《Myth Hunter: A Progression Fantasy》


 Chapter 1 in which Sethion commits his first crime

    Having never committed a crime before, Sethion chose to begin with a classic. Robbery.


    Amidst the darkness of the night, adjacent to a dense deciduous forest, stood a patrician villa. Hopefully, it would be his first and last target. The luxurious country estate was built on the slope of a tall hill, standing on multiple stone terraces. The view from the roofs covered in clay-colored tiles extended right to the deep blue waters of the Middle Sea. Over a day away from the bustling streets of Sinu, the stars hung silently in the sky, and even the woods sounded subdued.


    Occasionally, an owl''s hoot pierced the stillness, hanging like a Devil Bird''s cry over the estate. Even at night, half a dozen guards stood steadfast at the entrances, watching for trespassers, or worse, a myth. Encountering the second was much rarer and much more likely to end in a bloodbath. The guards held lamps, illuminating the moonless night with a dim light. Each had a Gladius hanging on his hip.


    Legionnaires.


    Influential Venatores, almost as revered as myths themselves, cared for their families, at least in the situations they could. A bitter smile streaked across Sethion''s lips.


    To the aspiring thief''s knowledge, none of the men were Animi, which didn''t surprise Sethion. Contracts were challenging to obtain at the best times, even with a lack of morals and enough silver denarii to drown in. Not even the most opulent patricians would dare to waste one on unassuming servants. And while the transmutation led to deaths among the upper class more often than political machinations, the results paid off. Assuming the new Animo didn''t go insane, that is.


    But that was a problem for future Sethion to consider, if there was a future Sethion.


    At dawn, he would know the answer.


    Now, the typical thief would infiltrate the villa without making a sound. Avoid the cones of light created by the few pottery lamps burning with oil. Pick the padlock without alerting the guards or the servants living next to the main house. Enter and leave before anyone realizes he has been there, carrying numerous valuables. That was at least what Sethion would try to do if he were a normal or at least skilled thief. But Sethion stood above such mundane matters.


    He did not need trickery, deceit, or mastery to enter the estate. It was, after all, his home.


    ?


    The young nobleman''s heart beat in an ever-changing rhythm. At times, it steadied, only to relapse into a wild crescendo when he considered taking the first step. The plan had started as a daydream, a play of thoughts to reduce the monotony of an awfully long afternoon. Lately, they had become more common than uncommon. But as the fantasy reappeared daily, blazing in the back of his mind, it became a craving.


    To not wake up in the same bed. To lose the need to feel his pulse with the index finger to assure himself that his heart was still beating. To not have to pray for wonders to see the next two summers.


    Yesterday, it had all been clear. The preparations for the journey were complete, the bag fully packed, but now lying on his bed, Sethion struggled to get up as if weights were tying him down. What would happen if he succeeded?


    This scenario had always seemed unlikely to him, but what if? Getting caught in the act, he could deal with that. There, he worked with known variables.


    Sethion groaned, pressing his face against a pillow. Nothing had happened yet. Nothing had to happen. He could close his eyes and fall asleep. The cacophony of thoughts clawed at his resolve. It drowned the ever-beating drum in his chest. Wistfully, he stared out of his window into the dark. The world seemed tranquil, offering a semblance of peace. Merely, the familiar agony of thousands of daggers carving an ornament of scars from top to bottom persisted.


    When it had seized Sethion for the first time, he had spent  an entire night convulsing in pain, in a delirium between life and death, unable to even shout for help. Right now, it was more timid than usual. It would get worse, one certainty he never doubted. He had reached the point where his life without the pain looked further away than a dream. He pinched his cheeks.


    Sethion had to leave not at the behest of the gods, the empire, or his family but for himself. The young scion of the house Mercor, his title a cruel joke, now half sitting, half liying on the bed, stared at his shoes. It took a while for his pupils to widen and let enough light through to get a clear picture. They were brown, flat-soled, and hobnailed, far more inconspicuous than the ones dyed red, which he usually wore. At this moment, their simple design mesmerized him like an exquisite fresco. The wind blew, clouds flew across the black sky, and he stared. The fingers resting on his leg shook.


    He scratched his thigh with his fingernails until the skin became white, then red. When he felt the warm liquid running down his fingertips, he decided to risk it all.


    It took him three tries to tie the laces of the leather shoes.


    The young man''s pale fingers trembled as he tightened the belt of the tunica. With a bag strapped on his back, he took a step, placing the ball of his foot first on the ground.


    The blood hissed through his ears. Sweat dripped down his back.


    He passed by the neighboring bedrooms, one step after the other he advanced. The corridor was quiet, but the rooms were not. He paused. Slowly, a sound wove itself through his ear conch. It had a deep, vibratory quality, snoring.


    Occio. Be asleep. Please be asleep.


    Sethion continued stalking through the corridor, his steps leaving no noise behind despite the lithic terrazzo floors.


    Under the watchful gazes of the gods'' depictions, he slipped into the Atrium. Well, if their statues could penetrate the blanket of the night with their eyes.


    Heresy, robbery, and stupidity. A great combination.


    Sethion bent down to the house shrine, a marble cubicle adorned with colorful ornaments. Atop towered the replica of a temple, supported by two elaborate pillars at the front. Three intricate bronze statues stood under the temple roof. They were the divine protectors of the house, the Lares. They wouldn''t stop him. Their whole purpose lay in wasting the time of those praying to them. Such was at least his experience gained through countless hours of begging the gods for mercy, suffering dizziness from all the blood loss, and enduring many unhelpful visits by priests promising a cure. Looting, however, appeared much more profitable. He squinted, trying to identify outlines in the dark without any success.


    Sethion had to rely on touch, feeling the cool metal on the side of the shrine for the lock in the middle of the door.


    In retrospect, acquiring the key had been criminally easy for what the cubicle contained.


    Most of the time, the key would lie inside the miniature temple out of practicality, but the thought of someone moving it had nagged at him the entire week. So Sethion had, after conducting the daily prayers with uncharacteristic enthusiasm, hidden it under his toga.


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    Every time the bit scratched against the keyhole, the boy fidgeted and peered into the darkness surrounding him.


    I should have brought a lamp. With this much noise, I might as well pound the thing open.


    He didn''t stop.


    Finally, the metal door gave way, accompanied by a jarring sound, making him shudder. A small bottle of frankincense, diverse herbs, and spices stood crammed beside each other. Uninterested in midnight rituals for praising the gods, the young thief rummaged through the items until he found it. A small chest. His fingers ran across the smooth, unadorned holm oak. When his father had left the city with an entire entourage for the summer estate, he had brought the box. Unable to entrust the contents to the clerks of the temples or anyone but himself, he had watched over it like a phoenix hen over her eggs. Even now, he slept with its key on a chain around his neck.


    The thought of stealing the chain had crossed his mind, but he had conceded. The chances of being caught in the act were too high. The contents would not help him right now, anyway. Still, it meant uncertainty. What if the chest was a ploy?


    Sethion grimaced at the thought.


    He would have to take the risk.


    I''m sorry, little brother. You have worked years for this. Hopefully, Cassion will be able to get you another one. Try not to be mad at me when I come home again.


    He stuffed the box in his bag and added the bottle of frankincense on a whim.


    If I manage to sell it, I won''t have to worry about acquiring extra funds for my travels.


    Sethion exited the Atrium with confident strides, leaving nothing but a last contemptuous smile for the Lares.


    He closed his eyes and took a sweet breath. The pain had stilled for a while, and the permanent noise echoing through his head had fallen silent.


    Only in these increasingly rare moments, dangling a hint of normalcy in front of him, did he understand what the sickness took from him.


    Sethion focused, shaking off the distractions and concentrating on the plan''s next step.


    The escape path led through a clear glass window imported from Farros. Their glasswork trumped the empires by a landslide. Carefully, the aristocrat moved the handle, creating an opening for him. Feet dangling from the rim, he sat down on the ledge.


    There shouldn''t be any guards here.


    He scanned the garden for any movement before confirming his assumption.


    On the verge of jumping down to freedom, Sethion halted.


    Wait, I did not forget anything, did I?


    He shrugged.


    Now, it is too late anyway.


    He leaped and cursed.


    The slim boy, flailing with his arms to restore his balance, had landed with much less grace than he had hoped to.


    The sound of his fall reverberated from the ground, loud and clear. The race was on, and for Sethion, becoming second spelled death. How far could he get until someone noticed the  half-open window? Until someone looked for the sickly patrician or the stolen items?


    The answer presented itself quicker than Sethion had hoped, in the form of a pair of boots treading his way. A guard investigated the  noise in the silent night. The metal on the man''s hips screeched as it left the scabbard, thundering like a war cry in Sethion''s ears. These warriors were trained soldiers assigned to a Venator, and most would put their lives on the line for their duty and they were apparently overly cautious. These men were ready and equipped to face bigger opponents than a frail teenager. Time slowed, making one breath last an eternity, but not long enough.


    Fuck.


    With his back against the wall, he scrutinized his surroundings. The playful water feature, beautiful walkways, and lovingly cultivated bushes his father took so much pride in made him curse again. There was nowhere to hide.


    Sethion bolted, taking the initiative, unwilling to let the other party make the first move.


    He chose a route without thinking, having played catch with his siblings in the same gardens during childhood. Across the gardens along the servant quarters, through the pergolas, shaded walkways, and over the pond. Behind, a myriad of footsteps and shouts echoed. The legionnaires had noticed the escapee and notified his unit. This mess was almost the worst scenario he could think of.


    Gods! Carceres have fewer guards.


    In his mind, the breath of the pursuers felt warm on the back of his head. Sethion barely resisted the urge to look over his shoulder.


    He expected a man to subdue him at any moment now.


    The wall surrounding the estate was coming closer. Sethion would make it. One foot stood already on a pedestal next to the depiction of an old kneeling satyr, his hands grasping the top of the brick wall. Then something caught up. A crossbow bolt parted the night sky with a hiss, covering the distance between the chaser and chased in the blink of an eye. The projectile ricocheted off the wall, chipping it and missing his chest by half an arm''s length. They had fired at him like they would at a criminal. There was no second shot. Sethion had surmounted the obstacle. Even so, his heart sank.


    The Vertragi. They can hunt me down with the dogs.


    I need to lose them first.


    His feet took a ninety-degree turn, not facing the distant sea and small village anymore but the closer forest in which Cassion had almost lost his life in. Sethion began running again.


    Every second counted, still, eventually, he had to slow down to catch his breath.


    I think I''m about to throw up.


    His insides churned, but he kept going.


    Running through the woods at night proved challenging, not only due to the darkness but also a lack of exercise. The treetops blocked the already scattered light rays, creating darkness without shades. Unlike the villa, he could not maneuver through the woods while blind.


    Sethion tripped and stumbled through the thicket like a man who had drunk wine for three. Another root, another fall, another bruise, but he had stopped cursing long ago.


    Will it even help? There is no alternative.


    You must have heard the story a thousand times, so why can''t you remember? Calm down, breathe. We were playing. What were we playing? I don''t know. Not important. Cassion went into the forest alone. No, Livi dared him to. He got lost, the idiot. He met it after meandering for hours. I don''t have hours. Where was it? A clearing, he described a clearing. How do I find the damned place? I can''t. What do I do? What can I do? There must be something else to it. How does a brat who has only seen ten summers attract the attention of a myth? How? There is no ubiquitous solution. It all depends on the creature. Curse you and your secrets, brother.


    An abrupt howl behind Sethion halted his thoughts. The Vertragi had sniffed his trail, and those dogs did bite. From the start, he had understood that outrunning them would be impossible. Even so, he had hoped for more hesitation to enter the turf of a legend in the flesh.


    Wait, do they even know about the woods? Or did Father give them some abstruse warning? Why is everyone keeping secrets in this damned family? Fucking Vappa.


    He decided to double his tempo, despite the rapid accumulation of injuries. Pain was an old enemy. Someone he had fought more times than he could count.


    Pain? I shouldn''t be feeling anything.


    A shiver raced up his spinal cord.


    No, it can''t be. Don''t tell me it''s time for that already.


    If there are gods, their sense of humor is horrid.


    His heavy breathing prevented even a dry laugh.


    Behind Sethion, the sleeping forest awoke as heavy footsteps resounded in the distance, making the ground tremble. More of the legionnaires had joined the fray, tracking down the young man with the help of the leashed hunting dogs.


    All for an inexperienced thief. Where do all of them even come from? Shouldn''t they be asleep?


    He could already picture what would happen


    when they caught up when the canines were let loose. Sethion had observed the Vertragi countless times mauling hares. Only to be heartbeats away, changing from witnessing to experiencing.


    I know all the dogs by name. They should recognize me. Still, I don''t want to find out.


    Zigzagging between trees and over rocks, creating a path where no way was, he gained precious time to think.


    If I climb a tree, maybe...


    No, no surrendering. The moment I give up, I lose my only chance. On paper, I''m already a dead man. So, think. I''m a child, lost in the woods. What do I do? The atrophied muscles burned. He gaped for air, his lungs a sieve, all his preparation useless. Cold sweat ran down his temples to his torso. Pain surged throughout his body like waves hitting the shore with the force of nature. Then he screamed. The pain intensified, leeching onto his weakness.


    A quiet scream, full of exhaustion and desperation. There wasn''t enough air in his lungs for anything more.


    There is no doubt about it. I''m going to die.


    Sethion''s breathing grew even more ragged. The patrician almost collapsed, grasping a branch mid-fall, which bent under his weight. I can still walk. His body begged to differ. Muscles convulsed, the breathing faltered, and the urge to cough became irresistible. The fit seemed furious for having been ignored so long and ravaged him with despicable glee. It was a feeling he had experienced many times but never could get used to. Not a single body part did not hurt. The pain struck him. Cut his body open with infinite needles until there existed no inside or outside, only misery. The knuckles of the hand gripping the tree''s limb turned white. There was no planning. Not anymore, just the distant feeling of having to escape clashing against the clouded mind.


    In the end, his will prevailed.


    Sethion took a step, then another, and broke down on the third. The world went black before he gracelessly landed on the ground for the second time. The very reason he had to leave prevented him from it.

 Chapter 2 in which Sethion wets his pants

    When Sethion again gained a splinter of awareness, a dozen legionnaires and Vertragi had surrounded him. He cried out, frustrated and hurt, but not torn to pieces. A coarse man with an aquiline nose crouched, searching for eye contact. If he remembered correctly, his name was Marcus.


    During one of his many sleepless nights when Sethion roamed the villa, he had met him and other Venator underlings at the front gate. With a mischievous glint in their eyes, they had told him to sit with them. They had asked a single question, not about what he was doing, but whether he knew how to play dice. For a single night, he had remembered what


    being treated as a typical youth felt like.


    That glimmer had vanished, extinguished by a calculating coldness that measured his every move.


    "Can you walk?"


    Sethion nodded. After getting his answer, the man turned around, seemingly losing all interest. He only watched the aristocrat out of the corner of his eyes. Had they known who they had shot at? Sethion wasn''t sure. He did not dare to ask. Legionnaires were not known for their restraint. There was no unnecessary talking or questioning about why he had done it. The men had come for retrieval. They did not care. While for Sethion, it had been a vital fight for his entire future, for them, it was another day of the sun, a weekday, nothing more, nothing less. They did not tie him up, not out of arrogance, but because Sethion''s knees were still shaking. He could barely stand. Maybe also because there was no rope at hand.


    "Here''s the chest, unopened, undamaged."


    How do they already know what I stole?


    Another man reported, rummaging through Sethion''s bag. It felt strangely violating.


    Sethion breathed consciously.


    Focus.


    Observing his surroundings, he counted fourteen men in total. However, more lurking nearby remained a possibility.


    I assume Father sent them just for the chest. He has probably already written me off. I wonder how they would react if they knew what was inside.


    Escorting the young fugitive in their midst, the legionnaires began returning to the estate. As time passed, Sethion''s movements grew more controlled again.


    Things could be worse, right? Things can always get worse, right? Why can''t I think of anything worse?


    Well, I could be dead right now, I suppose. Wait, would that be that bad?


    The soldiers'' steps were steady as they walked effortlessly in perfect unison. Without noticing Sethion''s facial expression, people might have believed them to be his protectors.


    Walking through the forest, which had been off limits for over ten summers now, left him with much time to ponder where it all had gone wrong.


    The window, the moment he had run, or had the idea been flawed all along?


    Maybe I should have done it in broad daylight, so brazenly no one would have even considered it. Walk out with a smile on my face, wishing the guards a lovely day.


    Sethion''s shoulders slumped.


    It doesn''t matter. There won''t be another try. I will be lucky if I sleep under a roof tonight or don''t get quartered by tomorrow.


    Moss squeaked under his shoes. His feet hurt. A blister had appeared where the leather had rubbed against his toes. The night air felt cold on his skin. His short light-brown curls stuck to his head, glued by sweat. The adrenaline, the thrill of doing something forbidden, subsided.


    Dull.


    As the sole upside to the situation, the pain decreased to a more bearable level. Another fit he managed to survive. Nothing new. But would he survive the next? The one after?


    He yawned, the tiredness catching up to him. That had been it? A short escapade of wishful thinking until reality poured a bucket of cold water over his head. He had taken the gamble and lost. And like a gambler, he found the thought of footing his bill appalling.


    Did I miss something? Was I too quiet, or have I been just unlucky? What could a child have done other than screaming for its notice? Cry?


    Involuntarily, the image of his mother flashed before his eyes, her curly hair the same as his, her walnut-colored eyes, and her aloof expression. The distant look on her face had not changed the day the physician had diagnosed the Rot.


    Oh, spare me of your madness of a philosophy. You only believe in fate because you have had luck in life. Must be easy. Taking something, proclaiming the gods, fate, or whatever has destined it to be yours.


    Sethion kicked a pebble, hitting a guard in front of him. He wanted to punch something. The man continued without pausing, not halting for a single moment. It led to a realization.


    I''m throwing a temper tantrum like a child instead of doing anything.


    They approached the outskirts of the woods, where the trees grew sparser. Sethion did not hold any unrealistic expectations. He required a wonder or something out of a legend to escape.


    Grab the bag and run. Could not be more straightforward. First, though, I need to tip the scale. The third time is the charm.


    His muscles tensed as he took a deep breath, focusing on the next moment. Pain and tiredness faded out.


    One last gamble.


    "Heeeeeeeeelllllllllpppppppp!" Sethion jumped at the loudness of his scream. To his satisfaction, he noticed some of the legionnaires flinch as well. They span around, hands already on the hilts of their swords, vigilant at every step.


    "What was that for?" A man questioned him.


    Their eyes darted from tree to tree, penetrating the deep shadows in search of an ambush or any sign of an enemy, only to find nothing.


    Worth a try.


    Sethion looked up at his captors and noticed the dozens of eyeballs now entirely focused on him. Their stone-cold faces did not portray a hint of emotion, but he was sure they did not appreciate his small stunt in any way. He gave them an awkward smile. Somehow, their gazes grew even more piercing as a result. Sethion squirmed as a strong hand gripped his shoulder.


    Suddenly, something deep out of the woods answered the call.


    The looks on the legionnaires'' faces turned from confusion to horror. A single deep, bloodcurdling howl encompassed all senses. He could feel it, smell it. Sethion''s animalistic instincts screeched. The howl sounded distant and somehow right next to him.


    Magic.


    He had accomplished it, created his moment to get away. This time, they would not follow him, he was sure. Sethion''s legs did not budge. Unnatural goosebumps formed all over his body. It had become so palpable he could taste it on the tip of his tongue.


    Fear.


    He looked around. These men were battle-hardened veterans. Most would not catch a bad night''s sleep if they had to go to war tomorrow. What he saw in their eyes terrified him almost as much as the howl.


    Dread.


    The Vertragi whimpered and lowered their tails.


    Sethion realized he might have called upon more than what fourteen legionnaires could handle.


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    There is a reason they sent the Venatores, or a century, whenever they try to eradicate a full-blooded myth. I need to run.


    His feet did not move.


    "Boy." The man''s voice portrayed no emotion. Only his uncontrolled trembling left hand offered a glimpse at his true feelings.


    "Do wolves live in this forest?"


    The legionnaires held no fault. They had arrived recently, in addition to the family''s guards. Cassion''s rise in position warranted more potent protection.


    They have no idea. Not a single clue. They caught me because of ignorance.


    Sethion clenched his teeth before he could say anything. It had been a night of countless disappointments.


    No use dwelling on ifs. It escalated already. Be calm.


    "Not wolves. A myth. We need to run." Sethion''s voice came out shaky.


    Nobody budged.


    The man, a veteran with yellow teeth, maybe even an Evocatus, cackled. The metal on his body shook, adding to the jarring sound.


    "Bit late for that, kid."


    "Assume circle formation!"


    The legionnaires flowed like water, filling their designated spaces. The youth standing in the middle of them was redundant. A bystander, watching the assembly of the formation resembling a hedgehog in awe.


    The Vertragi, ruthless hunting dogs, cowered. They would be useless in the upcoming confrontation. Animals were famously unreliable in confrontations with myths. The men steeled themselves, but the predator took its precious time.


    "Eighty sesterces on a Fenrir." A man with crooked teeth broke the silence. An idiotic bet, they knew. What did it matter which myth would slaughter them?


    "A hundred on Gaius guessing Fenrir because he doesn''t know any other wolf myths." Another soldier answered, not making eye contact once during the conversation. Instead, he stared unwaveringly into the darkness.


    "You think I would gamble a month''s pay on -."


    "Fifty on it being an Amarok." The slimmest of the bunch chipped in.


    Sethion took a deep breath. The corners of his mouth twitched, almost forming a smile for a brief moment.


    No, that''s not right. A Fenrir couldn''t have lived close to our villa. They are too big and dangerous. The Senate would have sent the Venatores long ago, and we would be dead. An Amarok? Possible. But it''s not the proper climate. We aren''t far enough north. The powers don''t fit, either.


    Sethion positioned himself behind the burliest of them, setting up a hurdle between the myth and his tender flesh. Information is a vital component of defeating supernatural beings. A sentence he had heard countless times. His teachers, parents, and Cassion had told him the same when he complained about submitting entire encyclopedias to memory. Now, he wished to have never stopped practicing.


    During that time, when his studies still mattered, he had spent months figuring out which myth his brother had formed a pact with.


    Only to hit the wall of missing information during his research. His parents and brother would not tell him anything. Everything related to the incident they kept secret. They would not mention it. Not wanting to give anyone a hint as to what kind of creature Cassion had bargained with.


    It left a sole starting point, the transmutation. Cassion''s physical mutations in correspondence to the pact, the electric green eyes of his brother. Something no one else in the family possessed. That was not much to go off, but now he knew more.


    "Focus. The beast should already be here." The Evocatus voiced everyone''s suspicion.


    Lives in forests. Something wolf-like with affiliation to the color green. Can exert a powerful fear effect through its cry.


    Could it be a, but why would it be so far west?


    A dreadful silence filled the forest. The apex predator was on the prowl, inaudible even in the stillness, stalking its prey. A legionnaire whispered a prayer. Then, for the fourth time that night, Sethion shouted, breaking the quiet.


    "Cu Sith! I think it''s a Cu Sith!"


    The legionnaire''s heads didn''t turn, but he had gotten their attention. Sethion could feel it. Every piece of information that helped them defy the odds weighed heavier than gold.


    "That''s great, but what the fuck is a Cu Sith?!" Gaius responded. The fear a single howl had instilled in them remained deeply anchored in their bones. Nobody could forget that they were facing certain death.


    I can run. I would only have to slip out. No one will stop me. I need the bag. Everything has worked out the way I wanted. So, why am I not moving? I either die first or survive. Either way, I die.


    Sethion stayed inside the encirclement.


    An unreasonable voice of hope whispered in his head.


    The Cu Sith didn''t hurt Cassion.


    The young aristocrat remained motionless.


    Coward.


    Sethion bit his lip. Not sensually, solely desperate. Not until blood trickled down his throat did he find the strength to speak.


    "It''s not a wolf, but a faery dog. Iron, its weakness should be iron.


    The moment the words left his mouth, the expectant expressions of the legionnaires'' dimmed.


    "Oh, that''s great, ''cause I wanted to stab it with a stick."


    "Shut up, Fabius."


    A man joined the praying legionnaire. Then another, until a small chorus formed.


    "Ave dei magni. Ave dei magni. Ave dei magni."


    "Ave dei magni."


    Sethion readied himself to jump at the slightest notion, relentlessly examining the surroundings for an invisible enemy. One thought after the other rushed through his head.


    Where is that damn faery dog? And why would the book specify iron as its weak point? It has to be cold iron. I don''t-


    Dark green lightning shot through his field of vision, hitting the formation like a cavalry charge. A body landed next to Sethion before he could comprehend what had happened. The night went silent again, and he had time to glance at the unfortunate legionnaire. The man was now missing his throat. Not torn or ripped to shreds, missing, replaced by a gaping hole. A single death rattle. Then he stiffened, but the liquid kept flowing, nevertheless. The nasty metallic smell of blood spread over the battlefield.


    The acidic taste of puke filled his entire mouth. Years of training had failed to prepare him.


    He gasped for air. He felt a heavy weight pressing down on his chest.


    I can''t-.


    Two electric green moons stared him right in the eyes, the same as his brothers, but without any compassion. Instead, the distant glint of a hunter and malevolent intelligence filled them. While the legionnaires closed the gap created by their fallen comrade, wading through his blood, the Cu Sith waited. The beast stood as tall as an ox, with its height reaching up to Sethion''s chest. Its fur had the color of vibrant ivy, giving the doglike myth an eerie beauty. It stood still, barely inside the light cone created by the lanterns. The Cu Sith would have appeared peaceful without the red fluid dripping down its snow-white snout. The bowstrings of the crossbows hummed as they catapulted their bolts at the enemy. Not everyone had wasted their time staring. The faery had given the soldiers an easy target and enough time. Before Sethion realized the men had shot, the bolts found their mark. Then, they were deflected to the ground.


    It''s toying with us.


    The men cocked their crossbows without pause, adjusting to the cuneus formation, forming a wedge. Another bolt bounced off the myth, not leaving a trace in the dark green fur. The myth seemed almost amused. A Vertragi shook off the stupor and charged at the Cu Sith. All Sethion could do was remember the dog''s name.


    Hylactor. He whines the loudest for treats.


    Marcus swore.


    "Gaius, take the kid and run." The Evocatus ordered.


    "We will join you later at the Mercor residence."


    The legionnaires, unprepared for real warfare with their shields and parts of their armor missing, drew their blades, readying for close combat. In a cold frenzy, they rallied. They were about to die. It didn''t matter. The thing had killed their comrade. They would make it pay.


    "AD MILITES!"


    The Cu Sith moved,


    opening its snout, revealing canine teeth the length of a small man''s hand.


    Gaius forcefully grabbed Sethion''s arm.


    Then the beast barked, and the world froze. Honestly, he wasn''t sure if it could be called a bark. People didn''t collapse after hearing a bark. It was more of a feeling oscillating throughout his soul, superseding every thought and action he might have taken with terror. Warm liquid flowed down his legs as he lost control of his body.


    The legionnaires didn''t fare much better. Most had let go of their weapons and fallen to their knees. The primal emotion had conquered their minds in seconds. Hylactor toppled over. Not even the animals were spared.


    The ruler of the forest walked graciously between the invaders of his turf, who had caused commotion after commotion, radiating a sweltering fury. The manlings had barged into its territory, carrying weapons instead of offerings, disturbing the forest to lure it with their cries.


    Sethion kneeled before the monster, quivering erratically. His surroundings looked surreal. Countless wraiths danced in his vision, beckoning him closer as they filled the entire sky. Specters muddied his view, taking the little amount of sight left to him in the darkness of the night.


    This is a dream. Nothing of this is real.


    The sounds dampened. Sethion sat alone, decoupled from reality.


    He didn''t want to pray for salvation in his last moments, so he thought about his siblings and the girl he had almost married. Little moments that had gained their preciousness after his world had turned mad. A smile crossed his dry lips.


    I tried my best but only accelerated it in the end. So what if this is the end? I have been dying for the past two years. Dying is easy. Living is hard.


    Sethion ground his teeth.


    Not yet.


    He blinked and saw. Some legionnaires were moving, recovering. Three weren''t. A green shadowy figure towered over the fallen. Something flickered in its mouth, frail but incredibly precious, something forbidden. The giant dog had torn something out of their corpses. A soldier pounced on the beast. Saliva dripped out of the man''s mouth. Gone was the military discipline, replaced by a mad glint.


    He is out of his mind. Maybe that is why he is still standing. With what kind of beast have you signed your contract with, brother?


    The myth ignored him, gorging on its meal.


    The soldier thrust his gladius, aiming at its chest. A motion perfected over hundreds of battles, making it second nature. The weapon drew a captivating line until the stab scraped the myth''s skin. A mountain would have been a less resilient target.


    Sethion, meanwhile, tugged the man with the stolen goods strapped on his back. The legionnaire didn''t budge. The boy tried to pull the bag out  from underneath him without much success. Losing all restraint, he slapped the legionnaire, Gaius, across the face.


    Sethion had promised himself.


    Everything or nothing.


    After half an eternity, the soldier regained his consciousness. Sethion pointed frantically away from the battle, signaling the escape path.


    Gaius hesitated shortly, looking at his struggling comrades encircling the ahungered faery before using his wobbly legs. The legionnaires had spent years together, battling side by side. He decided in a split second. Gaius dropped the bag, turned, and charged. He was trembling as if it was freezing. Still, he knew the fever of battle would keep him warm.


    While a young man ran alone through the forest, the burning eyes of the Cu Sith didn''t leave his back once, even while the fight kept raging on. Its snout warped as if it had sniffed something disgusting.


    Unworthy prey.

 Chapter 3 in which Sethion insults a priest

    Four months prior:


    "The pain materializes in the mental plane. I discovered a dissonance between mind and body," the priest, whom Sethion hadn''t bothered to learn the of name, declared.


    The elderly man wore a white wool toga meticulously draped over his right shoulder and tucked under his left arm. Small orange stripes adorned his clothing, from the toga to the band around his head. He was one of those who promised the world and received payment in advance.


    Sethion, lying on his opulent bed, restrained his facial muscles with an iron will.


    Great, another quack.


    "So, you have identified the cause, Flamen?" The aristocrat asked, adding the man''s honorific title. The priest nodded sagely in response.


    "Indeed. It''s a rare and dangerous affliction. I''m not surprised my predecessors were unable to diagnose it."


    How humble.


    Sethion relaxed his neck, his gaze wandering to the ceiling. He put on his most pain-stricken voice.


    "You truly are wise." The young man paused for the dramatic effect. Sethion''s brown eyes met the strangers.


    "Do you know how to cure it?"


    Sadly, he didn''t manage to ignite the waterworks.


    With a content smile, the priest sat down next to him. The man even reached for Sethion''s hand in compassion, squeezing it softly.


    Okay, he gets bonus points for effort.


    "I fear I can''t gift you the cure, as it prospers within you. Follow the great ones'' teachings and you may attain it."


    Sethion''s facial muscles twitched as maintaining control became a Herculean task.


    "But how will piety aid my recovery?"


    A rough breath left the man''s lips.


    "Ah, the impatience of youth. In time, you will learn that true strength comes from patience and calm. You will discover that what now seems insurmountable, is but a thread on the tapestry of fate."


    Sethion coughed.


    Patience and calm??? I''m literally dying.


    Unable to keep up the farce, he returned the man''s squeeze with as much strength as he could muster.


    "Are you perhaps implying that my sickness is imaginary?" Sethion''s tone turned rough.


    The priest''s smile only widened in response.


    "Aren''t all ailments simply imaginary? In the end, they are all parts of our mortal shell. They exist as mere externalities, distracting from the true path to Elysium. The only thing that truly matters is the soul. We, the gods'' children, must focus on the important affairs, and the rest will fall into place."


    By Sol. Another idiot. Or at least, he believes me to be one.


    Sethion held up a finger to silence the other man.


    "So, if I understand you correctly, Flamen." He spit the last word out. "Your solution to curing me of certain death is making me believe that I''m not sick? Have you spent too much time inhaling gases in an oracle''s chamber?"


    A few seconds of silence reigned. The priest''s face remained entrenched deep in thought. Finally, the dull man realized the ruse and a wave of indignation rushed across his face.


    "I will not be insulted!" He screeched. Sethion sent him an offended look.


    "Your simple presence is an insult to everyone with half their wits! But don''t take those words to heart. They are just part of your mortal shell, aren''t they? So, you oversized vulture. What is it now?"


    Heat rose to the man''s face, accompanied by a shade of red Sethion had thought impossible for a head to achieve before this day. With waggling eyebrows and bloated cheeks, the man shouted.


    "Blasphemous!"


    A smile plastered the patrician''s face.


    "You may see yourself out now." He lazily gestured to the door. "Though, I must admit your lying skills are superb. Have you ever considered perhaps a career as a soothsayer?"


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    The priest shook his head before turning in a violent motion.


    "May your passage be without suffering," he spat, storming out of the room. Sethion''s head touched the pillow as he relaxed his body.


    Damn, he got me good. I will need to think of a comeback before they get number fifteen.


    He let out a deep sigh.


    Another failure.


    His moment of respite remained brief.


    A newcomer entered the room with heavy footsteps. The man''s mere presence demanded attention. Lean muscles rolled under his skin. His tall frame, straight back, and schooled expression gave an impression of power. The same light-brown locks as his framed the man¡¯s face.


    "Father," Sethion squeaked. Quickly, he threw off the blanket to rise to his feet. One did not lay down in the presence of the family head.


    "You may sit," a deep baritone voice left the patriarch''s mouth.


    Sethion spotted a few deep lines on his father''s forehead, marks of stress he had never noticed before.


    When was the last time he visited? I don''t remember.


    "How many priests, doctors, and experts does it make now?"


    The young man knew that both of them were aware of the answer. It was a test, a probe to see his response.


    "Fourteen over the past year," Sethion answered truthfully.


    "And how many lasted over a week?"


    That sentence made the young man wince. His father wielded the silence like a knife, unrelenting and refusing to continue until he received an answer.


    "Two," Sethion finally muttered.


    "Why must you agonize those who seek to aid you, son?"


    As if their idiocy is my shortcoming.


    Sethion awkwardly tussled with one of his locks before dropping the act due to its inappropriateness.


    "That fool did nothing but speak pretty words to give solace. He didn''t even try to heal me. I did a favor to our family''s time and pocket by chasing him out."


    Mercilian Mercor''s fog-grey eyes bore into his. Sethion couldn''t help himself but swallow a lump of saliva. There was a reason the man was named a fearsome negotiator.


    "Have you considered that such was my intention?"


    All blood left Sethion''s head, coloring his face in a pale white. Black dots danced in his vision, accompanied by a rush of dizziness.


    His body sagged backward as he lost his composure.


    "You are giving up," he whispered. Mercilian''s tone stayed flat, as if he were talking about the weather.


    "No more hired visitors," he announced without portraying a hint of emotion.


    "No. Please don''t. Just one more," Sethion sobbed. A transparent sheen of tears covered his eyes, clouding his vision.


    "I won''t do it again. I will try¡­"


    His father remained standing, staring down at his son. He furrowed his eyebrows.


    "Stop begging. It''s unbecoming of a Mercor."


    "What?" Sethion tasted salt on his tongue. He had given up on any attempt of decorum.


    "But¡­"


    "No. I agree with you, we have wasted too much effort already. Perhaps it was arrogance to believe that we could cure the Rot."


    Mercilian shook his head.


    "But¡­"


    "Do you believe this to be a simple decision, Sethion? After Cassion, you became my heir. Still, all possible avenues have been exhausted. There is nothing in my power to do."


    Sethion hiccuped, unable to control his body.


    "What''s with the contract? Couldn''t it¡­"


    Mercilian pressed his lips into a thin line.


    "Hearsay. You would bet the family¡¯s future on a rumor? And then, even finding and surviving a myth in your volatile condition, nothing but a pipe dream."


    ¡°An ¡­ Animo¡­ could¡­¡± The words came out jumbled.


    "No, I attempted it. Great healers aren''t something you can simply buy and even then, there is no guarantee for success."


    The man pulled a dagger from his toga and offered its hilt to his son. His tone turned soft, almost caring.


    "Here, the ability to decide your fate and preserve your honor. Sadly, it is all I can gift you, my son."


    Sethion didn''t move a muscle, he had no intention to taking it.


    "A healer was too expensive, so you buy me a dagger."


    His eyes turned red, and he pulled up snot through his noses


    "Did you not listen to a word I said?"


    Sethion gritted his teeth.


    "Oh, I have understood you quite well, Father," a venomous amount of contentment laced his tone.


    "I will leave it here," the patriarch placed the dagger on a shelf before retreating.


    A single tear ran down his stoic face after he had turned his back to his second son.


    Alone again, Sethion pushed his face against a soft pillow and silently screamed. He shouted until his voice turned hoarse, and then he sat up.


    Involuntarily, his gaze wandered to the dagger. It lay within arm''s reach. How easy it would be to take it? End the suffering once and for all. His chances of survival were negligible, not even worth mentioning. He had spent months in libraries, not finding even a single well-documented case about a person surviving the Rot. His hands became fists, ready to lash out at a target. Any target would do. Nothing presented itself. Sethion sank into his bed.


    "I''m not considering it," he declared, while his eyes remained glued to the blade. With shaking fingers, he took it and felt its weight. Light danced around its edge, promising incredible sharpness. Detailed carvings decorated its hilt, numerous circles in a repeating pattern. Sethion pressed it against the palm of his hand, cutting into the flesh. He didn''t notice the pain. It was much less than what he had gotten used to over the last year, a trickle compared to a flood.


    Salvation.


    Blood dripped from the wound. Entranced, Sethion watched its flow as a small stream wound itself down his arm.


    He tightened his grip around the hilt.


    Will Father be pleased if I do this? What would he tell Occio?


    He had trained with a weapon since he was four years old. Sethion slashed the air. The dagger felt natural in his hands. A fine weapon, he decided. His heart rate spiked. His entire surroundings, except the small blade, turned blurry.


    It will save me the unnecessary agony. I have stopped living one and a half years ago.


    His scalp tickled, small jittery jolts rushed through his body. Sethion raised the  dagger and pressed the cold metal against his throat. A single slice was all it would take. He took a sharp breath, and his throat pushed against the edge. The hand carrying the blade remained steady. A single twitch would end months of misery. His eyes darted to the ceiling. Wooden beams formed repeating squares decorated by coffers and small shields. An elegant show of craftsmanship Sethiom had long grown tired of.


    Will this be the last thing I will ever see?


    The young man pulled the dagger away from his throat, struggling as if a magnetic force resisted him.


    Fuck this.


    He jumped out of the bed quicker than he could think. Sethion sprinted to the window. With all his strength, he hurled the blade out of it.


    I''m not dead yet.

 Chapter 4 in which Sethion gets a mediocre history lesson

    Sethion stared at the fourteen corpses - at least, he assumed it was fourteen. The sporadically spread body parts made it difficult to get an accurate count, and he couldn''t tell where one person began and another ended. A few rays of sunlight penetrated the canopy, revealing what the previous night had hidden. A thin, dark-red, crusted sheen covered the ground. The bodies remained strangely untouched, as if not even the forest animals wanted to acknowledge the dreadfulness of an enraged myth.


    Not that it mattered. The men were dead. Dead because of his actions.


    Fighting against every instinct, Sethion walked up to the nearest remains of a  legionnaire. Pieces of the man lay strewn around, mauled by razor-sharp teeth. Only the head and most of the torso had stayed in one piece.


    The young man crouched down, his face hovering an arm''s length over the deceased. A grimace contorted the man''s pale face, with the mouth stuck in an endless scream and the eyes widened in horror. The legionnaire had kept them open, resisting until death.


    It felt wrong to Sethion as if he should have never witnessed the scene. A silent accusation hung in the air. Why did one live where fourteen others had spent their lives?


    The legionnaires had ended up saving him from the Cu Sith. Well, they had also forced him toward it. He shook his head, shooing away the resentment.


    Marcus.


    Sethion finally recognized the man, so stark was the change that death had brought. Sunken cheeks and stiff, limp facial muscles had turned the once-strong man into a distant version of his past self. Absent-mindedly, Sethion rummaged through his bag. His eyes remained motionless, focused on nothing but the lifeless husk at his feet. The patrician''s fingers brushed against the leathery skin of his coin pouch. Remarkably, they obeyed him perfectly. No jitters, no shaking. Utter calmness washed over him. Maybe his body had given all the fear it could muster during the last night. It also could have been the absence of magic-induced trepidation. He grabbed the pouch heavy with golden aurei and some denarii. The sole survivor fished out two coins, carefully arranging them on the eyeballs of the dead.


    May the underworld be kind to you.


    Sethion sat in silence, figuring out a way to honor their sacrifice.


    I did this.


    The thought came with a bitter taste. Sethion took in the consequences of his own actions. He engraved the scene into his mind. The corpses, the blood, everything. Another thought entered his mind, and unbidden, it latched itself onto his frontal lobe.


    And I would do it again.


    He clenched his fist, the surroundings appearing somewhat blurry. The scene looked, tasted, and smelt of failure.


    Next time, I will do it better.


    Careful not to disturb their rest, he tiptoed around their bodies, doing his best to memorize the still identifiable faces. Now, a part of them would continue to travel alongside him. His success would be theirs.


    Paws tapped against the leaf-covered ground just loud enough to break the silence. Pain shot up Sethion''s chest, heaving with familiar vehemence. He spun around, directly facing the tall myth. The green fairy dog''s snout opened like plutonium, the gates of hell. The agony battering his body intensified. Deep, impenetrable fog rose from the ground, obscuring his vision. The Cu Sith panted, forcing its breath through the giant teeth. The resulting sound reminded Sethion of laughter. A tremor shook his lower body. Marcus''s face flashed before him. The corpse silently moved his lips without uttering a single word.


    Sethion woke up to waves splashing against the bow of a boat.


    Or, more accurately, the remains of a vassal that once could have been called such.


    He shuddered, shaking off the haunting pictures of the nightmare. How accurate had they been? Sethion didn¡¯t know. The pain radiating through his body helped wake him swiftly, shoving the last bits of sleepiness out. Aided by the daylight, he inspected his new means of transport.


    The wooden ghoul of a boat had a single pole tilted at a dangerous angle, shaking each time a wave hit the hull. The flax sail carried patches all over. He expected the boat to tip over at any moment, throwing him and its owner into a wet grave.


    Better than being eaten alive. Probably.


    The man beside Sethion didn''t seem to share his worries, whistling an obscure melody as the black sky turned blue.


    "Slept well?"


    In another''s mouth, the words may have sounded like an insult. Sethion had let the man work through the entire night, after all. But the bright smile, which almost appeared carved into the fisherman''s face, told him otherwise. The annoying cheerfulness was jarring for him. Sethion had come closer to death last night than during any of his fits.


    "Not really. But I have had worse."


    While he had rested, he hadn''t recovered. His abused body ached, and the faces of the dead legionnaires flashed through his mind every time he closed his eyes. It was a wonder that he had fallen asleep at all.


    Sid tibi terra levis. May the earth rest lightly on you. If they don''t find and torch you first.


    "So." The man paused for a second, awkwardly tousling through his hair.


    "Did ye parents never tell ye, ye scream at night?"


    For a moment, Sethion paused. His facial features slipped for a blink.


    I asked him in the middle of the night for a ferry across the mare nostrum with my shoes covered in blood, and he wonders about my sleep quality.


    He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.


    Something is wrong with him. But as I''m not gagged and bound, he might not sell me to pirates at the first opportunity. On the other hand, there''s not much of a resistance I could muster.


    Sethion forcefully laughed, a skill perfected over the time he regularly came in contact with patricians.


    "I''m aware of the situation. No need to stifle the blow. It''s related to a little ailment of mine."


    Nightmares aren''t much of a problem if agony doesn''t let you sleep anyway.


    He searched for a reaction in the opposing man''s face, a pause, a twitch, anything. The man''s facial expression remained unreadable until a hint of compassion scampered across.


    "Sorry, to hear that. May the gods bless ye."


    Sethion''s white canine teeth flashed as his mouth twisted into a natural smile.


    "That would be great, wouldn''t it be?"


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    The ex-aristocrat, now in all likelihood retired from his previous position, looked around, enjoying the view of the endless blue and tasting the salt on top of his lips. The waves drew an ever-changing pattern while the sun added glowing sprinkles on the dark blue canvas of the ocean. In the distance, the coast glistered. They wouldn''t stray too far from it. The depths housed giant myths, or so he had heard.


    I wished I had my tablet to capture the view.


    He used to have all day to sketch and indulge in whatever he liked, but he never could bring himself to finish his pieces. Maybe he would have completed this one.


    Eventually, his gaze shifted to the man he shared a boat with. The now part-time ferryman looked joyful, with deep laugh lines etched on his face. Dark-blond, unruly hair framed his egg-shaped head, making it difficult to guess his age while showcasing his most likely foreign heritage. The man''s build and muscular arms were a testament to his profession. Sethion could not help but feel slightly imperiled.


    I should have brought a sword or a knife, at least. What would I even do in an emergency? Swim to the coast? Great plan. How did I make it even this far? Oh yeah, I don''t even know.


    Carefully, Sethion reached for his bag, feeling his belongings. Everything seemed to be in order.


    The fisherman tightened a few knots.


    "How is it being a runner for the Venatores?"


    Of all the lies...


    Sethion schooled his expression, yawning to seem disinterested. "Not much different than being a messenger for anyone else, I imagine."


    Unperturbed by the short answer, the man continued.


    "Have ye ever seen one?"


    Sethion answered with an eager grin as if he shared the interest. "Once."


    He took a long look at his listener''s enthralled expression. The fame of the exalted Venatores rang far.


    "I was called into the inner city to deliver a message. On the way, I wondered about the unusual amount of guards. One led me into a brick building. I noticed them as soon as I stepped into the room. They have a certain feeling about them, a certain mystical quality. A single look and you can already tell¡­"


    Suddenly, the man''s torso shook, full of uncontrollable excitement. The abrupt change made Sethion let out a surprised yelp.


    "Look over there, kid. Ye see that?"


    I swear this trick is older than the Pantheon itself. Why even bother with this tomfoolery?


    "Kid, ye going to miss it." The fisherman sounded awe-struck. Sethion shifted his gaze to the empty, open ocean - only to find it filled.


    A charcoal-speckled sinuous serpentine body long enough to coil around Sinu stretched out of the distant water. From his perspective, the myth''s triangular head seemed to pierce the clouds. A crest of dark blue spines wound itself across the creature''s back. He couldn''t tell how far it was away, but compared to its size, distance was meaningless. A single one of the beast''s shining scales outmatched their boat in size. His worries turned to background noise.


    A myth of this size?


    A flash of recognition ignited in his mind thanks to the various hours spent studying.


    The Lark¡¯s end. This could be the only time a sailor''s tale might not be exaggerated.


    He snorted. How could the empire proudly name the Middle Sea theirs if the serpent could swallow their fleet whole?


    Before yesterday, Sethion had in his seventeen summers seen nine fully mythical creatures, with not a single one being full-blooded or in the wild. Once, Occio had cried out during a carriage ride, pointing at the sky at what he thought was a myth, only for it to be a particularly giant eagle.


    Most wild encounters for common folk tended to be singular occasions. There was a reason why the Venatores commanded so much respect. Luckily, the Lark''s end was in the minority of myths, which tended to be peaceful if left alone. That was at least what he had been taught.


    What would such a beast even prey upon?


    The fisherman let out an impressed whistle.


    "That''s only my seventh time seeing her in over 20 years, still, a view to behold. Ye might not know, that that''s a ..."


    "Sea serpent." Sethion cut him off.


    "Ye know your stuff. This one is probably older than the empire. Ye know there is a particular tale about it and an ancient general."


    Sethion knew the story. It had been part of the extensive tutoring before the illness. Access to information about myths was scarce even for patricians. More often than not, the mystical creatures did their name justice, with only myths and legends providing details about their characteristics.


    Still, the young man decided to indulge the older man, unwilling to upset him. From the glimmer in the older man''s eyes, Sethion was sure he would be unable to avoid the story anyway.


    The man cleared his throat before starting the tale in a quiet but deep voice as if he were scared of the distant sea serpent overhearing them.


    "Long before the founding of the empire by the children of the she-wolf, another civilization settled on these lands. A kingdom strong in soldiers but weak in leaders. Fearing to be overthrown by his men, the king sent out his army into senseless battles. An especially brave legion was named Legio V Alaudae, the fifth legion of the lark."


    Sethion was confident that the kingdom in the story was not an ancient civilization but an earlier part of the empire before the reformations. He had another few nitpicks about the man''s story and its portrayal of history but refrained from following the urge to correct the man.


    After a dramatic pause, the fisher continued, constantly taking in the view of the gigantic myth. The beast didn''t move much, calmly protruding from the ocean like an enormous pillar.


    "For nine years, the legion fought, paying back every loss with twice as many triumphs. All the while, the foolish king, far away from the glory of the battlefield, grew restless."


    To be fair, imperatores usurping rule is a story as old as the empire.


    "So, he sent them to slay a fearsome sea monster, a final task before rewarding the soldiers with their hard-earned land. Tired of the constant battles, the general agreed to the foolish plan in exchange for receiving what was owed. He rallied his fleet and bled a hundred oxen dry as bait."


    Sethion let out a cough. Then another. Foreboding goosebumps formed on his arms.


    No, no, no. Please.


    The fit came suddenly, as always, but at the same time, it was barely a surprise. Sethion lay down on the firm wood of the ship, accepting his fate.


    The fisher stopped his storytelling. His attention snapped to Sethion.


    "Ye alright?"


    Sethion did not answer. He could not. The pain had seized him, taking control over his body. The young man''s limbs began uncontrollably twitching, and momentarily his breathing halted. Colors and opaque objects swirled in his sight. A blink became infinity. A moment later, Sethion wheezed and greedily sucked in air. How long had it been? He couldn''t tell. Sometimes, it was minutes, other times hours. Looking at the sun, he assumed it had been a short fit.


    One of the better ones.


    A worried face entered his vision. The fisherman wordlessly offered a hand while his other tightly gripped the amulet hanging from his neck. Sethion hated every bit of it. Brushing off the hand, he slowly sat up with his back against the rail. Pain radiated through his battered body. Sethion closed his eyes, listening to the waves. When he opened them again, the man''s eyes gazed into his, squinting as if to burn the picture into his mind. Sethion gulped. A single drop of sweat ran down his armpit. His hand searched for his backpack. He put on a confident smile.


    "Ye lied to me." The fisherman''s voice had a finality to it. At this moment, Sethion realized he hadn''t even asked the man for his name.


    "What?" Confused, Sethion tilted his head.


    "Ye." The man poked his finger against Sethion''s chest.


    "Lied." His face inched closer to that of the sitting Sethion until only a hand length separated them.


    "To me." The previously so-calm man''s face turned red. Saliva flew out of his mouth at incredible speeds, some landing on Sethion''s face. Absently-minded, he wiped it off.


    "Ye are no messenger!"


    "I can assure you¡­"


    "Stop." The man''s voice bubbled like a volcano close to exploding.


    "I recognize you." His finger began trembling. "Ye are the cursed child!"


    What?


    Sethion shook, breaking out into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.


    "Cursed." He shook his head, still chortling. "Cursed?"


    The fisherman who had been so close moments ago increased his distance. The smile plastered on the young man''s face turned bitter.


    "I wish I were cursed, you ignorant fool. Curses are at least curable. No, what I have is thousands times worse than a damned curse." The other party didn''t register his words. The man''s pupils were dilated, not reacting properly to any movements.


    "I trusted ye. Welcomed ye. I.." His words turned into incoherent rambling. Sethion bristled, sensing the danger of the situation.


    "Calm yourself!" He screamed at the lunatic.


    The loud tone shook the stranger out of his confused state. The man stared at his hands while coming to terms with the situation.


    The young Mercor inched away from the fisher. For a while, they stood there, watching each other out of the corner of their eyes. The open ocean appeared as empty as it should be. Somewhere during the altercation, the gigantic myth had disappeared like a mouse without even creating a ripple on the water''s surface. At another time, the mystery might have intrigued the teenager. Now, he shrugged and attributed it to some myth shenanigans. He had bigger fish to fry.


    The fisherman spoke first.


    "Ye betrayed my trust and hospitality."


    Why do I always get the loons?


    Sethion gave the man a winning smile, neither denying nor admitting anything.


    "If we finish the journey before nightfall, I will double your pay."


    "No."


    "You drive a hard bargain, mister. Still, I believe we can reach a consensus. Perhaps..."


    "No. I will drop ye at the coast." Some of the earlier heat persisted in those words.


    Sethion leaned against the rail, staring at the ocean while keeping the fisher in his vision.


    "That is acceptable."


    Anything to get me off this boat in one piece.

 Chapter 5 in which Sethion hits things

    Sethion slowly lowered himself from the boat into the ocean, dipping his bare toes into the cold water. With a deep sigh, he relaxed his grip, slipping into the waves in a moment of weightlessness. Then, his feet touched the sand hidden under the surface. Pushing against the current, he forced his way to the rocky shore, holding his belongings above his head. Sethion didn''t turn back, refusing to meet the gaze of the fisher, who was, without a doubt, watching.


    Salty water clashed against his naked frame, and he fiercely prayed for the stranger''s vessel to collapse under his feet. The nobleman''s face burned with indignation under the humiliating treatment. Seagulls cried in the distance as Sethion climbed over slippery rocks protruding from the ocean. In the distance, a wall of trees bloomed, creating a green horizon. One day into his journey, he had survived more turns and surprises than in his entire prior life. He continued onward.


    ?


    Sethion punched a tree. Bare knuckles scraped against the rough wood. The tree didn''t retaliate - it didn''t have to. The recoil hit back hard enough already, covering his left hand in scratches. Sethion pressed his teeth together, and his fist connected again with the wood. It was a good punch, with smooth execution handled with concentrated force, and it did not decelerate at any point. Not that the skill and velocity of the attack mattered. Sethion was, after all, embroiled in one-sided combat with a plant.


    The young man''s eyes flared. He shifted his upper body to lash out again.


    All this useless planning, and in the end, it''s all luck.


    The tree received one last love tap before Sethion sat down with his back against the trunk.


    That was close, too close.


    He inhaled deeply, calming himself down, listening to nothing but his ragged breath. For a second, with his eyes closed, he just was. All his thoughts came and went, simply flowing without distracting him.


    I made it. That''s all that counts. The rest happens when it happens.


    The die had been cast, and now all Sethion could do was roll with it. He messaged his arm, which throbbed from the unnecessary abuse. It was a good feeling, intense enough to supersede the pain for a bit, which gradually carved all other emotions out of him.


    Not feeding the worms yet.


    The thief took in his surroundings. Trees as far as the eye could see.


    Sethion found himself alone in the woods again in a weird twist of fate or a lack of diversity in the local fauna. It should have scared him. After all, his current situation had been the prelude to a bloodbath. Still, a dumb grin stretched across Sethion''s face, a rapid shift from his earlier complexion. The young man whistled in an audible tone. In front of him stood a wooden box next to the other contents of his bag. The box he had risked his entire life for. There was nothing special about it, but conceivably its contents.


    What if it''s not in there?


    He shook his head.


    No. It has to be. The legionnaires retrieved it specifically.


    He felt the smooth wood with his hands, following the simple but elegant craftsmanship. His thumb ran over the metal lock¡ªthe last hurdle. There was only a single problem. The key was currently located thousands of steps to the west, dangling from the neck of a presumably frenzied patrician. His grin split his face from ear to ear.


    I hope he is furious.


    Sethion examined the lock, pocking  the cylinder, searching for weaknesses.


    Yeah, I have no idea how to do this. Hmm. Well, I suppose we will have to do it the old-fashioned way.


    Sethion shrugged and began examining the rest of his unlawfully obtained spoils.  A single loaf of bread, a purse full of denarii and golden aurei, a bottle of frankincense, a mangled map, a water jug, and a letter. He cracked his knuckles.


    Time to get to work.


    Sethion wandered through the woods, examining the ground before him. The map gave him a vague direction of Sinu, but the city remained far away.


    Come on. There has to be a rock somewhere.


    A light breeze tickled his skin. He drew a breath of fresh air, which smelled of wood and leaves. A bird alighted on a branch above him and chirped. A rustle in the canopy made him flinch. His mind began turning, recollecting the events of the previous days. Things had turned ugly in ways he had never intended.


    And the worst part of it all? It benefited him. The Cu Sith had muddied the waters, masked his escape, and probably slowed his pursuers. Sethion rubbed his sore legs. The nightly escapade had left some traces. He liked it. The marks on his body made the events real, not just a figment of his dying mind. It told him everything had been more than a bizarre fever dream.


    Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    ?


    A stone flew up in the air, catching a few rays of sunlight on his ascend before it landed between Sethion''s fingers. Without much fanfare, he smashed it against the wooden box at full throttle. Splinters exploded outwards, but the stolen good held firm. The impact reverberated through his hand, causing small tremors.


    More difficult than I thought it would be.


    Sethion shifted the sharp edge of the stone, positioning it like a spear tip before launching another attack. A whack resounded through the forest, then another and another, until a cry of triumph rang loud and far. A sizable dent scarred the elegant craftsmanship.


    With refound vigor, Sethion began pounding again, driving the stone deeper and deeper into the wood. There was something strangely freeing about targeted destruction. He focused on a single task, hitting and hitting hard. No plots, schemes, or weirdly religious fishers. Beauty in simplicity. Slowly, the dent widened, turning into a hole and then becoming an opening. Blood rushed through his ears, and his body jolted due to an influx of sudden energy.


    Everything or nothing.


    Sethion reached into the wooden box, carefully avoiding all the sharp splinters. He pushed the lid open from the inside. Light seeped into the box, illuminating the contents.


    No, this can''t be.


    Inside the box lay a stack of letters in disarray addressed to various Mercor business partners. Sethion flipped through them, ripping the papers apart one by one until shreds fell like snow.


    No, no, no.


    He turned the box upside down, shaking it with all his strength. Nothing but letters fell before his feet, joining the litter on the ground. A stifled shout rang out.


    Sethion walked in circles around the box, pulling on his locks. Every couple of steps, he looked into the container again, hoping to see something else. Unfortunately, reality didn''t bend to his wishes.


    Why? Why? It doesn''t make any sense. Why follow me if all I have is a stack of worthless letters? Didn''t you want me to disappear?


    He shook his head while burrowing his nails into his thighs. Deeper and deeper to overshadow the stinging thoughts. A kick hit the box.


    How? I saw Father bring the box and hide it. The legionnaires came to recover it.


    The young man examined the wooden container, searching for a missed detail, hint, or anything else. All he found was a damaged lid. It looked like any other wooden box. An idea jolted through his mind, obvious in hindsight but overlooked in panic.


    A hidden compartment. There has to be a hidden compartment.


    Sethion wrapped his hand in cloth and threw out the wooden splinters. His fingers scraped over the bottom, searching for a mechanism.


    Nothing.


    Sweat dripped into his eyes as it trickled down from his forehead. A mild annoyance, unimportant during this pivotal moment. His fingers clasped around the stone. It almost felt natural by now, using it as a tool. He forced the stone''s sharp edge into the wood, surgically striking a delicate balance between destroying the wood and preserving the container''s contents.


    Then, the bottom broke or, more accurately, a thin inner plate broke. A rectangular light-brown hide shimmered through. Sethion''s heart leaped. He remained stiff as a corpse for a moment, only staring at the hide. Fear flashed through his eyes. The young man extracted it slowly, his touch light as if holding a child.


    Under the sunlight, Sethion could finally bask in the hide''s glory.


    Countless crimson runes decked the sheet, following no distinct pattern he could recognize. The lines wobbled before him, akin to a living being, shifting in response to his presence, rushing up to meet his fingers. More stunning than any artwork, more sophisticated than the greatest machinery, and more expensive than the finest gem. A contract.


    The hide had the unmistakable touch of magic, sending shivers coursing through his body. Goosebumps spread over his skin.


    That''s how you know it''s authentic.


    Sethion sat in silence, marveling at the intertwining lines of red runes beckoning him closer and filling him with pure bliss. Instinctively, he could tell that the paper contained a bargain, an offer - a part of yourself in exchange for a part of someone, no something else.


    A slight giggle left his lips, growing in intensity over time until he outright laughed. Sethion spun in a circle, holding out the contract before him. Not for a blink did his eyes leave the precious treasure. In his hands, he held the chance of becoming a demigod, the power to become a myth, a way to walk the path of emperors and usurpers.


    His stomach fluttered, and his steps turned lighter. After two years, he had finally gotten a reason to celebrate again. All those men, fighting a myth to their  end, had not died for nothing.


    "Oh, what do I do with you?" Sethion addressed the contract. There had been a time when the contract had been his right as the rightful heir. Childhood dreams flared to the front of his mind.


    "Head back to the sea serpent? Or find a dragon, perhaps? A lightning bird or garuda would also do."


    A silly grin played around his lips. The young man smacked his palms against his cheeks.


    "Stay focused."


    In another person''s eyes, the inscribed piece of hide would have been an invaluable prize, but for Sethion, it was possible to regain what he had long thought was lost.


    What are my odds now, I wonder? Did I get promoted from inevitable death to certain death?


    Sethion shook his head as his musings turned sour.


    A chance. I have a chance. This is more than anyone ever gave me.


    Sethion hid the remnants of the once whole wooden box under some leaves. Then, without wasting more time, he took the first step toward Sinu. He had a city to reach while preferring to sleep anywhere but on the ground.


    The short-term vagabond didn''t reach the biggest city in the empire''s west before nightfall. Sethion didn''t make it before sunrise, nor did he on the second day. Navigating through the woods had been more demanding than he had imagined. He probably wouldn''t have made it if he had not wandered in one direction until he encountered a road indicated on his map. It was noon on the third day when he glimpsed at the towering city gates from the distance. The sight electrified him, sending currents of energy through his exhausted body.


    The finish line was within reach.


    Now, covered in sweat and the resulting smell, he waited in queue to enter the city. The once pristine toga spotted more brown and green spots than white. Blisters scratched against his shoes. An uneven stubble had grown on his usually cleanly shaven face.


    He tried his best to dust off the filth but only managed to distribute it more evenly. The accumulation of sweat, dirt, and numerous other substances clung to him like a second skin. Sethion had never been more tainted in his life.


    Curse that fisher. May the sirens take him.


    Lying in the dirt while having a seizure had been one of the most humiliating experiences in his short life. Afterward, his speed had increased considerably. There were few greater motivators than a looming death and perhaps a bath.


    Once it was his turn, the guard raised an eyebrow but let Sethion pass as soon as the required coinage changed hands. The young man hurried into the city. There was much to do and little time.

 Chapter 6 in which Sethion gets scammed

    "One aureus? Are you dreaming, good man? Do you run a secret griffin transport?" Sethion bristled at the outrageously inflated price.


    The merchant in front of him had a fat nose, which hung in the middle of his face like a spider in its web. Currently, he was in the process of wrinkling it.


    "Take it or leave it. The voyage is already overbooked. I would have to kick someone off for you, and that costs one golden coin."


    Sethion had arrived in Sinu only a few hours ago, most of which he had spent in a bath, scrubbing until his skin turned red.


    That''s the fifth merchant offering such a ridiculous rate. Just what is happening?


    The young man tussled with the filled coin pouch in his pocket. The money wasn''t the problem. The price was.


    Coins are the same to merchants as blood is to sharks.


    An old piece of advice his father had once given him a long time ago.


    He will milk me dry the moment I pay. The worst part is that I might pay anyway.


    Sethion scratched his chin in deep contemplation. His hopes of getting a better deal elsewhere had significantly dwindled over the last hour. He decided to make at least a token effort at bargaining.


    Pay or not pay.


    "What is it now? Either pay or get lost."


    The merchant flashed his surprisingly white and well-arranged teeth. The man clad in colorful robes already looked past the young man, scanning the crowd on the street through a window for other customers. Sethion rubbed his eyes, trying to redden them.


    "I don''t understand," he said, sobbing. "Why is the trip so expensive now? It always used to be eight denarii. I just want to visit my grandmother."


    It wasn''t his best acting, but still worth a try.


    The merchant''s attention rapidly snapped back to Sethion, sensing the opportunity. A faux smile full of sympathy appeared on his lips.


    In a change of heart, the man offered Sethion a glass of wine, which he graciously accepted.


    The various rings on the merchant''s fingers clicked against each other as he clapped once. In response, a servant stepped forward, pouring two glasses.


    Sethion tensed as he took a sip. His lie had worked a little too well, suspiciously well.


    Why can''t anything ever just work?


    "Come sit with me." The merchant led him to a table with two cushioned seats. The young man followed right after him while his alarm bells started ringing.


    Sethion let the spicy fragrance of the wine roll over his tongue, an act which he promptly regretted. Instead of the usual mild aroma, this one had an overpowering taste.


    Cheap.


    The merchant laughed and petted his shoulder. Some of the disgust must have shown on his face.


    "It''s an acquired taste. The name is Quintus."


    "Gaius," Sethion answered, stealing the name of a dead legionnaire.


    The two sat down next to another, and Sethion seriously considered what game the man was playing.


    "So, what brings you here, Gaius?"


    "It''s a long story. Mainly studying, if you believe it."


    "A scholar then."


    "Somewhat." Sethion let Quintus jump to his own assumptions without bothering to correct them. He cleared his throat, swiftly taking hold of the conversation.


    "Do tell. Why have the prices for a ship to Cosa exploded?"


    Quintus raised an eyebrow.


    "You haven''t heard? A bounty has been raised on information about a mining village in the area, more aurei than I have ever seen for such a thing. The docks are packed with treasure hunters and mercenaries, thinking they will find a mythical treasure."


    A cold shiver ran down Sethion''s back.


    I might have been too slow. I need a ship to Cosa now.


    "At first, I mistook you as one of them." The merchant gave a wink.


    The young man inspected his latest plain clothing and skinny figure formed from over a year of neglect.


    Is he blind?


    "Ahhh, a misunderstanding then," he laughed.


    "Indeed, an unfortunate mistake on my part," Quintus latched onto the excuse.


    Sethion waved his hands.


    "Forgotten and forgiven."


    "So," Quintus leaned toward him. "You grew up in Cosa?"


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    Sethion took another sip of wine, swallowing without tasting it.


    "In the surrounding area. A beautiful place. The fresh food is incomparable to anything else." Sethion had been in the fort town once six summers ago. The place hadn''t managed to leave much of an impression.


    The merchant rubbed his hands in excitement.


    "I think I have a proposition for you, my friend." The merchant let his pearly white teeth show.


    "Currently, I''m putting together my own troop. But my men mostly come from the south, you see."


    "You need a guide," the young patrician concluded.


    So, it''s only overbooked for the wrong people.


    "Exactly." Quintus pointed his finger at Sethion, who in turn narrowed his eyes.


    "But why me? Cosa isn''t a hamlet, and I have been away for a couple of years."


    The merchant shook his head.


    "No, no. Matter of fact, I have a guide already."


    What, didn''t he just say the opposite?


    Perplexed, he looked at the merchant.


    "Don''t fret, my good friend. Another local surely would aid the endeavor. And an additional pair of hands is always welcome."


    That bastard wants cheap labor.


    Quintus took the silence as a form of agreement.


    "For your help during the voyage and, let''s say, five weeks after, I would cut your price to only five denarii."


    Wait, I still pay him?


    Sethion seriously considered the offer. Plain extortion, that encapsulated its content. Even sending an unpaid servant would cost the man more. He had to force himself not to accept it in a heartbeat.


    It would make it harder for pursuers to trace my steps. Less suspicious to travel that way.


    "Rations included?"


    "Naturally."


    "How about three weeks after and eight denarii?"


    "Sixteen."


    "Ten."


    "Twelve. You want to see your grandmother, do you?"


    "I do. Twelve is acceptable. How many men have you hired?"


    "You will be the fourteenth."


    "Fighters?"


    "Ten."


    "Fast transport ship?"


    "The quickest in Sinu."


    "Travel to the mining town?"


    "Horseback."


    "When do we leave?"


    "Sunrise tomorrow."


    "Where?"


    "Sixth ship on the first dock. Ask for Titus."


    Both shook hands, and Sethion accepted that he had been swindled and squeezed for free labor. Still, money was only a concern if you could spend it.


    The runaway patrician retracted his hand.


    "Quintus, is there a weaponsmith or store you could recommend?"


    The merchant paused, surprised by the request. He regarded the scrawny, self-introduced scholar with a curious look. The boy didn''t appear strong by any means.


    "What does a scholar want with a weapon?" Quintus sounded more curious than anything else.


    "Let that be my worry. Let''s say I had some bad experiences. So, recommendations?"


    "Actually, I have my own..."


    "No."


    "I can assure you, my men are more than capable..."


    "Not my concern."


    The man sighed.


    "Your price range?"


    "Focus on the quality. I will decide later."


    "Via sol V makes the best weaponry. Though it might be outside your monetary resources." Quintus gave Sethion, who had just haggled over denarii, a meaningful look.


    "Via Claudius V and VII would be the best for you."


    "I see." A hint of recognition danced through the young man''s eyes. He gave Quintus a brief nod.


    "Pleasure doing business with you."


    Sethion gulped down the rest of his wine and promptly left the building before the merchant would charge him for the cheap wine, too.


    Out of the door, Sethion burst onto the crowded streets of Sinu. First, he noticed the sound. Street vendors hawked their spices and food with an intensity as if they were in a colosseum. Cartwheels screeched, scraping over the rough basalt, navigating through the masses at perilous speeds. Servants'' hurried steps echoed off the floor as they carried deliveries to their masters.


    Next came touch, as Sethion became part of the crowd. Skillfully, he shoved his way through, only avoiding another person when it came close to a head-on collision. His hand held an iron grip around his pouch to combat pickpockets. The noise, the smell, and the intensity of the experience dwarfed the distant estate. A smile tugged at Sethion''s lips.


    It feels good to be home.


    The folded contract, hidden in his inner pocket, brushed against his rib, and a warm feeling spread through his veins, rising against the constant torment of his sickness. He was at death''s door with less than a year left to live, perhaps a wanted thief, and signed off as free labor. Things were looking up for Sethion.


    He went straight for the most expensive store Quintus had listed. He had little hope of finding what he needed anywhere but in the stores dealing with the most affluent customers. He passed a few beggars accompanied by stray dogs and cats, begging and scavenging for food. A couple openly showcased their missing limbs, presumably the result of one of the last wars with Farros. One of the less successful campaigns of the iron general.


    A toothless man initiated eye contact. Sethion ignored him, long used to the sight when leaving the wealthier parts of Sinu. Still, it left a sour taste in his mouth to see people who had given everything they had for the empire to be ruthlessly discarded. It was a result of the failed expansions not providing enough land to reward soldiers with. Not with the greedy fingers of the aristocracy in the pie, at least.


    Sethion kept going, drawing closer to his destination with every step.


    The beggar''s life expectancy most likely vastly outstripped his, and he was not in a position to give out alms without worry.


    As the young patrician continued his journey, the roads widened, the presence of guards increased, and the first private gardens appeared. The fenced insulas stood out like an oasis in the desert as one of the few green spots in the city. They were a sight that had greeted him often in the past, which was not necessarily a good thing for someone on the run. Still, he sincerely doubted that news had already reached the city if the patriarch even wanted to publicize that a sick teenager was running around with a contract.


    Six streets down, and I would hit the family compound.


    Sethion kept his head low without looking up, his hands close to the body, moving with purpose. A few wary gazes washed over him, but he wasn''t stopped. The thief wouldn''t have made it this far had he not washed his attire and body first.


    It was risky to come here.


    Sethion''s eyes darted from person to person in fear of recognizing a face. He measured his steps, keeping them always three stones long while portraying calm busyness.


    Then it happened. A single jolt ran down Sethion''s left leg before his brain could even compute the situation. Among the myriad of different faces, a familiar one appeared. A slim nose dangled over full lips and under small eyes. These features belonged to a tall, young man covered in an elusive toga accompanied by multiple servants.


    Sethion recognized the other patrician instantly.


    Caius Junius.


    Both of them had attended and mingled at various ceremonies and feasts. Caius hadn''t struck Sethion as the brightest candle on the chandelier, but as his family ran a third over the silver trade, not remembering him would have been ill-advised. Sethion desperately hoped the same didn''t apply to the other party.


    The runaway did nothing, outwardly at least. He didn''t dare to change his trajectory or tempo and draw attention. Roughly thirty steps separated him from the other noble. Every blink, every moment, shrunk that distance. Saliva gathered in his mouth, and Sethion swallowed nervously.


    What do I say? Play dumb? That would be too suspicious. He shouldn''t know anything. It will be fine.


    The two passed each other, just a few steps kept them apart. Sethion could reach out with his hand, and they would meet. He did, of course, no such thing.


    Caius disappeared from view. Sethion let out a deep breath and quickened his steps.


    Another close call.


    Then, a voice cut through the crowd, more a shout than anything else. The tone came out joyful, but the single word could have been pulled straight from the young man''s nightmares.


    "Sethion!"


    Sethion Mercor shuddered and stopped, visibly reacting to the name. A mistake, as his inner voice furiously screamed at him a moment later.


    Without much plausible deniability left, he turned with an almost natural smile.


    "Caius, my friend!"

 Chapter 7 in which Sethion instigates a fight

    How? How have I already been recognized? Is he more perceptive than I thought?


    Caius pulled Sethion into a fierce hug, oblivious to the other party''s inner conflict. Still, ear to ear, the unwelcome aristocrat began speaking.


    "It''s good to see you."


    Sethion found himself at a loss for words, stumped by the emotional reaction. He stood still without returning the hug, enveloped by the other man''s patchouli fragrance. Finally, Sethion awkwardly petted Caius on the shoulder, more as a request to be released than a sign of affection.


    What is this? We barely know each other, right?


    One of the servants agreed with Sethion''s evaluation, clearing his throat. The middle-aged man looked Sethion up and down, taking in the simple clothing and the lack of an entourage. A slight twitch of the upper lip revealed his thoughts on the young master mingling with the runaway. Slowly, Caius released the crushing hug, much to the appreciation of Sethion''s empty lungs.


    "I''m glad to see you as well - what a coincidence to meet like this," Sethion managed after gasping for air.


    "Indeed," Caius answered with a bright smile, swiftly replaced by guilt as if he had broken an expensive vase.


    "Did I hurt you?"


    Sethion waved him off, taking a step back to keep some distance between the two of them.


    "Not at all." He quickly answered, happy that Caius didn''t deign to ask about his state, clothing, or his purpose of strolling the streets alone. The less the thief had to reveal, the better in case the third son of the Junius family ever were questioned.


    "My deepest condolences. I have heard about your illness." Caius clasped his hands around Sethion''s, indicating real concern. The last puzzle piece fell into place for Sethion.


    One of those.


    He struggled not to put on a strained expression. His teeth ground against each other while he stared straight through the other noble. Sometimes, it felt like someone else piloted his body in those moments. It was a conversation he had held as often as it was meaningless. Most of the time, it wasn''t even about him but the other''s conscience.


    "How are you faring?" Caius inquired. It was a dumb question, as the noble realized a moment later when he shifted awkwardly.


    Scenes flashed through Sethion''s mind. A dark-green myth, a sea serpent climbing into the clouds, and a contract pressing against his fingertips. His tone remained firm as he answered, an excited glint dancing in his brown eyes.


    "Good - better than I ever expected, honestly."


    Caius remained frozen. Then his mouth parted, the lips opening slightly, forming an o-shape.


    "Truly?"


    Sethion gave a brief nod filled with certainty.


    "Truly."


    "I see. That''s unexpected but not unwelcome news." The healthy noble''s mouth curved into a soft line. "Eventually, we will all have to accept what fate has in store for us."


    Sethion was unsure what, by the pantheon, went on in Caius''s head, but he had an inkling it strayed far from the truth. Not that Sethion would complain. The truth was currently not his ally.


    "Indeed, we have to submit to fate by our own free will," the runaway patrician validated the other''s thoughts. Sensing the opportunity, Sethion turned to leave.


    One of the servants stepped forward, noticing the action.


    "Ere, I believe master Marcus is expecting your presence."


    Smooth assist.


    Caius''s eyebrows furrowed. Clearly, he didn''t enjoy being reminded of his obligations.


    "Sethion, you should join ¡­"


    "I cannot. The eternal city beckons me for one last journey," he declared, stifling the spark before it could catch fire. Sethion didn''t know when it had happened, but lying had become commonplace for him, and by now, the words flowed naturally off his tongue.


    "How unfortunate¡­"


    Sethion avoided his gaze as if ashamed. Caius patted him on the shoulder, a final gesture of valediction.


    "May your journey be devoid of dangers. Carpe diem."


    Oh, I will seize much more than just the day.


    "Thank you," Sethion said, speaking from his heart. The talk had been strangely pleasant for one about his imminent demise.


    "Best of luck." With those words, he left Caius behind. Hopefully, this conversation hadn''t been a mistake. Still, for now, he had a certain store to find.


    ?


    When Sethion reached his destination, he had to double-check if he was at the right address. Surrounded by vast mansions stood the weapon store like a lone crow among swans. The two-story structure built from smooth concrete wasn''t unsightly, just unusually plain. The only expensive part was the two windows occupying most of the storefront. It looked like a giant had picked up a house from the lower city and dropped it among the insulae of the merchants and aristocrats.


    The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.


    Sethion shrugged as the gold in his pockets weighed heavily, urging him to spend it. He hoped he could afford what he had come for if it were even sold. He walked closer to the place, realizing he was at the correct store as he glimpsed through the glass at various decorated swords on display, some even layered with gems. The showpieces showed a stark contrast to the simplicity of the store itself. It seemed bizarre to find such costly pieces in such a simple place. The young man raised an eyebrow. Not a single price tag marred the view, indicating that each weapon would most likely sell for a fortune.


    Hopefully, they sell more than this useless crap.


    He had never purchased a sword himself, relying on custom orders. The store''s reputation had reached him before Quintus''s recommendation. Sethion pushed open the door engraved with the symbol of an anvil surrounded by a setting sun.


    The interior followed the same style as the outside. A simple vaulted ceiling stretched above his head, from which two oil lamps dangled, casting the surroundings in a warm glow. Various forms of weaponry, from spears to battle axes to the common gladius, lay on wooden racks, each one of a kind, differing from the others and elegantly crafted. Each blade shimmered with incredible sharpness. None of them were adorned with gold or gems. Only a few other customers perused the wares, most clad in fine silks.


    "May I help you?" A black-haired man in his mid-twenties, wearing the symbol that embellished the door, questioned him¡ªalready frowning as if the outcome were a foregone conclusion. Based on the man''s bulging arm muscles, the thief assumed he was, at the very least, a blacksmith apprentice. Why Sethion had been singled out seemed rather clear. Again, his clothing.


    The young patrician ignored the connotations of the seller, instead taking the words at face value, answering with a warm smile.


    "As a matter of fact, I do require your assistance. Does this establishment stock weapons made from more esoteric materials?"


    The frown of the other party deepened as sky-blue eyes peered into Sethion''s brown.


    "What exactly are you referring to? I fear we don''t sell any wooden swords."


    Sethion''s smile cracked.


    What''s this guy''s problem?


    "Don''t fret that you may be unable to fulfill my wishes. I''m searching for a weapon, a sword, to be more precise, forged from cold steel."


    The man''s eyebrow rose to an almost comical degree. Again, he evaluated Sethion, skeptically glancing at the seventeen-year-old''s scrawny physique.


    "You serious?"


    "Very much so."


    "For who?"


    "Myself, naturally."


    A deep sigh left the blacksmith''s mouth as if coming straight from the soul. He pinched two fingers against the bridge of his nose, casting an annoyed glance at Sethion.


    "Tell Caelina, we don''t take kindly to sending her goons for poaching. Now, leave before I have to make you." He shooed Sethion away.


    For a second, the patrician''s features froze in stupor at the sudden insult.


    "Who the hell is Caelina? And who are you calling goon, you air-headed fool?" Sethion regretted the words as soon as they left his overeager mouth. Scratch that. He didn''t regret them one bit. The other man didn''t deserve such a sentiment. He only regretted the result, which his rash action would eventually cause. Quickly, Sethion focused on salvaging the last of the non-existing goodwill.


    The number of misunderstandings I have to endure¡­ This is what happens when you look like you are in the wrong place.


    The blacksmith crossed his arms.


    "Ha, almost got me." He pointed with his thumb to the door. "Now get lost."


    Though Sethion was a liar and thief, he found such treatment of a customer, who was more than willing to pay, unacceptable. He put his hands on his hips.


    "What is the point of this farce?" The nobleman sneered. "Do you or do you not have what I''m looking for?"


    The seller''s eyes narrowed while his jaw tensed, creating a nasty scowl. The man''s bicep twitched, and Sethion almost flinched in reaction. A few curious customers began openly watching the spectacle. The store clerk moved closer, his chest hovering about a hand''s length away from Sethion''s.


    "How much is she paying you? Is it worth selling your morals for?"


    "What by the depths of Tartarus are you referring to?"


    The wider man scoffed.


    "Caelina is obviously paying you to¡­"


    Sethion raised his voice slightly, just enough to overpower and drown out the other person''s words.


    "And I''m telling you. I don''t know this person that you are apparently so obsessed with that your entire world seems to revolve around her."


    "And I''m saying that you are full of shit." The man increased his volume as well. His enormous hands grabbed Sethion''s shoulders, fully encompassing them. Dull echoes of what pain for a normal person would be traveled through the young man''s nervous system. The bystanders abandoned all pretense of not gawking at the argument. Some were even grinning at the entertainment as if they were witnessing a fight in the Colosseum.


    Soft steps resounded off the floor, remaining unheard over the ruckus. They kept pace in a steady rhythm, hurried in a controlled manner. Only when the situation in the store seemed to escalate did the steps accelerate.


    Meanwhile, Sethion continued the argument.


    "Is that how you treat every customer in this establishment?!" He nearly shouted at this point as the volume of their voices climbed higher and higher.


    "Oh, as if you would ever be able to afford anything here, twerp."


    A single finger tapped lightly against the clerk''s shoulder. The young man didn''t notice it at first, but the taps remained persistent, unwilling to remain ignored for much longer.


    "What?!" His enormous biceps flexed as he spun around. In an instant, the store attendee''s expression flipped from rage to horror as the blood fled from his face.


    Sethion regarded the newcomer. He was a giant of a man, more than two heads bigger than him, while Sethion himself was not small by any standard. Some gray hair covered his temples, hinting at an older age.


    "Livius," the man spoke in a calm and relaxed tone. "What exactly seems to be the problem here?"


    Livius, who now seemed quite far from confronting anyone, hesitated a while to answer.


    "Uhm, well you see, he was, uhmm," he stammered.


    Noticing that eliciting a proper answer would be challenging, the newcomer turned to Sethion.


    "Paulus."


    "Gaius."


    Sethion and the man exchanged a firm handshake after their introductions.


    Finally, someone reasonable.


    "So, what got the two of you so riled up?"


    "A mere misconception," Sethion answered swiftly, framing the conversation.


    "Oh, is that so? It seemed quite heated for a mere misconception."


    Sethion let out an awkward laugh, not wanting to speak ill of the apprentice as the two were obviously related.


    Livius found his bearings again, chipping in with a defensive tone.


    "He asked for cold steel. So I thought he is related¡­"


    "Oh, is that so?" The older man interrupted, clearly intrigued by the new information. "What would you need that for?"


    Half a dozen lies went through Sethion''s head before he decided to ultimately tell the truth.


    "To cut faeries."


    "Why you wanna cut them?"


    "Mostly to prevent them gutting me."


    Sethion remembered the Cu Sith in its terrible glory.


    Never again.


    "Hmmm."


    Livius''s eyes darted back and forth between the two.


    "You are believing him? He obviously isn''t a warrior!"


    Wait, that''s his problem?


    Sethion forcefully closed his mouth. Why would that even matter? He was willing to pay, so shouldn''t that be enough? Noticing his confusion, the older man gave an explanation.


    "We had trouble with people buying up our already limited supply of such special weaponry and reselling it when news of troublesome faery myths surfaced."


    The man''s knuckles turned wide as he balled his hands into fists.


    "Honorless, opportunistic behavior, exploiting treasure seekers and those desperate to defend their home. But there seems to be a simple solution here. You want a cold steel weapon for yourself, correct?"


    "Correct."


    "Then prove yourself a warrior."


    I can work with this.


    Sethion''s eyes shone with a dangerous light.


    "How about a duel then?" he regarded Livius.


    "I like it," Paulus said.


    "That''s a terrible idea," Livius spoke at the same time, far from his earlier belligerent attitude.


    Sethion felt a tailwind as the momentum returned to his side.


    "Well, it will only turn into an issue if you are going to lose. Tell me, smith, will you?"


    Paulus clasped his hands without even waiting for an answer, entirely too excited.


    "We have it then."

 Chapter 8 in which Cato lets a village burn

    Cato strolled through a burning village. Tight mail armor hugged his skin, covering all his vitals while allowing free movement. Tiny symbols carved on the armor reflected the moonlight, indicating there was more to the rugged armor than what met the eye.


    Dark smoke rose from the house''s roofs, coalescing in a black cloud hovering over the place. A putrid smell filled his nostrils. Loud cries for help rang out from the houses. Coal-colored specters darted on the roads, unsure of where to go, where to escape to. They looked like the passing remains of a person dipped in ink rolling on giant pavements, silhouettes of flesh. Cato''s steps stayed calm and collected, remaining steadfast without flinching at a single sudden scream. That wasn''t the first time such a sight had greeted him, and it wouldn''t be the last. His gaze didn''t budge from the individual before him.


    The being clad in a dark robe, obscuring its features, had a slight hunch but still towered over him by several heads. A disguise that may fool a senile passing onlooker but once it opened its mouth there was no way of hiding its nature.


    "Greetings, high Venator." The thing spoke, revealing two rows of yellow, sharpened teeth that grew from dark gray gums. The words came out with a guttural sound.


    Cato''s face remained a mask, showcasing no particular emotion. The nightmare-creating myths were scavengers¡ªexploiters of weaknesses in the human mind and, for him, a necessary evil. Near instantaneous communication, possible through a mark left by the myth, had simply too much utility.


    "You know how much I dislike this memory. Regardless, I find myself here again. Are you antagonizing me, Alp?" Displeasure showed on the Venator''s face as he reprimanded his handler.


    The thing''s face, poorly hidden under a dark hood, contorted in a grimace.


    "Of course not. I wouldn''t dare, high Venator."


    A shrill cry¡ªa woman''s scream for help¡ªechoed over their conversation. Cato''s eyes turned dark and threatening, and his soul began to hum. The myths had more power in dreams than they liked to admit.


    The Alp held his arms in defense, which ended in four  wicked claws each, cowering before the shorter human.


    "I can''t choose the dream. The only thing I can guarantee is that it will always be a nightmare."


    Cato crossed his arms.


    "Tenebris can control it."


    At the mere mention of the name, the Alp shuddered.


    "Tenebris is a monster."


    "Perhaps, but so are you."


    Cato let out a sigh. He had made his position clear. All the while, his hand never left the hilt of his sword.


    "You bring new orders?"


    The Alp nodded, eager to leave the man behind.


    "Yes, a slaying mission. The diviners suspect the emergence of a calamity. The high Venator is expected to head to a mining town a few weeks north of Sinu as swiftly as possible." The creature had stopped talking with its vocal cords, instead resorting to creating an echo resounding around the man. A strange sound like the rustling of the wind filled the air to form the words.


    The man arched an eyebrow.


    "No."


    The myth laughed or more accurately the dreamscape itself did, slightly shivering like an earthquake while unpleasant laughter reverberated straight through Cato''s body. It served one clear message, it was in charge and not the puny human.


    "You are expected to..."


    "No."


    The Alp¡¯s left eye twitched in a surprisingly human gesture. Its irises shone yellow.


    The nightmare began to fester as skin draped itself over the specters, creating harrowing human features contorted by panic and fear. A icy wind pushed against the Venator.


    The sounds of fire crackling echoed around the duo, turning the scenery vivid and less dreamlike. The Alp licked his lips, awaiting the harvestable fear of the intimidation it sowed.


    Its glowing eyes bulged. There were none. Standing in a nightmare of his own making, the man didn''t seem fazed. His heart rate had not increased. The organ beat steady as if he were taking a leisure stroll.


    Cato tapped his index finger against the hilt of his sword as his presence skyrocketed, exuding pure and unrestrained power.


    The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    The sound of a fingernail clicking against metal overrode all other noise.


    "This will end poorly for you," he asserted a fact.


    The Venator''s soul hummed at a higher frequency, battling an uphill battle against the myth¡¯s powers in their own domain and winning.


    "Why are the new ones always so undisciplined?" He cracked his neck.


    "Well, of course, I''m the one in need to rectify it. Sometimes it feels like no is doing their work here anymore."


    All of the Alp''s senses screamed at him that the man would end it instantly. In a sudden epiphany, it realized why the previous Alp had been so eager to switch charges. Next it made one of the smartest decisions of its life as it quickly removed the pull on its power, desolidifying the dream. The humans dissolved into shadows again, and most of the sounds vanished, making the surroundings eerily quiet.


    "It''s always the same with your kind, unable to fight your instincts. Hungry for fear at every opportunity."


    Cato tsked. A silver flash and the Venator''s cold sword pressed against the myth''s throat.


    "Excusssseee my behavior, high Venatorrrr." The myth''s articulation suffered as the sword didn''t move.


    Cato remained merciless.


    "No, I will not. Now, fetch me, Lucia."


    The myth, a being of terror and messenger for the Venatores, gulped. Whatever stood in front of him was definitely not human. Typically, it had leeway inside the dream realm, the power to conjure or influence nightmares. Nothing of that sort appeared possible at the moment. The area around the man, no thing in human skin, completely evaded its control. Powerlessness crept up its body as its innate aspects got suppressed.


    "Cccouncccilwoman Flaviusss? Are you cccertain?"


    Cato shooed the Alp away.


    "Hurry, I don''t enjoy my time being wasted."


    An invisible pressure lifted from the surroundings. Suddenly, the Alp regained control of his powers, vanishing mere moments later.


    The Venator left to his own devices, stretched his arms, and waited. Already, he calculated the rations, weapons, and potions he would need for the assignment. He mustered his home village, searching for the familiar crate he had hidden decades ago. Would he find his younger self in it? Cato didn''t care. It was the musings of a bored man. For all he knew, had you witnessed one nightmare, then you had seen all of them. So, he let the village burn.


    Sure enough, the myth returned with a woman. She was petite and looked like a child next to the enormous but slim limbs of the Alp. Lucia Flavius held her back straight despite the first signs of age, coloring her hair white. Her eyes housed a shining fire and authority that came with the habit of being obeyed. A few scales protruding from under her toga hinted at the nature of her contract. She clicked her forked tongue.


    "Is this truly necessary, Cato? We would have sent a dossier."


    The woman walked towards him, halting only a few steps apart. Both parties sat down simultaneously as if instructed by a silent command.


    "Call me overcautious, but I would like to hear the information before accepting the mission to exterminate a calamity."


    The greatest diviner in the empire folded her hands in her lap, looking utterly nonthreatening. An appearance that didn''t fool anyone. She was after all one of the heads of the Venatores, a position that required much more than mere political acumen.


    "You have my ear." A sly smile played around her lips. "Ask away."


    The Alp, meanwhile, distanced itself from the duo, slowly itching away without making a single noise that could have caught the two monsters'' attention. Whatever happened between them wasn''t anything it had any business with. It was only a messenger. Everything else remained outside its duties.


    The high Venator cleared his throat.


    "What kind of calamity?"


    "The threads of fate are tangled. There is no guarantee of a solid reading, but the divinations point to a sudden spike in threat level, which grows overwhelming shortly after."


    "Exponential growth then."


    Lucia, one of the twelve council members of the high venatorean Senate, inclined her head, indicating that she shared his suspicions.


    "The least worst or worst kind of calamity."


    The man looked into the dream''s blurry sky, unable to fully replicate the real world with only the moon sharing a semblance of its real world counterpart.


    "How much time do we have?"


    The female contract holder followed his gaze.


    "The pattern shifts, and predictions become more unreliable by the day. Sometimes, it''s three months before it turns unstoppable. Other times five till Sinu and Cosa get eradicated."


    The myth hunter processed the information, deducting the travel time from the apocalypse event. He would have to push his subordinates ruthlessly.


    "Any known or expected characteristics?"


    "No, but its growth always soars once it reaches Sinu. For its form, all I perceive is a vast outline as tall as a mountain with various limbs."


    Cato drew his conclusions from her statement, contemplating possible hunting tactics if the beast truly preyed on humans.


    Lucia raised her eyebrow after the elongated silence.


    "Is that all?"


    Cato shook his head.


    "Which squads have taken the assignment?"


    "One currently, Brutus''s. We have lost contact with them approximately three weeks after arriving at the myth''s assumed habitat."


    The man let out a deep breath.


    "One? What happened, Lucia? This is a calamity we are talking about."


    Wrinkles showed on the woman''s forehead.


    "There have been other considerations, political ones. Still, the council considers the threat as severe, otherwise, we wouldn''t be sending you."


    Cato pressed his lips into a thin line.


    "Since when do Venatores get involved in politics?"


    The councilwoman answered with a sharp look, indicating that he had overstepped.


    "That worry is not your prerogative. The Venatores have always been involved in politics. It just takes a specific level of threat to the empire  for us to take action."


    Cato stayed silent, gathering his thoughts. What would spook the council to the degree that they had limited resources to throw at an accursed calamity? Multiple scenarios came to his mind while the frequency of myth appearances had exploded over the last year, there had to be more to it. A thought crossed his mind, a dangerous consideration, not for himself but the empire.


    "The dragon sovereign has he conceived...?"


    Rage simmered in the oracle''s eyes.


    "It''s the worm tyrant to you."


    A few years ago, Cato would have retorted with fire of his own. Now, he shook his head.


    "Semantics," his answer was barely a whisper, but he knew the councilwoman had perceived it. Her demeanor told him all he needed to know anyway. A bloody war was brewing on the horizon, and he wanted no part.

 Chapter 9 in which Sethion beats up a plebeian

    "I can''t believe I agreed to this." Livius stood five feet away from Sethion, wearing a rough leather chest plate and holding a round shield in one hand and a short sword wrapped in cloth in the other. It was a somewhat surprising choice considering the man''s bull-like physique. The last few sunrays licked his skin, tinting him in an orange light as the sun began to set.


    "Getting cold feet?" Sethion gave him a feral grin, showing teeth. He had to project confidence, as much for himself as for his opponent.


    His grip tightened around the hilt of his sword. He held it in his left hand, an unusual choice, but it had always felt better for him that way. One year. That''s how long it had been since he last swung a sword. A bit of warm-up before the fight didn''t change that fact. He had to admit to himself that he had missed the feeling as the blood circulated faster and faster through his body in anticipation of the battle. Not only the combat itself but the fighting and striving for something.


    Livius shook his head in response to the taunt. "I''m not much of a swordsman, you know? That''s why I like the shop, creating things. Still, kid, what''s the point here? One doesn''t need an oracle to predict how this is going to end."


    "Well, it wouldn''t have come to this if you had simply done what a shop is for. You know?" Sethion repeated the man''s tone for the last question.


    "Just selling your items for money like everyone else."


    The smith apprentice frowned. "What you were asking for is too good to be handed out to mere riffraff."


    "I see. I will first have to beat some sense into you before continuing our conversation."


    Livius just sighed, fully relaxed without seemingly a single worry.


    "Wasting my time is all you''re going to do. Well, at least you seem to know how to hold your sword."


    The patrician raised his own shield to just under his eyes.


    "Oh, I know much more than that." His muscles tensed, and the countless hours of private tutoring dictated his moves.


    Sethion didn''t need to win. He would have a ship waiting for him tomorrow morning, anyway. Further, would he even encounter a faery ever again? Shouldn''t he save his funds for emergencies? Those thoughts didn''t cross his mind. They were born out of luxury, without understanding the privilege of being able to plan. Those were the thoughts of someone who never had stood eye to eye with a myth, able to kill one in an instant without any possible way of resistance. No, the young thief had to win, just as he had to leave the distant estate and try to find a cure. For him, his survival was on the line.


    Sethion took it all in. The way his opponent¡¯s eyes roamed, his wide grip on the sword¡¯s hilt, and his feet standing too close together.


    There was no crowd surrounding them. They stood in a simple but spacious backyard with only Paulus as an onlooker and referee. Sethion had to wait for hours until the store closed to make time for this moment. It was something ridiculous, a bet straight out of a story, and he suspected that was the exact reason Paulus endorsed it. An average smith needed to wield a hammer well to sell his creations, while a great one wielded stories to create more than a mere weapon. And what Sethion needed to do was forge his own legend. The gods knew he had more than enough challenges to overcome.


    "One point for a clean hit. Three if you hit any vitals. I will call them. After a point was scored, you back up. First to ten wins." Paulus called the rules in his calm voice, which could have one wonder if he cared, but the excited grin stretching over his face made that part very clear.


    Sethion suspected that the man had a fatal case of day-to-day boredom.


    He took a deep breath, forcing the air into his lungs at regular intervals. Thinking, anticipating, and preparing it all came down to discipline. The moment he lost his head, he would lose control over the fight.


    Sethion had no delusions in terms of range, strength, and endurance; he was outclassed. It would take an unprecedented amount of skill to overcome his opponent. The aristocrat knew those things in the back of his mind and took them into consideration. Still, that thinking was not how you won a fight. The Cu Sith had taught him as much. A fight left no room for doubt, for fear. The paralysis would kill you before the enemy brought his blade down on you.


    So, when Sethion calmly stared into the eyes of his opponent, there was only one certainty on his mind. Sethion was going to win.


    The pain clashed against his mind even at this moment, trying to steal his tranquility. It didn''t matter. The droplets of sweat running down his armpits from standing and carrying the weapons for an elongated period of time didn''t matter. There wouldn''t be any luck involved this time, and still, Sethion would win.


    The two opponents remained in their place while Paulus stood in between them. For a brief moment, both combatants'' line of sight was blocked. Sparks of excitement danced in the older smith''s eyes. The man cleared his throat.


    "Ave Imperator, morituri te salutant!"


    Sethion barely registered the words, peering around the man to get a glimpse at his opponent.


    Paulus retreated, opening up the room.


    "Fight!" he shouted with glee.


    Sethion instantly dashed forward to close the distance even while Paulus was still moving. Livius hadn''t taken a single step in the meantime. Raising his shield, he awaited his opponent. The man had expected a calm exchange, a testing of the waters before anyone committed. Sethion didn''t oblige.


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    <i>He is holding his sword too far from his side. </i>


    He barreled straight at the opponent with a long step, gaining more and more momentum. He didn''t hesitate. Not once did his movements slow or show any sign of halting. Livius''s eyes widened at the realization of what was about to happen. By that point, only a few feet split the fighters. Livius brought down his sword in an uncontrolled swing.


    <i>Shouldn''t have done that. </i>


    Sethion adjusted his trajectory slightly, anticipating the unrefined attack, and then, he hit like a battering ram. Fully outclassed, he had gone for a direct contest for physical strength, a dumb idea. His opponent had not been ready for it.


    Steel clashed against steel in a shrill noise as the shields collided. Sethion felt like he had straight up charged against a wall, but that wall tumbled. On his back foot and with his sword far from his body, Livius was open. Sethion''s hands blurred as he executed a strike. He aimed to hit right under the shield with full force. His opponent brought his shield down, left with no option but to reflect the incoming blow.


    <i>Too slow. </i>


    Sethion''s strike connected with a satisfying smack right at the hip. Livius relaxed his defense when he realized that he had lost the round, lowering his shield and letting his shoulders slump.


    A mistake. Swiftly, Sethion executed a flurry of hits at the man, aiming straight at the throat. At the last moment, Livius reacted, eyes widened in panic, shifting slightly to the right. The patrician''s blade clashed against the smith''s collarbone with full force. Livius tumbled backward, releasing the grip on his shield, which loudly fell to the ground.


    <i>He would be dead in a real fight. </i>


    "Fatal blow. Three to zero for Gaius", Paulus announced finally.


    Livius turned livid, foam flowing down his lips. He rubbed his chest while snarling in rage. Accusatorily, he pointed his sword at Sethion, seemingly ready to turn the duel into a brawl.


    "What is wrong with you? You already had the point!" Livius screamed.


    Sethion''s eyes remained cold and calculating. His body throbbed in pain, the illness flaring at the strong activity, and he had to grit his teeth to suppress a cough. His legs spasmed under the onslaught of what felt like salt tucked under his skin, tearing through his veins. Still, he stayed steadfast, not showing a hint of weakness on the outside. It took a while before Sethion could speak.


    <i>Too fair for his own good.</i>


    "The referee calls the end of a round. Not you", Sethion answered calmly in a condescending tone as if speaking to a child.


    Deep down, he knew fairness wasn''t something he could afford. He needed any edge, no matter how minuscule, and he bet his attack would leave Livius reeling in pain for quite a bit. Not that it compared to what Sethion was enduring at that moment.


    Livius walked up to Sethion, snarling. "You knew the round was done!"


    Sethion stopped the smith dead in his tracks, pushing the tip of his sword against the man''s chest, not letting him come even a bit closer.


    "So?"


    An infuriating smile adorned his features, played up even more to lure his opponent further down the path of rage and thoughtless decisions.


    "You bastard!" Livius growled.


    <i>Perhaps, but righteousness without winning is worthless. </i>


    Paulus placed his hand on Sethion''s blade, pushing it toward the ground. The thief let it happen.


    "Keep a distance of five steps, if you don''t mind." He turned to Sethion.


    "Pull a stunt like this one more time and it¡¯s over. I''m indulging you, not the other way around."


    Sethion answered with a brief nod. The fighters backed up, and the second round began. This time around, Livius came in swinging.


    <i>Perfect. </i>


    Sethion pivoted, pushing his shield against the incoming sword, neutralizing most of his opponent''s momentum before the strike was fully completed. He gritted his teeth as the impact rattled his bones, with pain rushing up his arm.


    Quickly, he executed a counterattack just in time to force Livius to abandon his next swing and move his shield. Just placed well enough so the blacksmith''s torso had to shift in an unfavorable position.


    Blow after blow, the two opponents danced around each other. Then, Livius committed to a wide swing, too eager to finally land a hit. Sethion''s wrapped weapon struck leather. Far sooner than the last time, Paulus''s voice rang through the courtyard.


    "Normal blow. Four to zero for Gaius."


    Sweat ran down Sethion''s temples. Already, his breath had grown ragged, the ailing body unwilling to keep up with the measured movements. The aristocrat remained in place, drawing out each moment to gain some respite.


    "Your blade work is exemplary," Paulus stated. Instantly, Sethion''s gaze darted to Livius to gauge his reaction like a kid caught sneaking some treats at night.


    "Well," Sethion forced a sweet and fresh breath of air into his lungs. "Just good enough to qualify for the uncommon riffraff, I suppose."


    The insult didn''t hit home. Livius''s expression had cooled, more thoughtful than enraged now.


    "You''re better than I expected."


    "And you are much worse."


    <i>This could be bad. </i>


    "I haven''t lost yet."


    <i>Shit. He calmed down. </i>


    Sethion kept calm as his hopes for an effortless victory dwindled.


    The third round started the slowest of all. Both combatants were now much more wary of one another, circling around each other, searching for an opening. Livius''s arm twitched. Sethion reacted in time, predicting the aim of the swing by following his opponent''s gaze to deflect the blow. He couldn''t counterattack. Livius remained out of range.


    <i>He definitely had some training. </i>


    Another thrust flew at Sethion right after, again utilizing the superior range. A single well-placed step was all it took for him to dodge. Another step just as Livius pulled his sword back closed the distance.


    A swift strike forced Livius to defend. A feint placed the man''s shield too far from his vital area. A thrust at the knee jumbled the smith''s footwork. Every one of Sethion''s movements followed a purpose, painting an ever-changing picture and taking full control. He was not just any noble but a scion who had been heralded as one of the greatest swordsmen of his generation.


    Sethion left a small opening, raising his shield too high. Just enough for the other to notice, just vulnerable enough to make the opponent jump at the opportunity. His body cried out in pain from the abuse, forced to perform movements that were deeply ingrained despite being covered in metaphorical dust. Sethion ignored it.


    Victory was his only priority.


    Livius aimed for the opening. Sethion parried, having anticipated the blow seconds ago. Still, the pure force pushed him back. It didn''t matter.


    Sethion retaliated, his opponent''s feet in the wrong place, his shield too far away, and Sethion''s sword in the perfect position. In one beautiful motion, the blade connected with Livius''s throat.


    "Fatal blow. Seven to zero for Gaius."


    Disbelief was evident on the once-rude man''s face. Unable to comprehend what had happened. One moment, he had spotted an opening, ready to score his first point, in the next cold iron pressed against his Adam''s apple.


    "How?" Livius whispered.


    Sethion didn''t hear him. Blood rushed through his ears, drowning out the noise.


    Then it happened. The constant agony flowing through the sick teenager''s body tripled. A wave gaining enough momentum to become a tsunami. This time, there was no warning. The fit came whenever it chose. As always, it was the worst possible moment.


    Sethion''s vision swam, obscured by tears and red rifts. He missed a step and almost fell. Something pushed against his rib, but he didn''t have the mental capacity to worry, the ability to speak, to form coherent thoughts. All he mustered was a muffled scream.


    Morpheus beckoned him closer, spreading his arms in a warm embrace.

 Chapter 10 in which Sethion does protagonist things

    Sethion had lost all sense of his surroundings. Noises of what he thought to be words entered his ears without registering. He swayed on his feet, a mere breeze enough to topple him. Something held him back and forced him to remain standing. Jitters shook his body, taking over all semblance of control he once had. All the while, a single thought rang through his head, first quiet, then louder and louder, like a forever compounding echo.


    <i>No. </i>


    Sethion pushed away the outstretched helping hands. He tripped immediately afterward, barely remaining in the lucid world. Obscure words continued to fly at him, their meaning as abstruse as trying to decipher the sound of raindrops. His features contorted into a snarl. One lethal hit, that''s how much he needed to win the duel. That''s how much he would give before letting the illness take over. A guttural sound emanated from his throat, more an instinct than coherent speech.


    "I can fight."


    Saying those three words challenged him. His body hurt as if burning from the inside, a fire that could never be quenched. Sethion couldn''t make out a response, but the silhouette in his vision parted, the black outline receded, giving him space. He noticed he had dropped his shield. He didn''t know when it had happened, but there was an absence of weight there. His two hands gripped his short sword, just enough to keep it from falling to the ground.


    The rough armor he wore dragged him down - too heavy for a body engaged in the midst of a deathly battle with itself. Sethion lacked the coherence to do anything about it. His heart beat ferociously like a war drum in his chest. Rivers of sweat poured down his body. And then, Sethion took a step.


    For a moment, a single breath, he found tranquility. The situation reminded him of his escape from the estate when a fit had shaken him unconscious on the forest floor. Strangely, he didn''t worry this time. Certainty filled his mind, quenching all doubt. It wasn''t even optimism. He just knew he was going to win. Delusional, that''s how an onlooker who could read Sethion''s thoughts would describe it.


    His frail fingers pointed the blade upwards. Hopefully, Paulus had called the beginning of the next round; otherwise, this would have been pointless. Sethion took another step. Something swooshed by him, a sword strike. He hadn''t even tried to dodge, unable to see it coming. The patrician focused on the gestalt in his vision, as the black dots coalesced into what could be a person. One strike was all he would be able to muster. It had to suffice.


    Sethion struggled to move, his will fighting against every cell in his body. Unyielding, he continued, never leaving his target out of sight. A call for every bit of energy inside the failing body rang out, seizing every bit without consideration. He received a pitiful reply, not enough to keep moving, far from sufficient to swing a blade, and yet, he continued. The tremors that shook his body intensified with each passing second. Sethion would have to make it quick. The darkness in his vision spread. His will stood as the last bastion against the onslaught.


    Suddenly, something answered his call. Deep within his body, it resonated and pulsed. Its shape was broken and battered, a mere ruin of its past. Black veins streaked across it, each filled with horrible tar. Then, the pulse pushed forward, traveling through the unaffected parts, mustering currents of power.


    Sethion snapped awake, brimming with strange energy. He didn''t question it, already noticing the fatigue reappearing. The blade, which had been so heavy mere moments ago, felt light in his hands. He dashed forward at his opponent. The sword became a silver blur streaking toward his enemy.


    Then, it sundered. His very being torn, leaving the worst agony he had ever experienced. In an instant, he passed out.


    ?


    Paulus rushed to his apprentice''s side, his face marred with worry. He stepped over a dented shield lying on the ground.


    "Are you wounded?"


    Livius, quick to answer as always, shook his head energetically.


    "No, I don''t think so."


    The boy wiped his cheek, his fingers turning red with blood. Paulus inspected the shallow wound.


    "Thank the gods, it''s only a cut," he stated.


    Livius blinked in confusion, his eyes meeting the other fighter, who seemed to have gotten knocked out cold, lying sprawled out on the ground with his limbs facing in the four cardinal directions.


    "What happened? Is the boy alright?" he asked Paulus, his brows knitted in concern.


    <i>What a good kid. </i>


    After assuring that his apprentice wasn''t missing anything, Paulus checked on Sethion.


    "What an enigma that stranger is," he mumbled to himself.


    Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    The moment the smith had seen the boy for the first time, only a few hours ago, he had noticed discrepancies. A young man in servant''s clothing acting like a patrician. A straight back, no calluses on the hands, and the gall to cause trouble.


    But the most memorable feature had been the boy''s eyes. Dark brown with a haunted look, staring straight through a person framed by circles so deep and black they appeared almost phony. At the time, he had wondered what it took for a young man to turn out that way. Now Paulus knew, or he had at least a strong assumption.


    The oldest man in the courtyard bent down next to the unconscious Sethion, pressing his index finger against the boy''s throat. A weak, unsteady heartbeat responded to his probing.


    "He will live," he announced to Livius, who seemed immensely relieved at the diagnosis.


    Quickly, his apprentice turned to another issue. Livius held up his iron shield, letting it reflect the remaining sunlight, as his knuckles tapped against the metal. His fingertips touched the nasty dent, which now took up around a third of the glimmering metal disc.


    "How did that happen? It doesn''t seem like the metal is faulty," he questioned audibly, indirectly directing the query to his master.


    Paulus reached for the shield, briefly evaluating it. Still, he knew there wasn''t an issue because he had forged the damn thing himself. In his mind, the final moments of the fight replayed when Sethion had suddenly moved at seemingly impossible speeds, almost sundering the shield with a singular strike before collapsing.


    "Nothing to do with that," Paulus stated.


    "Then what¡­?"


    Paulus cleared his throat. "I have seen such a thing before. It''s a Venator technique."


    Livius''s mouth hung agape. When he was growing up, the Venatores had been heroes of bedtime stories, making it troublesome to reconcile their lofty image with that of a certain knocked-out youth.


    "He was quite proficient with a sword, but a Venator?" he voiced his doubt.


    <i>Proficient? That boy played you like a fiddle. </i>


    Paulus shook his head.


    "Not what I meant, boy," he said as he stretched his back, feeling a satisfying pop.


    "Well, enough chatter for now. Help me bring our duel winner inside before the sun sets on us."


    Livius obeyed quickly, knowing better than to question him even though both were aware of the unasked questions burning on his tongue. Without wasting any more time, they stripped the youth of the armor and carried him inside to place him on a bed in their living quarters above the store.


    "So?" Livius broke the silence as they watched the sleeping youth''s features contort in agony. The sight tugged at the old man''s heartstrings, letting old memories rise to the surface, which he swiftly buried again. The emotions too raw, even after all those years.


    "So what?" Paulus answered.


    "So, I believe you promised a tale, old man," Livius responded.


    Paulus gave the brat a slight slap just to ensure the behavior didn''t go unpunished. He didn''t hit with much force, and Livius barely flinched.


    "Acting pretty cheeky for someone who didn''t land a single hit in a fight," Paulus mock-scolded his apprentice.


    Livius blushed in a beautiful bright red, which Paulus found hilarious, chuckling just a little. A look of realization dawned on his apprentice''s face, and Paulus found himself glad that the boy at least knew how to handle a hammer well.


    The young man, who had been with him for over three years now, let the slight pass without comment, a habit ingrained by experiencing many unnecessary arguments.


    "You compared him to a Venator." Livius pointed at the sleeping Sethion. "Why?"


    "The way he moved, you barely saw him, yes?" The master smith replied to the question with a question.


    Livius shrugged, more interested in the details of the comparison than his loss.


    "Yes, but I think I was a bit distracted. The kid looked half-dead."


    "No, you weren''t. He hit you quicker than a hammer strike."


    Livius raised an eyebrow without challenging the statement.


    "How did he do it then?"


    "If I knew that, I would be a Venator myself, don''t you think?" Paulus looked through the window, noticing the sun had finally set.


    Livius shook his fist theatrically in the air.


    "You messin'' with me, old man?"


    "Patience, boy. How are we ever gonna make a fine smith out of you? Don''t know how it works, so I won''t pretend, but from what I have heard, they can draw power straight from their soul."


    Livius looked down, staring at his stomach as if expecting to find something new.


    "Their soul?" he wondered.


    "Yes, their soul. Did I stutter, or are you just slow?"


    Again, Livius ignored his master''s teasing and fell into deep thought about the ramifications of his master''s story.


    "No, just sounds like it''s straight out of a ¡­" Livius began voicing his thoughts only to get interrupted.


    "A myth?" His master interrupted.


    "I really should stop hitting him on the head," Paulus mumbled under his breath.


    "You think I could learn it?" Livius inquired, a dreamy expression on his face as he stared into nowhere.


    "What for?" Paulus shrugged. "Doesn''t help you much with forging anything. If I were you, I would keep the question for our little sleeping beauty here. Also, fetch me one of our little darling blades. I believe that boy won a bet."


    Livius shot him a surprised look.


    "You actually going to give him one?"


    "Well, only if he can afford it, naturally," Paulus answered wistfully.


    "No." Livius''s lips pressed into a thin line laced with concern. "I just mean, Gaius is clearly unwell."


    Tears gathered in Paulus''s eyes, and he turned his back toward his apprentice.


    "I know, boy. I know more than you could ever imagine."


    Livius bit his lip.


    "If it''s about ¡­"


    "Quiet!" Paulus shouted.


    Livius recoiled in response to the tone of voice. He had just broken one of the unspoken rules under this roof.


    "Shouldn''t we at least check his possessions? Wouldn''t it be cruel to dangle them in front of him, only to tell him they''re too expensive?"


    The master smith''s eyes darted to the young man sleeping on Livius''s bed. He had to admit that he, too, felt tempted to gain insight into the strange swordsman. Finally, he shook his head.


    "He came here to buy one. So, if he doesn''t have the money, it''s his fault. Now fetch me the special swords, will you?"


    Livius let out an exasperated breath.


    "Should have just kicked the brat out of the store," he said to himself, not much different from the way his master often talked.


    The other youth shifted on the bed, not long after his apprentice had left. A scream of pain was the first thing Sethion let out. Afterward, he collapsed back into the sheets. Still, he seemed awake now. Slowly, the boy opened his eyes, only to then suddenly rip them wide open.


    Paulus sat down next to him with a reassuring smile on his face.


    "Don''t worry, brat. We didn''t go through your meager belongings."


    The words seemed to calm the youth quite a bit. Paulus decided to hit him with a big question next.


    "So, how long have you had the Rot?"