The Dionian leader's gaze lingered on the smoke curling from Ithan's skin, on the ember-glow threading through the boy's veins. His lips parted into a slow smile, white teeth flashing beneath the paint and soot. When he spoke, his voice carried a strange lilt—smooth, melodic, unnervingly measured. It clashed with the savage paint on his body and the gore dripping from his blade.
"Who would have thought," he said, almost reverently, "that you were the one we've been searching for?"
Ithan tightened his grip on the spear, its shaft trembling in his hands. His throat felt raw, every word scraping out like gravel. "Searching for?"
The leader stepped closer, the black mist from his sword curling like smoke from a pyre. The raiders around him lowered their weapons, watching in a hush that felt ritualistic. His eyes glowed faintly, reflecting the flames eating through the village.
"Yes," the man purred, his voice rolling like a hymn. "The one who would awaken the spark. The one destined to bear the torch that signals the end of this age." He tilted his head, studying Ithan with hunger and fascination, like a priest beholding an omen. "That fire stirring in your blood… that is no ordinary gift. No common fragment. It is a Mystery older than empires."
The word struck something inside Ithan, reverberating like a bell. He mouthed it as though tasting it for the first time. "Mystery…"
The chain against his chest pulsed again, flaring hot. For an instant, he swore he saw something in the flames—an image not his own: a titan bound in fire, a torch blazing against a field of ash. The vision vanished as quickly as it came, leaving only his ragged breath and the weight of the word echoing through him.
Mysteries. The word struck Ithan like an echo he'd half-buried. He had heard it before—late nights in the mercenary hall, when the air reeked of ale and sweat, and the firelight caught glimmers of things no steel could explain. He remembered the way hardened men lowered their voices when the subject arose, as if speaking too loud might draw the attention of something ancient still listening.
He had seen it too. Once, when a drunken brawl broke out, a scarred mercenary split the air with nothing but his shout, the sound cracking like thunder and sending men sprawling as if struck by invisible fists. Another time, he'd glimpsed a blade shimmer with unnatural light, cleaving through stone as easily as flesh. No one had questioned it. No one dared. Those who wielded such strange powers were feared and respected in equal measure.
Garrick had been the only one to explain it to him, in his blunt, half-patient way. Sitting on an overturned barrel, flask in hand, he told Ithan that Mysteries were the fragments of the divine—leftovers scattered across the world when the gods withdrew. Not relics of steel or stone, but shards of their very essence.
"The Great Withdrawal," Garrick had called it. A silence that fell thousands of years ago when the gods vanished from the world. Their absence ended what the old songs called the Heroic Age—an age when gods walked among mortals, when heroes bore their favor, when monsters still crawled from the deep places of creation. In its wake, only fragments remained, and the world staggered into a colder, harsher era.
Now, in the Iron Age, men scrabbled for survival with steel and blood. But those rare few who touched a Mystery… they carried a spark of that vanished age, a weight older than kingdoms.
And somehow, that spark now smoldered in Ithan's own chest.
The word hung in the air—Mystery—and Ithan's pulse thundered against his ribs. He felt it now, burning inside him, something vast and alien trying to fit inside his small, fragile frame. His hand went instinctively to the chain beneath his tunic.
The chain… it awakened me.
The thought flickered across his mind with relief, almost comfort. But even as it came, another truth pressed in harder, sharper, undeniable.
No. It wasn't the chain.
The chain was only a key, a spark struck against tinder. What blazed awake was not of the chain—it had been waiting in his blood all along. Buried, sleeping, patient. The chain had only torn it free.
The realization hit him like a blow. His veins seared with heat, the ember-glow flaring into something brighter, purer. The links of the chain rattled against his chest, then began to unravel into motes of light. One by one, they dissolved, rising like fireflies before vanishing into the smoke.
Ithan staggered, clutching the spear. White flames licked up from his hands, racing along the wood until the entire shaft burned with silent fire. Not red, not gold—white, stark and unnatural, as if light itself had been set aflame.
The Dionian war-leader froze mid-step, eyes widening at the sight. Around them, raiders and mercenaries alike pulled back, murmuring prayers or curses, unsure which this boy's blaze deserved.
Ithan could only stare at the weapon in his grip, at the pure fire that did not consume the wood, at the heat that filled him without burning. His breath shuddered. For the first time, he understood:
A Mystery was not something he held. It was something he was. The fire that licked along the spear wasn't fire at all—it was something purer, rawer, white flames that seemed to sear the air itself. And Ithan realized with a rush of terror and awe: he wasn't just wielding a Mystery. He was one.
The Prometheus Mystery.
The name burned in his mind like a brand. The thought steadied him, gave weight to his shaking arms. His fear thinned into something sharper—confidence, almost reckless. His gaze locked on the Dionian leader. The man had noticed too. His painted face tightened, the cruel smile gone, his mist-cloaked blade shifting into a guarded stance.
Ithan lunged.
The spear tore forward, its white fire screaming against the night. Heat warped the air around the thrust, distorting it like a mirage, making the very ground hiss where sparks spilled.
Steel met flame.
The war-leader's sword, wrapped in that writhing black mist, crashed against the spearpoint with a sound like thunder. Sparks burst outward, white fire against shadow, light against smoke. The Dionian staggered a step but held, his eyes gleaming with cold interest.
Then he raised his free hand.
The air buckled. A pressure crushed down on Ithan, invisible but merciless. It was the same unseen force that had flattened Garrick—the strike that had killed him. The world heaved sideways, and before Ithan could brace, it slammed into his chest.
He flew.
His body hit the cobbles with bone-snapping impact, rolling until his shoulder smashed against a toppled cart. Blood sprayed from his mouth, hot and coppery, spilling down his chin. Pain screamed through his ribs—something broken, maybe more than one.
But the spear didn't leave his grip. White flames still burned along the shaft, and his fingers clenched tighter around it as though Garrick's ghost were forcing them shut. He dragged himself up, every breath jagged, every muscle trembling, yet the fire inside him roared louder than the pain.
Don't waste it.
Garrick's words echoed like a drumbeat in his skull.
Ithan planted his feet, lifted the spear again. He shut his eyes for a heartbeat, pulling at every scrap of memory he had of Garrick's lessons—the way to keep the point steady, how to turn a thrust into a guard, how to let the weight of the weapon move with him rather than against him.
When he opened his eyes, the flames on the spear flared brighter, answering the focus in his heart.
He stepped forward again.
Ithan's knuckles whitened on the spear, the fire surging as though answering his will. He roared and drove forward again, the white flame tearing a streak through the night.
The Dionian leader's blade rose to meet it—but this time, the spearpoint slid through the black mist as though it were smoke. The tip grazed across his shoulder, slicing through flesh and paint alike.
The war-leader staggered half a step, eyes widening as white fire scorched his skin. The raiders gasped. For the first time, their champion bled.
Ithan's chest heaved, hope flickering like a spark in his ribs. I can hurt him—
Then the man laughed. Low, rich, almost joyous. Blood dripped from the shallow wound down his chest, but he didn't flinch. Instead, his blade lifted again, the mist coiling thicker, darker.
"Good," he said, his voice like honey poured over steel. "The Prometheus spark is not an illusion. It cuts even shadow."
His hand snapped out, faster than Ithan could follow. Invisible force slammed into him again, flinging him backward. His spine crashed against the wall of a burning hut, the impact jarring the breath from his lungs. The spear nearly slipped free, but the white fire clung stubbornly to his grip.
The war-leader advanced, unhurried, like a predator closing on wounded prey. "But you do not understand what you wield, boy. A newly kindled Mystique, raw and unshaped. Do you truly think you can stand before me?"
He raised his mist-wrapped sword, and the air thickened, heavy as lead.
"This power," he said, voice rising so all the Dionians could hear, "is the Mystery of Artemis—the huntress moon. It sharpens our senses, makes our strikes certain. No prey escapes." His eyes burned pale, inhuman.
With his free hand, he gestured to the raiders who circled, their painted faces rapt in frenzy. "And this—" The mist swelled outward, wrapping his warriors in coils of black fire. Their eyes glazed, their bodies trembling as bloodlust overtook them. "This is the Mystery of Dionysius. Frenzy. Ecstasy. The power of chaos in war."
The raiders howled, striking their weapons together in a deafening rhythm, drunk on the invisible haze.
The leader's smile returned, sharp and cruel. "Together, they are what we are. Hunters, and revelers. Killers and devourers. The Dionian tribe is blessed with twin Mysteries. And you—" he leveled his sword at Ithan, whose knees threatened to buckle under the weight of the force pressing against him—"you are nothing but a spark, flickering in the storm."
Ithan's ribs ached, every breath shallow, blood trickling down his chin. But even as his body screamed to yield, the spear in his hand burned brighter, white fire refusing to die.
The Dionian war-leader closed the distance with deliberate calm, the mist on his blade writhing as though eager to taste blood. He raised it high, the air buckling under the invisible weight of his Mystery.
"Die with your spark, boy," he said softly. "A candle is meant to be snuffed."
The blade fell.
Ithan threw the spear up in a desperate block, knees buckling under the crushing pressure. His bones screamed, his muscles tore, the world narrowing to fire and pain. The edge of the mist-wreathed steel pressed closer, closer—
—and something inside him broke loose.
The anger that had been boiling since Ravenstone burned erupted. Rage at the villagers, at the raiders, at the death of Garrick. Rage at being powerless, useless. That fury poured into the white flames, and the fire answered.
The spear ignited brighter, flaring blindingly, the white flames twisting and elongating until they snapped outward like living things. Chains—links of molten fire—lashed from the shaft, curling around the Dionian's blade, searing against the mist.
The war-leader's eyes widened, the cruel certainty in them cracking. His sword arm shuddered as the flaming chains constricted, sparks spitting where white fire clashed with black shadow.
Ithan roared, the sound raw and broken, forcing himself upright though his ribs ground with every breath. The chains writhed like serpents, pulling tighter, heat rippling through the square. Raiders staggered back, shielding their faces from the light. Even the mercenaries, bloodied and beaten, froze to stare.
The war-leader tore free with a violent surge of his power, the mist on his blade screaming as it repelled the chains. He staggered back a pace, his shoulder smoking where the fire had grazed him.
And there Ithan stood—bleeding, trembling, barely able to breathe—yet holding a spear wrapped in white flame, chains of light still writhing around it like a god's forgotten weapon.
The boy's chest heaved, his vision swimming, but the fire did not dim. If anything, it burned hotter, as though it would consume him too if he let it.
The flaming chains writhed, snapping sparks into the night as Ithan staggered under their weight. His chest heaved, blood slicking his chin, but the fire clung stubbornly to him—unyielding, hungry, alive.
The Dionian war-leader steadied his blade, mist boiling along its edge. His eyes, pale and predatory, stayed locked on Ithan. For the first time, his expression was not smug triumph but a shadow of something colder. Recognition.
Then it came—a piercing whistle that cut through the chaos, shrill and commanding, rising above the clash of steel and the howls of the frenzied raiders.
At once, the Dionians faltered. The frenzied howls turned to ragged breaths, their weapons lowering as discipline overpowered bloodlust. One by one, they began to pull back, retreating into the shadows beyond the flames.
The war-leader did not move. Not yet. He lingered, gaze fixed on the boy with the white flames curling around his spear. Slowly, he lowered his sword, the mist retracting into a coil of shadow that clung to his arm like a shroud.
"You are no mere spark," he said, his voice carrying clear across the square. "You are a torch. And torches set fire to worlds."
He turned his head slightly, blood dripping from his earlier wound, and gave a sharp gesture. His raiders melted into the darkness beyond the village, their retreat swift and practiced.
Finally, he sheathed the mist-wrapped blade into nothingness—swallowed by the shadows themselves. His eyes never left Ithan's.
"Survive, boy. When the time comes, I will find you again."
Then he was gone, vanishing with his warriors into the night. The only trace of him left was the stench of smoke and the shallow cut on his shoulder, still seared black by white fire.
Ithan swayed, the chains of flame guttering before dissolving into embers that scattered on the wind. His knees gave, and he dropped into the bloodstained dirt, the spear clattering beside him. His vision tunneled, the world tilting.
The last thing he saw before the darkness closed in was Garrick's grave-mark in his mind's eye, and the white flame still burning faintly against the night sky.