Ithan rose from his chair, the legs scraping softly against the floorboards. The fire's warmth fell away as he crossed the room toward the stairwell, boots heavy on the worn steps. The tavern noise—dice clattering, mugs thudding, Lyra calling for another round—dimmed with every step upward, replaced by the muted creak of wood and the faint draft leaking from the upper floor.
At the landing, a single door stood half-ajar, lamplight spilling through the crack. Ithan rapped his knuckles against the frame once before pushing it open.
Lason sat behind a scarred desk, a half-empty bottle of wine beside him. The lamplight carved deep lines into his face, lines Ithan swore hadn't been there when they'd first left Ravenstone together. Papers lay scattered across the desk—contracts, maps, letters—all shoved aside in a heap as though none of them had been worth finishing.
"You heard," Lason said without looking up. His voice was tired, worn thin.
Ithan stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. "Saw them leaving." He leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "Blue Orcas."
Finally, Lason lifted his gaze. His eyes were sharp, but there was a weight behind them, something heavier than anger. "They've been at it for months. Offers dressed in honeyed words, promises of coin, supplies, safety. Today they thought dragging their captain in would change my mind."
"And did it?" Ithan asked, his tone flat, testing.
Lason snorted, grabbing the wine and pouring what was left into his cup. "Not a chance. You know what their coin means. It isn't theirs. It's Arkanis'." He drank, the bitter tang of defiance on his tongue.
Ithan pushed off the wall, stepping closer to the desk. "They won't stop, Lason. The Imperium doesn't like hearing 'no.' Not from mercenaries, not from anyone. You keep refusing, they'll push harder. Sooner or later, they'll stop asking."
"That's what I'm counting on," Lason said, setting the cup down with a dull thud. "Better they show their teeth now than later. At least then my men know who we're really fighting."
Ithan studied him. The lamplight flickered across the strands of gray in Lason's hair, the wear in his shoulders, the wine stains on his fingers. This wasn't just stubbornness. It was conviction—the kind that could drag them all into the fire.
"You're risking more than yourself," Ithan said quietly.
"I know." Lason's eyes met his, steady despite the exhaustion. "But I'd rather burn free than live under their leash. You feel it too, don't you? The way they look at men like us—as tools, nothing more."
Ithan's jaw clenched, the memory of marble halls and smug senators rising like bile in his throat. He had seen too much of the Imperium's rot—wealth fattening the few while the rest bent under its weight. He hated them, hated the corruption that bled through every edict, every contract, every smile sharpened into a blade.
And then his thoughts caught on that word—corruption.
Slowly, he reached beneath his cloak. The weight of the bundle pressed into his palm, heavier than its size should allow. He drew it out, a ragged scrap of cloth knotted tight, faint pulses of violet-green seeping through the weave like a heartbeat trying to escape.
Lason's eyes narrowed. "What's that?"
Ithan set it on the desk, untying the cloth with careful fingers. The folds fell back, and the corrupted mystery gleamed in the lamplight—slick, glassy, its surface alive with twisting veins of light. The air around it seemed to hum, thickening, filling the room with a low pressure that pressed against the lungs.
Lason recoiled, his chair scraping violently against the floor as he lurched to his feet. His voice tore out, sharp and raw, the first time he had shouted at Ithan in years.
"Are you mad? Bringing that here, boy!"
Ithan's gaze didn't waver. "No." The single word was calm, almost cold.
Lason slammed his palms against the desk, papers scattering under the force. "I warned you, didn't I? That curious streak of yours—it'll be the death of both of us. Why in all the gods' names would you carry this filth with you?"
Ithan's fingers brushed the surface of the shard, the glow crawling faintly across his knuckles without burning. "Because I can. You know I'm immune."
"Immune?" Lason's voice was rough, almost bitter. "That might keep you standing, but the rest of us? We're not blessed—or cursed—the way you are." His hand trembled as he jabbed a finger at the shard. "That thing is poison. It seeps. It spreads. You drag it in here, you drag its rot into all of us."
Ithan lifted his eyes to him, unflinching. "You've seen it, Lason. When I'm near, curses break. They slide off. You know it's true. As long as you're in my presence, it won't touch you."
Lason froze at that, breathing hard. He did know. The tales told in villages weren't just superstition. Ash-gray hair wasn't a curse-mark for nothing—it came from something older, something twisted into humanity's fear. The truth had been lost to rumor, but the core of it remained: curseborn were the only ones who could walk through curses and survive.
Still, Lason's eyes burned as he stared at the shard. "Gods damn you, Ithan. Some things shouldn't be carried. And some truths shouldn't be tested."
The corrupted mystery pulsed again, as if amused by the argument. Its light crawled over the desk, painting their faces in sickly hues.
"Get rid of it," Lason snapped, his voice harsh enough to rattle the shutters. He shoved the shard back toward Ithan with the flat of his hand, as though even touching the cloth was too much. "Throw it in the river, grind it to dust, I don't care how—but you will not keep that thing under my roof."
Ithan didn't move. His fingers tightened around the bundle, pulling it back across the desk like a man claiming a blade. His amber eyes burned against Lason's glare.
"No."
Lason's breath hitched. "No?"
"I'm not destroying it." Ithan's voice was steady, though his knuckles whitened against the ragged cloth. "Not this one. Not after what I've seen. Ever since the first Daimon I faced, I've wanted to understand them—what makes them, what twists them, why people keep ending up as husks for curses. This shard has answers. And I'm done running blind."
The words fell like iron.
Lason stared at him, disbelief flickering into anger. "You think you're strong enough to stare into that kind of abyss without falling in? That's pride, boy. Pride's what kills faster than any blade." He slammed a fist against the desk, rattling the lamp and sending shadows jumping across the walls. "You'll drag the whole company down with you."
But Ithan didn't flinch. His jaw set, his gaze fixed on the shard as though daring it to do its worst.
"I need to know," he said quietly. "If I don't, then what happened back then—" His words caught in his throat, but the silence carried the rest. The blood. The screams. The way his world had shattered when a Daimon had torn through his life and left nothing but ash.
Lason closed his eyes for a moment, shoulders sinking. He had been there, had seen what that night had carved into Ithan. That kind of trauma didn't fade. It festered.
When he opened them again, his fury had cooled into something heavier. Weariness.
"Damn it," Lason muttered, dragging a hand down his face. "You'll kill yourself chasing that truth. And there's nothing I can do to stop you?"
"No," Ithan said simply.
For a long moment, the two men stared at each other, the corrupted mystery's glow pulsing faintly between them like a second heartbeat. Finally, Lason leaned back in his chair, defeated, and reached for the wine.
"Fine," he said, pouring himself a full cup with a shaky hand. "Study it. Burn your years if you must. But don't you dare let it touch anyone else." He downed the cup in a single swallow, eyes squeezed shut. "Gods help me for letting you keep it."
Ithan carefully rewrapped the shard, binding its sickly glow back in cloth, and tied it to his belt once more. With it hidden, the air in the room seemed to ease, though the weight of it remained.
"I'll figure it out," he said quietly. "One way or another."
Lason didn't answer. He only stared into his empty cup, as though trying to find salvation at the bottom of it.
****
"We're not leaving," Anastomus said, his voice carrying easily over the crackle of the fire. His silver eyes caught the last smear of daylight, glinting like polished blades in the deepening dusk.
Across the camp, Antipater lifted his head from the map he'd been studying. The corners of his mouth curved in the faintest of smiles. "No," he agreed. His tone was quiet but heavy, the kind of word that carried conviction. He had felt it—that flicker of power, like a heartbeat in the soil itself—as they were leaving the village. The Imperium had been hunting such strength for months, and now it was practically within reach.
Around them, the Blue Orcas busied themselves with ritual efficiency. Horses were tethered beneath the trees, their breath steaming in the cooling air. Steel hissed as men honed blades, checked straps, and pulled on helmets. The fire cast them in a ruddy glow, turning their movements into shifting silhouettes.
"So we're really doing this." Anastomus tilted his head, that fixed smile playing at his lips. The firelight painted hollows beneath his eyes, deepening the cold gleam of his stare. "No lives spared, then?"
Antipater didn't hesitate. "None."
A low chuckle came from Paul, one of the captain's veterans. He leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees, the edge of his spear glinting in the firelight. "That's bold, boss. Entire village? Won't the provincial dogs be sniffing around after? Hard to hide a massacre."
Antipater turned his gaze to him, calm as ever. "We'll make it look like a Dionian raid."
That drew a few laughs, grim and knowing. The Dionians had been pressing deeper into the March with each season. Villages along the frontier were already riddled with stories of raiding parties and butchered homes.
Antipater went on, his voice carrying across the camp. "They've grown bolder, and the council fears them already. A pile of corpses here will be nothing but another tale to add to the panic. By the time anyone questions it, the Imperium will already have what we came for."
Anastomus' smile widened. He leaned back, folding his hands behind his head, the silver of his eyes burning brighter in the gloom. "Perfect. Let the Dionians carry the blame. They've got broad shoulders for it."
The fire snapped and spat between them, sending sparks spiraling into the night sky. Around the circle, the mercenaries' faces hardened, their silence saying what words did not. Orders had been given.
A village slept not far from where they sat—its fate already sealed by the glow of the campfire and the quiet conviction of the man who led them.
****
After supper and a brief stretch of rest, Ithan found himself alone in the building the people of Volos had set aside for him. It wasn't grand by any measure—two rooms, timber walls, a hearth that still smoked faintly from the day's fire—but compared to the hut in Ravenstone where he had grown up, it felt almost like a gift. A place with space to breathe. A place that didn't smell of damp earth and rotting straw.
But comfort didn't last long.
He sat in a rough-hewn chair by the table, the lamplight dim and flickering, his focus fixed on the object before him. The shard lay in his palm, bound no longer in cloth but naked under his gaze. It pulsed faintly, veins of sickly violet and green crawling just beneath its glassy surface. A pressure bled from it, subtle but constant, like a heartbeat that didn't belong in the room.
The aura of it gnawed at the edges of his senses—sharp, sour, clinging. A power coiled in the shard, restless, patient, hungry for someone foolish enough to draw it in.
Ithan narrowed his eyes. If I aligned myself with it… I could wield that power. The thought whispered through him, not entirely his own. The shard seemed to breathe with him, waiting.
But Lason's warnings echoed louder. A Mystique can only bear one Mystery, sometimes two if the threads align. Otherwise, the truths clash. And when truths clash, they unmake you—or worse. They twist you into something else. A Daimon.
Ithan's jaw tightened. And if I'm curseborn?
He stared at the shard, its light painting his fingers in sickly hues. Being curseborn had always marked him as other—feared, shunned, whispered about. But that same mark had given him what no one else had: resistance. Curses slid from him like water from stone. Would this shard be the same? Would its corruption break against him? Or would it simply tear him apart from the inside, curseborn or not?
The uncertainty dug into him. His breath came slow, steady, but his chest felt tight.
A faint glow sparked in his eyes—white, piercing. Flames shimmered into existence at his fingertips, pure and pale, hovering like tiny stars. With a thought, he coaxed one flame forward. It floated across the narrow space, trailing faint smoke, inching toward the shard.
The shard reacted. Its veins pulsed faster, light throbbing like blood rushing to a wound. The air thickened, vibrating between flame and stone.
Ithan leaned forward, his hand steady, though his heart hammered. Am I tempting fate—or testing truth?
The white fire licked the surface of the shard. And for a moment, the room seemed to breathe.
The white fire licked across the shard's surface, searing its veins. At once the thing spasmed violently, a shuddering pulse that made the wooden table crack and groan beneath it. Violet-green light writhed, fighting against his flame like a cornered beast. A wave of pressure exploded outward, rattling the shutters and snuffing the lamp.
Ithan hissed between his teeth, the white blaze tightening in his palm. Already the shard's skin was fracturing, black lines splitting across its surface like breaking glass. The curse screamed in silence, a pressure that clawed through his skull and set his bones trembling.
Then—something else.
Beneath the roar of corruption, he felt it. A subtle hum, familiar in a way that sank like ice into his gut. The same prickle he'd felt when he rode back into Volos, when that lacquered carriage rolled past the gates. That same presence. Watching. Reaching.
His fire faltered.
He pulled back at once, snapping his hand shut. The flame winked out, leaving the room plunged into shadows broken only by the faint, sickly glow of the shard. It still pulsed, veins crawling like serpents beneath glass, but the cracks he had opened sealed themselves again with a hiss, as if mocking his hesitation.
Ithan sat there in the dark, breath harsh, sweat cooling against his brow. His hand hovered inches above the shard, fingers twitching with restraint.
He could have destroyed it. He should have. But that feeling—whatever tied it to Volos—chained his hand in place.
Slowly, carefully, he wrapped the shard back in the ragged cloth, smothering its glow until it was no more than a dead weight in his lap. The aura lingered, though clinging to his skin, whispering at the edge of thought.
As he was about to rise, a shape burst through the window in a shower of shards, the crash followed by a guttural growl that rattled the small room.
Ithan moved on instinct. The chair splintered beneath him as he kicked off, rolling hard across the floorboards just as something heavy and violent slammed down where he'd been sitting. The impact cracked the wood and sent the table skidding sideways.
He came up in a crouch, chest heaving, eyes burning with sudden fire.
The intruder straightened amid the wreckage—a figure clad in black, pieces of armor gleaming faintly where the lamplight caught. Their stance was relaxed, too relaxed for someone who'd just torn into a man's home. Smoke rose from the ruined chair, the wood eaten away as though it had been dissolved from within. Whatever power this one carried, it wasn't ordinary steel.
Ithan's grip tightened on his spear, his whole body coiled for violence.
The figure tilted their head, eyes glinting through the narrow slit of a mask. Their voice was low, smooth, carrying the tone of someone amused rather than threatened.
"You move quickly," the stranger said. Then, after a beat, their words sharpened into something colder, more pointed. "No wonder they call you Ashborn."
The name hung in the air like smoke. The moniker that had followed him ever since the battles on the edges of the Ashen Fields. A curse-born mercenary with hair the color of ash and fire that seared both man and beast—Ashborn.
Ithan's jaw tightened, his amber eyes narrowing into a glare. Whoever this was, they weren't here by accident.
"Tell me," the intruder said, voice carrying an edge of mockery. His silver eyes caught the faint firelight, gleaming with cold amusement. "Why the name Ashborn? I've always wondered about it. Why give you that name… but not me?"
The question froze Ithan for a heartbeat. Then, through the flicker of broken glass on the floor, he caught it—the enemy's hair, strands falling loose from beneath his helm. Ash-gray. The same cursed shade as his own.
Ithan's glare hardened. "I don't know what you're talking about. And I don't care. You broke into my home." His voice lowered, the promise of violence heavy in it. "That's your death."
He lifted his hand, and white flame snapped into existence. It coiled up his arm like a living serpent, burning with pure intensity, the glow painting the walls in stark shadows. His Mystery flared to life, sharp and searing.
The intruder's smile widened. "Ah… so that's it. That's why they call you Ashborn."
He moved.
One moment he was standing, the next he was a blur. His fist arced forward, wrapped in a strange glow—dark, corrosive, humming with destruction. The same force that had dissolved the chair.
So that's what melted the wood, Ithan thought, teeth gritted as he pivoted aside. He felt the rush of air as the strike passed him, close enough to sear his cheek with heat. He countered immediately, spear lunging forward in a clean thrust meant for the chest.
But the man was faster. Too fast. He twisted, body flowing out of reach with unnatural agility, then vaulted upward. In a blur of motion, he clamped himself to the rafters, limbs hooked like some predator crouched above.
A cold prickle ran down Ithan's spine. He spun.
The attack came from behind, just as he expected. The silver-eyed bastard dropped down silently, hand cutting through the air, fingers outstretched. That corrosive glow clung to his palm, hungry for flesh.
But Ithan's instincts were sharper than steel. Years of battles had carved them into him, and every nerve screamed at once. He slid aside at the last instant, the enemy's hand raking empty air where his shoulder had been.
The wood behind him hissed and blackened, eaten away in the shape of the strike.
Ithan's eyes narrowed. Contact. He needs touch for it to work.
The white flames surged brighter in his grasp as he steadied his spear.
"Good," Ithan growled. "That makes it simpler."
Anastomus dropped low, his silver eyes glittering like knives, that cold smile never faltering. His hand darted forward again, wrapped in that devouring glow. Ithan snapped his spear into a defensive sweep, the shaft ringing against the man's forearm. For a heartbeat the wood hissed, blackening where the strange energy kissed it—but his white flames rushed along the spear, burning the corruption away before it could bite deeper.
Ithan pivoted, whipping the butt of the spear toward Anastomus's jaw. The mercenary twisted, catching himself on one hand, then kicked off the floor in a sudden blur. His boot cut through the air—fast, too fast—but Ithan raised his forearm, white fire flaring to harden his guard. The blow glanced off, jarring bone but failing to crush it.
"Not bad," Anastomus hissed, flipping backward and landing in a low crouch. The ground beneath his fingers hissed and smoked where he touched.
Ithan's eyes narrowed. Disintegration… no, not quite. It doesn't spread on its own. He needs to drive it in. Contact only. His spear circled, tip burning white as he probed the distance.
Anastomus lunged again. Too fast. He moved like a shadow broken loose from its owner, sliding across the floorboards in a blur. His hand flashed for Ithan's throat—deadly, precise.
Ithan shifted, thrusting forward in the same instant. The spearhead scraped across Anastomus's cheek, drawing a thin line of blood before the bastard twisted away. The strike nearly took Ithan's chest; his cloak brushed the glow, and fabric disintegrated into drifting ash where it touched.
They broke apart, circling. The room stank of smoke and scorched wood.
Ithan's chest heaved, but his eyes stayed locked on his opponent. That speed. He doesn't just move fast—when he uses that mystery, his presence shifts. Like he's not fully here. The thought gnawed at him, unsettling. Every lunge carried not just velocity, but that strange distortion, as if the man blurred against reality itself.
"Your flames burn clean," Anastomus said, touching the shallow cut on his face, smearing the blood with his thumb. His silver eyes gleamed as he licked it, grinning wider. "But purity doesn't matter when rot eats everything it touches."
Ithan lunged before he finished the sentence, spear darting like lightning. Anastomus caught the shaft in one hand, glow seeping, eating away the wood. Ithan snarled and willed the flames hotter, white fire rushing along the spear. The corruption shrieked as it met the blaze, hissing and snapping like oil on water. Anastomus released it with a sharp curse, shaking his hand as if burned.
Ithan pressed. Step after step, thrust after thrust, the spear a storm of fire and steel. Anastomus bent and twisted, sliding back, each dodge so fast it left ghostly afterimages in the dim room. But still he gave ground, forced onto the defensive by Ithan's relentless rhythm.
He's quick. Too quick. But every time he uses it… that strange shift in the air. It's not just speed. It's something else.
Ithan's spear snapped forward again, grazing Anastomus's shoulder. The white fire flared, searing cloth and biting skin. For the first time, the silver-eyed man hissed in pain, the smile faltering.
Ithan's jaw set. "So you bleed after all."
Anastomus's eyes narrowed, that unnatural glow sparking to life in both hands now. But Ithan had already felt it—beneath the disintegration, beneath the speed, there was something more. Something wrong. A distortion clinging to his presence each time he struck.
And it was getting stronger.
Anastomus's grin warped as both of his hands flared with that hungry glow. The air thickened, a low vibration rattling the timbers of the house. Splinters lifted from the floorboards, dissolving midair as the energy licked across them.
Ithan's stomach clenched. The sensation that had haunted him since Volos—wrongness, distortion—swelled until it pressed against his skin like a stormfront. It wasn't just speed, wasn't just decay. Anastomus's very presence seemed to ripple, like reality itself recoiled whenever he drew deeper on his Mystery.
If he unleashes that, this whole building goes with it.
The thought struck hard, cold. He couldn't let it happen. Not here. Not now.
Ithan's amber eyes blazed white.
"Enough."
His flames erupted. They burst from his body in a flood, pure white fire spilling like a tidal wave, scorching the shadows from the room. The air itself hissed as the purity of his Mystery devoured the corruption pressing against it. Anastomus snarled, shielding his eyes as the blaze lit every corner of the home.
Ithan thrust his hand forward, and the fire obeyed. Chains of flame roared into existence, links forging themselves from sheer will. They snapped into place around Anastomus's limbs, hissing, biting into his armor, branding flesh beneath. He staggered, his glow thrashing wildly as the chains dragged him down.
Anastomus's silver eyes widened, for the first time touched by something close to fear. "What—" His voice broke into a guttural hiss as the white fire surged, crawling up the chains and wrapping around his body like a serpent tightening its coils.
Ithan stepped closer, spear leveled, every muscle rigid with control. "You wanted to know why they call me Ashborn." His voice was low, burning with conviction. "It's because I burn what should never have been born."
He clenched his fist. The chains constricted, the fire flared, and Anastomus screamed as white flames engulfed him. The glow of his Mystery fought, searing, cracking the floor, but it was swallowed, drowned in the purity of Ithan's blaze. His flesh blistered, armor buckled, and that strange distortion in the air writhed once before tearing apart like smoke.
The struggle lasted seconds. Then, with a final wrenching cry, Anastomus's body snapped taut in the chains—then collapsed, ash scattering across the scorched floor.
The white fire dimmed, retreating into Ithan's hand. His chest rose and fell like a hammer, sweat streaking his soot-smeared skin. The chains dissolved into sparks that drifted upward and died.
Silence pressed in, broken only by his ragged breath. But beneath it, the unease remained. For as Anastomus burned, Ithan had felt it again—that same thread of wrongness he'd sensed when he first entered Volos, pulsing inside the man's Mystery.
And now, with Anastomus reduced to ash, the thread hadn't vanished.
It was still there. Watching.