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Éreon's eyes burned violet.
Dark filaments coursed along his forearms and fingers, pulsing with living energy, and the air vibrated with a distorted magnetic hum — as if space itself fractured around him.
He whispered, almost reverent:
"Reverentia."
Fingers opened slowly, like one molding time itself.
The air began to tremble.
The world held its breath.
The huts creaked and bowed slightly; the ground shuddered, the earth seemed to pulse beneath everyone's feet.
"I do not merely return things to the void," he continued, voice low and steady, "I can also bring them back to the moment before they were corrupted."
The village, through Marcus's eyes, began to change.
Collapsed huts straightened, wood and roofs aligning as if by unseen hands.
A soft wind swept through the streets, carrying the scent of fresh earth.
Children who once ran pale and starving now laughed, healthy and strong, playing in the dust.
The muddy ground hardened, clean and solid; murky puddles evaporated, replaced by tiny flowers sprouting between stones.
A child stopped in the middle of the street — eyes that once were hollow now gleamed like someone seeing the sun for the first time.
The adults, once bent beneath misery, straightened; their skin seemed alive again, their gazes lucid and bright.
Marcus blinked, unable to believe.
"What… what does this mean?"
Éon exhaled softly, eyes fixed on the transformation.
"This is the power of one who can manipulate the Void and the Chaos before creation," he said, voice firm. "He is reminding this village of a version of itself that was still pure… before corruption, before pain."
Éreon, still standing, watched every detail, every reaction.
His violet eyes shimmered, and the dark filaments danced around his hands like liquid ink over the fabric of reality.
For a few moments, the village became a vision of hope and order,as if time itself had bent to show Marcus and Éon the true reach of a prince's power — one who not only destroys, but can restore.
The villagers, who moments ago had been shadows hunched beneath hunger, now surrounded Éreon with widened eyes.
Some knelt out of instinct; others stood frozen, as if waiting for the world to make sense again.
The silhouettes cast by sunset reflected on newly restored faces, turning misery into faint specters of hope.
Éreon lifted his chin.
His violet eyes blazed — not with mercy, but with absolute decision.
He looked at Éon; a brief nod, a silent understanding passing between brothers.
Then he turned to the gathered people.
The voice that came forth was both regal and merciless, each word sculpted to echo for generations:
"I am Éreon, second heir and son of the Throne of the North," he spoke with slow, heavy diction, like heated iron. "Hear me well: what you witness here is nothing compared to the works I will accomplish in the days to come."
He paused.
Silence bent before him, as if the very air respected his presence.
"I give you a choice," he continued, his voice now crowned with contained fire. "Those among you who can wield a blade, who possess courage and the will to fight — kneel before your prince. Swear to fight and die in my name, and I will grant you power so that hunger, fear, and poverty shall never haunt you again. A new life of conquest, prosperity, and honor awaits."
The people remained motionless, eyes wide, hearts beating like drums of hope.
The silence between them weighed tons.
Where once there had been fear and despair, now there was gratitude.
Each man, each woman, felt for the first time in years the promise of protection and abundance.
"But," Éreon's voice turned colder, sharp as a blade, "cowardice, betrayal, and greed will have their price. Should you betray my cause, should you return to the tongue of idleness and deceit, you will pay with your blood — and that of your descendants. The choice is simple: kneel, or return to the misery you so recently left behind."
A collective sigh swept through the village — not of fear, but of relief, recognition, and decision.
One by one, men and women knelt, hands clasped in oath, eyes gleaming with newfound faith.
Marcus "Ash" Varden remained still until the end of the vow.
When the first murmurs of allegiance spread, Marcus stepped forward, voice trembling faintly with restrained emotion:
"I, Marcus Varden, swear absolute loyalty to Your Highness. Let my flesh be steel, my blood a vow, my soul a chain. I will fight for your cause. I will die by your will. And if death should take me… I shall return, if summoned. This is my oath — and let the world break before I do."
Éreon's eyes flared deep violet.
"Your soul is mine from this moment on. Guard it well… or spend it for me. Either way, you'll rise again to keep paying."
Éon inclined his head slightly, like one accepting a new turn on the board.
The people, still kneeling, murmured their oaths in unison, each word a firm knot binding the village's fate.
The ground trembled.
The air seemed to hold its breath.
Not like earth — but as if something ancient, hungry, and awake stirred beneath the roots of the world.
Roars — deep, endless — tore through the horizon.
The air vibrated.
Skin shivered.
Bones shook.
The creatures answered the vow.
To the prince.
To the king who was not yet king.
Éreon turned to Marcus, voice heavy as a sacred decree:
"Train them. Teach them to hold iron, to kill with bare hands if they must. None of them will fall broken again."
Before Marcus could breathe a reply, Éon set a hand on his brother's shoulder.
"Reversum."
The world twisted.
Sound died.
Light folded into itself — and they emerged within the hidden chamber of the tavern.
And there, far from the eyes of the newborn subjects, the price arrived.
Air was ripped from Éreon's lungs, as if chaos were sucking his soul out through his chest.
Purple veins quivered beneath his skin; the divine, forbidden magic wavered like a blade on the verge of shattering.
Shallow breath.Blurred eyes.Old pain — infinite — cracking open the soul.
Éreon staggered, nearly collapsing, one hand clutching his chest as if to keep his heart from splintering.
"Éon…" His voice was broken iron, a blade worn from too many battles. "Listen. You must… help Marcus. Train them."
Éon stepped forward, voice steady but fractured by the terror of losing everything.
"I won't leave you. Not now."
"Yes, you will." Éreon's smile came crooked, fractured, stained with the taste of blood and power. "I won't die. But what's coming… will devour whoever stays near me."
Éon's throat tightened as though invisible hands were crushing it.
Loyalty.Fear.Love that dared not name itself.
"Tell me…" The words came in a thin thread, almost airless. "What was the price, Éreon? When you broke the bond… when you gave up sixteen centuries for me… what did you sacrifice?"
A laugh slipped from Éreon's lips — small, fractured, filled with sharp pain and shadowed pride.
"Everything." His eyes burned a deep violet. "I renounced my name, my family, my era. Traded love for war. Tenderness for power. Peace… for chaos."
He breathed — a ragged sound, like glass crushing inward.
"Loneliness. Fear. I abandoned them… and they abandoned me." His jaw locked. "But it was worth it. Because you… you are my family now. My only brother. My echo. My half."
Éon's chest trembled.
He clenched his fists until his knuckles went white, as if sheer will could keep the world from collapsing.
"Tell me… what have you become, Éreon?"
Silence.
A thick, ancient silence — soaked in blood, destiny, and the whisper of gods who watched in fear.
"That which even gods avoid naming." The voice came low, deep, almost like a prophecy torn from the abyss. "Nordic flesh and blood. Greek divine essence. Hybrid. Error. Condemnation. Living heresy."
Then pain tore him apart.
Not only body — spirit.Not only flesh — reality.
Violet veins burst beneath his skin, profane light pulsing.
The air vibrated.
Stone groaned. And then—
"AHHHHHHHHHH—!"
The scream was fever, void, chaos devouring a man and birthing a monster.
Éreon fell to his knees, hands clawing the floor, nails bleeding as he tried to hold his own existence together.
"Go!" he roared, spitting blood and broken divinity. "Don't let anyone in. Feed the creatures. And show no mercy, Éon." A final trace of a king echoed. "Keep the vow alive. My vow."
Another scream — "AHHHHHHHHHH!" — animal, trembling, shattering the stone walls and his brother's soul.
The light in his eyes went out.
Not an end.
Not peace.
An eclipse of himself — suspended between life and abyss, like a god who does not yet know he's been reborn.
"I trust you, Éon…" The final whisper — fragile, eternal.
The body fell.
Absolute silence wrapped him — heavy, dense, as if time itself had ceased.
But Éreon still heard a voice.
"Do you believe, Éreon?" A child's voice echoed, soft yet brimming with power. "My grandmother Gaia doesn't like when I stay near Zeus."
Figures bathed in light walked among white columns.
Vines climbed the pillars, flowers shone like living gold, and the sea glimmered in the distance — blue, infinite, divine.
Greece breathed life and godhood.
"But isn't he the father of all?" the boy insisted, eyes wide like an oracle in formation. "Why does she hate him? He's powerful… and he teaches so much. I learn more from listening to him than from my priests."
Marble statues seemed to watch.
Divine children ran through hanging gardens, laughing with voices so pure even the harpies in the sky stopped to listen.
"Éreon?" The little one touched his arm, frowning. "Are you listening to me?"
A slow blink.
His soul returning.
Éreon lifted his gaze, confused, as if waking from millennia.
The Greek sun kissed his face.
And yet, a cold that did not belong to that world crawled down his spine.
"Forgive me," he murmured, voice distant, as if it belonged to another body. "For a moment… I forgot where I was."
The boy laughed — a sound pure as water running through a sacred temple.
"You always do that." He shook his head, like scolding an equal — not a mortal. "Maybe it's your essence fighting your destiny."
The smile was childish.
The sentence, terrible.
"Mother says some of us are born to honor the gods…" the boy whispered, staring at the divine horizon, "…and others are born to remind them that even they can fall."
Éreon froze.
Silence consumed all.
The cicadas stopped singing.
A breeze murmured through the olive trees.
The temple breathed like a living creature watching him.
It was light.It was glory.It was eternity.
But within him…something trembled — like a beast chained in an abyss even gods feared to look upon.
Centuries ago — Ancient Greece.Before the North, before the abyss, before the sin of time.