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Here is what they plead, with lyres and laurel, the Crown Prince said on the eve of his mother’s death to the kingdom that should have nurtured him after eighteen years of exile.

“Long has the honor of Kremnos been praised.

Crowned in blood, bathed in strength.

The Capital of Might where soldiers and warriors alike find glory in death.

And honor and courage are carved into every fight.

But what do I see?

A city where hyenas feast upon lion’s remains.

And the goblet of glory is filled to the brim with poison.

You, beasts without teeth, should be glad that The Lance of Fury has long passed away.

Otherwise, he would have already struck this city down.

For long has the honor of Kremnos fallen.”

Having said this, the Crown Prince left, having not set foot on the city that, instead of lifting him into glory, tried to drown him under it. With him, warriors and champions, healers and apothecaries, erudite and craftsmen, left too.

Oh, glorious King Eurypon! Venerable warrior, blessed by Nikador. He who went mad with grief at the Queen’s disappearance, went mad again with fear as the news that his son, he whom he had thrown into the River of Souls, came back from the dead greeted his return from a victorious war campaign instead of roses and cheers.

Four words, he uttered at the news, one of the few embarrassing stains in his reign.

“But I killed him!”

Following this, the royal messenger who had brought him the news had been thrown to the lions with nothing but the broken tip of an arrow.

Rhapsodes and poets, over warriors and champions, Castrum Kremnos does not value. But even such a strife-filled nation can’t snuffle the craft, and so with blood, they wrote, and with the clash of blades, they sang, of the deeds and glory the exiled Crown Prince had.

—And with it, a reality disguised as myth.

“Insanity, insanity it is!”

King Eurypon cried, day and night.

“The Hand of Shadow’s grasp is a battle not even Nikador himself could win! That man must not even be my son, for I drowned him not even a year after he was born! It must be one of Zagreus’ tricks!”

Nevertheless, he went to sleep every night with lance in hand.

And, so, like tears once slipped past Oronyx’ eyes, years slipped past the King’s hands, uncaring of his plight. Rhapsodes sang, poets recited, actors danced, and the name of the Crown Prince grew in renown.

With every deed, with every myth, with every year that his cursed son did not come to claim his head, the spirit of King Eurypon withered and fell. Denial chained his heart and paranoia ate away his mind.

Until, one day, his soul could not take it anymore.

Here is what they say, with whispers and shame, King Eurypon tried to hide.

“Your Majesty.”

Known has to be, that, five are the values that Castrum Kremnos holds proud amidst the blood and strife.

Teachings left in blood by the glory of Nikador and carved with a knife into the heart of every warrior worth their name. All used as the bedrock and the foundation that uphold the kingdom of Kremnos. Pillars that distinguish it as a place of honor and glory instead of that of simple savagery and treachery.

“He...”

Courage, honor, reason, tenacity and sacrifice.

The day King Eurypon was crowned, it is said, he brandished the still beating heart of his now defunct father in his hand and pledged to hold such values, promising to lead Kremnos into eternal glory.

Five values! Held high—

“He’s here.”

—Just for them to be thrown into the ground and spit upon.

Long has the honor of Kremnos fallen, of course, it’s no big secret. Though, it’s certainly one the people have had a hard time accepting. The, hm, late Queen Gorgo, may her ferocious soul rest in glory, argued it fell as soon as her husband decided to head to an oracle in uncertainty of the future, and, as a result, creating the word ‘fear’ in the kremnoan language when he drowned their son.

“Let him in.”

But, even then, it has never been made more apparent up to this moment, as a figure clad in shadows knocked four times before stepping into the throne room, not as an invader, but as a guest.

A guest whom the stench of death clung to him like a second skin.

King Eurypon was not intimidated by the newcomer, of course, a kremonan’s fear is not, has never been, and will never be, death, and he is no different. His fear resided in something else, something entirely kremonan too. But underestimation is always a warrior’s hubris and, so, his hand held tightly onto the hilt of his lance.

“I must admit, when one of my men came and said that the one who devoured the sun had taken interest in my plight, I took him for a madman. Your reputation precedes you, after all, Flame Reaver.” King Eurypon said in lieu of a greeting. “Nonetheless, vanity is a vice and arrogance a fault that poisons the mightiest warriors and, so, I am not afraid to admit I was wrong—nor that I am pleased to have been.”

The Flame Reaver did not answer.

Neither did he bow, but King Eurypon wasn’t expecting him to.

Instead, his head shifted to the side of the throne, where another man stood.

“Hm, you worry about Krateros? Don’t.” The King demanded. “There’s no man more trustworthy than him in all of Castrum Kremnos. He won’t say a word about what happens in this room, and neither shall I.”

He made an imposing figure, that’s for sure. More creature than man and even under the mask, the Flame Reaver’s gaze was a heavy, heavy thing. Not one to let himself be intimidated, Krateros raised his chin and met it with disdain he did not bother to hide.

Eventually, the Flame Reaver ripped his eyes out of the other and turned back to the throne.

“It doesn’t make a difference to me.”

The King narrowed his eyes.

“Do you know what is that I want?”

“Yes.”

“Yet you still demanded an audience with me.”

“How was I to be sure the man spoke in truth otherwise?” He asked, his head tilted to the side as he did so. “It is known that Castrum Kremnos does not involve itself with assassins.”

“Don’t you mock me.” King Eurypon snapped.

“I did not.”

“Do you know why Castrum Kremnos does not usually involve itself with assassins?” King Eurypon asked, as if he did not hear him. “It’s because you, Flame Reaver, you and your kind, lethal, as they may be, could not be the furthest thing from strife. There’s no courage in the way you live, delegated to the whims of others, scurrying in the nights like a rat, stabbing in the back—In Kremnos, if you want a life taken, you throw a weapon to the ground and wait for your opponent to pick it up before handing the first strike. But there’s no glory for a warrior to have by death at your hands. On your own? You are even lower than a hyena, the most dishonorable kind of creature to exist.”

The Flame Reaver stood silent.

Agitated, the King continued, “But I see it differently. I simply choose to embody reason, one of Nikador’s divine values, to take upon this battle. On your hands, there’s no honor, but on mine? Well, say, what difference is there in using you as I use the lance in my hands? Tell me, Krateros,” He turned to the other. “What do you think? Is there any difference?”

“... There’s none.”

“There’s none! I—”

“King Eurypon.” The Flame Reaver interrupted. “You do not have to explain yourself. Honor and reason are lost on me. I simply came because I heard you want your son killed.”

A pause.

“Ah, that I do.” King Eurypon said with gritted teeth. No manners, as always, with these sorts of people. He narrowed his eyes down at him, in suspicion. “That I do. The question is, why would you want him dead?”

The Flame Reaver halted.

“Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters. How can I expect to trust someone whom I know nothing of?” The King stood up from his throne and, step by step, he made his way down until he stood at the same level as the Flame Reaver. “Someone who doesn’t even have the courtesy to show his face to me.”

“Would it have soothed you, your Majesty, if I hid under a helmet instead?”

“Ha! Don’t make me laugh. You are no warrior.”

“Yet, you still search to employ my services.” The words were damning, biting, but there wasn’t any particular inflection in his voice. Only a monotone timbre.

“Precisely.” He smiled. It was as venomous as the poison he once used on his wife. “You see, my son is an exceptional warrior. The likes we will never see again in our lifetime. He managed to survive the cold clutches of the River of Souls and, even as we speak, his deeds just grow.”

He brandished his lance before looking down at his own reflection on the cold, deadly blade. “An honorable warrior,” He continued, raising his head. “No matter how good, won’t ever be able to defeat him. Frankly, it’s hard to think that even you could, but,” He pointed the lance at the Flame Reaver, who did not flinch even as the tip edged close to his throat. “I believe even a rat can kill a lion if it is able to strike fast enough.”

The Flame Reaver’s head shifted minutely, downwards, as he eyed the blade. The meaning of King Eurypon’s words were not lost on him, but he did wonder if the King realized the implications of his own actions.

Not that it mattered.

He lifted one of his hands, the sharp edges of the golden gauntlet glinting by the light, making it look like claws. King Eurypon tensed, and so did Krateros at his back, but the Flame Reaver did not attack.

Instead, he brought it up to his face and his hand grasped that of Thanatos’ as he took the mask off. His face held no expression whatsoever, yet, there was a certain sense of finality etched in his action.

King Eurypon did not falter, but it would be a lie to say he was not taken aback by this. There were a couple of things the Flame Reaver was known for, one of those being his elusiveness.

Still, he was a king, the ruler of a land where the crown was to be taken in blood and the strong only bowed to the powerful, there were considerations and respects to be had in his presence.

“Hm.” He lowered the lance. His expression didn’t change, but the pleasure in his tone was unmistakable. “You… do not look like I expected.”

Warriors came in all shapes and forms, that, King Eurypon knew, and he knew very well. The lochagos of the Silvershield had a brittle frame for a man who could lift mountains, the butcher’s daughter who bashed the head open of the man who tried to steal couldn’t move her legs, and Queen Gorgo—Oh, strong Gorgo, beautiful Gorgo! She had arms strong enough to tear a lion and a face Mnestia could only dream of.

Yet, the one in front of him was no warrior, and perhaps that made him have certain expectations.

He did not care about the circumstances and happenings that led this creature to pick up a blade and throw honor to the ground; but if coin was the necessity, he wonders why he did not choose to spread his legs with a face like that.

Dignity, ha! It is not as if he has that now, either way.

He did not voice this, no. He has never been one to mingle words, much like the son he never got to know, but strife without intelligence only gives birth to brutes, and he knew not to offend the hand that comes in help—No matter how rotten it may be.

The Flame Reaver showed no reaction. He simply put the mask back on and stared at the King.

Right, then.

“I trust my men told you the price for my son’s head?”

“I do not care about either status nor land.”

At his back, Krateros scoffed. Ha, of course. The King couldn’t help but agree, but he simply said, “Coin, then.”

“How much?”

“Enough to buy a land or five and if that’s not enough, then you will have more.”

The Flame Reaver did not freeze, but the silence that stretched once the words left the King’s mouth spoke volumes.

He chuckled. “No need to be surprised. I believe you understand the situation I’m in, besides, it would be unbecoming of a father to skimp on his son’s birthday present.”

Indeed, that day happened to be the eve of the seventh birthday of the Crown Prince ever since he had come back. It seemed to make King Eurypon more fretful and, as he said the words, a strange expression passed through his face, half-cruelty, half-fear, draped in shame and, perhaps, a hint of melancholy.

It went away as soon as it came, and when he spoke again, the words were cold. “But whatever demands you have will only be entertained after you have brought me his head, not before.” Then, he turned around, and started walking upwards to his throne. “Do not bother to come back if you can’t.”

“Understood.”

As King Eurypon took seat on his throne, Krateros took a step forward, eyes narrowed.

“I shall see you to the exit.” He said.

“There’s no need.”

“Yet I insist.”

“Hmph.” The Flame Reaver let out and—Ah! The nerve of this one. Wordlessly, he turned on his heel and made his way out of the throne room with soundless steps, a show of his nature, the true sign he was no warrior, leaving Krateros scrambling to follow.

By the time he caught up with him, the Flame Reaver was already disappearing into the right hallway after taking the left one and it was concerning how well he seemed to already know his way through the palace.

Swiftly, Krateros fell into step, not behind him, for he was no servant of his, and definitely not next to him, for the assassin was no equal to Krateros, but in front of him, for he was not afraid of him.

“You never answered the question.” Said Krateros once he deemed they were far enough from the throne room. The Flame Reaver made a sound on the back of his throat and Krateros clicked his tongue. “You know what I mean. Do not play dumb.”

“Is rather obvious, is it not?”

Krateros scoffed. “Am I to believe you haven’t heard what the people sing?”

Ah. How could he not? The deeds of the Crown Prince and his detachment did not only resonate in Castrum Kremnos, after all. They weren’t sung in blood and the clash of blades, but rhymes and lyres instead, but they brought amazement all the same.

A minotaur, a hydra, a centaur—fallen in glory at the hands of a proud lion with a thousand scars and a hundred lives.

Mydeimos the Undying.

They called him.

“Is it true, then?

It took a second for Krateros to answer.

“It would be a lie to say that I know. Some level of mythicism is always bound to appear for men like him, but even Zagreus’ most ridiculous tales hold a kernel of truth. You must know this, and, so,” He threw a glance to the Flame Reaver over his shoulder. “Why take on an impossible task?”

“Impossible?” The Flame Reaver tilted his head to the side. ”Why, even Achilles died.”

“Ah, but the Titans have long been gone, Flame Reaver. There’s no Janus to guide the path of your arrow, no Nikador to bless your conquest.” Though, even if he lived, he would have never done so. Nikador’s disdain for assassins was well known. “And people sing on how the Crown Prince defeated yours.”

“I do not serve Thanatos.”

He did not serve her, he says! Ha! How ridiculous! Krateros threw his head back and laughed.

“Maybe,” The Flame Reaver piped at the old man’s amusement. His voice held no emotion whatsoever, but a tilt of irritation could still be distinguished. “I just like the thrill.”

Krateros raised an eyebrow, still amused. “There’s a colosseum down in the street.”

“I do not care for glory.”

“Then, maybe, you do not enjoy the thrill.”

“Bread doesn’t come for free.”

“And there are easier ways to get it.”

“But it's not every day where you are offered enough to buy five lands for a single life.”

“What kind of bread are you buying that warrants such prices?”

The Flame Reaver made a sound on the back of his throat. Not quite amused, not quite irritated, and replied, “It’s very good bread, I will have you know.”

“Steal it, then.” Krateros replied without missing a beat. “It shouldn’t be a problem for you, right?”

The Flame Reaver didn’t reply. Krateros didn’t speak, the plam-plam-plam of his boots echoing through the hall as they pressed against the stone. It wasn’t out of any consideration, no, nor any fear of conflict—laughable, that would have been. He wanted to know, oh, that he did, for reasons not entirely related to King Eurypon’s plight, but he could not go against his Majesty’s orders.

If the crown trusted him, then Krateros ought to too.

Still, he had to make it clear, I know you lied.

“In the same way I do not ask for an explanation of the King’s motives, I ask you not to question mine.” The Flame Reaver eventually said. His voice was a monotone, dead thing. “All you need to know is that you will have the Undying Prince’s head, of that I assure you.”

There’s a certain kind of peace to be had in the aftermath of a battlefield.

Once the bloodlust dims and the adrenaline sweeps out like steam, when the blood dries and bodies fall as the ode composed by the clash of blades and ragged breaths, by the pained grunts and wrathful screams, comes to an end, strife gives way to death and the only thing that remains is silence in an empty plain.

Silent, if not for the ever strong ba-thump of his heart beating under his chest, Mydei stands on the edge of the field with chipped gauntlets and mud caked up to his knees. The air was humid, hot, unbearably so. It had rained earlier, barely a five-minute thing, and it only served to raise heat, slip earth and make the blood—some his, most of it not—covering him head to toe dry slower. Not a scar on his body remains, though.

His eyes roamed carefully through the plain, taking in the shapes of the cracked weapons, the mud, the dyed grass, the torn limbs and frozen expressions. None belonging to any of his own as far as he can make.

The wind, mischievous thing, guides a hot wave of heat against him. It makes his eyes burn, pushes his hair with cracked blood on the tips back and the little golden ring of his braid hits against his ear. It composes a song with the way it moves the grass, the scrubs and the bushes along the faint echo of a resonance as it goes through the stab wounds of the bodies rotting on the ground.

Faint steps against the grass raised above such sounds. Faint, but firm. They came to a stop a few paces behind him, even though Mydei has made clear many times he would rather have them—all of them—simply stand next to him.

“Your nose is crooked.”

Mydei blinks a couple of times at Hephaestion’s words, unlocking his arms from where they crossed at his chest to touch gingerly at his nose. It doesn’t ache, nor does it throb as he presses fingers at it, but the natural slope of it is tilted crudely to the left. Earlier during the fight, as a nail of the hand of death hooked onto the end of an enemy’s soldier's cape, he had flailed and broken Mydei’s nose with an accidental jab of his elbow. Embarrassing mistake, to say the least. Now, it healed wrong.

He huffs, turning away from the field to face his companion and ignores Hephaestion’s amused face at the state of his own in favor of taking a quick sweep of the camp at his back.

Then, in one swift, quick motion, Mydei grips the bone of his nose through the skin and forces it right. It sets into place with a loud ‘crack!’

Hephaestion winces at the sound. “Perdikkas told you to stop doing that.”

“I’m sure Perdikkas has better things to do than attend a wound that will heal between minutes.” Mydei replies, but takes yet another quick sweep through the camp at the mention of his name, just to make sure Perdikkas didn’t suddenly materialize in place and saw him cracking his nose back into place. He can get quite fuzzy with his well-being—Unnecessary, if you ask Mydei, but his lectures can be a thing of terror. “Any casualties?”

“Ha, over something like this?” Hephaestion sounds offended by the mere idea.

It makes sense, of course, it was less a fight than it was a skirmish. A couple dozen kremnoan soldiers that had stumbled upon their caravan and all but tripped over themselves in surprise as the brigade’s leader ordered an attack. In the end, that same leader had turned tail and ran away, leaving his men to die—which seemed more honest to the current spirit of Castrum Kremnos than any claim his father could make.

Still, kremnoan, give them a sling and they will aim for Aquila’s eyes. You can never be too careful against them. There’s no risk they won’t take in the name of glory.

In the aftermath of a battle, peace and hollowness edge on a tread. The confirmation makes it so that it can fully settle on the former.

With a nod, he turns around to face the battlefield once again. Eyes trailing the royal family symbol of the few shields laid about the plain in contemplation. “It’s been a while since we last fought against Castrum Kremnos.” He says and can’t help but sniff at the sensation of something warm slipping down his nose.

“That it has.” Hephaestion agrees with the rustle of fabric before a handkerchief is presented to him. “You think something happened?”

A grunt is his answer as he accepts the handkerchief. He presses it against his nose and, through the fabric, trails the slope of his nose, just to make sure it is straight. It throbs on contact, but long has Mydei gotten used to such minor pains.

“Do you want me to tell Leonnius to send him a message?”

“No, let’s ask Ptolemy what he thinks of first.” Mydei doesn’t think it is enough to worry, but he’s not as dumb as to simply brush it off. “More importantly, how are the others? Any injuries?”

Hephaestion hums. “Well, someone got his nose broken.”

“I take it as a no, then.”

“Did I lie?”

“Hmph.”

Hephaestion laughs.

“Either way, you are right, other than scraps and bruises, we came off with a crushing victory this time around. But,” He drifts off, slightly. “They are tired.”

Mydei blinks, then frowns, in contemplation. They have been traveling non-stop for over a month and a half now, all the way from the fresh, purple coasts of Pyria to the high, swelling hills of Bulsa, close to a volcano. The prior skirmish, though nothing they aren’t used to by now (easier, actually, considering they had broken into the cave of a cyclops along the valleys of Ikaria in an attempt to shelter from the rain) had caught them all off guard. It’s natural that they would be tired.

“Should we stop for today?”

“That’s what I wanted to talk with you, actually.” Hephaestion says. “Leonnius’ eagle came a couple of minutes ago, brought a card saying he spotted a small village about half a day away or so from where we currently are.”

About half a day, uh.

Mydei lifts his head to face the sun, his right hand coming to shield his eyes from the scalding light. He’s not as daft as to pinpoint the exact quint of an hour in base of his position in the sky, but he can tell roughly which hour is it. As of now, he thinks they should be some-when in the middle of the Lucid Hour. If they head out now, they would be reaching the village by the Parting Hour, maybe even the beginnings of Curtain-Fall.

It’s not bad, as long as they don’t tread in the dark, but…

He closes his eyes, focuses on the state of his body. It’s hard for him to pinpoint aches and heaviness in his limbs after a lifetime of disregarding those, when walking against the current of the River of Souls made his muscles burn and feet to bleed against the bones that made its floor. But he can feel a faint ache in his back and a prickling on his kneecaps. He flexes his fingers and feels the bones faintly crack under the strain—and if even he is feeling the early throes of exhaustion, he can’t imagine what the others must be feeling.

He turns his head to the side to see Hephaestion, still standing a hair behind him, and asks, “Do you think they can make it?”

“I think the promise of a bed and a bath is more than enough to push them all forward, but you can always ask them.”

“Can you?”

“Titans, yes.” It’s almost a whine. “If I have to go one more day with my scalp itching the way it does now, I swear I will pick up an axe and shave all my hair off. I’m pretty sure I have lice.”

Mydei laughs and turns around to make his way back to the camp, but as soon as he gives his back to the battlefield, the earlier peace that had settled in the aftermath of the battle bursts like a bubble.

A sensation, like two arrows sinking into his skin, surges through his body like an electric current. Instinctually, he slaps a hand on his nape and whips his head around.

Quickly, his eyes comb through every nook and cranny of the battlefield, trying to catch sight of the intruder in the valley of death and frowns when he can’t. The grass and scrubs aren’t tall enough for a person to burrow under, and there aren't any trees or structures to hide behind.

“Mydeimos?” Hephaestion questions, one hand on the hilt of his dagger, but Mydei doubts he felt the telltale of a prey attempting to hunt a predator. It wasn’t directed at him, after all.

He gives one last look through the plain, frowning when he can’t find anything. “Stay alert.” Mydei says simply, letting his hand fall from his nape and giving the handkerchief back to the other. He continues to make his way back to the camp, unaware of the spark of irritation at being discovered that reflects on blue eyes staring at him from where they had slipped under the corpses.

They reach the village in the third quint of Curtain-Fall. Once Aquila has long closed his eyes and the only people milling about on the streets are thieves, drunkards and people with rakes standing as guards about to fall asleep on the edges of town.

They scramble in panic into wakefulness at their sight, hands shaking as they point the rakes towards them with a stuttering, “Halt!” That sounds too much like a poor imitation of the guards that you would find in big polis.

The guards—Two, on the side of the village they arrive. One child, barely fifteen or so with a cracking voice and scrawny limbs, and an old man, with a hunched back and a white beard that reaches the floor, explain and beg for them to turn around with nothing but defeat in their voices. Castrum Kremnos has never been known for its mercy.

“We are nothing but a humble village and it may be foolish to admit, but we don’t have soldiers or warriors, only farmers and weavers.” The old man bows, the child cowering behind him. “Our conquest won’t bring glory to the name of Kremnos. We don’t have much but a few coins and crops, if necessary, we can rally it all. But, please, spare us the horrors of bloodshed and death.”

“Raise.” Mydei commands. “We are but a mere band of mercenaries, exiled from Castrum Kremnos. We don’t come to claim glory in the name of a king long gone mad.”

“Oh, may it be, sir, you are that Kremnos Detachment travelers sing lo and about?” The old man asks.

“That we are.”

“Does…” The kid starts, hesitantly. Eyening warily the dried blood clinging to his body. “Does that mean, you won’t attack us, then?”

“I don’t see any reason why we ought to raise our weapons against you as long as your village doesn’t, either.” Mydei replies bluntly. The child jumps and shakes his head insistently. Then, to the old man, he says, “We only come to find rest for some days, perhaps even buy some rations and cloth for our travels.” The old man raises an eyebrow, but before he can speak, he adds, “As for now, point us in the direction of any inn the village has.”

The old man hesitates, cranes his neck to see the people behind him. “It’s not very big…”

“We will make do.”

The old man pauses, mouth twisting in consternation before he sighs. “Emilios, go tell Master Aliki about this. We don’t want her attempting to take on an army with a broom and rocks again. Then go to sleep, I will make sure to spread the word.” The child nods, before turning around and running off into the night. He lowers his rack and makes a motion for Mydei and his people to follow. “I will guide you to the inn.”

Not everyone from his detachment follows, about two dozen decide to start setting up tents on the side of the village, next to the dromas. One week, Mydei declares, they will stay. He expects them all to be here in the second quint of the Entry Hour at that time.

Some of them look as if they would rather spend the whole week here while others ask the old man if there are other places aside from the inn, he admits that some of the villagers might offer lodging in exchange for a few favors. Ismene, one of his strongest warriors, declares she will protect Kopopo with her life. Mydei thanks her before going.

It’s not strange for this to happen. Mydei lets his people do pretty much anything they want every time they stay in one place—as long as it doesn’t involve the pummeling of the innocent. Though, he has made it very clear he’s not bailing out anyone out of jail (again) (thanks Ptolemy). He makes sure everyone gets a part of the pay every time they decide to take a job as mercenaries, and so, sometimes people will have spent it all as to not be able to spend it on an inn or they simply wish to save for something else.

In the end, of sixty-four, including a handful of children, only about forty of them end up going to the inn.

Even then, the inn is still far too small for them. It’s a two floor wooden structure, cozy but rotting, the floor cracks with every step. The innkeeper, a young lady with a missing finger, raises her head, takes a look at them, and tells off the old man from where she’s sleeping under her desk before jumping upright, banging her head, and, very hesitantly, saying they only have twenty-five rooms.

His men very loudly insist he, along with the rest of his friends, each get a room of their own. He has long become accustomed to the particular brand of stubbornness they all have in regard to his comfort, so, with a sigh, picks the key the innkeeper shyly extends to him and thanks them all. A couple of them kind of blush as he does so.

He doesn’t go directly to his room, but to the baths. The innkeeper had winced when they asked and recommended them to just go tomorrow at the public ones—with good reason. The inn’s bath is something more akin to a pit, with somewhat clean looking water but so cold it penetrates through bone itself, there’s no soap and the walls have moss on them.

Mydei grits his teeth and cleans himself. It’s less a bath than it is a quick rinse. There’s probably still blood sticking to his scalp, but it’s enough to wash away the blood and the mud off of him. Hair going from red back to its original blonde. He will clean properly tomorrow in the baths, he decides, for now, he simply just wants to sleep. Both Hephaestion and Perdikkas wish him goodnight and stay in the baths with chattering teeth.

His room is located on the second floor. On the way there, he finds Peucesta passed out in a bed—boots and all. Silently, Mydei slips them off his feet, hums at Peucesta’s half-conscious grunt of thanks and places them next to the door, which he closes on the way out.

His own room is no different from Peucesta’s. A small, simple thing with a bed that smells of dust, a table and a chair. A porcelain vase sits next to a lit candle on said table. He places his gauntlets on them and serves himself a glass of water before a gush of cold, night air makes him shiver and he turns to the source.

The window is open.

Silver rays filter from the sky as white, translucent curtains flow rhythmically as the fits of wind come and go as they please. Free as ever. But it gives the old dusty room an air of eeriness.

Mydei narrows his eyes.

He places the glass back onto the table, and, in slow, measured steps, walks towards the window. He tries for his steps to be silent, but there’s a faint ‘tap’ followed by the creak of wood with every stride he gives.

No shadows are cast from above from what he sees and, so, carefully, he pokes his head out with a frown. The chilly air of the night made all the more apparent with his still damp hair. The cricket rumbles a low melody in the night, a piece to accompany the faint disjointed singing of two drunkards crying in a tavern. Mydei looks at the simple wooden ceilings extending along the plain, then up to the ceiling of the inn, and down below in the street.

It is empty.

Completely, utterly empty.

Mydei frowns. A certain feeling sliding down his back like ice. An impending sense of danger hovering like a hound. It would be easy, he thinks, to dismiss such sensation in exhaustion and lack of sleep, but the moment a warrior doubts his intuition, is the moment he dies.

He stares some more.

The moon isn’t full tonight.

Carefully, deliberately, he goes to grab the window rail, intent on sliding it shut.

And the flame on the candle’s match snuffles out as the cold exhale of death hovers over his neck.

Mydei throws himself sideways before Thanatos’ lips can kiss his nape, barely avoiding the fine end of a blade to burrow on it. His hand slaps against the floor with a loud ‘plap!’ that has his palm burning as he prevents himself from falling with the sudden motion. Forwards, he pushes himself immediately, far away from his assailant while the sound of their blade cutting the air resonates at his back.

He stands up and turns around. A demand on his lips. “What d—” But before he can finish, the figure bent on the floor frees his blade from where it had sunk into the ground and jumps backwards, disappearing into the shadows of the room like mist. A few long strands of Mydei’s hair seem to twinkle silver under the moonlight as they fall into the place the other was and he grits his teeth.

“Coward!” He spits. “Show yourself and fight me upfront!”

A light glints on his left and Mydei whips to the right. Arms flying upwards just in time to intercept the reaping hook aiming at his neck. He hisses when he feels the curved blade sink into his skin, rivulets of blood slipping to his elbows down to the floor.

The blade is sharp and the strength behind the hit is enough to push Mydei back a couple of feet. His body has always been sturdier than most, and he believes that may be the reason why both his arms didn’t get cut off, bone and all. His arms shake as his assailant presses further, hook sinking deeper.

He should have put his gauntlets back on, he thinks, not concerned more than he is annoyed. Even if all his limbs were to be cut off, they will always grow back, but dying from blood loss is a terribly boring affair.

It used to be terrifying, the sensation of life slipping through his fingers bit by bit like grains of sand, back when he was a brat and the vultures circled him and the piranhas in the Sea of Souls got nearer and nearer. Now? It just feels like falling asleep without the actual rest.

Mydei lets the hook sink even deeper in his arms, shy of touching the bone, as he slams his body into his assailant’s. The other makes a sound between a yelp and a hiss as his back collides into the wall with a rattle. He’s close enough to hear his breath, although he does not feel it through the mask. He can’t quite make much of it, just three long tears in the dark.

He pushes his arms up, hook tearing skin, meat and tendons off. The pain is unbearable, but nothing that he isn’t used to. He grasps his assailant by the neck, reveling in the choked sound that rises and his other hand goes to take off their mask.

A well-placed kick on his chest knocks the breath out of his lungs before he can so much as graze the mask, body flying backwards. A squelch echoes as the hook comes out of his body.

His assailant moves, Mydei grabs one of his gauntlets and raises it. Sparks and light fly for a moment as it clangs with the hook, illuminating golds for less than a blink.

“Heh.” Mydei can’t help but laugh, arm shaking under the strain. “Not bad.”

Creatures of this sort—Silent, precise, honorless, born from the night, tend to thrive in one hit victories, like a snake hidden under the leaves, sinking their fangs and catching their prey unaware. They tend to recede after the first attack fails.

But not this one, it seems.

How cute.

A smile draws on Mydei’s lips. More sardonic than anything. “It was you, wasn’t it?” He grabs his assailant’s wrist, pulls, and his fist connects with their face. A loud click suggests he got them square on the jaw. “The one from this morning. Say, where were you hiding then?”

No answer, other than a click of the tongue.

It becomes a song and dance. Blood and bruises traded alike. His opponent is good, exceptionally so. A match that very few people are upon fighting against Mydei, and he suspects he would enjoy it far, far more if the other just fought him upfront, face to face, instead of shrinking into the shadows and aiming for blind spots hidden by the dark.

Alas, such is the nature of this kind of creature.

It takes some time, or perhaps none at all, time seems to have both slowed down and stretched as they fight, before his assailant, feet against the wall like a spider, pushes themselves towards Mydei.

They tumble. The table falls and the vase breaks with a crash. Bits and pieces of glass sink into the skin at his back as Mydei falls on top of them on the floor. He hisses, then gasps when a sudden weight settles in his stomach and forces the shards even deeper on his back.

Mydei attempts to shake his assailant off him, trying to sit up. The other shoves him back down harshly, banging Mydei’s head against the floor. “You bastard!” He snaps. He can’t quite seem to push him off, so, undeterred, he grabs his assailant’s hips and tries to lift him.

His opponent wobbles with a sound of surprise, thick thighs pressing onto the sides of his ribs hard enough to knock the breath out of Mydei’s lungs.

“Get—off me!” Mydei demands with a wheeze, still struggling. The figure sat on him is backlit by the moonlight behind him, making them look only as a silhouette.

They raise the hook up, almost deliberately so, and, for a moment, its curved, silver blade transforms the lonely moon hung up in the sky, visible from the open window, from a waxing gibbous into a full one.

The sight leaves him breathless, for some reason.

The hook falls. Mydei doesn’t squeeze his eyes shut. He’s not afraid of death, not even as the blade comes closer to the space between his eyes.

But, with a bang, the door of his room suddenly slams into his assailant. They let out what is definitely a yelp this time, and Mydei blinks a couple of times in confusion at the sudden empty space above him.

“Are you alright, Mydeimos?”

“Peucesta?” Mydei asks, still dumbfounded. He shakes his head to dissipate his confusion and accepts the hand offered to him, helping him stand up. “I’m surprised you managed to pull yourself off the bed.”

He frowns at the state of his already healing arms. “You were too loud.” He jerks his head towards the creature under the door. “Who is—?” And a chair slams into his head.

“Shit!” Peucesta yells, at the same time Mydei whips towards his assailant. Hands into fists, but the creature doesn’t attack him again, opting to escape and jump out the window instead.

The action makes Mydei’s blood boil.

“HKS!” He curses, the word rumbling in his chest like a lion’s roar, and he jumps after the creature, ignoring Peucesta’s scream for him to wait.

Mydei falls onto the street. It makes a nearby cat sleeping on the road meow loudly and scramble. It’s not a long drop, but it’s long enough for a current of electricity to surge from the instep of his feet to the edges of his fingers, knees aching. He ignores the sensation, looks left, then right, no sight of his attacker, and his teeth crack under the strength he’s pressing them. They couldn’t have gone that far.

Movement from the corner of his eye. Faint, barely there. Enough for his eyes to catch. It’s not a person but—

A shadow.

Mydei jerks his head upwards just to catch the creature watching him from the inn’s roof.

The moonlight shines and reveals a mix of blacks and golds, clawing at their skin. The black hole in his chest swallows all light, marking them as one of the night’s belongings and ever so slightly, the edges of their cape seemed to sway, as if lulled by an invisible tide.

They look like something straight out of a nightmare.

Mydei smiles, bloodthirsty and mean, the heart in his chest beating a fast ba-thump-thump-thump in adrenaline. “Clever bastard.” He mutters and chases after as the creature bolts.

Just as he thought, nothing but a mere prey attempting to hunt a predator.

He runs through empty streets, through dirt roads and wooden fences, eyes fixed on the creature’s neck as they jump and run through roofs.

“What happened to all that bravado from earlier, coward?” Mydei yells at them. The creature halts, less than a second, before they continue running. Ha, sore spot? “What, you can’t talk?”

“Heh.”

Heh? Tsk. “What’s so funny?”

The creature doesn’t reply. Mydei feels one of his eyes tick at that. Fine, let them keep their secrets, he thinks, he will make them talk soon enough.

The growing sound of rushing water reaching Myde’s ears. A wooden ladder placed on the side of a house catches his attention. He condenses the blood slipping through his arms into sharp, bright crystals and throws at them in one sudden, quick move into the creature’s direction, intent on pinning them down into any surface, as he makes a run towards the ladder.

In quick motions, he climbs onto the roofs, following the pull of his crystals into a house on the skirts of the village, on the edge of a river.

He doesn’t find them there.

Instead, pinned under a crystal, like a butterfly under a pin, were the torn remains of a black cloak.

The defiles surrounding the edges of the once bustling polis of Adian are a narrow mace of twists and turns, extending for what seems miles on end across the earth. Story goes that, once upon a time, when the Titans still roamed the earth, Phagousa once managed to get Janus so drunk that she could not tell left from right nor up from down.

In her high spirits, she had decided to go on a walk, feet twisting and turning a non-existent path on the straight road she roamed through in her drunken haze. Georgios, who had chased after her when he realized her sudden absence at the banquet, struggled to make sense of Janus' strange steps, and, in frustration, erected walls from the rock in an attempt to halt and catch her.

But the Gate of Infinity knew of a dozen ways and a hundred paths, and, in the end, the earth twisted so much that it turned into a maze and poor Georgios ended up lost. It took for Aquila, from his position in the sky, to get him out, only to laugh at him for three days straight.

It is said that, to this day, sometimes the defiles will not echo back to you the sound of your own voice, but the ever arrogant laughter of the Eye of Twilight—Yet another thing, Mydei supposes, that contributed to Nikador’s distaste for the tyrant of the skies.

Nowadays, though, traversing such place is not as confusingly mythical as the stories like to tell. Maps and charts have been drawn and the passing of people through the ages have made natural dirt roads along the way, differentiating the paths from dead-ends.

Even so, no one in his detachment has a map, but neither do they need it—They have nowhere to be, after all, and so Mydei lets instinct guide, picks a path and the detachment follows. Whether it is into the coast, the seas, the valleys, the tundra, the forest or even the maws of the underworld itself, they always follow him.

But Mydei wonders if, this time, it really is only the detachment trailing at his back.

There hadn’t been any further attempts on his life after that little stunt in the village’s inn throughout all the week, nor to any other member of the detachment, for that matter. The notion hadn’t made Mydei antsy, but it had certainly made him scoff.

Coward.

Still, there was a chance they were still being chased, and Ptolemy, ever analytical, had suggested making their way through the defiles. The natural twists made it an effective labyrinth, the walls of rock were so smooth and so straight that not even a goat could attempt to climb them and they didn’t have any lush greenery growing from it, which made it virtually impossible to hide from sight.

It would be foolish, Ptolemy had said, half-smug, for them to follow us and expect not to be found.

They were foolish enough to attempt to sneak on him, so it didn’t seem outside the realm of possibility they would attempt to follow them here, but as it was, there hadn’t been any indications of the assassin throughout all day.

Not that such fact provided any finality, if anything, it’s now, when they had decided to settle down for the night in one of the corridors, that the assassin might attack.

“You kept it?”

Mydei’s eyes shift from the piece of cloth in his hand up to Perdikkas, watching his friend take a seat next to him in front of the campfire, and shrugs. “Might be useful.”

“Might be.” He echoes, though it is probable he inclines more into a might not. Neither Ptolemy nor Leonnius had been able to pinpoint anything outside of ‘it’s just a piece of cloth’ and ‘a return address is not written on it, tragic, I know’ respectively as Perdikkas dragged out pieces and shards of broken glass out of his back.

(“And you two just went to sleep after that.”

“I was tired.”

“You were tired.” Perdikkas repeated, coldly. The soft clink of a glass shard falling into the wooden bowl with the rest punctuated his statement. Mydei winced. “Alright, and what’s your excuse?”

“I was also tired.” Peucesta replied tersely.

“You were also tired.”

Mydei grunted when he felt the thin edges of the tiny medical clamp dig into the muscle in his right shoulder blade once again. Perdikkas’ hands didn't falter, the ever steady medic, but he asked, “Do you need a break?”

“No. Keep going.”

“Do me a favor, then, and remember this,” He huffed and, slowly, dragged another shard out. He was careful with it, and the damage minimal, but even he couldn’t stop the way the edges sliced through some meat and tendons. Mydei hissed. “The next time you decide to go to sleep with glass shards embedded in your back.”

“I forgot they were there.”

“You forgot?”

“The skin had already healed by the time I came back to the inn.” It hadn’t stopped hurting, no, but it was the kind of faint, distant pain his body had long learned to disregard. Something more akin to pins and needles, like an asleep limb. Frankly, the only reason he had remembered was when he stretched that morning and a shard had poked out of his back.

“Wrongly, might I add.”)

The piece of cloth it’s nothing big, hardly bigger than a handkerchief. Soft to the touch, light, smooth, fitting for hot days and humid times, but not so for cold nights. Black, as expected, but in a shade that makes it look as if a piece of the ocean at night was plucked out to dye it. It seems to absorb the light around it, leaving an empty void.

The stench of death and blood coats it, but, under it, lingers a faint smell of wheat.

Almost begging to be found.

“Are you worried?”

“Worried?” Mydei repeats, a smirk lifting the corner of his lips. Ha, how ridiculous. “Of course not. Are you?” Perdikkas huffed with the same amusement Mydei felt. Still, to his unvoiced question, he answers, “I’m merely curious.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

Mydei shrugs. It’s simple, really—Throughout his life, there hasn’t been a single moment where he hasn’t been fighting. It has made his repertoire of adversaries as vast as the stars in the sky, from a hundred thousand armies, battalions, cavalry and phalanxes to sirens, centaurs, cyclops, harpies and a dozen hundred other creatures whose names he never came to learn; from the tides themselves that whispered sweet promises of rest in the Sea of Souls to the furies, hellbent on keeping him in the realm of the dead and the angry, jealous spirits attempting to drag him back.

Yet, “I have never faced an assassin before.”

“They are more an annoyance than anything, frankly. All they do is make you lose your time.”

“Sounds like you have experience.”

Perdikkas waves him off, looking amused. “What kind of stuff do you think I get myself into? I’m far too busy keeping you all from dying.” He shakes his head. “I just feel like your curiosity is misplaced, Mydeimos. Assassins hardly act out of their own accord, shouldn’t you wonder who sent them after you?”

“Does it matter?”

“Does it not?”

He won’t deny he’s ignorant of this type of thing. Not surprising, really, considering the type of life he has led. He has made his fair share of enemies through the years, but he can’t quite think of someone who would hire an assassin to chase after him.

The weight of his name holds no real power in the political landscape of Amphoreus. He doesn’t think so, at least. Mydeimos, the exiled Crown Prince of Castrum Kremnos, with only a handful of men and no lands to his name.

It’s not to say there isn’t weight to it. It just lies on a different scale. Mydeimos the Undying, King of the Sea, weight to be claimed in ambition, glory, to be whispered in fear among enemies, to be sung with lyres and stanzas—But, were his head to be taken in this way, all claims of glory and pride would be lost to cowardice and dishonor.

Not even his father, who has fallen so low, would resort to such tricks. The mere, sheer pride of Kremnos—if severely twisted on him—would impede him from doing so, as all the despicable acts he has committed, at the very least, have been carried out by his own hands.

There’s no use in wondering who’s and why’s without any trace of information, and, whatever the case, “I’m not interested in someone who won’t even dare to show their fangs. It’s a futile battle, either way. They can’t stop my heart from beating again, not that I will give them any of my lifes, to begin with.” He scoffs. Idly, he strokes the cloth with the pad of his thumb, catches on a rough, cracked edge and scratches it with his nail. “I’m more interested in who was willing to try to bite me.”

“They may not believe it.”

“You think?”

“The Titans are dead, Mydeimos. Even if the remnants of their power remain, you don’t hear of heroes with great powers and blessings roaming the earth in grand journeys anymore.”

“Didn’t take you for a romantic.”

“I’m just saying, nowadays, it is harder to believe the prospect of a man who won’t die out of sheer force of will.” Perdikkas shrugs. “I mean, I hardly believed it until I saw your ribcage heal itself.”

Mydei huffs, amused. “I remember you screamed so loud I walked with a broken eardrum for half a day.”

“Don’t be so sardonic with your deaths. You find it funny? Go watch your friend’s pulverized chest pop out from where it is flattened to the ground and then we'll talk.”

“High request.”

“I’m sure you will make do.” Perdikkas clicks his tongue, resting his chin in his hand, before going back to the topic at hand. “Even then, though, I admit that even without believing the ‘undying’ part, it still would be hard to find someone willing to go after you with the reputation you have gained outside of that.”

“Hmph, how arrogant.”

The wood cracks and falls as the flames consume it. He looks down, at the cracked, brown pieces of dried blood from the cloth sticking under his nail.

Might be his, might be the assassins’, might be from somebody else.

“Aren’t they all?” Perdikkas scoffs. “Quick to attack, quick to flee. With any luck, you might have managed to scare them off.”

“No, I think they will come back.”

Perhaps it is more a hope than a fact, but, if he’s being honest, Mydei is more than a little curious about the assassin, maybe even transfixed—There was real strength behind his opponent’s blows, a real technique hardly seen on other creatures that dwell on the night. One that spoke of ability and power, enough to match Mydei’s own and it left his teeth aching for more.

Next time, he thinks, he will drag them out into the open to have a real fight, to show them that real strength does not need to hide behind shadows.

The opportunity comes sooner than Mydei expects.

Mydei wakes up with a jump, heart leaping into his mouth as the loud bang! bang! bang! of something slamming repeatedly against the floor reverberates through the stone. It is accompanied by a series of loud, roaring noises that echo through the corridors of the defiles and echo Aquila’s grating caw of a laughter like a mockery of a battle cry.

He’s already up before he’s even fully aware of what's happening. Mouth dry, chest heaving, eyes wild as his gaze roams blindly through the camp.

There isn’t a moon in the sky that night. Oronyx’s long veil came to cover it all, hiding all light but the few twinkle of stars that do nothing to dissipate the dark. The campfires have burnt out, the smell of scorched wood still lingering in the air.

He can’t distinguish much. Shadows and silhouettes of his men around in the same state as him, screaming, yelling, cursing and moving around. A few sparks come from a corner as someone tries to start a fire. In the distance, Mydei can see the shape of one of their dromas, Kopopo, judging by the sound of the roar, stomping widely. Is it on his feet?

No. Mydei squints, watching as the long shape of his neck moves around, searching for something.

Sparks fly, a fire lits before it snuffles out as the wind blows and howls through the corridors of the defiles, letting out a low, somewhat daunting, tone. The flash of light is fleeting, but is long enough for him to see Kopopo’s head snap in his direction and let out a long, sharp roar.

Mydei’s eyes widen, and, abiding by Kopopo’s urgent plea, he jumps out of the way.

But he doesn’t know what he’s dodging. It’s not far enough. He’s too slow.

His hand falls to the floor.

It takes a second for him to register it. The cut far too neat. Blood spills onto the ground and hot white pain bursts, like a current of electricity, from his arm, under his eyes, nearly blinding him. He half-curses, half-screams.

There’s a loud chorus of “Mydeimos!” coming from all directions and the plap-plap-plapping of feet against the floor like a stampede.

“Quiet!” He yells back, breathing harshly, body spasming. The smell of copper and metal fills the air. His other hand slaps onto the stump where his hand used to be. It burns. His body blazes. Nerves fried on end. Nothing that he hasn’t felt before, but it still hurts.

But there’s no time to lick little wounds.

Mydei grits his teeth, forces his ragged breathing to come to a halt, back into a normal rhythm as his eyes search for his attacker in the dark. Ears straining over the howling winds, Kopopo’s panicked roars, the detachment’s hustle, the drip-drip-drip of his blood spilling to the floor like torrential rain, the fast thump-thump-thump of his heart beating in his chest and the pain.

Sparks fly, another flame snuffled by the wind, three golden tears in the fleeting light.

“Oh, you bastard!” Mydei spits.

Mydei ducks, adrenaline thrumming in his veins. He doesn’t know where the assassin is; they intertwine indistinguishably with the night, as if Zagreus had stolen a piece of Oronyx’s veil and draped them tight, like the moon that night. But the assassin sure knows where Mydei is; he feels it—A slash on his wrist, on his chest, on his shoulder, on his leg, on the bridge of his nose, all in quick succession.

So Mydei keeps moving, moving, moving, feeling the cold exhale of the silver blade edging to sink deeper into him. The sound of the blade cutting through the air makes the howling of the winds come out as a keen cry.

How in the hell, Mydei thinks, did they manage to sneak upon us?

It had been five days, after all, since they had ventured into the defiles. Long, slow days of treading on paths that looked the same, with the same walls of the same washed out grays of the same length with the same dirt tracks.

Long, slow days without any indication they were being tailed.

They even had to spend an entire day backtracking after one of the paths they had taken in one of the many bifurcations ended up being blocked by debris from what once seemed to be a natural stone arch.

Surely, they would have seen the assassin on the way back, right?

Ha, clearly not.

Admittedly, their guard had lowered over time. It was the reason why Mydei had decided not to use gauntlets to sleep. But they had established a rotation ever since the night of the attack on the inn. Today had been no different, with three men stationed around the camp mounting guard.

…Actually, why were the campfires burnt out? Where were the men mounting guard?

His back hits a wall. Death approaches.

A pool of blood rests neatly on Mydei’s cupped hand. He presses, condenses and, in a flash, blood crystals burst all around himself. A ragged sound followed by a harsh hiss arises from his right, giving away the location of his prey.

Mydei springs forwards, hand closing blindly in the dark. His fingers grasp onto something soft and he pulls. Sparks fly, fly and fly again. A fire lits up in some corner of the camp against the unforgiving wind. It illuminates the night just in time for him to see the assassin cut the piece of cloak caught in between Mydei’s fingers and jump backwards.

They turn towards the source of light, sharply, surely intent on snuffing it out, but an arrow embeds itself deep into their shoulder before they can even think of taking a step towards it.

The assassin staggers, dodges another arrow and immediately has to bring their hook upwards to par Hephaestion’s sword away, just to jump out of the way to avoid being impaled by Ptolemy’s lance and then having to block Leonnius’ sword.

“Pretty gutsy, aren’t you?” Leonnius snarls before he’s thrown back. He’s immediately replaced by Ptolemy, who answers for the assassin, “More like stupid. Who in their right mind would sneak into a kremonan detachment and expect to get out unscathed?”

More fires are lit, more arrows shot, more weapons wielded. The clash and bang of metal against metal, a common kremonan song, fills the air. The assassin holds their own, impressibly so, up until Mydei manages to put one of his gauntlets and joins in the fray, and they soon come to realize they are terribly, terribly, out of their depth.

After a few seconds that feel like hours filled by the clash of blades and singing of blood, with a kick so strong that it makes the crack of broken bones echo through the camp, the assassin sends one soldier crashing into a Mydei and a bunch of others before he turns around and bolts.

Again.

Mydei growls. His blood boils, bubbles and burns.

Coward, coward, coward!

He shoves the poor soldier thrown at him off, a bit too harshly in his haste to give chase, snatching one of the many torches that were lit up along the way. “Come back, HKS!” He demands, voice booming. Aquila’s caw of laughter echoes back at him. It only enrages him more. “You don’t get to run away!”

They venture deep into the corridors, the assassin seemingly twisting left, right, right, left, and right at random. Mydei follows, uncaring about where he might end.

The fire in the torch crackles and flickers as Mydei runs. The light encompassing the path of the corridors upon corridors upon corridors, casting large shadows of both Mydei’s figure and the assassin, merely a few steps away, but seemingly unreachable no matter how much he tries. Their steps are silent, contrasting with the loud plap, plap, plap of Mydei’s bare feet against the stone. He hadn’t had the time to put on his boots.

“Stop with your tricks, filthy hyena! Come!” He screams while Aquila laughs and laughs and laughs. Every blood crystal he throws merely grazes the other before burrowing into the walls. “Come and fight me upfront!”

The assassin doesn’t pay him any mind, twisting left, left, right, center, right, left, center and Mydei follows, tracing their steps. Dirt and stone sticking into his feet—until he twists left and his foot is met with empty air as he runs into a cliff.

Mydei curses, loudly.

His toes dig into the ground to stop the momentum of the race as he throws all the weight of his body backwards. He manages to settle the foot dangling in the air back into the floor.

Just for the world to tilt as his body is pushed forward immediately after.

Ha! Though luck. Like hell he’s falling on his own.

He lets the torch go and twists his body backwards. The loud bang of a body slamming into the floor as Mydei catches onto the assassin’s leg as he falls is drowned by the ear grating screech of claws digging into the floor.

Mydei feels both of them, slowly but surely, being dragged down, down, down into the cliff before coming to a sharp, sudden halt.

He blinks.

He looks upwards, squinting against the dark. The general image escapes him, but he is able to make out the vague outline of the assassin’s body. The long legs, the hips, the torso up to their shoulders, where their arms disappear, holding tooth and nail into the ground.

A bead of sweat slips from his temple down to his chin, before breaking out and falling. He looks downwards, seeing nothing but the daunting sight of a dark void.

A few seconds later, he can barely make out the faint drip of the bead of sweat against the floor. Probably not that long of a drop, then. Not enough to die, but enough to break a bone or two.

A slow breath interrupts his thoughts.

“Stop holding onto me.”

“Hmph, so you can talk.” Mydei answers irritably. “Who would have thought?”

“I don’t remember ever saying I was mute.”

“No, you didn’t say anything. That’s why I thought you were, idiot.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” The assassin scoffs, shaking their leg a little. There’s a shaky quality in their words, most likely from where they are holding the weight of two people. Who’s fault is that, Mydei damn near wonders. “Should I have made small talk before killing you? Ask about the weather? Introduce myself, maybe?”

What a brat, Mydei thinks. “Before killing me? Ha, last time I saw you didn’t do shit.”

“I,” The assassin shakes their leg more insistently, “am on it.”

The movement makes Mydei’s hand slip from their leg down onto their ankle. “Stop wiggling so much.” He snaps, pulling his body upwards and having his other arm hug onto their calf—It’s a weak grasp, but is the most he can do, with his hand still gone and all.

“Stop holding onto me. You are heavy.” The assassin hisses, strained. “You will make me fall.”

Mydei tightens his grip. The assassin’s body edges further into the cliff. “We are going to fall.”

“Absolutely not. Let go.”

“No.”

“Let go.” The heel of their other foot taps once in Mydei’s head, as if making sure he really is there, before they lift their leg and stomp down on him.

Hard.

“Let go.” The assassin repeats once more, stomping onto him again and again and again at the same time Mydei lets out a loud, “HKS!” as he lowers his head to avoid getting something in his face broken or dislocated.

Mydei’s grip doesn’t falter, even as he feels something warm start to trickle down his face, but he can feel that they are slipping, little by little, the assassin’s body pulled further and further down with the rash movements. Briefly, he wonders if they are simply that impulsive or that stupid not to notice—or if maybe they simply do not care for their life.

Whatever the case, it doesn’t matter to him, but it is annoying having his head stomped on.

Mydei brings his knees up to his chest, and, with all the strength he can muster from his position, kicks down Into empty air.

Immediately after, the stone breaks and he lets go.

He jabs his finger into the wall, breaking into it as Mydei attempts to slow his fall. Sparks fly and crash with the friction of metal against stone, and his fingertips burn as the gauntlet slowly heats up. Mydei grits his teeth and presses his hand deeper, bringing his feet to the wall too. The speed gnaws at the sole of his feet, ripping skin and leaving trails of blood along the claw marks in the stone.

But he comes to a stop.

Mydei heaves, feeling sweat and blood roll off him in waves. His body burns, his muscles ache. He closes his eyes, lets his forehead rest against the stone, the cold surface a relief on his heated skin and allows himself a moment of respite.

Deep breaths, in and out—all cut short as claws dig all the way from his shoulders to his hips in less than a second, shedding his skin to ribbons.

Mydei lets out a gruntled yell, feeling his skin shred more and more as the assassin, honest to Nikador, straight-up climbs him. “Who is holding onto w—ack!” He breaks off as an arm snakes its way under his chin and comes to crush his neck. At the same time, two legs squeeze onto his hip hard enough for Mydei to feel his ribs start to crack.

He gasps, air cut short. The hand that isn’t holding onto the wall comes to grab the arm choking him, just for it to simply bump against it because his hand was cut off. How much longer until that thing grows back?

His mouth opens and closes, attempting to take in oxygen as his chest stutters. Some of his blood gets in his eye.

Damn this coward to hell and back, Mydei thinks, as he twists his body and slams the assassin onto the wall.

There’s a choked sound, but the assassin’s grip doesn’t loosen one bit. Undeterred, and more than a little lightheaded, Mydei slams, slams and slams them over and over again. A bruise forming on his shoulder.

Cracks extend over the stone like spiderwebs, the space denting under the force. Mydei’s muscles burn with exertion and, after what feels like an eternity, the assassin lets go and falls with a ‘splash!’

Mydei coughs up a storm, chest burning as he gulps mouthfuls of air. It feels like nails being dragged through his throat. He swallows. It hurts and he blinks hard, not sure if there are dark spots in his vision or if it is just the night.

Once he recovers, Mydei lets go of the wall, sliding gently down the slope into the ground.

The sections where skin ripped in his feet burn as he settles against the floor. Any other person would have been rendered unable to walk, but not Mydei—Never Mydei. It’s a familiar sensation; he was raised on it in the River of Souls.

He stays still. Body coiling in anticipation, searching for shadows in the dark. The sound of rushing water fills the air, like one of Phaogousa’s cups filled to the brim and spilled to the side. A cascade, maybe. It’s a deceptively calm sound.

Interrupted when something breaks from the water.

Mydei whips around, trying to pinpoint the direction where muffled coughs come from. He hears something clatter to the ground, coughs becoming clearer, before he hears a retching followed by the unmistakable sound of someone throwing up. It makes Aquila laugh.

There.

He runs towards the source of the sound. The plap, plap of his steps are wet, leaving red footprints behind. He can see the assassin’s shadow whipping in his direction and standing upright—But it’s too late by then.

Mydei tackles them down to the floor.

They devolve into a mess of limbs and blood. It splatters against the walls, against the floor, into the water, into their wounds, into their mouths, to the point that Mydei can not tell if the blood running through his veins is his own or the assassin’s.

It’s not pretty.

The assassin attempts to choke him, Mydei attempts to drown them. Mydei attempts to rip them apart, the assassin attempts to gouge his eyes out. There’s no dignity nor finesse in it. Long left behind the pretenses of power or technique, the distinction of humans and animals—like a lion fighting a snake. They punch and kick, curse and scream, hiss and roar, claw and bite into every inch of skin they can find.

All under the intimacy of the night.

(Not even the moon is there to watch.)

They coil around his body as Mydei smothers them down. They dig his hands into his back to try to rip his heart out as Mydei bites into their neck. The pitched keen sends fire through his veins and a part of him thinks,

I want to devour them whole.

No, it’s not pretty, but there’s a certain exhilaration to it all.

—But, in the end, all that is left is the quiet sound of two ragged breaths, mixing in their closeness, as they each breathe the exhalation of the other.

It smells like blood.

The assassin remains pinned to the ground, like a butterfly, as Mydei presses his arm without a hand onto their neck as the other pushes onto their chest. Drops of blood, sweat and water fall from his face into the assassin’s and he has to swallow a mouthful of saliva before he speaks.

“You,” It’s a whisper, but not less weak for that. “Who are you?”

Silence.

“Answer me.”

“Heh, is that,” They ask with breathless words. Chest heaving under the exertion. The frantic thump-thump-thump of his heart, beating at the tandem akin to a rabbit’s, pulsates through Mydei’s palm. His voice sounds distinctly male. “The question you should be asking now?”

“Hmph, would you tell me who sent you?”

“Maybe if you asked nicely.”

“I’m being plenty of nice.”

“Oh, really.” The assassin huffs, attempting to break free. Mydei presses his arm further into his neck, just enough to make it difficult to breathe, as a warning.

“You are still alive, are you not?”

“How,” A cough. “How kind.”

He ignores him. “Besides, I do not care for the coward who won’t even deign to pick up a blade and yet still wants my head.”

“Heh. So you did want an introduction, after all.” The assassin lets out. Mydei narrows his eyes. Despite the taunt in his tone, his voice has been a steady, monotonous thing. It makes his teeth ich. “I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be. The coward that attacks from the shadow is not much better.”

The assassin spits on him.

In a quick motion, Mydei raises him and bashes his head onto the ground. Hard. Something wet splatters against his arm. “Sore spot?” He asks between gritted teeth.

“I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“But you do. That’s why you get mad.”

The assassin doesn’t answer, opting to try to shake him off him, legs kicking. His left hand comes to claw against the arm in his neck. “If you were not a coward,” He adds, pressing his forehead against the assassin’s, feeling his struggle. The mask lay discarded merely a breath away. He had taken it off when he vomited earlier, but the dark does not allow Mydei to discern any of his features. It bothers him, intrinsically so. “You would tell me who you are and fight me upfront.”

“And why the hell should I listen to you? I’m an assassin, not a warrior.” He hisses, all venom and spades. “Whatever standard of honor you have, it's all lost on me. Stop using it as an excuse. If you are scared of dying, just say so.”

Him.

Scared?

Of dying?

The notion is so ridiculous that it makes Mydei laugh out loud. Oh, the nerve of this man! “Who is scared?”

“You are the one demanding me to fight you upfront. Hm! Say, is it because you know otherwise you wouldn’t win?”

“As if a win against someone like you would be of any worth."

Mydei can’t see it, but he can practically feel the smile drawing upon the assassin’s lips. It’s a mean, twisted little thing. “You didn’t answer my question, your Highness.”

How can a person talk so damn much? “What’s there to answer?” He asks, pressing his arm forward into his neck, relinquishing in the little gasp of cut air he receives. “You won’t kill me—can’t kill me. Fair fight or not.”

“You are unusually cocky,” The assassin says, words gaining a punched out quality as his windpipe is pressed. “For someone who would have already died if not for your friend’s intervention, or have you forgotten?”

That much, is true. His grip loosens, conceding a point, and yet, “There are no ‘if’s’ or ‘almost’s’ in battle, HKS.”

“Yet you almost died.”

Mydei scoffs. How inane. How childish. He truly is no warrior. “And you feel proud of that ‘almost’? Would you have felt proud of that ‘victory’ too?”

“A victory is a victory, your Highness,” He exhales, words uttered in a mutter, shared almost as a secret. “No matter how you see it.”

Something crashes against his head from the right. Bits of and pieces of the golden tears in the mask breaking upon impact. It’s not enough for Mydei to pass out, that would just be embarrassing, but it is enough for him to stagger. His hold loosens, for less than a second, but it’s more than enough for the assassin to push him off.

Blood crystals burst around him in an attempt to cage the assassin, but it’s too late by then, with a loud splash, the assassin throws himself down the cascade.

And just like that, he’s gone.

━━━━━━━━━━

Let it not be said that the late Eye of Twilight, arrogant as he may have been, is an indifferent being.

As a reward for the laughs, perhaps, when the first rays of sun bring clarity into the world, dissipating the shadows and offering respite from the creatures of the night, one of his eyes wink, revealing a glint of silver forgotten in their haste sunk in the bottom of the lake.

It’s a reaping hook.

If a lyre is as a rhapsode as blood is to a crown, then a weapon is as a warrior as a corpse is to an assassin.

—And, yet, he had left with neither.

The reaping hook’s blade glints with the shine of Aquila’s eyes. Silver not quite clashing, but, rather, complementing, the golds of Mydei’s gauntlets as he turns it to the side. Eyes trailing in sharp contemplation the edges and ends of it.

It’s a simple thing, made all around by the same cold piece of metal with no further decorations or attachments. It speaks of practicality; but it is polished and bright, with no trace of rust nor dried blood, which speaks of care. Sentimental value? Maybe not so. He had no qualms about leaving it. Though, he may have thought it lost.

It is certainly unique, however. Tailored. The handle is long—too long, in fact. It makes it resemble more so a staff. Impractical, but that contradicts the design, maybe to block with it and avoid the thin blade from snapping or blunting. Which, speaking off, it’s also a tad too big, as big as Mydei’s head.

Impossible, or, at the very least, very hard to conceal under the folds of fabric and cloth, speaks of a reliability on not being seen rather than to hide. Small distinction, but an important one.

It is light, surprisingly so, not fit for direct clash or confrontations, but sturdy enough to endure them and bear its user strength. But such reasoning is deceptive. Mydei already knows it’s not that his assassin is not fit for it, more so that he’s unwilling.

The blade, though, it’s certainly a thing of beauty.

It’s a long, curved thing. Deceptively elegant. When Mydei raises it to see it against the light of the sun, its silver blade seems to glow white. It’s as if he had stolen a piece of the moon and left it to rot in the River of Souls.

He passes a finger through it, from top to bottom, with nothing but the faintest of touches, and the skin rips open with the same ease one would cut silk. Sharp, entrancing little thing.

Dangerous.

Mydei brings his open finger up to his mouth, lapping the cut with his tongue as he watches as rivulets of his blood, red, vibrant thing, drag through the blade like tears.

“Careful, you might lose a hand.”

Mydei takes his finger out of his mouth and scratches the formed scab with a nail. It rips off, leaving nothing but tan, clean skin. “You think you are funny.”

“I know I am.” Says Ptolemy in what is the blandest tone possible.

“Mm. “

A faint drip catches his attention and his eyes shift back to the reaping hook, watching as his blood has extended all the way from the blade to the end of the pommel, before gravity breaks the tension and makes it fall to the floor.

He does not have a handkerchief. So, wordlessly, Mydei grabs the flowing end of his coat, which resembles half a cape, and starts cleaning the blood off with careful swipes. Unfair, he thinks, that such a weapon meets its end at the hands of something as pitiful as the rust of blood.

Ptolemy chooses not to comment on his action, simply saying, “He’s good.”

“Very.”

“You think he will come back?” It’s a question, but, as is often the case with Ptolemy, it comes out more like a statement, as if he already knows the answer and the question is just a courtesy.

“He’s tenacious.”

“We can’t spend any more time in the defiles, then.” He clicks his tongue, still annoyed that his plan backfired so spectacularly. “I don’t believe he just so happened to stumble upon a cliff with a convenient route of escape. He might have a map, or something.”

“A map alone won’t tell him our location.”

“No, but a single man moves a whole lot faster than a whole detachment.”

True, “How is everybody?”

“We will all crawl if we have to.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Ptolemy hums and says, “Terrible.” Mydei winces. “But, look at this way, nobody died.” He adds, before pumping a fist into the air and, again, in the blandest tone possible, letting out a, “Yay, us!”

Mydei lets out a chuckle despite himself.

“I told you I was funny.”

“Mm, I think Leonnius might be rubbing off on you.”

“Don’t ever say that again to my face.” Ptolemy says, but the words lack any real bite.

Mydei huffs, amused, and doesn’t reply to that. “How terrible, would you say?”

“At least sixteen people had a limb cracked. Five had a concussion; and, archers aside, the rest of us have bruises and cuts,” He says, making a general motion to his face, where stitches snake all the way from his clavicle to the end of his jaw. It might scar. “Nothing to write home about. More so physically, the effect is mental, everyone is more than a little on edge—Not to say frustrated. Having an assassin just scurry off like that and play us for idiots is a big hit in one’s ego.”

“What about Loukas?”

“Ricks cracked, but he can walk. Perdikkas says he will heal fine.”

“And the ones mounting guard?”

“Thoroughly abated and currently declaring that they will crawl on their knees until we come to the next polis as punishment.”

Briefly, Mydei makes a note to look for them and tell them that’s not necessary at all. “Do they remember anything?”

“Only a sharp pain in their neck before going down.”

The reaping hook in his hand glints, as if mocking him.

“Tsk, he could have killed them.”

“Strange, isn’t it?” Ptolemy snorts, but his eyes burn as they settle on the weapon. “Seems he’s only interested in your head—He would have had it, too, if Kopopo hadn’t woken up.”

Hm! Of course he would notice something was amiss. There’s no being more formidable than Kopopo in this detachment. He can’t help but feel proud. “He shall have nothing but the richest of red soils to eat for the next days.”

“Already on it.” Ptolemy says, pointing at where a bunch of his warriors are singing praises (cooing) and venerating (coddling) Kopopo.

Good. He deserves it.

━━━━━━━━━━

Much insight can be gained on a weapon through a warrior’s eye, yes, but if you truly want to know it, then there’s no one better you can find than a craftsman—And there’s no better craftsman than one of Georgio’s.

Mydei resolves to take the reaping hook to one in the next polis they find, and, in the meantime, they put it in one of their vaults of provisions. Simple, unlocked, unsuspicious.

It’s better that the assassin thinks it lost. If he knows they have it, he might—hm, no, he will attempt to take it back. The reaping hook is tantalizingly unique in its design, not the crappy stolen thing used to reap wheat you find in every village nor a chipped blade stolen from the corpse laid on a battlefield. It’s far, far too big of a lead. Something uniquely, intrinsically, his.

They intend on making quick work out of the defiles, yet it still takes them another four days before they step into a clearing, with lush, bright greenery as the thick foliage of the trees rocks gently by the wind.

They delve deeper into the forest, aware that the foliage that offers respite from the unforgiving rays from the sun during the day also casts long shadows in the night and that the numerous trees that give them fruit also hide creatures from sights.

It’s not ideal, but the alternative is turning and delving back into the defiles and there’s no such thing as fear in the kremonan language.

And, for some time, nothing happens.

Days are spent threading on nonexistent paths with careful steps, stepping on branches and grass, with the rushing wind and the singing of birds. It’s a welcome pace, especially after the utter dullness the repetition of the defiles offered, but it falls short to be nice with the restlessness that befell into the detachment.

He can understand it, of course, the reasons etch themselves onto every limp and scar, onto the ones mounting in the back of the dromas with a broken leg and the wounded pride of a warrior having been bested by a coward—All prolonged by the wait.

One day passes.

Then two.

Then three.

Then four.

Then five.

And then he tries to drown Mydei.

It’s as unceremonious as he makes it sound.

One moment Mydei is standing next to a creek and the other his head is bashed down into the rocks below with a ‘splash!’ as he gasps a mouthful of water.

Mydei trashes, pushing himself upwards just barely to gasp in air before his head is forced down again. The forceful passage of water in his nose and his mouth feels as if the water is tearing down the meat inside while it fills his lungs, the contractions of his throat doing nothing to stop it, like a dam full of holes. His vision blurs.

It burns.

It is a familiar sensation. Nostalgic, almost. Once upon a time, his life consisted of a constant loop of drowning, dying, reviving, drowning, dying, reviving, drowning, dying, reviving. He did not know how to swim, so he thought every first intake of breath was supposed to burn. He remembers, in the few moments of lucidity before dying, not understanding why the creatures around could move so effortlessly—so painlessly.

It filled him with rage, he remembers.

Yes, it’s a nostalgic way of death. It’s the death he hates the most.

Mydei lets his body crash against the floor, feeling rocks scrape against his bare skin and the weight settled on his back wobble. It’s a second of instability, but it’s long enough of an opening to allow Mydei roll to the side with a gasp.

There’s a loud gurgle from the body under him before he’s shoved off. Mydei attempts to grab him even as his body is wracked in coughs, but the water makes it so that his hands slip and, in a flurry of black, the assassin disappears between the forest.

“You—!” He coughs, spitting a mouthful of blood. A bunch of his teeth fall along with it, before the current of the creek soon drags them away. Blood trickles down his nose. “You, coward! Have some shame!”

He waits, eyes roaming through every nook and cranny for every shadow that might shift, ears straining for every little sound, body coiled in anticipation for the next attack.

It doesn’t come.

He finds himself disappointed, for some reason.

━━━━━━━━━━

The forest gives way to a valley and the valley to the coast all the way into Carmitis, love-spilled polis, where the smell of salt clings into the roses like the reverent caress of a lover’s kiss.

It’s a gentle city; resilient in its kindness. Pyres and ferries linger like scars as remnants of the War of Conquest, and yet at the sight of reds and golds, and to the smell of steel and blood, they hadn’t received them with strife or hate, but offered them flowers instead.

“Even the most fearful of sights hold beauty as they are.” A lady without an eye says, extending a white lily to him without flinch. “It’s the Month of Weaving, not that of Strife, and Mnestia blesses us as she sings. Carmetis does not turn away those who come to dance. Whatever type of beauty you search, you shall find it in the arts inside its tides.”

“We do not come to dance. We are but a band of mercenaries in passing.” Mydei answers, but accepts the flower nevertheless. From the corner of his eye, he can see the golden string of a guard’s bow perched on a belfry going slack; the glint of a silver arrow dropping to the ground. “Neither are we in search of beauty.”

The lady smiles. “Are you familiar with the concept of serendipity, perhaps?”

“I make a point not to trust in Zagreus.”

“Neither do I.” The lady nods, hand grasping onto another flower in the basket in her arm before offering it to Hephaestion at his back. “But the Chrysalis of Gold liked the word, said beauty finds more easily those who least want it.”

“It’s not about want.”

“Expect it, then.”

“Mm.”

The lady laughs, shaking her head. “Enjoy the festival!”

It’s, frankly, all a little too romantic for Mydei’s tastes, but Carmitis is still a polis to awe at, especially on the month of their Titan. The crystalline edges of Phaogusa’s domain come to caress the yellow sands and tap against the boats. The ships and the canoes as people swim and dance with the notes the salt and the waves help play in the water lyre. The wind brings the smell of ambrosia and it zig and zags around and into the stone buildings draped in golden threads and colorful ribbons as the butterflies chase the flowers carried by the air.

Kremonans aren’t hedonistic in nature, but they don’t dwell in abstinence either. Their desires mostly lay on the thrill of the battle and the glory in death, but there isn’t anything wrong with self-indulgence from time to time and, so in the end, they decide to stay and enjoy themselves for a couple of days—Though, Mydei still makes it very clear he’s not bailing anyone out of jail (“That includes you, Ptolemy.” “If I go to jail, chances are, you all are there with me.”) and that there is an assassin chasing, even if he seems most interested in attacking Mydei exclusively.

It’s an unnecessary reminder, of course, his detachment isn’t foolish. Reckless? Absolutely, but not foolish. Still, festivities and alcohol tend to make everyone far more impulsive.

The first day goes in laugh and on the second, a masquerade takes place down in the city’s plaza. Informal and carefree. Something or another about the beauty held between as people make and sell their own masks, from the pieces of cardboard with childish designs and two holes the children have to the elaborate representations of Mnestia made out of clay. A loudmouth merchant attempts to scam Mydei to buy a lion’s mask and runs away saying his stingy face is dreadful as it is. Perdikkas laughs so hard that he cries.

That day, they decide to settle onto one of the tables outside a bustling tavern, at the edge of the plaza as people with masks stumble and dance at the tempo of a water lyre; and, by the time Leonnius, face red and bad breath, throws his arm around Mydei’s shoulder, all his friends are more than a little drunk.

“Oi, Mydeimos.” Leonnius, in what he seems to think is a whisper but it’s anything but, says, looking all too delighted. “That Sheep there has been looking at you for a while now.”

“...Sheep?”

His eyes shift to the place Leonnius is pointing at, half-wondering if he’s hallucinating, before his gaze settles on a person sitting on a table a few establishments over. A sheep’s mask rests on their face, covering their face, but judging by the direction of his head, they are looking straight at Mydei.

“What of it?”

“What of it? Oh, Mydeimos, you can not be this dense.” His voice slurs on the end, mashing syllables together. It makes it hard to understand, but Mydei has long gotten used to the steady decline of Leonnius’ speech once he has had too much to drink. It’s not something he can understand, really, what makes alcohol so appealing when all it seems to do is make you lose control of your senses. “They are into you!”

“No, I gathered that.”

“So?”

“So, what?”

“What are you going to do?”

“Nothing.”

“Bah!” Leonnius lets out at the same time Hephaestion whines a long, “Come on.”

Mydei lets out a hum, taking a sip of his pomegranate juice and says, “I’m not interested.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Hm, I very much do.”

“No, you don’t.” Hephaestion hiccups, once, before taking another sip of his drink and settling on a nonsensical, “How would you know that you know that you… eh…”

“Stupid.” Leonnius hiccups.

“It’s what you are.”

“Shut up.” Ptolemy says, hitting Hephaestion lightly with the back of his hand. There’s a second where Mydei believes he will be on his side, before he adds, “They are coming.”

They are what?

He turns around and, effectively, the Sheep is coming his direction in long strides until they come to stand next to his table. They don’t say anything, lips stretching in a smile that looks all too perfect.

Mydei narrows his eyes, reclining further in his chair, and looks at the newcomer up and down. A man, by the looks of it, physique hidden by loose flows of black fabric that go as far as to cover his neck. It contrasts glaringly with the pale, almost translucent, skin of his hands, as if he wasn’t used to being under the light. A simple white sheep mask that reaches up to his mouth hides his face. The two curved horns on top push his white hair back.

It’s a deceptively harmless look.

“What do you want?”

The Sheep exhales. It’s a small, amused thing before he turns his head to the plaza, then to Mydei. A question etched in his demeanor.

“Speak.”

He does not, suspiciously enough. Instead, his hands come to hold on to Mydei’s wrist, almost delicately, before giving a small little tug.

Mydei doesn’t bulge.

“No.” He answers, pulling his hand up to his chest, but the Sheep’s hands remain fixed around his wrist, tugging again with enough force to drag Mydei forwards. “I’m not inter—” He starts, harshly, but comes to a halt as he’s shoved off the chair.

He stumbles upright, feet walking forwards as to avoid falling. The Sheep is all too happy to use his moment of unsteadiness to tug him further into the plaza. But once he regains his balance, Mydei plants his feet and frees his hand out his grip, with far too much force than necessary, “I said, I’m not interes—”

“He is! He very much is!” Hephaestion interrupts with all too much glee at the same time Ptolemy, arm still extended from where he pushed him, tells him, “Oh, loosen up.”

“Loosen—”

“Forgive his manners,” He hears Perdikkas apologize, to the Sheep, at his back, because he’s just as bad as the others even if he likes to pretend he isn’t. “It’s not that he’s oafish, he’s just shy.”

“What are you blabbering about? I’m not shy. I just don’t want—” Mydei starts, but breaks off as he hears the Sheep stifle a laugh.

Something in the ring of it sparks a flash of familiarity.

He frowns, turning to the Sheep. He doesn’t tense under the sudden scrutiny, simply tilting his head to the side in a movement that seems far, far too deliberate. His frown gets deeper, “Have we—Ugh!” He coughs as the fine end of an elbow digs into his side.

“You are going to scare him off.” Ptolemy hisses to him in a whisper.

“Come on. Don’t leave him hanging,” Leonnius says, winking obnoxiously at him. He’s usually not this unsubtle—None of them, for that matter. “What’s wrong with a dance or two?”

“I don’t even know how to dance.”

“But he’s a fast learner. Don’t worry.” Hephaestion butts in.

“Just go. Have some fun. It’s not like you have been to many festivals before.” Perdikkas tells him, voice softening, but still looking all too amused. He then adds, with mirth, “Besides, you don’t want to end up like Peucesta, do you?” As he points in the direction where Peucesta has been talking to the person in the water lyre for the last twenty minutes, but has been far too interested in the instrument to notice the enamoured eyes the musician is giving him.

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with ending up like Peucesta.” Mydei answers. If he’s not interested, then he’s not.

A loud rise of groans arise.

Mydei sighs.

And then, all of them, bunch of assholes, cheer and cheer louder when the Sheep’s cold, pale hands go back to settle on his arm immediately. The callouses in his hands scrape pleasantly against the bare skin in his arm with each, surprisingly quick, step he takes as he drags him further and further into the plaza.

Callouses?

His eyes narrow.

Admittedly, it may be nothing. Artisans pour blood and passion into their craft with the same might a warrior pours blood and strength into war. It makes their hands similar. But he’s not stupid, there has been something undoubtedly suspicious about the Sheep, from his silence, to his insistence, to his appearance and the brief spark of familiarity the ring of a stifled laugh caused.

Mydei is not one to dismiss his suspicions as tricks of the mind.

Might as well see for himself what he wants.

The plaza, as is to be expected, is lively in its carefreeness. The stone floor seems to vibrate with the weight of every step, as if Georgios himself set aside his tranquil nature for a while and joined in to dance. Big skirts raise as women twirl as poised men bow and stumbling kids come and go. The heat of so many people makes the hairs on the back of his neck stick to his nape. The gentle sound of the water lyre accompanied by the click of crotala, the blow of the aulos, the drum of tambourines and the tinkle of bells overlaps with the shouts and laughter and drowns the hushed confessions of love.

The Sheep leads him to the center of it all; far, far away from his friend’s eyes, where the sound is the loudest and the crowd the thickest.

Surrounded by all, known by none.

One of his hands slips from his arm to his hand, uncaring of the sharp edges of his gauntlet that dig and bite into his pale hand. The other comes to rest on his shoulder as he turns to Mydei.

They wait.

Mydei frowns, the hand that isn’t being held dangles limply at his side. The Sheep doesn’t move and neither does Mydei.

Instead, he asks, bluntly, “What do you want?”

The Sheep scoffs.

“What?”

The Sheep takes a step forward. Body pressing against his chest, and the sudden proximity makes Mydei give a step backwards. He then takes a step back, still holding onto him, forcing Mydei to stumble into giving a step forwards.

He continues with this, changing the number of the steps they take forwards or backwards, avoiding Mydei to fall into a clear rhythm. Ten back, three right, two forward, seven left, one right, eight forward, fifteen back.

Mydei stumbles into it, still unwilling to let himself be pulled into the Sheep’s game. Until his lips twitch into a smile, all too amused, all too condescending.

He doesn’t say anything, but Mydei hears him loud and clear.

He clicks his tongue, like a spark in the dark, the first indications of a fire about to be lit.

His gaze roams to a nearby couple to the side, a crow and a butterfly, and his eyes latch onto the way they move, the way they twirl and the way one of them holds their dance partner.

Right, Mydei thinks, and proceeds to step on his foot.

The Sheep hisses like a snake, a crack in his composure, and Mydei brings the arm still dangling in the air to hold on to his waist.

Before the Sheep can regain his footing, Mydei pulls him until they are pressed flush against him, so close as to feel the ba-thump of the other reverberate in his chest. He gives a step backwards, then another, and then another, forcing the Sheep to follow haphazardly as he takes the lead.

Mydei grins. The Sheep scrunches his nose.

He pulls backwards with a surprising amount of force. Mydei stumbles forwards, but before he can give another step, Mydei all but lifts the Sheep in the air as he twists in half a circle.

It’s clumsy, and unrefined. Less a dance and more of a struggle as they push and pull—which is fine. Mydei never learned how to dance and the Sheep seems less intent on letting himself be led as he was before. Both unwilling to lose whatever they started.

After a while, the Sheep’s grip loosens, the hand on Mydei’s shoulder edging close to his neck and it almost feels—

Dangerous.

Mydei eyes widen in realization. He pushes the assassin away just as something grazes against his neck. His necklace falls to the floor with a deaf thunk and the edge of a knife glints, dripping little dots of red to the ground, mixing and hiding under the garlands, the rose petals and the ribbons.

Only for them to know.

“Heh. I had started to wonder if you have called it quits, after all.”

The assassin's lips twist with a click of the tongue while the knife disappears between the black folds of his sleeve. He turns around, but as they are about to disappear into the crowd with the same ease he disappears in the dark, Mydei seizes his wrist and yanks him towards him. His back colliding against Mydei’s chest.

“Where are you going?” He whispers against his ear. The assassin jerks on his hold. “Weren’t you the one that wanted to dance?”

The assassin twists his head, just enough for Mydei to see the way pink, pale lips pluck out as he scoffs. “I changed my mind, I don’t want to dance with a man with two left feet.”

He attempts to stomp on his foot, but Mydei reads his intention and moves it out the way, just to receive a jab in his stomach that has him gasping for air.

He coughs and the assassin twists his arm to free himself in the moment of perceived weakness but Mydei twirls him around, forcing him to face him and his other arm snakes its way into the small of the assassin’s back, caging him against his body.

“I’m a fast learner.” He says, a tad too smugly.

“And I’m no teacher,” The assassin replies, bringing his free hand up to Mydei’s bicep. It is an innocent enough gesture, considering the ambient, inconspicuous—if it weren’t for the way he is digging nails into his skin. “I would rather just go find a partner who can dance.”

His hold on the other tightens, hard enough to bruise. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, I—What are you doing?” He breaks as Mydei starts to sway them at the rhythm of the music, forcing the other to stumble a few steps as he leads. “Stop that. I don’t know if you know this, but it is not pleasant having your feet being stepped on.”

Mydei steps on his foot, just to be petty. The assassin lets out an ‘ow’ and attempts to step on his foot too. “I would imagine,” He starts, watching from the corner of his eye as someone dips their partner. “It’s not nearly as bad as having your head stomped on. Repeatedly.”

“Hmph. You are still mad about that?”

“Are you seriously asking if I am still mad about you trying to drop me off a cliff and kill me?”

“Oh, you are fine, unfortunately enough. Didn’t even give you brain damage but, hm,” The assassin sniffs, turning his head to the side, and Mydei feels with aching, bone-deep certainty, he’s going to hate whatever comes out his mouth next. “I guess it makes sense, for your brain to be damaged, you would have to first have something other than bone up there.”

Mydei dips him and bites into his neck.

The hand in his bicep shoots up to his head and pulls his hair hard enough as to pluck a few strands off while the other jerks in his grasp. Mydei tightens his hold. The black cloth impedes him from tasting the skin and blood that is undoubtedly drawn with the strength his canines sank into his body, but he can feel the contractions of the muscles against his tongue.

He doesn’t linger on it, less someone notices. Nothing but a quick, deep thing to express his anger—But he doesn’t lift the assassin from the dip just yet, watching as white, long locks of hair dangle in the air and his legs shake under the position he’s been forced into.

“You brute.” The assassin hisses. “What is your problem?”

“You talk too much.”

“...And you decided to bite me for that?”

Mydei lifts an eyebrow. “Would you rather have me done something else? Here? Where everyone can see you?”

“Us. Where everybody can see us.”

“I don’t have any problem with being seen.” Mydei says, bringing his face closer to the assassin’s. Long, orange strands of hair fall from his shoulders, forming a curtain around them. A little bubble outside the hustle of the festival. In plain sight, and yet, so hidden. “But you? An assassin caught red-handed in the middle of the day?” He brings his hand, still holding onto the wrist, up to the assassin’s face, fingers grazing onto the Sheep’s mask. His voice lowers. “With nothing but a flimsy thing of clay on the way?”

The assassin’s hand shoots like a flash of thunder to the cut in his neck, fingers digging into the muscle inside. Mydei jerks as if electrocuted, letting go and standing up as his hand flies to his neck. The other follows, incorporating in shaky legs as he stops himself from failing with nothing but his core strength.

None spare a glance.

A glint of silver shines as the assassin loops an arm behind his neck. The noise and the music drowns the clash of metal against metal. A note played only for them to hear as Mydei blocks the knife aimed to his gut with his gauntlet.

“Shy?”

“Hmph.” The assassin lets out as he untangles himself. Mydei catches his hand before he manages to put distance between them. “It seems someone forgets the point of a masquerade.”

The assassin tugs. Mydei raises his arm and twirls him around. “You treat every day as a masquerade, and you have already seen my face.” He shrugs, blocking the hit aimed at his ribs. The knife disappears before anyone else can see it. “Why can’t I see yours? You have already gotten this bold.”

“Still not a warrior.”

“Never say you were.”

A pause.

“Hm, someone is in high spirits.”

They move almost in tandem now. It’s not refined, much less elegant, it has far too many edges and far too many jabs. It’s sharp and perhaps even crass, but, soft still. There’s a certain beauty to it. It’s a fight that threads on a dance, and even if Mydei’s steps falter and stumble to sway at the rhythm of a song, they shall never falter in a battle.

—In that moment, it won’t occur to Mydei that Castrum Kremnos courts, not in dances and flowers, but in duels and metal.

This is not, after all, a duel. Even if, “It’s the most straightforward you have been.”

“Straightforward?” Another glint, this time aimed at his neck yet again. “I literally lured you to come here.”

Mydei deflects his arm, “Lure me? What are you, a siren?” And jabs an elbow into the small of his back. The assassin stumbles, and Mydei catches him before he can fall, twisting his arm behind him.

“I will have you know,” He says in a hiss, letting his arm stay on Mydei’s hold as he aims to stab Mydei’s thigh instead. “I’m very enchanting.”

His arm shakes as he holds onto the assassin’s wrist, stopping him from sinking the blade into the skin. “In your dreams, maybe.”

“Your friends didn’t seem to notice.”

“My friends are drunk off their ass.”

“And why aren’t you?” He asks. “Hm? Could it be that the little lion prince is afraid of me?”

Mydei scoffs. “Annoyed, more like. Why does a lion have to fear a sheep? I just don’t drink.”

“Sure.” The assassin huffs, but when the silence stretches for a tad too long, he adds, “Wait, seriously? What are you, a prude?”

“I just don’t like how it makes me feel,” A pause. “And it tastes bad.”

The knife aimed at his thigh retreats as the assassin brings his hand to his mouth to stifle a round of laughter. “Cute. I wonder what the rhapsodes would sing if they knew the fearsome Undying Prince of Kremnos held such childish behaviors.”

He could not care less. “Hmph, so you know of my reputation.”

“Of course I do. What do you take me for?”

“A fool.”

“Charming.”

“What else is there to call someone who aims to kill the undying?”

“Maybe his royal Highness should pick a book sometime—if he can read, that is.” Mydei twists his arm further. “I, ah, ouch, maybe then you would know there’s plenty of tales where people like me are heralded as ‘courageous’, you see.”

“Oh? Are you a hero now? A deliverer of peace? How noble.”

There’s a pause. Someone laughs somewhere as they dance.

“...No, nothing like that.” He replies, almost in a whisper. “My reasons are entirely selfish, truth be told.”

Before Mydei can dwell on it, he stomps on his foot. He hisses, grip faltering just enough to allow the assassin to twist around. The clash of the knife against his gauntlet is, once again, lost in the sea of noise as Mydei holds the blade to stop it from sinking into his heart.

“But, seeing you are so curious,” He continues, “I could tell you about it in exchange for your head.”

“You think your little games are worth my head? Heh, how terribly pretentious.”

“Mm, yes, I suppose it’s not that interesting. But, say, how about—”

“No.”

The assassin takes a step further, body pushing forwards the knife. It makes his face come to be but a breath away from his own. Mydei’s eyes flutter down to his mouth, watching pale lips shine like a sweet peach. “How about this? I will let you see my face if you give me your head.”

“Ha!” Mydei snorts. The impertinence! “No need. I will just rip the mask from your face once I defeat you.”

The assassin tilts his head to the side. A sly, almost sultry, smile spreads through his lips. “I thought you said a win against someone like me wouldn’t be of any worth?"

“It wouldn’t, but your defeat will taste so sweet.”

His hand flexes, knuckles going white under the gauntlet, and the blade of the knife cracks and falls like little pieces of snow on the floor. The assassin freezes and, having found himself at such glaring disadvantage, pushes Mydei away. He catches him easily by the elbows, yanking him back harshly, but the assassin rams his body into his with enough force to have them both tumbling down, dragging a bunch of people along with them as they stumble.

It devolves into a mess of limbs. Elbows and knees driven everywhere. Mydei holds onto the assassin, who tugs and twists to free himself, but once one of his gauntlets, all sharp ends and rusted blood, trails close to a child’s face, they both come to a stop.

He’s unwilling to let the assassin go away, but more so to do so at the cost of others—Interestingly enough, the assassin seems to feel the same.

They both look at each other; the assassin from where he’s on top of Mydei and Mydei from where he’s under the assassin. People around them move and shift, bodies casting shadows around them. His weight is a warm thing, even if his skin is freezing cold, and a few strands of his hair fall forwards. It almost looks like wool. A speck of blue seems to shine under the black voids that consist of the eyes of the mask.

A beat passes.

The assassin tugs again, but not with the same vigor as before. Mydei’s grip doesn’t tighten, but it doesn’t loosen either.

“You understand I won’t just let you go.”

“It’s not like I won’t come back.”

For some reason, it sounds like a promise.

“That’s the problem.”

“Rude.” He deadpans.

Mydei raises an eyebrow. “You are literally trying to kill me here.”

“And you are not dying, so I guess we are both disappointed.”

“What?” Mydei scoffs. “Should I close my eyes and just let you kill me?”

“That would be much appreciated, yes, thank you.”

“Hmph, figures you wouldn’t be able to do it.”

“Big talk,” The assassin hisses, the fingers in his hand twitch, as if he’s physically fighting the urge to strangle Mydei in broad daylight. “For someone who would have already died twice now if not for others’ intervention.” Mydei opens his mouth. “Let me guess, ‘I told you there’s no ‘almost’s’ in a battle, coward’, hm?” Mydei closes his mouth, teeth clenched. “And my answer is the same as last time. I am most interested in what does it say about you, oh, Undying King of the Seas, that there hasn’t been a single instance where you have almost caught me, that you have almost defeated me.”

“Ha, have you all but forgotten that time in the defiles?”

In a second, the assassin brings his face up to Mydei’s, lips stretching like a cat that got the mouse. He’s so close he can smell his breath, it smells like blood and rot. “Oh? But I thought his Highness said there didn’t exist ‘almost’s’ in a battle? Guess he’s no true warrior either.”

“You, HKS! Word twister, Zagreus’ favored!” Mydei roars, teeth itching to bite into his throat. He surges forwards, attempting to twist their positions but the assassin scrambles to pin him down. They look like kids fighting in a backyard. “Who do you think you are to be spouting such words to me!? A coward that won’t dare to fight—”

“Upfront? Can’t you prattle on about anything else? Or did all the songs and poems of you killing mighty beasts rhapsodes go on and about skip the part where you whine about honor?”

Mydei’s body goes hot in anger. This man is just begging to be beat up at this point. “I was hoping you would have more reason than a beast, but I suppose I was wrong.” He snaps. “But I should have expected it of someone who treads life in coin.”

”You!” The assassin yells. It’s the most emotion Mydei has heard of him, something new aside the low monotonousness, the sharp hisses and the condescending jabs. It’s intrinsically human, and if Mydei wasn’t so mad, he would have recognized the part of him that wants to see more of it.

They continue like that for a few moments, before a couple of guards come to pry them off each other. Mydei has to physically stop himself from casting them aside in favor of lunging at the assassin, tasting copper in his mouth.

The assassin turns on his heel the first chance he gets, disappearing into the crowd, and, by then, Mydei already knows he won’t be able to find them. It only ignites him more, and by the time he goes back to the table where his friends are, broken necklace on hand, he’s positively fuming.

“Um.” Leonnius lets out, looking guilty. Hephaestion is passed out at his side.

“Didn’t go well, I presume?” Perdikkas tries.

“I’m going to break him to pieces.”

“Castrum Kremnos troops have started to mobilize once again.”

It would be easy, frankly, to bring the analogy to mind and say that the words land like a rock in a calm lake, disturbing the waters of the gentle morning brought by the warmth of the first rays of the sun rising over the horizon and the salted air of the coasts of Carmitis. Easy, yes, maybe even poetic, and, yet, utterly, terribly ridiculous—For the news does not make the sun go dark nor the air stall and Mydeimos has never once feared the unsheathing of a sword.

As it is, Mydei’s doesn’t move from where he’s perched like a languid lion basking on the sun on the marble balcony of the inn’s room they had rented for the time being. Eyes watching the ever-taunting crash and recede from Phaogusa's domain and the far away ships.

“It seems,” Leonnius continues at his back, taking his silence as a cue to continue. Calm as he delivers the message, for he’s not afraid of the unsheathing either. None of them are. “War is starting over.”

Though, it never left.

It never left because the question wasn’t a matter of ‘if’ but a matter of ‘when’. It’s always a matter of ‘when’ with Kremnos. When will they strike, when will they attack, when will they chant.

When will they come back.

For Nikador never rescinded even as he died and so his blood won’t rescind either, even if, when the rumour Mydei was to claim the throne raised overnight and spread like wildfire by rhapsodes and gossipers alike through every corner of Amphoreus and struck through the impenetrable walls of Castrum Kremnos, the Mad King had come awfully close to as he demanded every single troop and every single man to retreat and guard the palace instead.

Pathetic, but not surprising. Yet another stain on his father’s reign. Was this really the Kremnos which poets and warriors would praise and sing of in admiration, glory and fear? The Kremnos which cowers at the whisper of a fate a man had never uttered, much less yearned for?

Was this really the Kremnos his mother once stood proud for?

May the Lance of Fury strike them down, for the return to arms after four years of cowardice ought not to bring glory, but shame.

Still, he wonders, “Has Zagreus finally grown bored of my father’s ramblings, then?”

“Oh, I’m sure he’s having the time of his life.” Leonnius scoffs. Mydei blinks, frowns, and turns to face him. There’s a familiar eagle without an eye perched on his shoulder. “After all, the King found a way to have The Lance of Fury himself wallowing in his ever-glorious grave.” He lifts the letter in his hand. “Seems he got into the business of rearing snakes.”

Mydei’s eyes narrow. Now, that disturbs the waters—in a way that resembles the flicker of a flame.

“Let me see that.”

Leonnius extends the letter to him. The moment Mydei’s fingers close around the paper, the eagle on his shoulder lets out a loud barking call before unfolding its wings and immediately taking off; as diligent as its master, that one. Mydei ignores the way the powerful flap of wings throws air into his face as he scans the letter’s contents. He skims through most of it, through information that he knows proves invaluable but couldn’t care less about at the moment.

Not when, there, near the bottom end, between sentences that speak of strategies and bloodshed, in the harsh traces that conform the kremnoan written language, reads:

[—For he has offered bread worth more than five lands in exchange for Prince Mydeimos’ head to an assassin with the sky for eyes and the complexion of the death whom the shadows call the Flame Reaver.]

The letter crumples in his hand.

“He comes for my head,” Mydei intones. The words taste like bile in his mouth. “After my father’s wish.”

“How deep must fear run, I wonder, to entrust a battle not even three battalions at once could win to one mere man?” Leonnius muses. “An outsider to his regime, no less. Mm, how terribly low has his pride gotten.”

His father has neither sense nor shed of pride. If he did, he would have picked a weapon and come to Mydeimos himself. Still, “It served him well. Outsider he may be, but he has come closer to my head than any of his men has.”

“Oh? You defend him?”

“I recognize strength even when tainted by both cowardice and subservience."

A pause.

“You are mad.” Leonnius hums, a little puzzled and endlessly curious as he always is, while he comes to recline on the cold surface of the basalt table at his side where Mydei’s own golden gauntlets rest; sharpened and deadly, glinting under the sun, just in reach in case the shadows decide to twist and claw towards him as they have gained a tendency to as of late. “But you already knew he didn’t come after you out of his own volition, didn’t you?”

“Hmph.”

He never thought otherwise, but he had never cared for a coward’s why’s or who’s. What had mattered was the wild pouncing of his heart in his ears, the singing in his veins, the breath of a blade against his neck, the blood in his mouth, his teeth clasping onto the Flame Reaver’s neck—the thrill, the violence, the pain, the fight.

The wind flutters the letter in his hand. The sound stark in the sudden silence.

Mydei grits his teeth.

━━━━━━━━━━

He goes to a forge that very same day. Once the sun has fully risen and festivities have started once again, not as vigorous as they were some days ago, when the lines of dance and combat had blurred, dissolved, before turning into one and blood had bloomed like flowers on the floor, but joyful all the same, like the last few notes of a song.

The craftsman that answers to his presence is a Mountain Dweller with a gruff voice, cracked hands of stone, a bunny mask with uneven eyes and a carved shoulder, where the edges of the royal family symbol of the current kremonan dynasty still peek out. In a room full of his people, he had been the only one willing to entertain a kremonan.

We work. Not serve.

He had said.

Mydei agreed.

“Mm. This weapon,” Spyros starts, after a long beat, weighing his words with the same care he weighs the hook. “Stolen, many lives, I can tell, that it has. Not because, to it, souls linger—to clean off a death, it seems to prefer, yes—but rather, regret, does.”

“Regret?”

“Like second skin. Much sorrow, it contains, yes. Mix of grief, pain, shame. And,” He halts for a second, as if debating whether to continue. “Emptiness. Too empty, this lonely thing is. Too, too empty. Makes my chest hurt.” He shakes his head. “Much torn, its wielder, must be.”

Mydei’s eyebrows lift to his hair.

“His attacks have never hesitated once.” Mydei says, not as a dismissal, for that only could be described as stupidity in the face of a man whose soul itself has become attuned to the whispers of metal and a forge.

It’s just surprising, considering that the Flame Reaver’s hook has never trembled, never faltered, and every move he has taken towards him is with the unmistakable intent to kill.

Surprising considering he went to his father’s aid.

“Not strange.” Spyros shakes his head. “Once, to their fate, one person resigns, hesitation melts away.”

Resignation?

Ha! What a terribly stupid thing to be defeated by.

Assassins, by nature, he has come to the conclusion, don’t live for themselves. Always on the command. A blade to be used without dirtying hands. There’s a certain resignation to be had in that sort of life, he supposes.

Yet why stay?

Why chase so insistently?

Does he need the money that much? He had gotten mad at the truthful implication he traded life for coin, not to say there are far, far easier ways than taking on an immortal man. He’s not being forced, either, maybe once upon a time, but he was the one that went and collared himself upon the Mad King’s throne according to the letter. Power and strength, draped in disgrace, yet enough to rival Mydei’s in the disposition of a fool.

At the disposition of so-called fate.

It’s a miracle the Flame Reaver has lasted as long as he has with such glaring weakness.

Spyros can’t give him an answer to any of Mydei’s wonders and remarks. So, he sets the thoughts whirling through his mind aside, and asks, “Is the forging one you recognize? Something from a specific polis?”

A low hum.

“Of techniques, a mix, this reaping hook is. Forged, with the weight taught in Akashic. Tempered, with the unmerciful fire taught in your land. Sharpened, with the grace taught in Odestris. And, more, that I don’t know. Not that good of a forger, I am.”

“It’s fine. You have told me more than anything I would have been able to figure out on my own.” Mydei dismisses, before asking, “Do you have any idea who would be able to create something like this?”

He turns back to the hook. “Not sure, but, rumours are about, of a craftsman, with an equal nowhere to be found, in the Sacred Okhema, City of Refugees. Many cultures, many techniques, mix in that place.” He shrugs. “Strange weapons, it creates, but good, that they are.”

Mydei’s eyes lower in contemplation. It’s not much outlandish of a belief, to think the Flame Reaver comes from Okhema. The tensions between them and Kremnos is at an all-time high—ever expanding and ever growing with each man, woman and child that walks under Kephale’s light with blood clinging to their feet, grief between their teeth and the corpse of a dead polis in their speech. It’s not that much of a stretch to pin a reason.

—If he hadn’t gone to his father.

Which he doesn’t care about.

Not one bit.

It’s just that, objectively speaking, were his blade to be driven by politics or prejudice, wouldn’t it make sense to go for the Mad King? Why go after Mydeimos, the exiled prince whose death would tip the scales of the war against Okhema merely by the fact that, were he to succeed, the polis would find itself with a merciless detachment swearing bloody revenge.

Unless he was just stupid.

Though,

‘My reasons are entirely selfish, truth be told.’

Something doesn’t quite feel right.

━━━━━━━━━━

A shadow clings to the marble buildings and golden curtains of Carmitis like blood in the snow. A hollowed moon and dark blacks perched on top of one of the old bell towers of the polis, overseeing as the detachment starts to part with no attempt to hide.

It’s a taunt.

“Should we…?” Hephaestion asks at his back, hand on the hilt of his sword.

“Leave him.” Mydei replies. The glint of the silver hook in his hand a silent victory over him. “He will follow, either way.”

On the gelid, uncaring fields upon fields of snow of Aidonia, the cold exhale of death mingles with every intake of air like a lover’s last caress. Breaths coming out in clouds of smoke that dissipate into the wind in the time it takes a man’s heart to stop.

It’s also all so very white. A few sparks of gray appear here or there, on the trunk of trees, the rock under the snow and the sky up above despite the early hour, a sign that it will surely start snowing again soon enough, but it is not enough to dissipate the utter blankness that extends as far as the eye can see like the stretch of blues belonging to Phaougusa’s domain.

The light reflected hurts Mydei’s eyes.

He brings his hand up to shield himself from it, just to wince when the glint of the metal of his gauntlets hits him in the eye and he lowers it immediately, eyes squinted.

A thin layer of ice has started to form over the gauntlet. It crackles and breaks with every little move he makes as he picks up the dead deer in his grip. It’s still warm, blood almost boiling against the cold piercing into his bones and articulations. Yet, the alternative of not having them on is a dangerous one, even in a place where the white dispels all the treacherous blacks of the shadows. Mydei had learned his lesson way back on the defiles, and he’s not the sort of person that needs to be taught twice, especially when that lesson is first paid in blood.

The reaping hook hanging on his hip is a good reminder of it, either way.

Besides, he’s used to pain, and the one digging into his skin in blues is almost welcome in contrast to the itchy feeling of the wool tunic scratching and biting against his skin in places usually left exposed. But, he’s not dumb enough, or at all, to have the unforgiving temperatures of Aidonia tear at his skin—though, he had tried, valiantly, perhaps a little impulsively, that first five hours.

He really doesn’t like the feeling of wool.

The snow crunches behind him with the weight of footsteps, little twigs and little branches cracking alongside it. Mydei does not turn around immediately, lax on the knowledge that he wouldn’t have heard the shadows move if they were to jump at him, as he slings the dead deer around his shoulders.

Five dead rabbits hang by the ears in Hephaestion’s hand as he says, “This is not nearly enough.”

“We are not that short on rations.” Mydei replies. They have had to start eating less and not dine as of late, but their dwindling food is not a thing to worry, yet. They have been in far more dire situations. Still, it doesn’t hurt to be cautious. It’s a quality he has come to learn after having an army to look after. “With any luck, we might stumble upon a bear once we delve deeper into the mountains.”

“Mm.” Hephaestion hums, falling into step behind him as they start making their way back to camp. “I wonder if Ptolemy caught any more.”

“Probably.”

Ptolemy is the best hunter among them. If Mydei’s patience could move mountains, then Ptolemy’s could move Georgios himself.

The rest of the way back is made in companionable silence. They had settled camp at the foot of a mountain, under a little space that wasn’t really a cave, nestled like a gaping wound through the rock and the ground that offered enough cover from the whipping blizzard that had fallen upon them last night.

It’s never truly quiet in the camp. Whenever they rest, there’s always the sound of loud chatter and music coming from Peucesta’s lyre, accompanied, as always, by the singing of the clash of blades, for Strife always calls—But the clash that arises even from a distance sounds more like a battle cry than the songs of Kremnos.

They both pick up the pace.

The camp is a mess. There are reds painting the snow and open vaults thrown lo and about, clothes and rations scattered through fallen tents and the corpses of two fallen wolves. The metals of lances and swords and arrows shine as men and women run around, striking through beasts twice their size as Perdikkas barks orders in his stead.

Mydei lets the dead deer fall onto the ground with a loud ‘thud’ as he sprints towards camp, Hephaestion close behind, shattering one of the wolf’s skulls as he rams a fist into it. Blood and bone splashing in the snow.

“He’s here.” Perdikkas tells him without looking up from the man laid on the floor. Hands drenched in red as he works on the man’s bitten arm. “Took advantage of the wolves.”

…Even though Mydei wasn’t here?

One of his eyebrows ticks, but he pushes past the inexplicable hot, hot bubbling of blood under his veins at the thought as he asks, curt, for time is gold in a battle. “Casualties?”

“None. Neither from the wolves nor your little assassin.”

“Did he attack anybody?”

“Only the vaults.” He replies, he fastens a belt around the man’s bicep with a, “Take a deep breath.” Before fastening it in a makeshift tourniquet, and through the man’s shudder of pain, he continues. “Seems he’s searching for something. You any good?” He asks the man.

The reaping hook seems to burn heavy under the wool tunic.

“Stay alert.”

“No need to tell me twice.”

The wolves of Aidonia are cruel, smart and ruthless beings with far too many teeth and far too sharp claws that rise as tall as the snowy mountains they dwell in, with gray, black and white furs. It is sung, by bards and poets, that, once upon a time, Kephale gave Nikador a pack of little wolves to raise. The Sky Father is kind, he gift them to the Lance of Fury as a show of goodwill, Okhema praises; as Kremnos scorns, as kind as he was bold, perhaps! He did not give Nikador a gift, it was a challenge!

Whatever the reason, now long forlorn through the Hand of Shadow’s domain, it is said Nikador raised them with the same care he would attend his lance before a war. Thorough and firm, they were forces to be reckoned with.

Once their Titan died, they had run loose deep into the snow mountains and raised their progeny with the same sharpness they were taught.

It’s the reason one single bite is more than enough to tear a man open. It’s the reason one single swipe of their claws to slice a man into ribbons. Both proclamations are not exaggerations, Mydei knows that fact firsthand.

It’s a grueling fight because of that. Bloody and merciless, but the adrenaline singing and surging through Mydei’s body is not because of them, not one bit—but for the knowledge there’s a snake coiling at his feet. Waiting.

Come, the wildness of his expression says, show me your fangs at once.

Soon, the number of wolves has fallen from nine to one, and sweat trickles down his face, blood sticking into his hair. Mydei jumps out of the way as the last wolf’s paw slams against the snow and the ends of the wool tunic bundle up with the action.

The glint of silver metal strapped against his hip flashes against the white, gold and red for less than one second.

And the gleam of fangs comes sudden and unexpected, silent, as is to be expected from him—yet the fields of Aidonia are unforgiving, even for a server of Thanatos, for death does not favor. A shine appears and shifts against the side of the mountain. Mydei’s eyes latch onto it, and he’s already twisting left before he can fully register what it is, body moving on instinct, and just barely dodging a blow aimed right into his lower back, dangerously close to where the tenth thoracic vertebra rests.

Mydei turns around sharply, just to find himself forced to jump back once again when the Flame Reaver immediately throws one of the detachment’s lances at him as he skids in the snow. The blade does grace him, this time, tearing the wool tunic along skin, and he feels the weight of the reaping hook slide right down his leg.

It falls with a muffled ‘thud’.

Tsk.

Seems the other isn’t in the mood to bite today. Too bad, because Mydei absolutely is—has been for a long time now.

The Flame Reaver darts with the precision of an arrow to the reaping hook, dodging the swipe of swords and arrows thrown at him with the dexterity of a fish swimming underwater. Mydei is too far away to get to the weapon first, so instead he throws himself against the Flame Reaver just as a clawed hand grasps onto the handle.

They tumble and roll into the snow, momentum stopped abruptly as they slam into the side of the mountain. The hard rock collides harshly against the Flame Reaver’s back, and Mydei hears the muffled wheeze he lets out under the mask as the breath is knocked completely out of his lungs.

It’s barely a second of delay, but is more than enough time for Mydei to pin him against the ground, yet, through the breathlessness, The Flame Reaver still swipes the hook towards his shoulders before he can restrain his arm. Mydei catches his wrist just as the tip sinks into the wool.

The shivering and clattering of metal arises as they both struggle to push and push and push against each other. The world around them reduces to only that sound; the clash of swords and the rambunctiousness of battle lost to this single instance. There’s a low thrumming under the adrenaline-fueled ba-thump, ba-thump, ba-thump-thump-thump of Mydei’s heart that makes his jaw tighten and his teeth itch and itch.

He should break that damnable mask and dig fingers into that mouth of his and rip the fangs right out of it if he’s only going to put them in a hyena’s disposition.

The Flame Reaver raises his head to meet his eyes through the mask. The movement leaves his throat exposed, and Mydei wants to bite, bite, bite, it right out. “You seem angry, your Highness.”

His fingers curl even tighter on his wrist.

He is, he very much is, but he forces his voice to remain level. Battle spreads far outside actions with this one, and he refuses to lose. “And you desperate, Flame Reaver.” He replies and satisfaction spreads through the anger as the hand in his hold spasms. “This little thing important to you?”

“No more than—”

“It’s coming for you, Mydeimos!”

The voice is shrill. Bursting through time stopped like a bubble. Mydei jerks upright, head snapping towards the source of the sound and, oh, right, they were battling a wolf—the very same one that is charging up to them at full speed, in fact.

They both scramble off each other just in time as the wolf slams into the mountain, debris and snow flying, but the collision doesn’t even face the beast. It jumps back, shakes its head, and immediately starts running behind the Flame Reaver, who is already darting off deeper and deeper into the mountains, soon out of his sight.

Mydei doesn’t even think about it before he decides to give chase too. Blood singing in his veins.

━━━━━━━━━━

The wolf is dead when Mydei finds it, the gray sky delving into blacks, a sliced tendon and a sliced throat, both cuts made with almost clinical precision, of the sort that suggests it must have been a quick, swift death.

The body is still warm. A recent death, though, he did not need to check that to know that fact, not when the killer is standing right there, besides the wolf’s dead head. The blood leaking out of the cuts spreads slowly through the snow, drenching his boots in red and coating them further with the stench of death.

“You are capable of this,” Mydei says, almost conversationally, settling a hand on the dead wolf’s fur. “And yet you still choose to scurry like a rat in the night? To aim your blade at a fool’s command?”

“I am getting awfully exhausted from this debate—especially because my opponent doesn’t have enough of a brain to delve into better arguments.” The Flame Reaver replies, as cold as the snow around him. “I will repeat it one last time. I am an assassin, not a warrior.”

“What a dishonour.”

“To your sense of pride?”

“To your strength.”

The Flame Reaver goes quiet.

“Duel me.” Mydei demands. “And show me where it lies.”

He moves the reaping hook to his side like a whip. Blood scatters like rain through the snow. “I am not one of your subjects to command, your Highness. I don’t have any single reason to obey your wish.”

“But you will obey his?”

“His?” The Flame Reaver mutters, then, “Ah, the Mad King’s, finally figured that one, didn’t you? Or perhaps you always knew.”

Mydei doesn’t reply.

He shakes his head. “He’s terrified, you know.”

Good.

“And his distress was enough for you to answer his plight?”

“It’s quite pitiful to see.”

“That’s not a yes.”

“It is not.”

Mydei’s teeth grind against each other. His hand falls from where it is settled on the dead wolf and, carefully, he condenses blood into his palm as discreetly as he can.

“Answer me.”

“What’s there to answer?”

“Why?”

He tilts his head. “You ask an assassin why it kills?” He asks, sounding terribly amused.

“No. I’m asking why do you obey?”

“What’s the difference?”

He won’t get a straight answer out of this man, Mydei realizes, and, in this strange moment of stillness, while blood cools, he goes over reasons and actions, why’s and could’s once again. Resignation to fate, disposition of a blade, anger at the implication to trade life for coin, selfishness of reasons…

“Is it survival?”

“Survival?” The Flame Reaver repeats before he lets out a weird sound. It resembles a crow’s caw. “Ha… Maybe once.”

“Once?”

“It doesn’t matter, does it? It never did.” He replies and before Mydei can answer, he adds, “Did you know? He’s offering bread worth more than five lands for your head.”

Mydei’s eyes narrow.

“Very well, if that’s your answer, then,” His fist closes, “Allow me to pay you in blood!”

The resounding boom of Mydei’s blood crystals exploding rumbles and shakes the mountains all around them as he surges forwards in one powerful burst of energy. The clash of his gauntlet against the reaping hook lets out sparks before the Flame Reaver is sent flying under the strength behind his hit.

Another boom arises and echoes with another explosion of crystals as Mydei attempts to trap the Flame Reaver in the place he fell. There’s a resounding crack before a sharp chunk of crystal goes flying right towards his head. Mydei steps aside and immediately crouches as a hook swipes at the place his neck just was.

He closes his hand into a fist, but before Mydei can punch him right in the gut, a knee jabs square into his chin, closing it with a harsh click. He tastes copper as his teeth bite onto his tongue. His body staggers back, tripping from the crouch he was in. The sound of a blade cutting air reaches his ears and, with yet another boom, a wall of crystals appears in front of him.

There’s a loud hiss as the crystals dig and dig into the Flame Reaver’s body, drowned by tiny little cracks from where he’s attempting to dislodge himself out of the red wall as the sound of the explosion echoes and echoes through the mountain, as if Georgios was yawning.

Mydei gets up in one swift motion and spits a mouthful of blood into the white, white snow.

Then, just as the Flame Reaver dislodges his arm from the crystals, Mydei catches it and twists it behind his back. The assassin’s warm blood spreads through his gauntlet and falls onto the floor with a drip, drip, drip while the floor rumbles. He attempts to hit his jaw with his free hand, but the position makes it near impossible, and he misses.

In that window of opportunity, Mydei snakes his other arm under his neck.

And he flexes his arm.

The little gasp of cut air he gets in turn is almost cute, truly, and he relinquishes in it far more than he should as he locks the Flame Reaver into a headlock, pressing his head against his chest.

“Yield.” He says right into his ear.

“Let—” The Flame Reaver starts. Mydei tightens his arm, and the other coughs, legs kicking under him while his left hand shoots to Mydei’s wrist to try and shove it off. The ear-grating sound of metal scratching metal drowned in the ever-growing rumble of the mountain.

Wait.

Rumble?

He blinks, frowns. His eyes shift to the side. The loose rocks and crystals on the ground shake. Ripples form in the pools of blood of the dead wolf. A low, humming vibration thrums from the soles of his feet into every pore of his skin and something in Mydei’s stomach falls in sudden realization.

Oh.

The Flame Reaver gags under the added pressure as Mydei turns around sharply without letting him go—just to see a cloud of white smoke coming down from the very top of the mountain.

Oh no.

It seems they disturbed Georgios’ rest.

The Flame Reaver stumbles and coughs when Mydei lets him go.

“We need to find shelter. Now.”

The other turns to him, one hand around his neck. With the mask, it’s impossible to know what kind of expression he is making, but it is not hard to imagine the glare he’s sending him.

“Y—es.” He replies, voice hoarse. Chest stuttering.

And promptly shoves Mydei into the ground.

It’s an action so petty it actually takes a second for Mydei to register it, but when it does, he roars a, “You, HKS!” that echoes along the growing rumble as Mydei stands and starts running too.

His feet sink into the soft snow on the ground with every step he takes, slowing him down, and it takes double the effort to catch up to that childish bastard. Mydei extends a hand, and, not to be one to let a score go unsettled, grasps onto the black cloak fluttering in the wind and pulls.

The Flame Reaver slams into the floor with a yelp and a “You piece of shit!” as Mydei runs past.

“You started it!”

The sound of a blade cutting air is low against the rumble of snow, but Mydei hears it loud and clear. He raises his gauntlet and sparks fly when the reaping hook collides against it.

“Are you stupid?” Mydei bites, a little incredulous as the reaping hook presses further instead of retreating. “There are far more pressing matters than—Stop shoving me into the ground!” He snaps as the Flame Reaver does just that.

He slams against the cold snow once again, but before the other can get a step in, he grabs onto his ankle and down the Flame Reaver goes too.

“You—!” He starts, but freezes when a loud ‘boom!’ echoes in the distance and the rumbling intensifies.

They both look behind to see the snow coming down even faster than it did before.

They both turn to look at each other.

And, in mutual, silent agreement, they scramble to stand up and start running without stupid petty tricks this time around.

They run and run, run and run, run and run. Muscles burning with every step. The rumble gets louder. Breaths coming out in puffs of white, white smoke as death dances and mingles with every exhalation at the same time it steps on their heels.

But, the thing is, they are never going to be able to outrun an avalanche.

Mydei scans his surroundings with sharp precision, eyes squinting against the air burning and drying his retinas and the blur the world has become. He does not manage to see anything, but the Flame Reaver certainly does—He doesn’t say anything, though. Merely stops, turns and runs to the right.

The shift is so abrupt that Mydei’s feet glide through the snow as he comes to a hard stop. Head snapping in the direction the other took and, after a second of consideration,

He follows.

On one side of the mountain, through the sturdy rock that conforms Georgios’ body, lays a big, deep hole in the ground. An underground cave. The Flame Reaver jumps into it, like a bunny into a den, and Mydei jumps right after—It’s a good hiding spot, but the entrance to the cave is far, far too wide. It will let too much snow inside and, under the strength it is coming, it will surely crush them to death.

Mydei condenses yet another flow of blood in his hand, before letting it crystalize against the entrance.

For a second, every nook and cranny of the cave fills with a red tint as the rumble of the snow gets louder and louder and louder, earth shaking so badly that neither Mydei nor the Flame Reaver can stand.

And then,

The snow comes.

The low, low rumbling of the snow leveling the ground high, high above them echoes and reverberates through the cave like the sound of teeth grinding tightly against each other—as if the Earth Titan himself was displeased for his disturbed rest but restrained himself from cracking his body in half and swallowing them whole—for what seems to be an eternity or two, maybe even three.

Silence extends, stretches and shifts, like a rotting disease, between them, occupied only by the low, low rumbling and the occasional ragged breath.

None of them say anything.

There’s nothing for them to say. Nothing new, at least. Scalding insults and derisive words, sardonic laughs and prodding snaps, questions without answers and answers without questions, honor and dishonour, life and death. All worthless nothings and nonsense courtesies that only serve to lead to an inevitable clash of a silver hook against a golden gauntlet. Blood in his mouth, adrenaline singing in his veins, the cold exhale of death. A well-known dance that always ends up in neither victory, for the Flame Reaver always escapes, but neither a loss, for Mydei’s pride is still intact and his head hasn’t been taken once.

Like stagnated water.

They have both reached a dead end. A relation that, like a pulled thread whose knots have come undone, has reached the point of inert, motionless tension before it either snaps or something gives.

None of them are the type to give.

For now, though, such stagnation is allowed to remain, and they simply exist, they simply breathe. In and out, as the snow falls. In and out, as the red tint of the crystals covering the entrance gets devoured and swallowed by all-consuming darkness as the snow comes to block the sun.

In and out, as the world trembles.

In and out, as the rumbling ceases.

It happens little by little, bit by bit, as if rotted and withered by the silence, until Georgios goes back to rest in Thanatos’ realm, and the cave is both plunged in complete silence and complete darkness.

Mydei is the one who moves first, judging by the utter lack of sound coming from the Flame Reaver—who, silent, as he might be, he isn't a ghost. He starts to stand up, intent on walking in the direction of the cave’s entrance to check how wise it might be to let the blood crystals disappear when a faint ‘crack!’ reaches his ears.

He freezes.

From where he’s crouched, he shifts his weight and another little ‘crack!’ forms and Mydei breathes very, very deliberately. Slowly, he brings a hand down into the snow, pushes it aside in a blind search for the floor. He can’t quite make the material through the metal of his gauntlet, but he manages to shove enough to see a faint, luminescent blue light under a foggy surface, like glass.

Ice.

It’s ice.

They are standing on ice.

Mydei closes his eyes, sighs, and curses his luck.

It’s fine, a part of him, ever sharp, ever practical, thinks, as long as they both don’t make any sudden movements and stay calm, they can reach the entrance and—

“This is your fault.”

Mydei whirls around towards the voice. “My fault!?”

“Yes, yours!”

Crack.

“You were the one who was trying to kill me!”

“I wasn’t trying to kill you!” The Flame Reaver says. Mydei scoffs, but before he can reply, the other adds, “This time. I wasn’t trying to kill you this time. I only came to retrieve this little thing,” The sound of metal arises, likely from where he is shaking or tapping at the reaping hook. It’s hard to know. “Which you stole from me and—”

“Who are you to talk to me that way? You kill people for a living.”

The Flame Reaver pauses, falters, and then spits. “Tsk, I just thought someone with your sense of honor would be above such acts.” A sound, almost disinterested. “Guess that was just lofty talk, after all.”

“You left it behind!”

“I was going to go back for it!”

Crack, crack.

Mydei clicks his tongue. “Do you realize just how stupid you sound?”

“It’s my weapon.” The Flame Reaver says, almost petulantly. “What’s so stupid about wanting to get back what’s mine?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe complaining to the man you are literally trying to—”

“But you are clearly not dead!”

“Only because you suck at your job!”

Crack, crack, crack.

“For the last time, I wasn’t trying to kill you today. You were the one who decided to follow me into the mountains and then start an avalanche with your stupid little crystals.”

“Shall I remind that is only thanks to my stupid little crystals,” Mydei scoffs, making a general motion to the space where the entrance is. “That we didn’t get buried alive by the snow—”

“From the avalanche you started?”

“I didn’t start anything!”

Cr—ack!

They both fall silent as the floor under them trembles and lowers by a meter, little bits and pieces of ice starting to snap into cubes of different sizes held together by the force they exert over each other. Mydei’s stomach lurches to his mouth, and he comes to stand very, very still.

Calm, he breathes, just stay calm and move slowly.

“Look at what you did.” The Flame Reaver hisses, voice hushed.

“What I did?” Mydei hisses back, also hushed. There’s something to be said about the effectiveness with which the Flame Reaver manages to get under his skin. It might be just his plain stupidity—Heh, unlike Mydei, who always stays perfectly calm and perfectly reasonable whenever they talk. “You are the one cracking the ice with your grating voice alone.”

The crunch of snow being stepped on is faint, but in their sudden stillness, it might as well have gone off like a drum. It comes right where the Flame Reaver’s voice is.

“Are you insane? You are going to make us fall.” Mydei half-whispers, half-shouts.

“What am I supposed to do then?” Crunch. Crunch. Cra—ck. A pause. Crunch. “Stand still and wait for us to fall either way?”

“Where are you even going? It’s all made of ice.”

“The entrance wasn’t.”

Well, no.

Without any better option, Mydei sighs and, carefully, he takes a step. Crunch, makes the snow under his boots.

“Stop moving.” The Flame Reaver snaps immediately, although hushed, still. “You are going to make us fall.”

Mydei blinks, frowns, and makes an offended sound on the back of his throat. Tsk, just who does he think he is? His teeth itch. He resolutely ignores him, taking three steps forward, tethering on the edge of just fast enough as to not give the last push the ice needs to finally break.

This time, the voice of the Flame Reaver is a whole lot closer, only a few steps away from Mydei, as he bites, “Are you deaf? I told you to stop moving.”

“What, am I supposed to just stand still and fall while you get out?”

“Hm, don’t worry. I will come back for your body.”

Mydei feels a vein in his forehead throb. “How considerate.”

“I know, right?” The Flame Reaver huffs, taking another step. The beginnings of another sentence, no doubt as goading as the last, get lost and cut off when a loud 'crash!' echoes as the ice under them, to the surprise of no one, breaks completely.

And they fall.

━━━━━━━━━━

It’s a long, long drop.

Mydei’s knees shatter on impact. He grits his teeth hard enough that his jaw starts to ache and strain. Yet, immediately, through the pain, through the dark spots swimming in his vision, Mydei forces himself to sit into a defensive position with a grunt. Arms raised, already well accustomed to the Flame Reaver’s brand of tenacity and adaptability, as he waits for the inevitable attack.

…But it never comes.

Mydei waits and waits and waits. Hair standing on end. Ears strained. The lower area of the cave is not swallowed in the same blacks from above, as big and gentle flowers, a native species of Aidonia, grow through the rock, through the snow, and give off a faint, blue light—Yet, the illumination offered does not offer any safety. For the shadows that dig into the space like stubborn teeth are far more dangerous than outright darkness, offering more than enough space for a snake to coil into.

Mydei waits and waits and waits. One minute, two, maybe even three.

He frowns.

Where is he?

He looks around the cave, but there are no signs of life further than his own, and the flowers spread all around the cave, save for a specific section shoved at the end of a wall.

Mydei lowers his hands onto the floor, unable to feel the coldness of the snow through the metal gauntlets, and, seeing that his knees are still broken, he drags himself closer to it in painstakingly slow movements.

Eventually, he gets close enough to see the surface of a small lake covered in a sheet of ice reflecting the blue light of the flowers. It is broken in the middle and, if Mydei squints his eyes, he can see a long shadow at the bottom.

It’s the Flame Reaver.

Mydei doesn’t do something as meekly as jerking back, but he definitely tenses, half-expecting, half-waiting for the assassin to pounce in a whirl of motion, fangs out.

But it never comes.

The Flame Reaver remains still.

He’s going to drown, Mydei thinks, before he shakes his head.

It could very well be a trap.

Mydei squints his eyes even further at the shadow sunk in the water. Uncanny in its stillness, laying unmoving, motionless, like a rock thrown into a pond. He waits, nerves fried on end, and counts. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine and the Flame Reaver doesn’t react.

Eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen and the Flame Reaver still doesn’t react.

He’s going to drown.

Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five.

He’s going to drown.

Mydei stares, heart thumping inexplicably loud against his ears. It goes ba-thump, ba-thump, ba-thump, ba-thump, ba-thump in place of twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine and thirty. The Flame Reaver remains in the water, with the sort of inertness a man can’t fake. The lack of oxygen must be burning and rotting away his lungs by now.

He’s definitely going to drown.

Mydei should let him, really, there’s nothing that warrants him to save the executioner swinging a blade to his neck—But he takes the heavy wool tunic off his body, lets the gauntlets fall, and dives right after him, either way.

The water is cold and frigid, painful as it bites into his bare skin and the sclera of his eyes, and the bones of his shattered knees burn and scream as they grind into specks of dust with every kick Mydei gives. Familiar, familiar sensations, all so very familiar that he ignores with the same gritted teeth and the same sense of familiarity as he snakes his arms under the Flame Reaver’s armpits and hauls his limp form upwards.

No, he thinks, as he breaks the surface of the water with a big gulp of air, there’s certainly not a single reason that warrants his executioner to be saved.

But, what kind of victory would it be if this was how their long-drawn confrontation came to end? What sort of glory would there be to proclaim? What pride would be there to have?

Yes, the Flame Reaver shall fall, one day, but it will only be by Mydei’s hand and nothing else.

It’s all too hard to haul the Flame Reaver ashore, thanks to Mydei’s shattered knees, but, at the same time, it’s all too easy, because despite the water weighing the assassin down and the metal of his gauntlet, he’s still all too light under Mydei’s hands.

He drags the body further and further into the snow with one hand as he drags himself forward with the other. Exertion burning at his muscles.

Suddenly, there’s a sharp intake of breath followed by an even sharper fit of coughs.

Mydei lets him go and turns around, but before he can register it, he’s shoved into the ground hard enough for his knees to crack even further, if possible. He hisses a curse between clenched teeth and twists around, just to see the Flame Reaver scrambling to put distance between them. But the coughs that wrack his whole frame don’t let him stand up, and his legs can’t quite hold his weight. So, his movements only serve to kick a bunch of snow before the coughing fit stops and his body falls limply into the snow.

Uh.

For a beat, Mydei simply stares at him before he drags himself up to him in slow, slow movements. He pulls him to lay on his back, and golden eyes set on the rise and fall, rise and fall, rise and fall of the Flame Reaver’s chest.

Then, inevitably, his gaze comes to settle over the mask.

His mouth feels all so very dry, all of a sudden.

Mydei’s hand first comes to hover over it, eyes trailing over the golden tears spreading over the black cloth like cracks, Thanatos’ hand, before his index hooks on the lower edge, right under his jaw.

He starts to lift it, the pad of his finger meeting a glimpse of white, porcelain skin—before he stops.

Completely.

A frown comes over to settle over Mydei’s face, mouth pressed into a thin, thin line as a sudden, bone-deep refusal for it to be this way fills his chest and spreads and extends like vines with thorns into every single fibre of his being.

Were he to lift this mask right now…

It feels wrong, almost.

The thought, admittedly, tethers on absurdity. Were his men to hear him, they would surely laugh. Beings like the Flame Reaver, treacherous and shameful, who live only relegated to the whims of others, don’t deserve the least bit of respect.

No matter how much strength they may hold.

The sword that stabs in the back is no worth of glory. That, Mydei knows. And, yet, he can’t quite will himself to unveil a snake’s face, not right now, not like this. When his opponent can’t even fight back. No matter how much he wishes to know.

It, too, would be a shame-ridden victory—if it even could be called that.

And so, Mydei takes his hand away from the Flame Reaver’s mask.

━━━━━━━━━━

“I know you are awake.”

There’s a second of cold, quiet stillness before the Flame Reaver stops pretending to be a corpse and sits up with a grunt. The pale, bare hand he raises towards his head stopping halfway as one half of the wool tunic thrown over him slips down from his chest to his lap.

He stares at it, at the bonfire crackling and sizzling before him, and then at Mydei, sitting on the other side of the fire.

He doesn’t say anything, but his confusion is evident.

“...How long was I out?”

Mydei shrugs, adjusting the other half of the wool tunic he had ripped in two over him. For that one, he hadn’t been able to come up with a justification. “About three or four hours, maybe.” He points upwards. The Flame Reaver follows his gaze to the hole that constitutes the entrance. He had made the blood crystals disappear about an hour ago, around the time his knees healed. “Long enough for the night to fall upon us.”

“Hm.”

“Mm.”

The Flame Reaver’s head then turns to his bare hands and his bare feet, skin a little red, before looking around just to pause to see both his own gauntlets, boots and reaping hook next to him. There’s a thin sheet of ice covering them.

He takes one of his gauntlets.

“...Why?”

“They had started to burn your skin.”

“How considerate.” The Flame Reaver says, sarcasm dripping in every word, and he sneezes. It sounds like a cat being stepped on. “But that’s not what I am asking—No. Neither am I asking why you… saved me.” He interrupts when Mydei opens his mouth. His voice sounds strangely bitter as he says that last part. “I already know why.”

Mydei lifts an eyebrow.

“Do you?”

The Flame Reaver huffs, almost amused. “You are not that hard to understand, your Highness.”

A pause.

“I won’t thank you.”

“I know.”

“Neither would I have done the same for you.”

“I know.” Mydei replies as he takes one of the wooden sticks he found laid around and pokes the fire to keep it alive. “You may not be as easy to understand as you say I am—but in that regard, you are steadfast, if not predictable.”

“Predictable.” The Flame Reaver repeats, dryly. His index finger goes to chip away the ice clinging to the metal of the gauntlet in his hand, almost absentmindedly. “It wouldn’t be the word I would use to describe me, but you do you, I suppose.”

“You want my head.”

“Uh? Really? What gave it away?”

Mydei rolls his eyes and ignores the bait. “And, so, I expect you to act accordingly.”

“So, why am I free, your Highness? Why is it that I haven’t been stripped of my armor?” He asks. The tone of the question is taunting, as if the answers didn’t matter to him, but the fact he’s asking them in the first place is telling. “With that argument, you should have, mh, predicted I would have been on you as soon as I opened my eyes.”

“And yet,” Mydei replies, looking at the assassin sitting in front of the fire who hadn’t attacked first thing awareness allowed and settles down the wooden stick. “Here we are.”

The Flame Reaver pauses, recognizes the hole he unknowingly dug himself into, thinks, and, eventually, replies, “As I said, the notion contradicts the expectations you had.”

“Are you saying you would have wanted to be left defenseless?"

“Wanted? No. Expected? Yes.” His index finger jerks and he settles the gauntlet down, right in front of the fire. From his position, Mydei can see a line of red appear in his skin.

“Heh. Seems I am not that easy to understand, then.”

“How arrogant.”

“Confident.” He corrects. “You are steadfast, but not stupid—and with your little penchant for running with your tails between your legs. It is obvious you wouldn’t have come to odds with me where I do not give you reason to.”

The Flame Reaver clicks his tongue, and his thumb comes to dig further into the wound in his index finger. “With how you talk to me, you are giving me plenty of reasons to.”

“Oh?” Mydei pushes himself forwards. “Well, if you are willing to—”

“Finish your sentence, your Highness, and I swear I will throw myself back into the water.”

Mydei can’t help it, he laughs. The Flame Reaver makes a disgruntled sound in the back of his throat, and a part of him wishes to know what kind of expression he’s making if only to laugh harder.

“You threaten your own life instead of mine?” Mydei asks, still amused.

“Hmph, seeing you are so intent on keeping me alive.” He shrugs. The pads of his fingertips drenched red. “It will be you the one that would have to fish me out.”

“Ha! How pretentious. As if I truly cared if you died.”

“But you care about that duel, don’t you?”

Mydei’s mouth closes with a harsh ‘click’.

The Flame Reaver tilts his head. “Hehe, who is predictable now?”

Mydei’s eye twitches, before he can reply, though, the Flame Reaver stands up in one fluid motion and walks towards him. Mydei doesn’t tense, but he does come to be alert, because hubris is a warrior’s worst vice, and even if he is confident the other won’t attack, not in a place without an exit, he rather not tempt Zagreus’ hand.

The other half of the ripped wooden tunic falls into his lap with a faint ‘puff’.

The Flame Reaver’s clothes are still damp.

“Keep it.” Mydei says.

“I could smother you with that, just so you know.”

“As if I would let you do such thing in the first place.” He grabs the half and extends it back. “Keep it.”

“I don’t need it.” He replies, and almost immediately, a shiver wracks through the Flame Reaver. Mydei lifts an eyebrow at him and the other bites, “I don’t need your pity.”

“Pity is what I will have if you die of hypothermia.”

“Tsk, as if I were that weak.” He says, but it comes out kind of strange, kind of quiet.

Mydei can’t help but scoff. “So, that’s why you decide to go for the back?”

“Don’t,” The Flame Reaver raises a finger at him. “Start with your lofty talks of honor and strength right now. I am not in the mood to hear it.”

“Hmph, when are you ever?”

“I will bite your throat out with my teeth if I have to, your Highness.”

“Do it if you can, then, snake.”

The Flame Reaver lunges at him—less in a wish to truly kill him and more so to hurt him, because when they stop rolling in the snow and the assassin comes to straddle Mydei, instead of going for the throat, a sharp burst of hot white pain explodes right under Mydei’s jaw.

“Do you ever,” The Flame Reaver hisses, each word punctuated by punch after punch after punch. They fall on his eye, on his cheek, on his nose, echoing with a little ‘crunch’ in the quiet cave. “Stop talking?”

That might be the first time that question has ever been directed at him. It’s almost amusing.

“Ha!” Mydei laughs through a mouthful of blood, getting a hold of one of his wrists. “Touched a nerve, didn’t I, snake?”

His grip tightens, hard enough that the beginnings of a ‘crack’ can be heard. The Flame Reaver lets out a loud hiss, and his other hand flies to pry Mydei’s hand off. The assassin realizes his error in the exact same moment he takes the action, but it’s too late by then, as Mydei’s other hand closes into a fist and connects with his cheekbone.

The Flame Reaver’s head snaps to the side crudely, but the only sound that comes out of him is a harsh intake of breath.

Mydei surges forwards, pushing the assassin off him, who attempts to hit him again even as he tumbles down. He intercepts the punch and throws one of his own right into the other’s gut, and the gasp he lets out is cut short as Mydei punches him again.

It continues in a similar fashion for what might be either minutes or hours, time coming to a halt as the flowers watch. Their blue, delicate petals coming to be splat-splat-splattered by drops of red, red blood.

Until the Flame Reaver lifts his mask just enough for his mouth to show and spits a tooth into the white, white snow before his body crumples down onto the floor, right next to the cracking fire.

“Did you check for a way out?”

Mydei attempts to get his breathing under control. There’s blood drenching his hair. It’s warm. “Ha… Giving up so soon?”

He has no idea how much time has passed.

“...I’m tired.” The Flame Reaver breathes out, just to immediately, almost haphazardly, add, “I haven’t slept in a week—And I already told you, didn’t I? I didn’t come here to kill you, this time.”

Mydei’s eyes narrow, but he allows him a tiny bit of grace as he answers, “Seems the only way out is up.”

There’s a pause.

“It’s quite the climb, isn’t it?”

“Quite.”

The Flame Reaver sighs.

From one second to the other, Mydei feels exhaustion suddenly sweep deep, deep into his bones, and he comes to sit next to the Flame Reaver—who tenses hard at his presence. Fingers red with the beginnings of frostbite trailing to the gauntlet laid forgotten in the snow.

“I propose a truce.”

The fingers grazing the metal jerk as the Flame Reaver turns to him. “A truce?”

“Don’t you know what that means?”

“Most surprised that a brute like you does.” He bites back without skipping a beat before he pauses. “Wait, why in the world are you offering a truce?”

“Because you wouldn’t have.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Hm? Were you?”

“Maybe.”

“So, it’s a yes.” Mydei concludes easily.

“Now, I didn’t say that.” The Flame Reaver grumbles. “For how long?”

“Until we get out.”

“And what do you get out of it?”

“A good night of sleep, ideally.”

The Flame Reaver lets out a sound that might have been a laugh before he says, “And you trust me to uphold it?”

Now, that’s dangerous.

Mydei’s eyes shift to the Flame Reaver’s mask and can only guess the sort of expression he’s making. Doubtful? Resigned? Taunting? His voice certainly didn’t waver as he asked.

There’s nothing for him to go by, other than his base instincts and thoughts. So, instead of replying carelessly, he delves into the question, goes over reasons and actions, savors the syllables of his answer in the back of his throat, before, ultimately, replying, “Yes.”

“Ha.” The Flame Reaver exhales. “You are such a stupid person.”

And, yet, when morning comes, and he wakes, Mydei’s head is still on his neck.

━━━━━━━━━━

A body slams onto the floor.

Mydei laughs. The Flame Reaver clicks his tongue as he lifts himself off the floor. “You are laughing. I am trying to get out of here and you're laughing.”

“Ha! Maybe because you suck so badly at climbing.”

“Tsk, you don’t have any right to say that when I haven’t seen you try once.”

“Heh, you just seemed so keen in your attempt, I didn’t have the heart to embarrass you.” Mydei grins, walking up to the wall and settling his hand in a piece of stone coming out of it. “Allow me, then, to show you how it is done.”

Three minutes later, a body slams onto the floor.

“You didn’t even go higher than me.”

“I absolutely did.” Mydei bites back, standing up.

“Mm, no, you absolutely did not. See that mark?” The Flame Reaver points at some spot in the wall. Mydei squints at it. He can’t see anything. “That’s where you reached. That mark over there,” He points higher, way, way higher. “That’s where I reached.”

“There’s no way you went that high.”

“But I did.”

“You did not.”

“But I did.”

“Do you think I am blind? I saw you climb. You didn’t even reach half the distance you say you did!”

The Flame Reaver lets out a little ‘tch’ sound. “Yeah, well, it’s not like you could reach it anyways!”

A body slams onto the floor.

“Mm, not even close.”

“Not even close? I even went higher!”

“I saw you climb—”

“And you clearly saw wrong! Tsk, see that mark?” Mydei points at a spot on the wall, way, way higher from where the Flame Reaver had pointed earlier. “I did that.”

“That was already there.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“Yes, it was.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“Hm, why don’t you make another, then? If you say you reached there—which you didn’t, I saw that you didn’t—it shouldn’t be so hard for you to do it again.”

A body slams onto the floor.

“Sorry,” The Flame Reaver, all faux sweetness. Mydei’s teeth itch. “I didn’t see it. Could you do it again? Unless you are lying, of course, and you didn’t reach all the way up there in the first place.”

Mydei whirls around to the wall, realizes what is happening and whirls around again, finger raised high at the Flame Reaver. “I’m not playing your games!”

“Good! Because you suck at them!”

“I suck? You are the one who hasn’t tried to climb back again even since you fell once!”

“Oh, but you just seemed so keen in your attempt…”

“You think you are just so damn funny.”

“Hilarious, yes.”

“Have you ever been told how annoying you are?”

“Only by people without a shred of humor.”

“Why don’t you get a shred of dignity and start climbing, then?”

“You just want to watch me fall.”

“Oh, so you admit you can’t climb? Hm, good to know.”

“I can climb.” He scoffs. “Why, faster than you can ever dream to, in fact.”

“Oh, yeah?”

Two bodies slam onto the floor.

━━━━━━━━━━

A couple hundred dozen bruises and probably a few concussions later, both Mydei and the Flame Reaver stand at the edge of the little pool of water in the cave, watching a fish dangling from the hand of the latter.

“Only one?” Mydei asks with a frown. It’s definitely far too little for a man the Flame Reaver’s size.

The Flame Reaver, misinterpreting Mydei’s tone, immediately clicks his tongue at the question. “I’m not fishing one for you.”

“Who asked you to?” Mydei bites back without skipping a beat as he turns to the little pool of water in the cave. “I can fish twice as much as you did.”

“You do know your declaration isn’t that impressive when I am only holding one fish.”

Mydei scrunches his nose.

“Thrice.”

“Still not that impressive.”

“Hmph, I am just being graceful. I could catch ten more fish than you did.”

“Only ten? Heh, I could probably fish twenty or so if I so wanted.”

“And such a meek number makes you proud?”

There’s a long pause before they both dive into the water.

They come out with five fish each because even if the pool of water is deep, it’s not really that big, so there’s not many fish. Pointedly, though, none of them mention the draw as they come to sit on opposite ends of the fire.

They do, however, judge and judge hard how the other cooks.

“Are you insane?” The Flame Reaver says. “You have practically turned that fish into ash.”

“Look at what you are putting in your mouth first before coming to criticize me.” Mydei points at the bitten fish in the assassin’s hand. “That’s so undercooked you are practically going to eat it raw.”

“It’s not raw.”

“Yes, it is. I can see—You know what? Here,” Mydei shakes his head, shoving the very delicious, very well cooked fish in his hand into the Flame Reaver’s. “Taste it. You will see what I mean.”

The Flame Reaver scoffs and lifts his mask a little. There’s a myriad of purples and yellows littering the white, porcelain skin of his jaw and his mouth is missing a tooth when he opens it to take a bite of the very delicious, very well cooked fish.

He immediately gags.

“You didn’t even taste it!”

“I did, ugh.” The Flame Reaver says after he swallows. “And it tasted bad. How in the world can you eat this? I almost—No, I think I actually feel bad for you.” He says, and Mydei’s eyebrow twitches before a very ugly, very undercooked-looking fish is shoved into his hands. “Here, out of the goodness of my little heart.”

“Don’t say it like that.” Mydei scrunches his nose, sniffing at the fish, before taking a bite of it.

A pause.

“I could have poisoned that, you know.”

“With how bad it tastes, you might as well have.” Mydei says and swallows. Gross, absolutely gross. He shouldn’t have expected that an assassin wouldn’t have any good standards. He takes a bite out of one of his very delicious, very well cooked fish to wash the bad taste. “And would you feel proud indulging in such repugnantly treacherous methods?“

“There’s no use for pride in my line of work.” The Flame Reaver says. “And, besides, a victory is a victory, your Highness, no matter how you see it.”

“You have said that.” Mydei frowns, bites and swallows. “But you don’t really believe that, do you? If you did, you would have indulged in such methods far, far earlier—not to say there would have been, at the very least, one loss in my detachment.”

“I am not getting paid to kill them.”

He points at him with the fish. “But they have sure made it even harder for you to claim my head, haven’t they?”

“Do you want me to go after them?”

“So much as think of it and I am hanging you with your own guts.”

“Don’t bring them to my attention, then.”

And that’s that.

━━━━━━━━━━

It’s a slow, tedious process, with far too many cuts from where the ends of Mydei’s blood crystals sprouting from the walls dig into their hands and far too many deliberate breaths where one of them bites their tongue when the other slips to avoid a squabble that inevitably makes them slam into the floor, but, eventually, as the sun above is starting to set once again, they make it out the cave.

There’s a lull of silence once they do so, aided, not broken, by the harsh pants born and dead in white clouds of smoke and the heavy, but quiet snap of a truce come to an end.

Yet, even as the silver metal of the reaping hook glints under the last rays of the sun, the Flame Reaver simply sighs from where he is sat and says, “You saved my life.”

“I thought you weren’t going to thank me.”

“And I won’t. But it’s not a fact I can’t ignore.” He replies, and when he speaks again, it sounds like finality, like an end, like a give. “I do owe you a life.”

Mydei frowns.

“You know that’s not what I want.”

There’s a long, long pause as the Flame Reaver turns to see him. Not for the first time, Mydei wonders what sort of expression he’s making under the mask and his fingers twitch.

“Are you serious?”

“Hm, and here I thought I wasn’t that difficult to understand.”

“And you aren’t. It’s just—You are so strange. Anybody else—”

“I’m not anybody else.” Mydei interrupts, pushing himself upwards. He should start to make his way back to camp, before his people go sick with worry again. It’s been only a day, and the avalanche didn’t fall the way they rested, so he doesn't doubt they hadn’t moved. Neither does he doubt they are safe. “And neither are you.”

“Keep talking like that and I am shoving you back into the cave.”

“Ha! Do it if you can, then! I will make sure we fall together.”

“...Heh.”

There’s a certain language in this world no man nor book can teach you.

It is a simple language.

Concise, straightforward and impossible to hide. One whose alphabet is made out of violence, syllables out of wounds, and words out of pain. All put together, you get war, ergo, strife. Its quill is a blade, its ink, blood, and its parchment, a body. It leaves your throat raw and your hands burning.

It peeks out in the little things, in the way one stands, in the way one walks, in the way one sees. It shows out in scars, wounds and limbs, in the way one talks, in the way one reacts. And, in battle, oh, then it thrives on the way one attacks, one defends, one moves, one bleeds, and then it sings on the way one dies.

It’s a language you do not speak. It’s a language you understand.

And Mydei understands it better than the rest.

It’s that, more than anything, the reason why, once he catches sight of a now familiar cloaked shadow lurking on the edges of a bridge, in between the ends of the cold tundra and the beginnings of a valley, Mydei knows that something is different, this time.

The faint rustle of cloth and the clink of metal starts to resonate at his back. No doubt having caught sight of the snake coiled between the thicket and the scrub, but, as it is, with a simple, silent raise of his hand, it is more than enough to have them fall back.

Though, it is not quite enough to quench the questions arising between the detachment.

“Mydeimos?”

“What’s going on?”

Hephaestion’s piercing eyes drill holes in his back.

He has always been the closest to him, though his inability to see himself as Mydei’s equal has always been a shame, but, Mydei knows that, intrinsically, his friend has come to be aware that something has shifted, and shifted fast between him and the blade that chases him. Maybe even before he came back to camp after the avalanche.

Still, he doesn’t answer his unspoken question, as much as he does not answer any of the spoken ones.

He walks a couple of steps forward, firmly, unflinchingly, confidently, up until he’s halfway through the distance of reaching him.

Mydei waits.

A second after, dry leaves and frosted dead grass crack beneath the Flame Reaver’s, but, strangely, even then, his steps are ever silent, soundless. A show of his nature, of course, the true sign he is not, was not, and will never be, a warrior.

And yet,

Something is different, this time.

A thread about to snap.

Up above, the Eye of Twilight, or whatever remains of his corpse, has long started to close his eyes, dropping eyelids casting long, long shadows on the earth. Warm oranges and soft yellows turning purple on the far, far away edges of the sky with the imminent threat of the night.

Yet, as the sun dies, the world is red, red, so very red.

“Speak, executioner. What brings you out into the light?”

The glint of fangs under the red light is his answer, but it doesn’t come from a reaping hook.

It comes from a greatsword, raised high and proud at Mydei.

“Oh.” Mydei exhales at the sight, something wild bursting in his chest. A grin slowly appears and stretches wide over his lips. Eyes wild, adrenaline high, and he’s more than a little breathless when he says, “Yes, that’s more like it.”

The world itself seems to still, for a moment. The world itself seems to wait, holding breath.

Mydei’s arms fall to his sides.

He takes one step, two, three.

And then he’s sprinting forwards as fast as his legs allow.

The first ‘clash!’ of metal against metal echoes like the beating of a heart.

━━━━━━━━━━

Time passes between a flurry of clashes and adrenaline. Sparks flying, blood falling, violence talking, a never-ending dance. Mydei had high expectations, very, very high expectations, not a single one of them unfounded, and the Flame Reaver not only delivers, but actually surpasses them.

It’s strange, surprising, and exhilarating all the same, because when Mydei had demanded a duel, he had expected to find a good match, but he certainly hadn’t expected to find an equal.

Much less in a creature of the shadows.

The Flame Reaver moves with the ruthlessness of an assassin but fights with the determination of a warrior. Not a single one of his attacks falter. He meets each and every single one of Mydei’s head on, and the strength reeks of a single-minded, direct motivation.

I won’t lose.

Ha! Big words.

His movements are a little clunky, at first, movements a little too sharp and a little too tight for his weapon of choice—almost as if he was familiarizing again with the weight and size of the greatsword, yet, by the dawn of the second day, he wields as if it was just another extension of him. It fits him far, far more, and a distant part of Mydei’s mind wonders what would the craftsman say about that weapon. Though, it’s a thought that doesn’t last long, dissipated like sea-foam in the ocean when he has to roll out of the way to stop his head from being eviscerated.

By the sixth day, the reaping hook comes back, not to replace, but to accompany the greatsword. Mydei doesn’t resent such an act, much like he doesn’t resent the cheap tricks the Flame Reaver makes, like throwing dust in his eyes, though he certainly scoffs and mocks them.

But he never once goes for his back.

It’s a bizarre show of honor, welcomed, but bizarre, and not for the first time, Mydei thinks his choice of profession it’s a terrible, terrible shame.

Still, ba-thump, beats his heart, wild with adrenaline, high in bloodthirst. It won’t occur to him in that moment either that Castrum Kremnos courts, not in dances and flowers, but in duels and metal, for he’s far too busy thinking he does not want this fight to end.

━━━━━━━━━━

Night turns to day and day turns to night and night to day, over and over and over again, and, in the end, they only fight for ten days and ten nights.

At some point, between the frenzy and the strife, they ended up moving far, far away from where his detachment came to settle. There’s blood on the floor, on their hands, on their mouths. Clothing torn here and there, chipped metal, a thousand scars that will, unfortunately, not last on Mydei’s skin. The lower half of the Flame Reaver’s mask has broken in half, revealing porcelain skin, red in exertion, and pale, pink lips wheezing for breath.

The ‘clink!’ of the reaping hook slipping out of the Flame Reaver’s left hand marks the beginning of the end, followed by the ‘clang!’ of his greatsword colliding against his chipped gauntlet and flying away, and coming to a heed with the ‘bang!’ of Mydei slamming the executioner to the floor.

They both thrash wildly, gauntlets tearing and digging at whatever portion of skin they can find. Mydei pins one of the Flame Reaver’s hands to the floor, and, between pants and wheezes, voice rough from lack of water, he declares, “I win.”

“In,” A cough, then a wheeze, “In your dreams, maybe.”

Equals, they may be, and, in another life, they might have declared this a draw, but, in this one, with nothing at stake but their own wishes, none of them are the type to give.

And, so, the thread tenses, tenses, and tenses.

The hand that isn’t holding the Flame Reaver’s shoots as fast as the sound before lighting towards the assassin’s face. A loud, grating noise explodes when the now dulled edge of the gauntlets scrapes against one of the golden tears of the mask. The appendage caught by the wrist before it could rip it off.

Mydei grins. The Flame Reaver grits his teeth, one tooth missing.

Victory has never proven to be so, so tantalizing.

So sweet.

“Yield.” He demands.

Metal clatters and trembles under his grip as he struggles to shove him off, legs kicking under him. Mydei pushes, pushes and pushes down, down, down, fingers coming nothing but a breath away from closing around the edges of the mask.

The Flame Reaver comes to realize in one striking flash that this is a losing battle and, in one bold move, adrenaline-filled, desperation-fulled, he surges forwards.

And the thread snaps.

Their teeth clatter harshly against one another when the Flame Reaver’s mouth comes to cover his own.

There’s a momentary second of confusion where Mydei’s mind utterly and completely blanks out, eyes widening as the world reduces only to the explosion of hot, hot, hot lips pressing against his own. A tongue that tastes like blood and ash delving hard into his mouth. His grip around the Flame Reaver loosens, barely, but when he feels the executioner under him start to push him off, his mind kicks into high-gear and he all but growls before he slams him back into the floor and presses his mouth further, further into him.

Ha!

Who does he think he is to have the nerve to believe he can throw Mydei off with such a laughable cheap trick?

It is less a kiss than it is a battle. A duel of its own. Teeth biting hard enough to rip skin right off each other, tongues pushing hard against each other. The oxygen in their lungs not nearly enough to endure, black spots growing and gnawing at the edge of their visions that both ignore because letting go first feels something akin to conceding defeat.

The Flame Reaver’s tongue gives.

Mydei doesn’t waste a second on shoving his own down into his mouth, lost on the intoxicating thrill of adrenaline and blood that, for a moment, he forgets just how cunning his opponent can be.

He realizes his mistake the exact next moment, right after he feels a smile stretch against his mouth.

The Flame Reaver bites down.

The pain that blooms all over his tongue is far too great for it to be able to be described with words. His spine coils, his body seizes, and blood floods his mouth in a matter of seconds.

Mydei rips himself off the other with a sound between a scream and a curse, and the Flame Reaver doesn’t wait a second to scurry off and push himself towards the nearest weapon there is. Through the soul splitting pain, all while hacking and spitting rivulets quickly growing into a sea of blood down in the floor, Mydei still has enough presence of mind to catch the Flame Reaver by the ankle.

“Y—” Another cough, more blood.

The Flame Reaver turns his head around to see him and, slowly, almost mockingly, he opens his mouth to reveal the piece of Mydei’s tongue he ripped out.

It falls down to the floor with a wet ‘thud’.

And then Mydei’s head snaps crudely to the side when a hard kick of the Flame Reaver’s free leg connects against his temple.

Fire sparks, burns and incinerates.

He ignores the stars and lights bursting under his eyelids at the impact, pulling hard at his ankle. The Flame Reaver scrambles to scurry off, but, ignited in anger and something else he does not have a name for, that, in the throes of battle, it probably does not matter, Mydei pounces on him like a roaring lion.

They roll on the floor, rolling over the reaping hook thrown on the floor, sharp end digging into skin, but Mydei does not pay it any mind, not over the wild ba-thump-thump of his heart.

Mydei slams the Flame Reaver once again into the floor.

“Heh,” He lets out in a bad attempt at nonchalance when his gauntlets are digging into Mydei’s shoulders as he struggles to shove him off. His lips are swollen. “Can’t get enough?”

Mydei’s eyes narrow.

Fine, he thinks, if that’s how you want to play.

He grabs the Flame Reaver by the jaw, forces his mouth open, and slots his own into it again.

The assassin freezes, clearly not expecting his own tactics to be used against him, before he starts thrashing once again when blood quickly starts to flood his mouth. Mydei watches him with piercing gold eyes, suddenly struck with a fervent, sudden urge to see how the Flame Reaver looks, right there, under him.

His hand lifts towards the mask.

It is caught once again.

Red fills and overflows from the corner of the Flame Reaver's mouth, down, down, down towards his ears, leaving a trail of red in the exposed parts of his pale, white skin. His chest stutters, once, twice, and a drowned sound escapes past his throat, but it’s only when he feels the other swallow a mouthful of his blood that he lets go.

Rivulets of blood mixing with spit and sweat fall onto the Flame Reaver like pieces of a fragmented mirror of that fight in the defiles, once upon a time. The atmosphere is not nearly as frantic as that time, but it is every bit as wild, heated, if not more. Blood—lust threading far too much on the later. Fire licking in their veins, pooling down, down, down. The edges of a thread snapped and fried.

“Can’t,” Mydei tries, coughs between blood. The words come out garbled, a little funny with his tongue still regrowing and all. But he still tries. “Can’t get enough, uh?”

The Flame Reaver’s mouth, still red with Mydei’s blood, presses tight.

He surges forwards and kisses him again. Mydei kisses back, and the clatter of their teeth echoes like the clash of blades.

None of them are the type to give, after all.

Here is what remains, with blood and pain, of the last conversation ever had between a thief and a murderer behind the holy murals of a holy temple. Long forgotten, as it should be. Long dead, as it should be. Hidden and whispered. None of them ever knew what honor truly was, either way.

“She’s alive.”

The cat spat.

“No thanks to you.”

And the executioner laughed.

The sound was hoarse, rough, as if the creature had never been taught how to properly laugh and could only attempt a poor imitation of the joyous sound the people inside sang in between the drink and pleasure.

Oh, Okhema! Sacred sanctuary, holy place, if only the Sky Father could see the heretic heaven his city had become, would he have wept or would he have indulged?

It all echoed hauntingly through the nooks and crannies of the street behind the temple, lost along the root of squashed grapes and a dying man, sliced top to bottom, from the middle of the neck to the end of the pelvis, just like the dead fish the old woman at the market gutted every day.

The cat scrunched her nose, not at the smell, but at the sound.

“When will the trial be?”

The creature asked instead.

“The third of the Month of Balance. Parting Hour.”

“I meant mine.”

“There won’t be.”

Her blood still clung onto his blade.

“...I see.”

The executioner turned around and walked away, right towards the gates of the city, like a creature march-march-marching up towards his own execution, crushing and squashing rotting guts under his boots.

There was nothing more to say, not anymore, still, she could not help but ask,

“Where are you going?”

He did not know.

“Do you care?”

“No.” The cat lied. “But they do.”

A pause.

“She does.”

The executioner’s pace did not falter, not one bit, but the hand around the blade trembled.

“Don’t go looking for me, Cipheria.”

He did not look back.

━━━━━━━━━━

There’s no pride to be had in a blade that aims for the back. This, Phainon knows, and he knows well. For a man like him, if he can still be called a man, honor and mercy are nothing but soft-hearted naiveties to scoff at.

It was the reason Dawnmaker, steady in its strength, confident in its honor, had become brittle with rust and frail with shame. It deserved a better owner, he always thought so, but, still, some selfish part of him had always been unwilling to part ways with it ever since the day Chartonus gave it to him.

On good days, it was a comfort, an effigy of what he could have been.

On bad days, it was a mockery, a reminder of what he wasn’t.

The day he had brought it to one of the craftsmen in Carmetis, love-spilled polis, it had been a mix of both.

It had been an old man whose ears had been cut who looked it over in a makeshift forge with no name shoved inside a catacomb. He had been sentenced to death row, thirty-three years ago, the old man had told him, as wrinkled fingers traced the rusted edges of Dawnmaker, left alone, left to rot, but a good forger, that he was, and so criminals and the like brought him bread in place of coin and blades to work.

Even the most beautiful of cities has its ugly sides, hidden around the corners, in between the gaps of the stone, drilling cavities, casting shadows.

Phainon had offered to break him out, and the old man had laughed, “Whose body is going to feed the rats if I leave?” He had declined, searching around for his tools in a box with dead bones, before he asked, “Now, say, executioner, why does a creature like you want a warrior’s weapon fixed?”

He did not have an answer.

Neither did he have an answer as to why he had raised it against the exiled prince. A misplaced sense of debt, maybe, repayment. A duel for a life, a fair duel, far from the shadows he called home, the upfront clash of blades and the clash of teeth.

He shouldn’t have done that.

It’s the thought that cuts swiftly through his chest like a blade in the night once the realization of what he has done hits him in between the adrenaline and pride he should not have.

It reverberates and echoes through his mind like a broken record as he picks Dawnmaker and the mockery of Cyrene’s Ceremonial Blade before he runs away as the prince sleeps at his side, spinning around his neck like a noose as he throws himself into a faraway lake and screams until all air leaves his lungs as he half-hopes he drowns.

He shouldn’t have done that.

He really shouldn’t have done that.

Why would he do that? Is he stupid? All of this was stupid to begin with. The moment Phainon understood the prince did not want him dead but instead defeated was the moment he should have put an end to this stupid overcomplicated plan.

And, yet, he kept coming back.

For what? A sense of pride he thought dead years ago? A source of competitiveness stoked at the first person who managed to fight him and live?

Panic settles in as water starts to rush into his lungs. Phainon can’t fight the instinctual reaction to live his body still has, no matter how hard he tries, and, in a flurry of bubbles and teared skin opening further like cloth, his head breaks out from the surface of the lake.

Coughs rattle his whole frame as he pushes himself onto earth. His body screams in protest, bruises and cuts and dislocated somethings cracking and pulsating in pain. The jagged ends of the broken mask dig and poke into his skin, and Phainon all but rips it off his face before throwing the mask somewhere behind him, letting it sink unceremoniously down, down, down into the water.

It’s useless now, either way, maybe it always was.

His stomach churns, demanding food, and black spots pop and grow at the sides of his vision as he stands up. Exhaustion, or perhaps dehydration. It doesn’t matter. He ignores it all with the same single-minded stubbornness he ignores the lingering taste of blood he knows it’s not his in his mouth as he forces himself to walk forward.

He does not know where he goes, but it’s fine, he has nowhere to be and nowhere to return.

━━━━━━━━━━

Time passes strangely for Phainon as he wanders around the world aimlessly. Day turns to night and night turns to day over and over again as the sun and the moon take turns to laugh at him for what feels like an eternity or two.

He passes out more than he sleeps during that time, scars forming across his body the same way rust fills a blade before it breaks. He drinks water, sometimes, from rivers and streams he finds along the way; and he eats, sometimes, fruits and dead animals found in the way. He doesn’t hunt, doesn’t really have the energy to.

A caravan finds him half-dead at the side of the road and the medic aboard the thin-looking dromas nearly has a heart-attack when they discover the array of bruises across his torso and the beginnings of infection starting to spread down his chest through an open wound Phainon never bothered to look at.

He’s a little guilty of wasting their already scarce resources, even more so when they tell him their destination is Okhema, and, so, in the middle of the night, as the beginnings of a fever start to appear, he runs away.

He reaches a polis soon after. Home to the ever-diligent followers of Georgios, Icatus, he remembers, distantly, beneath blood and a corpse, as warm and kind, with its sun-bathed rocks and terracotta blocks, but it all has been replaced with wariness and distrust.

It’s to be expected, of course. The war made everyone everywhere more than a little jagged, more than a little violent, and Amphoreus, once again, awaits with bathed-breath for the drums of strife to echo across the land like thunder. Still, the skittish feet and hung heads over here have to make less with such inevitabilities and more with the bunch of Bulsa’s mercenaries littering the streets with greedy eyes and glinting swords in hand.

Like a snake without fangs slithering through the grass, Phainon makes a point of sticking to the shadows with quiet steps, silent, hidden. Dawnmaker buried on the outskirts of the city like a shameful secret as the handle of the Ceremonial Blade rests firmly on his hand.

No one is much willing to give lodging to a wanderer to whom the stench of death sticks to like second skin, and those who do are much too expensive for his measly wallet. A couple of coins and a blunt dagger. He hasn’t taken any jobs since he left Okhema aside from the Mad King’s plight.

He trudges on, nevertheless, half-delirious, sweat-soaked and thoroughly exhausted.

Tired.

“—And then!” A man curses, hiccups, slamming his hand on one of the walls of the empty stable Phainon had crashed out at that night. The ‘bang!’ echoes and resonates through the space, pulsating through his head like a needle. It’s an unpleasant awakening, more so with the hazy disorientation sickness always brings. Yet, despite the nausea rolling off him in waves, the hand that closes around the blade is steady. “Tsk, that little–hic–bastard bit my hand!”

A round of laughter arises. It sounds like nails being dragged through a board, and Phainon grits his teeth as another wave bursts behind his eyelids.

“Oh, don’t laugh, you bastards! She–hic–nearly ripped my fingers off! See?”

“Take your damn fingers out of my face, Argus!” A woman snaps.

A low whistle. “Are you sure a kid bit you and not a dog? Heh, hic, might have made it less embarrassing!”

Another round of laughter, even though Phainon can’t tell for the life of him what’s so funny about the statement.

“Shut your trap, Kostas!” The man from before yells. “It was the same damn kid that was stealing the boss' lot from under your crappy eyes! Little prick wouldn’t have bitten me if you did your job!”

“So, now it’s my fucking fault?”

“So it was!”

“Lyra here was also on watch, and I ain’t hearing you tell her nothing!”

“I was the one that captured her, you stupid mutt!”

“Captured! Cap-tu-hic-red!” He mumbles out, stumbling upon syllables. “You should have killed her!”

“Killing is far too much of a mercy.” The woman clicks her tongue, hiccups. “Little prick wasn’t stealing from any lowlifes around here. She was stealing from the boss!”

“Don’t talk to me as if I didn’t know that!”

“You—!”

“So, what–hic–happens to her, then?” The first man interrupts. Following his question is a dull ‘thump!’ and a loud ‘ow!’, along a scoff and a curse.

“Hum! What happens to her? What happens to her, he says!” The woman repeats, mockingly.

“Boss deals with her, of course!”

Something or another is said, then. A couple more scalding insults. A couple more derisive words. A couple of steps getting far, far away. Phainon is not entirely sure. The words stopped registering in his mind at some point, replaced by an insistent buzzing in his ears as his eyes stared at some spot in the dark.

He had killed a child, once.

A little boy, he remembers, who had the misfortune of walking into a room in the later quints of the Curtain-Fall Hour mumbling about monsters and nightmares just to stumble into a real one as Phainon hung his mother’s corpse.

Make it look like suicide, he had been ordered, no witnesses.

Rather foolishly, Phainon had hoped that the little boy’s ramblings would be taken as grief-induced madness.

They hadn’t.

A week later, Phainon had received the kid’s head on a box.

He had understood, then, and understood well, that whatever end he could give would be far, far kinder than any other would concede, and ‘no witnesses’ had become his creed. It was his fault, anyways, the murder and the set-up had both taken too long.

And, tonight, another kid will die, but not by his hand, at least.

It’s not exactly a comfort.

The blade’s handle is cold against his skin. Heavy and deadly. It glints faintly as the rays of the pale, lonely moon filter through the gaps of the empty stable, and it trembles when he lifts it, sees it.

Phainon breathes, slow, deliberate, contemplative. There’s a small hitch to it, a slight whistle, drowned by the low ‘ba-thump’ of the heart he should have long cast aside pulsating all the way from his chest to the end of his fingertips.

They are going to kill that little girl unless someone does something.

Unless Phainon does something.

He’s not bound to get very far, not in the state he’s in, a part of his mind rationalizes, not when lifting the Ceremonial Blade requires monumental effort and sitting up takes an eternity or two, when his body aches and pulsates; and he’s under no delusion, either way, saving a life won’t make up for the hundred thousand he has taken.

He’s no hero, never was, will never be, but, it’s not like somebody in this fear-stricken city will go save her, not even if they knew.

━━━━━━━━━━

“Such naïve tendencies,” Caenis used to lament, “Ah, I could never beat those out of him.”

━━━━━━━━━━

It’s all too-easy to find the place where the mercenaries reside—Wise, eh, maybe not so much, but certainly easy. It’s the old, imposing temple rising at the very edge of the polis, with its sacred floors now covered in rum and the holy figures broken and relegated to cloth hangers.

It’s not surprising to see. Bulsa, before Kremnos baptized it in blood, held the same contempt for the earth itself as the Eye of Twilight once had.

There’s a few open windows shaped in squares at the very top of the walls from where the light of the sun and the moon are allowed to enter onto sacred ground that Phainon uses to try to sneak inside. Granted, it lacks the usual finesse he tends to have, and if anybody were to see his legs flailing around in the air they would surely laugh, but he manages to haul his body into one of the marble sills and not throw up in the process.

He squints, willing his sight to refocus from where it has gone blurry, and scans the place. Fifteen mercenaries, at the very, very least, scattered around the place as they eat and drink, swords and lances not far from them.

And, at the very end, tied to one of the stone columns, is a little girl with broken glasses and white hair.

Phainon takes a couple of deep breaths, wincing at the little whistle that arises as he does so, but unable to stop when he feels that the air he takes is not quite filling his lungs as it should.

Then, in one swift motion, he pushes himself inside.

He lands quietly despite his condition. He is not sure if he knows how to make sound anymore. But, as he moves to hide, his legs fail him and he has to all but crawl behind one of the columns.

Another breath, another whistle. Nobody seems to hear him.

He hits his legs with a firm fist a couple of times, forcing some feeling onto them before straightening up with shaky limbs. Yet, he nearly tumbles down again when a burst of hot, white pain explodes from his torso like fire spreading on a forest.

Phainon gasps, hisses, and forces himself to keep going.

Little by little, bit by bit, he manages to reach the place where the little girl is, hiding behind crates and pillars. It’s rather nerve-wracking, uncomfortably so, in the way it reminds him of the first kills he ever committed.

The little girl flinches as he comes to hide behind the pillar she’s tied onto with a flurry of clumsy motions, and her head whips in his direction with frightened eyes.

“Don’t look at me.” Phainon whispers, but it comes out wrong, like a threat. The little girl trembles as she obeys, head snapping forward, and Phainon tries to soften his voice as much as he can before he speaks. “...I’m not going to hurt you.”

The little girl doesn’t answer.

Good, it doesn’t bring attention to herself, but Phainon still can’t help but wince as her trembling gets worse.

He stands up from where he’s crouched in slow, careful movements, pulling the hoodie of the black cloak further down his face, feeling exposed without the ever familiar weight of the mask covering him, as he peeks around the corner.

Nobody is looking in this direction.

“So, what if Kremnos has braved out of the rat’s hole?” A voice spits from the far left as Phainon goes to cut the rope around the pillar. “The fact they were there in the first place ought to tell you more than enough! Honor. Bah! A bunch of brute scoundrels, that’s what they are!”

Another one scoffs. “Don’t underestimate them. Rats or not, those scoundrels managed to destroy our entire polis.”

“Tsk, and when did I call them weak?” The voice spits as another one yells, “What more reason to attack, attack, attack!”

“Hmph! Don’t be stupid.”

“Don’t be a coward!”

“What did you just call me, bastard!?” Echoes through the temple at the same time the little girl falls to the ground with a ‘thud’. Phainon doesn’t even give her the chance to register what has happened before he’s dragging her to another pillar, closer to the exit. “Say it to my face!”

“Coward!”

“Oh, here we go.” Someone sighs. The sound of skin meeting skin soon fills the air.

Taking advantage of the surging ruckus, Phainon pushes the little girl forward, a little hastily, a little desperately, towards the exit. She’s wary, but obliges nevertheless, one hand holding onto the end of his black cloak like a lifeline.

“But that was before,” Yet another voice rumbles like thunder. “Kremnos destroyed our polis before the Mad King lost his mind, before his wife died—”

“Died, ha. Why don’t you say it like it was? He killed her in cold blood.”

Another voice interrupts with a loud, “He didn’t kill her!” And a bunch of groans and moans arise. “Oh, come on! The Mad King doesn’t have the guts to kill the Queen!”

“So, what? He hired an assassin to end it all. It ain’t changed nothing. Queen Gorgo is still dead.”

“Kremnos does not involve itself with assassins.”

Phainon resists the urge to snort.

“Kremnos, yes, but what about the Mad King?”

“Are you trying to say,” Someone says, long-suffering. “that Queen Gorgo is still alive?”

“That I am!”

A round of laughter explodes. Phainon’s pace falters, ears straining.

“This is why you don’t go mingling with the drunkards at the taverns.” Another scoffs. “All they do is fill your head with stupidities.”

“It’s not stupidity—!”

The exclamation is cut sharply by the sound of metal clattering harshly against the ground and Phainon’s head snaps crudely downwards, just to see the little girl frozen in terror as a bunch of rusty lances splay across the ground next to her feet and an old, round shield rolls skids through the floor.

There’s a long, long stretch of silence.

Phainon doesn’t wait for it to break. Adrenaline surges through his veins. He ignores the ache in his limbs and the muddiness in his mind as he hauls the little girl onto his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and bolts to the exit.

Not even a second later, with a roar and a bunch of curses, the earth rumbles as a dozen steps follow after him.

But, in a massive, careless oversight, so terribly uncharacteristic of him, he forgot to take into account the mercenaries standing guard outside.

A piercing, “Catch him!” echoes through the walls of the temple and, almost in slow motion, almost as if Oronyx herself had stretched the fabric of her dress in cruel mockery, Phainon sees as a long, thin sword shoots forwards towards him.

He can dodge it.

He should be able to dodge it.

But his body is slow to react, and he only manages to twist just enough so that the sword cuts open a chunk of his abdomen instead of piercing him in the middle of the chest.

Phainon stumbles down onto the floor with a wounded cry. Something more akin to what an animal would make. The little girl topples down harshly alongside him, falling and rolling through the harsh cobblestone with a scream.

She does not need Phainon to scream at her to run away to start doing so.

Smart kid, a part of his mind, half-delirious, thinks, as one of his hands shoots to cut the ankle of a mercenary that shifts in her direction with the dagger he always keeps on him before he pushes himself upwards. His blood spreading and falling down like rain.

Even half-dead, with his consciousness fading in and out, in and out, the motions of killing are so deep ingrained in his body that Phainon still manages to finish off most of the mercenaries—and, to be fair, those still alive aren’t exactly whole anymore.

He then collapses crudely against the side of the temple.

A breath, then two, then three. All slow, not quite enough.

His blood is so, so very warm.

Instinctually, his hand goes to put pressure on the gaping wound. Deliberately, Phainon lets it fall at his side. His eyes trail patterns on the cobblestone, blurry and hazy. He’s close to death, he knows, and that’s fine.

That's fine.

There’s no particular thought that comes to him when he lets his eyes fall close. Nothing other than a sense of relief.

But,

“There he is!” A little voice cries. “Please, mister, you have to help him!”

His eyes open, and, through the haze, he manages to see the little girl from before pulling someone he belatedly recognizes as the prince’s medic towards him.

Around the dagger, his fingers tighten.