Near the makeshift gate of logs, Éreon fastened the reins to the worn post, the frayed leather creaking beneath his fingers.
Éon did the same, tightening the knot with cold precision, his eyes cutting across the village like restless blades.
Ahead, the village revealed itself—if that heap of dead wood and tired stone even deserved such a name.
Sunken roofs, planks twisted like the exposed ribs of a dying beast.Walls cracked, standing more out of stubbornness than structure.
Doors hung from rusted hinges, groaning beneath the weight of time and misery.
Nothing there had shine.
Not even hope—only survival.
When Éreon and Éon walked through the entrance, the village went silent. Not out of respect.
But out of the animal instinct of those who recognize predators.
The ground was mud mixed with animal entrails, bits of charcoal and ancient blood never washed away by rain sinking beneath their boots. No villager breathed too loudly; no one moved without reason.
"What are we doing here?" Éon asked, voice low, taut with tension, like someone measuring every step before death.
Éreon didn't answer right away. He studied the narrow street, the wind slamming against houses that seemed ready to collapse with a single sigh. Then he walked, firm steps steady.
"Since a new threat has arisen," he murmured, eyes fixed ahead, "I fear I'll have to move things forward."
The hungry eyes of the villagers followed them—not out of hope, but pure survival instinct, like gaunt wolves before larger predators.
Thin children watched from shadows, motionless elders stood like human stones.
Misery thickened the air—almost physical, almost alive.
Éon looked away only for an instant. His expression, rarely vulnerable, steeled itself against something within—discomfort, restrained disgust, perhaps pity… that died before it could be born.
Éreon noticed. And did not soften.
"Should we just end their suffering?" Éreon asked, voice low, almost dissolving into logic.
"Time will do that," Éon replied, cold and sure. "Leave them."
The wind carried ashes from a dead fire.
A thin dog crossed the street, ribs showing, ignoring them as if it had seen far worse horrors.
The tavern appeared ahead—wood swollen by humidity, windows patched with rags, sign hanging by a single nail, creaking at each breath of wind.
Éreon stopped. His gaze rested on the worn door, as if he measured not the wood… but the fate behind it.
"We've arrived," he said, without drama, only certainty.
No divine announcement.
No spectacle.
Only certainty.
Éon nodded, hand resting lightly on the weapon's hilt—not out of alarm, but by habit, the reflex of someone who never lets his guard down.
The wind tore through the air like a dull blade, dragging dust and the scent of rust.
Then they pushed open the tavern door, and the whole village seemed to hold its breath.
The light inside was scarce—not for lack of candles, but because soot devoured any brightness that dared live there.
The smell was a bitter blend of damp wood, stale sweat, and soup too thin to have taste.
Tables, crooked and loosely nailed, trembled with every heavier step.
Men with hollow eyes and calloused hands leaned like living shadows; others, swaying, mumbled nonsense—broken remnants of better days.
A pair of children far too thin shared a piece of hard bread in a corner, as if hiding a treasure.
When Éreon and Éon crossed the door, the murmurs stopped.
Empty, wary eyes lifted.
No gestures, no words—only a pause, marked by hunger, fear… and a faint, instinctive spark of hope that all tried to smother.
Éreon walked to the counter.
The woman behind it—skin marked by hard living, hair tied too tightly, gaze that had seen enough horrors to be surprised by nothing—watched him in mute attention.
He placed a coin on the worn wood and spoke, low and firm:
"Everything the fire touches, it purifies."
An even heavier silence formed.
The woman narrowed her eyes… and replied, her voice rough as extinguished ember:
"The rest… is just ash waiting for the wind."
The confirmation fell like a blade.
She made an almost imperceptible motion with her chin—and three men in strategic corners slid their hands slightly inside their coats, where steel slept.
Sharp eyes assessed every angle.
If anything went wrong, no one there would see the dawn.
"Follow me," she said.
She led them down a narrow corridor, then pushed aside a false door hidden behind stacked barrels.
A noise of shifting wood—and then a narrow, damp stone tunnel revealed itself.
The breath of the world above seemed to vanish there; the air grew heavier, as if it carried too many secrets.
As they descended, only boots and the echo of steps filled the void.
Until Éon broke the silence, voice low:
"How did you know about this place?"
Éreon drew a long breath. A thin, almost nostalgic smile traced his mouth.
"The day we robbed the temple and hired a mercenary… I met a peculiar man."
Éon shot him a side glance, suspicious—as if he already guessed which of the many peculiar ones Éreon had crossed paths with.
"He told me about this," Éreon went on, voice now deeper. "As you can see from the village… they were abandoned."
Silence returned, heavier than before.
Éon didn't reply this time. He just walked—steps echoing like memories of battles and heavy vows.
And they followed the path further, until faint torchlight ahead began to glow within the tunnel.
The hidden underworld was near.
Where hope died… and conspiracies learned to breathe.
The torch trembled, casting shadows that clawed at the damp walls of the subterranean hall.
From the back of the chamber emerged a man whose presence seemed forged from fire and steel.
Hair white as ash, short and disheveled.
Thick beard, well-kept, of the same tone.
Gray eyes, almost translucent—molten metal watching the world.
Skin marked by incandescent veins, the memory of a failed operation; he wore a reinforced tactical vest and military pants, sleeves always gone to endure the heat that still burned beneath his skin.
His weary gaze did not deny the vigor of one who had survived to fight again.
Upon seeing the princes, the man dropped to one knee with a brisk motion.
"Your Highnesses," he said, voice coarse and steady. "I thought you'd come only by mid-next year."
The woman from the counter withdrew immediately and silently as soon as the brothers entered; her movement was part of the ritual of this place—efficiency without curiosity.
Éreon studied for a moment the kneeling man, as if judging the worth of a blade with a single glance.
"Rise," he ordered, curt. He walked to an old chair and sat with absolute ease, as though the wooden throne were no less worthy than one of stone.
"An unforeseen event occurred," he said after a pause, voice low, sharp. "Someone is watching us."
The man lifted his head, eyes scanning the table, the floor, every shadow. There was doubt—but not panic.
"That… won't be a problem," Éreon said, restrained.
Éon stood near the entrance, his hand brushing the wall before settling on the katana's hilt, body taut as a drawn wire.
Éreon rested his fingers on the table and continued, gaze unwavering:
"I must say, though, that my brother and I are… unstable as of late. Marcus—tell me what you've learned so far."
The man lifted his chin. The name cut the air. Marcus—he breathed, then spoke with military precision:
"Prince, as ordered…" He touched an imaginary blade of respect. "I eliminated all mercenaries after concealing the weaponry."
"As for the priest… he didn't withstand the torture. He's dead." The phrase came dry, without lament.
Éon clenched his jaw, dark eyes trapping the room's light. He stayed silent, vigilant.
"He held no useful information and didn't know how they recreated the weapons," Marcus went on, gaze direct. "In the documents handed to me, four empires are already preparing to begin an uprising by mid-next year."
Éreon narrowed his eyes, thoughtful. He tapped his finger—short, calm—on the worn wood of the table.
"You said you were ex-military. Correct?" His tone cut like glass.
Marcus nodded, and the story surfaced like steel revealing its forge:
"Yes, Your Highness. Born in Reykjavík, in old Iceland, before the fall of governments. Served in special operations—missions across the former Middle East and Europe. After the global collapse and the gods' return, I became a mercenary: took contracts from those who could pay—or causes I deemed worthy."
Éreon looked at him for a moment that seemed to stretch. A thin smile—provocative, cold—curved his lips.
"Tell me, Marcus… do you think I'll fight for a worthy cause?"
The ex-soldier didn't hesitate.
"All I can say, Your Highness, is that at least you see the bay with different eyes than any noble I've known," he replied, honest. There was respect in his voice—and a sober measure of the man before power.
Éreon smiled briefly, satisfied, the corner of his mouth curved in silent provocation.
"Marcus 'Ash' Varden," he said then, naming him with solemnity, "swear loyalty to me. Kill and die in my name. In return, I shall give you the power you need to fight… and to help the less fortunate."
Silence hung, dense as hot iron. Marcus studied the prince's face—the request, the promise—hesitating.
Éreon noticed. He rose with lethal ease, his cloak slipping over his shoulder like liquid shadow.
"But first… we leave," he ordered, crisp.
Marcus nodded. The three left the hidden chamber.
The narrow corridor returned to twilight with the echo of their steps.
They climbed, the false door groaned, old wood meeting the world with a muffled sound.
Outside, the village resumed its silence of a wounded beast.
The figures watching them sank back into their shadows.
Éreon and Éon stood for a moment at the tavern's entrance, gazing at the muddy street ahead.
"I know why you have doubts, Marcus," Éreon said, voice calm but every word charged with intent. "I must show you the extent of my words."
Éreon's eyes glowed violet. Shadowed filaments crawled along his forearms and fingers, pulsing with living energy.
He whispered, almost reverent:
"Reverentia."
The air vibrated with a distorted magnetic sound, as if the space itself were fracturing around them.