The fire dimmed. His vision swam, the mist's violet tendrils bleeding into the edges of the world. His spear slipped from his grasp, clattering against the stones.
Ithan's breath rattled in his chest. He tried to rise, but the weight of his wounds and the rot dragging him down was too much. The white flames that had always answered him guttered low, fragile, clinging only to his will.
As the sounds of steel and laughter faded into the haze, a memory rose—unbidden, yet sharp.
He was smaller then, his shoulders narrow, his hands still rough from labor but not yet hardened by years of war. The smoke of Ravenstone clung to the back of his throat, the smell of burnt pine and ash rising from a village that had never wanted him. His ash-gray hair had drawn curses even there, the children throwing stones, the elders whispering.
And then there was Larson.
The man's hand had settled heavily on his shoulder as they stood just beyond the village gate, their packs slung and weapons at their sides. Larson's face was stern, his jaw set, but his eyes softened when they lingered on Ithan.
"You don't look back," Larson had said. His voice carried the roughness of one who had buried his share of regrets. "You hear me, boy? Not at that place. Not at those people. You're done with them."
The boy he was had glanced once over his shoulder anyway. The rooftops of Ravenstone sagged in the distance, their chimneys coughing smoke against the dusk. It hadn't felt like leaving home—it had felt like cutting something out of himself.
"I don't belong anywhere," Ithan had muttered. His grip on the spear he had picked up to fight the Dionian responsible for Garrick's death was too tight, his throat dry.
"You belong where you choose," Larson said, without hesitation. His words were iron, unyielding. He adjusted his cloak and started down the road, not waiting to see if Ithan followed. "That's what being a mercenary means. You take the jobs, you make the coin, and you keep moving forward. No one gives you a place, boy. You carve it with your own hand."
Ithan had stood at the edge of the road, staring at the man's back as he strode into the dusk. Then he had taken his first step after him, leaving the ashes of Ravenstone behind.
That night, with the sky spread endlessly above them and the forest pressing close, Lason had built the fire while Ithan sat silent. When the flames finally rose, the younger man had leaned back and said, almost as if to himself:
"Garrick would've wanted you out of there. He'd have wanted you to live, not rot. I'll see to it, for his sake and yours. You'll learn, boy. You'll learn how to fight, and you'll live."
Ithan remembered staring into that fire, the warmth on his face, and believing for the first time that maybe it was true.
The memory faded with the light. His eyes fluttered shut, the pain pressing him under. The last thing he clung to was the sound of Larson's voice in the firelight:
You'll live.
And then there was nothing.
The world of pain and purple haze gave way to another night—colder, quieter, filled with the steady percussion of rain.
Ithan sat cross-legged on a narrow bed, his back pressed against the inn's rough wall. His spear rested across his lap, its haft freshly oiled, the steel point catching the dim glow of the lantern on the table. He traced the carvings along the shaft with his thumb, old marks from it's past owner, and tried to imagine what battles this weapon had already seen before it became his.
Outside, the storm raged. The downpour hammered against the shutters, a constant roar that made the little inn feel like a ship lost at sea.
The door creaked open, and Lason stepped in, dripping from head to boots. His cloak clung heavily to his shoulders, water running from his hair down the line of his jaw. He tossed the sodden cloak over the chair, the wood groaning under the weight, and rubbed his arms briskly.
"You're awake," Lason said, his voice carrying that tired gravel that came after hours of silence in the rain. He didn't look surprised; he never did.
"I couldn't sleep," Ithan admitted, glancing at the spear in his hands. "Not with this storm."
"Good," Lason said, unbuckling the straps of his armor piece by piece, laying them out with methodical care. "Storms mean you're alive to hear them. Only the dead sleep through thunder."
Ithan frowned, staring at him. "Did you find anything?"
Lason sat on the edge of the opposite bed, pulling off his boots with a wet squelch. His shoulders rolled, stiff from hours in the rain. "Bandits," he said simply. "About a dozen of them holed up near the eastern ridge. Not a clever lot. But mean. Desperate."
The word bandits twisted something in Ithan's gut. His grip tightened on the spear, and his thoughts flicked back to Ravenstone—raiders, Dionians, the endless nights of fear.
"Will we fight them?" he asked, his voice quieter than he meant.
Lason looked up at him, studying him for a long moment before answering. "We'll fight them if they make it worth our while." A shadow of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "But if the mayor pays us enough to clear them out, then yes—we'll fight."
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "That'll be our first job, boy. No Garrick. No one else. Just us."
Ithan looked down at the spear again, the lanternlight gleaming along its edge. He wasn't sure if his hands were steady from excitement or trembling from fear.
Lason's voice cut into the silence. "When the time comes, you don't hesitate. You strike. You do what you must to live. Mercy is a luxury. And luxuries get men killed."
The rain beat harder on the roof. Ithan nodded, slowly. "I understand."
"Do you?" Lason asked, his eyes sharp. Then, after a pause, softer: "You'll learn. That's what this life is. One job at a time. One fight at a time. Until the day it ends."
He leaned back on the bed, eyes closing, exhaustion pulling at his frame. "Get some rest, boy. Tomorrow, we earn our keep."
Ithan sat with the spear across his lap, listening to the storm and the slow rhythm of Lason's breathing in the next bed. He told himself he wasn't afraid. He told himself he was ready.
But deep down, he knew tomorrow would decide if he truly belonged in this life—or if he would be nothing more than ash scattered on the road.
****
"Is he alive?"
The question broke the silence as they hovered over the bed.
"He's lucky to be alive," the healer muttered, peeling back the blood-soaked cloth that clung to his side. The skin beneath was seared, blackened streaks carved across half his ribs like brands from a forge.
"Looks like he's lost a lot of blood," another said, pressing down to slow the seep that still welled despite the bindings.
"And his lifeforce also," the healer added, voice low with disapproval. "Pushing his abilities to their limits when he is only at the Protos stage…" He shook his head. "Not a good thing."
They exchanged grim glances, the air heavy with the smell of iron and ash.
One of them finally exhaled, almost a laugh. "He's tougher than he looks."
Ithan heard them distantly, their voices breaking through the fog as if from the bottom of a deep river. Every breath clawed at his chest, each inhale scraping against charred ribs. Heat still lingered in him, his own flames having left their brand inside his marrow.
He tried to move, but his body betrayed him—limbs weighed down as though nailed to the bed. The bandages pressed like iron chains. A dull ringing filled his ears, louder than their words, drowning the world in a hollow echo.
Blood. He could taste it, metallic and warm, seeping at the corner of his mouth. His vision flickered open, a blur of shadowed faces bending above him. Their eyes were sharp with worry, but he couldn't hold the sight for long.
Darkness tugged at him, a steady pull. He fought it weakly, his will flickering like the embers of a dying fire. Somewhere in the haze, he thought he heard Lason's voice—calm, firm, the way it always had been before a fight. On your feet, Ithan. The world won't wait for you to rise.
The words steadied him, though he wasn't sure if they were memory or dream. His breath rattled, his body heavy, yet a spark clung stubbornly inside him. Not gone. Not yet. He was alive. Breath shuddered in and out of him, thin but steady, proof that he had survived—just as Lason had always said he would. You'll live, boy. No matter what it takes, you'll live. The thought of his mentor's voice cracked something open, and the memories came rushing—Volos engulfed in fire and screams, Lason cut down beneath the blade of the Blue Orcas' captain, Anipather, Lyra and Doran wrenched away into the night.
The weight of it slammed into him, and before he could think, his body lurched upward. Pain exploded across his ribs, like molten iron poured into his chest, forcing him back onto the bed with a hoarse groan.
"Easy," the healer snapped, firm hands pressing him down before he tore the bandages open. The smell of crushed herbs and burnt flesh clung to the air as the healer tightened the wrappings with quick precision.
Beside them, the other figure didn't move to help. She only leaned back, lips curling in the faintest grin—as though the struggle, the stubborn spark in him, was more impressive than pitiful.
Ithan's blurred gaze fought to clear. Whitewashed walls, the sharp tang of tinctures, the faint rustle of cloth partitions. A hospital. He was alive because of the hands working over him now.
But then his eyes locked on the woman. His instincts screamed. The air thickened, warping, as if her very presence bent the world around her. His skin prickled, every nerve flaring in alarm. It was like staring into a storm given flesh—something vast and unmovable, a force that should not fit inside human skin.
Her auburn braid shifted as she tilted her head, crimson tunic catching the lamplight. Those eyes—scarlet and wild—fixed on him, and for a heartbeat, he thought of battlefields drenched in blood, of chaos given a face.
A smirk tugged at her mouth. "Huh. You could sense my mystery stage."
"Who… who are you?" Ithan rasped, his voice raw as if torn from the bottom of his lungs.
The woman straightened from where she leaned, arms folding loosely across her chest. Her crimson tunic caught the light, shadows flickering across the scars etched faintly on her forearms. "I am Helen of Themyskira, boy," she said, voice steady, carrying the weight of command. "You're lucky my company arrived when it did. Half-dead on the ground by the time we found you, yet still clinging stubbornly to life with that flame of yours."
Ithan's chest heaved. Even speaking felt like dragging iron chains across his ribs. "Why… why did you…"
"Save you?" she cut in. The corner of her mouth twitched, not quite a smile. "I've heard the stories, Ashborn—the mercenary who kills Daimon. My company and I rode out at the plea of Orphene. They begged us to deal with the Daimon plaguing their borders. But when I arrived, the mayor tells me the problem's already been handled." Her scarlet eyes studied him sharply. "Handled by you."
"So you… tracked me down," Ithan muttered. The words grated from his throat. His whole body ached, blood crawling sluggishly in his veins, as if even it fought to keep moving.
"Yes." Helen's tone was matter-of-fact. "I have someone in my company who specializes in tracking. But it seems we arrived too late for the people of Volos." Her gaze hardened, voice lowering. "From the signs, I thought the Dionians had finally reached this part of the March."
Ithan's hand twitched against the sheets. His lips peeled back in a pained snarl. "Not Dionians… Orcas. Fucking Orcas…" The last word broke as strength left him, and darkness surged up. His head lolled to the side as unconsciousness claimed him again.
The healer pressed down on Ithan's chest, checking his breathing, muttering under their breath as they adjusted the bandages. "Captain, I've done all I can to keep him alive. The rest depends on him—and whatever mystery he's calling on to keep his body from breaking apart."
Helen's gaze lingered on Ithan's pale face. His jaw was locked tight even in sleep, as if defying death itself. "He'll live."
The healer frowned up at her. "What makes you so sure?"
Her eyes narrowed, a glint of iron in them. "Does that look like the face of someone who would give up so easily?" she retorted, turning toward the door. "Call me when he wakes again."
****
Weeks slipped by in a blur of fever and half-dreams before Ithan finally clawed his way back to waking. This time, when his eyes opened, the pain that once chained him to the bed had dulled to a lingering ache. His chest no longer burned with every breath. The wound had knitted closed, though it left behind a scorch mark etched deep into his ribs, pale against his olive skin. He ran his fingers across it, feeling the roughened ridge. It dwarfed the other scars that mapped his body—marks from old battles and narrow survivals. This one was different. This one was the kind of scar that told a story.
The door creaked open, and Helen of Themyskira stepped inside. Her presence filled the small room as if the air itself bent to give her space. She studied him with those scarlet eyes that reminded him of the battlefield—wild, sharp, and unyielding.
"You're awake," she said simply, though a note of satisfaction flickered beneath the words.
Ithan eased himself upright, the movement stiff but bearable now. "Where… where am I?" His voice was hoarse from disuse.
Helen crossed her arms, the crimson braid over her shoulder brushing her tunic. "Not in Volos, if that's what you're asking. You've been moved. This is Achilles, one of the five great cities of the Iron March. My company brought you here when you were barely breathing."
Her words weighed on him. Volos—his home, the people he'd tried to protect—gone. His throat tightened, but he forced himself to listen.
"Achilles isn't just any city," Helen went on. "It's the fortress of the Red Jaguar Company, my base. We stand on the edge of the Ashen Fields and the Dionian wild forests. The enemy has battered these walls for generations, but they've never broken through." She gestured toward the window slit behind him.
Ithan turned his head. Through the narrow opening, he caught sight of stone walls rising like jagged cliffs, bristling with watchtowers. Beyond them, the horizon was veiled in shifting gray—Ashen haze mingling with the dark treeline of the wild forest. The city itself pulsed with life, soldiers marching in disciplined lines, banners of the Red Jaguar snapping in the wind. It was not a place that merely stood; it defied.
Helen's gaze flicked back to him. "You should count yourself fortunate. Few ever make it out of the March alive, let alone with scars instead of a grave."
Ithan touched the scar over his ribs again, the weight of her words pressing down. He wasn't sure if he felt fortunate… or cursed.
"You said Orcas are responsible for the atrocities in Volos. I take it you were referring to the Blue Orcas," Helen said.
At the mention of the name, Ithan's jaw tightened. His eyes narrowed, burning with the kind of rage that lived deeper than wounds or scars. His breath caught in his chest, uneven, and for a moment it looked as if he might leap from the bed despite the pain that still anchored him.
Helen caught the shift in him and smiled faintly, as if pleased to have struck the right nerve. "I thought so. Tell me what happened. And I mean everything."
Ithan stared at her, chest rising and falling. Could he trust her? She was a stranger, wrapped in power that pressed on his senses like the weight of mountains. Yet she hadn't let him die. If she had wanted him gone, she could have left him bleeding in Volos. Something in her presence—the steadiness, the certainty—pulled the truth from him.
So he spoke. His voice cracked at first, a whisper dredged up from exhaustion, but once he started, the words poured out. He told her of the raid, of the chaos as Volos burned, of Lason standing like a wall against Anipather, and how that wall was broken. He spoke of Lyra and Doran, dragged away unconscious, their fallen bodies carved into his memory. And finally, he told her of the moment he struck down Anastomus—how the man had fallen, burnt, turned to ashes—yet somehow lived on.
"I killed him," Ithan whispered, his hands curling into fists against the blanket. His eyes unfocused, staring past Helen, past the room, back into the fire and ash of that night. "I know I did. But for some reason, he was still alive. If only he had stayed dead… I could have avenged Lason…"
Helen listened without interruption, her expression unreadable until he fell silent. Then she exhaled slowly, the sound sharp in the quiet room. "Your company never stood a chance."
Ithan's head snapped toward her, eyes blazing. "What?"
Her scarlet gaze did not waver. "Your feats are impressive for a small-time band that dealt only with weak Daimons. But you would never have defeated a seasoned warrior like Anipather. He isn't just another mercenary. He's a killer born and bred for it."
The words struck like a blow. Ithan's lips parted, but no denial came.
Helen went on, relentless. "Most of your company were ordinary fighters at best. Even your captain—he may have wielded a Mystery, but he was only at the Protos stage. Just like you. Just like those two children who were taken."
"Protos stage…" Ithan repeated the term, rough on his tongue.
Helen tilted her head, crimson braid shifting over her shoulder. "You're a Mystique, and yet you don't even know this?"
"I know what a Mystery is," Ithan said quickly, defensive.
"Do you?" Helen's voice cut sharply, testing. "You know how one gains a Mystery, then?"
"Yes." He swallowed. The words Lason had once drilled into him surfaced like an old lesson. "Through relics. Through bloodline vestiges. Through initiation rites. Through forbidden knowledge. Or through contact with divine vestiges, though that's… rare."
Helen's expression softened only slightly, as if acknowledging his foundation. She stepped closer, her presence looming, filling the space between them. "Then hear this. Mysteries are not static. They are like onions, each layer hiding a deeper truth beneath. To wield them fully, you must peel those layers back. You must deepen your resonance with the Mystery, let it sink into you until it reshapes you."
Her voice lowered, weight in every syllable. "That is called the Resonance stage. But the beginning… the first glimpse of a Mystery, the shallow draft of its power—that is the Veiled Mystery. The Protos stage. What you and your captain wielded. Enough to fight. Not enough to survive men like Anipather."
The words hung in the air, heavy as iron chains, and Ithan felt their truth settle into his bones like cold water.
"Anipather has already crossed into the second stage," Helen said, her voice carrying the weight of certainty. She leaned against the windowsill, the crimson light from the brazier catching in her braid. "The Deep Mystery—what we call the Bathos stage. That is where a Mystique begins to embody the essence of their Mystery fully. Their powers no longer feel borrowed or half-formed—they become part of their body, their blood, their breath." She tapped her chest with a scarred hand. "The price of wielding it lessens, though it never disappears entirely. Nothing ever comes free. And beyond Bathos…"
Her gaze drifted, distant for a moment, as if recalling something only she had seen. "The final stage is the True Mystery. The Aletheia stage. To reach it is to become the truth of your Mystery incarnate. No more veil. No more shadow. Only essence, raw and undeniable." She exhaled through her nose, a flicker of grim respect in her eyes. "Few ever reach it. Fewer still survive what it demands."
Ithan sat frozen, breath shallow. The words cut against everything he thought he knew. He had believed the Mystery was already a gift too great for mortals, something finite—like a blade forged and wielded until it dulled. But now Helen spoke of depths he had never even imagined. His mind reeled.
He swallowed hard, his throat dry. So Lason… even he never told me this.
Helen's eyes snapped back to him, narrowing. "This Anastomus you mentioned. I don't know what Mystery he wields from your scraps of description, but it reeks of something powerful—something that could trace back to the Legacy systems the gods themselves left behind." She paced a step closer, her presence pressing down on him, making the air thick in his lungs. "From what you've said, he was at the Protos stage once. A beginner, like you. But your clash with him…"
Her lips curled slightly, not with cruelty, but with the sharpness of truth. "It pushed him further. It forced his Mystery to deepen. Ordeals do that. Revelation. Alignment. You can train your body, sharpen your weapon, drill your skills until your arms fall off. But Mysteries—" she jabbed a finger toward him, "—they don't yield to repetition. They only grow when you are broken against them. When the world forces you to face something you cannot endure, and yet you endure it anyway."
The words left Ithan silent. His knuckles whitened as his hands clenched the bedding. A pit opened in his stomach as the memory of Anastomus's twisted grin flared in his mind. Had his own struggle, his own desperate resistance, been the very thing that gave birth to the monster's ascension?
"For now, you rest," Helen said, her voice firm but not unkind. "Your body's still bleeding for the price of overusing your Mystery. When your strength returns, then—and only then—you can decide your next move."