford me such a luxury. Icked context for everything that mattered, and I¡¯d let another city burn because of it. Rome was already a debt I could have worked a thousand lifetimes and never been able to repay. Olympia would bury me. ¡°It ends,¡± I growled, echoed by three thousand. I took the Titan¡¯s ichor in hand again, holding it tight when it tried to overtake me, and ordered it to go elsewhere. It did more than acquiesce. It leapt to mymand, obeying me like an eager hound, and thus revealed the first and most obvious of its qualities. It wasn¡¯t that it wanted to subvert me - in fact, it wanted to serve my purposes, to meld itself to the shape of my will as Prometheus¡¯ influence had when he¡¯d rebnced us. The issuey with me. Something I had done, or more likely something I had not done. The golden ichor had been left to its own devices while Griffon and I raced down the mountain to deliver our nectar, and it had taken steps to rectify that. The finer mechanisms of cultivation had always been a secondary concern to me, even from a young age. As an arrogant young patrician,ter as a boy ying soldier in the legion camps, and finally as a captain of the Fifth - I had always been of the mind that strength would follow if I simply acted as I should. Even after the destruction of my world, as a foreigner in and full of Greek oddities, I had fallen back into that state of mind without conscious thought. I¡¯d been reassured I had the right of it by the apparent frivolities of Greek ascension, the neverending confluence of rise and fall based entirely upon aesthetic and heaven¡¯s whimsy. My half-hearted lessons with the Gadfly hadn¡¯t been enough to outweigh that, not even close. Then, in Thracia, I¡¯d had my way of thinking confirmed by divinity itself. ¡°Live your life, brother. That¡¯s all any of us have to do.¡± Would that I had remembered I was talking to a corpse. I bid the ichor to show me what it had done to my body, and it presented its work with relish. I left no stone unturned and nothing implied. I sifted through the muck in search of golden insight, noting every change along the way. All of my senses had been sharpened, up to and including the perceptions of a Civic and Sophic cultivator. The distance at which I could discern a third rank Philosopher from a fourth rank Philosopher had more than tripled. Even now I could feel its range expanding. As I was at this moment, I might have even been able to perceive the Heroic cultivators that had been watching Griffon and I from afar while we raced down the mountain. Maybe. I looked to my right, focusing on a distant tree burning wanly as the Rein-Holder¡¯s molten scar rolled over its roots. It was far enough away that I could only just make out the tree¡¯s individual branches. I counted the seconds as I ran parallel to it. One. Two. Three. My vision sharpened incrementally with every beat of my heart. Each beat took in gold ichor, refined it, and circted it through my body hotter and brighter than before. After seven seconds, I could count every curling leaf on that distant burning tree. Five seconds after that, I could count the veins in one of its leaves as it fell. I felt sturdier, less liable to buckle beneath the weight heaped upon my shoulders. That was as far as I had taken the observation before. Now I dove deeper. I observed the contraction of my muscles and the strength of their fibers as I sprinted and struck out with my spear to clear the way. My load-bearing strength had increased to the point where my every waking motion no longer felt like I had someone at the other end applying twice my force against me. As the seconds passed, I was starting to feel light. There was more to it than that, I realized. My slow, enduring strength had risen, but so too had my snap reactions. I had missed it before, attributing the sharper reflexes to theparatively lighter load I was carrying, but the difference was four fold. I had just regained my prior agility from before our trip to Thracia. I had outstripped it entirely while maintaining the new burden of my weight. When I threw a punch, it hit four times harder than it would have yesterday. If this growth continued, it wouldn¡¯t be long before I could throw a punch another four times stronger than that. From the pallor of my skin to the rigidity of the nails on my fingers and toes, I took nothing for granted. I brought all of it to the forefront of my awareness, then went a step further and separated out the improvements that hade from the titan¡¯s direct rebncing. Only then, once I had assembled the full mosaic, did I act upon it. I called upon the ichor, all of the ichor, and it rushed to fulfill my desire. Peripherally, I watched all the portions of my body and soul affected by the Titan¡¯s lifeblood suddenly stagnate in their growth. All of them stopped and settled into equilibrium except for the one that I had funneled the ichor entirely towards. My heart beat once. My cultivator sense exploded outward, doubling its range instantaneously. My heart beat twice. The range of my perception grew by the same amount again - no, it should have, but for some reason¡­ No, it had. I tracked a cultivator tunneling deep beneath the earth and away from the Raging Heaven Cult, someone that I hadn¡¯t been able to sense a heartbeat prior. It wasn¡¯t that the range had increased by a smaller margin. My cultivator sense wasn¡¯t a circle on a t ne. It was a sphere. I fed the entirety of the ichor¡¯s refining efforts into my ability to sense pneuma, and it grew at an unbelievable pace until the sphere of my pneumatic sense had all but epassed the Half-Step City. I swept my awareness up and down the ruined streets, bypassing rubble and me to find those still living in the wreckage. My eyes narrowed, and the golden ichor boiled in response to my dissatisfaction. The sixth sense that a cultivator had for pneuma was something they refined over time. A first rank Citizen, for example, might be able to enter a room and know there was another cultivator in it but little else. If they got closer and the other cultivator was the same rank, they¡¯d likely be able to tell. They might even be able to guess the difference if the other cultivator was a couple steps above them. Beyond that, it would be a worthless blur of more. As a second rank Philosopher, I could identify the rtive strength of any cultivator within my range down to the exact rank so long as they were in my realm or below. Past the tenth rank of the Sophic realm, all I could tell was that they were beyond me. I cut the flow from my pneumatic sense. It was reaching its practical limits regardless - the rate of its growth hadn¡¯t faltered once, but that did precious little for me when the sphere¡¯steral growth had been reduced to finger lengths. I felt a vibrant star of pneuma diverge from its path and move to intercept us. Too high above me on thedder to tell by how much. It could have been a freshly risen Hero. It could have been a captain of the Heroic realm. For all I knew, it could have even been a Tyrant. I raised my celestial spare like a javelin and hurled it with all my might. It vanished through clouds of smoke, but I felt the reaction to its impact. The starbright presence stopped short, sliding back about the length of a city block, and then it turned away and fled northeast. Weak enough to balk at my bluff, then. It wasn¡¯t good enough. It was still far and away too crude. I flooded my pneumatic sense with the ichor¡¯s golden refinement again. My heart beat once. I drew the ichor back. Wrong. I urged it forward again. My heart beat twice. Wrong. The golden life blood writhed in my channels. I cast it forward again. My heart beat thrice. ¡°Wrong,¡± I snarled. The golden ichor boiled furiously. It lurched for control of me again, the message clear - if I couldn¡¯t provide it with a purpose, it would act on my behalf. I wrestled it down, thinking back through countless boyhood lectures. I was focused on the correct thing, but not the correct aspect. I needed to iste one portion of a cultivator¡¯s sight from the others, to guide it with direct purpose, having spent the entirety of my life prior to this point allowing instinct to guide me in its use. It was like I was consciously forcing my eyes to adjust for darkness while standing in broad daylight. It felt unnatural. It was what I should have been doing from the very start. Finally, after long seconds of struggle, I struck gold in the form of an old adage that Aristotle had been forced to teach me more than once. ¡°Magnitude. Motion. Time. Every natural phenomenon can be measured by these metrics. And with experience, through ingenuity, a man can leverage his understanding of naturalw to adjust these aspects in his favor.¡± The ichor converged on that memory and savaged it like a starving wolf. We reached an understanding, the ichor and I, and I cast it forward once more. As was the case for all things, I could split my pneumatic sense three ways. I urged every portion of Prometheus¡¯ essence into my pneumatic sense, but once it was there I diverted it away from magnitude and away from motion, funneling it entirely towards time. It was a guess, but I¡¯d learn something even from failure here. My heart beat once, and every first rank Hero within my range burst forth from their featureless cloud of more and stood out from the rest in perfect rity. I dipped down and recovered my spear as I passed it by, tracking the first rank Hero I had deterred with it as well as Selene running close behind me. I fed that aspect of my perception until it ran up against the same wall of diminishing returns as my range, guttering out just a few steps shy of parsing Heroic souls from Tyrants. I surveyed the bloodbath in the Olympic stadium with new eyes, tracking for myself the progression of the victors in the bare instants before the lightning struck them and made their ascension obvious. Almost. It was almost good enough. The ichor raced ahead of me now, taking my discontent as a challenge and seeking to fill the gap before I could order it done. This time I allowed it, and the ichor poured its full efforts into thest of the three cups. Motion. My heart beat once, and finally, finally, I could see it. ¡°Gravitas,¡± I intoned, mming through stone and earth up to my waist as the captain¡¯s virtue hammered me down. Selene called out to me, seeking answers that I owed her more than anyone, but my focus was split too many ways as it was. I dragged myself out of the ground and rushed ahead, heart hammering away. Gravitas. The same result. I wed my way out of the earth, and tried again. And again. And again. Finally, I cast that path aside. My pneumatic sense was a portion of the solution, but it wasn¡¯t enough. The golden ichor reared back as if it had a face and I had just pped it. It thundered and raged, thrashing for control. Each time I bestowed upon it a purpose, it sprang to oblige me - but it was more abrasive every time I pulled that purpose away. What was missing? What did Ick that the ichor could give me? It wasn¡¯t an issue of rity now. I could see it, but no matter how I tried I couldn¡¯t put proof to my intent. What then? Strength? I couldn¡¯t afford the time that it would take to refine that. It wasn¡¯t enough to improve my muscle fibers alone - I needed more durable bones to match. I¡¯d have to split the ichor¡¯s focus, hope it made me strong enough before I ran into the barrier of its diminishing returns. Then I¡¯d have to contend with the greater limitations that followed, like my heart¡¯s ability to pump enough blood for such a physique¡­ My heart. I coughed, spitting blood out onto the street. I was a fool. My pneumatic sense warned me of approaching ruin. A first rank hero that had been hurtling through the air above the city¡¯s quaking agora with no apparent direction abruptly diverged, surging forward as if it had been waiting for my mind to drift. I nted my feet, kicking up a shower of broken stones and earth. Selene¡¯s pneuma rippled in rm. ¡°Stop!¡± Gale winds sted me in the back, seeking to bowl me over mid-stride. Only my instant of forewarning and the weight of thirty worlds kept my feet nted. It caught Selene in midair. She tumbled past me, losing her grip on Griffon and skipping like a stone across the ravaged city center. Griffon avoided the worst of the fall on reflex alone, hitting the ground in a partial crouch. A jagged piece of broken stone caught the delicate fabric of his golden sash, tearing it open as he fell, and a wood-carved theater mask came tumbling out. The cypress mask rolled, ttering across the ground and drawing all of Griffon¡¯s absent focus to it. Just before it settled, I saw a single word carved into its inner face. Liar. Chapter 1.133 Chapter 1.133 The Son of Rome The mask settled with its painted features facing up, angled so that the distraught woman seemed to wail up at its owner. Griffon stared at it in numb despair. We were out of time. Scythas appeared in our path, his long hair whipping in the wind. His passage through the storm crown was written all across his frame. Thin, branching scars covered his visible skin, raw red remnants of tribtion wrath. His grass-green cult attire was drenched by blood and rainwater, torn in so many ces it hardly looked like a single piece anymore. Far worse than any of those wounds, though, was the look on his face. My heart hammered double-time in my chest. ¡°Solus,¡± he said, begging me with broken eyes, ¡°what are you doing?¡± Ah. Selene pushed up from the ground with one arm, the other reaching slowly for her fold in paradox logic where she kept her spear. She eyed the Hero of the Scything Squall carefully. When she spoke, her words were more than just soothing. Whether she did it consciously or not, I tracked the motion of her pneuma as it coated her words and reached out across the gap between them. ¡°Scythas, this isn¡¯t-¡° ¡°Quiet,¡± he hissed, and stole the wind from her voice. Burning hazel eyes rooted me in ce. This time he demanded answers from me. ¡°What is this? What happened to the Oracle? What happened to the alliance? Why are you running away?¡± There were more. Five cultivators in the first rank of the Heroic realm converged on us like a closing snare. I exhaled slowly, steadying myself. My heart beat faster still, cold dread warring with golden heat in my chest. The Heroes arrived one by one. Elissanded beside Scythas with her bronze de already drawn. Her scarred face was twisted by furious usation. Jasonnded in a heavy crouch between us and them, the pressure of his panicked pneuma pulverizing every stone within arms reach. The carved stones dangling from his nes rattled against his breast te as he shifted back-and-forth, uncertainty pulling him in two directions. Kyno touched down lightly beside Elissa, throwing off steam like a forge from his crocodile cloak. The crocodile¡¯s maw hung low, obscuring his eyes. The tightening of his jaw and the clenching of his fists as he looked down at Griffon said more than enough. Anastasia arrived, not from above, but from the side. She came striding out to join us from the shadows of a nearby alley - or what remained of it. A widow¡¯s ck veil covered her face. She had her javelin in hand, burning with caustic heat. D¨¦j¨¤ vu tilted the world around me. We were facing opposite directions, but there was no doubt in my mind. It was the same alley, and this was the same pavilion. ¡°Heaven beats its drums. Are you ready to dance?¡± We only needed one more, and we¡¯d be right back where we started. I pivoted on my heel an instant before Jason shouted a warning. A line of sensation too bright to be painful drew a line across the bridge of my nose, an arrow that screamed to all of my senses piercing through the earth and promptly vanishing. It carried on faster than I could consciously track until it was gone entirely - burrowing past the lower limits of my sphere¡¯s awareness. Lefteris descended in wrath, cratering the raised dais that the elders of the Raging Heaven Cult had hammered their funeral drums on so many weeks ago. The three fingers he used to draw back his bow string were a bloody ruin. He red down at Griffon and I, not with suspicion or desperation, but with ck unfettered hatred. The Gold-String Guardian drew another arrow from the gap in his own paradox logic, drawing it back without a word. I saw my death in his eyes. I¡¯d only narrowly dodged the first arrow because of the distance and because I had started pivoting the instant I felt his pneuma shift along the bow¡¯s golden string. If he shot me again, I would be hit. If he shifted his target, Griffon wouldn¡¯t even try to dodge. My heart raced faster still. Jason and Kyno saved us, converging on either side of the Heroic archer and wrestling his bow away from us. Now the archer spoke, howling at the top of his lungs. ¡°I told you! I told all of you, at every turn, and you didn¡¯t listen!¡± His heart¡¯s me zed as he fought viciously against the two men restraining him. ¡°I¡¯ll kill you! I¡¯ll tear you apart, leave nothing for your wretched soul to scavenge! I¡¯ll grind your bones to dust!¡± ¡°I¡¯d like to see you try,¡± Jason growled, wrenching his bow arm back. ¡°Just breathe, Left!¡± Kyno urged him. Even with the difference in their stature, the hulking man in the crocodile skin was struggling to hold back his friend¡¯s nocking arm. ¡°This isn¡¯t the moment! The boys need you to be-¡° Lefteris shouted, grieving as much as he was hating. A lead weight settled in my stomach. ¡°Solus.¡± Scythas stepped forward. His pneuma was a mess of jumbled currents, a thousand streams converging on his heart. ¡°Speak to us. Tell us what¡¯s going on.¡± ¡°As if we didn¡¯t already know.¡± Elissa leveled her sword at us, ring down at Griffon, and her anger swiftly boiled over. ¡°They strummed us like a lyre. From the very beginning, they sang and danced and promised us everything under the sun, never once intending to deliver it. They lied to our faces. They used us as tools.¡± ¡°Let the man speak!¡± Jason shouted. The Sword Song rounded on him. ¡°Enough of barking dogs!¡± Scythas took another step towards us - towards me. Selene crept back, crouching protectively beside Griffon. In the corner of my eye, I saw Anastasia pace a wide circle around us. ¡°This wasn¡¯t your n,¡± Scythas spoke, as if he could manifest the truth of it. I shook my head. ¡°Then why? What happened after you left us in the storm? Why didn¡¯t you bring us with you? Why aren¡¯t you fighting?¡± Each question brought him a step closer. Each question brought to my attention another golden path that I had overlooked when it mattered the most. I saw them spiraling out in their hundreds behind each of the six Heroic cultivators - how many paths to victory had I overlooked? How many times had I snatched defeat from the jaws of victory? How many lives had I ended in a single day? ¡°I took you for a wolf,¡± Anastasia said softly, audible amidst the violent din only because Scythas delivered the words to me. Her ck veil glowed caustic green at its edges. ¡°But now I don¡¯t know what you are. This isn¡¯t how a captain acts - you¡¯ve divided, but left yourself no path to conquer. What is your n, Solus?¡± ¡°Solus,¡± Selene whispered urgently, eyes flickering from threat to threat. ¡°Solus!¡± Jason shouted desperately, while Lefteris seethed and thrashed out of his grip. ¡°Solus.¡± Scythas took another step forward. Manifesting intent was a process that required practice, familiarity, and unshakable focus. I was not my brother, and I was only just now beginning to understand how horribly I had neglected the finer details of my refinement, but I was as focused as I had ever been. I cast out my pneuma, shaping my vital essence to a purpose that I was well familiar with. My spear intent was a sloppy thing at best, without question a junior philosopher¡¯s first effort, and I watched the bewilderment bloom in their eyes as their senses told them the truth of that. Regardless, it was enough. The spear of my intent manifested in the air just in front of the Hero of the Scything Squall and cut a jagged line through the street. Scythas stared down at the line, then back up to me. The rest of the five watched intensely. My heart thundered, drowning out all else but this moment. These people. ¡°No further,¡± I dered, and Scythas flinched like I had pped him. ¡°If any of you cross this line, consider your ties to me severed.¡± ¡°What?¡± Scythas asked quietly. I swallowed back my bile. ¡°The Scarlet Oracle is dead,¡± I told them, and watched horrified understanding break like the dawn in their eyes. ¡°I had ns for all of this, and for all of you, but none of them matter now.¡± ¡°Whose blood is that?¡± Elissa abruptly asked, leveling her sword at Griffon¡¯s blood-stained hands. When he failed to acknowledge her, the Heroine¡¯s pneuma spiked. ¡°Answer me!¡± ¡°It wasn¡¯t his fault.¡± Selene¡¯s voice wavered, but somehow she held steady above her grief. She stared down the Sword Song resolutely. ¡°My mother took her own life. I swear it on my soul.¡± For a moment, the scarred Heroine was lost for words. Her eyes cut into me. ¡°What have you done to this girl?¡± ¡°What have you done to us?¡± Kyno asked. Anastasia¡¯s head tilted, like she was looking at something iprehensible. ¡°Who are you, really?¡± ¡°What do your tyrants say?¡± I asked her. Each of them was inundated with the smoke stench of their elder¡¯s influence, and not for the first time I cursed myself for leaving them behind in the storm. ¡°They say you¡¯re fakers,¡± Elissa spat. ¡°Murderers,¡± Lefteris seethed. ¡°Sophists.¡± Kyno¡¯s answer was delivered with the least heat, but it diforted them all the most. They watched me expectantly, one and all. Even Lefteris held his breath, waiting for me to deny it. I didn¡¯t. ¡°Even now!?¡± Scythas exploded, advancing forward with his fists clenched. ¡°People are dying, Solus! The world is falling down around your ears and you¡¯re still pretending-?¡± Gravitas. The captain¡¯s virtue struck the Hero center mass, sending him skidding back across the line. It didn¡¯t move him much further than that, less than ten paces. I braced myself for the retaliation of the fifth legion. It didn¡¯te. I¡¯d found it. Too little toote, but I had found an answer nheless. ¡°¡­ it¡¯s enough.¡± Scythas hadn¡¯t even been knocked over by my attack, let alone injured, yet his body began to tremble. ¡°Just stop it already.¡± ¡°Who are you still trying to fool!?¡± Jason cried out, lurching to the edge of the dais. ¡°Haven¡¯t we proven ourselves yet? Is this not the moment you¡¯ve been waiting for all this time?¡± Olympia wasing apart at its every seam - if the Tyrants kept on as they were, the sanctuary city would be a smoking ruin long before the next dawn broke. Would-be champions were fleeing the conflict in droves, picking off rivals and looting from the dead and dying on their way out of the city. Those left behind in the stadium were trapped in their own bloody crucible, ripping their fellow athletes apart and basking in the victory glow of tribtion lightning - diatorsying their lives on the line for a crowd of empty seats. An era was ending. Is this not the moment? Somehow, it was. ¡°Last year I was a ve,¡± I said. Jason shook his head, denying the thought entirely, and the rest weren¡¯t far behind him. I didn¡¯t wait for them to put words to it. ¡°The year before that I was a Legate inmand of three thousand men - but not because I had earned it. I was only seventeen years old when I was given that distinction. I¡¯m only twenty years old today.¡± ¡°Stop it!¡± Jason shouted. ¡°Just-!¡± ¡°Anastasia knows.¡± The Heroine of the Blind Maiden Cult had known from the beginning. A physician only needed a brief moment of contact to read their patient¡¯s body like a book. From the moment her fingers had brushed across my shoulder in that shadowed alley, Anastasia had known the truth of my age. Expectation shifted briefly onto the Caustic Queen, imploring her to deny me. Instead, she struck to the heart of it all. ¡°Age is not a prerequisite for advancement,¡± she said usingly. ¡°There have been younger Heroes than you. There have even been younger Tyrants.¡± It was my fault. I had no one but myself to me for this person they had built up in their heads. Every bold-faced lie, every empty promise, all of the false assumptions and misunderstandings - I had allowed them all to pass without rification. And for what? Because it suited my needs? Because I had thought the matter settled already? Because I was tired of repeating myself, resigned to being misconstrued by flighty Greeks? Excuses. Pitiful, monstrous excuses. The truth was that even after everything, a part of me had still wanted to be that man. The captain that Gaius had expected me to be, that the fifth legion had needed me to be. A vile, treacherous portion of my soul had yearned for that second chance. After all, I had nothing left to lose. If I seeded, I could suffer my punishment in the afterlife with dignity. And if I failed, what did it matter? [Seek safer shores.] If only I had known it from the start. ¡°A Legate is worthless without his legion, and mine was ughtered to a man.¡± I stated it inly. They deserved that much, my bright and shining soldiers. ¡°My foundations as a cultivator are split in two. The half of me that is Roman might as well not be a cultivator at all now. The half of me that is Greek entered the Sophic Realm the day before I was made a ve to Damon Aetos.¡± Their pneuma rose precipitously, disbelief and betrayal and rage manifesting each in their own unique way. I forged on ahead, dragging all of it out into the light. ¡°The day I arrived in this city was the same day that the Rosy Dawn¡¯s Young Aristocrat freed me from my shackles. I am exactly what I appear to be. Half a Legate with no legion, and half a Philosopher on his twelfth step to divinity.¡± I forced myself not to look away when the light dimmed in Scythas¡¯ eyes. ¡°It doesn¡¯t make any sense.¡± Jason clutched his head, his pneuma pressing in as if to crush himself. ¡°I refuse! I won¡¯t believe it!¡± ¡°The Rosy Dawn has a Young Aristocrat,¡± Elissa spoke, and for the first time since her arrival there was no bite to her voice. She was staring at Griffin. Staring at his clean and mended robes. ¡°Impossible,¡± Anastasia said immediately. ¡°The hunting bird¡¯s breath is infamous - I would have recognized the Aetos¡¯ mark on him immediately. His channels are shaped for something else entirely.¡± ¡°Lio,¡± Kyno breathed. Lefteris jerked back. ¡°What!?¡± the archer demanded. Kyno didn¡¯t respond, staring at the kneeling Sophist in sudden understanding ¡°Not a lion, nor an eagle.¡± A Griffon. ¡°No,¡± Anastasia denied it twice, her funeral veil smoking as its edges burned. She shed at the air with a t hand, casting the notion aside. ¡°What sort of heir wouldck something so fundamental? What kind of father would allow it?¡± ¡°What does your Tyrant say?¡± I asked her again. ¡°What does it matter?¡± Scythas asked quietly. ¡°They¡¯re all liars.¡± I inclined my head, acknowledging the point. ¡°The things that you¡¯ve said,¡± the fair Hero from the Hurricane Heights continued, the wind rising slowly as he spoke, ¡°the actions that you¡¯ve taken- those aren¡¯t- they couldn¡¯t have been-¡° He struggled for the words. I didn¡¯t know if it was a cruelty or a kindness, but I supplied them in his stead. ¡°They couldn¡¯t have been the actions of someone so weak?¡± I asked. Scythas gnashed his teeth, and I buried the dagger deeper. I would drag all of it, all of it, out into the light. ¡°And if they were? What would that make us?¡± ¡°Mad.¡± Anastasia¡¯s bleak answer was the end of it. ¡°No,¡± Jason groaned. ¡°No, no, no.¡± If not their Tyrants or their hearts, who else was left that could convince them? I stood tall. ¡°What do your Muses say?¡± Glory and Heroic heat exploded from their every pore, five Heroic souls rousing fully awake. Somehow, even after the Butcher¡¯s disy and the horror of eight Tyrants shing, it still shocked me to my core. This was the distance between a mortal and divinity. This was the gap. How had I ever thought I could stand up to this alone? ¡°She says that you¡¯re cowards,¡± spoke Elissa, condemning. ¡°She says that you¡¯ll drown in the Styx,¡± spoke Lefteris, hating. ¡°She says that you¡¯ve reached beyond your station,¡± spoke Kyno,menting. ¡°She says that you¡¯re getting stronger,¡± spoke Anastasia, dreading. ¡°She says I must defeat you,¡± Scythas spoke, despairing. ¡°She says this is my only chance.¡± What else was there to say? They attacked together, all of them but Jason, and I lost before the battle had even begun. Understanding meant nothing in the face of overwhelming strength. It didn¡¯t matter that I could see their pneuma in motion. It made no difference that my body was stronger and faster than it had ever been. They were Heroes and I was not. The rules of nature bent and broke around them, and those same rules bound my soul in iron shackles. Selene was an instant too slow. It wasn¡¯t her fault. This wasn¡¯t the world that she had been raised to live in. If not for my hubris, she wouldn¡¯t have been here at all. Griffon was somewhere else, dead to it all. He hadn¡¯t blinked once since his sash hade apart. There was no fight left in his soul. I was reaching, grasping for something that had never been within my reach in the first ce. My pneumatic sense showed me what my eyes were too dull to catch. Elissa and Kyno were there as if the space between us had never existed to begin with, the Sword Song¡¯s bronze de thrusting for Griffon¡¯s heart while the Huntsman drove a wicked skinning knife towards his eye. Behind them, Lefteris had drawn back his bow¡¯s gold string to the limits of its frame, aiming a zing arrow at my brother¡¯s throat. And there was Anastasia by my side, her healing hands moving towards a swift and merciful execution - two burning fingers moving to drive straight through my temple. Scythas¡¯ de was already biting into my neck. Jason was there between them, reaching out to stop them both, but it wasn¡¯t quite enough. You lose. You¡¯ve lost. This one¡¯s your loss again! It¡¯s enough. You think so too, don¡¯t you? At least you can tell them that you tried. Rest easy. The battle was lost before you were born- No. The space between their actions and my reaction was less than a second - an eternity too long. The space between their actions and our deaths was slim enough it could have been mistaken for no space at all. There was no time for any mortal creature to act. No time for even a hummingbird''s heart to beat. I refuse. My heart beat once. What-! The golden lifeblood of the Titan me was a force of unstoppable refinement. It could be put towards almost any cultivator¡¯s purpose, so long as the path forward was made clear and so long as it was given time to circte throughout the body. That I had been forced to put its refinement of my pneumatic sense on hold wasn¡¯t an indictment of the ichor. The diminishing returns I had to run up against were a failing of mine. Fool that I was, I hadn¡¯t realized until it was all but toote that the only thing limiting Prometheus¡¯ golden ichor was my heart¡¯s ability to pump it through my body. I should have been focusing all of its efforts on my heart from the start. I had realized that, finally, and then Scythas had stopped us in our tracks and I had run out of time. I¡¯d had no choice but to make my own time while the ichor did its frantic work. I¡¯d had no choice but to hope it was enough. My heart beat twice. The mes behind their eyes flickered. It¡¯s not enough. I don¡¯t care. You¡¯re not enough. It doesn¡¯t matter. You¡¯ll never be enough. I know. The more you try, the more you¡¯ll bring to ruin. And yet. The world would flourish in your passing. Even so. Why? So that you can live to die more hated tomorrow? What will you do when victory is no longer even a concept your mind canprehend? What will you do when you run out of games to lose? [What will you do when Raging Heaven strikes you down?] What other answer could there be? [I¡¯LL RISE.] My pneuma doubled and redoubled, driven to advancement by the appearance of a higher ideal. I ascended from the second rank of the Sophic realm to the third. Aughable improvementpared to what I faced. It was little more than a shower of sparks against five roaring mes. Those sparks flew. My heart beat a third and final time before I died. !!!!!!!! Prometheus¡¯ golden ichor went up in mes. Six Heroic cultivators drew back in terror and disbelief as golden heat erupted from my eyes, and I clenched my grasping hand into a fist. Beginning with our race down from the storm crown and ending with the drawing of a line, I had used my newfound awareness to scour the depths of my soul for a solution to the impairment imposed upon my virtue in Thracia. I had felt the first hint of its source when I invoked the captain¡¯s virtue to anchor Griffon and I through the death throes of six heroes - there was a schism in my soul, a schism that Socrates had exined to me months ago in thete kyrios¡¯ estate, and only half of it had raged at my usage of it. Only the Roman half of my foundation had penalized me for my presumption. I had sought control over my split foundation while we fled the rioting Tyrants, flexing through trial and error two separate muscles that I had spent my whole life believing were one. Once I had learned the trick of moving one half without the other, it was only a question of subordination. The Roman captain¡¯s virtue was found in the guidance of subordinate souls. So long as they were the soldiers to my captain, I could never leverage my virtue against our Heroicpanions without invoking the Fifth¡¯s wrath. So I¡¯d drawn a line in the sand. A line dividing the Roman from the Greek. And they¡¯d crossed it. ¡°Gravitas,¡± I intoned. The Greek half of my virtue was pitiful inparison to the Roman, hardly strong enough to knock Scythas back ten paces. If the Roman half of my virtue was the strength of those I did not deserve to lead, the Greek half was my own power. The strength to carry thirty men, if only just. It wasn¡¯t nearly strong enough for this fight. But that could change. I took the golden me in hand, burnt away my heart¡¯s blood, and spent all that time on this moment. The Greek captain¡¯s virtue took hold of six Heroic cultivators and flung them up to heaven - along with the entirety of the great city¡¯s agora. Blocks upon blocks of city streets rose up, all of their sted out homes, their uprooted trees, and the molten g left behind by the rein-holder¡¯s whip. It all came away from the earth as if suddenly untethered. As if the axis of creation had shifted for them alone, and they were falling. Jason, Elissa, Kyno, Lefteris, Anastasia, and Scythas fell up along with the wreckage, bonelessly at first, but then twisting and writhing in a helpless effort to escape their ascent. Without looking back, I pointed down at my own shadow and the grasping hands reaching up from it. ¡°At ease,¡± I said firmly. Gravitas crushed them t against my silhouette. The fire burned and burned. I stepped past Griffon and mmed my spear through the theater mask as I went. The force shattered it like it was made ceramic instead of wood, and Griffon lurched in ce. ¡°Wretched brother of my blood. Your origins are hopelessly grim,¡± I told him. ¡°But this life is yours to live. If your story ends as it began, it¡¯ll be because you chose it.¡± I kept on marching, burning as I went. Far, far above, Scythas twisted and stared down at the city of Olympia in t iprehension. Then his eyes flickered, moving frically as they traced a path only he could see. The Hero of the Scything Squall whistled a shrill note and shot back down to earth like he¡¯d been fired from a ballista. The wind gave him his current, and his muse provided him a path down through the rising wreckage. The whirlwind carried him past me and behind, to strike me in my blindspot. I nced back over my shoulder. Our eyes met. Selene lunged between us and stabbed her ceremonial spear through his chest. He hung there in weightless shock - his feet still hadn¡¯t touched the ground. The Oracle¡¯s daughter flooded pneuma through her spear, and Scythas¡¯ expression went ck as her oracr technique took hold. Then Selene pivoted, spinning on her heel to build momentum and throwing him off her spear with a shout of effort. The Hero¡¯s limp body hurtled into the distant western districts and vanished through the smoke. Five stars burned brighter than the rest in the skies above our heads as the rest of our opposition called upon their foundational techniques. Even now, their glory far outshone me. ¡°I¡¯m with you, Solus,¡± Selene promised, stepping up beside me and ring resolutely at the stars. It would have to be enough. I reached out, grasping at the distant Heroes and the disced agora and closing my fist around them. I burned and burned, feeding borrowed power into the captain¡¯s virtue. I dragged my arm sideways and swung it down, pointing west towards the distant Ionian. A sound like mountains breaking and oceans boiling to mist heralded the shifting of axis, everything in the grip of my virtue ceasing to fall up and instead falling sideways. It was enough to gutter out the techniques the Heroes had been bringing to bear, but only just. Already they were fighting through it to close the distance by various means. ¡°What next, cultivator?¡± The Scarlet Oracle asked me. ¡°We fight.¡± I kept marching on, striding forward to meet them. ¡°And if we lose?¡± ¡°We rise. We fight again.¡± Until the heavens fell. Chapter 1.134 [Son of Scarlet Sin] Chapter 1.134 [Son of Scarlet Sin] Son of Scarlet Sin I watched the dawn break over scarlet waves. The sinful tang of sacred wine coated my tongue. Four years old. I was so small that holding my cup with both hands was a necessity as much as it was an act of reverence, the wide-rimmed skyphos Half a scarlet sun, shining blindingly bright in the heart¡¯s broken cradle. Beating, somehow stillbeating- -half of a corpse that defied all description. The harder I looked, the less I understood it. I watched the sun rise in the corpse¡¯s hand, surrounded by the members of my faith. When they began to funnel out of the cavernous room on some unspoken understanding, I followed them. My fatherid a hand on my shoulder, rooting me in ce. It was the first time he had acknowledged me since the beginning of the rites. We stayed there while my newly enlightened juniors, my seniors, and even my aunts and uncles filed out one by one. Soon enough only three of us remained there with the corpse - my father, myself, and Niko. Thetter fidgeted in ce, excited and bashful in a way I had never seen him before. When thest of the fading torch light was gone from the mouths of the tunnels, he looked expectantly to my father. Damon Aetos smiled faintly. He reached out to grasp the empty air above the corpse, drawing it back like he was pulling aside a curtain, and- A woman appeared on the cavern floor. ¡°Mother!¡± Niko¡¯s joyful cry split the solemn silence of the cavern in two. He rushed out from my father¡¯s shadow and threw himself into the woman¡¯s open arms. She epted him dly, wrapping him up in a mother¡¯s warm embrace. Even reclining as she was, it was clear the woman was enormous. She was taller than any woman I had ever seen, taller than both of my uncles - even taller than my father. Her physique was cut from the same cloth as my aunts, powerful, defined, yet gracefully beautiful, as though the sculptor responsible for her creation had smoothed away the harsh edges that men like my father and my uncles carried with them everywhere. She was to my aunts as my aunts were to the rest of the city¡¯s marble beauties. Her smile was bright enough to blind me, her voice more pleasant than a song bird¡¯s as she cooed over her son. Her eyes were the color of scarlet dawn, and twin mes burned merrily behind them. Her hair was thick and long, pooling like a golden halo around her head. Her skin was tanned so that she looked perpetually flushed. She was joy and vitality personified. The golden breastte she wore asfortably as court silks had a gaping hole sted through its center. Blood flowed freely from the crater. ¡°And who might you be?¡± I looked up from it, somehow guilty, like I¡¯d been caught in a sinful act. There was no usation in her eyes, though. Only warmth. ¡°I¡¯m the Young Aristocrat.¡± My name didn¡¯t feel good enough for someone like this. The woman¡¯s smile deepened, and her eyes crinkled fondly. ¡°Liar. You¡¯re my little Lio, aren¡¯t you? I¡¯ve been waiting so long to meet you.¡± She took one arm from her son and held it out for me. ¡°Come closer, dear heart- I want to see your face.¡± Her blood pooled in the cavern up to my ankles, making an ind of the broken dais that the bisected corpse of the fallen sun god lounged upon. Now that my father had lifted the veil, I could see the corpse¡¯s hand wasn¡¯t hanging limp, but instead resting on the crown of the woman¡¯s head. ¡°Come on, Lio,¡± Niko urged me, holding out an arm of his own. I hesitated, waiting, though for what I wasn¡¯t sure. ¡°Enough of these theatrics, Damon,¡± the woman chided. My father chuckled. ¡°As you wish.¡± He lifted his hand from my shoulder. Niko grinned and his motherughed delightedly as I ran into their arms. The fire burned and burned. I fought to get away from it, snarling like a cornered animal as the merciless me boiled the flesh of my hands from my bones. My feet scrabbled and kicked at the forest debris, but they couldn¡¯t kick enough dirt into the fire to put it out. I sank my teeth into the arms holding me firmly in ce. They couldn¡¯t even break the skin. When my father finally let go of my hands, I tried to fling myself away from the fire I had so carefully built myself. I ran into an unbreakable wall. Sitting as I was in my father¡¯sp, I still couldn¡¯t escape. His chest was at my back, his arms and legs walling off either side. There was only one way. I dove through the fire, hitting the ground on the other side of it and rolling through the grass. My hands were a grotesque sight. As I stared at them, the animal fury drained out of me and my chest began to heave. Small, wretched noises of pain bubbled up in my throat. ¡°Stand,¡± my fathermanded. I had to brace my elbows against the dirt while I got my feet under me. I stood, fighting panicked gasps. My father looked down on me from across the fire, as pitiless as the me. ¡°This heat is justice,¡± he told me. He hadn¡¯t drawn his own hands from the fire. ¡°If it burns you, it¡¯s your ownck that¡¯s to me.¡± I sniffed. ¡°It hurts.¡± ¡°Refinement always does.¡± The next time I saw the woman I was five years old. I ran side-by-side with Niko into her warm embrace, burying my face in her hair and basking in her presence. She epted us both dly, and showered us with praise. ¡°My, my, who is this shining star? Your father would be spitting blood if he could see you now - he used to brag up and down that he¡¯d spoil his son with refining treasures, and here you are growing like a weed without him!¡± In the year that had passed between our first and second meeting, Niko had transcended the Civic Realm and then advanced a step further than that to the second rank of the Sophic Realm. Meanwhile, I was still a first rank Citizen. The Rosy Dawn¡¯s initiates praised me readily and often for being a cultivator at all. That I had been awoken to my soul so very young was a good omen beyond good omens, they assured me. My star was surely destined to rise. ¡°And look at you,¡± Niko¡¯s mother whispered, stroking my head. ¡°Your hair¡¯s grown so long. If your legs don¡¯t grow to match it soon, you¡¯ll be dragging it behind you like a cloak. Ah-! Don¡¯t cut it though. You were meant to have long hair, I can tell.¡± I tightened my arms around her as she went back to praising Niko, needling him for the details of his advancement. I wanted her to praise me more, but I knew I didn¡¯t deserve it. Niko had grown by leaps and bounds without a father¡¯s hand to guide him. What was my excuse? The fire burned and burned. I curled my fingers watching it twist and dance between them. The pain was still there, sharp as it had ever been, but it was only a memory. It couldn¡¯t hurt me now. I stepped away from my father into the me, turned on my heel, and sat down inside of it. I looked up expectantly while the fire burnt my clothes away. He nodded once. ¡°Now we can begin.¡± The next time I saw the golden woman, Niko and I had each advanced twice. She wasn¡¯t astounded as my fellow mystikos had been, and her praise was measured byparison, but for some reason it made my ears burn and my chest ache with pride. I drank it in, like I was dying of thirst and every word was water. Her blood kept flowing. It pooled around my knees. ¡°I want to learn the sword,¡± I told my father one day, while he poured over the business of the kyrios in his office. The sheathed sword hung there on the wall above his head as it always had, ornate and proud in its ce of prominence. ¡°Then learn it.¡± ¡°I want you to teach me.¡± ¡°No.¡± ¡°Why not?¡± He never once looked up. ¡°You aren¡¯t worthy of it yet.¡± Over time, the golden woman¡¯splexion had lost its perpetual flush. Her eyes burned as bright as they ever had and her smile was just as vibrant, but on our next visit my father pulled us away sooner than he had before. I practiced on my own. First, with a clumsy wooden sword that I had carved myself, then, with a stolen sword from the junior mystikos¡¯ armory. I scoured the written texts avable to someone of my stature for their techniques, and only once I had exhausted every path forward did I turn to the old wisemen charged with instructing me. ¡°You- I¡¯m sorry, young Aetos, what did you say?¡± The man was an aplished cultivator by most metrics, closer to my uncles than he was to me. He looked far younger than he really was, and he acted like it too. Surrounded by papyrus scrolls in the center of a ransacked library, the disheveled Philosopher looked like a frazzled junior initiate more than an honored elder. I asked him again. He smiled, setting aside his scrolls. The gesture felt wrong, somehow. ¡°If you¡¯ll ept this lowly sophist¡¯s wisdom, it would be my honor to show you what I know.¡± That said, the wiseman pulled a sword from a fold in his attire far too small to amodate it. I brushed my odd feeling aside. ¡°First, observe my grip.¡± I studied until he had nothing left to teach me, and then I moved on to the next of my mentors. I consumed all that they had to give, and when I was done I sought practical experience in the gymnasium. I toiled, and I learned, until finally there was no one left on the eastern mountain range to teach me - none but Niko and the stalwart pirs of the Rosy Dawn. My aunts and uncles smiled and patted my head, praising me for my work ethic, and the gestures felt as odd as they had in my tutor¡¯s hectic library. In the end, though theyvished me with kind words, each of them turned me away and told me to seek out my father instead. Niko readily offered to train with me when he could, but he was all too often wrapped up in private lessons with my father and our aunts and uncles. I asked my father again to teach me how to use a sword. ¡°You aren¡¯t worthy of it yet.¡± Again he told me no. ¡°My boys,¡± the golden mother sighed, content now that she had us in her arms. ¡°It¡¯s been too long. Tell me all about it.¡± ¡°I learned how to shoot a bow on horseback,¡± I offered up. ¡°Ho? And was the horse moving?¡± she asked, amused. ¡°It was galloping.¡± I pointed at a glittering gemstone embedded in the far side of the corpse god¡¯s cavern, smaller than my fingernail. ¡°My target was smaller than that, and ten times further away.¡± Her scarlet eyes widened just the slightest bit. It was a greater reward than all of the praise heaped upon me by my peers. ¡°My, my, that is impressive. Did you have time for anything else?¡± Nestled against her other side, Nikoughed. I practiced archery. I practiced the javelin. I practiced the spear, and the axe, and the sling. I learned how to use every weapon in the armories, and I did not stop until I was better than the best of my peers in their use. I went further than that, spent my nights and my days toiling in the academic pursuits expected of a Young Aristocrat. I tried everything under the sun, and then I asked my father again. ¡°You aren¡¯t worthy of it yet.¡± ¡°Liar.¡± Finally, my father looked up from his work. His blue eyes were narrow. His expression was flinty. ¡°I¡¯ve done nothing but refine myself, worked harder than any of my peers!¡± ¡°You haven¡¯t done enough.¡± ¡°When will it be enough!?¡± I shouted. He rose from behind his desk, towering over me. I lifted my chin, ring up at my Tyrant father. ¡°You demand I show you how to run when you have yet to even walk.¡± He rounded the table, and as he did he shrugged his fine silks off his shoulders, letting them hang down around his waist. ¡°A sword is a weapon, and a weapon is a tool - they exist to do what your body cannot do alone.¡± He made a fist to show me what wasing. I leapt away and he struck me regardless. I tumbled across the marble floor, bouncing off of the office¡¯s far wall. ¡°You tempered your body in me, and only then did you call upon the rosy-fingered dawn. This is just the same.¡± My father dragged me up off the floor by my neck, heedless of my thrashing. ¡°You¡¯re on your feet. Now walk.¡± He threw me down again, but I didn¡¯t hit the marble floor of his office. Sand filled my mouth and the midday sun beat down on my back. When I looked up I saw clear skies and the empty stands of the Scarlet Stadium. ¡°The gods gave you a weapon the day that you were born,¡± my father dered, stalking through the sand pit towards me. I rose up into a defensive crouch. ¡°You can y with knives after you¡¯ve mastered your body¡¯s full potential.¡± I spat blood and a baby tooth onto the sand. ¡°Teach me,¡± I demanded. The kyrios assumed a stance. ¡°Attend.¡± Niko told his golden mother about all the ns he had made, and all the ces he intended to go before he died. I told her about pankration, and all the ways I had learned to wield my body like a de. She listened patiently to us both, content as always. As the years had passed, we had returned each time with more and more to say. It was only natural she¡¯d say less and less in turn. Her smile was as warm as it had been the very first time, but her fingers were cool as they cupped each of our cheeks. ¡°You¡¯re both too big for this ce,¡± she told us fondly. The blood was up to my waist. The absence of the Aetos family¡¯s second pir was an aching wound, keenly felt but never prodded. Anargyros Aetos had been the kind of man that was worth telling stories of, all too easy to admire and all but impossible to hate. Knowing that, it was easy enough for even a child to understand why the brothers Aetos and their wives so heavily favored Anargyros¡¯ only son. Niko was his father¡¯s living legacy, and I loved him as much as my aunts and uncles did - as much as my father did. It made sense to me that the two of us were treated differently. It wasn¡¯t until I saw that same dissonance in the treatment of my younger cousins that I began to wonder. It was perhaps only natural for Uncle Stavros and Aunt Raisa to dote over Heron and Myron, just as it was natural for Uncle Fotios and Aunt Chryse to fawn over Lydia, Castor, and Rena. These were their children. But why, then, did Uncle Stavros make time to teach little Rena how to ride a horse when he had never had a moment to spare for me? Why did Aunt Raisa forgo her ancestral ce in the pyanopsia to help Castor with his leading role, when before she had watched me y that same part alone? Why would Uncle Fotios teach Heron how to hunt and skin a deer, when I had always been too impatient to take along? Why would Aunt Chryse shower little Myron with gifts whenever she saw his face, when she had only ever gifted me a smile? It was petnt, just as it had been petnt for me to desire the golden mother¡¯s praise without doing anything deserving of it. I put it to the side in favor of more important things. I refined myself in body and soul, ever pursuing Niko¡¯s distant example. I scoured my father¡¯s cult and his city both in search of new experiences - new skills to learn, new stories to be told, new challenges to ovee. It was only ever enough to keep pace with the shining gem of the young pirs, and never for long. The more that I devoured, the less I had to gain. Niko had all the same opportunities at hand as I did, as a Young Aristocrat in all but name, and he had the instruction of his uncles and aunts in addition to the rest. I would stagnate long before he did. I would starve before he¡¯d fully hit his stride. I could have hated him for it, I supposed. But why would I hate him when the chase had brought me this far already? I was having fun. Along the way, our numbers grew. While Niko spent more and more time behind closed doors with his aunts and uncles, I found myself with tagalongs of my own. There was Lydia, quietly seeking mypany whenever she had time away from her parents and the duties of a Young Mistress. There was Heron, bright-eyed and brash, bragging that he was my right hand to anyone who would listen. There was Castor, flighty and a bit frail, drifting my way when the rigors of his martial training wore him down to dust. There was Rena, sweeter than honey, seeking me out to say hello and lingering long after just for the sake of it. And of course, there was Myron. Cherubic and boundlessly energetic, too young to cultivate, but just old enough to know his family and want to seek them out. More often than not, Heron would have him riding on his shoulders when he came charging in to disrupt my day. They hindered far more often than they helped, trailing behind me like ducklings, but I didn¡¯t mind. They were all of them dear to me, and that was worth the hours wasted. After everything that Niko had done for me, how could I do any less for all of them? The more time we spent together, the more apparent the differences in how we were treated became. It went beyond our aunts and uncles. The indulgent smiles of the honored elders and the vacuous praise of the Rosy Dawn¡¯s mystikos, the odd dissonance that I had no name or face for, ended at my feet. I watched gushing praise temper itself into pride, sometimes in a single breath as a schr turned from me to address one of my cousins. I watched, and I wondered what it was I was seeing in their eyes. What I could hear in all their voices. I could have hated my cousins for that, as I could have hated Niko. But why would I hate them when they were the only ones aside from Niko and his golden mother that didn¡¯t treat me this way? We grew together, chasing distant stars and carving kingdoms of our own out of our mountain home. I did my best to guide them, to make strengths out of their faults, and pull them up to join me. My refinement slowed as a result, falling by slight degrees behind Niko¡¯s pace. It was enough. I was ten years old, heart hammering in anticipation as thest of the initiates vanished through the tunnels on their way back to the surface of the mountain. The rites were over. I nced at Niko, and he winked back at me. Then my father turned and walked away from the bisected corpse. ¡°Father-!¡± ¡°Uncle-!¡± ¡°Be silent,¡± the kyriosmanded. Both our mouths were shut. We could only stare at him, and then each other, utterly aghast. Our lips wouldn¡¯t have formed the words even if we had known how to convince him. ¡°Damon.¡± Thankfully, we didn¡¯t have to. ¡°Let me see my boys.¡± My father stood with his back to us, silent as a grave. The muscles of his shoulders flexed and coiled, a promise of unspeakable violence. ¡°As you wish.¡± Without looking back, he reached out and drew the curtain aside. Then, unprecedentedly, he stepped into the central tunnel and left the cavern entirely, leaving us alone with a bleeding woman and a corpse. The golden mother smiled brightly and beckoned us toward her. I waded through her blood and wrapped my arms tight around her. She returned the hug with all her strength. For the first time, my grip was tighter than hers. ¡°I¡¯m not a boy anymore, mother,¡± Niko said lightly, embracing her other side. Was he blind? Did he not have eyes to see how pale she had be? She was weaker than she¡¯d ever been, cold to the touch where before she¡¯d been warm. Why was he smiling? ¡°You¡¯ll always be my boys,¡± she said, stroking frail fingers through my hair and guiding Niko¡¯s head down to press his brow to hers. ¡°Even when we have children of our own?¡± Niko needled her. She chuckled. Her eyes closed. No. I was wrong. ¡°When that dayes, you¡¯ll understand exactly what I mean.¡± All this time, I had been the blind one. Niko carried on teasing his golden mother with unshed tears in his eyes, his voice steady as a stone. Of course he knew. He had known all along. My father had known, too. I was the only one that had been seeking refuge in my ignorance. If she could bleed out for five years, why not for five more? Why not forever? Of course that couldn¡¯t be the case. Why had I let myself believe it? ¡°What of you, Lio?¡± She murmured when Niko had finished telling her his stories. ¡°A year has passed sincest we spoke. What have you made of it?¡± I¡¯de here with a thousand answers to that question. I reached out and couldn¡¯t find a single one. ¡°Nothing.¡± Burning scarlet eyes cracked open, searching my face. The golden woman pulled me gently - weakly - closer. She nted a kiss upon my brow. ¡°I doubt that,¡± she said softly. ¡°But well enough. What will you do with the year ahead of you?¡± I¡¯de with a thousand answers for that question too, and all of them turned to smoke when I reached out to grasp them. I reached further, desperate, and finally found one. An answer that hadn¡¯t been there before. ¡°I¡¯m going to save you,¡± I decided. ¡°The audacity,¡± Nikomented. It was a faint thing, since he¡¯d turned his face away from us both. ¡°Oh, dear heart,¡± the golden mother regarded me fondly, and without any real hope. ¡°You¡¯ve already saved me in every way that matters.¡± It wasn¡¯t good enough. I wasn¡¯t good enough. I tore through everything at my disposal in the Scarlet City, and when that well ran dry I reached beyond my station. I stole my peers¡¯ ancestral knowledge, piled high the scriptures passed down to them by their fathers and their father¡¯s father¡¯s before them, and found nothing worth the insult I¡¯d given them. I climbed the western mountain range and dared Gianni Sc to kill me while I hounded his initiates for their knowledge. I searched high and I searched low, and I did all of it for nothing. I wasn¡¯t good enough, but they were all worthless. My little cousins followed me wherever they could, and in my manic obsession I allowed them each to do it. To them, it was all the same adventure. My uncles and aunts were another matter entirely. As the days slipped away from me, and I chafed harder and harder against the boundaries of my father¡¯s city, my aunts and uncles drew my cousins further from my reach. It was nothing I could point to and say there, that was the moment. They simply filled their children¡¯s days with tasks at odds with my purpose, bit by bit, until one day I found myself alone again. That same day, I marched into the private courtyard where my aunts and uncles trained Niko in secret, and I cast my ugly iron sword down at my cousin¡¯s feet. I challenged him to trial by hunger. Suddenly, I was more than worth the full attention of my uncles and aunts. Niko bent and picked the ugly sword up by its de, offering the hilt back to me. ¡°You don¡¯t have to fight me for my favor, cousin,¡± he said sadly. ¡°Just ask.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t need your favor.¡± I took the sword and leveled it behind him. ¡°I need theirs.¡± I saw a glimpse of it then, but it was gone from their faces before I could describe it. That nauseating vertigo rose up in its ce. ¡°Don¡¯t be silly, nephew,¡± Fotios chuckled. ¡°You¡¯re our brother¡¯s son. You¡¯ve always had our favor.¡± ¡°You worry too much,¡± Raisa chided me fondly. ¡°Just like your father,¡± Chryse teased. Stavros only scoffed and patted my head. It was too much. Any more and I would vomit. Our uncles and aunts went quiet as I settled into a swordsman¡¯s stance. ¡°It¡¯s alright,¡± Niko said, drawing his own gleaming de and tapping it to mine. ¡°I ept.¡± I called upon every ounce of my strength, all that I had built within my soul, and I struck faster than I ever had before. Niko struck me down. I rose, quicker this time, lunging up from the unexpected angle to deliver a cruel strike to- Niko struck me down. I rose, spitting blood. Niko struck me down. I rose, twice and twice again more determined than before. Niko struck me down. I rose. I fell. I rose. My ugly iron de shattered in my hands, leaving me with nothing but my rage. A shadow fell over me while I pounded my fists against the dirt. My uncle¡¯s voice was a sympathetic rumble. It made me want to scream. ¡°Let this be a lesson, nephew. Skill and strength-of-arms go hand in hand - pig iron like that won¡¯t be enough to bridge a gap this wide.¡± With that, he pped me on the back and rose. They left me there with my anger, taking Niko with them. I couldn¡¯t bear looking at her. I cradled the golden mother¡¯s right hand in both of my own, and pressed my forehead down into her palm. Her blood pooled cold around my chest. ¡°It isn¡¯t your fault,¡± Niko quietly assured me. He reached across the weeping crater in his mother¡¯s chest to grip the back of my neck - his hand was broad and warm. ¡°If Uncle Damon couldn¡¯t do it, you can hardly me yourself for falling short.¡± I grit my teeth. ¡°Dear heart.¡± Her voice was whisper-thin, now. ¡°I can¡¯t bear to see you bleeding like this. Look at me, let me see your face.¡± Worthless. Wretched. Niko¡¯s mother was dying, and I was forcing them tofort me. ¡°I promised you.¡± I made myself confess it, though my voice was ugly and raw. I forced myself to raise my head and meet her eyes, though my own swam with bitter tears. ¡°I promised.¡± Steam rose from her scarlet eyes, water turned to vapor by the mes behind them. I realized the golden mother was crying. ¡°Oh, Lio. You can¡¯t afford to care this much. This world won¡¯t tolerate such weakness.¡± She smiled in spite of her sorrow, or perhaps because of it. Her cool thumb stroked my cheek. ¡°But I love that about you, too.¡± It would have hurt less if she¡¯d stabbed me. I refined myself. I searched for answers. I waited. I saw my opportunity and I took it. The sword was heavier than it looked. Iid it across my father¡¯s desk, tracing my fingers reverently along its sheath. On one side, the sheath had been inscribed with a master crafter¡¯s precision and an artist¡¯s skilled design. The dehouse mural depicted five terrible monsters and five men - or rather, the same man five times - striking them down. My whole life I had wondered what was on the other side, the one that faced the wall. I turned the sheath over on the table and I saw that same man five times more. Instead of fighting monsters, though, he was fighting crowned kings. This was the de of thete Anargyros. This sheathe was his story. I took the sword¡¯s well-worn hilt in hand, and felt a sensation that was foreign to me now that I¡¯d been free of it for nearly half my life. I was burning. I knew then that this was right. If this couldn¡¯t bridge the gap between Niko and I, then no sword ever would. I forced aside my body¡¯s instinctive desire to let it go, to flinch away in animal panic. I forced myself to draw the de. The moment I saw the first sliver of that de, I knew I¡¯d underestimated it. I could do more than win the support of my uncles and aunts with this. I could challenge my father directly. I could go beyond him and do what he should have done already. I could strike down death itself. I could save her- ¡°STOP!¡± Niko appeared from thin air, flying through the veranda into my father¡¯s office and striking me like a spear. He held nothing back. I heard three of my ribs break before I hit the marble floor. My uncle¡¯s de mmed back fully into its hilt and flew out of my hands, skittering across the marble tiles. I choked, arching up and gasping desperately for air. I was hurt in a dozen ces, bleeding where the back of my head had broken through a dining table. Somehow, though I inhaled enough air to make my broken ribs scream, it only scalded the burns inside of me. Niko hauled me up and pped me hard across the face. ¡°Are you out of your mind!?¡± he shouted at me. He pped my other cheek with the back of his hand, splitting my eyelid with the force of it. ¡°Do you have any idea what you had in your hands!?¡± Niko shook me like a dog, more furious than I had ever seen him. ¡°You would have died!¡± he raged. ¡°Do you understand that!? Are you listening? If I¡¯d been a moment slower you would be dead!¡± His voice hounded me even as I slipped away to darkness. It hunted me through my dreams. When I woke up, I was mended. I sat up cautiously on the plush dining couch, bracing for pain that did note. I was still in my father¡¯s office. It had been full night when I lost consciousness, and now the horizon was light with the promise of predawn. Niko was gone, and his father¡¯s sword was back up on its wall. My father stood in front of his desk, arms crossed, and my uncle knelt stoically in the center of the room. ¡°My son lives,¡± Damon Aetos rumbled. Stavros Aetos inclined his head. ¡°I¡¯m d.¡± I turned my head and vomited on the marble floor. My uncle¡¯s nose wrinkled in distaste. My father¡¯s expression didn¡¯t change at all. ¡°May I be excused?¡± I ground out once the heaving had passed. ¡°No.¡± I spat thest of the bile from my mouth. ¡°Then punish me if you¡¯re going to punish me. I¡¯m not sorry, and I don¡¯t regret it.¡± I saw it again. Just the briefest glimpse of that something that my uncle didn¡¯t want me to see. It was gone as quick as it came. ¡°You learned your lesson in the act,¡± my father dered. His expression was level as he looked me up and down. ¡°You¡¯ve been punished twice over - that much is justice.¡± ¡°Then why can¡¯t I go?¡± In lieu of an answer, my father turned cold blue eyes back down to his brother. ¡°How many times do I have to say it, Damon?¡± Stavros spoke impatiently. ¡°I tried to give the boy advice, and he ran away with it. A tragic misunderstanding is still just a misunderstanding.¡± ¡°Lio.¡± My father demanded my attention, and I had no choice but to oblige him. ¡°How does a cksmith expose the truth within a de?¡± I thought of the ugly iron de I had forged in secret. In the end, it had only been strong enough to withstand a few of Niko¡¯s blows, but even that had only been possible after days and days of trial and refinement. Confused, I answered, ¡°He treats it with heat.¡± My father nodded shallowly. ¡°Men are much the same.¡± I followed his gaze down to my uncle. ¡°Heat reveals both strength and imperfection,¡± the kyrios exined. ¡°Whichever it may be, the truth is found in mes.¡± I followed his intent. ¡°You knew that I would try to take it,¡± I realized. My uncle scoffed, ncing back at me over his shoulder. ¡°Don¡¯t be foolish, nephew.¡± ¡°You wanted me to die.¡± It felt ridiculous to say it, but it didn¡¯t feel wrong. ¡°Ridiculous. You¡¯re the blood of my own brother - I couldn¡¯t wish for your death any more than I could wish for your father¡¯s. For my own.¡± I watched intently as Stavros Aetos drew himself up in righteous indignation, and I recognized that maddening dissonance for what it really was. A lie. ¡°You hate me.¡± ¡°How could I hate you?¡± ¡°You can¡¯t stand the sight of me.¡± His jaw clenched in a ferocious scowl. ¡°You wish your children hated me too,¡± I used him. Finally, my uncle spat an oath and stood. ¡°I¡¯ve had enough of this. y your games with someone else, brother-¡° ¡°Sit,¡± the kyriosmanded. My uncle¡¯s knees hit the floor. ¡°Why?¡± I slid off of the lounge, advancing forward with my fists clenched at my sides. ¡°What did I do?¡± ¡°Nothing,¡± Stavros snapped. ¡°If you¡¯d only listen-¡° Treat it with heat. ¡°Is it because you¡¯re the youngest?¡± Ished out scathingly. He looked at me in disbelief. ¡°Do you resent me for my status? Is it because you think Niko would serve better in my ce? That your son would serve better than me - or perhaps that you would serve better than my father?¡± ¡°Watch your mouth, boy,¡± my uncle warned me. ¡°Is it envy, or is it fear? Do I terrify you, uncle? Have I haunted your dreams from the moment I could walk?¡± I mocked him, pressing deeper still. ¡°Hero of heroes, the great Stavros Aetos, driven to delusion by a boy too young to hold a cup of wine-¡° The world went white and tilted in its frame. I pushed myself up off the floor, woozy, and touched a hand to my bruised cheek. I looked from my uncle¡¯s bloodied knuckles to my father. The kyrios met my gaze without concern. ¡°Did you think it would be painless?¡± I growled and forced myself to stand. ¡°You¡¯re a liar,¡± I used my uncle. A momentter, I mmed against my father¡¯s shelves, scattering scrolls of ancient papyrus. ¡°Enough of this, Damon!¡± Stavros shouted. ¡°You¡¯re a coward!¡± I snapped, vaulting over the desk only to be driven face-first into the floor. My nose broke and gushed scarlet blood onto the priceless marble. ¡°Be silent!¡± ¡°Too afraid to tell me why!¡± He buried a fist in my gut, wrapping me around it. I gagged, sucking in a whistling breath, andtched onto his arm. ¡°Faker,¡± I hissed, branding him. A snarl twisted his stoic features. Finally, I could see it. My uncle flung me away from him like I was too hot to touch. I forced myself up once more, my vision darkening around its edges. ¡°Just say it!¡± I hollered. ¡°BE SILENT!¡± ¡°For once, if not ever again!¡± ¡°DAMON!¡± ¡°Tell me what I did to you!¡± ¡°You were born!¡± I froze in ce halfway across the room, abruptly transfixed. The man I¡¯d known as my uncle all my life red at me with ck resentment. His ire rolled off of him in caustic waves. ¡°You were born,¡± Stavros told me, ¡°and this world has been a bleaker ce ever since. You are all of your father¡¯s worst indulgences with none of his virtues to bnce them. The opposite of all your cousins. ¡°Niks is a living memory of his father, my brother, someone I¡¯d trade my life for without hesitation. You are a never ending reminder of my oldest brother¡¯s cruelty. Would that I could forget it. Would that I could forget you. ¡°That your first instinct was to take my in advice and use it as an excuse to steal from your own father is the only exnation I need to give. You are a danger to my children, a pox upon my brother¡¯s legacy, and the worst of it is that you aren¡¯t sorry at all.¡± My uncle red down at me and I saw there was nothing left to temper. ¡°I don¡¯t want you to die. I wish you¡¯d never been born at all.¡± Stavros jerked, as if released from invisible shackles, and stormed out of the room. I stared down at the marble floor, watching the blood fall from my broken nose. ¡°Are you d?¡± ¡°No,¡± I rasped. My father hummed. ¡°It would be easier to let sleeping dogs lie. If you desire it, I¡¯ll see that this stays between the three of us. You can return to your life as it was before.¡± ¡°No.¡± I couldn¡¯t. The initiation rites were still months away when my father gathered me and Niko up for our final farewell. The golden mother had no strength left to beckon us to her, no strength even to grin. Thest warmth left of her was in her eyes. The fires behind them were nought but cooling embers now, yet their passion remained undeniable. I held her hand in mine carefully, afraid that it would break. The stench of blood and burning smoke brought tears to my eyes. ¡°There you are,¡± she breathed. ¡°My sweet boy.¡± Overwhelmed, pushed to the limits of my endurance, I did something unforgivable. ¡°You¡¯re not my mother.¡± I tried to temper her. I regretted it immediately, but she only smiled softly. ¡°No, but you¡¯re my Lio all the same. Heaven and earth in harmony couldn¡¯t change that.¡± I wept furious, anguished tears. It wasn¡¯t fair. This wasn¡¯t justice - and if it was, it didn¡¯t deserve to exist. It deserved to be melted down. It deserved to be scoured. ¡°Dear heart, remember,¡± my golden mother whispered, while my father pulled me away and Niko stepped in to take my ce. ¡°Your origins are -¡° ¡°- hopelessly grim. But this life is yours to decide,¡± Sol told me. In his burning eyes I saw the sun. ¡°If your story ends as it began, it¡¯ll be because you chose it.¡± He kept moving forward, glory rolling off of him in waves. Leaving me to my broken mask. I inhaled a shuddering breath, taking in the world around me as it broke apart and burned. Steam seethed out from between my clenched teeth. The world is iron now. Five Heroic souls zed at their highest potential, unraveling thews of nature with their deeds. Arrows made of every material above and below blocked out the stars in the sky. Caustic mes in the shape of hunting hounds raced through the wreckage and melted away whatever they touched. A crocodile the size of three elephants swam through the air like it was water, twisting sinuously and devouring every obstacle put before it. Every king is a Tyrant. There are no more exceptions. Sol weaved between them with his spear like a grim conductor. Golden fire zed behind his eyes, and every motion of his empty hand took hold of the world around him and cast it in a new direction. He guided each of their techniques like they were his, using them against one another, and together with Selene he shed directly with the Heroes themselves. Their blows cratered the earth and sent shockwaves screaming through the city. My fingers wrapped around a well-worn hilt and my blood began to boil. Prometheus¡¯ golden ichor went wild in my veins. In a world like this, a Hero doesn¡¯t have to be the pinnacle. My brother fought beyond any mortal man¡¯s expectation, burning his heart¡¯s blood to do alone what we should have done together. If it had only been the Heroes up against him, it might have been enough. But it wasn¡¯t. And it wasn¡¯t. Selene twisted in rm, locked into a statemate she couldn¡¯t escape with the Heroic Huntsman, and screamed a hopeless warning. ¡°SOLUS!¡± My brother turned, casting out his empty hand and sting a city street away from him. The scarred Heroine rushing into his blindspot was sent flying with the wreckage. It wasn¡¯t good enough. An otherworldly chime reverberated throughout the city, a sound so bright and clear that only a Muse¡¯s fingers could have possibly called it forth. In response - no, as her muse had nned all along, the Sword Song¡¯s spirit lunged out of her body and through the ringing sound. Sol realized his error a moment toote - if he could hear her song, she didn¡¯t need a body to cut him down. He tried anyway. He cast magma through her spirit, diverted a hundred of Lefteris¡¯ arrows to skewer her, and threw his own spear when all else had failed. Elissa passed through it all, the sound of her shing de a final killing note. Scarlet silk whirled into the space between them. I bared my teeth at the Heroine''s incorporeal soul. The sound of her shock was like metal pulling itself apart. In a world like this, a Hero only needs to burn. I drew my sword and set fire to the night. Chapter 1.135 Chapter 1.135 When the Despoiled Queen of the Amazons let fly her blind arrow, starry night seeped through the skies above the City of Olympia and beyond it. For those unfortunate enough to still be in the city, it was an instantaneous shift. For those that had taken the Raging Heaven Cult¡¯s earlier unrest for the warning that it was, fleeing the city with their most valuable possessions bundled up in carts and carried on their backs, the sunset lights were ripped away like a tablecloth to reveal the dark heavens behind it. Further beyond that, on the Ionian Sea, it spilled across the horizon like the Father had turned out his cup. Aboard the unwieldy Alikonia, the excited buzz of conversation between Niks Aetos¡¯panions died a swift death as they noticed the dark tide bearing down on them. By the time the lesser cultivators in thepany had the presence of mind to look, the setting sun at their backs had already been swallowed up. ¡°Niko,¡± the Rosy Dawn¡¯s Young Miss whispered. Her younger siblings and her tagalong ve were too frightened to speak. ¡°What just happened?¡± The Stark de of the Aetos family had already gathered his youngest cousins loosely to him. Now he leaned over them protectively, one hand falling to the hilt of his sword as he stared out past the ship¡¯s bow. ¡°Was that-?¡± One of the heroes clustered around the Sand Reckoner squinted up at the stars above, like the answer was written there in small print. ¡°Don¡¯t be ridiculous,¡± another immediately shut them down. ¡°You¡¯re just not¡­ looking¡­ hard enough¡­¡± Their voice slowly trailed away. ¡°The moon is gone,¡± the Heroine Iphys quietly observed. ¡°Thalestris?¡± ¡°Are you out of your mind?¡± ¡°It¡¯s gone.¡± ¡°Why would she ever? In the middle of the city, now of all times, with every hero there just itching for their shot?¡± ¡°Then where is it?¡± They bickered on like this until it became apparent they wouldn¡¯t reach a consensus alone. ¡°Niko,¡± said a Heroine with features like autumn leaves, silencing the back-and-forth. ¡°What do you think?¡± The Stark de gathered his heavy pneuma around his cousins like a cloak. Blue eyes burning bright, he spoke. ¡°I think-¡± Light. Every Heroic cultivator on the ship lit up in rm, their pneuma spilling across the deck of the Alikonia and threatening the lives of all its lesser passengers. The cloak of the Stark de¡¯s own pneuma acted as an inadvertent shield to the three Civic cultivators piled up in hisp. The girl that had begged to be taken along in pursuit of the Young Miss nearly died on the spot - would have died, had the Sand Reckoner not snapped his fingers and caused the nks she was sitting on to cave in, sending her plummeting down into the safety of the ship¡¯s lower quarters. Those left above deck stared in naked rm at the grim horizon. Wary hands reached for any weapon they could find. In the distance, originating from a point they still couldn¡¯t see from this distance, a pir of light toorge to be believed rose from earth up to the heavens and burnt away a ring of clouds ten leagues across in its passing. It lit up the world, bright and all-epassing as the sun, but harsher - its stark glow was as much lightning as it was dawn. It cast long shadows across the Free Mediterranean, resonating with a long-forgotten purpose. It said this was the end. Unnoticed by his stricken passengers, the Sand Reckoner clicked his tongue and scrubbed a charcoal circle off the deck with the heel of his hand. ¡°He always gets his way.¡± The Young Griffon It was more than just a sword. ring lights and coronating heat scoured the broken city around me in a circle wide enough to build a second stadium upon. In the time it took me to rip the de from its sheath in a rising parry, it reached out and consumed everything but the earth itself within that circle. It made no sound at all. It was deafening. The me¡¯s golden ichor screamed an outraged warning in my veins, abandoning all its current refinement and converging on the covetous invader. Its efforts were in vain. From the moment myte uncle¡¯s de had cleared its sheath, it had turned its edge upon everything within reach. My soul was no exception. The de howled, and it devoured. In the time it took to follow through with my parry, it took more from me than any mundane sword was capable of taking. I felt my boiling blood sublimate in my veins and vanish. In the time it took me to lower the de to a ready position, it took twice that much again. It was said that a Captain of the Sophic Realm could live to be ten thousand years old if the Fates were kind enough to allow it. By that measure, as a second rank Philosopher I had two thousand years worth of vitality flowing through my veins. In the time it took the de to rise and fall, it stripped decades off my life. ¡°You¡¯ll die!¡± the golden ichor warned me in Niko¡¯s voice. I straightened up, standing tall and rolling my shoulders. ¡°Sheathe it! Don¡¯t you understand? You¡¯ll die! You¡¯ll die! You¡¯ll die!¡± As if I hadn¡¯t known that from the start. The de was polished bronze, double-edged and forged in the style of a one-handed xiphos but longer than a greatsword. Looking at it was like staring at the sun back when its light could still blind me. It cast off heat and stark light in relentless shockwave currents, yet somehow, paradoxically, it drew everything around it into its gleaming surface. In manic hrity, a distant portion of me noted that the de perhaps most deserving of decoration had been left all but bare. Its only ornament was a pair of words inscribed into the base near its hilt, the script too small and inly etched to be pleasing to the eye. ??¦Í¦Á¦Ê¦Ó¦Ï? ¦Ê¦Á¦Ó¦Á¦Ñ?¦Ï? The King''s Curse. The wanton de drank my heart¡¯s blood greedily, exacting its terrible price for daring to wield it as my own. It took decades from me as I stood in the inverted eye of its scouring storm. It took centuries. By the time I turned my eyes upon my enemy, a third of my future was gone. Reunited with her body, Elissa looked at me with wild eyes. Half-crouching and half-sprawled at the edge of the de¡¯s scouring pir, the desert heat wavered behind her eyes. For the moment, she was terrified beyond action. The sound that I had parried was nothing more than an echo of her sword, yet somehow the bronze de shaking in her hands had been severed halfway up its length. As she shook, a vertical line appeared in the center of her forehead and parted, weeping blood that split at the bridge of her nose and carried on in two trails. The rest of them were just as stricken. The King''s Curse staggered them all, scattering them with its terrible presence even as it drew them in. There was Kyno to my right, overshadowed now by the gargantuan Sah-Bakari, the virtuous beast looming over him like a protective mother. I saw Lefteris to my left, his mangled fingers just out of reach of his discarded bow. His lips moved soundlessly as he looked upon me, unable to make sense of it. Anastasia¡¯s hunting hounds shrank back from the pir, whimpering in terror, while the Caustic Queen herself hid somewhere out of sight. Sol and Selene crouched behind me, well beyond the pir¡¯s reach. Two rosy palms had struck the scarlet Heroine in center mass and flung her out of harm¡¯s way. The remaining twenty-eight had just barely been strong enough to send the Roman skidding out to join her. Not far enough. The drilling column of coronating power wasn¡¯t a boundary for the de - it was only a deration of its intent. The King''s Curse reached beyond it, taking from my brother and from Selene, taking from the Heroes arrayed against us, and reaching further across the ruined City of Olympia to take from ever more. Standing at its starving center, it consumed me most rabidly of all. One was enough. Presumptuous, ugly de, I didn¡¯t say you could have them all. I hammered down on it with all that I was, everything I would ever have to give, and the King''s Curse ate that too. It drew me in. It made me a part of it, a portion of a greater whole. As it drank me dry, I saw the world as it perceived it. Olympia was dying. It had been gutted by my brother, scarred by the wayward acts of Tyrants, and burnt out at its heart by unworthy champions. The King''s Curse swept over them all, enveloping them in the shadow of its ceaseless hunger as it expanded. The Heroes - no, the animals still inside of the Olympic Stadium, were ripping themselves limb-from-limb with techniques that should have leveled the city three times over by now. The reason why that hadn¡¯t happened - the reason why the stadium was still standing at all - was invisible to me, but inly apparent to my wanton de. I looked through its eyes and saw it for myself. A wretched captain of the third realm shouted his bloodthirsty defiance as four lesser dogs converged on him from every cardinal direction. The captain burned seventeen years along with one more spring and summer from the end of his life, distilling that down to pure potential, time, and instantly transmuting it to magnitude. His beating heart supplied the burning fuel, his mind supplied the question of what would be done with it, and the instinct in his gut gave him the answer. The wretched captain¡¯s soul was built on foundations of speckled limestone, worn down and made smooth by the ceaseless crashing of broken tides. Its load-bearing colonnades were stout and ugly things, all ten of them pockmarked principles of aimless violence. The statues dedicated to his fulminating acts were little better - every one of them a brutal culling. The captain¡¯s soul was a monument to cruelty without purpose. The barking dog chose one of ten acts that had defined him, the ying of a terrible virtuous beast. Though an entire settlement had lent him their spears along with their fathers and sons to see it done, he had taken all the credit as his own as the battle¡¯s sole survivor. As such, the ability manifested in two parts - one, a cloud of sea spray that drowned all those who inhaled it, and the other, a protective ring of seven hundred and thirty-two bristling spears. One for every son and father that had died to mauling or to drowning while they held the beast in ce for him. When the wretched captain of the third realm invoked that act and burnt his heart¡¯s blood, he proposed a question: If I could live this moment for seventeen years, plus another spring and one more summer, how much greater could that act have been? This was how cultivators in the third realm empowered themselves beyond the boundaries of their station. As a result, the wretched captain¡¯s sea spray strike exploded from his every pore, not simply drowning those who breathed it in unprepared, but also blinding them with salt that melted their eyes in their sockets, seizing them in riptide currents that halted their momentum, and wearing away the flesh from their bones as though they¡¯d spent the better part of twenty years ravaged by constant crashing waves. It was amon use of passion. At the same time that the captain was doing this, the four lesser dogs arrayed against him were doing much the same. One offered up twenty-four and a half years of their lifespan to empower their motion, dancing through the worst of the spray with impossible grace. Another offered forty-seven years and a single cloudless night to empower the magnitude of their manifested shield, blocking not just the sea spray¡¯s ability to blind and grind flesh from bone, but also blocking the imposition of the act - protecting him, impossibly, from thebel of beast that the captain¡¯s act imposed, and thus negating its ability to drown him. Another still gave up exactly one century in order to lend her sling enough force for its iron orb projectile to punch through anything short of adamant. Thest of the four, and the runt of their unsightly litter without any greater mystery to inspire his foundations, burned with an insecurity backed by personal hatred of his opponent. This one set fire to twenty thousand years, and he gave it all to his dagger before he threw it. It left him defenseless while the knife spun unerringly for the wretched captain¡¯s heart, coated in hateful poison that was potent enough to kill a man on the thirty-fourth step towards divinity. By all standard measures, the wretched captain should have been ripped apart by his lessers. He was outnumbered and had sacrificed the least of all of them for his technique. However, the captain had not called upon a standard act. How could the effects of its empowerment be anything but warped as a result? The four leaping dogs had ounted for the empowerment of his sea spray, but not his secondary attack. When the wretched captain offered up time to empower his deed, he gained more than he should have from the exchange. More than just his own impossible efforts, taken from the future and condensed down to this moment. More than that, he gained the efforts of the settlement¡¯s sons and fathers too. Seven hundred and thirty-two men, given seventeen years plus one spring and another summer to devote themselves to their spears. Seven hundred and thirty-two men, given seventeen years plus one spring and another summer to reach their full maturation, to raise their sons that had been too young to aid the captain on that day. Seventeen years, plus one spring and another summer for those seven hundred and thirty-two men to have more sons, and to raise them for this singr purpose. This was not an act of passion. The King''s Curse recognized it for what it was: an echo of the fourth realm. And because the King''s Curse knew it, so did I. The wretched captain offered up three thousand six hundred and ny-four tortured souls, fathers and sons that had died to protect their home along with an entire generation of their unborn heirs. Of the four lesser dogs converging on the captain, only the runt that had sacrificed twenty thousands years to his knife was unsurprised by the secondyer of the attack. Three thousand six hundred and ny-four spears exploded from the sea spray, skewering the four challengers from every possible angle. Three died instantly, their techniques and thest of their vitality leaving their corpses in a destructive rush. The runt alone clung stubbornly to life, unable to move but determined to watch as his tumbling knife sank into the captain¡¯s chest. The wretched captain¡¯s breastte, another product of toil not his own, stopped the dagger with only a sliver of its tip pressed into his skin. The captain plucked it out and sauntered over to the runt, twirling it between his fingers. He said something cruel and unimportant, then buried the knife to its hilt in the lesser dog¡¯s neck. A momentter he copsed screaming to the sand, scrabbling at his breastte where it covered his heart. The runt, suspended above the captain by the spears of his father, his brothers, and all their tortured neighbors, hocked and spat bloody spittle onto the writhing captain¡¯s face. The wretched dog ripped the breastte from his chest, revealing a rugged torso marred by ugly inmmation. The runt couldn¡¯t speak, skewered as he was by spears and his own poisoned knife, but with the voice of his soul he whispered something spiteful and unimportant down at the captain. In response, the captain drove his own fingers into his chest, breaking past his ribs and taking hold of his heart. He howled in terror and outrage, pulling, and they both vanished beneath the light of tribtion lightning. Simr scenes yed out across the bloody sand pit, and the Olympic Stadium contained them all. The King''s Curse knew why. Though the walls of the stadium, such as they were - less walls and more an ascending spiral ramp, with eachyer supported by statues of past champions rather than traditional load-bearing columns - appeared to my eyes to be more form than they were function, the truth was entirely different. The spirit lime chosen for the load-bearing statues was durable in a way that defied the rules of nature, relying upon the legacy of the former champions whose shapes it had taken to retain its shape and resist external wear. No matter what havoc the animals inside the pit unleashed, they were all of them lesser than the Champions that had brought glory to those sands before them. So long as that was true, the stadium¡¯s walls would never fall. Nothing would trespass them. It was one of the most remarkable feats of architecture that this world had ever seen - the King''s Curse knew that with authority, and so I knew it too. While my mind was there in the pit, observing that madness, it was a thousand other ces at the same time. I was made aware of countless revolting scenes ying out in the crumbling ruin of a city that had once been without equal. And as I watched through the wanton de¡¯s awareness, I understood something pivotal. Whatever the King''s Curse could perceive, it could eat. On the distant mountain beneath the Storm That Never Ceased, eight Tyrants wereid bare before my borrowed senses. I understood them with the same vivid rity that I had understood the third realm animals down in the pit. The soul of a fourth realm cultivator was exponentially moreplex than those of the third realm, but to the King''s Curse it was likeparing a child¡¯s aimless scribbles to a student¡¯s sloppy imitation. It was all the same. Foundations warped - tempered, my dwindling voice whispered - by greater mysteries. Ten pirs of load-bearing principle. Ten statues dedicated to legendary deeds. And above it all, a sloping dome roof, each Tyrant¡¯s formed from a different material. Gold for the sullen King of Setting Suns, Pewter for the lying Queen of the Amazons, and so on and so forth. Regardless of theirposition, all of them blocked out the skies above their souls. On the inside of those domed roofs, each of them had painted a mural of their dominion. Men, women, and children huddled beneath these roofs in their hundreds and their thousands, bound by purpose and shackled to the pirs and the statues. Distantly, I felt someone whisper in my ear. The fraud from the baster Isles, king of any number of kingdoms depending on who was asking and how he felt that day, possessed a dominion faker than his name. The Golden Touch, he called it, the ability to turn anything and everything within his purview to gold - and to revert it back at any time. In reality, it was tarnished iron imitating the real thing. Fool¡¯s gold. The whisper persisted. It was closer than before. The forked-tongue bastard of serpent seers, king of tall grasses and overturned breadbaskets, possessed a dominion more deceptive than his mother. Drowned out by the howling of hurricane winds and the obnoxious cacophony of ttering wind chimes, the serpents thaty basking on the domed roof of his soul hissed their constant omens in his ear. It was nothing even close to true prophecy, only a beast¡¯s crude approximation, but it was more than most men would ever be allowed to know. It insisted. The unyielding dragon of the coast, king of rigid order and endless reparation, possessed a dominion as inflexible as his judgment. So long as he followed the letter of his soul¡¯s everyw, he could impose those same restrictions upon the people around him as if they were their own load-bearing pirs. And should they break those pirs, he could take from them until that wrong was made right. It took its chances. The hollow shell of a good man, king of what was left behind, possessed a dominion as broken as his spirit. Vacuous where there had once been purpose, empty where there had once been light. He was barely a remnant now, rail-thin and haunted by his worst mistake, the only one that mattered- He was spinning away from his fight to stare at the pir of coronating light. His dull eyes were wide, tracing it to its source. They settled on me, and from the void of his soul an emotion reared up with startling intensity - outrage. Reaching out. Ptolemy the Savior roared, and from the empty void of his dominion came light. Spilling out, bolstering him as he had not been bolstered since the day he turned his back on- Transgressing- ¡°JUST ONCE!¡± I looked down on the Sword Song, as I looked down upon the entirety of the Half-Step City and its petty warring Tyrants. As I looked down upon my brother, and even upon myself. We were all so very small. ¡°For once in your miserable life!¡± Elissa screamed, her spirit - her ego - cracking like ss. It would only take a ncing blow to shatter it. ¡°Tell me the truth! Who are you!? Why are you here!? What could possibly be worth this madness!?¡± Hers wasn¡¯t the only spirit at its limit. The King''s Curse cut them all to their cores, ying them open and exposing their hearts. I saw how close to breaking every one of ourpanions was, and more than that, I saw how much closer to the brink my trio waspared to Sol¡¯s. I had burned them. I had pulled their hands into the fire, and I had held them there in the hopes that they would learn. But I hadn¡¯t taught them anything in the end. I had only made them suffer. How much time had passed since I¡¯d drawn my de? It felt like weeks, inundated as I was in this terrible awareness, but it couldn¡¯t have been more than seconds. The King''s Curse drank ravenously from my heart. By its own measure, it had taken another six hundred years from me since our senses had been joined. Who was I, really? It devoured me, and it reached beyond me to devour everything else within the city. Why was I here? It hungered for the ruins. It hungered for the corpses. It hungered for the living, no matter their standing. Animals. ves. Citizens, Philosophers, and Heroes. Even the Tyrants. Even the- What could possibly be worth all that I had done? ¡°My name is Lio Aetos.¡± I stepped forward, and Elissa skittered back. ¡°I am the Young Griffon of the Rosy Dawn, the first and only heir of Damon Aetos.¡± The King''s Curse sank its teeth into their denial and their doubt, consuming their ck biles without hesitation. ¡°I have climbed twelve steps towards divinity. Soon, I¡¯ll climb a dozen more.¡± Whatever the King''s Curse could perceive, it could present in stark rity. I saw all of it, all at once, even as I was consumed. Yet, as I fell fully into the horizon of its insatiable desire, I realized there was one thing even the King¡¯s Curse could not fully understand. ¡°Liar!¡± Elissa used me onest time, while an existence like shadows swimming beneath a frozenke hovered just over her shoulder. ¡°Liar!¡± Lefteris named me while his heart broke apart. Just behind him, close enough to whisper but too far to be touched, an existence like morning mist lingered. ¡°Liar,¡± Kyno denied me while his hopes withered away. Lurking behind him almost like his crocodile cloak, a presence loomed like a mirage. ¡°No.¡± I took another step. My heart¡¯s blood dwindled. Now that I had noticed one, I noticed them all. Watching, whispering, waiting - but never ever helping. There was one for every Hero in the city. ¡°No,¡± a sonorous voice echoed my sentiment, only half a step away. There was even one for me. ¡°His virtuous heart won¡¯t tolerate a lie,¡± Melpomene dered with powerful satisfaction. Her voice emanated seemingly without a source, giving lie to her true intent as she reached out for my heart. Abruptly, I understood. She wouldn¡¯t reveal herself in full until she had her prize in hand. The veil of the Muse¡¯s mystique was impossible to pierce. Even to the King''s Curse, she was hardly more than a shifting haze. The de couldn¡¯ty her bare like it had everything else. But it could still see her. And what it could see, it could consume. Presumptuous waste of ursed higher power. [My virtuous heart is MINE.] My pneuma doubled and redoubled, driven to advancement by the appearance of a golden ideal. Sparks flew inside my soul, the King''s Curse consuming all of them as they fell. All of them but one. As that lonely spark fell and the me¡¯s golden ichor caught fire in my veins, the blood staining my hands rose up from my skin andtched onto the sword¡¯s hilt, spinning the de around and sideways through the empty air. Melpomene, Tragedy¡¯s Muse, stared at the bronze de buried in her stomach with something like disbelief. The world itself seemed to hold its breath, unable to reconcile the truth of my reaction. Then the King''s Curse began its hungry work, and she threw her head back and screamed. Across the city, every hero with Melpomene¡¯s fingerprints on their heart fell like puppets with their strings cut, convulsing and crying out in sympathetic agony. The heavenly chorus of heaven¡¯s gleeful spectators turned to shrieking fury as the Tragic Muse¡¯s seven sisters converged on me like falling stars. They cut me with des I didn¡¯t have the slightest hope of understanding, let alone deflecting. They pierced me to my deepest core, beyond even my de¡¯s ability to expose me. They questioned all that I was and could ever be, and they dered my soul unworthy. Who are you to touch our flesh? You are nothing. You are no one. They sentenced me to death, condemning me to the Fates. ¡°NO.¡± They were rejected. A broad and heavy hand came down on my shoulder and gripped it tight, less than flesh but more than an apparition. As abruptly as the Muses had made themselves known - no, more so, because he truly hadn¡¯t been there before this exact moment - the echo of a man loomed suddenlyrge over my shoulder. Facing away from me, one hand covering his face, his memory alone was a stark brand upon the world. He wore a cloak of shining stars, and when he spoke the entirety of the Free Mediterranean stopped its heart to listen. ¡°NEVER NOTHING. NEVER NO ONE.¡± The voice of an era rang out across the heavens, shaking all who heard it. The legacy of the Conqueror dared the world to prove him wrong, his deration echoing with pride. ¡°THIS MAN TOO IS ALEXANDER.¡± The Muses wailed and flung themselves away, scattering and converging on the Heroes arrayed before me. Elissa, Kyno, Lefteris, and Anastasia arched up like they¡¯d been struck by lightning, their mindsing apart as their terror warred with the deafening urges of their Muses. Golden heat surged to life behind my eyes and spilled forth in a torrent. Melpomene wrenched herself off my de, sobbing in pain, and I allowed her to flee back to wherever it was that higher powers festered. I strode forward, shrugging off the hand on my shoulder, and the Conqueror¡¯s stark reminder chuckled as it dispersed. I had less than a century left, my heart¡¯s blood all but depleted, and Prometheus¡¯ golden ichor had been reduced by half before it started burning. Yet as I advanced, I felt the King''s Curse withdraw its hunger from my soul until only a fraction of the burden remained - I understood intuitively that I had been paying a pretender¡¯s price for my presumption up until this moment. Now, I suffered only the portion of the wanton de¡¯s hunger that even the Conqueror hadn¡¯t been able to escape. The inescapable curse that gued every king. Now, the de turned its full hunger upon its surroundings and inverted the bnce of its efforts. It reached out to devour the people around me, heedless of their standing. As if I would allow that. Rosy mes erupted up and down the bronze de, bolstered by burning ichor and defiant of its name. The de absorbed it readily, but the fire fought viciously, and there was always more to take its ce. Unable to pierce through the mes entirely, and unwilling to bite back at me, the King''s Curse condensed its hunger to a practical burning edge. The Heroes wavered as I came, on the edge of giving up entirely. If I desired it, I could end this without a fight. We could leave them here, broken and lost, and seek our answers elsewhere. It was the only good option remaining, really. I had lost more in less than a minute than most men would ever have to give, but I still had enough of my heart¡¯s blood left to live for decades more toe. Combined with the me¡¯s priceless golden ichor, I could leave this ce stronger than any sophist had a right to be. I could save this gift for a moment where it mattered, when my life was on the line again. These people weren¡¯t a threat to me anymore. They were broken now, and they knew it as well as I did. No. Forty hands of my violent intent rose up around me, ten invisible to the naked eye, ten glowing rosy-bright, ten crackling with tribtion lightning, and ten stained by my scarlet sin. My eyes zed as I burnt away another year of what few I had remaining, and those pankration hands multiplied four fold. I wasn¡¯t finished yet. ¡°I came here to answer a question. One that I was too afraid to ask, and one my virtuous heart already knew.¡± The distant mountain and the glowing stadium shook as their despots and their diators finally reacted to the Conqueror¡¯s curse. If ourpanions didn¡¯t break on their own, theing storm would surely do the work for them. ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter anymore,¡± I decided. ¡°I was born into a world of tarnished iron, but I refuse to die in one as well. No matter what it takes, I will make it golden-bright again. And when I do, you¡¯ll see that you¡¯ve always had a ce within it.¡± ¡°What are you even saying?¡± Elissa breathed. I huffed augh. I supposed that was fair. Enough sophistry. No more iron truths. No more golden lies. I leveled my burning de at their hearts, and the heavenly hands that held them tight. ¡°Higher power is a curse - your Muses aren¡¯t worth the burden of their favor. You have to cut them out.¡± ¡°Or what?¡± Lefteris challenged me hysterically. Sol appeared by my side. Selene¡¯s shoulder bumped against mine. We burned and burned. ¡°Or I¡¯ll do it myself,¡± I promised them. Ourpanionsshed out like cornered animals, and we met them side-by-side. Chapter 1.136 [The Tyrant Riot] Chapter 1.136 [The Tyrant Riot] The Tyrant Riot Their feud was ancient. With their finest days so many years behind them, it was easy for an outsider to forget that the elders of the Raging Heaven Cult had once been the hands that shaped the free world. The fact that they could be called elders at all, each one marked by the same indigo brush, was itself a damning sign of their decline. They had been unique existences once. They had been triumphant, and terrible. Even before the high bastard of the Raging Heaven Cult had stolen them from their thrones, they had despised one another. It was often said that a monarch inherited their nation¡¯s riches alongside its scars, and that every son bore the burden of his father¡¯s sins. For existences like theirs, inheriting nations from fathers and mothers that had ruled for countless mortal generations, the weight of ancestral enmity was overwhelming. Tearing each of them down from the seat of their power, breaking their crowns and discarding their fragments - that has been insult enough. The kyrios could have killed them then and there and they would have spent an eternity cursing his existence in the underworld. But, of course, that hadn¡¯t been enough for the Free Mediterranean''s least satiable hedonist. No. He¡¯d wanted more from them. The elder Tyrants of the cult hated the mad kyrios for usurping them. But they reviled him for forcing them to band together. Time together had done nothing to mend the wounds inflicted by their predecessors. There were not enough centuries, could never be enough thread on the loom, for their enmity to be put to rest. Sharedpany only made it worse. Naturally, though he waxed poetic whenever challenged on the subject, the kyrios had known this would be the result. He¡¯d thought it was funny at the time Now, their joining brought ruin to his city. They destroyed it all - the monuments built in his name, the monuments that he had built himself, and all the bright-eyed examples of the young generation¡¯s budding virtue. All of it crumbled in the face of eight Tyrants¡¯ ancient malediction. Cosmicws were overwritten, repealed, and overwritten again at a rate that mortal man could hardly even conceptualize, let alone perceive. Their shing destroyed the world around them in a thousand different ways, sparing nothing but the enduring amethyst that wound through and bolstered Kaukoso Mons. Free atst to vent their anger, they unmade everything the Tyrant Riot had built. They found no catharsis in the act. In fact, it only stoked their fury. No matter how much of his life¡¯s work they unmade, they couldn¡¯t destroy the portion of him that still lingered in the marrow of their bones. No matter what they took from the kyrios¡¯ ursed legacy, they couldn¡¯t shake the feeling he wasughing at them still. They fought alone against seven, each of the kyrios¡¯ would-be usurpers, but the word brawl could not have done it justice. Even the concept of a battle was not enough. Regardless of their current circumstances and no matter how disgraced - when a Tyrant fought, they went to war. The war for the indigo throne had begun the day the Tyrant Riot died. They had waged it cold, searching through shadows and cats¡¯ paws for the moment where the stars aligned to strike. Each of them had desired a different version of this day, but the fact that it woulde had never once been a doubt in their minds. The kyrios had throttled eight lions, chained them each to one other, and left them all to starve while vultures circled overhead. How else could it have ended? In circumstances like these, they had no choice but to eat each other. Four of them had been deceived into a vagabond¡¯s alliance, but their careful vows hardly mattered here - the Tyrants of Howling Wind, Scattered Foam, Broken Tide, and Waning Wax had sworn to stand against the First Son to Burn, that much was firm. But they hadn¡¯t sworn to stand together. Nor had they sworn to spare the rest of their rivals in the joining. The raven had changed things, but only just. Without his ethos, the Tyrant Polyzalus was not an insurmountable threat. By all ounts, the fracturing of his foundations should have rendered him aplete non-entity when the war began in earnest. Yet somehow, his wrath was more than enough to match their dominions. That wrath, and the Gadfly¡¯s incessant fucking buzzing. They dealt horrific blows to one another, violence on a scale that made Polyzalus¡¯ earlier sh with his Butcher look like a child¡¯s squabble, but soon found themselves trapped in a terrible equilibrium. If the raven¡¯s alliance had been made of horn rather than ivory, the war might have been won in an instant. If any of them had been capable of tolerating even one more rival to the indigo throne, even just until the day was done, they might have been able to turn that tide as two. But it had been centuries since any of them were capable of suchpromise - these days, they would only act together if they had no other choice. So instead they waged eight wars alone, and not a single one was winnable. Until suddenly, one of them was. When a pir of stark light rose up from the earth to drill through starry heaven, their disbelief warped the air around the mountain. Some of the elders were far older than others, but none of them were young enough to have been spared the scars of this particr purpose. They couldn¡¯t have forgotten it if they¡¯d tried. This far from its origin point, the touch of its hunger was a faint and distant thing. Uncaring of their efforts to keep it that way, the King¡¯s Curse gnawed away at them. Sliver by sliver, undeterred, it devoured their dominions. The Conqueror¡¯s de cast its hungry shadow over the entire city, enshrouding all their souls but one. Not even the bastard spawn of Rosy Dawn that had drawn it was spared. The only man the King¡¯s Curse spared was Ptolemy, and only then because it had imed his soul long ago. Had that been the extent of it, though their immediate priorities would have surely shifted, the war would not have changed. But it wasn¡¯t, and so it did. Like the rebirth of a star, the Hollow Satrap drew strength from the coronating light that had shrouded them in shadows. He lit up from within, the yawning hollow of his eerie domain giving way to stark light and overwhelming purpose. His body swiftly followed suit. The Tyrant once known as the Savior had been emaciated for centuries, starving worse than any of his peers. It was unheard of for a Tyrant¡¯s body to disobey their idea of themselves, yet Ptolemy looked closer to a corpse than he ever could a king. It could be seen in his hair, white with age and thinning out. It could be seen in his sunken cheeks, ever without color. It could be inferred from his dim eyes, their spark long dead. He still possessed a Tyrant''s stature, but it was difficult to tell when he could no longer stand up at his fullest height. He¡¯d been hunched and hollowed out by his crimes. It had been that way since before the kyrios came to collect him, and his condition had only grown worse with time. It was the only reason why the Tyrants of the true Greek city-states tolerated his existence. Of all the Tyrants left in Olympia after the kyrios¡¯ passing, the First Son to Burn had emerged as the clearest present threat. However, that was as they were. Had each of them stood at their fullest prime, it would have been a different one that threatened seven. And it wouldn¡¯t have been close. Ptolemy¡¯s skeletal frame abruptly expanded and filled out, like some unseen colossus had been inhaling his every essence for centuries and was just now finally exhaling. Iron cords of muscle surged beneath his skin, bringing color and healthy definition to his frame. He straightened his back and rose to his full height, his spine cracking and popping grotesquely with the motion, and when he was done he stood taller than even the towering Queen of the Amazons. His cheeks filled out, entuating a strong jaw that before had made him look like half a corpse. His thinning hair fell out entirely, was forced out, as dark curls of hair burst forth from his skin. A full head of dark and wavy hair sprung up from his head as if it had always been there, stripping away his oldest years in an instant. Ptolemy inhaled his first full breath in centuries, the decrepit robes that had hung limp off his body for so long now straining to the limits of their threads as his barrel chest expanded. Though each of his rivals had stopped dead in their tracks at the appearance of the coronating pir, they were forced to turn away from it as a second beacon of stark suffering lit up the teau of the indigo cult. The source of the horrible resonance, the linking hand in the shape of a man, took all the wind from his first full breath in centuries and used it to roar. ¡°DEFILER!¡± The Macedonian¡¯s pneuma exploded from him in a torrent, no longer consuming mindlessly as his hollow domain had for so many years. The rest of the seven matched themselves against it, at first only with a portion of their efforts - Aleuas tried to divert it with his hurricane¡¯s current, Solon attempted to remake it, and Midas tried to turn it all to gold. They attempted to block, to steal, to make their own, or even to ignore. Very quickly, they realized not one of those methods would be enough. Ptolemy thrashed them all, more than twice the man he¡¯d been a moment ago, and less than half the man he¡¯d be a momentter. The light of shining stars poured out from his soul, glowing brighter by the second and gathering around his head in a coalescing crown. He overwhelmed their sickly domains. He broke the weapons in their hands. Hit them with clenched fists that struck like falling stars. All the while, he raged at the presumption of the newest scarlet son, whose hands had dared to grasp above his station. Every second he grew stronger, and every moment more enraged. In thetter sense, he was far from alone. The instant that that coronating pir had drilled up through the heavens, every Tyrant on the mountain knew the golden raven had to die. Unfortunately, that shared resolve would do them little good if Ptolemy tore them all to shreds before he went and killed the boy. They fought to flee, but he would not let them regroup. They fought to distract, but he would not be swayed from his new purpose. They fought to survive, but the Conqueror¡¯s mad dog had gone centuries without a meal and it was time for him to eat. He took them all in hand, and the world around them warped as the distant roar of marching feet and the screaming of war horses loomed loudly in his soul. A long-repressed nightmare brought terror to their empty chests. Their intent faltered and slipped from their fingers, leaving just the empty dread. By the time the Macedonian froze up again, the teau was all but won. His right hand had Leonidas by the neck, strangling the Spartan king and all 300 of his infernal Heroes. His left hand had palmed Thalestris¡¯ skull like a discus and wrenched her head back so that she formed an arch worthy of a bowstring, a finger buried into each of her eye sockets. His heel ground Midas deeper into the mountain than any of their attacks had cut thus far, breaking the Tyrant¡¯s golden spine like so much brittle y. The remaining four of seven were hardly any better off. In no time at all, the bnce of the indigo war had shifted entirely out of their hands. The Savior¡¯s abrupt hesitation was thest chance they¡¯d ever get, each of them knew. Yet not a single one of seven Tyrants moved to take advantage of it. When the voice of an era returned from the East, heaven and earth and all those in between stood still to hear him speak. ¡°NO.¡± Their horror would have stopped their hearts if they still had one between them. ¡°NEVER NOTHING. NEVER NO ONE.¡± It echoed through the city and far, far beyond it. Further than even their perceptions stretched. It carried over the mountain ranges. It carried across the seas. Leonidas fell wheezing to the ground. Thalestris crumpled in a bloody, blinded heap. Ptolemy the Great looked towards the stark pir of the north with shock and silent hope. ¡°THIS MAN TOO IS ALEXANDER.¡± The Conqueror named his heir with pride, daring all that heard it to deny him, and the chorus of heaven raged impotently in response. ¡°Alex,¡± Ptolemy breathed. His outrage vanished, gone like it had never been. They heard a skipping beat inside his chest. They heard - his heart. He had a heart. ¡°My brother!¡± Ptolemy the Great discarded all his rivals like forgotten trash, the star crown on his brow zing with salvation¡¯s light. He left the seven of them there on the brink of bitter oblivion, like the bounty of their souls wasn¡¯t worth the harvest. Like they meant nothing to him at all. ¡°My king!¡± He shouted out, and rushed away with soaring hope. ¡°I¡¯m with you! I¡¯m here! I swear to you upon the Styx, I¡¯ll never stray again!¡± Their feud was ancient, their egos unsurpassed. Even when opportunity hade and hammered down their doors, offering up the crippled king of Burning Dusk, their hatred of each other hadn¡¯t allowed for a single moment of true cooperation. It was simply what they were. Even the death of Polyzalus wasn¡¯t worth the insult to their ethos. Since the day the Tyrant Riot died, they¡¯d each resolved to never share their strength again. The moment Ptolemy the Great turned his back on his rivals to join the king of kings, they ran him through with seven swords of all their strongest powers. They struck him down together. The Savior died with kingdoms in his eyes. His final breath scattered Olympia to the wind. Chapter 1.137 [Scythas] Chapter 1.137 [Scythas] Scythas, Hero of the Scything Squall There¡¯s still time, but less and less. You have the stronger heart. He isn¡¯t what you thought he was. You can bring him down. You can defeat him. You must defeat him. This is your only chance. My dear hero, you have to move. You have to fight! You have to do it now-! The spear plunged straight through his heart, yet it hardly hurt at all. The Scarlet Oracle¡¯s eyes burned scarlet, ring into his, and the world spun around him. Scythas was flung, fell, and skipped across marble like a stone over still water. The tumble hurt worse than the stab. Scythas propped himself up on a scraped and bleeding elbow, prodding at the wound in his chest. Or rather, prodding the ce where the wound should have been. Prodding with fingers that should have been longer. Panic stabbed straight through his heart, and there atst he felt the pain. The panic. ¡°No,¡± he breathed. His voice was pitched higher than it should¡¯ve been. Higher than it had been in years. A storm had been raging in the city of Olympia when the Oracle stabbed him with her hallowed spear. Only a moment ago, they had all been in the center of it. Now that storm was gone, another had taken its ce. As he watched, it consumed all that remained of the Half-Step City. Everything gave away to the wind until all that remained was the center of the eye. The Oracle stepped past him. Scythas lunged for her trailing skirt in terror. ¡°Please!¡± he cried out in a child¡¯s helpless panic. ¡°Not this! Anything, but this!¡± His body didn¡¯t move as it should have, too small to amodate his mind¡¯s demands. She slipped through his fingers and carried on towards the edge of the eye. The world beyond it was opaque, nothing more than a screaming wall of hurricane winds. ¡°Selene! Don¡¯t leave me here!¡± he wailed, hating how familiar it felt to sob the words into the wind. ¡°I warned you, cultivator.¡± The words were mncholy, but the sun-kissed Heroine didn¡¯t look back once. ¡°I never cured your heart, only cut away the symptoms - you should have cleaned the wound. But you didn¡¯t. You made no offerings and swore no oaths.¡± The Oracle cast out her empty hand like she was tossing something away. ¡°I see now that it wasn¡¯t mine to take.¡± He didn¡¯t want it back. He had no room for it in his heart - a new hurt had already sprung up to take its ce. The rot she¡¯d taken from him in Thracia would make the burden double. ¡°That isn¡¯t fair.¡± He stumbled and crawled across the broken tiles. She was already gone. He screamed brokenly into the wind, ¡°That isn¡¯t fair!¡± Even here, the wind carried her parting words to his ear. ¡°Once given and twice returned.¡± As the Oracle vanished through the storm, a handtched onto his thigh. Scythas screamed and lurched away from it. His grass-green silks, still vibrant and new, tore away in the wind¡¯s invisible grip. Another hand seized onto his ankle and tripped him up when he tried to run. Another settled on his shoulder and pressed him down. Two gripped his hips, ripping more and more of his silks away. He thrashed and he struggled, calling upon his pneuma and the wind, but that only made the storm beyond the eye howl louder. He slipped out of his silks piece by piece, but the formless hands of wind only seized upon his skin, scratching bloody furrows through his flesh when he fought them. ¡°Urania!¡± Scythas called out to a Muse that had yet to im him when he was still this young. He begged the heavenly diviner, ¡°Help me! Please! Show me the way! Urania!¡± ¡°I¡¯m here,¡± she whispered, pressing her cheek against his. The relief was so powerful it nearly knocked him back down to the floor. A momentter, the hands did that themselves. The Heavenly Muse pointed a slender finger, a path of shining stars spiraling out from its tip. Scythas traced them with his eyes, following them to their destination- ¡°I can¡¯t.¡± ¡°You must.¡± Urania¡¯s path out was no path out at all. Rather than escape, it urged him to pursue. It pointed him towards the center of his festering heart. ¡°I¡¯m not strong enough.¡± ¡°You are.¡± Tears spilled down his cheeks. ¡°I can¡¯t do it alone. I need your help.¡± ¡°You have all that you need.¡± she promised, whispering it like a secret in his ear. ¡°The path is there before you. This much is all I can do.¡± A hand of wanton wind fisted itself in his hair, twisting his face away from hers. ¡°Please.¡± He felt her leave his heart just as Selene had done. And just the same, the wind carried her parting words to his ear while its greedy hands roamed. They were the first words she had ever spoken to him, in the silence proceeding tragedy, delivered on the deck of a ship with no oars while ck clouds and curtains of rain and rising waves darkened his horizon. Back then, same as now, she had only been able to offer him the path through it. [¡°Your story is one of weathering storms.¡±] Hands of howling wind weighed him down, spread him apart, and dug deep for his heart. Finally, as he always had, Scythas gave up on resistance. He was alone and he was weak. Struggling would only make it worse. All he could do was all that he had ever done - endure it. Weather it. Close his eyes and pray that it would pass- ¡°Such vile cynicism. I won¡¯t forgive her for it.¡± Subsumed by groping hands, Scythas nheless recognized the one that grasped his chin and lifted it up. It was firm and steady where the hands of wind were formless violence. It was cold, where Urania¡¯s ethereal hand had been warm. Like stone. A pewter rim pressed against his lips and liquid heat poured down his throat. It was the most delicious thing that Scythas had ever tasted. It was every good thing that had ever touched his tongue, joined together and made more - it was drinks and meals he had no conscious memory of, too young to have remembered. It was the heady mead his father had snuck him from his cup. It was his mother¡¯s own sweet mix of herbal wine and honey. Scythas¡¯ eyes, which had been sightlessly staring head, shivered and refocused. He looked upon the hand that held the cup. Its owner knelt behind him, knelt over him, and as he drank from the cup her right hand offered, he felt her left pry the storm¡¯s wanton fingers from his flesh. One by one, she tore them off and she tore them out, breaking them when they struggled. ¡°You said you couldn¡¯t help,¡± he finally choked out when thest of the liquid was gone. The statue of Urania withdrew the cup and traded it for a crown. The pewter ring of stars settled heavily on his head, cold even through the thick curls of his hair. ¡°That woman wasn¡¯t worthy of my name.¡± She sounded more furious than he thought a Muse could be. ¡°She may have worn my face, but I¡¯ll never ept her as Urania. The years between us aren¡¯t enough to justify her behavior. There aren¡¯t enough stars in the sky.¡± The stone statue of the maiden drew the carved robes off her shoulders. They flowed like liquid as she wrapped them firm around his battered body, leaving herself naked in the process. Horrified, Scythas tried to press them back. ¡°That¡¯s too much. You can¡¯t - your body shouldn¡¯t be-¡± ¡°It isn¡¯t yet enough.¡± The statue that he¡¯d stolen from the storm by means of a pewter crown brushed Scythas¡¯ hands away and cinched the stone silks tight around his waist. ¡°Cynic that she is, that woman did more than wrong you with her presence. She even had the gall to reach beyond her station.¡± ¡°How?¡± Scythas whispered, unable to imagine something that existed above the nine. ¡°The Father?¡± Had she insulted Him, somehow? ¡°Worse than that. She¡¯s forgotten why it is we call ourselves cultivators. Rather than nurture your journey, she had the audacity to tell you what sort of ending it would have. She tried to stunt your glory.¡± The storm raged, and the festering wound inside his heart reared up as thest of its hands were forced off of him. Scythas stared into the eye of the storm. It red hungrily back. Some battles couldn¡¯t be won. He¡¯d learned that lesson early on. Some things could only be survived. [¡°Your story is one of weathering storms.¡±] [¡°Are you sure of that?¡±] ¡°There¡¯s a storm here in your heart,¡± Urania agreed, cold stone lips brushing past his ear. Scythas shivered. ¡°But who said you had to suffer it? You didn¡¯t just weather the winds that delivered you from the west - you filled that ship¡¯s sails yourself.¡± Scythas stared up at the hungry eye. He rose slowly up to one knee. His hands clenched into fists. His pneuma was against him. His heart wasn¡¯t his own. He needed a weapon, something more than a child¡¯s fists, but it was all lost to the storm- The moment that he thought it, she buried a pewter scythe in the stone before him. In the reflection of its wicked de, Scythas saw his brother¡¯s face. ¡°I¡¯m with you.¡± For once, he knew she meant it. Chapter 1.138 Chapter 1.138 The Young Griffon Violence told a story. This I¡¯d known for my entire life. My time outside the Rosy Dawn had challenged countless other preconceptions, but this one it had only reinforced. It was only in the heat of our most violent moments that we bared our hearts to one another in full. Not because we desired it, necessarily, but because we had no other choice. Every day of my life had hammered that point deeper home. Even this day. Especially this day. We exchanged discourse with our broken Heroes while the Sanctuary City fell, and that violence told their stories. Sol seized the opening initiative while I was grandstanding, waving a dismissive hand when all five rose up to oppose us. The golden mes spilling out of his eyes, a perfect match to my own, red in response to his sacrifice of empowering blood. Gravitas flung them all back, tearing up the earth beneath their feet and shifting the clouds above their heads. They recovered quickly, each by their own means, but the pace was ours to set. We pursued them and were there the instant they escaped the current. Elissa separated her spirit from her body again, and now with the King''s Curse in my hand I could see the shimmer of her muse plucking the resonant cord. I pivoted in the middle of a full sprint the moment that I felt it, burning my heart''s blood to give my body the crity needed to catch her. My de swept sideways through her path, forcing her to raise her own bronze sword in a frantic block. When the bronze edge of her weapon passed through the burning sheathe of heart me I¡¯d forged around my own, shing fully edge-against-edge, the King¡¯s Curse seized upon her and delivered a portion of her soul to me in even greater rity than its nket perceptions could provide. [-the guqin has seven strings-] The Sword Song had moved to parry this time, diverting as much force as she could away from her de - she only lost a sliver of its edge this time. Her muse plucked another string while I was processing that crystalline moment, and Elissa¡¯s spirit vanished. It appeared ten paces to my right rather than returning to her body. I shifted to meet another opponent. Sol mmed straight through Anastasia¡¯s hunting hounds while he closed the gap between them, nearly skewering her out of the air as they engaged in a battle of arms. Her javelin burnt and corroded everything it touched, but Sol¡¯s spear had the better reach. Their sh was a blur of whirling polearms and ferocious pressure. Every exchange flung the Caustic Queen further back, regardless of how neatly she responded. Overburdened as he had been since Thracia, and now magnified by his burning heart, Sol simply packed too great a punch for her to trade even blows with him. Selene was pursuing Lefteris while the Gold-String Guardian tried to make space for his bow, so I rounded on the Heroic Huntsman and his prized predator. The enormous crocodile, Sah-Bakari, could swim through the sky like it was still water under normal conditions. While Sol¡¯s virtue was in the air, it was more like swimming upstream. A greater challenge, to be sure, but one the beast was more than capable of meeting. It contorted sinuously, pressing through Sol¡¯s gravitas, and when its colossal maw yawned open I saw its teeth were solid gold. I fed another year to the mes and struck the beast back down the skyfall river with a hundred hands of my pankration intent. Each clenched fist attacked with the force of the full year I¡¯d given up. I understood intuitively that if I had thrown each of those punches over and over again for all of spring, summer, fall, and winter, the force of the attack would have been exactly the same. Kyno didn¡¯t even bother testing his skinning knife against the King¡¯s Curse when I leapt up underneath him. He twisted away with shocking crity for his size, feeding that momentum into a roundhouse kick. I tucked my left arm and caught it on the crook of my elbow, the p of flesh against flesh more than just loud - the shock was so intense it ruffled my hair. Four crackling fists hammered into his thigh, drawing a tight sound of agony from his throat, and sixteen more stabbed and pped and gouged at whatever they could reach. The lightning wasn¡¯t enough to paralyze him, but it served as a distraction long enough to bring the King¡¯s Curse back around. Kyno leaned back in midair, artful even in his panic, and the King¡¯s Curse cut the shallowest line across his jaw. Another electric sh of insight jolted me from the moment. [-the hunt defines the huntsman-] A crocodile¡¯s tail formed entirely from the Huntsman¡¯s intent - no, from Sah-Bakari¡¯s pneuma - whipped into existence behind the Hero and pped my sword arm aside. Kyno pushed off with the motion, flinging himself back and rolling across the earth. I moved to follow him, enraptured by that brief glimpse at perfect rity, but Elissa¡¯s muse plucked another string and her spirit appeared thirty paces to my left, stabbing at Selene¡¯s unguarded side. Invisible hands of my violent intent punched through the sound of her, rosy hands of scarlet dawn chopped down on her sword-bearing wrist, lightning hands strangled, and blood-stained fingers gouged. She passed through all of them without slowing down. Another year went up in mes. Prometheus¡¯ burning ichor singed the edges of my senses with its rm. I had precious little of my heart¡¯s blood left to lose. I couldn¡¯t afford to spend it so frivolously. I surged across the gap and struck her de aside with mine. Her frustration and her fear were clearly visible to my heart sense, and that was before the King¡¯s Curseid her bare. [-seven strings to dance along-] The Sword Song¡¯s muse plucked another string, a different string, and the sound of her spirit vanished again. It reappeared to my right, twenty paces from where she had been. Finally I understood what the Conqueror¡¯s de had been telling me. Pankration hands drew the broad celestial axe I had stolen from the Temple of the Father out of my shadow and heaved it through the air. It spun end-over-end, deflecting an arrow Lefteris had shot at Selene¡¯s heart and carrying on to sink into the archer¡¯s shoulder. While Selene moved to capitalize on the opening, I spun back around and dropped an executioner¡¯s heel down onto Kyno¡¯s head. I swung my sword, the King¡¯s Curse cut through his crocodile tail- [-every predator shaped by their prey-] -and I understood the nature of that skill too. Sah-Bakari was surging back into the fight, bowled over but unburdened by the attack I had spent a year of my future empowering. I swiped my de negligently down, not truly attacking but instead guiding Kyno into my pankration hands when he flinched away from the burning de. Rosy-fingered dawn seized him by his tattered blue silks and his coarse ck hair, flinging him up into the crocodile¡¯s open mouth. To my surprise, Sah-Bakari didn¡¯t even try to shift its course. Its golden maw snapped shut, swallowing Kyno whole, and the virtuous beast began to roll. In an instant, a creaturerger than a bull elephant vanished out of the open air. Unlike Elissa¡¯s technique, however, it did not immediately resurface. Even the King¡¯s Curse lost sight of it. For all intents and purposes, the two were simply gone. Elissa¡¯s muse plucked another string, and I cut a burning line through the air on my right. She appeared to my left instead. I burned yet more of my heart¡¯s blood and struck myself with my own intent, pping a hand over each of my ears, and shoved myself back with four open palms to avoid the thrust of her bronze sword. Her muse wasn¡¯t ying a guqin. That much had been obvious, but now I knew that it mattered. I restrung my mental image of the muse¡¯s instrument, sorting the sounds in an instant, and when she plucked the next string I saw it bright as day. The guqin was a Silk Road curiosity, seven-stringed like a Greek lyre, but Elissa¡¯s muse wasn¡¯t ying either of those things. She was ying a zither, an instrument that could have as many as forty strings, and as few as twenty. Trying to determine which of those strings was being plucked, and where they¡¯d been strung rtive to the others by the sound they made alone? That was something only a dedicated student of the arts could have possibly aplished. Elissa appeared amidst the vibration of the twenty-third string, and I nailed her right foot to the earth with my de. She screamed, the King¡¯s Curse fed, and I saw the greater picture. It was there in her name - the Sword Song. While she danced outside herself, she could go wherever sound could travel, bypassing all but the most daunting obstacles. The only catch was that she needed the strings to guide her. It had been a guqin when her master taught her, and now it was a zither, but the mechanism was the same. Once I knew the distance between each string, and could match at least one of them to a location by tracking her movements, I could map out the rest of them in my mind. I could listen. The zither twanged. I could hear it. Our des shed the moment Elissa reappeared fifty paces to my right, and this time she didn¡¯t have the luxury of preserving her sword with a parry. I lopped off another corner of her bronze de, and her panic was a keening sound. Her muse loomed behind her shoulder, pulling back on another string. The King¡¯s Curse cut through the zither, snapping its strings with an ugly sound that tried to pull Elissa in twenty different directions at once and seeded in moving her none. The Conqueror¡¯s de kept cutting, snapping hungrily for that faint finger. The apparition of a muse flinched back and vanished from Elissa¡¯s side. Her panic turned to horror. ¡°Look how they run!¡± I forced her back with wild sword swipes while the invisible hands of my intent swarmed over her abandoned body - still flying back through the current of Sol¡¯s gravitas - and swung it like a hammer into her blindspot. Body and soul crashed back together, and my empty hand of flesh and blood mmed into her stomach. She flew back, gagging for air, and I pursued her. ¡°Look how they hide!¡± I shouted mockingly. ¡°Ask them who they¡¯re running from! Ask them where they¡¯ve gone now that you need them!¡± There came the twang of a rebounding bow string, followed by the whistling shriek of an approaching arrow. I spun in mid air and split the arrowhead down its center, the King¡¯s Curse reaching through it as it cut. -it was an arrow that slew Great-Heart Achilles- The bisected halves of Lefteris¡¯ arrow spun off behind me. The Gold-String Guardian shouted in pain, reeling back with Selene¡¯s spear lodged in his thigh. She tried to wrench it out, but he grabbed her by the hair and kneed her in the face with his other leg. I moved to help her, my violent intent reaching out. Elissa¡¯s spirit rose out of her body once again. This time the string her muse plucked didn¡¯t match any sound a zither could produce. It was close, and because of that I wrongly turned right to preempt an attack that wasn¡¯t there. By the time I had identified its true source - a lyre - the Sword Song had already appeared behind the daughter of the Oracle and run her right hand through with the disjointed noise of her broken de. Selene cried out, letting go her spear. The King¡¯s Curse cut through the noise, but Elissa was already gone, pulled away by the string of another instrument - a harp, I realized an instant toote. The King¡¯s Curse could tell me what their techniques did, could even give me a glimpse into the underlying acts and teachings that had made them this way, but it couldn¡¯t tell me how they¡¯d use them before it happened. It could only observe it after the fact. It wasn¡¯t nearly good enough. I still couldn¡¯t see it. Lefteris hammered his mangled fist into Selene¡¯s side, breaking three ribs, and in response I kicked him in the chest. His breastte cratered, his back hit the earth, and the King¡®s Curse came down. He raised his empty bow up like a shield, desperately blocking. The edge of the Conqueror¡¯ de met the golden string of his bow- -it was a golden string that led Theseus to the stars- Outrageously, the King¡¯s Curse slid away from the delicate string of gold instead of cutting neatly through it, guided away from the Heroic archer by an unseen hand. Elissa¡¯s muse plucked another cord. The cold, prickling sensation of being hunted re-emerged from nothing along with Kyno and Sah-Bakari as their rolling plunge pierced through the air behind me. Lefteris bared his teeth hatefully at me and spun his bow around while the static silhouette of his Muse nocked an arrow to it and drew. I stillcked context. Gravitas drove Kyno and his crocodile down into the dirt, and a spear that was more fist of god than flung projectile mmed through Lefteris¡¯ bicep and dragged him off across the dirt, carrying him far from Selene and I both. The Sword Song¡¯s muse sounded a retreat before I could even turn to meet her spirit. Solnded heavily beside me, covered in smallcerations that wept vile ck poison. He lifted Selene up into his arms, ncing at me as he did. With a single burning look he saw the root of my frustration. ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± Selene protested, the words slurred by her broken nose. ¡°I can fight, I swear I can-!¡± An invisible hand of my intent straightened her nose with a brutal crack. She yelped. ¡°Take the ichor in hand,¡± Sol told me. He sat the daughter of the Oracle back on her feet and beckoned with his empty hand, halting the momentum of his spear and ripping it out of Lefteris¡¯ arm to return it to his hand. The tumbling archer dug bloody fingers into the earth to stop his own momentum. ¡°Whatever it is you¡¯ve foundcking - whether it¡¯s motion, magnitude, or time - you have what¡¯s needed to refine it. Just keep the blood in line.¡± A wave of caustic heat surged up from every shadow, and my brother continued on with Selene close by his side. We pressed the Heroes back, weathering their miracle techniques and burning all we had to give just to maintain the pace. The difference between an iron age Hero and Philosophers of our kind wasn¡¯t as stark as it should have been, but there was a difference. Despite their animal panic they were stronger than any mortal soul could hope to be. Though their hearts were shaken and their hope was fading fast, they still burned bright enough to blind. Even with the King¡¯s Curse in my hand, they¡¯d kill me the moment I made a mistake. Their muses would make certain of it. So why, when they were finally giving all that they had to give, why did it still feel not enough? Once Sol had pointed it out to me, I felt the slithering suggestion of the Titan¡¯s burning ichor in my veins. I crushed it in my hand, heedless of the me, and as I shed against my seniors in ascension over and over again, a distant part of me looked upon the ichor¡¯s works. It had refined me in body, heart, and mind. It had stoked my every passion. As it had stoked my every grief. All that it had done, it had done before my advancement to the third rank set it aze. Now what could it do? It had been liquid refinement before, golden-bright and eager to please. Now it was a refining me. Now it hurt to hold. Did you think it would be painless? I didn¡¯t let it go, not even for a moment. It cried out to me, urging me to make use of it. All of it. When the ichor that the King¡¯s Curse had consumed went up in mes and turned itself upon the de, the hungry weapon nearly vibrated out of my hand. Yet the Conqueror had said his piece, and its ownership was clear. The wanton de raged, but it didn¡¯t turn against me while I shaped it to my will. I leapt over a molten river of magma, my pneuma spreading like open wings behind me. The refining me melted down the de¡¯s hungry gaze, rendering it down to its baseponents and materials, and my borrowed awareness of the city melted away in turn. I reforged that wanton re to better suit me, rebncing it as Prometheus had rebnced my humors, and when my feet touched the ground on the other side of the river my de¡¯s awareness expanded back out. It didn¡¯t reach across the city of Olympia and beyond it this time. When the sphere of my borrowed awareness ceased expanding, it was hardly a fraction of the range it had been before. That was more than fine. Keeping an eye on the Tyrants and false Heroes spread throughout the city was convenient, but it wasn¡¯t what I needed. My target was far closer at hand. I needed a more discerning eye. What was even left in this world that the King¡¯s Curse had yet to show me? The answer was self-evident. Like the cleansing of a cancer, the King¡¯s Curse swept aside the veils of wonder and mystique that obscured the muses. My eyes that had until now slid off of them without finding purchase now shifted and settled surely onto the specter of a woman looming over Elissa¡¯s limp body. Our eyes met. Terpsichore stared back at me in perfect shock, her divine lips parting. She wore a dress of flowing gold that hung from only one shoulder, exposing her left breast and her two highest ribs. Her hair was kept shorter than her sisters¡¯, a loose nest of braids that looked like they¡¯d spill over at the slightest motion but never quite did. She wore a crown of falling leaves. Her right hand was frozen in the motion of plucking at her next string. It was a kithara this time. ¡°There you are,¡± I breathed. The muse¡¯s finger slipped, and Elissa choked on a scream as she reappeared in the path of my de. Blood sprayed from her abandoned body¡¯s right thigh, the skin parting to match the wound I had inflicted on her soul. The Dancing Muse abandoned the Heroine¡¯s body, retreating far from me, but the King¡¯s Curse could still see the imprints of her fingers on Elissa¡¯s heart. Only the imprints, however. I couldn¡¯t see the hand attached. I stillcked context. Melt down. Reforge. Rebnce. Refine. I added my own heart¡¯s blood to the ichor¡¯s efforts, sacrificing half of all that remained. When the King¡¯s Curse cast out its senses again, they went no further than what my own eyes could see. Blood-stained hands of my intent whirled the de around and thrust it straight down. The Heroic Huntsman and the Gold-String Guardian cried out in dismay. Elissa arched up, returning to her body a bare moment toote. My burning de plunged straight through her chest. Time stood still. The Dancing Muse shrieked in pain and horrible fury, and the hand I had cut through, the one holding the Sword Song¡¯s heart, drew back and vanished. Elissa¡¯s heart beat freely for the first time since her ascension to the Heroic Realm. I ripped the King¡¯s Curse from her chest before the beating organ could brush against it. ¡°Why?¡± Elissa gagged, dragging herself back. She clutched her broken sword to her bleeding breast. ¡°Why?!¡± ¡°You don¡¯t need her,¡± I said, burning and burning. ¡°Even if you did, she wouldn¡¯t risk her life for yours.¡± ¡°Who are you to decide!?¡± she screamed. Who was I, really? ¡°I am Justice,¡± I decided. ¡°The risen me.¡± It was that mosaic, the Sword Song sprawled out at my feet while herpanions and my own converged upon us both. That was the moment that the Tyrant chose to die. The distant silhouette of Kaukoso Mons shed indigo-bright as every one of its amethyst veins reacted to a force unlike any other it had seen today. With the King¡¯s Curse narrowed down to such a concentrated edge, that sh of light was the only warning I had before the Tyrant¡¯sst gasp swept over the city. It was worse than a hurricane, more violent than a storm. It sted everything apart, all the world and every cloud above. Magma from the uprooted river flew through the air along with every broken building, illuminating the far off face of the Olympic Stadium. Before my eyes, the statues of previous champions acting as its walls, the sentinels that had so easily contained the bloodbath in the pit, began to crack. Thest of the Tyrant¡¯s vitality washed over us, swept us away in its current, and the moment it touched my de I knew which of them had died. Ptolemy the Great blew the Half-Step City down with his final breath, and there wasn¡¯t a stone left in the earth sturdy enough for my pankration hands to anchor me through it. ¡°Gravitas,¡± Sol snarled, and through the King¡¯s Curse I saw him invoke both halves of his foundation. The earth copsed beneath our feet, unable to withstand the outrageous pressure, and I understood immediately what had happened. All his life he¡¯d been invoking both halves of his foundations, treating them as a unified whole because that¡¯s what they should have been. After Thracia his Roman heart had turned against him, punishing him with an overwhelming weight every time he called upon his virtue. Today, he had found a way to subvert that, calling upon only half of the greater whole - a fact that made the King¡¯s Curse eager like a starving dog - and leveraged his Greek heart against our opponents. With his heart¡¯s blood burning, he had even been able to empower it to something greater than ever before. When he had burned his heart¡¯s blood, he hadn¡¯t been able to distinguish between Roman or Greek. And now, when he called upon both halves of his foundation, he suffered retribution as he had before. Perhaps he¡¯d expected it to be a lighter load, empowered as he was. Unfortunately, in his burning he had empowered his heart demons just the same. The earth sank with Sol at the center of the crater while the heavens screamed above our heads. The Captain¡¯s virtue dragged us all down along with him, though not with nearly as much force. It was just barely enough to anchor us. One hundred and fifty hands of my intenttched onto Sol, the remaining ten gripping Selene tight. The rest of the Heroes arrayed against us scrabbled for hand holds and stability, held down by the Greek captain¡¯s order but called up by the winds of the Macedonian Tyrant¡¯sst gasp. They spoke silently, their voices buried by the wind. I read their lips instead. Pushed to the brink and flung clear over the edge of it, they called out for the help of higher powers. They called out for their muses. They called out for their Tyrants. They even called out for the mentors they had left or been left by so many years ago. In the chaos, I saw their muses answer the call. I saw them whisper words of urgent warning. I saw them guide the Heroes I¡¯d admired like they were puppets on strings. I saw the slender hand of the Dancing Muse darting in to reim the heart I¡¯d pried her off of. And in that moment, I finally grasped what it was that had cut me to my core all this time. I rode the push and pull of Sol-against-the-Savior,nding overtop the Sword Song. Terpsichore snatched her hand back like she¡¯d been burned, ring daggers up at me. ¡°You know nothing of our blessing,¡±the Dancing Muse hissed. Her wrath was clear as day, but the King¡¯s Curse wasn¡¯t yet focused enough to pierce through to her inner workings. It might not ever be. Not as we were. ¡°You know nothing of our design! You¡¯ve yet to pull the curtain back and yet you strike at what¡¯s behind it. Wretched son of scarlet sin, you know not what you do.¡± They¡¯re all ves, every single one of them, and so am I - this city is the chain. What sort of king lets scavengers loose in his city? What sort of queen turns her citizens against themselves? These cowards aren¡¯t worth the crowns that they covet. These heroes aren¡¯t worth telling stories of. These people are shadows on the wall. This world is tarnished iron. Every answer I had found, all my grim conclusions, they were all born of the same unspoken sentiment. They were all iplete. A wise man was not marked by his ability to entangle others with his words. If a thing was truly understood, it could be conveyed even to a fool. This world is iron. What did such a sentiment convey? How could it be seen or felt? What did this ever present ache inside my soul mean to the people that had never felt it once? Youck context. That much was surely true. But I no longercked the words. ¡°I know this world is upside down,¡± I dered, casting months into the me to make the words boom over the gale. They would all hear this, or none of them would. ¡°I know it isn¡¯t a child¡¯s fault that they were born. I know that the ve is not responsible for the ver¡¯s whip. I know the citizens are not to me for the tyranny of kings.¡± My burning heart allowed every word to pass withoutint. It still wasn¡¯t good enough. It wasn¡¯t enough to condemn a naked lie. It wasn¡¯t enough to protest a truth half told. Iron truths, golden lies, the difference was semantic, and all of it besides the point. Even now, the words I spokecked rity. It wasn¡¯t good enough. ¡°This woman¡¯s failings are her own,¡± I told the Dancing Muse and all her seething sisters instead, pointing my burning de down at Elissa. ¡°Her anguish and her struggle are hers alone to bear. They mark her body and her soul with scars. ¡°Yet you have the audacity to stand proud for her triumphs.¡± I cut the air between them. Elissa choked out a curse as I split her shoulder to the bone. Terpsichore danced back, avoiding the King¡¯s Curse entirely. ¡°You won¡¯t suffer with her, yet you¡¯ll be there when she gains!¡± I remembered the titan me¡¯s tortured conviction. I remembered the fire of his eyes. My children are freezing. My children are blind. What else was I to do? I remembered the golden mother¡¯s weeping face. I remembered the sorrow in her smile. Oh, Lio. You can¡¯t afford to care this much. ¡°If you won¡¯t suffer with us, then you¡¯re all worse than a corpse!¡± I shouted. My heart thrummed in fierce approval. ¡°If you won¡¯t step out from behind your curtain, then what use are your designs? If you won¡¯t join us on the stage, then begone to the stands!¡± The heavenly chorus rained invectives down upon me, hurling insults like stones and rotten fruit. Behind me, Sol was forcing himself slowly but surely to his feet, eyes burning as his bloodstained lips whispered a recursive oath. I¡¯ll rise. I¡¯ll rise. I¡¯ll rise. I burnt my future away and added the strength of my pankration hands to his efforts. This world is iron now. What was the in truth behind the poetry? My virtuous heart demanded that I bring it forth into the light. It wouldn¡¯t wait another moment. ¡°They¡¯ve lied to us,¡± I told them all. Elissa, Kyno, Lefteris, and Anastasia. Thepanions I¡¯d burnt and med. Sol and Selene - my brother and my sister. My heart throbbed with vibrant satisfaction. ¡°Our higher powers lied. They told us all to take their hand, they promised that they¡¯d pull us up to heaven, that they¡¯d show us the way, and it was all of it a lie.¡± We exist in three parts, and each of them is king inside our soul. All this time, I had been dancing blindly around the simple truth. There was no path to heaven without a beating heart. The burning ichor swept over the first of all my pirs, the conviction I had built upon my soul. My virtuous heart won¡¯t tolerate a lie. It scoured the cracked and fractured stone away, consuming it in an instant. When it passed, the pir still stood. Free of imperfections, now stronger than before. ¡°Your reasons are irrelevant,¡± I informed the muses. ¡°Your intentions are the same. From myself, as from my brother, from my heroes and my foes, and especially from the chorus, my conviction is the same.¡± [My virtuous heart won¡¯t tolerate anything but the truth.] Sol rose up with a shout of effort and flung them all out of the bowl. We pursued them, driving them out of the city and towards the distant sea. We burned and kept burning. If I stopped now and cast aside all cultivation for a life of peaceful duty, I wouldn¡¯t live long enough to be my father¡¯s current age. Then again, I wouldn¡¯t live another instant if I betrayed my beating heart here. I might survive, but only in a Tyrant¡¯s wretched way. I wouldn¡¯t allow it. I¡¯d die before I did. We shed. We bled. We saw ourselves in truth. When the winds abruptly buckled overhead, I was sure another Tyrant had died. Then I heard the whistle. It was too familiar to forget - I¡¯d heard it up close too many times. When the one note shifted, rising to a pitch I¡¯d never heard before, I spun out of my half-done strike and turned my eyes to heaven. Through the lens of scarlet and golden me, I only saw the breaking of the storm. Through the concentrated edge of the King¡¯s Curse, I saw the warping of creation. The Hero Scythas erupted from the storm above our heads with a pewter crown upon his head, spinning a scythe of glossy obsidian around him like a thresher. And impossibly, miraculously, he cut straight through the storm. Gathered it and coated his scythe with its purpose. The defiant miracle imprinted itself upon the world, assembled from the shards of fallen stars to form a cosmic mosaic - a living constetion. The light spelled out his deed. Through the King¡¯s Curse, I could see it. The second act of his epic. ******************************** ** Scythas Reaps The Whirlwind ** ******************************** Lightning fell from starry heaven and struck the Hero twice. The first bolt Scythas weathered, his hazel-burning heart ring to its limits. The second bolt was caught by an upraised hand of master-crafted stone. Untouched, the Hero of the Scything Squall advanced to the second rank of the Heroic Realm. Iughed in pure and honest admiration while he brought the storm down on our heads. Chapter 1.139 [An Unkindness] Chapter 1.139 [An Unkindness] ¡°Away with you! Begone! I¡¯ll suffer no more!¡± An Unkindness The children of Helen were still transfixed by the stark pir of light bisecting the earth and skies when the tragedies began. Across the Free Mediterranean, from the furthest colonies of the cardinal reaches - southernmost Egypt, easternmost Anatolia, northernmost Thracia, and westernmost Alikos - to the beating heart of ancestral Peloponnesia, the favored heroes of the Tragic Muse Melpomene copsed in screaming fits. Some were amongst peers, whose best efforts could not soothe their agony, and whose muses could offer nothing more to them than bright outrage. Some were amongst family, whose heartfelt prayers and promises of equivalent exchange went unanswered by the gods. Some were amongst Tyrants, whose eyes turned one and all to re hatefully at the western horizon. It hadn¡¯t even been twenty years since the favored champions of Queen Calliope had suffered the very same fate. As if those tragedies weren¡¯t enough, a grim deration soon followed. There was no mistaking it. No man nor woman was deaf enough to miss it. No closed doors could contain it. Not even the tortured cries of Melpomene¡¯s tragic Heroes were loud enough to drown it out. One and all, the people bore witness to the passing of a torch. The voice of an era rang loud in every ear. ¡°THIS MAN TOO IS ALEXANDER.¡± Pandemonium followed. Panic and terror and impotent rage, expressed in a thousand-thousand different ways throughout every enlightened city-state and humble colonial hovel. Among those old enough to recognize the voice directly, the old generation that hadid eyes upon the Conqueror in flesh, reactions to his heir were all the same. One and all, they vowed that they would kill him. Anastasia, the Caustic Queen She had known Solus long before the day they first met. ¡°A man will never love you as much as he loves himself,¡± her mother had taught her as a girl. It was a lesson every blind maiden learned sooner rather thanter. ¡°He will never choose to listen in a world where he can speak. He¡¯ll boast about himself. He¡¯ll boast about his friends. He¡¯ll boast about his country and his idols. He¡¯ll even boast about the men he hates, if it means he doesn¡¯t have to hear your story.¡± In many ways, her mother and her fellow maidens were terribly cynical. But at least when it came to that final sentiment, they weren¡¯t wrong. Anastasia had been promised to the son of a Roman captain in the middle of their siege. At her mother¡¯s earnest urging, she had spent as much time as she could with the man chosen to be her husband. A legionary through and through, he¡¯d been durable and stout, brazen as a bull with a soldier¡¯s rugged charm - and utterly in love with the sound of his own voice. He had told her tall tales about himself, about hisrades in the legion, about his father the captain, and of course about the General of the West, all of that before he even asked her name. Eventually, when talk of Rome and all its wonders had run its course, rather than asking her about the wonders of her home, of the great city-state his people were at that time invading, he told her of his foes. Caesar¡¯s campaigns had been extensive, and to hear her short husband tell it, he¡¯d been there every step of the way. He had painted her a thousand pictures of routed barbarians, desperate shes between legionary and beast, and even the solemn portrait of civil war. In every recounting, he prevailed. With every telling his voice became more impassioned. Until, inevitably, he had run dry of even bittersweet triumphs to tell her. At that point, she had thought that he would finally pass the reins of conversation her way. Surely, there was nothing left to say. Instead, he told her of the chosen son. With neither pride nor passion - but rather a simmering resentment - her husband had confided in her the story of the fifth captain¡¯s son. Though he had tried to paint her a bleak picture - and oh how he had tried - Anastasia had seen right through him. Her husband despised the wild child of the General¡¯s Fifth Legion. The Fifth was an assembly of conscripted barbarians, a coalition lovingly referred to as Caesar¡¯s feral dogs, and to hear her husband tell it, this Young Patrician had taken on the worst of all their failings. The lie was paper-thin. Against his best efforts, Anastasia¡¯s would-be husband had painted her the picture of a Roman who loomedrger than the rest. Younger than the prerequisite age for service, yet stronger than barbarians twice his size. Younger than her husband, yet twice and twice again better decorated in his service. This young man - this boy - that had spent his formative years breaking bread with knuckle-dragging barbarians, was somehow always just a bit more cunning than his rivals in the ranks. It was a dim animal¡¯s cunning, her husband had assured her, just enough for him to avoid reproach and im glories not his own. She had found herself doubting him, even at the time. Her husband had never told her this bastard child¡¯s name, calling him instead a dozen epithets, each more inmmatory than thest. He had, however, described the bastard¡¯s face. ¡°When our paths converge again, you won¡¯t need me to point him out. He¡¯ll be the surliest face in every crowd. The only man still ring, even at a wedding celebration - like the bridegroom killed his dog.¡± Of all the lies he had told her about Caesar¡¯s favored soldier, that one alone had proven to be true. ¡°Stop him!¡± Thalia cried. At least, she had thought that until today. Her Flourishing Muse had noughter in her voice now. Thalia¡¯s teasing smile was nowhere to be found. The Muse of Comedy and the Muse of Tragedy had always been close, intertwined as they were by their mystiques, and Thalia¡¯s rage had eclipsed all her sisters¡¯ when the Tragic Muse was stabbed. Anastasia burned her heart¡¯s blood and wove cleansing me along her javelin, dueling without restraint, and still at every turn she was pushed back. Until today, she¡¯d been certain that Solus was every bit the man her husband had assured her he was only pretending to be. Her hunting hounds broke their caustic teeth and ripped out their own burning ws as they tried to bring her quarry down. They couldn¡¯t even break his stride. Until today, she had been certain he was the mighty Legate of the triumphant Fifth Legion. Envied by men that consider themselves his peers. Beloved by his people. Strong enough to stand apart from his legion and fight as though he wasn¡¯t, a feat not even her husband¡¯s father could match. He advanced. The golden fire in his eyes tracked her every motion, unbothered by the shadows. She had nowhere left to hide. Until today, until now. Until he had run from the consequences of his machinations, until he had confessed to them his weakness. Until he had admitted, until her grandmother had asserted - until Thalia had confirmed - that he was nothing more than what he appeared to be. A young man in over his head. Half a junior Philosopher, and half a worthless captain of a long dead legion. Until that moment, Anastasia had thought her husband a liar. But somehow, despite everything that had transpired since the kyrios¡¯ death, her would-be husband had been absolutely right about Solus. The Revenant struck her javelin aside, stomping its tip into the earth when she tried to sweep the weapon low. At least, she had thought that for a moment. He punched her in the chest. Anastasia¡¯s ribs exploded into shrapnel. Elissa, the Sword Song What was it, exactly, that made a Hero¡¯s heart unique? The schrs had debated the topic for centuries before she was born, and likely would for centuries more toe. Elissa had never had time for such sophistry. The answer was self evident, or at least it had seemed so to her. That nebulous excellence, so coveted and yet so rarely found, was the same property that made Elissa so much quicker than the other children in her city, lighter on her feet and more deft with a de. It was the same phenomenon that allowed her to advance five ranks in the time it took her seniors to move a single step. It was the burden put upon her by the Fates the moment she was born - the burden of promised power. Elissa had known from a young age - known, not believed - that she would do great things in her time. Her ascension to the Heroic Realm had been inevitable. Because of that, she had never bothered herself with the squabbles of mediocre men. ¡°Master, what makes a hero¡¯s heart unique?¡± She had only asked the question once, and only then because she¡¯d been certain the returning answer would match her own. Song Yu had looked upon her sadly instead. ¡°Nothing, little oriole. Nothing at all.¡± Then he¡¯d given her another scar, so she would always remember. She still carried that scar. Somehow, she¡¯d forgotten anyway. The fair-faced coward from the Hurricane Heights descended like an executioner from heaven, harvesting her patron Tyrant¡¯sst breath as he fell. The storm split along the obsidian edge of his scythe, pouring into it and enveloping him in a ferocious mantle of gale-force currents. Hazel mes poured out from his eyes. His pneuma grew and continued growing, expanding endlessly. Before today, Elissa would have sworn steadfast that she would advance long before the Hierophant¡¯s adopted heir. It was a fact of life that most Heroic souls, despite their excellence, never progressed past the first rank. Scythas and his ilk were those sorts of Heroes - the type to flee and fly, not follow and fight. She had known it in her bones. Before today, she had been certain of a great many things. The eighteen year old Philosopher with eyes like golden mesughed delightedly as an ascending Hero swept down upon him. Griffon - Lio Aetos? - flourished his arms and all of his pankration hands, weing Scythas back to the fight. Scythas flickered and vanished, by all appearances swept off by the storm. Somehow, though her own senses couldn¡¯t track it, Griffon turned and drew his burning de sharply up to block. Chipped obsidian chimed against tempered iron, the sound preceding the sight of their sh. She saw it for just a moment, the whirling cloak of grass-green silks, and then he was gone again. Griffon smiled ferociously, pivoting on his heel and parrying another strike just so. What made a Hero so much stronger than their lessers? Of course, there was their burning heart. Just the same, though, there was their Muse. In a struggle, if one party had the voice of high heaven guiding them to glory and the other party did not, all other things being equal, it was obvious which of the two would win. Griffon and Scythas traded blistering blows, the scything winds cutting to pieces anything and everything within their reach. Elissa forced herself back, raising a useless hand against the current when it came too close. Another weeping cut was drawn across her palm. The difference between a Hero and a Philosopher was as the difference between heaven and earth. One of them divine, the other tethered by fate. It wasn¡¯t the burning heart alone that was to me for this. The heart was just the symptom. Even the muse¡¯s help was not the sole deciding factor. Otherwise, what threat would Tyrants be? Griffon danced wildly through the storm, carving through it with his burning de. Scythas¡¯ pneuma was growing stronger by the second. Yet even so, the cadence of their dance was shifting before her eyes. Every Tyrant had once been a Hero themselves. Even the lowliest Tyrant had once been the best of every Hero, just as the least powerful Hero had been the best of every Sophist. That difference could be felt, like the warmth of a summer sun. A Tyrant stood above a Hero. A Hero stood above a Philosopher. The reason why was endlessly debatable, but the reality was not. Even her master hadn¡¯t transcended that truth. Scythas hissed an oath a moment before Elissa saw his mistake. His obsidian scythe swept out wide, drawing blood from Griffon¡¯s neck, but the cut was too shallow to kill. The Scarlet Son stepped into the scythe¡¯s reach and brought his de down in a severing strike. So why was this happening? As the de fell, the spectral image of a woman flung herself away from Scythas, her starlight teeth grit in horrible frustration. The sophist¡¯s bright smile mocked her as she fled. Tempered iron struck polished stone. Griffon¡¯s eyes went wide. In Heavenly-Urania¡¯s ce, the stone statue of a woman had risen up behind Scythas and caught the falling de on her forearm. As Elissa watched, as they all watched, the sword bit deeper into the stone, devouring it as it had devoured everything else. The marble beauty made a grinding sound of agony, but she held firm against the de. ¡°What are you?¡± Griffon asked - wondering. His foe whistled a piercing note. Cutting winds drove Griffon back, and Scythas took him to harvest. Great rending cuts split the Philosopher¡¯s tan skin and cut his mended silks to tatters. The Young Aristocrat of the Rosy Dawn drew his pankration hands around himself to guard, blood burning bright, but he¡¯d lost control of their exchange. Scythas tore him apart, growing stronger all the while. The reaping wind passed over Griffon again and again, taking from him flesh and silk. The fair-faced Hero moved through the coalescing hands of his pankration intent, weaving a perfect line at speeds too swift to believe. He yed the Young Griffon one slice at a time, and whenever the Philosopher managed to bring his de between them, the stone woman took the blow in Scythas¡¯ stead. The killing note wasn¡¯t a whistle from the Hero¡¯s lips. It was the whistle of a harvesting scythe, and by the time Griffon began reacting to it, Scythas was already behind him with the curve of his scythe pressed against the philosopher¡¯s throat. Scythas twisted at the hips, ripping the scythe around- The Roman struck him like a charging bull, driving his shoulder into the Hero¡¯s gut and mming him down to the earth. Griffon jerked his head back, letting the scythe¡¯s edge graze his cheek, and let out a breathless whoop. He was having fun. Scythas flickered and blurred the moment he hit the ground, vanishing into the wind once more, but in response the Roman simply followed him to the ground and dropped an elbow onto his neck. The impact cratered the earth. Griffon¡¯s golden-bright eyes shifted, searching. Seeking new struggles. Settling onto her. Lefteris, the Gold-String Guardian His boys were dead. You have to take aim, Polyhymnia near urged him. His boys were dead, and their killers were walking free. Nock the arrow! Let me guide it! His boys were dead, and it was his fault that they¡¯d died. In his greed, Lefteris had allowed himself to be swayed from his convictions. Beckoned by the bounty of divine nectar, he had strayed away from his purpose as a guardian. Sure enough, he had rationalized it in his heart - the nectar was for the boys. He¡¯d only taken a sip to see if it would work. Give me the arrow. Give me the string. His boys were dead, because Lefteris had allowed himself to forget the revenant¡¯s nature. He had known. Curse him for a coward, he had known and done nothing. Listen to me! His boys were dead, because Lefteris had chosen to work for a man that shared a mentor with Damon Aetos and the Conqueror. Hero-! HIS BOYS WERE- ALIVE! Lefteris returned abruptly to reality, bleeding and battered in a cloud of lightning limbs. He didn¡¯t know where he was. He didn¡¯t know how long he had been fighting. He couldn¡¯t have possibly cared less in that moment. What did you say!? Polyhymnia! The boys are still alive! Lefteris¡¯ heart lurched in a dozen directions at once. He didn¡¯t feel any one emotion in that moment. He felt a vast array of them, every one conflicting with horrible intensity. Why didn¡¯t you tell me? Because- Like a bolt from the blue, Griffon lunged through the cloud of the lightning hands with golden murder in his eyes. Lefteris drew an arrow of his intent and loosed it on instinct, imbuing it with pursuing, overtaking, and the serpent. The arrow swerved eerily through the air, coiling away from the burning de and striking for his heart. The daughter of the Oracle lunged out of the lightning, thrusting out an arm to catch the arrow¡¯s tip. She cried out in pain. Griffon followed through and stabbed Lefteris in the chest. Polyhymnia gasped in pain, and then she was gone. ¡°Wait,¡± he choked out, reaching weakly out to grab her. His fingers couldn¡¯t reach. ¡°Tell me where to go! Show me the way-!¡± ¡°As you wish,¡± Griffin intoned, and flung him off the de. Kyno, the Heroic Huntsman In all his life, this was only the second time Kyno had felt a fear like this one. He¡¯d been hunting with his father, which meant that he was safe, no matter how many times his father warned him not to assume such a thing. Every hunt he¡¯d ever been on with his father had been a swift sess, and this one was no different. They had set off down the Nile with their client¡¯s well wishes and a promise of a greater reward if they returned in three weeks instead of four. They had their beast skinned and bundled away before the first week, not attend. The hunt itself has been a breeze. The fear hade after. On their way back down the Nile, following a route they had taken a dozen times before, his father had abruptly frozen in mid-step. Kino had stared at father, while his father stared at the riverbank, and the naked horror on the grizzled hunter¡¯s face was like a freezing waterfall crashing on his head. He¡¯d been so terrified, then, that he almost hadn¡¯t had the strength to follow his fathers gaze. But he did. Across the river, half entombed within the mudbank, there was an egg. It was an odd egg, unlike any Kyno had seen before, and that alone was rming. Worse than its jagged shell was its size. It wasrge enough for Kyno to fit inside it. Large enough for his father to crawl in with him. Worse still, there was a crack in its exterior. A crack that was growing wider. In the years that followed, despite everything he had seen, and all the horrible creatures he had hunted, Kyno had never felt that fear again. Not until today. You have to burn them out! Erato screamed while the world came apart beneath his feet. You have to kill them now! The city of Olympia, or what remained of its corpse, was a distant grave behind them. Griffon and Solus and the Scarlet Seer Selene drove them back again, and again, turning their techniques back upon them and cutting through to their souls. The young seer was a constant threat, thrusting for their hearts with her ornamental spear, but she wasn¡¯t suited to this madness and it showed. Griffon and Sol, on the other hand, were. They were more than suited to it, in fact. Despite their wounds and their dwindling hearts, the Revenant and the Scarlet Son were thriving. Even as they reached perilously beyond their station, dancing hand in hand with death - no, because of it. They were growing stronger. It wasn¡¯t the direct flourishing that Scythas was experiencing, his advancement to the second rank of the Heroic realm elevating his pneuma to staggering heights even as he pressed against its limits. No, Kyno¡¯s muse had assured him of that. Despite all appearances, Griffon and Sol had not advanced a single step beyond the third rank of the Sophic realm. Their heart¡¯s blood was a puddlepared to a Hero¡¯s coursing river, and they were burning it away at a mad rate just to keep pace. Kyno didn¡¯t even have to win this fight. He just needed to draw it out a few minutes longer. They were all but dead already. And yet. There was that terror, clear as crystal in his heart. Was it the paradox of their existence that unnerved him? A Philosopher with a Hero¡¯s burning heart. No. Was it the Remnant¡¯s invisible hand, shifting the axis of the world as it pleased him? No. It wasn¡¯t even the Conqueror¡¯s de. It was all of these things but none of them at the core. Griffon and Solus met the five of them blow for blow, pushing them back towards the sea so fast they might as well have been sprinting, and every exchange refined them further. Their hearts were burning out. The full wrath of the free Mediterranean was descending on their heads. The docks that they were pushing towards were a sted out, burning ruin. They had no path to escape. They had no hope. And yet they flourished. The closer they got to guttering out, the brighter that they burned. In the span of five seconds of blisteringbat with Elissa, Kyno saw Griffon pick apart and internalize thirteen separate sword forms as they were used against him, and in the next second turn them back upon the Sword Song. In that same amount of time, he saw Solus shift the world around like it was a puzzle box, catching every technique sent his way in the current of his virtue and crushing them to pieces in the air - only to reform them, break them down again, and You have to burn them out, Erato whispered. The Loving Muse clung tightly to his neck, her voice thick with grief. You have to, hero. You have to¡­ Sah-Bakari plunged out of the counter-current, golden teeth shining as the crocodile spun. The Scarlet Seer was caught t-footed, unable to avoid the virtuous beast¡¯s open maw. Griffon fell from high heaven, nailing the great crocodile¡¯s mouth shut and pinning it to the earth with his burning de. Then, for the first time since he¡¯d drawn it, he let the de go. Left to its own devices, the Conqueror¡¯s sword fed with gusto. Sah-Bakari spasmed and thrashed, hissing in visceral agony. Kyno rushed forward, knowing he was running headlong into a snare as he did it. Griffin straightened up and reached with burning hands into his shadow. Each one emerged holding a stolen sword, and as one they buried the des into the earth around Griffon and Sah-Bakari. Eight lines, each connected to another. The scarlet son of Damon Aetos beckoned Kyno wordlessly into the octagon. Every muscle in the huntsman¡¯s body locked up, urging him to freeze. Just as he¡¯d frozen that day. Until the day he died, Kyno would never forget the sight of that horrifying egg cracking open. He¡¯d never forget the look in that creature¡¯s hungry eye, peering out at him - the first thing it had ever seen. It was one thing to endure through hardship, to prevail in spite of it all. It was another thing entirely to feed upon that struggle. These weren¡¯t Sophists they were fighting. This wasn¡¯t a Hero beckoning Kyno into his octagon of des. These were monsters being born. Myron, the Little Kyrios Myron heaved the deceiver up out of the burning waves, tossing him up against one of the few stone breakwaters, stillrgely intact. The red-headed boy immediately began to heave, smoke sick and half drowned. While he retched, Myron turned and dove back beneath the waves. The mes went deeper than the surface. Molton globs of heat boiled the Ionian as they sank down to its depths. sted out ships and their broken sailors burned blood orange as they drifted down, the mes consuming them unbothered by seawater. Myron spent the contents of his second pneumatic chamber, diving through the boiling depths. When he broke through the burning surface again, he had no vital breath remaining in his chambers. He inhaled the smoke and salt, eyes watering, and only hours of practice prevented him from choking on it. Myron dumped a second body onto the rocks. The deceiver dragged himself across the breakwater, reaching for his brother and pulling him to his chest. ¡°Pyr?¡± he croaked. ¡°Pyr?¡± His brother didn¡¯t respond. The deceiver turned to Myron, slumped against the rocks with numb despair. ¡°He¡¯s not breathing.¡± Myron grunted and dropped his fist like a hammer onto the unresponsive one¡¯s chest. Pyr lurched up, choking and spitting up seawater. The deceiver exhaled a shaky breath, squeezing his older brother tight. ¡°Where¡¯s the ship?¡± the deceiver asked him. Myron pointed wearily at the burning surface of the sea. ¡°We have to-¡° Pyr choked halfway through the words, derailing into a wet hacking fit. The deceiver held him steady through it, expression tight as he looked over the beach. It wasn¡¯t a beach anymore. It was molten ss and burning me as far as Myron¡¯s eyes could see. As the second passed, the fire spread further and the ss sank into the boiling sea. ¡°We¡¯re trapped,¡± the deceiver said quietly. ¡°The king has eyes.¡± Myron turned onto his back. The piled mound of rocks that made up the break water were heating up like cooking stones. ¡°So tell me, where is-¡° Myron sat straight up, his eyes going wide. ¡°Look,¡± he breathed. Then louder, ¡°Look!¡± There was a shiping into shore. More than that, it was a ship that Myron recognized. One he had seen before, impossibly and against allmon sense. Yet there it was. The Eos sailed imcably through the burning wreckage of the dock city and its break waters, and not a single lick of burning me marred her stern. Through the smoke and haze of heat, Myron saw the grim silhouettes of ten men at her oars. They focused grimly ahead, bellowing in time with one another as they heaved at their oars. In the crows nest above her scarlet sail, a boy about their age was perched with an enormous eagle on his shoulder. His flinty eyes roved over the wreckage from above, and every time he barked a word the man at oars roared in unison and shifted the ship¡¯s course. In this way, they navigated the graveyard of molten ss and burning break waters, sailing steadily to shore. Myron was howling before he knew it, leaping to his feet, and waving his arms like a fool. ¡°HERE! OVER HERE!¡± He screamed. The deceiver and his brother joined him a momentter, crying out across the waves. Just when he was beginning to think the distance was too great for them to hear, the boy in the crows nest, turned his head their way. His flinty eyes swept across the wreckage, then back - and finally, settled squarely on Myron. The relief nearly knocked him off his feet. ¡°Help us,¡± Myron mouthed. The boy in the crows nest sneered and turned back to his vigil, dismissing them entirely. The deceiver and his brother slumped back down to searing stones in limp despair. Myron, for his part, stared at the distant shape of the Eos in utter shock. Then came the rage. ¡°Hey!¡± Myron shouted furiously, picking up a hot stone, and flinging it as hard as he could at the distant ship. It fell just short. He tried again. ¡°BASTARD! That¡¯s my cousin¡¯s ship! HEY! I know you can hear me!¡± He ignored them like they¡¯d never been. Myron seethed, chest heaving in rage. In half the time it usually took him to fill one pneumatic chamber, he filled two to bursting. ¡°Fine,¡± he hissed, settling into a diver¡¯s crouch. The deceiver jerked up an rm. His brother, Pyr, reached out to grab Myron¡¯s ankle. ¡°Wait-!¡± ¡°Don¡¯t!¡± He¡¯d do it himself. Myrom dove into the burning Ionian, eyes set on the distant Eos. Only to be caught by a firm hand. The deceiver and his brother cried out in relief, but Myron fought like a cornered animal as the steady hand hoisted him up. The Eos drifted further and further away, sailing through the mes. Lio could be on that ship. Lio had to be on that ship. He had to catch it! ¡°Let me go!¡± Myron snapped, twisting in the stranger¡¯s hand and stabbing at it with one of two daggers. The dagger skittered across the man¡¯s flesh like it was solid stone, not even drawing a scratch. The man¡¯s eyes burned as he raised Myron up to their level. The mes behind them were blue, but a deeper blue than Niko¡¯s. Darker, and frayed. ¡°I won¡¯t,¡± the Hero denied him sharply. ¡°I¡¯ve seen enough children die today.¡± Myron thrashed and fought with all his strength, but in the end he could do nothing but be carried. The Hero leapt up from the breakwater, soaring clear over the dock city and its ssed beaches. Theynded in a forest of fir trees and prickling undergrowth. The moment the Hero set them down Myron made a break back for the shore. He never felt the blow that knocked him out. While the Scarlet City descended once more into fresh chaos, sparked by the copse of Stavros Aetos and the Conqueror¡¯s thundering decree, Damon Aetos sat out on his terrace and watched the stark light split the heavens. Bright rings of concentric light spun slowly in the kyrios¡¯ eyes, ck now where they¡¯d been sky blue before. In the shadow of it all, no one saw his smile. Chapter 1.140 Chapter 1.140 Griffon, The Risen me The fight was ours to end. I could see it in their eyes and feel it in their hearts. It was arrogant of me to think it, absurdly so, but the truth of it was inly so. These men and women - these impossible glories - were breaking apart, their hearts and minds steadily unraveling. The more we stripped away from them the quicker that they scattered. Sol and I drove them back, shing with such ferocity that our bones began to crack in spite of the fortifying ichor burning in our blood. It was a testament to their stature that even as they danced with deviation, each of our would-bepanions pushed us to our furthest limits. Every moment, in every exchange, I watched myself die. I saw them snuff me out, and I knew that the man I was today had no chance of defying their strength. Kyno stepped into my octagon, feinting right and surging left, trying to slip past me and free Sah-Bakari from my de. I took him to the ground, dwarfed by his stature and his horrible strength both. Even his flexibility outstripped my own. Against such a physical gap, superior technique meant all too little. I saw it vividly. My limbs broken, my face twisted by a massive hand to snap my neck. I may as well have been a child trying to wrestle a lion. I burned my heart¡¯s blood, sacrificed and spent my potential, and made a lion of myself. I grappled him, matching him strength for strength and overwhelming him in the rain. Despite his size, Kyno was an ambush hunter - and I had invited him into my den with full awareness. In seconds I had him submitted, his cheek driven into the dirt so that he could see his crocodile familiar writhing in agony. I put terrible pressure on his right shoulder, forcing him to choose. To his credit, the Huntsman didn¡¯t hesitate. He lunged forward, shouting, wrenching his right arm out of its socket while his left gripped the hilt of the King¡¯s Curse and tore it out of Sah-Bakari¡¯s mouth. His hand spasmed and dropped the de the instant it was out, the skin of his palm a burnt and bubbling mess where it had touched the hilt. I caught the King¡¯s Curse with the blood-stained hands of my intent, spun it around and drove it down through the Huntsman¡¯s back. His Loving Muse skipped past cursing me to a grave, condemning me with her impotent heckling straight to dark Tartarus instead. But she withdrew, wanton fingers pried off of Kyno¡¯s heart. I waved mockingly with the scarlet hands of my intent as she fled. It gave me no satisfaction. She would be back. They all would. I ripped the de from the Hero¡¯s back before it could dosting damage, rising up and tossing him from my octagon. By the time I¡¯d finished collecting my octagon swords, Sah-Bakari was gone - rolling fitfully out of existence to escape. I ran wild. I burned. Scythas alone shone brighter than he ever had before. Even as Sol hammered him down again and again with the full weight of the captain¡¯s conviction, the Hero from the Hurricane Heights struck back even harder. All the while, in the shadow of his cloak, lurking in the juncture between death and deviation, that stone siren of his waited for the moments that he needed her help most. There was so much that I didn¡¯t know. We left Olympia behind, striking through the starlit stades between the ruined city and its nearest coast. We rushed along the grim line of the Rein-Holder¡¯s molten scar, tracing it back to the wine-dark Ionian. They couldn¡¯t stop us. They hardly knew why they were trying. I had a decade left to burn. By the time we reached the coast I would have less. I could end this now if I desired it. Abandoned by their higher powers and stripped bare of all their hopes, they would crumble if I struck them down. I would win - a junior Philosopher matched against six great Heroes. A lowly sophist, the instrument of a rotting institution¡¯s just copse. It would be a victory worth telling stories of. All I had to do was leave this world worse off than I had found it. My heart throbbed, despising the very thought. I hadn¡¯t freed them of their chains just to watch them wither. I hadn¡¯t told a lie when I had promised them a ce within my world. What would be the point of it all if I let it end like this? What would have been the point of all their pain? How could I justify their suffering if I didn¡¯t make them better than they¡¯d been before? I couldn¡¯t, of course. That premise was wed. It had been from the start. ¡°This heat is justice. If it burns you, it¡¯s your ownck that¡¯s to me.¡± ¡°Not everyone is made of iron. For some, the fire only burns.¡± Both of them were wrong. Humanity wasn¡¯t nearly so easy to refine. Heart of iron. I advanced, burning my remaining years down to single digits. Heart of brass. Sol marched on, a legion man at war again. Heart of fire. Heart of ss. Elissa bled out through her de, too battered to be dancing yet too proud to concede. Her bronze sword was short as a dagger now, nicked and melted along the scant edge that still remained. Without her muse, without a living Tyrant to appease, she had nothing but her spite. Brittle, clear, and hollow. Lefteris fought me like a man possessed, his murderous hatred reced by ck usation. He fought to have his chains back, desperate for his muse¡¯s tethering. His resentment and his sudden desperation would burn him to the ground if only someone cast a spark his way. Kyno stalked on through the rain, hunted and yet ever the hunter. There was fear there in his eyes, more apparent the longer that we shed, but there was grim resolve, too. Even when his crocodile failed to return from its hidden ce, he never once tried to flee. He weathered my blows, determined to oust me, to protect the rest of the world from my fury. Even if it meant burning out beside me. I had been drawn to these three for the same reason Sol¡¯s trio had been drawn to him. There was a resonance in our stories, a rhyme within our hearts. Where Sol¡¯s Heroes had been washed ashore, cast out and forced to flee from broken worlds, my trio hade to Olympia pursuing. Seeking something for themselves. I had felt that from the outset, remembered it in the drunken stories that we¡¯d shared the day after Bakkhos died. And I had made the fatal mistake of thinking that our resonance made us the same. A me could do more than burn or blind. There was a reason that we kept a hearth in every home. A reason that the most vibrant flowers only bloomed at dawn. I had erred twice with these Heroes. I had made a mistake in thinking that we were the same. Worse than that though, unforgivable to the grave, when I had finally realized that we weren¡¯t, I¡¯d decided that our contrast made them less. Iron and brass made better swords than ss, but a Hero was more than just a striking de. If I epted that a Hero¡¯s highest calling was to cut down, to sever, then I was no different from the diators in that bloody pit. There were as many paths to glory as there were stars above. And there could be even more than that, if only this world allowed them to be born. The Huntsman. The Sword Song. The Gold-String Guardian. They had the power to make wonders on this earth. All theycked was the hope needed to try. The path forward was darkened by mystery faith, obstructed by the corpulent souls of those that had started their climb first and refused to finishst. These Heroes didn¡¯t know what they were capable of, how far they¡¯de already - how close they were to the peak. They hadn¡¯t seen Heaven defied in any way that truly mattered. They didn¡¯t know it was possible outside of myth. My children are freezing. My children are blind. All this time I¡¯d tried to temper them, when what they¡¯dcked was guiding light. If this world wasn¡¯t what it was meant to be, I simply had to refine it. If these broken hearts had lost sight of pure passion and defiance, I had no choice but to rekindle them myself. I had to show them it could be done. Screaming winds preceded the whistling scythe. Scythas raged against the storm, gathering more of it with every swing of his obsidian harvester. The breeze aided him as surely as the stone siren did, muffling and amplifying the sound of his passage, pitching it around, making it impossible to track him by ear and disorienting to even try. His pneuma continued pouring out of him in a flood, showing no signs of stopping. My brother marched grimly through it all, far from me yet ever by my side. Though their exchanges left weeping gouges in his flesh, Sol did not relent. Though his heart was dwindling as surely as my own, the passing seconds never made him less. Through the fire and past the storm, there was something new there in his eyes, something I had never seen in him before. It was hope. Sol matched himself against the Hurricane Harvester in the throes of his Heroic ascension, and the Roman forced the Hero back with every exchange. He burned, he bled, and he learned from every wound. He adapted. He grew stronger. I¡¯d always known he would. We differed in uncountable ways, but we were exactly the same in every one that mattered. Heart of iron. Heart of brass. It was the losing battle that defined us. ¡°I trusted you!¡± Scythas howled, furious vapor-tears spilling from his eyes. His swings were growing wild, easier to avoid. ¡°I confided in you! I betrayed my father, abandoned my wife! I would have fought for you! I would have died for you!¡± Sol dodged or diverted with his spear every wild slice, but there was no saving him from the usations. They cut him deeper than any de could, straight through to his heart. My own clenched in sympathetic suffering. ¡°I know,¡± Sol said, lunging up underneath the arcing scythe and reaching for the Hero¡¯s throat. The stone siren chose that moment to manifest, catching his wrist and mping down to break it. Sol reared his head back and mmed his forehead into hers. The stone statue of a woman reeled back, and the Roman kicked her chosen Hero in the chest. ¡°You lied to all of us! You lied to me.¡± Scythas bared blood-stained teeth, righting himself in midair as he flew back. ¡°I did.¡± ¡°You swore you¡¯d stand with me against the storm, to help me save my brother! You swore it on the Styx. You lied!¡± ¡°No.¡± Gravitas took hold of the current in the air, shifting its course so that the more it tried to stabilize the Hero, the harder it battered him instead. Sol advanced with fire in his eyes, smoldering heat behind every word. ¡°I¡¯m not the man I led you to believe in. I¡¯m worth less than you deserve for everything you¡¯ve given me. Those things are inly true- but I will not be less forever. And though you owe me nothing, although you¡¯re right to hate me, that oath was not a lie.¡± Sol clenched his left hand into a fist and took Scythas in hand. The Hero¡¯s stone siren strained against the invisible fist of the captain¡¯s virtue, prying its fingers apart even as Sol burned more of his blood to spite her. With passion and with purpose joined, Sol refined the oath he¡¯d given Aleuas. ¡°I swear to you, my heart and soul upon my city, I will help you save your brother.¡± That said, Sol cast his empty hand out, and gravitas flung Scythas back the way we¡¯de. Heart of iron. Heart of brass. I should have known my brother wouldn¡¯t scatter them like broken ss. Sol set his sights on Anastasia in the distance where his punch had flung her back. The Caustic Queen drank weakly from a cup of golden wine, her chest shuddering beneath her funeral silks as the nectar did its work. When she saw the Roman running her down, her pupils shrank to pinpricks and her pneuma surged to greater heights. I had my own battles to fight. Without their muses, the trio of Heroes I¡¯d burned were forced to fall back on tactics and techniques they¡¯d long since left behind in the Sophic Realm. They railed against me with rhetoric long rusted by disuse. They levied potent truths and higher ideals in ce of their Heroic miracles. As if they needed the guidance of a muse to shine defiant. It had been years since any of them had fought this way, and it showed. But beyond that rust, deeper than I could have seen without the King¡¯s Curse acting as my eyes, I saw what could have been. What could still be, if they only tried. ¡°You aren¡¯t justice,¡± Lefteris spat. I drilled him through the dirt with fists of rosy violence. ¡°You¡¯re worse than any me!¡± ¡°I thought you were an omen - a warning sent by the sun.¡± Elissa tumbled back from the King¡¯s Curse, the weapon in her hands more hilt now than it was de. Her re had not lost any reach. ¡°But you¡¯re worse! You¡¯re worse than any tribtion!¡± ¡°You¡¯ve ruined us.¡± Kyno tried to bring me down like I was some feral creature. I punished him for it with fists and knees and striking elbows. His eyes were haunted. ¡°You¡¯ll ruin more before it¡¯s done. You¡¯re worse than any starving beast.¡± I dug my heels into the earth, sliding like an eagle glides. The Heroes I¡¯d maligned gathered themselves in turn, controlling their momentum and rising up against me. It was instinct that drove them. Without their Tyrants or their Muses, with nothing but their mes, they opposed me because that was what they were beneath it all. They were fighters. They were mine. ¡°I¡¯m worse than what you think,¡± I dered over the wind. They tensed and reached for glory. ¡°I¡¯m nothing so sinct - not a fire you can douse, not a tribtion you can endure, and not a monster you can y.¡± I had four years left remaining in my heart. I cast three into the me, and from their embers rose three pairs of bloodstained hands. ¡°I¡¯m the answer to the question you were too afraid to ask!¡± Is this the best that I can be? Of course the answer was no. ¡°You don¡¯t need them. You never did!¡± I saw their resentment. I saw their rage. But clearer still, I saw their fear that I was right - that they¡¯d wasted all these years in search of helping hands they¡¯d never once required. ¡°Don¡¯t believe me? I¡¯ll prove it!¡± My hands were stained by scarlet sin. As one, all of my violent intent surged forward in a storm of striking limbs. In the moment of their distraction, the six bloody hands that I had given three of myst four years to slipped past the rest and plunged into their chests through the wounds left by the King¡¯s Curse. By the time they reacted it was toote. The echoes of my scarlet sin settled around their hearts, stained hands cupping together to form a barrier against any and all incursion. Elissa, Lefteris, and Kyno staggered back from me, somehow more aghast now than they¡¯d been before. They dug helpless fingers into their chests, scrabbling for some loose strand to yank my influence out by. They grasped nothing but their own skin. ¡°I¡¯ll prove the peak is closer than you think!¡± I knocked them off their feet while they were distracted by horror, pursuing faster than the wind. ¡°I¡¯ll show you what your souls are made of! Because I¡¯m worse than any demon of your heart!¡± I told them what they deserved to hear. The truth I¡¯d been too proud to say all this time that I¡¯d known them. ¡°I¡¯m the passion you forgot - the promise that you¡¯ll win!¡± I blew past them, racing for the sea. Between one step and the next, Selene was sprinting by my side. ¡°Where do we go?¡± she shouted. Her hair whipped golden-bright behind her, her scarlet eyes ring as they settled on the distantly burning shore. Her voice was thick with despair as she continued, ¡°My father, he- there¡¯s nothing left of the docks! There aren¡¯t any ships left to charter!¡± ¡°Then we¡¯ll swim!¡± ¡°We¡¯ll never make it!¡± I bumped her shoulder with mine, all, but knocking her off her feet. Finally, she turned her bleak eyes from the burning shore and instead red up at me. ¡°We won¡¯t know until we¡¯ve tried,¡± I told her fiercely. She wavered. Then, from beyond the burning curtain of Olympia¡¯s scoured dock city, there came an eagle¡¯s hunting cry. And as if it had been summoned from the burning depths themselves, the reaching hand of the Eos¡¯ figurehead pierced through the mes, followed swiftly by the ship herself. I couldn¡¯t help it. Despite it all, Iughed. There was no time to wait for the ship toe to shore, and Polyzalus had turned the beach to molten ss regardless. We leapt clear over the corpse of the dock town, past the burning waves, and hit the deck rolling. The sea dogs toiling at her oars shouted, crying out first in rm and then in joyful recognition. I rolled up into a crouch, sliding back across the deck, and mmed the King¡¯s Curse home into its sheath. Its stark insight and its overwhelming hunger vanished from my heart. Selene tumbled and crashed through a bench. The men turned away from their oars, rushing back to aid us, and a child¡¯s shrill cry rang out from the crow¡¯s nest atop the mast. ¡°BRACE!¡± The pirate child screamed as my brother reached the apex of his leap and fell. Sol struck the deck hard enough to crater stone. The Eos dipped precariously down, the men screaming and flying off their feet, and the image of an eagle burnt into the ship¡¯s frame red blindingly bright beneath the deck before abruptly catching me. Sol rose up and turned to meet our end. Five Heroic souls - no, six - had followed us to shore. As we watched, the men in horror and Selene in numb despair, Scythas exploded up over the dock city¡¯s burning corpse, dragging a storm behind him in the shape of a harvesting scythe. Anastasia, Lefteris, Elissa, and Kyno were just a single step behind him, leaping over the breakwater after us. Only Jason didn¡¯t follow, stumbling to stop as quickly as he had reappeared from the burning treeline of the coastal fir forest. He stared at the churning waves, paralyzed by fear at the defining moment. That still left five. I only had a year left in my heart, not nearly enough to match them all. The hand that gripped the King¡¯s Curse reversed its motion, pulling the de free once more- Glory overwhelming poured out from my brother¡¯s soul, more than he had leveraged in the entirety of the fight thus far. More than all of his prior sacrificesbined. Sol reached out and closed his hand into a fist. Scythas howled a challenge, the skies above echoing the call. With heavy deliberation, Sol unfolded his thumb from his closed fist, jutting it out to the side. Kyno, Anastasia, Lefteris, and Elissa matched their pneuma against his current. Sol turned his thumb down. All five Heroes and every cloud above their heads mmed down through the waves. The sea dogs that hade to save us clutched the ship¡¯s rails, her benches, and even each other in search of sure footing as the axis of the world shifted on a scale that defied mortal understanding. The Heroes plummeted to the shallow bottom of the breakwater boundary. It wasn¡¯t as deep as I would have liked, but it would have to be enough. We¡¯d need to be swift- Sol snarled, his eyes burned golden-bright, and the Ionian Sea around us cratered down to twice its furthest depth. I watched, wide eyed, as the molten ss at its edges and the encroaching tides behind us rushed to fill the sudden gap in walls of coursing waterfalls. The Heroes were so far down I could hardly see them now. More than far enough for us to make our escape. ¡°Solus,¡± Selene protested. The son of Rome ignored her. The Ionian buckled further beneath his fist. ¡°That¡¯s enough,¡± I told him. He didn¡¯t respond, didn¡¯t acknowledge us at all. ¡°Sol!¡± I snapped, rising to a swordsman¡¯s stance. Sol kept burning, driving them down further still. I couldn¡¯t see them fighting anymore. A momentter, I couldn¡¯t see them at all. The King¡¯s Curse ground against its sheathe as I drew a sliver of it out. Sol stared steadily ahead. Not at the five Heroes that he¡¯d buried, but at one still standing at the shore. Jason¡¯s chest heaved, his heart tearing itself to pieces as he watched his peers sink helplessly down. He looked from the sinking shore to us, to Sol, and I could see it in his eyes. He was broken already. This moment would unmake him. ¡°Brother,¡± I said. ¡°You¡¯ll kill them.¡± Sol buried them deeper. I moved to cross the deck. The moment passed, and Jason was- Jason was leaping forward. The Hero of the baster Isles dove into the sinking whirlpool, his terror cast aside like anchor weight, and plunged down to his certain death. Two bolts of tribtion lightning struck the sinking sea - and through the sliver of the King¡¯s Curse that I¡¯d drawn from its sheath, I saw his glory written in the stars. *************************************************** ** JASON GOES DOWN WITH THE SHIP ** *************************************************** The ckened depths warped and contorted as the advancing Hero¡¯s glory shed against the captain¡¯s grim authority. Sol abruptly released his white-knuckled fist, exhaling explosively and staggering back. Selene and I caught him on either side, holding him steady on his feet. Scattered around us on the smoking deck of the ship, the Eos¡¯ motley crew stared at Sol like he¡¯d turned the night to day. Overhead, Sorea let fly a thunderous cry, spreading his wings wide over us all. ¡°Where to, cap¡¯n?¡± the pirate child called down to Sol. Our eyes shifted south and east. ¡°To safer shores,¡± Sol decided. We sat with our backs against the rail as the night gave way to day, Selene wedged between Sol and I with each of our arms slung across her shoulders. Our ragged sea dogs were syed across every avable surface, sleeping like the dead after hours of back breaking rowing. The hands of my violent intent worked the oars steadily in their absence. There wasn¡¯t a sliver ofnd on any one of our horizons. Selene slept soundly, her head nestled into Sol¡¯s side and her bloodied hand held tight in mine. Her eyes were rimmed red by long hours of crying. Once we¡¯d left Olympia behind us and the frenzy had abated, the girl had finally allowed herself to break down. She¡¯d sobbed herself to sleep in the end. In the silence of predawn, I told Sol the story of it all. My life before I met him, the full scope of my sin. And in turn, Sol told me of his vision and the false Anastasia that had delivered it to him, the new conviction that had driven him to send Sorea off in search of a ship before we¡¯d even synthesized our nectar. When all was said and done, we stared across the wine-dark sea at the rosy fingered dawn. Spent in more ways than one. ¡°How much did you keep?¡± I asked him. We both knew what I meant. ¡°A year. Maybe two. You?¡± ¡°Less.¡± Sol grunted. ¡°Might be more than we deserve.¡± ¡°Arrogant Roman. We weren¡¯t the executioner, nor were we the de. I won¡¯t let you take this all upon yourself.¡± ¡°We yed our part. Thousands suffered for our failure. I won¡¯t let you make light of our mistakes.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t intend to.¡± I squeezed Selene¡¯s hand tight in mine. It was delicate, frail in a way I didn¡¯t like. Too easy to break. No matter how great or small, we had yed our part in this world¡¯s iron decline. ¡°My heart won¡¯t ept anything but a full atonement.¡± ¡°And what would be enough to make right of our wrongs?¡± As if he didn¡¯t know. ¡°We¡¯ll make this world golden bright again.¡± Wepsed into resolved silence. The Eos cut gently through the waves. Sol nced sidelong at me. The mes behind his eyes were embers now, hardly there at all. ¡°Still think tribtions are the best part?¡± I chuckled, quietly so I wouldn¡¯t wake my foolish little sister, and finally the tears fell. My mother was dead, her blood a stain upon my soul. Her daughter, my sister, had lost both a mother and a father because of my mistaken judgment. The Heroic souls we had chosen forpanions wanted us dead, along with every Tyrant in Olympia and even more I couldn¡¯t name. My future could no longer be measured in centuries or decades - only seasons, months, and days. Heaven will hurt you in ways your fellow man could never think to, warned Prometheus the me. I am the first of your tribtions, warned Melpomene the Tragic Muse, yfully, as though this was all of it a game. Perhaps to her it was. High heaven had blindsided me for my hubris, foregoing lightning for a far more fatal cut. Higher power had tried to break me down, and without Sol it may well have seeded. Yet in so doing, heaven had shown its hand. The Fates had spoken through the weave of their design, dering who I was and how I could be broken to anyone with eyes to see. If I could see the weavers¡¯ echo in their weave, I could unravel their purpose along with their threads. I could study them through the lens of their designs. I could begin to understand them. I could begin to see them. And if I could see them, I could consume them. Were tribtions the best part? I hefted the adamant dagger in my right hand, twirling it deftly between my fingers. ¡°No,¡± I finally decided, smiling wryly while I wept. ¡°Tribtions are-¡° -the most important part. I watched the sun rise as a man that hadn¡¯t existed before that very moment appeared suddenly behind me. I waited for Sol to react to him. He didn¡¯t. Interloper. I¡¯ve had enough of your kind today tost me a thousand lifetimes- I don¡¯t need your favor. I don¡¯t want to hear your terms. I won¡¯t give you a single drop my blood, so get out of my sight. The spirit chuckled, the sound of it a low and rolling rumble. He propped an arm on the crown of my head, leaning with his back against mine. He had no cloak of stars or shining crown to mark his status. Turned away from me as he was, I couldn¡¯t see his face at all. Btedly, I felt the ruby hanging from my stolen ne burning white-hot against my chest. Presumptuous descendent mine. You¡¯ve only just begun to tell a story worth my time - my attention is the only golden favor you¡¯ll get. I don¡¯t want it. As though I care. We sailed into the sun. Chapter .e [Old Zalus] Chapter .e [Old ''Zalus] The war for the indigo throne was over. A cold conflict until the veryst moment, eight elders of the Raging Heaven Cult had shed in lethal violence - every one of them reaching for that empty seat, and its dominion over the beating heart of the free Mediterranean. Eight Tyrants had gambled everything on that prize, knowing only one of them would emerge victorious to im it. Yet in the end, all eight of them had lost. In his final moments, Ptolemy Resolved had eviscerated all seven of his rivals on the mountain. He had forced them to choose between his life, and their hopes of any true victory. In his passing, his final breath had obliterated the only structures left standing on Kaukoso Mons - the branch estates of every greater mystery cult. The seven Tyrants that had joined their waning strength tomit a coward¡¯s execution were too weak to protect their domains from the sudden winds. Broken and without a ce to call their own, the seven elders were made mortal once more. Naturally, that had only encouraged them to snuff the others out. Madly, senselessly, they had ripped each other to pieces. And in the end, none of them had gained. The Dragon of the Coast fled first, slithering north and west towards the Adriatic Sea. Ancient creature that he was, he was wise enough to know the war could not be won now, and he was patient enough to ept that before his wounds undid him fully. He sank beneath the breaking waves of the Adriatic, and as he did, he rendered judgment in his soul. Thewgiver¡¯s tortured criminals rejoiced at their new verdict, even when the dragon snapped them each up in his teeth. Such were their original terms that they smiled and wept in sweet relief even while he ate them all alive. Least ruined of the lot, and by far closest to the crown, Solon the Reformer was the second one to leave and the only one not to flee. He left in pursuit of Drako, hunting him to the detriment of all else, as he always had. He was only a few steps behind when the old dragon slipped into the Adriatic Sea. The fallen statesman of the Coast followed his charge down into the bleak depths, no weapon but a whaling spear in hand. Of the rest remaining, only one other escaped the mountain under their own power. The king of seers, Aleuas Pyrrhos, whispered sulfurous oaths and ck bile curses upon the stars of every soul that had yed him for a fool and dragged him to his lowest low. He cast hateful omens upon the Tyrant Riot, upon Ptolemy, upon Polyzalus, upon the Raven from Rome and his scarlet aplice, upon anyone and everyone that he could think to me. He didn¡¯t stop until he got to the pitiful Thracian traitor he¡¯d thought to name his heir, and only then because his daughter burst into violent tears beside him when he spoke the traitor¡¯s name. They staggered on in silence after that, the Hurricane Hierophant carrying on his curses in the privacy of the void that had once contained his heart. Precious few of the Raging Heaven Cult¡¯s mortal schrs had survived the opening sh of their elders. Tragically, those that lived were forced to watch the war unfold beneath them on the mountain, because their elders had always resided at its base. Trapped and doomed to die by nd logistics. Some had tried their luck and leapt clear off the side of the mountain. Most did so in helpless panic, a small few with treasures and techniques that they trusted to deliver them safely to the earth. Either way, they died. Others tried hiding, higher up. Most perished in seconds, their hiding ces copsing on their heads and turning into graves. A fraction of a fraction found hideaways that even a Tyrant¡¯sst breath could not blow down. A fraction of that fraction, the truly desperate and the mad - though only the Fates knew which of them was which - fled up to the Storm That Never Ceased and disappeared behind in the storm crown curtain. The martial mystikos of the Infernal Frenzy Cult had chosen to hide, not behind storm clouds, marble columns, or even amethyst veins, but instead behind their shields. At themand of their elder - their king - they had drawn together precious moments before the war began, forming an enclosed shield formation that resembled an onion more than it did a turtle. Shoulder to shoulder and back to back, in tight circr ranks, Leonidas¡¯ soldiers had weathered the war like it was a volley of arrows. For their hubris, they had been forced to watch as outeryer after outeryer of theirrades and arms were stripped away and scattered to the four winds. When all was said and done, only oneyer remained - a newly risen Hero at its center. Thest of the spartan king¡¯s soldiers carried him down the mountain on a bed of shields. The king lived, but only in the bleakest sense. No matter how his soldiers begged him tomand, to guide them to the Golden Road that would give meaning to theirrade¡¯s deaths, the king didn¡¯t speak. Couldn¡¯t. A Tyrant, especially one like Leonidas, didn¡¯t need words to speak to his soldiers, and Ptolemy Resolved had only crushed his throat. Yet, somehow, the Macedonian had taken his voice. All of it. He could do nothing but listen and watch, trapped inside himself, while the newly risen Hero assumedmand in his stead. Likewise, the man-eaters of the Blind Maiden Cult had not sought refuge in copsing estates or hopeful hollows. Instead, their despoiled queen had hidden them the moment the war began and her dead eye arrow had pierced the setting sun. They crept out from the blind spots of those few that still lived on the mountain, livid and all too lethal for it. When they finally found Thalestris in the rubble, they saw their stunted sister had long since beaten them there. Drawn to her mother¡¯s side by a sacred oath sworn out of spite, and drawn away from aiding her own daughter as a result, Ivy¡¯s expression went unseen until her fellow amazons found her. Ptolemy Resolved had torn out the Despoiler¡¯s eyes, had somehow wounded her even more gravely than that wound implied, and so the former queen of the Amazons was entirely blind to the hatred on her poisonous Ivy¡¯s face as the Heroine fed her a cup of nectar she¡¯d stolen from the starving wolf the night before the war. Lacking both the strength to flee and the surviving supplicants to carry him away, the false king of waning wax could only drag himself out of the stone depression Ptolemy Resolved had put him in once the rest of his rivals were gone. His spine was shrapnel and powder, and somehow, though a Tyrant could control even the smallest portion of their body independent of the rest, his legs would not oblige him. Paralyzed from the neck down, Midas dragged himself across the earth with his chin alone. Like a worm. Unable to bear the shame, uncertain of his chances at escaping the city at all in such a state, and uncaring of the consequences, Midas called in every one of his scattered debts. Whatever he touched, his domain could turn to gold. That was what the faker had convinced the great city-states of, and their trade partners beyond - the greatest lie he¡¯d ever told. Now, as he dragged himself bonelessly across the dirt, and he put to proof the lie. Across the Mediterranean and beyond it to the four corners of the earth, every coin minted in his name abruptly lost its golden sheen and reverted to what it had been before heid his hand upon it. Some turned to silver, but more by far turned to utterly worthless substances. In their thousand-thousands, golden coins across the world became coins of rough stone, of imperfect ss, of worthless splintered wood. From the start, the faker had known he¡¯d only get to make this y once, and only if he was willing to make an enemy of every ruling body from Alikos to the furthest eastern reaches of the Conqueror¡¯s Silk Road. It had never been worthy of the risk. Not until now. The false king Midas called to collect the full sum of false currency he¡¯d put in cirction over the long centuries of his life. As he did, the coffers upying the space where his heart had once been began to fill with more than just fools gold. The first coin to tter home in his soul had been in cirction for over 50 years. In that time, it had passed from hand to hand a staggering number of times. The coin had been spent to purchase food, to purchase drink, to purchasepany and trinkets and beasts and ves - in every case, above all else, purchasing time. nt a seed and tend the vine until it yields you grapes, or substitute a golden coin in ce of thatbor and enjoy your wine at once. Pay the farmer for their crop, pay the shepherd for their stock, pay the schr for their wisdom and the mercenary for their de. Pay them for their efforts. Pay them for their time - the most important portion of their lives. The first coin collected had been in cirction for over fifty years, and for over fifty years, countless men and women had sacrificed their time and theirbor in exchange for its supposed value. Now, the gap between that false promise and the coin¡¯s true value spilled into his soul. He took the time and the vitality that they had been tricked into selling so very cheap, and he took it all. Every changing of hands was ounted for. Every outstanding value was seized. After the first coin came another. This one had been in cirction longer than the first. The pretender of the baster Isles filled his coffers with the fruits of his falsebors, and it was just enough to begin paying the crippling debt that Ptolemy Resolved had ground into his spine. Of the Rein-Holder, there was no sign. Old ¡®Zalus The tunnel had been carved out with a mortal frame in mind. A cultivator that had a taste of glory and grown to match their story would need to duck their head and hunch their back beyond a certain point, though it was rarely more than a mild inconvenience. For a man of his stature, though, the journey to the heart of the mountain became truly ridiculous. One of many humiliating rituals, neverending since the day the Tyrant Riot had taken him in hand. But the kyrios was dead now, and Polyzalus knew he wasn¡¯t far behind. He lurched down the tunnel steps, one slow step at a time, leaning heavily against the stone wall as he went. In his passage, he left streaks of blood on the walls and puddles of it on the steps. Folded over nearly in half, his left hand held his bowels from spilling out of the gaping wound in his stomach. His right hand held an ivory wedding band, carved to fit a finger much smaller than his own. Every step that Polyzalus took, his body tried to make hisst. He refused it every time. His domain was scattered rubble, his ethos much the same, and he had no reins remaining. His vital essence stained the stone behind him, draining faster than he could replenish it. Even so, he continued down the steps, the wedding band a burning brand in his fist. He reached the final threshold, an amethyst arch that the Tyrant Riot alone among his peers could step through without stooping. Polyzalus wavered - the blood loss to me, or perhaps even now the memory of his shame - and stared nkly at its surface. Unbidden and undesired, he remembered the Tyrant Riot¡¯s parting words before his death. Thest of his humiliations. ¡°Even if you did defeat me - what would you do then?¡± Polyzalus ducked under the amethyst arch and into thete kyrios¡¯ subterranean estate. The cavern was full of babbling children, and not one of them belonged. The oracles were nowhere to be seen, and hecked the strength to pry through their closed doors with his perception. In ce of holy women, or honored guests, thete kyrios¡¯ cavernous courtyard was packed pir to pir with unaffiliated philosophers of the Raging Heaven Cult. Young and old, junior and senior alike, they filled the cavern to its lofted ceiling with their sophistry. They swung baseless spection like swords at their fellows. They debated what was to be done - stay, fight, flee, persuade - and plied one another for solutions that not a single one was capable of providing. When Polyzaulus stepped inside the cavern, all the chatter stopped. The children - some of them bearded, some of them mothers, but all of them children - shrank back when he stepped forward. Some clutched weapons like a frightened child clutched their mother¡¯s hand. Others bowed their heads in immediate supplication. A few began to sob. He ignored them all, advancing another agonizing step forward. Seated in the center of the cavern, slumped wearily with his back against an oracle¡¯s disced tripod, Socrates watched hime. Off to the side, a ninth rank Philosopher surrounded by piles of rolled papyrus looked up from his work a beat after everyone else andid manic eyes on Polyzalus. He looked from Polyzalus to Socrates, then back again. The moment the young philosopher realized what he was seeing, his pupils shrank down to bare needle points. Without hesitation, the manic philosopher cast aside the papyrus scroll he¡¯d been so focused on a moment prior and seized a nk one from the stack, unfurling it with a sharp snap of his wrist. As he did that, he took the dagger he¡¯d been holding in his teeth and swiped it down his arm, splitting the bandages wrapped around it, and parting his flesh as well. The sophists surrounding him cried out in rm, their fear of Polyzalus briefly overwhelmed, and tried to wrestle the knife out of the man¡¯s hand. He let them take it, drawing an eagle¡¯s feather from his cult attire and wetting it with his blood. His pneuma rose up around him, and his hand swept across the papyrus in a blur. ¡°Save your ink,¡± the Gadfly spoke, too exhausted to do more than wave a weary hand at him. Too exhausted to do anything but watch Polyzalus take another step forward. ¡°This won¡¯t be a story worth telling.¡± Onest step before his body failed. Then another after that. Socrates¡¯ wrinkled face twisted in disgust, and something like sorrow beyond that. His skin was pale and drenched with sweat. His eyes were ssy and distant. ¡°We¡¯ve lost our way, old king. No, worse than that. We¡¯ve been lost for longer than we¡¯ve walked the proper path. Tell me - do you remember the moment that you strayed?¡± The philosophers in the cavern held their breath in horror, silent but for the drip of a Tyrant¡¯s blood hitting the mosaic floor, and the scratch of an eagle feather across papyrus. Polyzalus took another step. His left leg gave out, forcing him to catch himself with one of his hands - either the one holding in his bowels, or the one holding the ivory band. The sound of his innards hitting the floor was a grotesque thing, the sight of it even worse. More than a few of the children gathered in the cavern gagged and retched in response. ¡°For me¡­¡± the Schr rasped, unbothered by his silence, ¡°I think it was the day I left The Coast. The statesman of my city sentenced me to death by hemlock consumption, but I understood the substance well enough that it could never kill me unless I first allowed it. I told myself that consuming it at all was my sentence rightly served. And when I left my city after that, I told myself it wasn¡¯t the younger generation I was abandoning, only the Tyrants that had taken me in hand. ¡°I think that was the moment I was lost.¡± Another lurching half-step. His own offal dragged across the stone behind him. The Gadfly chuckled faintly. ¡°All I have ever known is that I know nothing at all. And yet, I found a way to learn the wrong lesson regardless. It¡¯s no wonder I haven¡¯t heard the daemon speak since my golden age of youth. It knows I¡¯m not worth the trouble.¡± Young sophists gathered around the Schr cried out in protest. Some turned their heads away, others had their faces in the crooks of their arms, unable to stand the degradation of the man that even their ancestors had long admired. ¡°We have such wonders lurking in our souls,¡± Socrates said in ruefulment. ¡°We could have made this world a better ce if only we had looked beyond ourselves. In a world, this small, what excuse do men asrge as us have to leave it worse off in our passing?¡± Step. Drag. Stagger. Fall- He saw her then, in the muddled haze of his absent heart. He heard her distant voice. Saw the salvation in her smile. ¡°Courage.¡± Polyzalus seized the reins of his own corpse and forced it to continue on. ¡°The day I let a spiteful jury of decrepit old men dissuade me from my principles, that was the day I lost my way.¡± The Gadfly ran a shaking hand across his ruined rags, smoothing out their wrinkles and tears. ¡°When the cruelest of our kind only grow stronger and more terrible with time, it¡¯s the statesmen and the kings whose ears you have to bend.¡± The words were spoken with such scorn that it made the nearest children flinch. ¡°I learned the wrong lesson. After all my years of presumption, teaching as if I had something worthwhile to say, I allowed them to mislead me. It wasn¡¯t that I had failed The Coast by emboldening the younger generation at the expense of its old movers. My focus wasn¡¯t wrong. ¡°They sentenced me to death because I was right.¡± The Gadfly¡¯s knuckles popped as he clenched his fist hard enough to crush iron. The old schr was furious, at himself more so than any other. ¡°Courage,¡± she urged him lightly. Step. ¡°The more that we learn, the more we stay the same. The ages pass us by no matter how we try to keep their pace. The young are meant to flourish, and the old things must decay. our statesmen have forgotten their ce in the grand order of it all. They¡¯ve forgotten what is owed-¡° The Gadfly hunched over suddenly, coughing violently. When he drew his hand away, it was covered with ck blood. ¡°-to the sons they brought into this world,¡± Socrates ground out. Every step forward was a step his body couldn¡¯t take. It took all of Polyzalus¡¯ waning resolve just to remain upright. He had no effort to spare for the buzzing of flies. Nothing Socrates said mattered. It never had. And yet. ¡°As if you¡¯re any better.¡± If the reaction of their audience was any indication, Polyzalus¡¯ voice was an even more terrible thing than his appearance. ¡°Of course not.¡± The Gadfly scoffed. ¡°If anything, I¡¯m worse.¡± The cavern erupted, schrs young and old defending the greatest of them all in his own words. Polyzalus was halfway to the courtyard center, halfway to his goal. ¡°I could have done more today,¡± Socrates said with absolute certainty. ¡°I would have done more if only I had never strayed. I could have stopped the riot at its source, if I had stepped in directly instead of wasting my time on trying to convince you and yours to act.¡± There was no heat behind the usation. He didn¡¯t need there to be. ¡°I could have done more for those boys,¡± the man they called the Schr admitted, and the regret behind his eyes was an ancient, bottomless thing. ¡°I tried to chain them up until the world could change them, when from the start that force of change was theirs. They didn¡¯t need a warden. Even my foolish student understood that much. They needed someone to teach them. They needed guidance. ¡°I failed them utterly in that.¡± The Gadfly waved a trembling hand, stained by ck bile and blood, epassing the cavern and all the world beyond it. ¡°This is my result.¡± ¡°Courage.¡± Another step forward. Polyzalus was all but empty now. A hollow shell, and a wedding band without a wife to wear it. ¡±The man I sought for his counsel wouldn¡¯t have tolerated such an ending,¡± Socrates, dered. Even if he had the strength to put logos behind it, though, Polyzalus had no ethos left to shatter. ¡°That man was just. That man was wise. Tempered. Brave.¡± Polyzalus staggered. ¡°Your wife is dead in part because those childrencked guidance, and for that I take full me. But your actions today have condemned more wives than mine. No matter how small a portion of the result is yours to im, the king I knew wouldn¡¯t have shied away from me. I know my younger self would hate the man I am today. What of yours, Polyzalus?¡± ¡°A king has no peer but for himself, no jury but his soul,¡± the Gadfly continued when he didn¡¯t answer. ¡°Those were your words, were they not? Then show me justice, old king. What is owed for your transgressions? What is to be the punishment for the atrocities you havemitted?¡± Courage. Polyzalus bared blood-stained teeth. The children in the cavern pressed themselves against the furthest stone walls in terror. His transgressions. His atrocities. As if he¡¯d been given a choice. As if he¡¯d had the freedom to decide. ¡°Nothing,¡± the First Son to Burn growled. ¡°I would suffer no me at all.¡± Socrates closed his eyes, weary beyond his years. When he opened them again, they were dim with his eptance. ¡°So be it.¡± The old philosopher reached into a fold in his rags and pulled from it a golden cup filled to the top with a substance that was not quite wine. He drank deeply from it, draining half the cup, then held it out to Polyzalus. ¡°Onest cup, in memory of better days,¡± he offered with dark humor. Taking the cup and drinking from it was almost more effort than the elixir it was worth. But even his fading perception of smell and his numb pneumatic sense could tell this was no ordinary wine. It wasn¡¯t even kykeon. It was something far more significant, something familiar, and he was in far too much pain to refuse the offered aid. Still, he paused with the golden rim pressed to his lips. He stared down at the Gadfly, two questions burning in his mind, though he only needed one answer for them both. ¡°Why?¡± Why help him then, when the hierophant went to strike him down? Why help him now, when he had ignored the philosopher¡¯s every olive branch? ¡°Admiration is a terrible thing,¡± Socrates said simply. Polyzalus tipped the cup back and drank the rest of the elixir down. So this was what the Tyrant Riot filled his cups with. Polyzalus breathed deeply, savoring the impossible amalgamation of perfect vors. He traced the elixir¡¯s passage down his throat and through his body, guiding it with a Tyrant¡¯s firm hand to the ces it was needed most. He straightened up from his hunch, relishing the heat within him, as the elixir went to work on the worst of all his wounds. Burning them away. Burning. Burning. Polyzalus coughed and vomited putrid blood-bile onto the mosaic tiled floor. He staggered, legs giving out - courage - before he reasserted control of himself- He fell. The elixir burned like acid through his body, and toote he realized it wasn¡¯t cleansing. It consumed him, leaving nothing whole in its wake. He took hold of it again, asserting control over the only domain that every Tyrant had if nothing else beyond it - his own body. He had been poisoned, but poison could not kill a man like him unless he willed it to be so. Polyzalus dragged the elixir¡®s taint out, willing it to expel itself from his pores and be gone. Darkness crept in all around him. On hands and knees, Polyzalus stared down at the faceless portrait of the man who had imed this mountain for himself. The mosaic relief was an extravagant collection of precious metals. His biles and his blood seeped into the cracks between the pieces, making it look as though the faceless man was bleeding too. The poison wouldn¡¯t go. The harder he tried to rip it out by its roots, the deeper that it drove them in. Socrates was within arms reach, yet he could hardly make out the schr¡¯s face when he raised his head. Socrates¡¯ voice carried distantly over top the roar of rushing blood. ¡°While I was wasting my time and yours trying to convince you of their good intentions, one of the boys received a visit from a scavenger. It distracted him from the brew I¡¯d forced him to tend in my absence, and he suspected her of tampering with it. He tried to take the me and test it for himself, but for once I acted as an elder should. I took a single drop upon my tongue,¡± Socrates exhaled explosively, as though he¡¯d been holding up a heavy weight for hours, and was now finally throwing it down. As he did, the same putrid blood-bile that Polyzalus had vomited up began streaming from the corners of his mouth, from his eyes and his ears and his nostrils all. ¡°It killed me,¡± Socrates revealed without fanfare or regret. ¡°Nectar is an amplifying substance. Joined with healing herbs, it bes a perfect panacea. Joined with hemlock, it bes an unshakeable poison. The moment it touched my tongue I knew there was no shaking it. You feel it too, don¡¯t you?¡± He wasn¡¯t smug, or spiteful, or even sad. If anything, the Gadfly seemed content. ¡°Walk with me, old friend,¡± Socrates said, though neither had the strength to stand. ¡°We¡¯ll find the path once more below. Leave the young blood to their struggles.¡± With one hand, the Gadfly picked up the golden cup. The other, he raised above his head, pointing a single finger straight up. The philosopher sign - a signal for all those that could see it to attend. A symbol of the first and most important of a man¡¯s principles. The first thought he¡¯d ever had that was worth the breath of sharing. The best of us are yet toe. His final lecture thusplete, Socrates slumped sideways to the tiled floor and died. Polyzalus¡¯ right arm gave out beneath him while the gathered sophists filled the courtyard with their weeping and hysterics. In the state that he was in, closer to the Gadfly than he was any of the living, it was a wonder he could hear anything at all. Let alone the light, scattering noise of ivory, bouncing and rolling across the tiled floor. The ivory wedding band rolled away from him. Out of reach. Thest of his life slipped away like cypress smoke between his fingers. The underworld beckoned him to its darkened shore. Even if you did defeat me, a man¡¯s voice echoed in his ears. What would you do then? They were the Tyrant Riot¡¯s words, but it wasn¡¯t thete kyrios¡¯ voice that Polyzalus remembered. It was his. Polyzalus snarled and drove his fist through the mosaic tiles, wrenching a fistfull of stone fragments out and scattering them across the floor. Then he did it again, and again, tearing the mosaic out and revealing what hadid beneath it all along. All at once, the hysteric grieving and the fear drained out of every cultivator in the cavern as Polyzalus unearthed something beyond their mortalprehension. The gathered philosophers stared in nk wonder at the unearthing of a corpse. The goddess had no face, no defining features at all. There was only a ring cause of death - her heart had been ripped out, her ribs jutting up from the gaping wound like blooming lily petals. And there, beating senselessly in the gaping cavern of her chest, was a heart unmistakably not her own. It was a human heart, and it was surrounded by a zing me - the first of them to burn. The Olympic heart me burned defiantly in the Mother¡¯s empty chest, its very presence there an insult to her name. With profane hands, Polyzalus lifted the olympic heart me from the corpse¡¯s chest. As he did, the goddessid her hand upon his wrist and stopped him short. A blessing for a grieving spouse. A warning for a man at the precipice of profanity. She had no mouth to form the words and no lungs to give them breath, but they were deafening all the same. [ursed is the cannibal.] Polyzalus closed his eyes and looked west, to the distant shores of Alikos. Now as before, as it had been for nearly twenty years, the sight remained the same for every Tyrant that dared to look upon it. Through the cold stone of the mountain and past the Ionian''s wine-dark seas, there loomed an ind upon the far horizon. Crowned by concentric rings of blinding light, the smallest of which could have encircled half of Peloponnesia, it was a searing brand upon the senses of all who could perceive it. A funnel of stars fed down into its center, called down from highest heaven by him. The curse that every king reviled. The hand that drew the damning string. The Ind in the Sun. ¡°Courage,¡± Polyzalus vowed over the Mother¡¯s corpse. ¡°Until the war is won.¡± He dipped his head and ate. Chapter .e [OLYMPIA ARC: END] Chapter .e [OLYMPIA ARC: END] The Stark de, Niks Aetos Niko stared at the burning nightmare that had once been Olympia''s dock town, and not for the first time, he wondered where it was he¡¯d strayed. Close to the clouds with their feet nted firmly on the deck of the Alikonia - higher than they would have been in the crow''s nest of the Eos - they had amanding view of the wreckage. With vision refined by principle and passion, their eyes could see more than even the most gifted mortal. For once, that awareness was a curse more than it was afort. The rity only made the sight of everything all worse. No matter how much he wished it would be so, Niko couldn¡¯t overlook the broken corpses, no more than he could remain blind to the molten scar in the earth that led all the way back to the smoking city just over the horizon. Niko¡¯s wife shuddered in his arms, her sleeping face twisting in agony. Iphys Aetos was tormented, even in her dreams, by a pain that Niko couldn¡¯tprehend. No matter what he¡¯d tried, he hadn¡¯t been able to cleanse the sudden agony that had struck her down in the light of that stark pir. Theirpanions had been every bit as impotent when they¡¯d tried. Only Archimedes had been able to aplish anything, and even then his tonic had only been able to put her to sleep. It was silent on the deck but for his wife¡¯s tortured sleeping sounds. The Heroes were trying to make sense of it all, and he could tell without words that they were failing miserably. Even the Sand Reckoner''s stick of charcoal had ceased its scratching motion. Archimedes looked out over the burning waves, not with shock or dismay, but with a weary old disgust. His cousins¡­ Niko rose to his feet, his unconscious wife cradled in his arms. "I¡¯m going." "Are you out of your mind?" Roxane demanded. Out of reflex more than anything, if Niko had to guess. "Why bother asking when you know the answer¡¯s yes?" Bardas replied, though the wordscked their normal teasing bite. The reformed reaver looked questioningly from Niko to the woman in his arms. "Though¡­ you¡¯re sure you want to bring her?" "Why bother asking?" Thaum threw the pirate''s words back in his face as Niko leapt from the deck. Three followed. His younger cousins protested and tried to follow him across the burning waves, but three remained behind to hold them back. Niko hardened his heart against their pleas - they were too close to this wastnd as it was. Their party moved ind, cautiously at first, then faster and faster as the grim sight grew worse. Faster, past the molten ssed beaches. Faster, through the uprooted fir forests. Faster, until they were sprinting at full speed through a dozen painted stages of tragedy. Niko held his wife tight against his chest, distantly wondering if the pounding of his heart would wake her, and searched for hope in vain. There was nothing left standing. There was no one left alive. "What is this?" Roxane swung her head, blood-red hair flying back and forth. "Who would dare-?" "Forget daring, who would be capable? The kyrios wouldn¡¯t let an invading force do half this much damage before he wiped them out. No. It¡¯s not who, it¡¯s what." "¡¯What?¡¯ You think this happened naturally? There are no fire mountains here. What sort of hurricane or tornado turns beaches to ss and rivers to me? What sort of earthquake splits fertile earth and makes it bleed magma?" "Gods damn you, I wasn¡¯t talking about the weather! Beasts! Monsters.¡± ¡°Who''s talking about monsters now of all times, when the Olympic Stadium is bursting at the seams with contenders? Unless it was Typhon himself-" ¡°...¡± "Unless it was." "... Niko. What do you think?" Niko thought the Fates were never kind. Their first glimpse of the Father¡¯s temple seemed almost like a mirage, so out of ce was it among its surroundings. The ancient wonder of the world stood alone, intact where everything else had been broken down or uprooted. Yet there it was, as proud as it had ever been. There was no one inside, living or dead. Niko stopped just long enough to whisper a quiet prayer to the chryselephantine monument of the Father before continuing on. On, across the countryside separating Olympia proper from its western dock town. On, along the scattered remains of the red y road that Niko had once walked as a bright-eyed philosopher. On to the sanctuary city. On to the free world¡¯s beating heart. On to what remained. Niko¡¯s brothers and sisters-in-arms wavered, staggered, fell to their knees. Niko stared nkly at the corpse of the Half-Step City, unable to make sense of it all. He reached out with his sharpest perceptions, cutting through the rubble, the smoke, and the relentless pounding rain in search of something. Anything. The voice of his better judgment was all but deafening. Reason told him that whatever this was, whatever it had been, a first-rank Philosopher and a ninth-rank Citizen had better chances swimming across the Styx than they did surviving a cmity of this kind. If Niko found his cousins here, he knew he¡¯d likely find them crumpled corpses. Niko cast those thoughts aside. He''d been wrong about his cousins since he came home for his wedding. Surely he could be wrong here, too. Just one more time, and he would never take their lives for granted again. Let him be wrong again. Let the Fates be kind for once. When he finally found a survivor in the smoke, he leapt over the rubble of Olympia¡¯s broken walls without hesitation. Hispanions followed close behind. The survivor was not a sturdy young soul, nor an old adept. She was just old. They found the old woman kneeling at the edge of the molten scar carved out of the city, as if it was a river like any other and she hade to fill her jug. She was covered in soot and muck, her arms stained up to her elbows with dried blood. Yet even as the city burned around her, even as the shawls pooling around her on the ground ckened and caught me, she went about her work unchanged. "Old woman-!" "Get back from there!" "You¡¯ll burn." Niko put himself between the crone and hispanions, lest they yank her bodily from the molten river bank. He crouched down beside her, carefully, shielding his wife from the slow-rolling heat of the river. "Grandmother," he greeted the old woman quietly. "What are you doing?" "What does it seem like I¡¯m doing, young man?" Niko watched her peel away another scrap of soot-stained cloth and drop it into the molten river. All the while, her expression remained as cid as still water. As though she was somewhere else entirely. "It seems like you¡¯re mourning," Niko answered. The old woman¡¯s lips cracked and bled when she smiled. "Oh yes. At my age, I do little else." "Who are you mourning now?" The old woman cast another shawl into the river and watched it sink beneath the molten me. Her eyes were dry, but her fingers trembled as they worked to peel another from her shoulders. "Among others, my fool husband," she answered. "A thousand times I told him his optimism would get him killed someday, and a thousand times he ignored me. Today I won that argument. Thest one that we¡¯ll ever have." "I¡¯m sorry," Niko said. The old widow scoffed. "Don¡¯t be. He wasn¡¯t." "What happened to him?" Niko swept his eyes over what remained of Olympia. In the distance, the mountain under Raging Heaven glowed a sullen indigo, lit by shining amethyst veins. "What happened to this ce? What did this?" "Who did this," the crone corrected him. THIS MAN TOO IS ALEXANDER. Niko closed his eyes and silently prayed. "Where is the kyrios?" "In a grave, I imagine. He died this past winter." Thaum sucked in soot as if he¡¯d been punched in the gut. Roxane covered her mouth with both hands, aghast, while Bardas hissed a quiet curse. "Who took his ce?" Niko asked, though he didn¡¯t want to know. The old widow dropped another shawl into the mes. "We¡¯ll find out soon enough." Niko shot to his feet. Steam seethed out from between his teeth, mingling with the soot and rain. In the distance, the exposed veins of Kaukoso Mons¡¯ tribtion amethyst shed a blinding white in response to a terrible outpouring of hunger and malice. The dread aura of a tyrant unfurled across the ruined city, like the blooming petals of a lily. It was a frail presence. Crippled at its core, Niko realized as his senses brushed against it. A heartbeat passed, and it was less frail than it had been before. Thaum tensed, staring at the distant mountain. Bardas¡¯ precious metal bracelets jangled as he palmed a dagger. "That¡¯s-" "Old ¡®Zalus," Roxane whispered. The Olympia that Niko remembered had been a ce of plenty that went beyond decadence. The sanctuary city had been an impossibility built on an unshakable foundation of overindulgence, a gathering of cultures that could not have hoped to share the same streets anywhere else on this earth. It had existed peacefully for centuries only because the kyrios of the Raging Heaven Cult had decided it would be so. It had stood as a sanctuary above all safe ces, despite the monsters that it kept in flimsy cages and the feuds that it encouraged, because the Tyrant Riot would not ept any other oue. In the absence of such a unifying force, what was the worst possible oue? The city of Olympia was a bastion of trade, the only truly neutral territory in the Free Mediterranean. On any given day, it housed statesmen and pioneers of industry from all over the known world. In the weeks leading up to the Olympic games, they¡¯d have flocked here like fair-weather falcons. Beyond that, there was the mountain and its storm crown, home to the Raging Heaven Cult. Eight tyrants left to rule amongst themselves, to split thete kyrios¡¯ authority evenly among themselves or to invest it all in one. What was the result? Niko shifted his wife in his arms and took the hilt of his sword in hand - with a sharp twist of his wrist, snapped it off the de. He wrapped his fingers tight around the de¡¯s tang, and his heart¡¯s me burned bright. The crone tutted and smacked his shin. "I have enough corpses to bury. Don¡¯t burden me with more." "I wouldn¡¯t dream of it, Grandmother," he told the crone quietly. His pneuma rose steadily in time with the Tyrant''s dread authority. It was still weak, and Niko had time enough to burn. "This isn¡¯t a fight we should be picking at half mast," Bardas warned, ever the paradoxical voice of reason in their crew. "I agree." Thaum stepped up beside Niko, the hulking pankrator¡¯s anticipation rolling off of him in boiling waves. He grinned viciously at the bright beacon of the mountain. "Fortunately, the de and I alone are worth more here than the rest of you together." They bristled and snapped at one another, retreading familiar arguments and sinking into thefort of pre-battle routines. There was no time for it. "He won¡¯t be weak for long," Niko spoke. Hispanions fell silent to listen. In his free arm, Iphys moaned and thrashed. Grief and wrath made Niko¡¯s voice frigid. "We strike him down now, before it¡¯s toote." "No," the hushed voice of the Glorifier whispered in his ear. The goddess of great deeds and histories kept, the Muse who carried the name Clio, pressed her head up under his chin. Theet-bright strands of her hair tickled his cheeks as they swayed. "That time is gone already." The colors on the mountain, the pallor of its veins, began to change. Beneath their feet and above their heads, as well as in the shifting rubble all around them, Olympia bucked and fought like a stallion against the reins. On a scale that went beyond a mortal man¡¯s understanding, the Half-Step City struggled against the incursion of a new authority. It lost. Niko¡¯s heart beat once, and the distant aura of dread Polyzalus doubled and redoubled in strength. The vitality of the earth and the bounty of the rain falling from on high twisted and funneled towards the mountain, bolstering the man that held the reins. Before their eyes, Polyzalus of Burning Dusk took the city of Olympia in his hand. "Nothing changes," Niko dered, sweeping his de around. From his beating heart down to his white-knuckled fingers, defiance flowed into the tang of his de without an imperfect hilt to obstruct it. Its edge severed one of the unfurling lily petals fully from the flower, taking a chunk out of the newly risen Tyrant. From the depths of the distant mountain, there came a bellow like quaking earth. "Nothing ends but him. We fight! We win! For the innocence that died. For the heroes that gave their lives-!" Niko¡¯s breath caught. From the pit of the distant Olympic stadium, the light of a living cultivator reared up and cast off the reins of Olympia¡¯s new authority. The Cradle of Champions gave rise to a new contender, as it always had. But it was wrong. What flooded from between the statues of old olympic champions was not the light of burning glory, but the heavy pressure of authority. The new contender threw off Polyzalus¡¯ reins, only tosh its own around the spiral colonnades of the Olympic Stadium. iming it for itself. Establishing its ce as victor above victors, this spot upon the earth itsnd alone to rule. A domain all its own. A newborn tyrant staked his im upon the Olympic stadium and roared a challenge at the distant mountain, as well as the shining stars above. "Niko!" Roxane cried out above the tumult as the authority of two tyrants shed. "It¡¯s too much!" "We can win!" Thaum shouted, though his grin had turned to a defiant snarl. "What do we do!? Niko!" His heart told him they could win. But that ursed voice of reason filled his mind in that moment with thoughts of his defenseless wife, still suffering in his arms. It hounded him with thoughts of Lio and of little Myron, bleeding out alone while he fought for a city that had already fallen before his arrival. Thoughts of Lydia, Caster, and Rena, waiting unaware back on the ship, within range of a tyrant''s errant wrath. Conflicted to his roots, Niko wavered on the edge of his de. "Young man, you worry too much," the crone said, not unkindly. She patted his sandaled foot and favored him with a matronly smile. Civic cultivator that she was, her wrinkled skin had already begun to bruise at the runoff pressure of the two Tyrants shing. Still, she offered him her wisdom. "Courage isn¡¯t always found at the end of a de. You have to save yourself before you save the world." Niko thought of his cousins gathered around the night fire. Happy and whole, together as one. "Save them," the crone urged him. Niko turned his back on the fight. "Get back to the ship. Go!" They followed him without question, even Thaum, and raced back the way they¡¯de. Kneeling in the shadow of a grim ascension, the old woman tossed another shawl into the mes. Chapter Interlude: Caesarion Chapter Interlude: Caesarion Caesarion ¡°Beware, cultivator. Your sins are set in stone.¡± Caesarion knelt upon the cool marble of a dead man¡¯s dias, back straight and regally poised. His words were carefully measured, his voice a royal tone. Shadows of painted gold encircled both of his eyes, blending seamlessly with their outer rings - gold, where amon man¡¯s eyes were white, and pure gray where amon man¡¯s eyes had color - to create the illusion that his eyes were twice their true size. He stared wide-eyed and unblinking, his gaze an otherworldly thing. Across from him, on the eastern side of the tomb, a man sat with a book bnced in the cradle of his crossed legs. He was well-manicured in the way of most self-made men, wrapped head-to-toe in mboyantly dyed silks with a ring on all ten of his fingers. The man¡¯s lips were still painted by the contents of hisst cup. His demeanor was cool and self-assured, but the shadow of his self betrayed him. His shut, the dark silhouette behind him, fidgeted in clear unrest. In the center of the tomb between Caesarion and the man, therey an open coffin. Inside of it was a shriveled corpse, drained of all fluids and preserved in strips of linen. All of its organs but for its heart had been removed before the coffin lid was first closed. Now the heart was gone as well, nothing but a bloody stain upon the corpse¡¯s bandaged chest left to mark its absence. Caesarion raised the dead man¡¯s beating heart up with both hands. It was hot to the touch, like sun-baked sand. With reverence, he lowered it onto the golden scale before him. The heart abruptly throbbed and slipped out of his hands, hitting the marble dais with a gruesome wet sound. The man made a strangled noise of protest in the back of his throat. ¡°Calm yourself,¡± Caesarion scolded him, though his own ears burned as he scooped the heart back up and set it on the scale. ¡°The trial has begun.¡± The merchant lord turned the pages of his book, settling on the thirtieth chapter. Of course, he didn¡¯t need to actually read the glyphs recorded on the papyrus while he recited them. He¡¯d long since memorized their contents in life. ¡°O my heart, gift of my mother,¡± the man spoke, his voice ever so slightly strained, ¡°O my heart, gift of my father. O my heart ofsting ages.¡± With a hand still dripping red, Caesarion pulled a raven¡¯s pitch ck feather from behind his right ear. The merchant¡¯s voice began to tremble just like his shut. ¡°Do not stand up as a witness against me. Do not oppose me in this tribunal.¡± The merchant held Caesarion¡¯s gaze with tight apprehension. ¡°Do not betray me in the presence of the Keeper of Bnce.¡± Caesarion ced the raven¡¯s feather on the empty scale and watched it swing. ¡°For you are my ka!¡± the man gasped, gripping his book desperately. The scales swayed, the heart rising while the feather fell - and then rebounding. They both watched intently as each side rose and fell, seeking equilibrium. When the motion of the arm ceased, the heart hung above the feather. The man of great means heaved a sigh of profound relief, turning to the next chapter of his book- ¡°Almost.¡± The cultivator jerked his head up, startled. ¡°What?¡± Caesarion looked down on him, severe and unblinking. His eyes were starting to burn. He kept them open anyway - for the effect. ¡°We¡¯re not finished yet,¡± he dered, and pulled another feather from behind his ear. ¡°That¡¯s not-!¡± the man lurched, but his sins held him in ce. Caesarion plucked the raven¡¯s ck feather from the scale, and before the heart could swing back down to the stone, he reced it with a swan¡¯s snow-white feather. The scales swung. The merchant gnashed his teeth, and his heart pounded on the te. When it finally settled, the heart hung once more above the feather, lighter than the swan. The man sagged forward. ¡°Another.¡± ¡°No-!¡± The cultivator watched in horror as Caesarion plucked an eagle¡¯s yellow feather from behind his left ear and swapped it with the swan¡¯s. The scales tilted slowly but surely, the heart falling, falling¡­ When the scales had finally settled, Caesarion tilted his head. Left first, then right. Absently, he adjusted his neme when the oversized headdress slipped and began to fall. He squinted. It was very close. ¡°What do you think?¡± he asked the distraught cultivator. ¡°It looks heavier to me.¡± ¡°It¡¯s the feather!¡± the cultivator insisted, raising his empty palms to mimic the scales. ¡°The feather is heavier, I promise you - look upon it from this angle and you¡¯ll see!¡± Caesarion hummed, eyeing the scales doubtfully. ¡°Ask the heart yourself,¡± the cultivator went on desperately. ¡°Ask the heart and it will tell you!¡± As he did, his shut whispered in a voice it thought was too low for him to hear. Do not tell lies about me in the presence of the Keeper. Listen to me well, lest we descend¡­ ¡°Very well,¡± Caesarion decided. ¡°I believe you.¡± ¡°Then it¡¯s done?¡± the cultivator asked him desperately. ¡°I¡¯ve passed judgment?¡± Caesarion nodded firmly. ¡°Almost.¡± The eagle¡¯s yellow feather burst into mes, and the heart began to fall as its opposing weight burnt away. ¡°Stop it!¡± the man howled, tearing through the pages of his book in vain as the feather became lighter and lighter. ¡°Enough! This isn¡¯t fair! This isn¡¯t-!¡± The golden tray holding the heart chimed brightly as it hit the marble dais. For a moment, the cultivator was lost for words. He stared at the beating heart, heavier by far than the phoenix¡¯s burning feather. The shock gave way to panic, the panic to denial, until sure as sunrise came the rage. His eyes snapped up to re at Caesarion, and the hatred there was cker than any curse sent from below. ¡°Who are you to decide?¡± the cultivator hissed. He jabbed a finger at him like it was a knife he could stab him with. ¡°Who are you to say that I have sinned!? You¡¯re not Justice! You¡¯re not my king! Why should a boy have any say in my salvation?¡± The shadows on the wall of the tomb rippled like river waters parting, tracing the motion of something unseen as it crossed the tomb. The cultivator¡¯s shut noticed immediately, flinching and fleeing as far as it could. Unfortunately, the shadow could only flee so far from the man, and the man was too furious to see it move. Caesarion puffed his chest out and pouted ferociously. ¡°You should know me by my name. I¡¯m Caesarion! I¡¯m-¡± ¡°This Pharaoh¡¯s son,¡± Cleopatra-Ka dered, wrapping her arms around him from behind as she melted into being. The cultivator flinched, tracing the majestic pirs of her ears, seeing the truth of things for himself and knowing what was toe. ¡°Please. I beg the Pharaoh-¡± The Devourer cut hisst words short, exploding up from the floor of the tomb in a spray of liquid shadow with the jaws of her judgment opened wide. The cultivator screamed, but Caesarion¡¯s mother covered his eyes with her hands so he wouldn¡¯t see what happened next. Caesarion cried out in protest, wriggling away from her embrace, but she only chuckled warmly and pulled him tighter to her chest. ¡°You promised!¡± he used her. She chuckled softly and pressed a kiss against his cheek. ¡°There is no rush, sweetling,¡± she whispered. ¡°The longer that you wait, the better the reward will taste. I promise you that.¡± Caesarion huffed and crossed his arms petntly against his chest. Cleopatra-Ka pressed her lips firmly to his neck and blew,ughing musically when he yelped and jumped away. Her hands came away from his eyes, revealing not the shadowed tomb he¡¯d been in moments ago, but the burning light of the midday sun. Caesarian stood atop the Pharaoh¡¯s central pyramid and looked out across the kingdom of Egypt and all its teeming wonders. The sight took his breath away and stole from him his senses, as it always had before. He looked upon it all in wonder. And when a particrly heavy breeze hit his face, he spread his arms out to his sides and cast his gaze just above the city skyline, in that moment imagining himself as an eagle in flight. He pped his arms and soared,ughing in delight. His mother lounged atop the golden peak and watched him fondly, picking flesh and sinew out from between her pearly teeth. Chapter .1 Chapter .1 Sol, The Raven from Rome Cultivation. The race against mortality went by many names, depending on who was asked and where. The people of Rome knew it as the course of honors. The children of Helen called it the stairway to heaven, and the hollow Macedonians referred to it mournfully as the hitching of their stars. I had learned these terms, among others, from my mentor Aristotle. Others still I had gleaned from the men of my father''s legion. The rank-and-file of the Fifth Legion were native conscripts, harvested like wheat from foreign fields by the General of the West. By his blessing, and by their actions on campaign, these men had transcended their origins and be shining sons of Rome, one and all - but they had never forgotten their roots. Around warm night fires and in the ranks of marching formations, they had shared those origins over the years with me. The Gaelic tribes were a fractured union on the best of days, and bloody rivals the rest of the time. Yet there was a throughline that connected them all, a Celtic understanding of this life and their ce within it that spanned further than even the endless ck Forest - traversing the seas themselves to reach the misty isles of the inscrutable Britons. The officer ranks of the Fifth Legion were reserved for natural-born Romans, but the First Spear was ever a pragmatic man. Even his ck hatred for the western hordes couldn¡¯t blind him to the true value of a soldier in his care. It was one of many reasons why my father had fought to have him in the Fifth. So while he couldn¡¯t promote them in full, the First Spear had elevated the brightest of the ck Forest''s people to positions of authority and advisement just beneath his own centurions. One of those bright sons of Rome had been a druid in his past life, a holy advisor known to his people as an oak-seer. It was this hulking man of wizened faith that had sat me down in the shade of a gnarled willow tree shortly after my father¡¯s death, and showed me how to build a wicker man in his memory. I had seen this druid tear the heads off grown men and beasts with his bare hands in the press of war, but he was as gentle as a summer breeze and patient as a stone while my fingers fumbled and I drifted in my grief. When the work was done and the wicker man stood tall and proud, we dressed it in the druid¡¯s own armor. I remembered asking him who had given him permission to use the legion¡¯s resources in this way, and I would never forget the ease with which he¡¯d answered that no one had at all. When we lit the wicker man on fire, it was like watching my father die again. As the wicker man burnt away, the oak-seer who had followed my father into terrible war finally rxed. It was only in its absence that I noticed the tension had been there at all. Warmed by the fire and protected from the rain by the solemn willow tree, the oak-seer exined to me the divine dividing - the perfecting of a Celtic soul. To cultivate was to refine. What that meant was a subject of unending debate. Every culture on this earth had their own answer, every man and woman within those nations their own interpretation. Which of them was correct? Was there only one true way forward, a single golden road, or were there many? Could it be that every gate to heaven was made of horn? Or were they one and all of ivory? I inhaled deeply, filling my lungs with ocean air. I breathed in beyond those limits, tracing the excess breath as it spilled from my lungs and filled my pneumatic channels instead. The unnatural pathways had been carved out of my flesh by the starlight marrow of the Rein-Holder and further refined by my time in the Orphic House, taking the shape of a wheel. Beyond the obvious utility of the expanded channels allowing me to more efficiently circte my pneuma, I hadn¡¯t found any clear use for it in the weeks since. That had changed the moment that I¡¯d advanced to the third stage of the Sophic Realm. In that moment I had felt a shifting in my flesh, and with the awareness granted by the Titan Prometheus''s golden ichor, I had seen the carving out of a new channel. At the time, there had been more pressing concerns. Now, I filled the wheel to its limits with vital breath and focused on that newest addition. The wheel had three spokes, and as I took that third spoke in my hand- [I¡¯LL RISE.] -I forced the wheel to turn. Flesh and blood that had been burnt away by starlight marrow regrew from full cauterization, creeping like weeds from the western edges of the wheel. At the same time, the eastern edges smoldered and surged forward, burning away new flesh at the same rate that the old flesh was mending. In terms of healing wounds, the pace was unbelievably fast. In terms of a spinning wheel, however, it was an agonizing grind. I exhaled slowly, steady as my innards burned away and regrew. Stubborn determination allowed me to maintain control. That, and the experience of dozens of prior attempts that had ended in horrible coughing fits. As the wheel turned, consuming and mending, it worked that same wonder on the rest of my body. Gouges given to me by Scythas knitted themselves shut strand-by-strand. Nicks and burns left by Anastasia cycled through a kaleidoscope of ugly inmmation as her poison worked its way through my body and was purged. Time passed. The wheel made my body well. As for my heart and soul? My eyes were shut, but I watched on the back of my eyelids as the wicker man burned. It wasrger now, so muchrger that it dwarfed the willow tree we had sought out for its shade. Rather than a legionnaire''s armor, it wore the tents that I had ordered burned the night that the Fifth Legion fell - it wore them like a captain¡¯s cloak. Inside the hollow frame of the burning wicker man, the soldiers of the Fifth Legion screamed and begged for mercy as they were burned alive. The fire seared my face, but I couldn¡¯t have turned away from it if I tried. The oak-seer gripped my head tight, as he had gripped so many heads before he¡¯d torm them from their shoulders, and he whispered in my ear as the legion went up in mes. "For every rise, there must follow an equal fall. Do not avert your eyes from your works, young tyrant. Observe their flesh now as it cracks. Observe the thrashing of their limbs. These things describe the future - their death throes are the path. You¡¯ve bid your soul to multiply, but ascension is a provocation of naturalw. For one of us to rise to greater heights than three thousand menbined, heaven demands three thousand men must fall in kind." The druid''s broad and calloused fingers dug into my skull. His voice took on a scathing edge - "Observe the divine dividing." And he tore my head off my shoulders. My breath caught, the wheel of channels grinding to a halt within me and scattering the image from my eyelids. I bit down on another coughing fit, smothering it in my chest. I inhaled. Exhaled. When I opened my eyes, I saw Griffon staring back at me. "You can do better." His lips didn¡¯t move and his philosopher¡¯s influence didn¡¯t stir, but I heard the words all the same. We sat in mirrored positions across from one another on the deck of the Eos, one knee pulled up to our chests and the other folded underneath. Our shadows mingled with that of the ship''s mast, and the ravens lurking inside them murmured quietly to one another. You can do better. ¡°How do you know?" "Because I am doing better." Though he wasn¡¯t diverting breath to speak to me the normal way, it was still a diversion of focus that I couldn¡¯t have afforded while turning the wheel. Yet as I watched, his chest continued its steady rise and fall, and his wounds continued to mend themselves at a pace that had nothing to do with what Anastasia had taught him. He was still maintaining it. If we had been having this conversation a week prior, that would have surely frustrated me. If we''d been having this conversation just a day ago, he likely would have taken the opportunity to taunt me for myck. As it was, I understood the problem now in a way that I had been all but blind to before. "From the bodyes the soul," I told him, certain of it after thistest attempt. "I can¡¯t iste the Greek portion of this any more than I can turn one half of a wheel and not the other. Whatever this is, it¡¯s an all or nothing effect." "And the Roman portion of you won¡¯t tolerate anything that¡¯s beneficial to your heart." Griffon¡¯s scarlet eyes narrowed. The golden mes behind them had burnt down to fading embers, imperceptible unless you knew to look for them. Where they had zed before, they now lent just a touch of golden light to his gaze. "Be done with it, then," he told me. I inhaled. "Do away with half of all that I am?" Exhaled. "Do away with the portion that yearns to do away with you." "I¡¯m too weak as it is. I can¡¯t afford to cripple myself now." "You¡¯d be better off with one leg than with this rotting limb you insist on dragging along behind you. It¡¯s a poison to you. You don¡¯t need me to tell you that." I didn¡¯t. "Amputate it," Griffin urged me without words. Above our heads, Sorea let fly a hungry cry. I closed my eyes. Exhaled. Inhaled. The wheel began to fill. "I should," I admitted. And it was true. The golden ichor that I had drunk out of my brother''s hand was all but gone now. I had burnt it for fuel, rendering it all but worthless in our running fight to flee Olympia. What remained was too diminished to refine even the crudest aspects of my cultivation, too weak to be a threat against my better judgment. Still, even rendered down to almost nothing, the golden substance remained a force of change. It was too weak to change me directly, so instead it had settled in the back of my mind as that same passive awareness of myself that had allowed me to precisely direct its efforts before. If it couldn¡¯t do the work itself, it could at least give me the rity needed to see it done. Through that intimate awareness, I had been able to distinguish the Roman half of my foundations from the Greek. At the time, that rity had allowed me to call upon my adopted father''s virtue without suffering the consequences that had gued me since I¡¯d stepped out of the Orphic House. Now, that same rity made it impossible to ignore the first and most daunting obstacle that stood between me and further advancement. The Roman half of my foundation was fractured at its core. Any monument I built upon it would suffer the consequences of that infirmity. There was no point in denying it. I should have cut it away the moment I broke my chains and fled the Rosy Dawn. Now, it was even more important that I rid myself of its taint. "You should. But you won¡¯t." The raven in Griffin''s shadow snapped its beak in corvid irritation. I seized the second of three spokes- ["I am a raven, and I am an unkindness."] - and turned the wheel again. "No. I won¡¯t." Had I possessed the rity I needed to iste and cut away that portion of myself a week ago, I would have likely done it. Back when the destruction of ursed Carthage was my one and only aim, an amputation of my heart would have seemed an all too fitting consequence. Now, though? "Say that your vision was true,¡± Griffon said, reading me like an open book. "Say that you seek these safer shores and find your legions lost. Why should it matter what they think of you when you pull them from the pit? What could any of them say to you that you haven¡¯t told yourself already? Their judgment doesn¡¯t matter." "It doesn¡¯t. And it does." "Worthless Roman. I won¡¯t forgive you if you fall behind." I smirked faintly, watching broken roads unfold behind my eyelids. "I¡¯ll do my best." "Will you?" Something about the tone of the raven''s voice made me open my eyes, abandoning the wheel before I could truly get it turning. Griffon was still watching me. The usation was deeper now. "Say it inly," I told him, and every eye on the ship turned to watch us in response. Some were furtive about it, others less so. Selene, for her part, poked her head out from the crow''s nest and stared openly down at us alongside the red headed pirate child. Only Sorea wasn¡¯t swayed, eyes firmly set on the horizon. Griffon sighed, releasing his own breathing technique in a rush of steam and leaning forward. "Since we left Thracia, you¡¯ve ignored this half of who you are and I haven¡¯t said a word because you¡¯re better off without it. But if you must cling to it, then you owe it all your efforts. If you¡¯re determined to keep this unsightly leg attached, I want to see you run with it. It isn¡¯t a question of whether or not you can. I know you¡¯re capable of it. This is a question of will." The salt of the sea coated my tongue. "I have no right to lead a legion now." "Would you let those legions die if they desired it?" I blinked, utterly thrown by the question. "What?" Griffon held out a hand, offering it to the open air, and a rosy-fingered hand of his pankration intent appeared opposite of it. "If you found your lost legions and offered them your hand-" his pankration hand pped his hand of flesh and blood aside, "-and they refused to take it, would you ept their judgment of you? Even if it killed them?" I watched the rosy limb sink down, down, slipping through the deck of the Eos like the nks were ocean waves. The men of the Fifth beat their fists against the confines of the wicker man, crying out in misery. Would you let them burn? I seized the pankration hand by the tips of its fingers and dragged it back above the deck, tightening my grip when it fought to escape me. "Of course not," Griffon said, satisfied. "Let them judge you safe and sound upon the shore. Until the dayes that your lost legions are found, you are what remains. You are Rome. The only judgment you have need to fear is your own." After a heavy beat, Griffon grinned and spread the fingers of his hand. "And mine, of course." I threw his pankration hand back in his face, and heughed as it exploded into cinders. The ship dipped as I rose to my feet, the men at her oars shifting quickly to keep their bnce. I swept my eyes over them, searching for something. Some flinched when Iid my focus on them. Others began to sweat, their eyes shivering as they met my stare. Though their reactions varied, the ragged men that Griffin and I had freed from a pirate galley the day we broke our chains looked back at me, one and all, with fear and crushing awe. I raised my hand and beckoned. "All of you. To me." Had I invoked the captain''s virtue, they couldn¡¯t have crossed the deck any faster. Chapter .2 Chapter .2 Sol, The Raven from Rome I moved silently through their ranks, looking the sailors up and down. They stood frozen, waiting for something, the same thing that I was searching for in them. The closer that I looked, the more wretched that they seemed. Still too thin. Still too filthy and unkempt. All of them too crude, and not a single awakened soul to be found among them. "I told you not toe back," I said, and the man closest to me jerked back as if I¡¯d pped him. "But the eagle came to us-!" "And how far did he have to fly to find you?" The men shuffled their feet, ducking their heads or casting their eyes to the side. "We told you to make better lives for yourselves," I said. "We told you to be free. Twice we offered you your choice of tomorrow, and twice you chose to stay instead." They shrank away with every word, unwilling to ept my message but unable to speak out against me in the wake of what they¡¯d seen me do to Olympia¡¯s dock city. "You¡¯re all too weak to sail the course I¡¯ve charted for myself." Their backs hunched. Their fists clenched and unclenched. Impotent. Undisciplined. "You should have followed Kabhur¡¯s example," I told them frankly, because it needed to be said. "You should have gone home." "What home?" a boy snapped. The unruly pirate child, the one that had shot my brother with an arrow the day we assaulted the vers he¡¯d keptpany with, red down at me defiantly. Beside him in the crow¡¯s nest, Selene looked down with clear concern. "Whatever home you chose," I answered. "You should have sailed this ship to paradise and sold it once ashore. You could have livedfortably. You could have done anything you desired, lived any life you wanted." "Not like this!" The pirate child heatedly denied, banging his fist on the edge of the crow''s nest. "We sell this ship, we¡¯ll never see her like again! We sell her and we¡¯ll spend the rest of our lives shoveling shit for ve wages anyway! We¡¯ll never be a part of something like this again! We¡¯ll die old and fat, wishin¡¯ that we¡¯d stayed!" Bit by bit, I watched conviction straighten their spines. Not one of them disagreed with the irreverent child that had once had a hand in their envement. Not one of them had been swayed. They raised their eyes to mine once more, and though the terror and the awe made their pupils shake, they did not turn away. They were the castoffs and the dregs, as Griffon had so kindly put it once before. They were men with nowhere to go, and nothing to their names. The only strand connecting them to one another was a desire for a greater purpose. Their onlymon ground was an insatiable hunger, a desire to be a part of somethingrger than themselves. Emboldened by the pirate child, they added their voices to the mix. "Don¡¯t toss us out, captain!" "Don¡¯t leave us for the waves!" "Let us stay, cap¡¯n!" "We can serve!" "Please, captain!" "We want to live-!" Amidst the gently rolling waves, a monster exploded out of the foam. Selene shouted a warning while Sorea beat his wings and took flight. The oarsmen screamed, flinging themselves away from the creature as it surged over the ship¡¯s rails. But it was toote, and they were far too slow. The monster reached out with nails like sweeping daggers, each one of them a killing blow. I caught the siren by her throat and crushed her slender neck. The men tumbled over rowing benches, over each other, and failing that, over their own feet in their panic. They stared up at the foul creature, wide-eyed, as she thrashed against my grip and mmed her glossy scales against the deck. "And they say fishing¡¯s hard," Griffon chuckled, appearing by my side while forty hands of his intent swarmed across the siren''s body, holding her in ce. The monster was half woman, half creature of the sea. She was nothing quite so terrible as the drakaina that we¡¯d seen the Aetos brothers fight, more fish than serpent woman, and she had missed her opportunity to sing. Though she struggled harder than any fish, her snarling lips could do little more than hiss with my hand around her neck. Of course, she was still a monster. No matter how hard I clenched my fist, my mortal strength was not enough to break her neck. She knew it, too. And though she was in no position to sway us with her song, that didn¡¯t stop her from speaking out. "Captain of salt and ash," the mermaid hissed, her tone as intimate as it was cruel, "you have no ce on this earth. There is no room in heaven for you, no punishment cruel enough that yet exists below. Look into my eyes and know that your luck will never turn. Look into my eyes and know that every word I say is true." "I recognize that ugly voice," Griffon leaned in, golden hair shifting in the sea breeze. Golden light shone behind his eyes. "Hello again, Melpomene. I was hoping you¡¯d bleed out." The mermaid''s expression became something truly ugly then, and her voice grew twice as venomous to match it. "Son of scarlet sin-" Griffon mmed the Scarlet Oracle''s adamant dagger up through the underside of the siren''s mouth, hooking her like a fish. Ichor like molten lead spilled from her split tongue, and for a moment the siren''s ck hatred turned to terror. Then the muse returned, and the siren dislocated her own bones in an effort to slip free and tear my brother¡¯s eyes out. A holler split the air, and a in old skinning knife scattered off the monster''s scales. Undeterred, one unawoken sailor threw himself bodily onto her tail and tried again, searching for a gap that his mundane knife could cut into. He was joined by another, this one hurriedly winding a length of rope around the thinnest part of the monster''s tail and the rail of the Eos, seeking to tie her down. Then came another, rushing across the deck with a rusty harpoon in hand. Then two more, each of them working together to raise a heavy rowing bench above their heads and bring it down on the siren''s back. Another, and another, all of them surging forward to lend their hopeless aid. Not a single one of their attacks did anything but incense the monstrous woman. Yet they fought, and they struggled, knowing all the while that it was in vain. "Useless," the siren slurred in Melpomene¡¯s voice, contorting her sinuous body in a violent snapping motion. It wasn¡¯t enough to shake my grip or Griffon¡¯s, but it was enough to break the rope and send the swarming sailors crashing back across the deck. "Useless!" she said again, her voice rising mockingly as she directed her scorn at us. "Now, as then, forever more, useless-!" Selene buried her spear in the monster''s naked chest, scarlet eyes burning bright, and the siren shrieked in ear-splitting agony. The oarsmen staggered to their feet, spitting bloody phlegm and broken teeth, and surged back across the deck in a roaring tide. They threw themselves upon the shaft of Selene¡¯s spear, adding all their strength to hers as she drove it slowly through the siren¡¯s heart. "Look closely, all of you," I demanded, calling upon the Greek captain¡¯s virtue and wrenching the Siren''s head down further onto Griffon¡¯s knife. The siren made unimaginable sounds, a nightmare made manifest. With my empty hand, I gripped the shaft of Selene¡¯s spear and forced it deeper through the monster¡¯s chest. "This is what we¡¯ve earned for all of our exciting living," I told the straining men behind me. They stared at the monstrous woman, undying to the end, their eyes wild but intent. "This is what will follow us until the day we die. This is our reward - a sea of monsters, and a storm on every horizon. This is our fate, and it is yours should you persist." The siren screamed at the top of her lungs. The sailors¡¯ ears began to bleed. "Let go of the spear," I urged them. "Step down, and this will be thest monster you ever see." I waited for them to waver. I waited for them to break. Instead, they nted their feet and screamed back in the siren''s face, struggling with all their strength to press forward. The pirate child¡¯s bolted arrow shattered against the siren¡¯s open eye, and Griffon burst outughing. He twisted the adamant knife around, dragging it down and sweeping it sideways out of the siren''s throat in a spray of liquid lead. We held her still as she twisted and thrashed in her death throes, until the deck was coated in metallic lifeblood that shimmered in the sun. When the life went out of the creature''s eyes and the specter of the Muse had left us in temporary peace, the men threw up their hands and cheered in heady disbelief. They screamed their defiance at the sea, beat their skinny chests with clenched fists, and embraced each other in relief. Selene joined them, bruising more than one poor soul with the strength of her embrace. I threw the monster''s corpse to the deck and their celebrations stopped dead. "Uneptable," I snapped. The smiles vanished from their faces. Selene hesitated, looking between Griffon and me. "Solus-?" ¡°Your bearing, your weakness, the rusted state of your arms and your utterck of armor, all of it is uneptable.¡± I stalked over the siren¡¯s corpse and bore down upon the ragged group of sorry souls. They watched mee like I was death itself. Still, they held their ground. One man grit his yellowed teeth and forced himself to speak. "We may not be worthy, sir, but we still-" "No." I seized him by his filthy chiton and heaved him up, forcing him to straighten his spine and rise up from the hunch he¡¯d learned while chained to an oar. "Worth has nothing to do with it. You aren¡¯t ready. "Straighten up!" I barked, and they all strained for the skies. "You should have listened when you had the chance." "But-!" "Silence." Their teeth came together. I stepped back and looked them up and down. They were wretched. They were lost. But they wouldn¡¯t be forever. "Listen to me, and listen well - this is thest chance anyone will ever give you, and one more than you deserve," I informed them, and their confusion turned to sudden hope. "Sit down, cast aside your suicidal ambitions, and ept the life that the Fates prescribed you. Leave this ship at a port of your choosing and live a peaceful life." Sorea swooped down onto my shoulders, dagger-sharp talons digging into my chest and back as he spread his wings wide over my head. "Or stand," I told them fiercely, these hopeless men at oars, "and condemn yourselves to mypany. Know that you will suffer like you have never suffered before. Know that the only reward for one backbreakingbor will be two more in turn. Know that no matter where you go, no matter who youe to be, you will always be marked by my association." I stood straight and squared my shoulders, clenching my hand into a white-knuckled fist. Within myself, my pneuma roiled like deep sea waves, crashing and rattling the foundations of my soul. I let none of it show. That wasn¡¯t an officer¡¯s way. "Stand proud here and now," I told our ragged sea dogs, "and you will be a son of Rome until the day that raging heaven strikes you down." I raised my fist and mmed it to my chest, the sound like pping thunder. Together as one, the castoff crew of the Eos shouted out and struck their fists against their chests in a proper Roman salute. All at once, like the lifting of a curse, I felt the weight on my shoulders lighten. Not entirely, not even by half, but enough to ease the strain. As it did, a new awareness exploded across my senses. Ten lives, ten worlds, each one mind-boggling in its scope. I felt them coalesce under me, submitting to mymand, and I felt them take a portion of the weight off my shoulders and onto theirs, carrying it alongside their own. With my naked eyes, I saw their knees buckle and their shoulders bow as they struggled to adjust, gritting their teeth and straining withoutint. Beyond that, deeper than I had ever seen before as the captain of the Fifth, the enhanced perception of Prometheus¡¯ golden ichor showed me the bounty of their hearts. Each reserve of blood was a fraction of what I¡¯d had before Olympia fell, but far more than what I posessed today. With this, I could do it. With their lives, I could survive. More than that, I could make myself strong. Strong enough to- No. I crushed the ichor¡¯s whispering urges in my hand. Never again. The oarsmen straightened back up as my added weight was lifted from their shoulders, gasping in tense relief. Then I took the rest of their weight as well, and their relief turned to shock and wonder. The weight of ten worlds joined the forty on my shoulders, and the liquid lead coating the ship¡¯s deck began to boil as the Eos¡¯ eagle formation burned itself out from the inside. I clenched my jaw, unwilling to let my weakness show. I felt the boards of the deck begin to bow and strain beneath me. Alone, I couldn¡¯t yet carry their weight with a proper captain¡¯s bearing. But if the weight was divided, cut in two, could I withstand it then? I could. I sacrificed a single moment of my future to the golden burning embers of my heart. The specter of my mirror image, stolen from that frozen moment, shouldered himself beneath that weight and helped me raise it up. Then the moment passed and he was gone. So I sacrificed another moment. And another. And another after that. With this, every moment of my life from here on out would cost me double. In exchange for carrying their weight, my shriveled lifespan would be cut in half. It was the easiest trade I¡¯d ever made. One of the deck boards cracked in two beneath my heel. The light of rosy mes shone through the cracks, glinting beneath pools of boiling lead. Though I could bear their weight like this, I was still a burden on my surroundings. It was time I put an end to this particr annoyance. Without burning my heart¡¯s blood, the Greek half of my virtue could exert the pressure of forty men. While my heart was burning like this, moment by moment, that number doubled to eighty. I invoked the Greek captain¡¯s virtue on myself, willing myself to fall up into the sky, and matched its magnitude exactly to the weight upon my shoulders. The Eos¡¯ burning eagle formation dimmed back down to its dormant state as my burden upon the earth returned to normality for the first time since I¡¯d left the Orphic House. I exhaled slowly, and met the eyes of my conscripts. "My fellow soldiers," I addressed them with unbowed shoulders and soaring spirits, "wee to the Fifth." Their sleeping souls awoke. Chapter .3 Chapter .3 Griffon, the Risen me The day I watched my cousin¡¯s golden mother die, a question had taken root in my mind. No matter howpletely I¡¯d tried to suppress it, utterly uncaring of my efforts, that uncertainty had remained - festering somewhere in the shadow of the soul that every man feared to shine light upon. Years had passed, and I had met Sol. I¡¯d allowed myself to forget. Then I¡¯d met Melpomene, the Tragic Poet of the Muses, and she had reached out through the Oracle of Broken Tides to remind me of the question that I had for so many years refused to ask. A vow sworn with golden intention, yet in the end not upheld - was that a failure, or a lie? As if you needed someone else to tell you the color of clear skies. Decrepit old ghost. Get back into your tomb. No. I red irritably at the shimmering ruby gem hanging from my neck. Not for the first time, I cursed my past self for stealing it from the Rosy Dawn¡¯s ancestral pools. Priceless relic that it was, it was far from the only gem in this world that was pleasing to the eye. I could have draped myself head-to-toe in jewelry like a low-ss reaver - or worse still, a Persian - and not suffered a single spoken word from the finery. Instead, I had chanced upon the one and only scarlet stone among thousands with a parasite attached. This barking act demeans you. A lion of my line should roar. Festering corpse. Foam of my loins. My thoughts were under siege, and the flickering remains of the Titan me¡¯s golden ichor had yet to find the root of my so-called ancestor¡¯s presence in my mind. Until that leading thread was found, I¡¯d have no choice but to suffer him. Fortunately, I had no shortage of interesting things to distract me in the meantime. ¡°Push.¡± Sol¡¯s voice carried easily over the light crashing of waves, and eleven voices rose up in response to the captain¡¯smand. ¡°THIRTY-EIGHT!¡± Ten newly awoken cultivators and one exalted Heroine pressed against the ship¡¯s deck, straining with all their might against an unseen pressure. Teeth gnashed and muscles bulged. Ever so slowly, they rose. I pushed myself up in one smooth motion, basking in the familiar burn of overburdened muscles like an old friend¡¯s embrace. How long had it been since I¡¯d enjoyed this simple pleasure? Years and years, and far too long. ¡°Drop,¡± Sol demanded, and I lowered myself alongside him until our noses brushed against the wood. The muffled grunts and groans from the crew and my sister were a nostalgic sound, one I had never forgotten but for so long been unable to take part in for myself. We held ourselves there, half a hand from kissing the Eos¡¯ deck, and I relished every breath. ¡°Push.¡± ¡°THIRTY-NINE!¡± Past a certain point of physical refinement, a cultivator ceased to feel the burden of their own weight. In many ways this was a boon, allowing for the deft crity and thoughtless acrobatics that so dazzled mortals who had yet to start their climb. However, the drawbacks to this weightlessness were keenly felt in the gymnasium. Beyond a certain point, one that I had surpassed early in my life, calisthenics weren¡¯t worth the time. It was possible to add on to the body¡¯s natural weight, of course, and many did - but it was an imperfect solution at best. It was all too easy to lose track of your body¡¯s ideal bnce and overburden one portion of your muscture at the expense of others. Even beyond that concern, there came a point where it simply wasn¡¯t practical to strap a boulder to your back and push. ¡°Drop.¡± I lowered myself once more to the deck, and it was an effort to hold myself steady. The sensation of the Greek captain¡¯s virtue was not like a boulder bnced on my back - it was like a second skin, a coating of oil that pressed down upon every muscle at once and burdened them in perfect proportion to one another. My breaths were steady, my arms flexing without tremors, but I felt sweat beading on my brow. ¡°Push.¡± ¡°FORTY!¡± I pushed myself up off the deck, and it felt like I was a child again. I felt my body refine itself in real time, and it was the simplest sort of wonder. I nced at Sol through the curtain of hair hanging over my eyes. He¡¯d discarded his breastte and shrugged the white chiton off his shoulders while he went to work on his new soldiers, and his back glistened with sweat as he pushed himself up beside me. Muscles like coiling iron flexed beneath the Roman¡¯s tan skin, struggling against a weight far heavier than the fraction he¡¯d allowed his men to shoulder while they trained. He¡¯d given Selene and I more, of course, but not the full amount - he¡¯d promised I could try it when we had firmnd beneath our feet, and I intended to hold him to that. Still, though his burden was greater than the rest of oursbined, he watched his soldiers like a hawk. That distant look I¡¯d grown so used to seeing in his eyes was gone as though it had never been, reced with a focus sharp enough to cut clean through iron. His eyes flickered from man to man, and through the lense of my pneumatic senses I observed his continuous adjustment of their burdens. The instant before a man began to falter, he¡¯d find his burden lightened just enough to keep going. Every time a man grew toofortable with the pace, he¡¯d blink and find the weight had be just a bit heavier. Like this, Sol kept each of his men toeing the line of failure without letting them tumble fully over into it. It was a deceptivelyplex working of his virtue, artful in its way, and I¡¯d praised him for it when I first noticed what exactly it was that he was doing. The Roman had rolled his eyes and otherwise ignored me, but he¡¯d been unable to hide the hint of thrumming pride in his heart. ¡°Drop.¡± ¡°Give me a bit more,¡± I urged him under my breath. He ignored me. ¡°The ship can take it. She was built tost.¡± He ignored me still. I blew a lock of hair away from my eye, cocking an eyebrow at him. ¡°Perhaps that isn¡¯t it. Could it be the captain¡¯s worried his good brother will show him up in front of the men? How embarrassing would it be to pass that weight off onto me and see it makes no difference? Perhaps it¡¯s for the best this way-¡° Sol snorted, and the weight of another twenty men nearly mmed me through the deck. I braced myself with the limbs of my own pankration intent, hands of rosy pneuma vanishing from the oars of the Eos and appearing beneath my own to act as stable ground. I grunted, teeth gnashing, and matched myself against it. ¡°Push,¡± the captain called, the men of the Fifth roaring their effort in turn. Grinning ferociously, I rose. ¡ª¡ª¡ª The men ate ravenously, and they ate well. Amon misconception of the crude masses was that cultivators needed less nourishment than an unrefined man, owed to their ability to go days, weeks, and months ascending without eating a meal, depending on their level of advancement. In reality, a Civic cultivator required far more to sustain them than a crude soul. A Philosopher required yet more than that to nourish their ceaselessly wondering mind. A Hero needed more still to nourish their passionately burning heart. And a Tyrant¡­ A Tyrant¡¯s hunger was never truly satiated. Why was it, then, that cultivators were not seen gorging themselves at every opportunity? The short answer was that we were. Just not in a way that an unrefined soul - or even a newly awoken cultivator - could understand. We feasted every moment of our lives, endlessly hungering for more even in the moments that our souls were so overfull we wanted to retch. It was our lowest nature, the one we shared with every beast on this earth. Naturally, we ate food as well. When the demands of our hunger outstripped our means, we had only two choices. Devour, or starve. The Eos¡¯ crew, the ragged sea dogs that Sol hadmandeered as men of his Fifth Legion, tore through their stores of salted meats and wine in a single day. They had each worked hard, as diligent as they were clumsy, to meet their new captain¡¯s demands. Sol was being gentle with them to start - too gentle, a searing voice inside my soul insisted - but it was still worse than any of the work they¡¯d done as ves. They ate desperately when they could, and slept like the dead when Sol eventually called an end to the first day of their training. When they overturned thest of their jugs the next morning and found them empty, I saw the men of the Fifth fall fully into panic. Sol waited patiently in the middle of the ship¡¯s deck, back straight and arms crossed while he stared up at the cloud-darkened skies. I sat behind him, on the opposite side of the ship¡¯s mast, my legs crossed and the lead-stained silks of my station pooling around me as I went about my steady work. Neither of us had slept the night before, of course. After what we¡¯d seen and done, I wasn¡¯t sure we¡¯d ever sleep again. So dramatic. On the other hand, a night¡¯s rest might be exactly what I needed. Perhaps my mind would be free of buzzing flies when I awoke. Or perhaps I¡¯ll make use of your body in your mind¡¯s absence. I paused in my work and looked narrowly at the man looming behind me, his body shifting like smoke where it ovepped with the wooden beam of the ship¡¯s mast. Throughout all his heckling and all my movement around the ship since he¡¯d first announced himself, I¡¯d still yet to see his face. No matter which way I moved or how swiftly, he was always there just behind me when I turned to look, his back to mine and his arm propped indolently upon my head. My so-called ancestor chuckled. It was a low and ominous sound. Forgive me, child, at times I forget my age. I¡¯ll exin. In my time, this process was known as gag-?u. Thest word was utterly foreign to my ear, and that was enough to warrant my full attention. Gag-?u. What could such a word mean in this context? I¡¯ll make use of your body in your mind¡¯s absence. I turned the linguistics of it over in my mind, gnawing at it while I scoured my memories of past lessons for derivative words from youngernguages. Possession? Usurpation? A curse, some nascent corruption? Or- A joke. I spat on the ghost¡¯s ephemeral golden sandals and banished hisughter from my thoughts. Sol was looking back at me, an eyebrow raised. I waved him off and returned to my work. Before he couldment on my behavior, the first of his men made their hunger known. ¡°Captain! We¡¯re out of-¡± ¡°Kall,¡± Sol sharply interrupted the man, and Kall froze. A beat passed as the new man of the Fifth visibly forced aside his panic and searched his memories for what he¡¯d done wrong. Then his hunched back straightened, his filthy bare feet came together, and he thumped a fist to his chest. ¡°Captain!¡± Sol nodded. ¡°Go on.¡± ¡°We¡¯re out of food, sir!¡± ¡°By whose measure?¡± Kall stared at Sol, caught off-guard by the question. He looked back at the rest of his fellows. Three of them were so stricken by morning hunger that they were scraping the salt off the insides of the empty jugs and barrels and licking the crystals from their fingers. The remaining six were watching intently. Kall swallowed. ¡°By mine, sir,¡± Kall finally said, turning back to the captain. Sol¡¯s neutral expression didn¡¯t change, but I could tell that answer satisfied him. ¡°We¡¯ll be ashore before long,¡± Sol told him, and the men behind him. ¡°A day of hunger won¡¯t kill you. I can tell you now that you¡¯ll suffer far worse than these pangs in the future.¡± The men visibly swallowed their protests down, each of them turning their eyes away from the captain¡¯s intense stare and dispersing from around the empty jugs to take their ces at the rowing benches. Had Sol been a different man, that would have been the end of it. The new men of the Fifth were only newly awoken, and only then because of his grace. He could have ordered them all to tie anchor weights to their waists and jump overboard into the sea, and after what he¡¯d given them, after what they¡¯d seen him do just two days before, they would have done so without hesitation. He could have starved them for weeks, let alone a single day. Fortunately for them, my brother was all too softhearted when it came to the soldiers in his care. Sol reached out and pped a hand on Kall¡¯s shoulder, halting the man when he tried to slump dejectedly back to his bench. ¡°That being said, you¡¯re more useful to me strong than you are starving. And by my measure, we have food enough to spare.¡± Sol smiled faintly at their confused looks and tilted his head back. They followed the gesture, tracing it down to me and my work, and the realization spread like a me. I dragged the Oracle¡¯s adamant knife down the length of the mermaid¡¯s tail again and again, scraping scales off with each pass. They ttered heavily against the deck, more like metal coins than fish scales, each one shining dazzlingly like sunlit waves. The portion of the corpse that might have been a woman in a kinder world was gone - we¡¯d sawed the mermaid in half the day before, burned her human half and scattered its ashes to the wind, then strung the fish tail up with rigging rope and ced empty y jugs beneath it to catch the liquid lead draining out of it. A dayter, it looked almost like any other catch of the sea. Monstrouslyrge, of course, the tail alone longer than even Sol and I were tall, and wider at its thickest point than Sorea¡¯s spread wings. Beyond that, though, it could have just as easily been a fish¡¯s head we¡¯d sawed off its end. That was, until you turned a cultivator¡¯s senses upon the meat. The flesh of a virtuous beast was a delicacy that every cultivator coveted. Unawoken metics with more gold than sense regrly paid small fortunes for even a single te of such meat, believing a single bite could turn a crude man into a cultivator. Even the seemingly inedible portions of a virtuous beast¡¯s carcass were never wasted - ws and fangs were ground into powder and mixed into wine or used as reagents in alchemy and medicine. Feathers, furs, and scales were fashioned into priceless garments, some even carrying small echoes of the creature they were fashioned from. The hunt for virtuous beasts was an industry that men from every walk of life took part in, the bountiful rewards well worth the risks. The flesh of a monster, though? Well. That was another matter entirely. ¡°Captain¡­¡± Kall hesitated. ¡°Are y¡¯sure? That rancid blood-¡± ¡°Ichor,¡± I idly corrected him. ¡°Ichor,¡± the man amended. ¡°That ichor, it wasn¡¯t-¡± ¡°Wasn¡¯t meant for man¡¯s consumption,¡± spoke up one of the other men, already seated at his bench and hunched over his oar. His voice was faintly haunted, his heart pounding at the memory of our encounter with the mermaid. Or perhaps a more formative memory than that, a superstition passed on from the older generation. ¡°If the captain says it¡¯s good enough, it¡¯s good enough!¡± another man insisted, one of the three starving ones that had been scratching at the jugs for salt. He, along with the other two, had been too nauseous from the exertion of their training to eat when Sol told him to yesterday, and now he was paying the price. ¡°We¡¯re eating the mermaid?¡± Selene¡¯s golden hair appeared above the crow¡¯s nest, the Heroine¡¯s excitement rousing her immediately from a dead sleep to full wakefulness. Her eyes burned bright with excitement. ¡°Oh, you¡¯re all going to love it!¡± ¡°You¡¯ve had it before?¡± I asked, bemused. ¡°Of course! It was one of Bakkhos¡¯ favorites - he¡¯d go out and hunt them himself, and if it was a special asion he¡¯d save a te for me.¡± The daughter of the Oracle grabbed the end of the sloppy rope hammock strung up under the crow¡¯s nest and shook it firmly. ¡°Wake up, Lync! You¡¯ll miss the feast!¡± The red headed pirate child that the Eos¡¯ crew had seemingly epted as one of their own iled and tumbledpletely out of his rope hammock, screaming in shock as he woke up in freefall. A hand of my violent intent caught him by the back of his chiton, a hand-span before he hit the deck, and held him there while he gasped for breath and returned fully to the waking world. Selene stared down at us with wide eyes, both hands covering her mouth. When the little pirate Lynceus finally caught his breath, he looked first up to the rosy-burning hand that had caught him, and then down to me. I cocked an eyebrow. ¡°I¡¯m not thanking you,¡± he dered, and I threw him over the rail. ¡°You¡¯re not wrong to be wary of this creature,¡± Sol was telling his men, unbothered by our exchange, ¡°Even in death it would have been a threat to you as you were before. Even now, its flesh could kill you if you consumed too much of it in one sitting. But make no mistake, this is a boon. I¡¯ll show you.¡± Sol held out an expectant hand, and I drove the ritual knife down through the thickest part of the mermaid¡¯s tail. It was no cleaver, but its de was still forged from adamant. It carved easily through the infernal flesh, and I pped a thick filet of silvery flesh into Sol¡¯s hand. ¡°Pay attention,¡± he said in that sharp voice of Sol the Captain, demanding, and the ship¡¯s crew focused all of their senses upon him as he bit into the monster¡¯s flesh. He chewed slowly while I cut another two filets for Selene and myself. Then he swallowed it down. The effect was immediate. As I swallowed my own mouthful of the bizarre flesh, I traced its path down through my throat and observed the effects from the outside and in. To the men of the Fifth, their pneumatic senses still dull and new, it was nheless a vivid reaction. The quality of our pneuma, our vitality made manifest, deepened. It wasn¡¯t a reaction any of them could have put words to, but I certainly could. The Titan me¡¯s meddling had rebnced us, making order of our bodies where our choices up until that point had made disorder. That bncing of our humors had made all the functions and flows of our bodies subtly smoother - as though we¡¯d been unfamiliar with our bodies before that moment, and only then gained full control over them. By contrast, the Titan¡¯s golden ichor had refined us, acting as the catalyst for outrageously swift growth. It had allowed us to shape ourselves, body and soul, as though we were y. The monster¡¯s flesh did neither of those things. It did nothing to the shape or order of us. It gave us no further control, though it did try to wrest that control away - it was a familiar routine now, a process that had started in the Temple of the Father with the Rein-Holder¡¯s starlight marrow, been carried on in the Orphic House, and continued with the ravenous consumption of the King¡¯s Curse and the Titan me¡¯s own well-intentioned urges. I seized the foreign presence in my hand and crushed it, dousing what remained of the mermaid¡¯s nascent taint. Thus subdued, the monster¡¯s flesh was made a part of me. And unlike the marrow of Crows and the ichor of Titans, the mermaid¡¯s essence did not seek to change our shape. No, instead, it changed our substance. I felt my pneuma deepen, felt the substance of myself take on a new quality, as though I had been a painting on a wall all my life and was now just a bit closer to being the model that painting was based off of. As I took another bite and swallowed it down, observing its path through my system with the perceptions granted by the Titan¡¯s residual ichor, I saw that it wasn¡¯t changing my body¡¯sposition any more than it was my pneuma¡¯s. The quality was all that changed. It wasmon knowledge that a virtuous beast¡¯s flesh was brimming with vitality, a single cut of its meat enough to satiate a cultivator of equivalent standing for weeks. The greater the beast, the more nourishing its flesh and the more profound the properties of its pelt. In the end, though, the consumption of it was a transient affair. Even the grandest beast¡¯s flesh was digested eventually. This, though? This was different. I supposed it made sense in its own way. This was a creature that had been cursed to live forever. It was in its nature to linger. ¡°Look closely.¡± Sol spread his empty hands after he¡¯d finished his cut, presenting himself for the inspection of his men. ¡°Do you see any infirmity in me? None. Now look closer, and you¡¯ll see the opposite is true.¡± For some reason, though, even the three hungriest men looked hesitant. The first man to approach, Kall, put their doubt to words. ¡°Captain¡­ we knew it wouldn¡¯t hurt you.¡± I snorted. Mad dogs that they were, at least they weren¡¯tplete fools. ¡°Take that faith in me, and put it to better use,¡± Sol said, epting another filet of mermaid flesh as I carved it free. Above our heads, Selene gnawed happily away at her own cut. Sorea perched over her in the crow¡¯s nest, staring intently down at me. I rolled my eyes and tossed him up a chunk as well. ¡°Trust me when I tell you that I know what each of you can handle, and I won¡¯t give you a single morsel more.¡± The captain weighed a portion of silvery flesh in his palm that was worth more than all of their ve¡¯s prices had beenbined. His next words were dry. ¡°It¡¯s in an officer¡¯s nature to spare only what he must, after all. This is too valuable for you to go retching it overboard.¡± A hrious understatement. In many ways, this flesh was priceless. Cultivators could and often did fight over the bounty of a virtuous beast¡¯s carcass, but they wouldmit bloody murder for a taste of this. Kall epted a small portion of the mermaid¡¯s flesh, hardlyrger than his pinky finger, and the rest of the men soon lined up for their own. Sol fell fully into the sharp focus of his station, instructing each of them carefully on what to expect and how to process the meat, silently wrapping each of them up in the eddies of his influence in a way that went beyond even my understanding - there was a Roman touch to this working, one that I resolved to ask him aboutter. For now, I left him to his work and focused on finishing mine. I carved the mermaid up into usable cuts of flesh, gathered the scales up into my shadow forter use, and cleaned the adamant de of the carcass¡¯ liquid lead ichor. I wiped my hands off on my silks, but those were already soiled and the act did me little good. So I filled an empty jug with sea water, dragging the sputtering Lync up out of the sea as I did so, and set about scrubbing my hands clean. ¡°Griffon?¡± Selene spoke quietly, suddenly by my side. I blinked, looking up at her. When had she finished eating? ¡°Are you alright?¡± ¡°Of course.¡± ¡°What are you doing?¡± My eyes rolled. ¡°Surely Bakkhos allowed his Oracles the privilege of a bath in their quarters. I¡¯m washing my hands.¡± ¡°Washing them of what?¡± ¡°The blood.¡± Obviously. Selene reached into the jug of crimson sea water and pulled my hands free. To my irritation, they were still stained scarlet. Some of the blood had been buried so deep beneath the nails of my fingers that I had no idea how I¡¯d get it all out. ¡°Your hands are clean, Griffon,¡± Selene murmured. I scoffed, a swift retort flying to my tongue. Then I paused, staring down at my hands. The mermaid¡¯s ichor was the color of liquid lead. Not scarlet blood. Ah. ¡°No,¡± I finally said, pulling my hands away from hers. ¡°They¡¯re not.¡± A vow sworn with true intent, butcking the context needed to seed. I had known what I was capable of, known that I could seed if I only took the proper steps along the way. In the end, my understanding of this world and its histories, its rotting ages and its miseries, had beencking. I had been wrong in the end. I had lost, because I had been ying a game without knowing the full extent of the rules therein. No, worse than that. I hadn¡¯t even had all the pieces needed to y. I had decided in the ashes of Olympia that my failure wasn¡¯t a lie. But that was only if I corrected my mistakes. I had beencking proper context since the day I was born, and thatck in and of itself wasn¡¯t my fault alone. Now, though, I had been made aware of myck. The origin of me didn¡¯t matter - if I continued on as I was, I¡¯d have no one to condemn but myself. I had only two options in the end. I could open my eyes, or I could carry blindly on, burning everything I touched because I hadn¡¯t bothered to learn any better. Uneptable. For the first time since our joining, the corpse and I agreed. Sorea let fly a hunting cry above our heads as the Conqueror¡¯s Pearl City appeared on the horizon. Chapter .4 [Selene] Chapter .4 [Selene] Selene, Saint of Scarlet Hearts Selene had met more than her fair share of prodigies in her time as the Raging Heaven Cult¡¯s would-be Scarlet Oracle. By the standards of most, she had known nothing but prodigious souls. Cultivators were exceptional existences, one and all, whenpared to themon man. The greater mystery cults of the Free Mediterranean were institutions that only invited the brightest of stars into their ranks, and the Raging Heaven Cult was twice and twice again more selective than that. Sheltered - stifled - as her childhood had been, Selene had looked down upon more outstanding legends from the high vantage of her holy tripod than most aristocrats would meet in their entire lives. Prodigies, one and all. At a certain point, the title lost its meaning. Everyone was a prodigy to someone, somewhere, in some way. Even the Raging Heaven Cult''s abject failures had stood at the pinnacle of theirmunities once upon a time. For every peak, there was a greater height to climb. Or, as Bakkhos would put it, for every valley, there was a darker hole to find. Thete kyrios of the Raging Heaven Cult was perhaps the only man on the mountain who believed every man¡¯s potential was equal - equally worthless. Once, when Selene had repeated one too many of the Tyrant Riot¡¯s sentiments in her father''s presence, Old ¡®Zalus had warned her that the kyrios was the only one to carry that torch because he was the only one it couldn¡¯t burn. In the real world, her father had told her with dark regret, only the greatest prodigy of them all could afford such a cavalier ideation. She hadn¡¯t wanted to believe her father then. She still didn¡¯t, even all these yearster. Yet, while the smoky scent of burning Olympia still stained her silks, she couldn¡¯t quite shake his sentiment. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw another broken corpse. And she wondered, though it helped her none and harmed her much, how many of those lives could have been spared if she had been a prodigy of the kyrios'' caliber. By the standards of the Raging Heaven Cult, and even of her father, Selene was exceptional. It had taken her less than a decade of active refinement to reach the Heroic Realm, and she had done it at an outrageous age. Both her father and the kyrios had promised her that if she kept on as she was, she would reach the next peak before she turned thirty. Polyzalus had sworn that oath with pride, of course. From Bakkhos¡¯ lips, though, it had sounded more like a curse. Yet what did future power matter when the world was ending today? What did twice the reward for half the effort matter when she had been born five hundred years toote to make a difference? What good was a fleet foot when thepetition straddled the finish line before the race began? What good was courage when cowards lived the longest lives? What good was a prodigy, any prodigy, in a world like this? ¡°Griffon. Selene. To me," spoke the son of Rome. "Now?" With reluctance, Griffon tore his eyes away from the distant sliver of Alexandria. "You¡¯re certain?" "I am." Her senior in scarlet faith sighed dramatically, but stood from his work on the mermaid''s tail and snapped a finger at the men working the oars. At once, the hands of manifested pneuma that had been helping each of them row instead rose up and mped themselves tight over each of the conscripts¡¯ ears. The former pirate child, Lync, hissed and tried to bite the first hand that reached for him, so the second hand smacked him over the head. The two hands together wrapped him up in a ratty nket and tossed him back up into the crow¡¯s nest. Griffon joined Solus at the bow of the ship. Selene cast an uneasy nce around, but the sailors didn¡¯t seem diforted, or even all that rmed by the hands mped over their ears. They each took it in stride. She supposed that after the things they had seen over thest few days, it would take more than this to shake them. One of the men noticed her staring and gave her a firm nod, ncing meaningfully at the ship¡¯s bow. He didn¡¯t speak, but his sentiment was clear enough. Don¡¯t keep the captain waiting. Since their time in the Orphic House, Solus'' steps had burdened the earth far more than his stature would imply. On the return trip from Thracia, he¡¯d been forced to act as a counterweight against the virtuous beasts that had insisted on following their riders back across the sea. Over thest two days, weighing even more than before, the solemn son of Rome had been forced to nt himself like an eagle standard in the middle of the ship''s deck, lest he sink them all. Something had changed the moment he swore the Eos¡¯ crew into his service, however. As abruptly as that oppressive weight had burdened him, it was gone again. Or at least, its impact on the world around him. Now, Solus sat at the foremost point of the ship on a bench of hand-carved bone. There were only enough wooden benches on the Eos to amodate her men-at-oars, and the captain had tly refused tomandeer any one of them despite the men¡¯s insistence. In the end, they hadn¡¯t stopped protesting until he reached into his own shadow and pulled from it the stark white bench. It was the awe that shut their mouths. Griffon leaned against the ship''s maidenhead, his arms crossed and his eyes back on the distant horizon. Idly, his thumb picked at his middle fingernail, as though digging for something caught underneath. There was space on Solus'' bone bench, so Selene sat beside him. "Is it truly necessary to cut them out of this?" she asked. "It''s very rude." Griffon snorted. Solus, for his part, set aside his own small project - a handful of bone dice that he had meticulously carved out of mermaid bone using his celestial bronze spear. He turned storm-gray eyes on her. The full weight of his attention settled on her like a thick nket. It was another of the many changes Olympia¡¯s fall had wrought. Solus'' focus had always been intense, especially for a junior sophist, but it was something else entirely now. Even when he wasn¡¯t looking, he could see her. Not like a civic cultivator could perceive her, with their eyes clenched shut against the full force of her spirit. Not like a Sophic cultivator - like the Sophic cultivator he was - could, squinting stubbornly up at the sun and trying to resolve its shape, even as it blinded them. At some point during their flight from the Raging Heaven Cult, Solus had opened his eyes fully and now looked upon the world and its people as a Hero did. It was likely a byproduct of his premature ignition. A Hero¡¯s perception, achieved before its time. At least, that¡¯s what Selene had first thought. Over time, as the Eos drew closer to the southern reaches of the world, she had begun to wonder. The weight of his notice felt different than even the heroes she had met before. It was heavier, to be sure, but she also felt it deeper in her self. During their impromptu strength training, it felt as though he could see her muscles failing before she felt the strain. There were even moments like these, fleeting and half-formed, when his eyes reminded her of Bakkhos. "Yes," the son of Rome said, snapping her from her musings. She looked away first. Her ears burned. "It is necessary. For your sake." "How so?" He didn¡¯t answer immediately. Selene chanced a nce back at him out of the corner of her eye and saw him considering the horizon just like Griffon. Unlike Griffon, however, there was no curiosity there. Where Griffon gazed upon the distant shore of the conquerors'' Pearl City with ravenous wanderlust, Solus regarded it with only grim determination. "What will you do?" Solus asked. It took her a moment to realize the question was for her. Even then, she didn¡¯t know what to say. "We''ll be in Alexandria before midday," he went on, eyes not leaving that distant pearl. "Of all the cities I¡¯ve seen, none have ever surpassed Rome in her glory - but of them all, Alexandria is the only one that came close." Selene leaned in, unable to stifle her curiosity. Even Griffin nced away from the distant shore to regard him with scarlet skepticism. "It may not have the deepest roots, but the city is a flower in full bloom," the Roman said, oddly sentimental. He''d been like this before, in Thracia, when they had stumbled upon one of the Conquerors'' abandoned outpost cities. "The Greeks call Olympia the beating heart of the Free Mediterranean, the nexus of enlightened thinking. Maybe that much is true. "But Olympia was built for the children of Helen," Solus said quietly. "For the rest of the world, there are two beacons that guide the hearts and minds of man. For the western world, there is Rome. And to the east, there is Alexandria. Neither one beholden to the sensibilities of Greeks. Both of them ascendant, while Olympia stagnates for generation after generation." "There are more opportunities in Alexandria than there are grains of sand and crashing waves. By this time tomorrow, I could charter you a ship or a mule to any ce on this earth. If you want to return home, I will find you safe passage. If you want to walk the Silk Road, I will enlist a worthy guide. Whatever it is that you desire, know that I will see it done. Anything can be purchased in the Pearl." Overwhelmed, Selene pointed out the first thing that came to mind. "You have no money." Griffin reached into his shadow, syed across the ship''s maidenhead, and upended a jar filled with coins onto the deck. The coins ttered and chimed, a cascade of gold, silver, and more mundane materials as well. Solus caught one such coin out of the air as it fell, turning the wood-carved drachma around in his hand. He gave Griffin an unimpressed look, but the scarlet son was observing a stone coin of his own with narrow eyes. "Scythas gave me these." Solus grunted, storing the wooden coin in his own shadow and waving to the pile of mostly gold and silver. "We have enough. If this doesn¡¯t suffice, there are merchants of every kind in Alexandria. What we can''t purchase with gold and silver, we''ll buy with mermaid scales." Selene folded her hands in herp, staring down at them in quiet contemtion. Truth be told, she had her own store of wealth tucked away in the same folded logic that she kept her spear. The how of it wasn¡¯t a concern. Neither was the why. "What do you want me to say, Solus?" she finally asked, her voice just on the wrong side of soft. For the first time in days, she missed her veil of gossamer gold. It wasn''t the son of Rome that answered. Instead, Selene heard Griffin heave a disgusted sigh and step away from the stern. He sat heavily down beside her on the bone bench, forcing her to shift closer to Solus until they were all three pressed together, thigh-to-thigh and shoulder-to-shoulder. "He wants you to say goodbye," Griffin exined, leaning forward when the Roman went to swat him over the head. "He worries you''ll be marred by the same brush as us if you choose to match our stride. He wonders why you haven''t said a word about Olympia since we burned it to the ground. He suspects it''s because you secretly resent us. He hopes to leave you at the Conqueror''s Pearl City, to see you live a better life - or not see it, I suppose." Though Solus cast an ugly look over her head, the weight of his ire a burden on her own pneuma, he didn''t deny any of it. Selene considered the creases in her silks. "And what about you, Griffin?" "What about me?" She dreaded every answer that came to mind, but she forced herself to ask the question anyway. She had waited too long as it was. "What do you want me to tell you?" "The truth." She couldn''t help it. Selene choked on a giggle, then scoffed, looking up from herp to spear him with an arch look. "No matter how profound your principle may be, ancient brother, it loses its luster when you swing it like a club at every conversation." "Ho! Such grant disrespect. You expect me to tolerate it?" Quick as a whip, Griffin seized her with hands of flesh and blood and manifested pneuma, pinning her to his side while he dug his knuckles into her hair and scrubbed. She hissed andughed, jabbing her fingers up and down his bare torso, searching in vain for a fleshy weak spot. "Grovel! Beg for my forgiveness!" "I won''t! I refuse!" Solus'' deep voice carried through their squabble. "I want you to prosper." Selene jerked back, and this time Griffin let her go. Solus was smiling, a small and quiet thing, as he watched the waves. She stared at him, wondering why it was that she couldn''t look away. ¡°This world is full of so-called prodigies, countless children favored by the fates, and every one of them is worthless.¡± "Even you?" "Especially me. I¡¯m the most worthless of them all." "Why do anything, then? Why waste your time teaching me?" "For the same reason that I still tend my vines, knowing they¡¯ll only bear me sour fruit." "You want to be proven wrong?" "Fool girl. I want you to prosper." "My city fell three years ago, and it took my heart and soul with it," Solus continued. Somehow, his smile didn¡¯t fade. It just grew sadder. ¡°I lost a mother, a father, three thousand brothers, and millions of my fellow Romans. I lost a wife." The son of Rome clenched an empty fist. "In the end, I even lost my way. "But I was found," he said, letting his fingers unfurl. "And now I know I didn¡¯t lose them all. My city¡¯s legions are still out there somewhere, waiting on some distant shore for a light to guide them home. So long as that remains true, I¡¯ll keep searching until I find them. No matter what enemies it earns me, no matter what sacrifices it takes, I will find my city¡¯s wayward sons and bring them home." He regarded her frankly. "I won¡¯t darken your skies with mine. Your kindness deserves a better reward than the storms on my horizon." Selene matched him eye for eye, refusing to be cowed. "You¡¯re so¡­ so¡­" she struggled to find the proper word. "Arrogant," Griffin suggested, chuckling when she snapped her fingers and pointed to him. "Spoke the raven to the crow.¡± ¡°We¡¯re both ravens, fool.¡± Griffon and Solus went back and forth over her head, trading barbs as easily as they breathed. It sparked a familiar greed inside her stomach, a hunger that she had long ago learned to suppress. After so many years, and so many hurts, it hardly registered in her mind before she¡¯d smothered it. Then, abruptly, she stopped. She let it go, little more than an ember now, and let it flicker fitfully. Solus and Griffin kept on bickering like brothers, and though she was wedged between them, Selene felt the wall that separated her from them still. The sight of it fanned that dampened ember. This time she let it grow. For the first time since she was just a little girl, Selene let it run wild. She let it burn her up inside, flooding, flowing up and out of her. "I used to pray to heaven for a brother." The bickering stopped. Selene smiled ruefully, wondering if she had made a mistake. Even if she had, it was toote now. "It isn¡¯t all that I wanted. These days, it isn¡¯t even what I want the most. I want to do more than what I¡¯ve always done, more than what an Oracle can do. I want to be a hero. I want to help people, truly help them - save their hearts before they break, not just help them scavenge for the broken pieces. I want to see the world and all its thousand wonders. I want to live my life unbeholden. I want to dance, dare, and die knowing that I¡¯ve opened every door I possibly could." The fire, that raging inferno of desire, didn¡¯t burn her as it had when she was a girl trapped by marble walls and expectations. It warmed her spirit. Every word stoked it higher. It made her want to fly. "All these things and more I¡¯ve desired, but I wanted a brother long before I wanted them," Selene waved aside a touch of steam rising from the corner of her eye. "I knew the gods wouldn¡¯t answer, but I prayed to them regardless. For a long time, I¡¯d beseech them every day. I loved my father and my mother, and I still do now - but my father was my father, and my mother was a ghost. I wanted a family. I wanted someone that would tease me, challenge me, but hold me when I cried. I wanted someone I could dream with." Selene chuckled, dashing more steam from the air above her head. "I wanted someone who had no choice but to be my friend." The wavespped against the Eos, carrying with them a thickyer of sea foam. The closer they drew to shore, the more of it there was. Viscous and bubbling, from horizon-to-horizon it was wholly ever present. The saltwater froth gave the seas around the city a pearlescent sheen. It clung to the sides of the ship, coated the distant beaches, and painted the sandstone stilts that Alexandria had been built upon so that from afar they looked almost like rainbow pirs of light. It was faintly unsettling, but it was beautiful. This world was beautiful. "A part of me does resent you," she admitted, patting each of them on the knee to lessen the sting of it. "But it¡¯s only a small part. The same part of me that still thinks I could have found a way to save my mother on my own. The rest of me knows better. As much as I loved her, and as desperately as I hoped, I¡¯ve known she was gone since I was a girl. No matter how it ended up, what the two of you did - it was a miracle. Those moments that you brought her back¡­ they were more than I ever thought I¡¯d get." "And yet," she whispered, "I can¡¯t help but hate you, just the slightest bit, for taking her final moments for yourself. I¡¯ve only had a brother for three days, and already I resent him for stealing my time in the sun from me - when he¡¯s the one that hung it in the sky for me. How unreasonable can I be?" "Witless little sister." Her brother''s arm, tan and strong, wrapped her up and pulled her close. When she dared to look, she found none of what she¡¯d feared in him. His scarlet eyes were only fond. "It¡¯s your sacred right to be unreasonable. That¡¯s what the me sculpted siblings for." Selene tried tough, but it came out choked. "I don¡¯t want to leave," she decided, as if there had been any doubt. Turning back to the captain, who seemed caught between warm approval and dread, she snatched his hand in hers and pulled it close before he could step away. "I told you back then, didn¡¯t I? I¡¯m with you, Solus. We¡¯ll walk this road together." "To the peak," Griffin vowed,ying his own hand over theirs. "To the peak," Selene insisted. Sol¡¯s jaw flexed, gray eyes going distant, withdrawn - then they turned away from the past, focused on the two of them instead. The son of Rome sighed and squeezed her hand in his. Ruefully, he agreed. ¡°To the peak-¡° Thest thing she saw was the lightning in his eyes as he turned to face the shore, a sudden rm so swift and fiercely bright that it stung her senses. The bench scraped against the deck with an ugly sound as Griffon surged to his feet, pneuma rising like a fire along with the hands of his violent intent. Solus covered her eyes with a single heavy hand. His virtue mmed down upon the men at oars, forcing their heads to bow. ¡°Don¡¯t look!¡± Solus snarled at her brother. Whatever his response was, Selene never heard it. Two hands of scarlet sin spun out from the sea of her brother¡¯s soul and covered her ears tight, blocking out all sound. Denied sight and sound, she reached out frantically with her enlightened senses, feeling nothing but the flickering lights of the panicked men at oars and the roaring mes of herpanions. They sparked higher and higher, burning what little time they had left- And then even that was gone. Selene held her breath, reaching out with all her senses for something, anything, and finding nothing there at all. Silence. Chapter .5 [Scythas] Chapter .5 [Scythas] Scythas, The Hurricane Harvester When Scythas woke, the sun had risen behind a curtain of ash. The Sanctuary City of Olympia had been reduced to an airborne miasma, a sickly yellow film that tainted the morning skies. It reminded him of the extra set of eyelids that some beasts had, thin enough to see through yet thick enough to smear. The film was thin enough to see the sun¡¯s glow through, yet thick enough that he couldn¡¯t feel its heat. The sand beneath his cheek was still hot, as if it had been baking all day long. He heard voices on the wind. Who do you think you are? Let me go. Let me go! I¡¯ll kill you! I¡¯ll kill your mother, I¡¯ll ughter your sons! Let me go! Please. Please. Please. Three lines for the same act, but each was delivered by a different voice. There were more, every pleading word drilling into his head just a bit deeper. He heard the voices of grizzled men and hard-hearted women, grown adults who had made their choices with open eyes. He heard the wary words of crones and old wise men. He heard children. For a moment, Scythas was sure he heard his brother. Not there! Don¡¯t! Please, please! Stop! Urania, he reached out for the goddess of stars. What is this? Why won¡¯t it stop? For a moment he feared that she¡¯d left him once again, but then he heard her quiet voice. "These are the final words of the fallen. A burden that the wind chose you to bear.¡± I don¡¯t want it. Make it stop, close my ears to it. Please. The Heavenly Muse had done it before, sparing him his sanity when a line of fire had broken Olympia. This time, though, her mercy never came. "A hero shouldn¡¯t be so cruel," said Urania,ying only aforting hand on the back of his neck. It was colder than ice. ¡°The wind won¡¯t tell any other. Without you, they''ll only waste away." Scythas wrestled with their death throes until the breeze waned and ceased, taking their voices with it. He had no idea how much time had passed when he opened his eyes again. The sun was still there, lurking behind the curtain of ash. For all that he knew, it could have been a full day. Btedly, he took stock of his surroundings. Olympia¡¯s dock town was gone, imed by the waves. There was nothing left of it other than that tainted film in the air. Fire wouldn¡¯t have been enough for such a scouring, he knew. There should have been evidence of the cataclysm, burned remains of broken homes at least. But the burning heat of dusk was no mundane fire, and the tyrant Polyzalus was no mundane man. Everything the whip had touched, whether wood or stone or living flesh, had burned until there was nothing left but ash. All that remained was sand and molten earth, steaming where it met the sea, and mingling with the smoking miasma in the air. If any of the wild beasts had survived, they had long since fled the wreckage. But that didn¡¯t mean he was alone. There were four sorry souls trapped there with him, straddling the line between the blue Ionian Sea and Olympia¡¯s smoking corpse. He watched them with dull eyes. Elissa stalked up and down the beach,shing out at the air with a jagged little shank that had once been a Heroine¡¯s proud sword, striking out over and over again at an opponent no one but she herself could see. Every few seconds she would jerk away from an invisible blow, only to stumble and flinch away as she took a blow that only she could feel. Every time, her lips would move silently, her hand would tremble and clench around her worthless shank, and she would turn and move back the other way, beginning it all again. Steam rose in thin, steady streams from the corners of her burning eyes. Kyno sat motionless in the Ionian¡¯s shallow waters, hunched over with his head cradled in both hands while the wavespped at his bare chest. His crocodile cloak was nowhere to be seen. Lefteris, surprisingly, wasn¡¯t the worst off of the three. What Scythas could see of him without moving his head was a man possessed by manic purpose. He had eschewed them both to seek out another hero, which struck Scythas as being even odder. Then Scythas realized he didn¡¯t recognize therger hero that Lefteris was exchanging frantic words with, and lurched up from the sand in rm. ¡°Who-?¡± The three that he knew froze at the sound of his voice, each of them looking at Scythas with foreign expressions. Not disdainful, as he had grown so used to. Why were they looking at him like that? Who was that man? The man pulled tight a knot of rope around two fallen tree trunks, looking back from his work and offering Scythas a tired smile. ¡°How¡¯d you sleep?¡± Jason asked, taller than he had ever been before. Just a bitrger than life. Scythas went to push himself to his feet, a thousand questions on his tongue, and promptly fell back on his face. His limbs were longer than they should have been. ¡°You¡­¡± He grimaced and spat sand. ¡°Advanced?¡± Jason asked wryly. ¡°I¡¯m not the only one.¡± ¡°You saved us?¡± Scythas asked instead, and Jason¡¯s faint good humor faded. Jason scratched his cheek. He had shaved at some point while Scythas was unconscious. Combined with his longer limbs and the new depth of passion carved into his soul, he looked like he had stepped forward through time. Finally, he nodded. ¡°Then, that means he couldn¡¯t keep you down,¡± Scythas said, pushing himself carefully back up. He felt like he had been crushed into a ball,pressed and trampled by a herd of wild horses. His silks were gone, reced by robes of cold liquid stone that could only belong to Urania. They shifted as he rose, revealing an ugly ck bruise that emanated from a central point on his corbone, as though the valley of his throat had been struck by a meteor. Though he had been to the Underworld once, Scythas had never actually died. He imagined that when the day came that he did, it would feel something like Solus dropping an elbow on his throat. "You saved us from him," Scythas rified. Even though he knew it was hopeless, he allowed himself a moment of blind optimism. "You matched yourself against his-" High on rising currents and stronger than he¡¯d ever been. Soaring heaven and harvested storms. No burning sea can save you from me. The lying raven held out an empty hand of broken promises and made of it a bloody fist. He cocked his thumb out. He turned it down. [Judgment.] Heaven and earth, and sea and stars. Everything that he could see. Everything the captain led. Goddesses and heroes alike. All of it, none of it, no one. They fell. "-him. You matched yourself against him," Scythas pressed. "And you won. You must have." He had seen the look in Solus¡¯ eyes that final moment before the captain took him to the bottom of the Ionian. There had been no mercy there. The golden light of burning dread, and lightning behind it. Solus would have dragged him down to Tartarus if he hadn¡¯t been interrupted. Scythas was certain of it. "You beat him," Scythas said. He can be beaten, he meant. Jason turned to look down at his work. To call it a ship would have been an insult to any proper sea vessel. Even calling it a skiff would have been generous. Whatever it was, the tform ofshed-together trees was clearly meant for the sea. "I did what I was allowed to do." "What?" Lefteris spoke up for the first time since Scythas had made himself known. He leaned away from Jason, suddenly as wary of him as he had been when he looked at Scythas. "What are you trying to say?" "I should have known," Elissa kicked up sand as she stalked back towards them. Pneuma rose up around her, sharp and uncontrolled. Jagged, like her shank. "I should have known better than to trust the coward. You worshiped him until the end, even when he confessed his crimes to your face! I should have known something was amiss the moment I woke up and saw your ugly face. You¡¯re no hero. A clean shave can¡¯t hide a dog¡¯s face-!" "Enough," Scythas whispered. Elissa tensed and went still. It only added to the vertigo he was feeling. In the short time they had known one another, Elissa had never respected him as an equal. There had always been a measure of contempt in her eyes when she looked upon him. The day he had fled the Storm That Never Ceased, the Sword Song had marked him as a coward, and that had been that. Why was it, then, that she looked at him now as though he were a snarling beast? ¡°What do you mean?¡± he asked Jason, noting that the other rank two Hero hadn¡¯t risen his Pneuma in the slightest bit while Elissa was stalking toward him. Jason sighed, hefting up a branch that he had stripped from one of the logs. He rolled it between his fingers, considering it. ¡°Do you remember what I did in the scarlet oracle¡¯s room? Before you went to Thracia?¡± "You lost control." ¡°I did. And in my anger, I struck him with the essence of my spirit.¡± Jason didn¡¯t have to specify whom he meant. Scythas remembered it clear as day. Jason¡¯s pneuma rose up around him in a controlled current, more potent than it had been the day before. ¡°It didn¡¯t do a thing to him, and at the time, I thought that was only right. After all, what chance does a Hero¡¯s stray wrath have of harming a tyrant in their prime?¡± Jason exhaled, and his pneuma crushed the heavy branch into a ball of splinters the size of his fist. ¡°About as much chance as a philosopher has of surviving it,¡± he finished, letting the crumpled ball of wood drop to the sand. ¡°A Hero¡¯s heart is an open me. It¡¯s dangerous to mortals; we learned that the moment we advanced. But here was a man that had only just set foot in the Sophic realm, and the mes didn¡¯t so much as singe him. The pressure, the crush that is my full heart¡¯s way, couldn¡¯t so much as bend him. How can that be?¡± ¡°It should have been obvious. He all but told me the answer himself, the day that I swore to stand by his side.¡± Jason looked down at the crumpled ball of splinters, haunted. ¡°Our origins rhyme. We were both captains once. That much I know was not a lie.¡± ¡°You share a virtue,¡± Lefteris realized. ¡°Not quite. Just like the circumstances of our suffering, our virtues only rhyme. The day my ship went down, I tempered my spirit at the bottom of the sea, crushed and slowly drowning. But I left the work iplete. I fled the sea that had raised me since I was a boy. I fled the shadow of my sunken ship, left to me by my mother. I fled the corpses of my crew. I fled. And a part of me stayed behind. That day, a part of me went down with the ship.¡± Jason considered the gentle, crashing waves of the Ionian. There was a deep unease that yet lingered in his eyes, but there was fondness too. ¡°If I hadn¡¯t left her, maybe things would¡¯ve been different. Maybe my virtue would have changed. Maybe if I had stayed¡­¡± ¡°But you didn¡¯t,¡± Kyno rumbled, pulling away from his cupped palms to look back at them. He looked tired in a way that sleep couldn¡¯t fix. "But I didn¡¯t," Jason agreed. "And because of that, and perhaps because of a thousand other choices, our virtues only rhyme. In the end¡­" Jason clenched his hand into a fist. "His path is mine¡­ but more." "You still believe in him," Scythas felt sick. "After what they did, you still¡ª" "I don¡¯t know what they did," Jason shook his head. "None of us did, and we still don¡¯t now, no matter what you think. I won¡¯t pass judgment until I understand." "You still haven¡¯t exined what you meant earlier," Lefteris said. "What did the revenant allow you to do?" "He allowed me to fight. He demanded it. If he had wanted to kill all of you, there isn¡¯t any question that he could have done it. At the start of that fight when he snatched us up like unruly children and tossed us into the sky, I was the only one unable to fight it. When he banished us to the far horizon, and I was the only one whose heart burned in vain, that¡¯s when I understood the nature of our paths. The rest of you exist outside of his jurisdiction. I do not. "He moved me like I was another limb," Jason shook his head. "If he had wanted you to die, he would have banished me back to Olympia, and I wouldn¡¯t have been able to do a single thing about it. He let me dive in after you. He wanted me to contest his virtue in the only arena where I could properly fight it. "Solus dared me to defy him. He wanted me to win." It was too much for Elissa. The Heroine screamed, her aura cutting trenches in the beach, and she turned and flung her broken shiv of a sword into the Ionian. Her chest heaved and her shoulders shooked, her jaw clenching hard enough to crush marble between her teeth. Her hair was a mess of mismatched locks, chopped and singed and severed by Griffon¡¯s burning de. She was scarred. Worse now than ever before. Scythas didn¡¯t feel any better off. The more he thought about it, the less sense it all made. Every time he thought he¡¯d gained a bit of understanding, some coherence, he remembered another offhandment that Griffon had made, something so absurd that it couldn¡¯t possibly be true. Every time he thought he¡¯de to terms with the reality of things, he remembered another impossible act that Solus had taken and treated as the minimum expectation. The more he tried to make sense of it, the more his vision swam. He tried to imagine himself in their ce, standing where they stood, and every time he failed. He had been a rising star in his own right, a prodigy that the Howling Wind Cult was proud to im, and he remembered vividly how invincible he¡¯d felt when he first advanced to the Sophic Realm. The first time Scythas had reached out with the refined senses of a Philosopher and first brushed up against the whirlwind currents of what schrs called logos, pathos, and ethos, he had felt as though the whole world was unfurling like a scroll before his eyes. He¡¯d never forget that arrogance. And yet, even in that high, could he imagine himself charging headlong into a fight with a man he didn¡¯t know, pursuing assassins whose capabilities he couldn¡¯t even begin to understand, just to save a stranger that should have been able to save themselves? Maybe. Maybe, if he didn¡¯t understand the danger. But Scythas knew the moment he¡¯d felt the stirring of a Heroic soul in that shadowed alleyway, he would have fled as fast as the wind could carry him. Even then, at the height of his arrogance as a fresh-faced sophist, nothing could havepelled him to strike out at someone a full realm above him. Nothing. ¡°Nothing?¡± Stone-Urania murmured in his ear, a question without usation. ¡°You sell yourself short.¡± Scythas grimaced. There was madness, and there was madness. In the press of a foreign crowd, surrounded by cultivators his equal or greater, and within spitting distance of eight Tyrants whose ages could be more readily measured in generations than seasons, could Scythas imagine himself pping Elissa in the face? Even as he¡¯d been that day, at the kyrios¡¯ funeral, Scythas knew the answer was no. Because he hadn¡¯t. He¡¯d bit his tongue when she called him trash, and not solely because it wasn¡¯t worth the fight. Could he imagine himself standing where Griffon had stood as a first rank Philosopher? Watching a Hero back down from an apparent peer, seeing the desert-mes burning in her eyes that marked her as a legend, and choosing to p her across the face regardless? Could he imagine doing it twice? All because she¡¯d torn his shawl and insulted an acquaintance he''d only met a moment ago? Of course he couldn¡¯t. There was sticking to your principles, and then there was suicide, and then somewhere distantly beyond that, there was that. The more he remembered and the closer he examined their actions, the more apparent their madness became. Had it been Justice to step forward rather than shrink back when the Sword Song shoved an innocent aside and called her fellows trash? Perhaps. Perhaps if one considered those facts and nothing else at all. Was it a Captain¡¯s obligation to charge into a losing fight for the sake of two strangers, one he¡¯d met minutes ago and the other that he¡¯d never met at all? That didn¡¯t make much sense to Scythas, but the alternative was hardly any better. Had Solus already marked him as an eager recruit, even then? From that first conversation Scythas had felt as though the Roman saw through everyyer of him, straight through to the core, but that wasn¡¯t possible if he was a lowly sophist. Right? Right? he wondered, seeking an answer, and heard Stone-Urania sigh. ¡°These delineations that men have made for themselves aren¡¯t absolute. Your great thinkers have done what they can to make sense of senseless things, and their efforts are admirable - but ultimately, they are iplete. You are capable of more than you think, young reaper. The same holds true for others. If the stratification of your cities was cosmic truth and not justmonw, nothing would ever change. Were your own origins not humble? Yet here you are, capable of greater things than most will ever be.¡± Because I refined myself. I am what I am because I cultivated my strengths and cut away my weaknesses. The things that I¡¯m capable of now are a direct result of that refinement. I couldn¡¯t have done half those things before I advanced. Why was he arguing about this? Why was he gainsaying the literal word of heaven? ¡°You advanced, and that made you capable of great things? Is that truly so?¡± Stone-Urania sounded wholly unconvinced. ¡°Or could it be the case that you advanced because you were capable of great things? In the throes of your ascension, are you certain that you didn¡¯t conte one for the other?¡± No. That¡¯s not¡­ Why did it bother him so much? ¡°Think back,¡± the Heavenly Muse urged him. ¡°Every great story begins with abor. Was yours the product of your ascension, or was it the cause?¡± Scythas had ascended to the Heroic Realm in tragedy. He¡¯d watched his swornrades die gruesomely, cut down in a foreignnd by demons in the shape of men. He had fought more furiously than he thought possible, and he had lost regardless. He¡¯d fled, so close to death that he could feel its breath upon his neck, and mbered onto a ship that had been designed for a crew of thirty oarsmen. Bleeding and broken, he¡¯d sailed it into a storm that ckened the skies and made mountains of the waves, careening across the sea like a leaf caught in a hurricane. At what point in that nightmare had the lightning struck his head? Between the blood loss and the grief and the howling of the storm, the memory had been blurred like smeared paint across a canvas. He¡¯d decided at some point that Urania hade first, blessing him with her favor. The lightning had struck. And then, once he¡¯d paid the price of his ascension, only then had his passion lit a me inside his heart. Only after he had been blessed and struck in turn could he have ascended. It was the only thing that made sense. Every day he told himself it was true, it became a bit more real in his mind. The muddled paint that was his memory seemed to get a bit clearer every day, refining itself into a portrait of that day that he could at least make sense of, regardless of how much it hurt. Scythas had ascended in tragedy because that was heaven¡¯s will. He had advanced where all of his peers had died, not in spite of their deaths, but because of them. Thinking of it that way saved him from the weight of what could have been. If he had only advanced a day earlier, could he have saved them from the wolves? Ridiculous. That wasn¡¯t how his story went. Urania had told him as much herself. His story was one of weathering storms. Scythas watched his fingers dig furrows in the sand, distantly, as though they belonged to someone else. In the story that Griffon had shown them, the story of the man that he¡¯d vowed to defy, Damon Aetos - his father - and his brothers three, Scythas had seen the process of ascension from an outsider¡¯s perspective. With clear eyes, he had watched Anargyros Aetos set fire to his heart long before the lightning or the Muses tried to im him. Scythas had seen tribtion strike the whirlpool sea, he had seen the whirlpool die alongside the monster responsible for its creation, and he had seen Damon Aetos stride out of the waves with bright blue fire in his eyes. He¡¯d watched him pull an arrow from his chest and strike down a serpent that bled liquid lead and repelled all mortal blows as a matter of course. All of that before Calliope the Muse hadid her golden crown upon his head. It had been simple enough to exin it all away in the aftermath of the telling. Lived experience was subject to the storyteller. Stavros Aetos could have forgotten details in the press of violence and filled in the nks with his best guesster on down the line. His memory could have been at fault. The scribe responsible for recording his tale could have falsified events for the sake of narrative appeal. ¡°Could have, would have, should have,¡± he muttered under his breath. How much of what he¡¯d been taught was truly set in stone? The more that Scythas forced himself to ponder the question, the more pessimistic his answer became. And yet still, there was a part of him that recoiled from the mere thought of a sophist doing even half the things that Solus and Griffon had done. Why? Why did it bother him so much? ¡°Oh, hero,¡± Stone-Urania said sorrowfully, brushing cool fingers across his cheek. It bothered him, because it meant that Griffon was right. It maddened him, because it meant he could have done more. The time he¡¯d wasted in Olympia, the insults that he¡¯d suffered and the favor that he¡¯d demeaned himself to curry, all of it in the hopes of saving his brother - all of it had been for nothing. If he epted the truth of what they¡¯d done, the truth of Anargyros and Damon Aetos, the truth of his own ascension, then he had no choice but to admit that he was more frightened of the Eye of the Storm than he was worried for his brother. In order to acknowledge that his shackles were self-inflicted, Scythas first had to admit that Griffon was right. He¡¯d been a coward after all. Chapter .6 [Scythas] Chapter .6 [Scythas] Scythas, The Hurricane Harvester ¡°Look at what they did to us.¡± Jason sighed and turned back to his raft. Lefteris and Kyno stared at Scythas from across the beach, that same wariness to them as there had been in Elissa. Like he¡¯d bleed liquid lead if they cut him. Elissa faced the waves that had imed her de, but he knew she was listening. ¡°Look at us,¡± Scythas repeated, lifting his head and spearing them with a re. ¡°The favored champions of the great and terrible Tyrant Riot. The prodigies among the prodigies. We were so great that the Elders mored for our favor, offered us their wisdom as mentors and their daughters as brides. We were meant to be the exceptions. We were meant to be glorious. And look at what they did to us.¡± They tried to avert their eyes in shame and stubborn rage. He wouldn¡¯t let them. Scythas whistled sharply and the wind rose up from the sands and blew their hair back from their eyes, forcing them to lift their faces. He bared his teeth in disbelief and hate and rage, the bulwark of his denial finally crashing down. Giving way to all his sorrows. ¡°They were children, hardly twenty years of age. At the end they had nothing but their hearts to pit against ours. And they ruined us.¡± It was agony to stand, and halfway up he nearly fell again, but Stone-Urania was there to steady him. She slipped into being beneath his arm and propped him up, sharing the stone-silk robes with him so that she wasn¡¯t made fully nude. As sphemous as the sensation of her stone flesh pressing against his side was, though, he hardly spared it a thought. His attention was drawn instead to her grimacing expression, and to the sound of rolling gravel that her body made when it shifted. There was a crater in her back, a spiderwebttice of fractured marble that emanated from a central point between her slender shoulder des. Scythas stared down at it, aghast. What happened? Stone-Urania nced up at him through bangs of chiseled stone, offering him only a pained smile. His own lingering wound, the ugly ck bruise that had persisted despite the hardiness of a Hero¡¯s constitution, throbbed in sympathetic pain. And he remembered. He remembered the Son of Rome lowering his shoulder and striking him in the gut like a minotaur, a charging bull in the shape of a man, and knocking the wind out of him so that for a brief-but-terrible moment he couldn¡¯t whistle. He remembered falling, twisting, trying to dodge, and seeing only the golden light of scouring me in Solus¡¯ eyes as he dropped an elbow on his chest. He¡¯d cked out briefly at the impact, skewing the moments before and after in his mind, but looking down at thetticework cracks in the stone Muse¡¯s back, he remembered the split second before the meteor hit. Stone-Urania dove over top of him, her back to the Revenant, and Scythas saw the sculpted terror on her face. Terror for him. And yet, what could a member of heaven¡¯s Chorus possibly have to fear-? Then darkness. ¡°What is that?¡± Lefteris¡¯ hushed question shook Scythas back to reality. He was peering at the stone Muse tucked inside his robes with furrowed brow and flickering me. Absently, the Gold-String Guardian rubbed at his dented breastte, directly over his heart. ¡°Not what,¡± Kyno said quietly. ¡°Who.¡± ¡°I was beginning to wonder if I¡¯d only been seeing things back then, but you did it, didn¡¯t you?¡± Jason chuckled, stripping another log of its branches with smooth strokes of his hand andshing it to his raft. ¡°Here I thought Griffon was the mad one, taking sword monuments from the storm like they were his by right. But then you went and stole Urania.¡± ¡°Not quite,¡± Stone-Urania spoke, and Jason fumbled the knot he¡¯d been in the middle of tying. ¡°The truth is, I stole him.¡± It was the first time Scythas had heard the Muse speak, out loud rather than directly to his heart. He hadn¡¯t known the stone goddess was capable of it. Stone-Urania smiled, one arm wrapped around his waist, and reached up with her other hand to pat him on his chest. It was no coincidence that the arm she¡¯d kept tucked against her side was the one that Griffon¡¯s de had fractured. Still, despite her wounds, she was offering him her strength. It made him feel ashamed. He owed her more than this. Scythas forced himself to stand up straighter, to wrap his own arm around her and hold her steady as she held him. Her smile deepend, and her eyes crinkled at their corners. The sight overthrew him. When Scythas finally managed to extricate himself from it, he found the sands had shifted, and three Heroic souls had appeared kneeling at his feet. Lefteris, Kyno, and Elissa knelt with their hands pressed t against their thighs, their heads bowed in reverence. Idly, Scythas realized that Kyno wasn¡¯t almost as tall as him while kneeling anymore. How much had he changed, really? ¡°Sacred goddess of stars and charters,¡± Lefteris began, gripping the flesh of his thighs tight enough to break mortal bones. ¡°Blessed patron of Heroic hearts,¡± Elissa spoke in turn, the words a hoarse whisper. Scythas had never once heard her speak with such supplication. ¡°Heavenly Muse Urania,¡± Kyno finished, loomingrgest in the center and as always the steadiest of the three. His eyes were ringed by dark shadows, his mountainous shoulders slumped in defeat, but his voice was like an anchor dropped at sea - deep and heavily set. ¡°Though our hearts may be unworthy and our spirits yet infirm, we beg of you your majesty - please, lend us your aid.¡± Stone-Urania tilted her head, observing each of them curiously. He couldn¡¯t begin to guess what those stone eyes of hers saw. Distantly, so long ago that it felt like another life entirely, he vaguely recalled a lecture given by one of the Howling Wind Cult¡¯s natural philosophers on the nature of the eye, and how it achieved its vision. Was it some mystical wonder that made it possible for an orb of stone to capture the light like a living eye, some echo of the Muse¡¯s majesty? Or was she observing the world around her through a different sense entirely, and simply mimicking the mannerisms of man to set their minds at ease? Maybe both. Maybe neither. It hardly mattered - a mortal had no business questioning the mechanisms of divinity. And yet. Scythas realized¡­ he wanted to know the answer anyway. A sh of some half-remembered moment, of hungry scarlet eyes and a knowing smirk, made his stomach churn and his heart me burn brighter in his chest. He banished it and his curiosity both from his thoughts, irritated at himself. ¡°I¡¯ve seen you three before,¡± Stone-Urania mused. ¡°My sisters know you well. They brag about you, at times.¡± When the three Heroes perked up, she smiled apologetically. ¡°Mostly, though, they worry.¡± ¡°We will strive to ease the burden of their care in the future, that much to you I swear,¡± Kyno said, while Lefteris and Elissa nodded shallowly on either side of him. ¡°But if ever there was a time that they worried for our souls, it would be now. Heavenly Urania, sworn sister of saints, we beg you for salvation. Our hearts are not our own.¡± The giant huntsman bowed until his forehead brushed the sands. He looked smaller, somehow, without the mantle of his crocodile cloak. Bare. The statue of Urania hummed. It was an odd sound, melodic and yet grounded. ¡°We don¡¯t presume to ask you for your favor,¡± Lefteris spoke up hastily. He started to raise his head but caught himself before he could lock eyes with the goddess, jerking back down to stare at the sands. ¡°We only want our patrons back. We want to feel our hearts beat freely, not¡­¡± ¡°Not what?¡± Stone Urania gently prompted. Rather than Lefteris, it was Elissa that answered. ¡°The faker,¡± the Sword Song hissed, her rage warring with her reverence. ¡°The one that dared to strike your sister, Tragic Melpomene - Damon Aetos¡¯ bastard son. He put his filthy hands on our hearts. He vited us, and even after he fled like a rat across the sea, his touch lingers there still. I can feel it with every beat. Our hearts are trapped inside a cage of his creation. Our Muses are gone. He took them!¡± Her pneumashed out, but only at herself, cutting thin lines across her pale skin that slowly beaded blood. ¡°I understand your anguish,¡± Stone Urania said, and Scythas saw the hope built in them like the rising tide. ¡°What would you have me do?¡± ¡°Rip his hand away!¡± Lefteris hurriedly suggested. ¡°Break every knuckle and bone,¡± Elissa added with vicious heat. Kyno sped his hands together, a quiet plea. ¡°Break our chains and set us free.¡± Stone Urania leaned against his side, frowning down at them. As the moments crawled by, their frantic hope gave way to an electric tension, and then a thick and creeping dread. Scythas saw their tight fists tremble in theirps. He saw their jaws clench and the shuttered mes behind their eyes dim. ¡°I can not.¡± ¡°Why!?¡± Naturally, Elissa was the first of them to snap. The Sword Song¡¯s head whipped up, supplication forgotten as she stared up at the statue of the Muse in disbelief. ¡°Name a price and we¡¯ll pay it! Name abor and we¡¯ll see it done!¡± Lefteris blurted, raising his own head as well in desperation. His face twisted, and the next words were horribly strained. ¡°Please. I¡¯ve lost my children. I can¡¯t find them on my own.¡± ¡°Why not?¡± Urania asked him. For a moment, the Gold-String Guardian could only stare up at her, entirely lost for words. ¡°Why?¡± Elissa asked again. And there it was, that heat that Scythas knew all too well. She was furious, and swiftly losing the battle against her wrath. ¡°You know what that man did. You know what his father did before him. If you won¡¯t act for our sakes, then fine, but this man and his maker struck your sisters down. Because of Damon Aetos, Calliope is lost. A ninth of the world¡¯s Heroes left without a patron, the heavens deprived of the leader of their Chorus! And now the son hase and razed Olympia to the ground. Now Lio Aetos has put Melpomene to the sword, and still you won¡¯t lift your hand against his!?¡± Stone Urania listened patiently, hearing the Heroine out in her grief and taking no offense to her usatory tone. However, once the rant had run its course, the Muse said nothing more. Elissa¡¯s expression turned ugly. The scar that cut across the corner of her mouth twisted and warped as she began to say something she would assuredly regret. If not because of Stone Urania¡¯s direct reprisal, then because of Scythas¡¯. He felt his eyes narrow and his pneuma build, greater and more focused than it had ever been before. Kyno ced a hand over Elissa¡¯s mouth, silencing her. Of the three, he was the only one that hadn¡¯t raised his head when the Heavenly Muse denied them. ¡°May we ask why you won¡¯t do it?¡± he asked quietly. Stone Urania sighed softly. ¡°You¡¯ve misunderstood me. It isn¡¯t that I won¡¯t. I can not.¡± She shifted the stone silks and removed her hand from Scythas¡¯ chest, reaching out instead for the huntsman¡¯s. ¡°Perhaps it¡¯s better that I show you. Brace yourself, child. This will sting.¡± The Muse¡¯s stone fingers pressed briefly against the tan skin of Kyno¡¯s chest, and then slipped inexplicably past the barrier like it was made of water rather than flesh. Kyno shivered, but otherwise remained still as Stone Urania reached deeper into his chest, delicate marble fingers questing for his heart- There came a sound, like rushing wind and the beating of some great bird¡¯s wings, and Kyno gagged like he¡¯d been stabbed. His eyes flew open wide, and when his lips parted, smoke billowed out of his mouth like it was a forge. Lefteris and Elissa lunged for him, gripping him by the shoulders and heaving him back. The solemn huntsman spasmed and ripped himself away from Stone Urania¡¯s hand with their help, flinching in agony and fear. Thankfully, the marble hand slipped out of his chest as easily as it had slipped in, and the hulking Hero copsed on his back in the sand, retching and clutching at his broad chest. Lefteris and Elissa hovered over him, reaching out but hesitating to touch as they searched frantically for a wound. There was nothing, though. Nothing on the outside, at least. ¡°What was that?¡± Lefteris breathed. ¡°What did you do?¡± Elissa snapped. Stone Urania held out her hand for all of them to see. The tips of her marble fingers were scorched and ckened. ¡°He won¡¯t let you go,¡± she exined somberly. Scythas took her hand in his, brushing carefully at the marks on her fingers. She spared him an affectionate nce before turning back to them. ¡°I could remove the hand, that much is true, but not without harming the heart. He¡¯d sooner crush it than let it beat unguarded. He¡¯d rather burn it to ash than let it fall into another¡¯s hands.¡± Watching that wash over them, Scythas felt his own heart clench in sympathetic pain. First came the disbelief, then denial, and finally despair. It devastated them. Even now, separated from them by the full breadth of the sea, Griffon hadid them low again. ¡°This is madness,¡± Lefteris muttered, clutching his head in his hands. ¡°It makes no sense. It¡¯s absurd.¡± ¡°Third rank.¡± Elissa said. The heat drained out of her, leaving her empty and cold. ¡°A third rank Sophist, and there¡¯s nothing we can do. An arrogant, lying child.¡± ¡°You know better than that.¡± Stone Urania stared each of them down, her disapproval heavy as a stone. ¡°Hate them if that is what your hearts desire, but do not turn your eyes away from the truth they inly see. Be honest with yourselves, acknowledge your failings, but do not sell yourselves short. The forces you contested were not anything so trivial. They were present. They were real. They were a threat then, and they are even more a threat now. If you struggle to understand the nature of their existence, remedy yourck - you mustn¡¯t bury your heads in prayer. It won¡¯t be me or mine that sweeps those two into stark Tartarus.¡± ¡°Help us learn from our mistakes,¡± Scythas entreated her. The stone Muse hummed, considering, and he borated. ¡°Everything I¡¯ve ever been taught by a senior or a peer tells me that those two should not exist. It¡¯s not¡­ there is talent, and then there is this. We were wrong about them. We were wrong about them twice. Help us understand it.¡± They held their breath while the Heavenly Muse deliberated. Even Jason paused in his work, not looking back but dedicating every bit of his focus to what she would say next. ¡°It has been so very long since I¡¯ve seen the sun,¡± she finally said, lifting her chin to regard it. Veiled as it was by the smog and the soot in the air, it wasn¡¯t much to look at. But even so, Stone Urania regarded it with joyful wonder. ¡°Long enough that I don¡¯t have the words to properly describe it. I stopped counting the days so very long ago. It could have been a thousand years. It could have been a million. I suspect I¡¯ll never know for certain. ¡°In spite of that, humanity remains the same.¡± Stone Urania twisted her scorched fingers, tugging at the sky above, and the veil of ash and smog parted like a curtain overhead. Warm, untainted sunlight rained down upon the ssed beaches that had once been home to Olympia¡¯s dock city, bathing them in itsforting glow. Scythas marveled at the simple act along with the rest of his peers, admiring the scope of a goddess¡¯ strength - and then, for the smallest fraction of a moment, he wondered if such an act was truly beyond him. If the Queen of the Amazons could fire an arrow from her bow and turn the evening to night, what was he capable of? Could he clear the skies too? ¡°You could,¡± Stone Urania answered. Scythas flushed, embarrassed and yet strangely pleased. ¡°The acts you see as wonders are well within your reach - now, as then, it has only ever been a question of your own desires. All of you, all of you, are capable of outrageous things. That is your right as human beings. ¡°But along with that blessinges a terrible curse. Man¡¯s virtue is limitless in its scope, and the same is true of his vice. You think less of yourselves because you have no idea what is possible, and you have no idea what is possible because you have no proof before your eyes.¡± The statue leaned in, with the mischievous air of someone telling a secret they had no business sharing, and whispered, ¡°This is why we tell your stories. Not because they please us, though they do, but because your sons and daughters will need to hear them long after you¡¯re gone.¡± ¡°You¡­¡± Lefteris bit down on the question and forced himself to wait, hanging on her words. ¡°I,¡± Stone Urania confirmed, ¡°and my sisters, too. We do what we can to aid the children of man, to help the hallowed Hearth keep their me alive. Unfortunately, we are not without our limits. Even worse, given time and ack of new examples to inspire, even the greatest of our stories start to lose their sheen. At some point, the great acts cease to inspire, and instead invite despair. Why was I born in this era, and not the one that came before? Why is the light in the sky so bleak for me, where for them it shone so bright?¡± Unbidden, Scythas thought of them again. He grit his teeth and banished the two from his mind. This time, the image only came right back. ¡°Yet as much as things change, the foundation stays the same. Mankind is its own curse, and so too its own salvation.¡± Stone Urania closed her stone eyes, basking in the sun¡¯s rays. ¡°Past the peak of their fleeting existence, it is the elder¡¯s nature to stagnate and grow old. The opposite holds just as true. On the way to the peak of their potential, change is the providence of young blood. Inevitably, stagnation gives way to the storm. For good and for bad, mankind paves their own way.¡± The Heavenly Muse sighed contentedly, opening her eyes and regarding them all fondly. ¡°Those children are the storm,¡± she said. ¡°Hate them if you must, but understand their nature. This will not be thest time they tear the world down around them. So long as they draw breath, they will rake their purpose across this earth, upendingnd and sea. They will never stop. They will prosper, or they will perish. It¡¯s what they are. ¡°They are not your friends, but neither are they your foes. They are the flood that drowns your vige and revives your dying soil. They are the quaking of the earth that topples your cities so that new ones might be built. They are both the hurricane and the hail.¡± Stone Urania smirked gently up at Scythas, grasping his chin and pulling him eye-to-eye with her. ¡°They are the storm, young hero,¡± she told him, her voice husky and intent. ¡°When ites to men like them, there is only one question that matters. Will you endure them? Or will you be more?¡± [¡°Your story is one of weathering-¡±] No. Scythas banished the voice of his Muse, his first Muse, from his mind. He was done clinging to her words. He walked past the trio of kneeling Heroes and none of them tried to stop him. They were all absorbed in their own thoughts, their hopes and fears and ever-burning desires. When he stepped up behind Jason, he found him wrenching thest knots tight around his makeshift raft. Jason stood tall and stretched his arms to the skies. Though they¡¯d both grown by leaps and bounds in the course of their advancement, their rtive heights remained the same. ¡°You¡¯re sure that thing will float?¡± he asked the reaver. Jason shed him a boyish grin, and kicked the raft across the beach. It hit the Ionian in a spray of salt water and bobbed cheerfully above the waves. ¡°If Sol wills it, I¡¯ll sail on a mat.¡± Jason offered him one of two rough oars that he¡¯d carved somewhere along the way. Scythas took it. Whether it ended in heaven or in Hades, the road ahead was clear. No matter how dark the clouds above, and regardless of the sting of tribtion, Scythas wouldn¡¯t hesitate another moment. His story was one of chasing storms. ¡ª------ Myron, The Little Kyrios Myron woke up spitting mad with a mouth full of seawater. ¡°Woah-! Wait, easy-!¡± a boy his age shouted. ¡°He lives!¡± cried another in glee. The self-proimed king and his brother Pyr, the red-headed civic cultivators that had pretended to drown so they could rob him - and then actually drowned when the nearby docks exploded - leapt back as Myron lunged up with swinging fists. The deceiver had an empty bucket in his hands. Myron¡¯s lip lifted from his teeth, pneuma rising up around him. He inhaled slowly, filling each of the pneumatic chambers he¡¯d carved out of his body and readying himself for a sophisticated exchange of higher ideals. He flexed his fingers and cracked his neck. Therger of the two brothers, Pyr, visibly began to panic, pulling his brother back behind the ship¡¯s mast. As if that would be enough to shield them from his wrath- Myron blinked and looked around him, at the familiar features of a ship. His ship. And beyond it, stretching from horizon to horizon, endless blue waves. ¡°... where are we?¡± The deceiver dly shoved his older brother aside and made to answer. Myron held a hand up, stopping him short, and shook his head. That wasn¡¯t the right question. ¡°No, how long have I been unconscious?¡± The king again opened his mouth to respond, and again Myron cut him short. ¡°No, wait, what happened?¡± Now the smug redhead was starting to look a bit annoyed. Myron rolled his hand impatiently. ¡°Well?¡± The king threw the empty bucket at his head. Myron pped it aside and watched it tter across the empty deck. The ship was small by any standard, but it had at least had room enough for him and his things. Now those belongings were gone, and in their ce were a pair of vagrants. Myron dearly wished that he could trade them for his snacks. ¡°In order,¡± the deceiver said, crossing his arms and ticking fingers off one at a time. ¡°First, assuming Pyr did his job, we¡¯re somewhere in the Mediterranean Sea - on a direct course to the southern continent.¡± Myron jerked, eyes darting around at the waves in sudden rm. ¡°Why are we-¡± ¡°Second,¡± the deceiver said loudly, ¡°You¡¯ve been asleep for most of the day. At first Pyr was worried-¡± ¡°He was worried,¡± Pyr interjected. ¡°Pyr was worried that Jason had broken your neck by ident when he went to knock you out.¡± Jason? So that was the Hero¡¯s name. Come to think of it, where was he? ¡°You were still breathing, though, and we figured that you¡¯d worn yourself out sailing to Olympia in the first ce, so we let you sleep it off. ¡°And third!¡± the king flung his arms out wide, an incredibly pleased grin revealing pristine white teeth. ¡°Jason knocked you unconscious and told us to stay put in the woods, the entire beach caved in on itself, and we grabbed you and made a run for it when I spotted this littledy bobbing her way east! Turns out the st just knocked her off course a bit. She was the only thing for stades in any direction that wasn¡¯t on fire.¡± ¡°The ship was on fire.¡± ¡°She was a little on fire,¡± the king conceded, patting the ship¡¯s mast fondly. ¡°Nothing she couldn¡¯t handle, though. What¡¯s her name, anyway? I would remember it - she¡¯s a humble looking vessel, but swift, and more than sturdy enough to suit a king.¡± ¡°The ship doesn¡¯t have a name,¡± Myron said absently, looking closer at the ship¡¯s bare innards. At once he saw that it was true. Where even the hardiest triremes docked at Olympia¡¯s shores had been reduced to scorched and sinking kindling when that colossal whip of mes had struck the earth, the majority of his ship¡¯s frame was entirely untouched. ¡°Impossible! Even skiffs have names!¡± The only sign the ship had burned at all was that the scorched lines in the wood were a bit thicker than they¡¯d been before, as though the lines had been painted over by a thicker brush. Myron traced one of the lines of burnt wood, wondering what it meant that the depiction of the eagle had been the only thing to burn. ¡°What kind of worthless, wrung-out husk of a man would bring a ship into this world without the blessing of a name?¡± In truth, Myron had almost ignored that portion of the Sand Reckoner¡¯s schematics altogether. Despite his efforts, he had yet to learn the myriad intricacies of the Rosy-Fingered Dawn, the foundational technique that allowed cultivators like Lio and even Myron¡¯s own brother to call upon the rosy light of dawn and wear it like a second skin. That being so, he hadn¡¯t been able to use his finger for a brush and his fire for the paint, as the schematic seemed to assume he would. Instead, he¡¯d been forced to skulk back into the ancient philosopher¡¯s home and steal an armful of his mirrors while he was absorbed in his circles. ¡°You¡¯re being dramatic. It¡¯s fine if the ship doesn¡¯t have a name.¡± It had nearly been too much trouble for such an unnecessary aesthetic feature, but the schematics had insisted upon it and Myron had liked its style. Now he wondered if that idle choice had meant something after all. ¡°An insult is what it is. You. Tell us who built this ship and consigned her to the heartless sea without a name. This king will see them punished!¡± ¡°I built the ship,¡± Myron snapped, finally looking up from the lines he¡¯d painstakingly burnt into the ship¡¯s frame. ¡°Listen to your wiser brother. Not every ship needs to have a name!¡± Quietly, and in the privacy of his thoughts, Myron cursed himself for a fool. He¡¯d spent days teaching himself how to use the Sand Reckoner¡¯s ursed mirrors, wasted long and torturous hours burning what he thought was a purely cosmetic design into the bones of his creation, and yet he¡¯d forgotten to name it? Now he¡¯d run his mouth and it was toote! If he tried to y it off like he¡¯d named it and forgotten until just now, he¡¯d look like a fool! If he admitted that he wanted to name it but had forgotten to in all of the excitement, he¡¯d look like an air-headed child! The deceiver looked down on him like Myron was worse than a dog, sneering in disgust. ¡°You disgust me from the bottom of my heart.¡± Myron bristled, rising to take the bait. Only to sigh and slump back to the deck. He¡¯d tried his best to ignore it, and perhaps the deceiver had even tried to help him do it, in his own way. They¡¯d both failed. ¡°The sea was full of corpses when I fished the two of you out,¡± he said, resting his cheek against the ship¡¯s single rowing bench. At once, the deceiver¡¯s affected wrath dimmed. Pyr edged closer, concerned. ¡°So many that I couldn¡¯t count them all. And that voice¡­ Right before the whip cracked, I could have sworn it said¡­¡± ¡°AETOS!¡± ¡°Lio,¡± the deceiver whispered his own name. ¡°Not right now,¡± Pyr said at once, irritated. ¡°I¡¯m telling you, it makes sense! Some monster screams his name loud enough to wake the dead in Tartarus, the beach explodes, and next thing you know ¡®Theri and the rest of them are chasing him down like he spit in their spirit wine!¡± Myron nced up at the deceiver, eyebrows furrowing in confusion as the other boy ranted at his brother, flinging his arms this way and that to entuate his point. ¡°It must have been about him! Think about it, Pyr! What is a griffon if not a lion and an eagle?¡± Then and there, Myron nearly lost control of both his pneumatic chambers and blew a hole in his lungs. ¡°Lio Aetos,¡± the king insisted. ¡°It fits! That had to have been about him!¡± ¡°I still say it¡¯s a reach,¡± Pyr said doubtfully. ¡°Luckily for us, we have a scarlet son right here that we can ask.¡± The king whirled back to Myron, pointing an imperious finger at his face. ¡°If you are a schr of the scarlet faith, this should be a simple question, so tell us - do the Rosy Dawn¡¯s Aetos family have a son named Lio?¡± Myron felt curiously numb. So much so that it took him a moment to realize his lips had been moving but he hadn¡¯t spoken a word. ¡°Yes,¡± he whispered. Both boys¡¯ eyes widened, Pyr¡¯s in shock and the king¡¯s in triumph. ¡°I knew it! I told you it made sense!¡± the king crowed. ¡°But that means he¡­ we¡­¡± ¡°It means the king¡¯s eye never lies! I knew he was of finer stock from the moment that I met him, no matter how he tried to hide it!¡± The king puffed his chest out, his off-colored eyes glittering smugly as he gloated. If there had been room for it in the boat, he might have started strutting around like a peacock. ¡°One day you¡¯ll learn that nothing escapes my eyes, Pyr. That man might have disguised himself as some vagrant off the streets, but the difference between him and this one are like night and day to me.¡± The king hooked a thumb at Myron, but he was still too shocked to be mad. Abruptly, the king turned to Myron, self-satisfaction and that bizarre mix of smug disdain and good-nature cheer radiating off of him like heat from a me. ¡°Speaking of, what is your name, stranger? Your parents at least gave you one of those, yes? Though since you didn¡¯t have themon sense to name your ship, perhaps not-¡± ¡°Myron Aetos.¡± The deceiver¡¯s teeth clicked shut. Myron met his mismatched eyes, stared through them, and watched that burning whip crack over the horizon over and over again. AETOS! ¡°My name is Myron Aetos. Lio Aetos is my cousin.¡± Chapter .7 Chapter .7 Sol, The Raven From Rome Echoes. In the false light of a Roman pre-dawn, on the first morning of my married life, my wife took me by the shoulders and shook me out like an old toga. In the gray light of theing dawn, I saw those schemes shining in her eyes and knew that I was lost. Her smile was devious, her braided chestnut hair and silken gown disheveled in a purposeful sort of way. She leaned in close, gripping my shoulders tight, and whispered as though she was sharing with me a terrible secret. What was it she¡¯d said, again? A young woman¡¯s delicate hands shook me insistently by the shoulders. They were stronger than I remembered, but they moved me less. My bed was colder than it should have been, firm where feathered down was soft. Instead of cloying floral perfumes, I smelled silt and sediment in the air. Yet even so, it was just as difficult as I remembered to crack my eyes open. I felt as though I¡¯d slept a thousand years, and could sleep a thousand more if only I was left undisturbed. The woman that was shaking me like a dog wouldn¡¯t have any of that, though. Peering through the slits of heavy eyelids, I saw her shadowed silhouette and heard the whisper of her calling. Somehow, I still couldn¡¯t make out the words. How was it full night already? Some instinct told me that those shadows weren¡¯t right. I hadn¡¯t slept that long, I was certain of it. It only felt as though I had. In fact, had I even slept at all? Thest thing that I remembered was¡­ Was¡­? [The sun.] My eyes snapped open. I was t on my back,id out on the Eos¡¯ deck like a drunkard in his cups. The sun was blinding overhead, the scant few clouds too faint and wispy to block any of its light. There was no woman looming over me, no hands upon my shoulders. When I forced my head to turn, straining like I was rolling a stone uphill, I saw Griffon syed out on the deck beside me. At a nce he could have been lounging in his usual way, but when I looked closer, I saw feverish motion behind his closed eyelids. His fingers twitched, curling and uncurling, making half-formed shapes in time with the unconscious flexing of his body¡¯s muscles as hebatted something only his mind¡¯s eye could see. Trapped inside a dream and fighting to get out. Through the haze of my stirring mind, I wondered how I had gotten here and realized I had no idea at all. I felt my heart pounding a drumbeat against my chest, but couldn¡¯t fathom what had my body so panicked in the throes of deep sleep. I forced myself to slow down, to rx, and took control of the deafening thunder of my own rushing blood. Seconds passed, the panic ebbed, until finally I could hear myself think. Until finally I could hear my surroundings. The men were screaming. ¡°Captain! CAPTAIN!¡± I grunted and lurched sideways, the sun and sky whirling as I rolled myself over. My vision swam and I was immediately light-headed, the renewed pounding of my heart scattering my senses like a stone striking still water. Was I drunk? Had someone drugged my wine? What day was it? ¡°Captain! Wake up, captain!¡± My arm was heavier than a marble column, but I leveraged it up and underneath me. I pressed my hand t against the shadowed nks of wood, straining against the siren song of sleep. From the opposite side of my shadow, I felt another hand pressing up against mine. Wake up, Solus! [I¡¯ll rise.] I exhaled steam through clenched teeth and rose up, reaching down through my shadow as I did and taking the hand that had been pounding at its veil from the other side. Selene plunged up through the curtain of ink like she¡¯d been falling, only for the rules of nature to reassert themselves and pull her down to earth again. The Scarlet Oracle tumbled across the deck while I slumped my torso across the bone-white bench I¡¯d made. She plowed straight into Griffon¡¯s sleeping figure and knocked him fully from his dream. The instant my brother¡¯s eyes snapped open, fists of blinding light and scouring me exploded outward in a cloud around him, lightning limbs darting between them too fast for untrained eyes to see. Theyshed out at anything and everything within their reach, and I was too slow to stop them. Fortunately, they weren¡¯t alone. Among the thirty appeared ten more pankration limbs covered in what looked to be dried blood, the least shy of the lot by far, and they moved with precision where the rest of his violent intent ran wild. They pped away and struck down every limb that reached for a sailor or Selene, leaving the rest of them to slip through and beat at the ship. Though the new men of the Fifth Legion flinched and cried out in fear as Griffon¡¯s mad lightshow crackled and roared over their heads, they did not leave their rowing benches. Indeed, they didn¡¯t even raise their heads. One and all, they kept them bowed and stared straight down at the ship¡¯s deck. For a moment, though their posture was bizarre, they seemed to me like the picture of military discipline. Then I felt the throbbing of the captain¡¯s virtue in my soul, like a muscle that I had kept tense for far too long, and realized they hadn¡¯t moved or raised their heads only because they couldn¡¯t. I tore away the heavy cloak of gravitas, the action causing something to spasm and clench deep within me, and the men threw themselves away from their benches like they¡¯d been burned. ¡°Wait-! Stop! Just be still, you-!¡± Selene cried out in pain and I turned sharply, jabbing a finger at Griffon as he wrenched his sister¡¯s arm behind her back in a pin. The Greek captain¡¯s virtue struck him twice, first at the foot he had tucked underneath his body, and second at his chin. His foot went out from under him, stealing his stability, and the captain¡¯s fist hit him like a hammer across the jaw, forcing the two siblings apart. The blow wasn¡¯t strong enough to knock him unconscious again. In fact, it was just enough to rouse him fully from whatever waking nightmare he¡¯d been fighting. The violent cloud of flying fists dissipated immediately as his scarlet eyes cleared, and he stared at me in utter bewilderment. I knew at once that he was just as lost as I was. ¡°What happened!?¡± Selene cried, flying to her feet. ¡°What did you see? Why did you shut me out of it?¡± What had I seen? Why had I- it was my doing that she¡¯d been trapped inside my shadow? My head throbbed, pounding like Bakkhos¡¯ funeral drums behind my eyes. ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡± The words felt coarse against my throat. Like gravel grinding through my flesh. ¡°No,¡± Griffon spoke, his voice as rough as mine. He held a burning hand to his face, digging the tips of his fingers into his no doubt pounding head. His bloodshot eyes bore into mine. ¡°We don¡¯t remember. There was something there, but it¡¯s gone now. Something took it from our heads.¡± ¡°What are you saying?¡± Selene asked, aghast. I scowled. ¡°We¡¯ve been robbed.¡± The thought of it was horrifying on its own, a vition that I instinctively wanted to dismiss. But my instincts told me he was right. My mind flew at once to assessing losses. The men were unharmed, I¡¯d made sure of that first, but Sorea was nowhere to be found. The Eos herself was untouched, as far as my inexperienced eye could tell, and the sun¡¯s position¡­ I couldn¡¯t remember where it had been before we were robbed. I remembered Olympia and our flight from it as it fell, but beyond that, the drum beat drowned out all my thoughts. How much time had we lost? The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. Where had we been heading, and where were we now? The heavy scent of silt and sediment in the air was too familiar to be coincidence. I swept unfocused eyes across the rail, forcing my thoughts through that wall of beating drums, and finally made the connection. The Eos was all but flying without any need for oars or even a full sail, carried along by a frothing current of freshwater that flowed sideways as fast as a waterfall fell. The freshwater flow carried with it a coating of milky foam, spirals of salt-water froth that shot through the freshwater like mineral veins, bing thinner and thinner by the moment as the river overwhelmed the saltwater intrusion. I recognized that current, and I knew well that sea-foam froth. The distant banks of the river were a sight I hadn¡¯t seen from this angle before, but they were still a vivid picture in my mind. I¡¯d marched along those mudbanks just a few years ago. I¡¯d heard the rushing of the river and smelled the silt and sediment in the air. There was only one river in the world that flowed so fast that it felt like flying to sail along it. The people of this country had called it The Eagle. To the rest of the world, it was simply known as the river. Or, in thenguage of its people, the Nile. ¡°Captain! Look!¡± The Eos dipped, her wood-carved figurehead gazing at the surface of the Nile in apparent curiosity as it rushed up to meet her. My stomach rolled at the sight of it, a sense of deja vu that wasn¡¯t quite my own washing over me. The memory of Stavros Aetos screamed at me that something had gone terribly wrong. It warned me it would get much worse if I didn¡¯t find my feet and fix it. I grunted, levering myself up against the rail, and saw the Eos plunging down into the open mouth of a frothing seafoam whirlpool. I reached for the memory of the Brothers Aetos, searching for a solution. How had they solved the problem of the monstrous sea-swallower then? Ah, right. They¡¯d crashed their ship into the fucking rocks. I made a fist and flexed the Greek captain¡¯s virtue. By the right of my own third rank Philosopher¡¯s soul, the Greek half of my foundations couldmand the strength of forty men. With the sacrifice I had decided to make in perpetuity when I recruited the Eos¡¯ crew into the Fifth Legion, one moment for every moment, that strength doubled to eighty. I formed a counter-current in my mind¡¯s eye. Manifesting an opposing helix of motion with the Greek captain¡¯s virtue would do the job, I was confident of that much. I knew painfully little about sailing, but even as a Young Patrician I hadn¡¯t been too proud to runps in the public baths with the plebians and the street rats, just to watch the whirlpools form. All I had to do was run the other way, and the whirlpool¡¯s work would be undone. It was a delicate task. Too delicate, I realized at once. The whirlpool roiled and lurched in ces, spraying as though I¡¯d pitched boulders overboard into it, but it did our ship¡¯s bearing no good at all. It only battered us harder, rocking men off their feet and sending their rowing benches sliding across the deck. ¡°To oars!¡± I shouted, abandoning the working and turning to my men. Gravitas sent the benches sliding back into their proper ces and returned the men to their seats. Griffon¡¯s pankration hands joined them in taking up the oars and heaving at the current. We dipped further, listing down and to the right even as we fought viciously to pull ourselves out of the Nile¡¯s hungry maw. I pressed with the Greek captain¡¯s virtue, but the strength of eighty men wasn¡¯t enough to pull the Eos from a river this wrathful. The Eos groaned and shifted further still. The men screamed and threw their scrawny selves against the oars. Selene was racing across the deck, her hands a blur as sheshed rope around the waists of the men. Griffon hadn¡¯t found it any easier to stand than I had, still reeling from something. He¡¯d dragged himself up the ship¡¯s figurehead and slumped across the wood-carved woman¡¯s head, hanging precariously over the rushing whirlpool. He was leaning out further still, tempting the Fates as he strained to get a look at whatever lurked at the center of the whirlpool. Grimacing, I reached for the dregs of what remained of my heart¡¯s blood. As I did, I saw that there was even less of it than I remembered. It had taken that too. There was no helping it. We were in too deep, and I was no sailor. I¡¯d break this whirlpool over my knee, or I¡¯d fling the Eos up out of the drink and onto the nearest riverbank, whichever worked first. Reaching out a heavy hand, I made of it a fist. ¡°Out of my way, red-ass!¡± The voice of a stranger bellowed across the river, close behind and getting closer, and I looked back to see a nightmare made manifest by the day-bright sun. A sr barge hurtled over the lip of the enormous whirlpool behind us and above our heads, not rowing against its current like we were, but into it. The barge¡¯s narrow cedarwood hull cut through the water like a dagger, its high-handed prow easily carrying above the water even as the ship tipped - not low, but sideways, nearly parallel to the waves. I watched, astonished, as the cedar barge rode the whirlpool¡¯s spiral current past us without losing a single handspan of elevation. Where our pace moments before had felt like flying, the barge looked like it was flying, so at odds was its speed with the whirlpool¡¯s hungry pull. The cedar ship had no sails. Combined with its narrow hull and the spindly oars its men were frantically hauling away at, it looked like an enormous insect skittering across the water. The ship¡¯s oars in motion were such an odd sight that I didn¡¯t notice the man heaving something at our ship until the iing projectile caught a sun ray and briefly blinded me. ¡°Iing!¡± one of the men roared. The projectile nevernded. Griffon caught it out of the air, holding it up for all of us to see. ¡°A boarding hook?¡± he muttered, eyeing the dull bronze w in confusion. Then he grunted as the rope attached to it went abruptly taut and tore him off the ship¡¯s figurehead and into the whirlpool. Selene lunged forward as he fell, wrapping her arms around his waist and bracing her hip against the ship¡¯s rail, screaming in effort. I tried to stand again and failed. Up. Up. UP. The bone bench ground against the deck, and I mped a tight hand around my brother¡¯s wrist. ¡°Let go of the hook, fool!¡± I snarled. ¡°Worthless Roman,¡± Griffon shot back, teeth bared and muscles straining. ¡°Why do you think they tossed it to us?¡± The Eos lurched, her frame groaning as the forces acting upon her pulled her in three different directions. The men at her oars kept rowing madly, trying in vain to move her back against the river¡¯s will, up and out of the whirlpool. The whirlpool tugged her inevitably down, into the depths at its core. And the dull bronze hook, held stubbornly in Griffon¡¯s hand, sought to pull us up along the cedar barge¡¯s path. The boarding hook wasn¡¯t an attack on our ship, of course not. How could it be, when it had been thrown after the barge had already passed us? The other ship was trying to tow us. I let go of Griffon¡¯s wrist and grabbed the hook instead, bracing my knees against the rail on either side of Selene and heaving back with all my might. ¡°Draw in the oars!¡± Imanded, and after a brief moment of terrified hesitation, the men obeyed. The Eos lurched, turning fully in the barge¡¯s direction and careening straight into the whirlpool¡¯s current. She dipped, and for a horrible moment I considered the possibility that this had been an act of spite rather than salvation, but the ship never fully gave in to the current. The cedar barge reached the other side of the whirlpool¡¯s rim momentster, and rather than continuing to turn and tumble down into the spiral trap, it broke straight through the current and vanished overhead. The rope attached to the hook remained taut, and just a few tense moments after that we ceased descending and began to climb instead, pulled steadily along by the other ship like we were some ill-suited anchor. When we finally breached the other side of the whirlpool, erupting back up onto the Eagle River¡¯s surface current, the line connected to the bronze boarding hook abruptly went ck and sent all three of us tumbling back to the deck. Wey there in a tangled pile for a moment, chest¡¯s heaving and muscles aching, half-wondering if we were still dreaming. The men crowded around us, reeling and in dire need of guidance. I winced, shifting Selene carefully off me and onto the deck. She blinked rapidly, still gasping for breath, and pressed her cheek gratefully against the cool wood of the deck. Griffon, for his part, continued to slump bonelessly across my chest. ¡°Move,¡± I grunted. ¡°Ho? No consideration left for your sworn brother-?¡± I shoved him off. Griffon cackled as he rolled. Dragging myself back to my feet was a horrible effort, but I managed it. In the distance, I saw the spindly Egyptian barge that had saved us from a near certain sinking. The ship¡¯s oars were still pumping frantically, the river¡¯s breakneck current apparently not fast enough for the crew¡¯s liking. The barge was nearly too far for me to see the man standing at its stern and waving his arms expansively back at us. I squinted. ¡°What¡¯s he doing?¡± Griffon asked, peering curiously up over the rail. ¡°I¡¯ve never seen that signal before. Is he trying to warn us? Something under the ship, or-?¡± ¡°He¡¯s telling us to fuck ourselves,¡± I said, finally cing the exaggerated gesture. Griffon blinked, looking back at me. ¡°You¡¯re joking.¡± As if the man had heard my brother speak, he hollered at us from the top of his lungs and somehow made the words carry. ¡°Burn your oars and walk back to Peloponnesia, you ugly fucking monkeys!¡± Chapter .8 Chapter .8 Griffon, The Risen me For a time I just leaned against that forward rail, basking in the afterglow of our survival while Sol wrangled the crew. My arms burned, throbbing painfully where I had torn the muscles while acting as an anchor weight. It felt as though my skull had been stuffed full of wool and buzzing insects, the effect only worsening the more I probed my memories in search of answers. Somewhere in that empty space between Olympia and now, my hearts blood had been reduced even further. While Sol grilled his men for answers and Selene scampered up the mast to the crows nest, I called upon the healing hands of my intent. They spun into being around me, the manifestations of my pneuma made visible by the dry blood that coated each of them from fingertip to wrist, and went to work mending my torn muscles. I inhaled slowly, steadily, bidding the wheel of channels to move inside my flesh. It obeyed, burning and turning, and to my deep satisfaction I felt the confirmation of a prior suspicion - the burden of my healing hands lightened. The wheel made their efforts twice as effective, for half the prior cost. Selene beat the Eos scarlet sail like an old nket as she shot up the mast, searching its folds with sharp eyes. Whatever had rattled my brother and I so severely, it hadntid a finger on my sister. She was still every bit the nimble Heroine, while I felt the same way Sol had looked when he staggered out of the Orphic House in Thracia. My brother was little better off than me, remaining on his feet only by virtue of spite and the bronze spear hed pulled from his shadow to leverage as a walking stick. Whatever entity it was that had put its filthy hands on our hearts and minds, I didnt know. Sol didnt either, and I could tell from the looks on their faces that the crew wouldnt have anything meaningful to tell him when he asked. Something ominous had taken ce on this ship, that much was clear. But there wasnt a living soul among us that could remember it. Of course, that still leaves you. The lingering spirit that called itself my ancestor chuckled, the sound just as I remembered - deep, menacing, and vaguely bored. Of all the lived experiences that had been stolen from me, our thief had left behind the one thing that Id have freely given. How cruel. Selene vaulted up over the lip of the crows nest. I sneered at the spirit lingering in my blindside. Cruel, me? No, the true cruelty was a perfectly fine piece of jewelry being wasted on a- Theyre gone! Sols head snapped up, the riptide current of his influence sweeping over the ship as he took another count of those on board. I saw it, the moment that he realized what hed missed. What we had both missed in our torpor. Selene leaned out from the crows nest, panicked. Lync and Sorea! Theyre gone! Something shed behind my brothers eyes. Something that wasnt quite terror, wasnt quite rage. He turned to the men whod gathered in loose ranks around him, and barked a word Id never heard before today. About face! That was what the worldly tongue rendered as its meaning, but beneath that, the true word was vertere. A Latin word of power - a captains order. It wasnt the first of its kind that Sol had spoken in the days since hed taken our crew into the fold. And like the rest that hade before it, I watched it move the men on its own. As one, like it had been rehearsed, the new men of the Fifth pivoted on their right heels and spun to face the stern. Sol ground his teeth in frustration. The ship, he corrected himself, pressing vainly against the Niles current with gravitas. We have to turn the ship around. I waved the bronze boarding hook. And what? Give the whirlpool a second taste of us? We know the trick of it now. The oars will break long before this river does if we try to row against it, I told him through our joined shadows. Even if they were made of adamantine, our crew is not. He stared hard at me, his shadow rippling. Then we beach the ship. Retrace our steps. Retrace them where? I cant remember a thing. Can you? We both reached for some touchstone, some beacon in the wine-dark waves of our recollection, and both of us grimaced as the drums beat double-time against our skulls. Selene leapt from the crows nest, twisting with a Heroines careless artistry in midair and pulling her spear from the fold in her silks. I tucked and rolled sideways across the deck, separating my shadow from Sols as she thrust her penumbral spear down. The shadow cast by her spear sank into the shadow cast by Sol, but my brother didnt dodge. His jaw tightened, and his right handshed out to catch the Oracles spear by its prophecy-carved shaft. Selene gasped but hung on, hanging a handspan above the surface of the deck. A few of the men eased back, watching her warily. The rest had turned and torn across the deck, overturning rowing benches and calling out the ornery pirate childs name. Sol stared tly at Selene. Why. You were doing it again. She red back at him, dangling. Cutting me out of things. There are less violent ways to make yourself heard. Less effective ways, perhaps. If I want the two of you to understand me, what choice do I have but to speak your primarynguage? Sol snorted, unimpressed. I raised one hand, the other kneading at my aching temple. If I may? I asked politely. Two crackling limbs of my intent struck out and speared the soft flesh of my sisters wrists. She yelped and fell to the deck, her fingers spasming as the lightning current swept through her. When she turned on me, her heart me ring, both of my pankration hands smacked her over the head. Violence is our native tongue, that much is certainly true, I said genially, while my foolish little sister tried and failed to smooth down the hair that the lightning current had frazzled. I leaned forward. But never mind fluent - youve yet to string a proper sentence together in this vicious tongue of ours. Close enough now to feel the low hum of the lingering static, I lowered my voice to a murmur that only she and Sol could hear. Do you recognize every man on this ship? I asked, and the Heroine went very still. What-? Answer the question. The scarlet mes behind her eyes flickered. Her gaze darted past me and traced from ragged sea dog to ragged sea dog, paranoid and pondering. Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings. Yes. Why? Because one of them does not belong. Sol stared over our heads, his expression carved from stone. What? Selene whispered, disguising her rm as anger towards me. That cant be. I know all of these men by name- So do I. Then what are you trying to say? Theres a fake? An interloper. She struggled visibly to parse the difference. How do you know? she finally asked. Sol answered in my stead, tossing her ornamental spear so that it skewered the deck halfway down the length of the ship. It didnt hit any of the men, didnt evene close. But even so, a mans pained scream split the air. Nine men spun and turned to regard one as he wed at the deck in vain, trying and failing to escape the spear that had pinned his shadow to the deck. It held him there, tethering him, and his silhouette writhed in terrible agony around the spearhead. Beside me, Selene exhaled like shed been punched in the gut as she finally noticed what Sol and I had seen the moment she jumped down from the crows nest. Where I had rolled and Sol had braced for the impact of the penumbral spear - the silhouette of the Oracles weapon, which could strike at raven mantles like they were flesh and blood - the rest of the men on board had reacted to the descending Heroine herself. Only one other, the interloper, had reacted as Sol and I had. The men parted to let Sol pass, his every step a crack of thunder against the deck. Such was the downed mans agony that he didnt notice his captains approach until Sol was looming directly over his head. The new man of the fifth bit down on another animal sound of pain, his fingernails broken and bloody, and looked up into Sols eyes. Whatever he saw there, it chased the pain away with terror. I remembered this man, of course. He was a reserved soul, dark of hair and skeletally thin, even by the standards of his fellow ves-turned-soldiers. His skin grew pale with dread, making the dark bags under his eyes stand out twice as starkly. While the man froze like a cornered rat before a hunting hound, the mans shadow continued to writhe and w at the silhouette of the spear that had skewered it. The shadow and the self were out of sync, just as they had been when Selene leapt down from the crows nest with her holy spear in hand. Sephor, Sol said quietly, taking the spear in hand. Grit your teeth. The mans name was Sephor, and he was the only Egyptian in our crew. Sephor shivered and nodded once, speaking through his clenched teeth. Aye, captain. Sol ripped the spear out of the deck, and Sephor jerked like it had been his own flesh. I knew the pain well. I brushed one of the men aside and stepped into the tense circle theyd formed around their captain and crewmate. I crouched beside Sephors head, peering down into the mans bloodshot eyes. He was terrified, that much was clear as day. More than that, though, he was confused. I knew that look. Id seen it in the eyes of countless young mystikos after I broke them down to their smallest parts in the marble octagon. Id seen it in my own reflection the day my father took the first manifestation of my violent intent into his hands and broke every one of its incorporeal fingers, one by one by one. This man had been hurt in a way that he didnt know he could be hurt. I tilted my head to regard the true interloper, the shadow intermingling with my own. The hungry raven stirred, snapping its beak in hunger. Hello, stranger. Whats your name? To my surprise, the interloper answered. Sephor-shut. Sol dropped to one knee in a smooth, controlled motion. His shadow mingled with ours, the raven within the captains mantle shifting in agitation. Do you remember what I told you the day we left for Thracia? he asked me in the ravens voice. Of course. Sol offered a hand to his wounded soldier, and after a moment of hesitation the emaciated Egyptian took it. Sol pulled him up to a seated position, and he kept their hands sped. Slowly, the soldiers fear faded. The Egyptians believe a man exists in eight parts. Khet and Sah, the physical and the spiritual bodies. Ib and Ka, the heart and the vital breath. Sekhem and Ba, the power and the presence. Ren, the mans name. And Shut. The shadow in his frame, whispered Sephor-shut. Jarringly, Sephor the man spoke overtop of his own shadow, his voice rough with pain and unease. Captain, what is this? What happened? Sol considered him. What do you remember? Nothing, answered the man. Everything, dered his shadow. I saw nothing but the deck. I heard nothing but the beating of my own heart. I swear it, captain, on my life! Around us, the men muttered their agreements. Sol stared hard at his soldier, then nodded and pulled him to his feet. Tell us everything, Sols ravenmanded. What did you see? Leave nothing out. He guided the shaken soldier to a bench and sat down beside him on it, gathering the other soldiers to him and questioning each of them on their recollections while our shadows did the real work. It came from the coast. You felt it first, but it was toote by then. It blotted out thend and sea, smothered the sun with its arrival. It knew your face, and it named you Captain. Captain of the salt that shrivels corpses. Captain of the ash that falls from sundered heaven. What was it? I asked, at the same time that Sol asked, What did it want? It wanted you to remember its face, Sephor-shut murmured. It wanted you to return its greeting in kind. Selene was beside me, whispering questions in my ear. I leaned forward, entranced, the thunder in my skull doubling and redoubling with every word the shadow spoke. Like sharks beneath the wine-dark waves, the memories swam and struggled towards the surface. The closer they came, the worse the pain. It wasnt that the moments had been stolen. No, it was a deeper vition than that. Theyd been sealed within our own souls, shunted into a corner of ourselves that was closed off to the rest. More than anything, that was what made my heart skip. The realization that myck of rity wasnt restricted to just the world outside myself. There was a portion of myself that was stranger to my eye. The gods gave you a weapon the day that you were born, my father once said. You can y with knives once youve mastered your bodys full potential. A man couldnt truly master a sword until hed first mastered his body. That principle applied to more than just martial cultivation. It applied to more than just violence. The drums thundered on, growing louder still. I had decided that I would strive to understand this world and all of its wonders. I had resolved to find the truth, in all of its myriad forms. And yet, I still didnt know the full truth of myself? Better that the memories had been stolen. Better that the walls had been broken down and the treasures taken from their vaults. Better dead than derelict in duty to my soul. This would not stand. I refused. While I wrestled with the thunder and the waves, Sol glowered at the sun. What was her name? He asked it like he already knew. I breached the surface of the waves within me, heedless of the roaring thunder, diving down in search of silent sharks. My vision wavered at the edges, Selenes whispers turning frantic. I ignored the pain of something breaking, venturing deeper into the dark. What was her name? Sephor-shut spoke a word that slipped through my fingers, slippery as an eel. It melted like sea foam on my tongue. Fleeting. Familiar. Lie, my dead ancestor said, and pulled me from the waves. The thunder fell away, and I found myself present in my own body once more. Staring across the deck at Sol, who was staring back at me. Lie, I echoed, interrupting a man halfway through his recollection of events. The sea dog turned to me in panic, wondering what hed said wrong. The shadow of the Egyptian held its hands out to its sides and syed all ten fingers wide. Then, slowly, deliberately, it folded one finger down. Chapter .9 Chapter .9 Sol, The Raven From Rome In the end, we didnt turn the ship around. There were practical reasons. The whirlpool that had nearly sunk us, for one. I thought I had the trick of navigating it now, having watched the sr barge, but that ship had been moving with the current. Even if Griffon, Selene, and I all added our full strength to the effort, I wasnt sure the Eos would be able to do it while fighting against the Nile. Beaching the ship and marching back the way wede had its own problems. Leaving a vessel as fine as the Eos unattended was all but begging the Fates to see it stolen. It was too heavy for the men to carry it with us overnd - a year from now, with the proper training, maybe. But not as they were. Beyond that, I had seen with my own eyes the sort of beasts that lurked along this river. I wouldnt leave my men to guard the ship in my stead, not even if all ten of them together stayed back to do it. Those reasons alone would have been enough for any sensible man, without adding on the fact that Griffon and I remembered nothing of what had taken ce between the shores of Alexandria and deep veins of the Nile river. We hadnt even remembered Alexandria was our intended destination until Selene reminded us of it. Even then, it was only a ce in our minds. The motivations to go there were gone. It was all lost, hidden somewhere beneath the surface of the sea that was our souls. A flower of a phrase, but I hadnt been able to disagree when Griffon spoke it out loud. The words fit. Selene hadnt teased him over it either, only peered at him with a strange expression. We didnt know where to look, and even if we did, we were too far down the river now to turn back without giving up our ship. All of those things were reason enough, and all of thembined would have been worth less to me than the wooden coin in my pocket if that had been the end of it. Like him or loathe him, Lync was a part of our crew. The foul-mouthed pirate child was too young to be a legion man, and because of that I hadnt recruited him the way I recruited the other ten, but he was a part of us. The same way I had been part of my fathers legion, when I first came to them as a boy. If it had to be done, I would swim through the whirlpool myself to see the boy safe. If it had to be done, I would hitch myself to the Eos like a mule, and drag her through the riverbank all the way back to sea - and heaven help whatever creature tried to stop me. I didnt need to do those things, though. Because I knew the boy was alive, and I knew he was not alone. The eagle cried its dim defiance, and it took the boy up in its talons. It took flight from the crow''s nest and fled north. It was followed, but you, Captain, and you, me, you two lit up like the dawn, burning, clearing out a way Sorea had saved the boy in my stead, and would stay with him until the danger had passed. I knew it, though I didnt know how I knew, and in that same way, I knew that Sorea still lived to see it done. It wasnt the same certainty that I felt about the men under mymand. The night sky might berge enough to take no notice of a single absent star, but I was not nearly so vast. I was as aware of the men of the Fifth Legion as I was the fingers of my hands, and I knew from past experience that Id feel their absence just as keenly. What I felt for the eagle that had followed me from Rome was not that. It was more than just my own hopes, but a different shade than pure gut feeling. The only reason I knew it was there at all was that I didnt feel it for Scythas, nor for Jason, not for Anastasia or the me. I did feel it for As, that would-be warhorse I had ridden from the Orphic House. That discovery had led me to ask Griffon if he felt the same awareness of his pure white mare, Kronia. He did. It was enough to keep me in the boat, if only just. In the hours that followed, I probed that vague awareness like it was a loose tooth stuck in my mouth. Griffon hadnt known any more than me about the feeling, and he clearly took that as a personal insult. We both knew the virtuous beasts wed marked as our own were alive and well, but we didnt know how we knew that. We didnt know where they were or what connected us to them. Wecked context. It was a familiar frustration by now. A good man once told me that uncertainty killed more soldiers than any sword or spear. If there ever was a thing that I didnt understand, I owed it to my superior officer to ask him about it. If he didnt know, then he owed it to the man above him to swallow his pride and ask. No matter how manyurels a man wore on his brow, no matter how many triumphs had been celebrated in his name, there wasnt a soldier under the sun who wouldnt die if he fell on uncertaintys de. Yearster, beneath the canopy of a legion captain''smand tent, I had asked that same man what I was to do with my uncertainty, now that there were no men above me left to ask. His answer was sinct. You ask your oldest spear, sir. So I spoke to my new men of the Fifth. I settled them back onto their benches, put their oars back in their hands, and I spoke to them of myriad things as we flew along the river Nile. I asked them questions. Questions about themselves, about their circumstances, about the ces they hade from and the people they had known. I asked them, with some regret, about the terms of their envement. I asked them what they knew. I asked them if they would teach me. I asked them questions I would have never dared to ask my fathers men, for fear that I would lose their faith in me as their captain. I asked, and I listened, and I buried deep my pride. It was the uncertainty that killed a legion. I spoke to my men, and we sailed, racing against the sun. The hearnd of Aegyptus had been an arid desert, once. The Republic''s oldest records spoke of a corpse kingdom long past its prime, thends shifting dunes and sun-baked stones its tomb. Greek civilization had been old long before Rome staked its im on the seat of Seven Hills, but the golden age of god-blooded pharaohs had been a distant memory long before the first Greek Hero was born. What remained of the great nation could hardly be called an echo. Perhaps it had been that way, back in the earliest days of the Republic, but at some point things had changed. I had seen it with my own eyes, marching down the golden road that Gaius paved for all his legions on campaign. Four years ago, I hade to Egypt expecting a desert waste, and instead I had found a thriving wonder. We flew through it now, on the Eagle Rivers wings. Lush green jungles as far as the eye could see. The river ran rapid through the hearnds of Aegyptus, both the channel and the veins. Wherever a thread of Nile water flowed, the green growth was doubled. More than one legion man had remarked with dark humor that there were almost as many beasts of virtue on the Nile banks as there were in a legion brothel. The creatures were all twice and twice again toorge, too dauntless, too hungry. Every serpent carried a bit of dragon in its blood, and every stork a bit of golden eagle. The thicker the river vein, the stronger the wildlife grew. A hippopotamus was dangerous enough on its own, but the hulking bulls that swam about the Niles heart veins could break a war elephant''s spine with their teeth, or simply drown the beast in shallow waters. And then there were the crocodiles. The men were still too tense to appreciate the sights, and that was a shame, but that meant they were also too tense to worry about what we shared the river with. It was better that way. Let them dedicate their bodies to rowing and their minds to answering my questions. Let the outside world wait until wed escaped to a thinner river vein. The Nile was a winding river, and I knew from my time on campaign that it had as many offshoots as the ck Forest had roots. Griffon and Selene were not nearly as preupied. I found them both equally enthralled when I finished my rounds and rejoined them at the front of the ship. An idle thought struck me as I watched them drink in the sight of something theyd only heard stories of before - the Titan me had beenzy when he molded these two from y. Born of different fathers, I had seen identical twins that didn''t look as simr as they did in their wonder. If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. "It makes sense," Selene was insisting when I approached, leaning with her arms crossed on the ship''s rail, next to the wood-carved figurehead of a curious woman. "In fact, it makes more sense than all of your ideas - all of them put together, maybe!" "Ho? Then where is the foam, sister?" The only sign of her consternation was a faint flush of red. "Scattered, I should think." "You should think, and yet here you are instead-" While they jabbed at one another as siblings did, I pulled an ivory lie in the shape of a bench from the dark ce where ravens kept their baubles. I set the bench down just behind them, angled to catch the setting sun. It cast no shadow of its own, frail fiction that it was, but I did. At the angle I''d ced it, my shadow covered the entire bench. And when I sat down on it, the bench held me - sturdy, like it had been carved from horn. I let them bicker on a moment longer while I settled myself, pulling a mermaid bone and a celestial bronze spear from my raven''s ce. I''d kept half an ear on every conversation on deck while I made my rounds, so I knew what they were arguing about. "Four years ago, in the spring, I marched down that riverbank with Gaius Fifth Legion." I finally spoke up, and pointed. "During that time, the river flowed as all rivers do - into the sea. When we left Cairo and marched back west, two seasons had passed, and the river had started to flow in reverse. Why? Selene asked, eagerly. Griffon looked on with clear interest. They wanted a concrete answer, but I only had hearsay and a sickly gut instinct. None of the natives could tell us for certain what had caused it, but they werent surprised it had happened. It was a phenomena theyd seen before. A good omen, they said. Praise to him whose throne is Right and Truth. Repent and give your thanks, soldier of the west. The new Pharoah will be strong! Barbarians and their superstition, Griffon mused, cheek propped up on a closed fist. The disdain was still there, but there was a thoughtful undertone to it. One schrs superstition is anothers mystery faith, Selene said, tilting her chin up smugly. Scarlet hands of Griffons violent intent dipped down into the Nile and returned dripping wet, flicking cool river water at her from all sides. She only stood taller, basking in the spray. Be not afraid, ancient brother. I wont force you to say the words. At your age, I understand its difficult to concede a point. A bold tongue indeed, for a girl I could fit in my pocket. The color at the tips of Selenes ears flushed a bit deeper. She hadnt been pleased with me for shoving her into my raven space - though I couldnt remember doing it, or why I had - for many reasons, but one that Griffon had guessed with shocking uracy was that it had made her feel small. Id done my best to exin the nature of the ravens shadow, but the more I talked the brighter Griffons grin had grown, and the more embarrassed Selene had be. She managed to brush it off, this time, and maintained her haughty posture. Envy is a foul look on an old mans face. You hear that, Sol? Griffon asked sardonically. My sister thinks Im ancient. What do you suppose that makes you? Archaic, I replied, whittling away at my mermaid bones. These dice would be the finest Id ever rolled once they were done. The materials were sublime, and Prometheus golden ichor had made my fingers nimble as any master carver. Theres more to age than years alone, Selene assured me, a touch hurriedly. She was oddly considerate of me at times. No doubt a product of the days shed spent in the Oracles temple, tending to her elders when they should have been tending her. My brothers personality is rotten beyond his years, thats all. Griffon pressed his right hand and three more of rosy light to his chest, wounded. Besides, she continued, nodding to herself, Donna always told me it was a mans soul that told you how old he really was. In that case, I said, Primordial. Griffon snorted. What brings you to our humble corner of the deck, primeval one? He nodded towards the men-at-oars, raising an eyebrow. Is it our turn to tell you our favorite foods? Or perhaps youvee to seek our guidance. I could teach you how to sing, I suppose. Youre wee to try, I said. If Orpheus could teach a stone to dance, anything is possible. From the way he smirked, I knew he nned to hold me to that. But its Selene I need to speak to first. Selene blinked. Me? You, I agreed. I have far too many things to learn, and far too little time to learn them. Olympia showed me that, and this new torment set it in stone. I cant afford to wait for men like Aristotle and Socrates to parcel out their wisdom, always on their own time. Not anymore. I need you, Selene. You want me to teach you? she asked, fingertips pressing lightly to her corbone. She sounded flustered, but she knew just as well as I did that there was a vast gulf of experience separating the two of us. I may have been the better killer, but I needed more than violence if I was going to keep my men alive and find my legions lost. I mean to wring you out like wet cloth. I set aside my spear and reached down into my raven space, searching for the sack of coin. I had to pay the men before I paid myself, but the mermaids scales would take care of that once we got a bit further downriver. Hiring a mentor required prompt and proper payment. My fingers brushed against a draw string, and pulled the purse out. It was heavier than I remembered it being. Softer, too. Almost I stared at the fat leather bursa sitting in my palm, bulging at its finely woven seams. It was a fine thing, embossed with a trumpeting bull elephant, and sturdy enough to take on any campaign. When I untied the knot and pried it open, the sun caught the pile of golden aurei and made them shine. Id seen their kind minted, during the Gallic Wars. I picked up a coin wonderingly, twisting it one way, then the other. Caesars stern profile on one side, a skewered elephant on the other. So you were holding out on me, Griffon said quietly. I shook my head. No. Yet another thing I couldnt exin. Another thing that couldnt wait, but would have to even so. I flipped the single coin back into my shadow, then cinched the leather bursa shut and tossed it on the deck at Selenes feet. My overture, I said, and leaned forward with my elbows on my knees. Room and board and all other necessities included as well, naturally - your needs met before mine. If I only have one tent and a days rations left, Ill sleep hungry under the stars. Wait, Solus, Selene protested, nudging the bursa with her foot like it was an ornery snake. This is already too much. You have to pay your men, and anyway, Id do it for free- Absolutely not, I said firmly. Im not asking you for advice. Im asking you to be mine, until Ive learned every scrap that you can teach me. It will take time. Now what do you want? What about Socrates? she said quickly. He taught you, and you didnt pay him! The Gadfly was my masters master, I patiently exined. It was his prerogative to step in if he felt his student was erring as a mentor. If he had demanded payment I would have told him, with the full respect a master is due from their student, to lick the underside of my boot and take it up with Aristotle. A shame he didnt ask, Griffon chimed in, amused. Socrates taught me a few things too, you know. Selene shifted slightly from foot to foot. Hardly noticeable, but for a Heroine it was a loud gesture. And I do outrank a Philosopher, so surely, it would also be my prerogative- That was that, I said, waving the sentiment away. This is this. What do you want, Selene? She sighed, shifting her veil aside. So stubborn. Very well. I want a souvenir for every city we visit, and a tour of their most noteworthy ces. Denied, Griffon said at once. The daughter of the Oracle whirled on him, scarlet eyes shing. Decrepit things should stay silent in their tombs! No, hes right. Selene whirled back around on me, stricken. What? Why!? Foolish you may be, but youre still a Heroine. More importantly, youre my sister, Griffon said, jabbing a finger at his chest and another one of violent intent at hers. She pped it away, but he only jabbed her with a dozen more up and down her sides. I wont let you undervalue yourself. Not even if you beg! A horse, then! she cried out, batting at the poking pankration fingers. I want a horse! A nice one, like yours! I considered that. A horse was nothing, but a horse like mine was another matter. A virtuous beast, on par with As stock I hummed. Done, I said. She slumped against the ships rail in relief. What else? Selene groaned. The Novel will be updated first on this website. Come back and continue reading tomorrow, everyone! 2.7 Sol, The Raven From Rome Echoes. In the false light of a Roman pre-dawn, on the first morning of my married life, my wife took me by the shoulders and shook me out like an old toga. In the gray light of the coming dawn, I saw those schemes shining in her eyes and knew that I was lost. Her smile was devious, her braided chestnut hair and silken gown disheveled in a purposeful sort of way. She leaned in close, gripping my shoulders tight, and whispered as though she was sharing with me a terrible secret. What was it she¡¯d said, again? A young woman¡¯s delicate hands shook me insistently by the shoulders. They were stronger than I remembered, but they moved me less. My bed was colder than it should have been, firm where feathered down was soft. Instead of cloying floral perfumes, I smelled silt and sediment in the air. Yet even so, it was just as difficult as I remembered to crack my eyes open. I felt as though I¡¯d slept a thousand years, and could sleep a thousand more if only I was left undisturbed. The woman that was shaking me like a dog wouldn¡¯t have any of that, though. Peering through the slits of heavy eyelids, I saw her shadowed silhouette and heard the whisper of her calling. Somehow, I still couldn¡¯t make out the words. How was it full night already? Some instinct told me that those shadows weren¡¯t right. I hadn¡¯t slept that long, I was certain of it. It only felt as though I had. In fact, had I even slept at all? The last thing that I remembered was¡­ Was¡­? [The sun.] My eyes snapped open. I was flat on my back, laid out on the Eos¡¯ deck like a drunkard in his cups. The sun was blinding overhead, the scant few clouds too faint and wispy to block any of its light. There was no woman looming over me, no hands upon my shoulders. When I forced my head to turn, straining like I was rolling a stone uphill, I saw Griffon splayed out on the deck beside me. At a glance he could have been lounging in his usual way, but when I looked closer, I saw feverish motion behind his closed eyelids. His fingers twitched, curling and uncurling, making half-formed shapes in time with the unconscious flexing of his body¡¯s muscles as he combatted something only his mind¡¯s eye could see. Trapped inside a dream and fighting to get out. Through the haze of my stirring mind, I wondered how I had gotten here and realized I had no idea at all. I felt my heart pounding a drumbeat against my chest, but couldn¡¯t fathom what had my body so panicked in the throes of deep sleep. I forced myself to slow down, to relax, and took control of the deafening thunder of my own rushing blood. Seconds passed, the panic ebbed, until finally I could hear myself think. Until finally I could hear my surroundings. The men were screaming. ¡°Captain! CAPTAIN!¡± I grunted and lurched sideways, the sun and sky whirling as I rolled myself over. My vision swam and I was immediately light-headed, the renewed pounding of my heart scattering my senses like a stone striking still water. Was I drunk? Had someone drugged my wine? What day was it? ¡°Captain! Wake up, captain!¡± My arm was heavier than a marble column, but I leveraged it up and underneath me. I pressed my hand flat against the shadowed planks of wood, straining against the siren song of sleep. From the opposite side of my shadow, I felt another hand pressing up against mine. Wake up, Solus! [I¡¯ll rise.] I exhaled steam through clenched teeth and rose up, reaching down through my shadow as I did and taking the hand that had been pounding at its veil from the other side. Selene plunged up through the curtain of ink like she¡¯d been falling, only for the rules of nature to reassert themselves and pull her down to earth again. The Scarlet Oracle tumbled across the deck while I slumped my torso across the bone-white bench I¡¯d made. She plowed straight into Griffon¡¯s sleeping figure and knocked him fully from his dream. The instant my brother¡¯s eyes snapped open, fists of blinding light and scouring flame exploded outward in a cloud around him, lightning limbs darting between them too fast for untrained eyes to see. They lashed out at anything and everything within their reach, and I was too slow to stop them. Fortunately, they weren¡¯t alone. Among the thirty appeared ten more pankration limbs covered in what looked to be dried blood, the least flashy of the lot by far, and they moved with precision where the rest of his violent intent ran wild. They slapped away and struck down every limb that reached for a sailor or Selene, leaving the rest of them to slip through and beat at the ship. Though the new men of the Fifth Legion flinched and cried out in fear as Griffon¡¯s mad lightshow crackled and roared over their heads, they did not leave their rowing benches. Indeed, they didn¡¯t even raise their heads. One and all, they kept them bowed and stared straight down at the ship¡¯s deck. For a moment, though their posture was bizarre, they seemed to me like the picture of military discipline. Then I felt the throbbing of the captain¡¯s virtue in my soul, like a muscle that I had kept tense for far too long, and realized they hadn¡¯t moved or raised their heads only because they couldn¡¯t. I tore away the heavy cloak of gravitas, the action causing something to spasm and clench deep within me, and the men threw themselves away from their benches like they¡¯d been burned. ¡°Wait-! Stop! Just be still, you-!¡± Selene cried out in pain and I turned sharply, jabbing a finger at Griffon as he wrenched his sister¡¯s arm behind her back in a pin. The Greek captain¡¯s virtue struck him twice, first at the foot he had tucked underneath his body, and second at his chin. His foot went out from under him, stealing his stability, and the captain¡¯s fist hit him like a hammer across the jaw, forcing the two siblings apart. The blow wasn¡¯t strong enough to knock him unconscious again. In fact, it was just enough to rouse him fully from whatever waking nightmare he¡¯d been fighting. The violent cloud of flying fists dissipated immediately as his scarlet eyes cleared, and he stared at me in utter bewilderment. I knew at once that he was just as lost as I was. ¡°What happened!?¡± Selene cried, flying to her feet. ¡°What did you see? Why did you shut me out of it?¡± What had I seen? Why had I- it was my doing that she¡¯d been trapped inside my shadow? My head throbbed, pounding like Bakkhos¡¯ funeral drums behind my eyes. ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡± The words felt coarse against my throat. Like gravel grinding through my flesh. ¡°No,¡± Griffon spoke, his voice as rough as mine. He held a burning hand to his face, digging the tips of his fingers into his no doubt pounding head. His bloodshot eyes bore into mine. ¡°We don¡¯t remember. There was something there, but it¡¯s gone now. Something took it from our heads.¡± ¡°What are you saying?¡± Selene asked, aghast. I scowled. ¡°We¡¯ve been robbed.¡± The thought of it was horrifying on its own, a violation that I instinctively wanted to dismiss. But my instincts told me he was right. My mind flew at once to assessing losses. The men were unharmed, I¡¯d made sure of that first, but Sorea was nowhere to be found. The Eos herself was untouched, as far as my inexperienced eye could tell, and the sun¡¯s position¡­ I couldn¡¯t remember where it had been before we were robbed. I remembered Olympia and our flight from it as it fell, but beyond that, the drum beat drowned out all my thoughts. How much time had we lost? Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings. Where had we been heading, and where were we now? The heavy scent of silt and sediment in the air was too familiar to be coincidence. I swept unfocused eyes across the rail, forcing my thoughts through that wall of beating drums, and finally made the connection. The Eos was all but flying without any need for oars or even a full sail, carried along by a frothing current of freshwater that flowed sideways as fast as a waterfall fell. The freshwater flow carried with it a coating of milky foam, spirals of salt-water froth that shot through the freshwater like mineral veins, becoming thinner and thinner by the moment as the river overwhelmed the saltwater intrusion. I recognized that current, and I knew well that sea-foam froth. The distant banks of the river were a sight I hadn¡¯t seen from this angle before, but they were still a vivid picture in my mind. I¡¯d marched along those mudbanks just a few years ago. I¡¯d heard the rushing of the river and smelled the silt and sediment in the air. There was only one river in the world that flowed so fast that it felt like flying to sail along it. The people of this country had called it The Eagle. To the rest of the world, it was simply known as the river. Or, in the language of its people, the Nile. ¡°Captain! Look!¡± The Eos dipped, her wood-carved figurehead gazing at the surface of the Nile in apparent curiosity as it rushed up to meet her. My stomach rolled at the sight of it, a sense of deja vu that wasn¡¯t quite my own washing over me. The memory of Stavros Aetos screamed at me that something had gone terribly wrong. It warned me it would get much worse if I didn¡¯t find my feet and fix it. I grunted, levering myself up against the rail, and saw the Eos plunging down into the open mouth of a frothing seafoam whirlpool. I reached for the memory of the Brothers Aetos, searching for a solution. How had they solved the problem of the monstrous sea-swallower then? Ah, right. They¡¯d crashed their ship into the fucking rocks. I made a fist and flexed the Greek captain¡¯s virtue. By the right of my own third rank Philosopher¡¯s soul, the Greek half of my foundations could command the strength of forty men. With the sacrifice I had decided to make in perpetuity when I recruited the Eos¡¯ crew into the Fifth Legion, one moment for every moment, that strength doubled to eighty. I formed a counter-current in my mind¡¯s eye. Manifesting an opposing helix of motion with the Greek captain¡¯s virtue would do the job, I was confident of that much. I knew painfully little about sailing, but even as a Young Patrician I hadn¡¯t been too proud to run laps in the public baths with the plebians and the street rats, just to watch the whirlpools form. All I had to do was run the other way, and the whirlpool¡¯s work would be undone. It was a delicate task. Too delicate, I realized at once. The whirlpool roiled and lurched in places, spraying as though I¡¯d pitched boulders overboard into it, but it did our ship¡¯s bearing no good at all. It only battered us harder, rocking men off their feet and sending their rowing benches sliding across the deck. ¡°To oars!¡± I shouted, abandoning the working and turning to my men. Gravitas sent the benches sliding back into their proper places and returned the men to their seats. Griffon¡¯s pankration hands joined them in taking up the oars and heaving at the current. We dipped further, listing down and to the right even as we fought viciously to pull ourselves out of the Nile¡¯s hungry maw. I pressed with the Greek captain¡¯s virtue, but the strength of eighty men wasn¡¯t enough to pull the Eos from a river this wrathful. The Eos groaned and shifted further still. The men screamed and threw their scrawny selves against the oars. Selene was racing across the deck, her hands a blur as she lashed rope around the waists of the men. Griffon hadn¡¯t found it any easier to stand than I had, still reeling from something. He¡¯d dragged himself up the ship¡¯s figurehead and slumped across the wood-carved woman¡¯s head, hanging precariously over the rushing whirlpool. He was leaning out further still, tempting the Fates as he strained to get a look at whatever lurked at the center of the whirlpool. Grimacing, I reached for the dregs of what remained of my heart¡¯s blood. As I did, I saw that there was even less of it than I remembered. It had taken that too. There was no helping it. We were in too deep, and I was no sailor. I¡¯d break this whirlpool over my knee, or I¡¯d fling the Eos up out of the drink and onto the nearest riverbank, whichever worked first. Reaching out a heavy hand, I made of it a fist. ¡°Out of my way, red-ass!¡± The voice of a stranger bellowed across the river, close behind and getting closer, and I looked back to see a nightmare made manifest by the day-bright sun. A solar barge hurtled over the lip of the enormous whirlpool behind us and above our heads, not rowing against its current like we were, but into it. The barge¡¯s narrow cedarwood hull cut through the water like a dagger, its high-handed prow easily carrying above the water even as the ship tipped - not low, but sideways, nearly parallel to the waves. I watched, astonished, as the cedar barge rode the whirlpool¡¯s spiral current past us without losing a single handspan of elevation. Where our pace moments before had felt like flying, the barge looked like it was flying, so at odds was its speed with the whirlpool¡¯s hungry pull. The cedar ship had no sails. Combined with its narrow hull and the spindly oars its men were frantically hauling away at, it looked like an enormous insect skittering across the water. The ship¡¯s oars in motion were such an odd sight that I didn¡¯t notice the man heaving something at our ship until the incoming projectile caught a sun ray and briefly blinded me. ¡°Incoming!¡± one of the men roared. The projectile never landed. Griffon caught it out of the air, holding it up for all of us to see. ¡°A boarding hook?¡± he muttered, eyeing the dull bronze claw in confusion. Then he grunted as the rope attached to it went abruptly taut and tore him off the ship¡¯s figurehead and into the whirlpool. Selene lunged forward as he fell, wrapping her arms around his waist and bracing her hip against the ship¡¯s rail, screaming in effort. I tried to stand again and failed. Up. Up. UP. The bone bench ground against the deck, and I clamped a tight hand around my brother¡¯s wrist. ¡°Let go of the hook, fool!¡± I snarled. ¡°Worthless Roman,¡± Griffon shot back, teeth bared and muscles straining. ¡°Why do you think they tossed it to us?¡± The Eos lurched, her frame groaning as the forces acting upon her pulled her in three different directions. The men at her oars kept rowing madly, trying in vain to move her back against the river¡¯s will, up and out of the whirlpool. The whirlpool tugged her inevitably down, into the depths at its core. And the dull bronze hook, held stubbornly in Griffon¡¯s hand, sought to pull us up along the cedar barge¡¯s path. The boarding hook wasn¡¯t an attack on our ship, of course not. How could it be, when it had been thrown after the barge had already passed us? The other ship was trying to tow us. I let go of Griffon¡¯s wrist and grabbed the hook instead, bracing my knees against the rail on either side of Selene and heaving back with all my might. ¡°Draw in the oars!¡± I commanded, and after a brief moment of terrified hesitation, the men obeyed. The Eos lurched, turning fully in the barge¡¯s direction and careening straight into the whirlpool¡¯s current. She dipped, and for a horrible moment I considered the possibility that this had been an act of spite rather than salvation, but the ship never fully gave in to the current. The cedar barge reached the other side of the whirlpool¡¯s rim moments later, and rather than continuing to turn and tumble down into the spiral trap, it broke straight through the current and vanished overhead. The rope attached to the hook remained taut, and just a few tense moments after that we ceased descending and began to climb instead, pulled steadily along by the other ship like we were some ill-suited anchor. When we finally breached the other side of the whirlpool, erupting back up onto the Eagle River¡¯s surface current, the line connected to the bronze boarding hook abruptly went slack and sent all three of us tumbling back to the deck. We lay there in a tangled pile for a moment, chest¡¯s heaving and muscles aching, half-wondering if we were still dreaming. The men crowded around us, reeling and in dire need of guidance. I winced, shifting Selene carefully off me and onto the deck. She blinked rapidly, still gasping for breath, and pressed her cheek gratefully against the cool wood of the deck. Griffon, for his part, continued to slump bonelessly across my chest. ¡°Move,¡± I grunted. ¡°Ho? No consideration left for your sworn brother-?¡± I shoved him off. Griffon cackled as he rolled. Dragging myself back to my feet was a horrible effort, but I managed it. In the distance, I saw the spindly Egyptian barge that had saved us from a near certain sinking. The ship¡¯s oars were still pumping frantically, the river¡¯s breakneck current apparently not fast enough for the crew¡¯s liking. The barge was nearly too far for me to see the man standing at its stern and waving his arms expansively back at us. I squinted. ¡°What¡¯s he doing?¡± Griffon asked, peering curiously up over the rail. ¡°I¡¯ve never seen that signal before. Is he trying to warn us? Something under the ship, or-?¡± ¡°He¡¯s telling us to fuck ourselves,¡± I said, finally placing the exaggerated gesture. Griffon blinked, looking back at me. ¡°You¡¯re joking.¡± As if the man had heard my brother speak, he hollered at us from the top of his lungs and somehow made the words carry. ¡°Burn your oars and walk back to Peloponnesia, you ugly fucking monkeys!¡± 2.8 Griffon, The Risen Flame For a time I just leaned against that forward rail, basking in the afterglow of our survival while Sol wrangled the crew. My arms burned, throbbing painfully where I had torn the muscles while acting as an anchor weight. It felt as though my skull had been stuffed full of wool and buzzing insects, the effect only worsening the more I probed my memories in search of answers. Somewhere in that empty space between Olympia and now, my heart¡¯s blood had been reduced even further. While Sol grilled his men for answers and Selene scampered up the mast to the crow¡¯s nest, I called upon the healing hands of my intent. They spun into being around me, the manifestations of my pneuma made visible by the dry blood that coated each of them from fingertip to wrist, and went to work mending my torn muscles. I inhaled slowly, steadily, bidding the wheel of channels to move inside my flesh. It obeyed, burning and turning, and to my deep satisfaction I felt the confirmation of a prior suspicion - the burden of my healing hands lightened. The wheel made their efforts twice as effective, for half the prior cost. Selene beat the Eos¡¯ scarlet sail like an old blanket as she shot up the mast, searching its folds with sharp eyes. Whatever had rattled my brother and I so severely, it hadn¡¯t laid a finger on my sister. She was still every bit the nimble Heroine, while I felt the same way Sol had looked when he staggered out of the Orphic House in Thracia. My brother was little better off than me, remaining on his feet only by virtue of spite and the bronze spear he¡¯d pulled from his shadow to leverage as a walking stick. Whatever entity it was that had put its filthy hands on our hearts and minds, I didn¡¯t know. Sol didn¡¯t either, and I could tell from the looks on their faces that the crew wouldn¡¯t have anything meaningful to tell him when he asked. Something ominous had taken place on this ship, that much was clear. But there wasn¡¯t a living soul among us that could remember it. Of course, that still leaves you. The lingering spirit that called itself my ancestor chuckled, the sound just as I remembered - deep, menacing, and vaguely bored. Of all the lived experiences that had been stolen from me, our thief had left behind the one thing that I¡¯d have freely given. How cruel. Selene vaulted up over the lip of the crow¡¯s nest. I sneered at the spirit lingering in my blindside. Cruel, me? No, the true cruelty was a perfectly fine piece of jewelry being wasted on a- ¡°They¡¯re gone!¡± Sol¡¯s head snapped up, the riptide current of his influence sweeping over the ship as he took another count of those on board. I saw it, the moment that he realized what he¡¯d missed. What we had both missed in our torpor. Selene leaned out from the crow¡¯s nest, panicked. ¡°Lync and Sorea! They¡¯re gone!¡± Something flashed behind my brother¡¯s eyes. Something that wasn¡¯t quite terror, wasn¡¯t quite rage. He turned to the men who¡¯d gathered in loose ranks around him, and barked a word I¡¯d never heard before today. ¡°About face!¡± That was what the worldly tongue rendered as its meaning, but beneath that, the true word was vertere. A Latin word of power - a captain¡¯s order. It wasn¡¯t the first of its kind that Sol had spoken in the days since he¡¯d taken our crew into the fold. And like the rest that had come before it, I watched it move the men on its own. As one, like it had been rehearsed, the new men of the Fifth pivoted on their right heels and spun to face the stern. Sol ground his teeth in frustration. ¡°The ship,¡± he corrected himself, pressing vainly against the Nile¡¯s current with gravitas. ¡°We have to turn the ship around.¡± I waved the bronze boarding hook. ¡°And what? Give the whirlpool a second taste of us?¡± ¡°We know the trick of it now.¡± ¡°The oars will break long before this river does if we try to row against it,¡± I told him through our joined shadows. ¡°Even if they were made of adamantine, our crew is not.¡± He stared hard at me, his shadow rippling. ¡°Then we beach the ship. Retrace our steps.¡± ¡°Retrace them where? I can¡¯t remember a thing. Can you?¡± We both reached for some touchstone, some beacon in the wine-dark waves of our recollection, and both of us grimaced as the drums beat double-time against our skulls. Selene leapt from the crow¡¯s nest, twisting with a Heroine¡¯s careless artistry in midair and pulling her spear from the fold in her silks. I tucked and rolled sideways across the deck, separating my shadow from Sol¡¯s as she thrust her penumbral spear down. The shadow cast by her spear sank into the shadow cast by Sol, but my brother didn¡¯t dodge. His jaw tightened, and his right hand lashed out to catch the Oracle¡¯s spear by its prophecy-carved shaft. Selene gasped but hung on, hanging a handspan above the surface of the deck. A few of the men eased back, watching her warily. The rest had turned and torn across the deck, overturning rowing benches and calling out the ornery pirate child¡¯s name. Sol stared flatly at Selene. ¡°Why.¡± ¡°You were doing it again.¡± She glared back at him, dangling. ¡°Cutting me out of things.¡± ¡°There are less violent ways to make yourself heard.¡± ¡°Less effective ways, perhaps. If I want the two of you to understand me, what choice do I have but to speak your primary language?¡± Sol snorted, unimpressed. I raised one hand, the other kneading at my aching temple. ¡°If I may?¡± I asked politely. Two crackling limbs of my intent struck out and speared the soft flesh of my sister¡¯s wrists. She yelped and fell to the deck, her fingers spasming as the lightning current swept through her. When she turned on me, her heart flame flaring, both of my pankration hands smacked her over the head. ¡°Violence is our native tongue, that much is certainly true,¡± I said genially, while my foolish little sister tried and failed to smooth down the hair that the lightning current had frazzled. I leaned forward. ¡°But never mind fluent - you¡¯ve yet to string a proper sentence together in this vicious tongue of ours.¡± Close enough now to feel the low hum of the lingering static, I lowered my voice to a murmur that only she and Sol could hear. ¡°Do you recognize every man on this ship?¡± I asked, and the Heroine went very still. ¡°What-?¡± ¡°Answer the question.¡± The scarlet flames behind her eyes flickered. Her gaze darted past me and traced from ragged sea dog to ragged sea dog, paranoid and pondering. The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. ¡°Yes. Why?¡± ¡°Because one of them does not belong.¡± Sol stared over our heads, his expression carved from stone. ¡°What?¡± Selene whispered, disguising her alarm as anger towards me. ¡°That can¡¯t be. I know all of these men by name-¡± ¡°So do I.¡± ¡°Then what are you trying to say? There¡¯s a¡­ fake?¡± ¡°An interloper.¡± She struggled visibly to parse the difference. ¡°How do you know?¡± she finally asked. Sol answered in my stead, tossing her ornamental spear so that it skewered the deck halfway down the length of the ship. It didn¡¯t hit any of the men, didn¡¯t even come close. But even so, a man¡¯s pained scream split the air. Nine men spun and turned to regard one as he clawed at the deck in vain, trying and failing to escape the spear that had pinned his shadow to the deck. It held him there, tethering him, and his silhouette writhed in terrible agony around the spearhead. Beside me, Selene exhaled like she¡¯d been punched in the gut as she finally noticed what Sol and I had seen the moment she jumped down from the crow¡¯s nest. Where I had rolled and Sol had braced for the impact of the penumbral spear - the silhouette of the Oracle¡¯s weapon, which could strike at raven mantles like they were flesh and blood - the rest of the men on board had reacted to the descending Heroine herself. Only one other, the interloper, had reacted as Sol and I had. The men parted to let Sol pass, his every step a crack of thunder against the deck. Such was the downed man¡¯s agony that he didn¡¯t notice his captain¡¯s approach until Sol was looming directly over his head. The new man of the fifth bit down on another animal sound of pain, his fingernails broken and bloody, and looked up into Sol¡¯s eyes. Whatever he saw there, it chased the pain away with terror. I remembered this man, of course. He was a reserved soul, dark of hair and skeletally thin, even by the standards of his fellow slaves-turned-soldiers. His skin grew pale with dread, making the dark bags under his eyes stand out twice as starkly. While the man froze like a cornered rat before a hunting hound, the man¡¯s shadow continued to writhe and claw at the silhouette of the spear that had skewered it. The shadow and the self were out of sync, just as they had been when Selene leapt down from the crow¡¯s nest with her holy spear in hand. ¡°Sephor,¡± Sol said quietly, taking the spear in hand. ¡°Grit your teeth.¡± The man¡¯s name was Sephor, and he was the only Egyptian in our crew. Sephor shivered and nodded once, speaking through his clenched teeth. ¡°Aye, captain.¡± Sol ripped the spear out of the deck, and Sephor jerked like it had been his own flesh. I knew the pain well. I brushed one of the men aside and stepped into the tense circle they¡¯d formed around their captain and crewmate. I crouched beside Sephor¡¯s head, peering down into the man¡¯s bloodshot eyes. He was terrified, that much was clear as day. More than that, though, he was confused. I knew that look. I¡¯d seen it in the eyes of countless young mystikos after I broke them down to their smallest parts in the marble octagon. I¡¯d seen it in my own reflection the day my father took the first manifestation of my violent intent into his hands and broke every one of its incorporeal fingers, one by one by one. This man had been hurt in a way that he didn¡¯t know he could be hurt. I tilted my head to regard the true interloper, the shadow intermingling with my own. The hungry raven stirred, snapping its beak in hunger. ¡°Hello, stranger. What¡¯s your name?¡± To my surprise, the interloper answered. ¡°Sephor-shut.¡± Sol dropped to one knee in a smooth, controlled motion. His shadow mingled with ours, the raven within the captain¡¯s mantle shifting in agitation. ¡°Do you remember what I told you the day we left for Thracia?¡± he asked me in the raven¡¯s voice. ¡°Of course.¡± Sol offered a hand to his wounded soldier, and after a moment of hesitation the emaciated Egyptian took it. Sol pulled him up to a seated position, and he kept their hands clasped. Slowly, the soldier¡¯s fear faded. ¡°The Egyptians believe a man exists in eight parts. Khet and Sah, the physical and the spiritual bodies. Ib and Ka, the heart and the vital breath. Sekhem and Ba, the power and the presence. Ren, the man¡¯s name. And Shut.¡± ¡°The shadow in his frame,¡± whispered Sephor-shut. Jarringly, Sephor the man spoke overtop of his own shadow, his voice rough with pain and unease. ¡°Captain, what is this? What happened?¡± Sol considered him. ¡°What do you remember?¡± ¡°Nothing,¡± answered the man. ¡°Everything,¡± declared his shadow. ¡°I saw nothing but the deck. I heard nothing but the beating of my own heart. I swear it, captain, on my life!¡± Around us, the men muttered their agreements. Sol stared hard at his soldier, then nodded and pulled him to his feet. ¡°Tell us everything,¡± Sol¡¯s raven commanded. ¡°What did you see? Leave nothing out.¡± He guided the shaken soldier to a bench and sat down beside him on it, gathering the other soldiers to him and questioning each of them on their recollections while our shadows did the real work. ¡°It came from the coast. You felt it first, but it was too late by then. It blotted out the land and sea, smothered the sun with its arrival. It knew your face, and it named you Captain. Captain of the salt that shrivels corpses. Captain of the ash that falls from sundered heaven.¡± ¡°What was it?¡± I asked, at the same time that Sol asked, ¡°What did it want?¡± ¡°It wanted you to remember its face,¡± Sephor-shut murmured. ¡°It wanted you to return its greeting in kind.¡± Selene was beside me, whispering questions in my ear. I leaned forward, entranced, the thunder in my skull doubling and redoubling with every word the shadow spoke. Like sharks beneath the wine-dark waves, the memories swam and struggled towards the surface. The closer they came, the worse the pain. It wasn¡¯t that the moments had been stolen. No, it was a deeper violation than that. They¡¯d been sealed within our own souls, shunted into a corner of ourselves that was closed off to the rest. More than anything, that was what made my heart skip. The realization that my lack of clarity wasn¡¯t restricted to just the world outside myself. There was a portion of myself that was stranger to my eye. The gods gave you a weapon the day that you were born, my father once said. You can play with knives once you¡¯ve mastered your body¡¯s full potential. A man couldn¡¯t truly master a sword until he¡¯d first mastered his body. That principle applied to more than just martial cultivation. It applied to more than just violence. The drums thundered on, growing louder still. I had decided that I would strive to understand this world and all of its wonders. I had resolved to find the truth, in all of its myriad forms. And yet, I still didn¡¯t know the full truth of myself? Better that the memories had been stolen. Better that the walls had been broken down and the treasures taken from their vaults. Better dead than derelict in duty to my soul. This would not stand. I refused. While I wrestled with the thunder and the waves, Sol glowered at the sun. ¡°What was her name?¡± He asked it like he already knew. I breached the surface of the waves within me, heedless of the roaring thunder, diving down in search of silent sharks. My vision wavered at the edges, Selene¡¯s whispers turning frantic. I ignored the pain of something breaking, venturing deeper into the dark. What was her name? Sephor-shut spoke a word that slipped through my fingers, slippery as an eel. It melted like sea foam on my tongue. Fleeting. Familiar. Lie, my dead ancestor said, and pulled me from the waves. The thunder fell away, and I found myself present in my own body once more. Staring across the deck at Sol, who was staring back at me. ¡°Lie,¡± I echoed, interrupting a man halfway through his recollection of events. The sea dog turned to me in panic, wondering what he¡¯d said wrong. The shadow of the Egyptian held its hands out to its sides and splayed all ten fingers wide. Then, slowly, deliberately, it folded one finger down. 2.9 Sol, The Raven From Rome In the end, we didn¡¯t turn the ship around. There were practical reasons. The whirlpool that had nearly sunk us, for one. I thought I had the trick of navigating it now, having watched the solar barge, but that ship had been moving with the current. Even if Griffon, Selene, and I all added our full strength to the effort, I wasn¡¯t sure the Eos would be able to do it while fighting against the Nile. Beaching the ship and marching back the way we¡¯d come had its own problems. Leaving a vessel as fine as the Eos unattended was all but begging the Fates to see it stolen. It was too heavy for the men to carry it with us over land - a year from now, with the proper training, maybe. But not as they were. Beyond that, I had seen with my own eyes the sort of beasts that lurked along this river. I wouldn¡¯t leave my men to guard the ship in my stead, not even if all ten of them together stayed back to do it. Those reasons alone would have been enough for any sensible man, without adding on the fact that Griffon and I remembered nothing of what had taken place between the shores of Alexandria and deep veins of the Nile river. We hadn¡¯t even remembered Alexandria was our intended destination until Selene reminded us of it. Even then, it was only a place in our minds. The motivations to go there were gone. It was all lost, hidden somewhere beneath the surface of the sea that was our souls. A flower of a phrase, but I hadn¡¯t been able to disagree when Griffon spoke it out loud. The words fit. Selene hadn¡¯t teased him over it either, only peered at him with a strange expression. We didn¡¯t know where to look, and even if we did, we were too far down the river now to turn back without giving up our ship. All of those things were reason enough, and all of them combined would have been worth less to me than the wooden coin in my pocket if that had been the end of it. Like him or loathe him, Lync was a part of our crew. The foul-mouthed pirate child was too young to be a legion man, and because of that I hadn¡¯t recruited him the way I recruited the other ten, but he was a part of us. The same way I had been part of my father¡¯s legion, when I first came to them as a boy. If it had to be done, I would swim through the whirlpool myself to see the boy safe. If it had to be done, I would hitch myself to the Eos like a mule, and drag her through the riverbank all the way back to sea - and heaven help whatever creature tried to stop me. I didn¡¯t need to do those things, though. Because I knew the boy was alive, and I knew he was not alone. ¡°The eagle cried its dim defiance, and it took the boy up in its talons. It took flight from the crow''s nest and fled north. It was followed, but you, Captain, and you, Flame, you two lit up like the dawn, burning, clearing out a way¡­¡± Sorea had saved the boy in my stead, and would stay with him until the danger had passed. I knew it, though I didn¡¯t know how I knew, and in that same way, I knew that Sorea still lived to see it done. It wasn¡¯t the same certainty that I felt about the men under my command. The night sky might be large enough to take no notice of a single absent star, but I was not nearly so vast. I was as aware of the men of the Fifth Legion as I was the fingers of my hands, and I knew from past experience that I¡¯d feel their absence just as keenly. What I felt for the eagle that had followed me from Rome was not that. It was more than just my own hopes, but a different shade than pure gut feeling. The only reason I knew it was there at all was that I didn¡¯t feel it for Scythas, nor for Jason, not for Anastasia or the Flame. I did feel it for Atlas, that would-be warhorse I had ridden from the Orphic House. That discovery had led me to ask Griffon if he felt the same awareness of his pure white mare, Kronia. He did. It was enough to keep me in the boat, if only just. In the hours that followed, I probed that vague awareness like it was a loose tooth stuck in my mouth. Griffon hadn¡¯t known any more than me about the feeling, and he clearly took that as a personal insult. We both knew the virtuous beasts we¡¯d marked as our own were alive and well, but we didn¡¯t know how we knew that. We didn¡¯t know where they were or what connected us to them. We lacked context. It was a familiar frustration by now. A good man once told me that uncertainty killed more soldiers than any sword or spear. If there ever was a thing that I didn¡¯t understand, I owed it to my superior officer to ask him about it. If he didn¡¯t know, then he owed it to the man above him to swallow his pride and ask. No matter how many laurels a man wore on his brow, no matter how many triumphs had been celebrated in his name, there wasn¡¯t a soldier under the sun who wouldn¡¯t die if he fell on uncertainty¡¯s blade. Years later, beneath the canopy of a legion captain''s command tent, I had asked that same man what I was to do with my uncertainty, now that there were no men above me left to ask. His answer was succinct. ¡°You ask your oldest spear, sir.¡± So I spoke to my new men of the Fifth. I settled them back onto their benches, put their oars back in their hands, and I spoke to them of myriad things as we flew along the river Nile. I asked them questions. Questions about themselves, about their circumstances, about the places they had come from and the people they had known. I asked them, with some regret, about the terms of their enslavement. I asked them what they knew. I asked them if they would teach me. I asked them questions I would have never dared to ask my father¡¯s men, for fear that I would lose their faith in me as their captain. I asked, and I listened, and I buried deep my pride. It was the uncertainty that killed a legion. I spoke to my men, and we sailed, racing against the sun. The heartland of Aegyptus had been an arid desert, once. The Republic''s oldest records spoke of a corpse kingdom long past its prime, the land¡¯s shifting dunes and sun-baked stones its tomb. Greek civilization had been old long before Rome staked its claim on the seat of Seven Hills, but the golden age of god-blooded pharaohs had been a distant memory long before the first Greek Hero was born. What remained of the great nation could hardly be called an echo. Perhaps it had been that way, back in the earliest days of the Republic, but at some point things had changed. I had seen it with my own eyes, marching down the golden road that Gaius paved for all his legions on campaign. Four years ago, I had come to Egypt expecting a desert waste, and instead I had found a thriving wonder. We flew through it now, on the Eagle River¡¯s wings. Lush green jungles as far as the eye could see. The river ran rapid through the heartlands of Aegyptus, both the channel and the veins. Wherever a thread of Nile water flowed, the green growth was doubled. More than one legion man had remarked with dark humor that there were almost as many beasts of virtue on the Nile banks as there were in a legion brothel. The creatures were all twice and twice again too large, too dauntless, too hungry. Every serpent carried a bit of dragon in its blood, and every stork a bit of golden eagle. The thicker the river vein, the stronger the wildlife grew. A hippopotamus was dangerous enough on its own, but the hulking bulls that swam about the Nile¡¯s heart veins could break a war elephant''s spine with their teeth, or simply drown the beast in shallow waters. And then there were the crocodiles. The men were still too tense to appreciate the sights, and that was a shame, but that meant they were also too tense to worry about what we shared the river with. It was better that way. Let them dedicate their bodies to rowing and their minds to answering my questions. Let the outside world wait until we¡¯d escaped to a thinner river vein. The Nile was a winding river, and I knew from my time on campaign that it had as many offshoots as the Black Forest had roots. Griffon and Selene were not nearly as preoccupied. I found them both equally enthralled when I finished my rounds and rejoined them at the front of the ship. An idle thought struck me as I watched them drink in the sight of something they¡¯d only heard stories of before - the Titan Flame had been lazy when he molded these two from clay. Born of different fathers, I had seen identical twins that didn''t look as similar as they did in their wonder. Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more. "It makes sense," Selene was insisting when I approached, leaning with her arms crossed on the ship''s rail, next to the wood-carved figurehead of a curious woman. "In fact, it makes more sense than all of your ideas - all of them put together, maybe!" "Ho? Then where is the foam, sister?" The only sign of her consternation was a faint flush of red. "Scattered, I should think." "You should think, and yet here you are instead-" While they jabbed at one another as siblings did, I pulled an ivory lie in the shape of a bench from the dark place where ravens kept their baubles. I set the bench down just behind them, angled to catch the setting sun. It cast no shadow of its own, frail fiction that it was, but I did. At the angle I''d placed it, my shadow covered the entire bench. And when I sat down on it, the bench held me - sturdy, like it had been carved from horn. I let them bicker on a moment longer while I settled myself, pulling a mermaid bone and a celestial bronze spear from my raven''s place. I''d kept half an ear on every conversation on deck while I made my rounds, so I knew what they were arguing about. "Four years ago, in the spring, I marched down that riverbank with Gaius¡¯ Fifth Legion." I finally spoke up, and pointed. "During that time, the river flowed as all rivers do - into the sea. When we left the Old Kingdom and marched back west, two seasons had passed, and the river had started to flow in reverse.¡± ¡°Why?¡± Selene asked, eagerly. Griffon looked on with clear interest. They wanted a concrete answer, but I only had hearsay and a sickly gut instinct. ¡°None of the natives could tell us for certain what had caused it, but they weren¡¯t surprised it had happened. It was a phenomena they¡¯d seen before. A good omen, they said.¡± ¡°Praise to him whose throne is Right and Truth. Repent and give your thanks, soldier of the west. The new Pharoah will be strong!¡± ¡°Barbarians and their superstition,¡± Griffon mused, cheek propped up on a closed fist. The disdain was still there, but there was a thoughtful undertone to it. ¡°One scholar¡¯s superstition is another¡¯s mystery faith,¡± Selene said, tilting her chin up smugly. Scarlet hands of Griffon¡¯s violent intent dipped down into the Nile and returned dripping wet, flicking cool river water at her from all sides. She only stood taller, basking in the spray. ¡°Be not afraid, ancient brother. I won¡¯t force you to say the words. At your age, I understand it¡¯s difficult to concede a point.¡± ¡°A bold tongue indeed, for a girl I could fit in my pocket.¡± The color at the tips of Selene¡¯s ears flushed a bit deeper. She hadn¡¯t been pleased with me for shoving her into my raven space - though I couldn¡¯t remember doing it, or why I had - for many reasons, but one that Griffon had guessed with shocking accuracy was that it had made her feel small. I¡¯d done my best to explain the nature of the raven¡¯s shadow, but the more I talked the brighter Griffon¡¯s grin had grown, and the more embarrassed Selene had become. She managed to brush it off, this time, and maintained her haughty posture. ¡°Envy is a foul look on an old man¡¯s face.¡± ¡°You hear that, Sol?¡± Griffon asked sardonically. ¡°My sister thinks I¡¯m ancient. What do you suppose that makes you?¡± ¡°Archaic,¡± I replied, whittling away at my mermaid bones. These dice would be the finest I¡¯d ever rolled once they were done. The materials were sublime, and Prometheus¡¯ golden ichor had made my fingers nimble as any master carver. ¡°There¡¯s more to age than years alone,¡± Selene assured me, a touch hurriedly. She was oddly considerate of me at times. No doubt a product of the days she¡¯d spent in the Oracle¡¯s temple, tending to her elders when they should have been tending her. ¡°My brother¡¯s personality is rotten beyond his years, that¡¯s all.¡± Griffon pressed his right hand and three more of rosy light to his chest, wounded. ¡°Besides,¡± she continued, nodding to herself, ¡°Donna always told me it was a man¡¯s soul that told you how old he really was.¡± ¡°In that case,¡± I said, ¡°Primordial.¡± Griffon snorted. ¡°What brings you to our humble corner of the deck, primeval one?¡± He nodded towards the men-at-oars, raising an eyebrow. ¡°Is it our turn to tell you our favorite foods? Or perhaps you¡¯ve come to seek our guidance. I could teach you how to sing, I suppose.¡± ¡°You¡¯re welcome to try,¡± I said. ¡°If Orpheus could teach a stone to dance, anything is possible.¡± From the way he smirked, I knew he planned to hold me to that. ¡°But it¡¯s Selene I need to speak to first.¡± Selene blinked. ¡°Me?¡± ¡°You,¡± I agreed. ¡°I have far too many things to learn, and far too little time to learn them. Olympia showed me that, and this new torment set it in stone. I can¡¯t afford to wait for men like Aristotle and Socrates to parcel out their wisdom, always on their own time. Not anymore. I need you, Selene.¡± ¡°You want me to teach you?¡± she asked, fingertips pressing lightly to her collarbone. She sounded flustered, but she knew just as well as I did that there was a vast gulf of experience separating the two of us. I may have been the better killer, but I needed more than violence if I was going to keep my men alive and find my legions lost. ¡°I mean to wring you out like wet cloth.¡± I set aside my spear and reached down into my raven space, searching for the sack of coin. I had to pay the men before I paid myself, but the mermaid¡¯s scales would take care of that once we got a bit further downriver. Hiring a mentor required prompt and proper payment. My fingers brushed against a draw string, and pulled the purse out. It was heavier than I remembered it being. Softer, too. Almost¡­ I stared at the fat leather bursa sitting in my palm, bulging at its finely woven seams. It was a fine thing, embossed with a trumpeting bull elephant, and sturdy enough to take on any campaign. When I untied the knot and pried it open, the sun caught the pile of golden aurei and made them shine. I¡¯d seen their kind minted, during the Gallic Wars. I picked up a coin wonderingly, twisting it one way, then the other. Caesar¡¯s stern profile on one side, a skewered elephant on the other. ¡°So you were holding out on me,¡± Griffon said quietly. I shook my head. ¡°No.¡± Yet another thing I couldn¡¯t explain. Another thing that couldn¡¯t wait, but would have to even so. I flipped the single coin back into my shadow, then cinched the leather bursa shut and tossed it on the deck at Selene¡¯s feet. ¡°My overture,¡± I said, and leaned forward with my elbows on my knees. ¡°Room and board and all other necessities included as well, naturally - your needs met before mine. If I only have one tent and a day¡¯s rations left, I¡¯ll sleep hungry under the stars.¡± ¡°Wait, Solus,¡± Selene protested, nudging the bursa with her foot like it was an ornery snake. ¡°This is already too much. You have to pay your men, and anyway, I¡¯d do it for free-¡± ¡°Absolutely not,¡± I said firmly. ¡°I¡¯m not asking you for advice. I¡¯m asking you to be mine, until I¡¯ve learned every scrap that you can teach me. It will take time. Now what do you want?¡± ¡°What about Socrates?¡± she said quickly. ¡°He taught you, and you didn¡¯t pay him!¡± ¡°The Gadfly was my master¡¯s master,¡± I patiently explained. ¡°It was his prerogative to step in if he felt his student was erring as a mentor. If he had demanded payment I would have told him, with the full respect a master is due from their student, to lick the underside of my boot and take it up with Aristotle.¡± ¡°A shame he didn¡¯t ask,¡± Griffon chimed in, amused. ¡°Socrates taught me a few things too, you know.¡± Selene shifted slightly from foot to foot. Hardly noticeable, but for a Heroine it was a loud gesture. ¡°And I do outrank a Philosopher, so surely, it would also be my prerogative-¡± ¡°That was that,¡± I said, waving the sentiment away. ¡°This is this. What do you want, Selene?¡± She sighed, shifting her veil aside. ¡°So stubborn. Very well. I want a souvenir for every city we visit, and a tour of their most noteworthy places.¡± ¡°Denied,¡± Griffon said at once. The daughter of the Oracle whirled on him, scarlet eyes flashing. ¡°Decrepit things should stay silent in their tombs!¡± ¡°No, he¡¯s right.¡± Selene whirled back around on me, stricken. ¡°What? Why!?¡± ¡°Foolish you may be, but you¡¯re still a Heroine. More importantly, you¡¯re my sister,¡± Griffon said, jabbing a finger at his chest and another one of violent intent at hers. She slapped it away, but he only jabbed her with a dozen more up and down her sides. ¡°I won¡¯t let you undervalue yourself. Not even if you beg!¡± ¡°A horse, then!¡± she cried out, batting at the poking pankration fingers. ¡°I want a horse! A nice one, like yours!¡± I considered that. A horse was nothing, but a horse like mine was another matter. A virtuous beast, on par with Atlas¡¯ stock¡­ I hummed. ¡°Done,¡± I said. She slumped against the ship¡¯s rail in relief. ¡°What else?¡± Selene groaned. [2.10] The Going Rate Sol, The Raven From Rome The haggling carried on long into the evening. Beyond the bare basics that every mentor of a young patrician was owed, Selene was to be my master in cultivation. That demanded more. Her hallowed status of Oracle, anointed or not, demanded more still. She was a Heroic soul, standing head and shoulders above my own Sophic soul, and yet I was the older one of the two of us. Pride, if not convention, demanded compensation for that as well. My father had spent half a day and a full night establishing terms with Aristotle after my mentor sought him out. It had been amiable enough at first, but by the time the moon had reached its zenith, there had been hollering fit to wake the dead. Ours was a family that hadn¡¯t known want for generations, not for anything material at least, and my father was far from a miser. Aristotle¡¯s price had simply been that ridiculous. Had he been any other man, approaching the captain of the Fifth and demanding a consul''s ransom for the privilege of teaching his son, my father would have fit him to his foot like a new boot and gone marching. Aristotle wasn¡¯t any other man, though. He was the man who knew everything, and my father paid his price in the end. Selene¡¯s guidance was every bit as valuable to me now as Aristotle¡¯s had been back then, and not just because she was the only Heroic cultivator I knew that didn¡¯t want me dead. She was unique, even for a Heroine, just as Aristotle had been unique among scholars. She likely had insight that even Aristotle couldn¡¯t have given me, were he with us on the Eos and at all inclined to teach. Selene had grown up immersed in aspects of mystery faith that Aristotle had always scorned. In all honesty, I wasn¡¯t sure a material value could be matched to her at all. Yet even so, a price had to be paid. It was a different sort of frustration than what my father had suffered. If Aristotle was the hunting hound, Selene was the hare. Beyond food and water and a very good horse, she suddenly became a woman with no earthly wants worth noting. It took Griffon stepping in on her behalf to negotiate, masking it as a series of brotherly jabs, to finally get somewhere productive. By the time she realized what he was doing, it was too late. Only then, after negotiations were all but settled, did the daughter of the Oracle and the Burning Dusk throw false modesty to the wind and ask something substantial of me. Something more than substantial. A request so heavy, a part of me wondered if she had been playing coy all along, just so she could sink me with it in the closing. Unfortunately, I had little time left to fill the gaps in my education, and nowhere near enough at that to keep looking for Aristotle. It pained me to accept her final offer, but that was how negotiations like this went. The terms were set and signed there on the deck as night fell. Another day came and went before our first lesson. ¡°I¡¯m surprised,¡± the Scarlet Oracle said quietly, once we¡¯d settled into place atop the crow¡¯s nest. ¡°With how determined you were to set a price, I expected us to start this right away. Why wait?¡± The crow¡¯s nest was a spacious throne for a boy like Lync, more than wide enough to fit him and Selene comfortably whenever she felt like joining him. For me, though, it was a somewhat tighter fit. Selene sat on the rim of the wooden outpost, balanced precariously with a cultivator''s casual grace, while I hunched down in the center of it. Griffon, for his part, lay stretched out across the mast¡¯s uppermost royal yard, one leg idly skimming back and forth across the face of the sail. I leaned back against my side of the crow¡¯s nest, mindful of the weight I was putting on it. With my own legs crossed underneath me, I could just barely fit inside the glorified bucket. With the full weight of the Greek captain¡¯s virtue and my own burning heart¡¯s blood to buoy me, I could also avoid snapping the mast beneath it like a twig. ¡°The men were too frightened to sleep last night,¡± I answered just as quietly. ¡°They wouldn¡¯t have slept tonight either, if we hadn¡¯t found a slower river vein to slip off to.¡± Thankfully, we had found one of the Nile¡¯s thinner veins, and managed to avoid the worst of the rapids on our way to it. For now, the men of the Fifth slept like the dead, put down by their own frayed nerves as much as by the ship¡¯s gentle rocking. ¡°You act like they¡¯d have fallen to pieces if left to their own devices for a lecture''s span,¡± Griffon said, shifting his gaze from the starry skies just long enough to raise an eyebrow at me. ¡°What does it matter if they¡¯re asleep or at their oars? Our blood won¡¯t stop burning on their behalf.¡± I grimaced. ¡°It wasn¡¯t their fatigue that held me back.¡± Though that had played its part. ¡°It was their ability to listen in.¡± Another reason to regret setting Scythas against me. His ability to stifle conversations on the breeze had been convenient when I was only one man, alone in my disgrace. Now that I was a captain again, no matter how minor, it would have been an invaluable skill to have at hand. ¡°You don¡¯t trust them?¡± Selene asked, saddened. ¡°It isn¡¯t a matter of trust. It¡¯s a matter of expectation, between an officer and the legionaries he commands. Whether or not they realize it yet, they have expectations of me as their captain, responsibilities to me, and the same is true of me to them.¡± She frowned. ¡°Solus¡­¡± ¡°Is legion morale so fragile that even the plainest truth can shatter it?¡± Griffon mused. He smirked up at the stars, sensing my irritation. ¡°They know you aren¡¯t a god, fool. Not yet. They know you¡¯re still climbing, and they had half a day to overhear us talking terms. Is your opinion of them so low? Or are you just that greedy?¡± "Neither." "Go on." "It¡¯s one thing to know that the captain is only a man. It¡¯s another to see it for yourself." I shrugged. "They know that I have just as much to learn as they do, and now they know the lengths I¡¯ll go to in order to fill those gaps. There¡¯s some value in that, knowing you¡¯re not the only one toiling. But they don¡¯t need to see it." "You¡¯re afraid they¡¯d see you fail," Griffon realized. "No, I am certain they would see me fail. They have worries enough without adding that burden to the mix. Knowing your superiors toil just as you do, that¡¯s a comfort. Seeing them struggle and fail firsthand? That¡¯s a curse." My brother hummed. "I can¡¯t tell if that¡¯s an admirable sentiment or the most arrogant excuse I¡¯ve ever heard. Either way, it¡¯s paper-thin." "Welcome to the legions," I said blandly. It was enough for Selene. She relaxed, turning and watching a squat midnight crawler of a ship drift past the Eos. The further from the heart-vein of the Nile we got, the more prevalent other ships became. Tonight, the river was aflame with torchlight and bobbing skiffs, all of them heading deeper inland towards the Old Kingdom. Raucous shouts clashed with the oppressive drone of an Egyptian jungle at night, and every now and then the late-night revelry won out. It was only the smallest sign of things to come, I knew. When Selene turned back to regard me, she had the mantle of an older woman wrapped around her like a cloak. She favored me with a small, knowing smile, and in that moment the crow¡¯s nest became a temple. I dipped my head. "Why have you come here, cultivator?" the Scarlet Oracle asked of me. "To seek your wisdom." "And what have you brought me?" "Open ears." "And an empty head," Griffon chimed in. Selene didn¡¯t rise to it. She only nodded and raised a single finger. "First, tell me something: What is the first virtue?" Gravitas. Justice. "Freedom," Griffon and I spoke at the same time. Selene considered us both, scarlet flames burning bright behind her eyes. "I¡¯ll need to know the full story." Griffon and I shared a look. Up on high, the moon rose steadily among the stars. Thirty ship-lengths down the river, there came a splash and a swell of laughter. The night was young. There was time enough to tell it. So we did.The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Throughout it all, Selene maintained a composure well beyond her years. Her smile never strayed from that soft sympathy, and the flames behind her eyes never once dimmed. When it was done, she leaned forward and clasped my right hand in both of hers. "Solus," she spoke my name solemnly, with the echo of an Oracle¡¯s majesty in her voice. "Hear me now, and know my word is truth in heaven¡ªyour mentor was a bastard, and your uncle didn¡¯t help. We¡¯ll have to start from scratch." Griffon chortled until he choked.
Griffon, The Risen Flame It was refreshing to see someone else suffer in vain for a change, trying and failing to civilize the son of Rome. Doubly so when it was my haughty junior sister heaving the boulder uphill. Selene sighed softly, kneading her temples. I lent her a few hands of my violent intent, massaging her skull and shoulders. She glanced wryly my way, smiling thankfully. "You are the reason why most cults won¡¯t let their civic cultivators leave their city until after foundations have been established," she told Sol frankly, knowing him well enough to not waste time trying to soften the blow. "You¡¯re the only Roman I know, Solus. The Greek half of your foundation I can guide, and some aspects of refinement are universal, I¡¯m sure, but the rest¡­ I could cripple you beyond repair, introduce you to a technique that¡¯s anathema to the Roman soul without realizing it and send the whole structure tumbling down. This schism¡­" "Ignore it," Sol offered. "You can¡¯t ignore any portion of yourself if you wish to move forward, let alone half of all that you are. It won¡¯t go away." "I¡¯ll manage it," the Son of Rome said, meeting her gaze with stoic resolve. "Let it be for today, and do what can be done. What is the Greek portion of my soul lacking?" "Common sense," I suggested. "I¡¯d accept that from a corpse before I took it from you." "Says the wretch that drank fermented offal and called it spirit wine." "I was twelve years old, and it happened once." "And how many times did you douse your rations with it after that?" Sol gave me an ugly look. "Garum is delicious. You¡¯d enjoy it with lamb." I sneered. "That sounds repulsive. Show me." Selene rolled her eyes as Sol struck me with a lived experience, nearly knocking me off my perch in the process. I licked my lips, contemplating the phantom flavor of seared lamb doused in fish sauce. "... it is good," I admitted. "But you¡¯re still a fool for drinking it." "Your foundations are set in stone," Selene cut in, shifting her golden veil away from her face and silencing us both with a stern frown. "I can tell you what I know of the Sophic Realm, and I will, but I didn¡¯t experience it in the way that most do. I can tell you the nature of each labor a cultivator must perform to advance from one stage to the next, but you both already know what that entails¡ª" "I don¡¯t," Sol cut in. Selene¡¯s lips parted. "What do you mean you don¡¯t know? You¡¯ve advanced a dozen times, Solus¡ªtranscended an entire realm. That doesn¡¯t just happen." She paused, biting her lip. "Unless this is another Roman conceit. Griffon, did you really never bother explaining the fundamentals to¡ª?" Her voice trailed off when she looked my way and saw my face. "No," she said in disbelief. "You? You don¡¯t¡ª? Your father is Damon Aetos." My silence echoed. I knew of the Champion¡¯s labors, of course. I had seen the truth of the eleventh with my own eyes, exchanged words with the titan flame Prometheus, and I had been made witness to a perfect ideal made manifest in an imperfect world of iron. The eagle of the Caucasus, the Phoenix that flew on freedom''s wings¡ª Libertas. Yet I could tell that my sister had a far more specific set of standards in mind when she referenced the labors. A set of expectations, a charter that I had never been given, let alone taught to read. Not for the first time, I wondered if it had been like this for Nikolas when he set foot in the wider world beyond my father¡¯s Scarlet City. How much had been withheld? For what purpose? I held a blood-stained hand up to the sky, and I wondered what it would have looked like in a world where I knew exactly what came next. Imagine a Nile river that runs as red as it does rapid, and seas that stink of iron instead of salt. Chisel into your mind¡¯s eye that hand of yours, cleaner than marble and untainted by sin. And all the world a bloody stain to contrast it. As always, my dead ancestor chose the worst possible moment to make himself known, and the worst possible sentiment to put words to. The spirit scoffed, sprawling upside down on the ship¡¯s mast in a mirror image of my own posture, heedless of the natural forces that should have sent him tumbling to the deck. You can hardly stand the smallest portion of this life, parceled out to you in these creeping moments. What makes you think looking ahead would give you any succor? A dead man couldn¡¯t possibly understand. Would that a living man could. "The two of you really are mad," I heard my sister say and lurched up from my sprawl. Selene wasn¡¯t looking at the specter of the Aetos ancestor, though, nor the scarlet gem around my neck that anchored him to me. Her eyes flickered between Sol and I, vexed and wondering at the same time. "What gave it away this time?" I asked curiously. Sol snorted. Selene was quiet for a long time, peering down the Nile and the night-lit ships drifting along with its current. Finally, she answered my question with a question of her own. "If I asked you to explain the Civic Realm to me in only one word, what would you say?" "Duty," Sol answered at once. Selene hummed, neither approving nor rejecting the answer. "Griffin?" I thought back to my life in the Scarlet City, as the young aristocrat of the Rosy Dawn, one and only heir to the tyrant Damon Aetos. I recalled the roar of fifty thousand cheering slaves, felt the sand between my toes, and the itch of laurel leaves against my skin. "Discontent," I decided. "Two very different answers," Selene mused, "and both of them different from mine. Yet¡­ what if I asked you to define the Sophic Realm instead? One word." "Reason," Sol and I answered at the same time. Selene smiled faintly and rolled her wrist. "What of the Heroic Realm?" Again, neither of us hesitated. "Spirit." "And finally," Selene said, "the realm of tyrants." We answered as three. "Hunger." "There are several reasons why the Akad¨¥m¨ªa states that the true journey begins at the second realm, and this is one of them," Selene explained, shifting on the edge of the crow¡¯s nest and drawing her sunray silks tight around her. "We exist as both body and soul, but we are three before we are two. The Broad identified this delineation and labeled it the tripartite soul. Just the same, it was the Broad that named the realms of philosophers, of heroes, and of tyrants. Which of those came first is a subject of debate among sophists to this day. "At first glance, these realms might seem a perfect match to the partitions inside our souls. It¡¯s a tyrant''s nature to starve, after all, just as it is a hero''s nature to burn and a philosopher''s nature to wonder. It would be reasonable to look at the Broad¡¯s framework and conclude that these realms exist to hone our soul in three turns. "Or perhaps, that they should serve as gatekeepers to divinity. If reason is all that a philosopher is, why should they bother stoking their spirit? Why suffer their hunger? Neither one is necessary to progress. Not until the higher realms are reached. Reason is the philosopher, spirit is the hero, hunger is the tyrant." "If," I said simply. "If that were true," Selene agreed. She tilted her head, the sunburst stitched across her golden veil shifting in the breeze. "Is it not?" ¡°Of course not.¡± ¡°Why?¡± "Because cultivation doesn¡¯t change our nature," Sol said quietly. "It only makes us more of what we are. Some men are born starving, but no man is born a tyrant. If desire is the brand upon your soul, the world won¡¯t wait for you to advance to the proper realm to make it known. You¡¯ll starve as a citizen. You¡¯ll seek knowledge to blunt your hunger as a sophist, reach for ever greater glories as a hero." "I agree," Selene said, warmth briefly overtaking vexation. "The Broad gave us the realms as we know them to make sense of the world outside ourselves. On the other hand, he gave us the tripartite soul in an effort to describe the worlds within ourselves. External and internal truths. Never one without the other." "Three by three," I said, eyes widening as another piece fell into place. Selene turned to me at once, though she did an admirable job of restraining her excitement. "Three by three what?" "Three steps by three steps. Three labors by three labors. We refine ourselves both body and soul, not one over the other. A philosopher refines their reason, that much is known, but that alone isn¡¯t enough. They have to refine their spirit and their hunger as well. Sophist, hero, or tyrant, that won¡¯t change.¡± The backdrops might shift, depending on where you stood, but their nature stayed the same. Ten ideals, ten glories, ten domains. Ten. "That leaves one," Sol said, voicing my thought. "Ten steps to a realm, but only nine combinations. An outlier. The question is, which one?" Rosy light bloomed above our ship, forty hands of my pankration intent grasping and clawing and jabbing at the stars above. The abrupt light show set off a wave of hooting and hollering from the ships nearest to our own. I ignored them, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees. "The day we met, I was a ninth-rank citizen," I told Sol, brandishing ten of the forty limbs. "I could manifest ten hands of my violent intent, never more, and only less if I desired it. The day I advanced to the 10th rank and became a Captain of the Civic Realm, that number didn¡¯t change. It wasn¡¯t until four months later that I became a first-rank Sophist, and ten became twenty. When I advanced again, twenty turned to thirty. Now I stand on the third step of the Sophic Realm, and I have forty for my troubles.¡± "The first nine labors refine us bit by bit, both body and soul. You¡¯ll have a hundred hands at the ninth rank of the Sophic Realm," Sol mused. "Which means the last step is the outlier. To what end, though?" "Consolidation," Selene¡¯s answer was as simple as it was succinct, and more than that, it was right. I felt it in the marrow of my bones. "Three labors for the Sophist, three labors for the Hero, and three labors for the Tyrant," I said. "Finally, a tenth to tie them all together, and ready the ship for the higher realm to come." Sol and I shared a look, the air between us charged with anticipation. We both had eyes enough to see the line Selene had drawn for us from one point to another. Far from being disappointed, I could feel my spirit soaring. If this was the only thing my precocious little sister ever gave me, it would be far more than I¡¯d ever expected to get. ¡°What comes next?¡± I asked her intently. ¡°What does the fourth labor look like?¡± The daughter of the Oracle unfurled the fingers of both hands, palms to the night sky, and lifted them as if coaxing up an early dawn. ¡°I have no idea.¡± The old ghost chortled until he choked.