Months bled together like hammer-strikes against steel. The barracks drills, the relentless sparring, the bruises layered over scars—all of it had tempered Ithan. By the time autumn's chill settled over Achilles, he no longer felt like an outsider dragging behind the Red Jaguars. He was one of them, his name called alongside theirs when missions were assigned, his spear and flame part of the company's blade.
Now, he stood on the edge of the Ashen Field, the blackened earth stretching before him like a scar across the world. Smoke and dust clung to the air, stinging his lungs, the ground beneath his boots cracked and brittle. The din of war rolled over him—clashing steel, guttural war-cries, the hiss of Mysteries tearing through the dusk.
Ithan's squad formed a tight wedge, crimson tunics and jaguar crests darkened with grime and blood. Each carried their own Mystery, fragments of divine truth stitched into mortal bodies: one woman cloaked herself in a shimmer of moonlit steel, another raised walls of earthen force with a gesture of his hand, while the youngest carried a relic bow that whistled with lightning every time she drew the string.
At the front strode Kallus, his trident gleaming with frost. He slammed the weapon down, and from the impact spilled a tide of ice that rolled across the scorched field. Dionian warriors howled as their charge faltered, legs encased in sudden crystal, their bodies shattering under the Red Jaguars' counterattack. Steam rose where frost met ash, ghostly and white against the black ground.
Ithan pushed forward with the others, spear in hand, white fire licking up its shaft as he invoked the truth of Prometheus. The flames illuminated the twisted faces of the Dionians as they rushed, their painted skin smeared with ash, their Mysteries coiling wild and feral. Each strike Ithan made landed cleaner than it ever had months ago—his spear flowed in arcs of disciplined grace, his flames biting with control instead of frenzy.
Still, the Red Jaguars knew the clock was against them. Kallus barked orders over the roar of combat, his breath misting as the cold from his Mystery thickened around him. "Push them back before nightfall! Before the moon rises!"
The words carried urgency. Ithan didn't need the reminder. Every soldier knew the Dionians grew stronger beneath the gaze of Artemis, their Mysteries swelling like wolves under the moon. If they failed to crush this horde before the silver light touched the Ashen Fields, Achilles itself might finally tremble.
Ithan gritted his teeth, spear blazing as he drove it through another Dionian's guard. "Not tonight," he hissed, the fire burning in his chest echoing the words. "Not while I'm still standing."
The Ashen Field was chaos. Dionian warriors poured over the ridge in waves, their bodies smeared with soot, their eyes burning with fanatic hunger. The Red Jaguars met them in brutal rhythm—Kallus's trident freezing the front line in jagged spires, the archer's lightning splitting the sky, shields and blades closing the gaps.
Ithan fought in the crush, every strike of his spear trailing white fire. The Promethean flame seared through armor, the heat biting deeper than steel alone. He had trained for this, every drill, every scar—but battle still pressed on him like a storm. A Dionian axe glanced off his pauldron, rattling his bones. Another warrior lunged low, blade scraping across his thigh. Pain flared, hot and bright, blood soaking his trousers.
The world tilted. His ribs screamed, the old scar a brand of agony, and for a heartbeat he faltered. A Dionian raised his spear, eyes gleaming with the frenzy of a sure kill.
And then it happened.
Something inside Ithan seized—not his flame, not the battle style Helen had drilled into him, but something deeper, older. His body refused to collapse. The air thickened around him, every heartbeat a drumbeat that drowned out pain. His grip tightened on the spear, breath flooding his chest, and the world sharpened. He saw the enemy's stance, the twitch of muscle before the thrust, the inevitability of death—and the path around it.
The Dionian spear lunged. Ithan twisted, the motion faster than he should have been capable of with torn flesh and cracked ribs. His own spear surged up, fire bursting from the shaft in a flare that blinded his foe, the tip piercing through his throat. The warrior crumpled, ash scattering from his body as though burned from the inside out.
But the real shock was Ithan himself. His pain hadn't vanished, but it no longer ruled him. The fire in his ribs had fused with something else, a force that steadied him, forcing his body to keep moving even as blood dripped into the dirt.
Helen's words echoed in his mind. "You have a Mystery of survival."
He was living it now. His body refused to yield, his mind absorbing every movement, every strike around him. He ducked another blow, his spear flowing in counter-thrusts that felt both instinctive and inevitable. Where before he had struggled to keep pace, now the Dionians' ferocity looked almost slow, their rhythm exposed.
From the line, Kallus shouted, frost shearing through another cluster of foes. He cast one glance back at Ithan—and his grin widened. "There it is, Ashborn! About damn time!"
The Red Jaguars pressed forward, and Ithan with them, his white fire burning brighter, his body moving with a stubborn vitality that should have been impossible with his wounds. Each thrust, each swing was not just fire, not just art—it was survival itself, embodied in motion.
For the first time, Ithan felt it—his flame and his will to endure no longer pulling apart, no longer two separate truths, but beginning to spiral together as one. The fire burned not only to destroy, but to live, and his body answered it.
It didn't take the squad long to press the advantage. With Kallus freezing the ground beneath the Dionians' feet and the Red Jaguars driving hard into their staggered line, the horde broke. One last surge of flame from Ithan forced them back toward the treeline. By the time the sun dipped low, the Dionians had retreated into their forest, howling in frustration, their Mysteries never touching the Ashen Fields under Artemis's moon. Victory belonged to Achilles.
****
"Hurrah for the Ashborn! His flames burn hotter than the sun!"
The cheer rang out over the barracks hall, rough voices lifting cups in unison. The tang of sweat, smoke, and strong drink clung to the air, a haze of celebration filling the space. Tankards slammed against tables, wine spilled onto the floor, and laughter echoed beneath the wooden beams.
Ithan sat among them, a cup in hand, though he hadn't yet drunk from it. Heat flushed his face—not from the alcohol, but from the sound of his name in their mouths, spoken with pride rather than suspicion.
For a heartbeat, he allowed himself to smile. Just that—being seen, being welcomed among them—was enough to ease the weight that had pressed against him since Volos.
"Huh, look at him—smiling for the first time since he joined us." Kallus's deep voice cut through the laughter in the hall as he bumped his shoulder into Ithan's, nearly knocking him off his bench.
Ithan's faint smile collapsed into a scowl the moment he turned to see him. Like Ithan, Kallus's tankard sat untouched, foam long gone. "I smile," Ithan muttered, stiff.
Kallus grinned, teeth flashing. "No. You really don't."
"Um, guys, don't start again," Mariam said from across the table, her slender fingers still wrapped around the string of her relic bow as if she might use it to smack them both.
"What?" Ithan and Kallus barked together, their voices rough with the same defensive edge.
"Huff. They haven't even drunk their beer yet and they're already drunk," Benji complained, his cheeks flushed from his fourth cup.
"Then why aren't you drinking?" Cora asked, raising her own half-empty mug at them with an accusing glare.
"Sorry," Ithan said, glancing at the rim of his untouched drink. "The flames in my blood burn through the alcohol before it can take hold. Makes it impossible to get drunk."
Kallus raised his trident-calloused hand. "Same here. My blood runs too cold. Alcohol freezes in me before it can do anything."
"Strange pair, you two," Benji muttered, shaking his head.
The room stilled as the tavern doors opened. The noise of laughter and the clink of mugs dropped to a murmur as Helen stepped in. The warmth of the hall seemed to bend around her presence. Soldiers of the Red Jaguar straightened unconsciously, the swagger of victory giving way to the poise of discipline.
"At ease, gentlemen. Ladies," Helen said, her scarlet gaze sweeping across the crowd until it fixed on Ithan and his squad. Without hesitation, she crossed the room, the sound of her boots cutting sharper than the din around them.
"Ithan," she said, voice level but leaving no space for refusal. "Come with me."
Ithan shot Kallus a glare—half irritation, half warning—before pushing himself up. He followed Helen through the haze of smoke and spilled ale, into a quieter corner of the tavern where the laughter softened to a muffled backdrop. Helen dropped into a chair, posture as relaxed as a predator waiting to strike, and motioned for him to sit.
She tapped her fingers against the table. The tavern keeper hurried over, a jar of wine and two cups balanced in his hands. He poured quickly, bowed his head, and retreated.
"I'm fine," Ithan said, lifting his palm in refusal. "I don't drink."
Helen's lips curved faintly as she lifted her cup. "Because you don't get drunk."
"Yes."
"Interesting." She sipped, eyes never leaving him. Then she set the cup down with a muted clink. "Have you ever thought of withdrawing your Mystery?"
Ithan's brows furrowed. "Withdrawing?"
"Silencing the truth you've grasped," she explained. "Your flames burn through every external thing. Even drink. But the truth you've aligned with—it's also yours to command. Yours to mute."
"Silence…" Ithan repeated under his breath.
He closed his eyes, focusing inward. He felt the steady burn within his blood, the core of Prometheus's truth woven into him. For the first time, he didn't feed it—he pulled it back, pressed it down. He willed the fire to quiet. Slowly, the warmth in his veins dulled, until he felt only the ordinary pulse of blood in his chest. His skin cooled, his scars stopped aching.
His eyes opened. "It's gone," he murmured, startled.
"Not gone," Helen corrected, raising her cup toward him. "Just silent."
She knocked her drink lightly against the rim of his. "Now try."
For the first time in years, Ithan lifted a cup to his lips and swallowed. The wine slid down his throat, warm and bitter, and this time the flame did not consume it. He blinked, a small, surprised smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Helen smirked. "There. Even gods can be taught to drink."
"How… how is that possible?" Ithan slurred, his words tumbling after his fourth drink of the night. His cheeks had flushed red, his scar standing out pale against his olive skin. He set his cup down with more force than needed, blinking as if the world had tilted slightly.
Helen leaned back in her chair, the firelight glinting off her auburn braid. A half-smile curved her lips as she swirled the wine in her own cup. "When I reached the Protos stage, I had trouble getting drunk too. My Mystery sharpens everything—strength, speed, recovery. That included burning through drink before it ever reached my head. By the time I reached Bathos, I learned to quiet it. To make the truth go still long enough to enjoy a night like this."
Her gaze flicked toward the soldiers at the far tables, laughing, red-faced, mugs raised high. "I taught the method to my men. That's why they drink like ordinary folk, even with gods' fragments in their veins."
Ithan hiccupped, frowning into his cup. "Wait… that bastard Kallus can get drunk too?"
Helen chuckled low in her throat, tipping her cup toward him. "Yes. I figured he would've shown you how."
"No," Ithan grumbled, slumping a little against the table. His voice dipped into a growl. "He didn't say a damn thing." He remembered nights at the tavern, watching the others drink themselves silly while he sat with an untouched mug, flame humming in his blood. Kallus had been there every time, silent.
Helen rested her chin against her hand, studying him across the table. The firelight softened the sharpness of her scarlet eyes. "You two really are opposites, aren't you? Similar, but turned the other way."
"There's nothing similar about me and that big oaf," Ithan said, his words edged but softened by the wine.
Helen leaned forward slightly, the braid sliding over her shoulder. "You both came from small villages. You were both treated as outcasts—persecuted for what you carried in your blood. And yet, with all the death you've seen, neither of you have lost the light in your eyes."
Ithan's frown faltered. He toyed with his cup, watching the way the wine swirled in the firelight. "I didn't know Kallus was… discriminated against."
Helen's hand brushed briefly against his on the table—whether by accident or intention, Ithan wasn't sure. Her touch was warm despite the steel in her presence. "Just because he isn't a Curseborn like you doesn't mean he didn't bear superstition. Fishing villages like his live on the edge of the sea. Superstitions run deep there. And a boy who can speak to fishes without hauling them?" She shook her head. "You can imagine."
Ithan glanced at her hand, then back at her. For a heartbeat, the din of the tavern faded—the laughter, the mugs clashing, even the smell of smoke and ale. There was only the heat in his cheeks, and Helen's scarlet eyes, sharp but softened by wine and shadow.
The warmth between Ithan and Helen was cut short by the heavy scrape of boots. Kallus staggered into view, shoulders broad, cup sloshing wine down his wrist as he tipped it back for another swig. His grin was lazy and wolfish, though his eyes carried something else—something almost wounded—as they flicked from Ithan to Helen.
"Captain," he drawled, planting his trident against the wall with a loud clack. "How come you're drinking with this Ashen idiot and not with the rest of us?" The smirk on his lips didn't hide the edge in his voice. "We've been waiting."
Helen leaned back in her chair, utterly unshaken. "I already shared a drink with all of you, the night you joined the company. This"—she lifted her cup toward Ithan—"is his first, and only, with me."
As she spoke, the faint heat of wine that had softened her edges seemed to vanish. Her posture straightened, her scarlet gaze sharpening until she looked as if she'd never touched a drop at all. Her Mystery's discipline burned the intoxication away, leaving her sober, commanding, untouchable once more.
"If you want a drinking partner, Kallus," Helen added, turning her gaze back to Ithan with a fleeting smile, "I believe the Ashborn here can fill that role." She rose, smooth as a blade being drawn. "Ithan. My office. Bright and early. We have things to discuss."
And with that, she was gone—leaving the two young men alone, the air between them thick with leftover tension.
Kallus turned slowly, wine-slick grin curdling into a glare. His eyes narrowed at Ithan, who was already glaring back, jaw set.
"You knew," Ithan slurred, jabbing a finger toward him. "You knew the trick to getting drunk—and you said nothing."
Kallus snorted, taking a heavy swallow from his cup before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Hah! I'm not the only one who kept quiet. Why don't you accuse the others, huh? Besides—" his gaze sharpened, cutting like ice "—what the hell were you and the Captain talking about? And why were you looking at her like that?"
"What are you talking about?" Ithan shot back, heat rising in his face that had nothing to do with wine.
Kallus leaned in, the smell of drink heavy on his breath. His grin returned, this time reckless. "You… you want to fight."
Ithan's hand tightened around his cup. "You bet I do."
Kallus slammed his mug on the table, the wood rattling under the impact. "Lloyd! More drinks! We're having a drink-off!" His booming voice carried over the tavern, earning a chorus of jeers and laughter from nearby Jaguars. "Let's see if the newbie can keep up!"
Ithan tilted his cup, draining the last of his wine in one long swallow, slamming it down in answer. "You watch and see."
The challenge hung between them, not just in the drinks but in the sparks of rivalry lighting their eyes. Enemies one moment, brothers-in-arms the next—the beginning of something neither would admit aloud.
Tankards slammed onto the table one after another, froth spilling over the edges as Lloyd set down a fresh round. The tavern air thickened with the scent of wine and sweat, soldiers leaning in with gleeful anticipation.
Kallus grabbed the first mug and raised it high. "To the Red Jaguar!" he roared.
"To the Red Jaguar!" the hall thundered back, though most of their eyes lingered on him and Ithan.
He tipped the drink back in one swallow, then slapped the empty mug down so hard it bounced. "Your turn, Ashborn."
Ithan wiped the back of his mouth, narrowed his eyes, and pulled his own mug close. The wine burned down his throat, sharper than he expected, but he refused to cough. He set the cup down with deliberate calm, smirking across the table. "Not bad—for a first round."
The hall erupted in laughter.
They went back and forth, round after round. Kallus's grin grew wider, sloppier, his broad shoulders swaying as he reached for the next mug. Ithan matched him drink for drink, his cheeks flushed, his scarred ribs aching as if to remind him of his limits.
By the sixth mug, Kallus leaned close, his breath thick with alcohol. "Thought you'd fold already, village boy."
Ithan chuckled, the sound rough and loose. "Says the one whose face looks like it lost a fight with frostbite."
Their glares met—then cracked into laughter at the same time. The hall roared with them, the noise deafening.
Kallus slammed his trident's butt against the floor, nearly tipping the table, his chest shaking with laughter. "Hah! You're all right, Ashborn. Stubborn as a mule, but all right."
Ithan, still smirking through the haze of drink, raised his cup again. "And you're still an oaf." He drank anyway.
The rivalry didn't vanish, but something shifted in the heat of the tavern—two stubborn truths recognizing each other, fire and frost clashing not to destroy, but to endure.
By the time they collapsed against the table, cups scattered around them, the Red Jaguars were still cheering, some already placing bets on which of the two would outlast the other on the battlefield.
****
Cold water splashed across Ithan's face, shocking him awake. He shot upright in his cot with a strangled gasp, clutching at his temples as if his skull were splitting in two. His head throbbed like a drumbeat, every pulse behind his eyes hammering the memory of last night's drinking contest back into him.
Kallus loomed over him, an empty bucket in hand and a grin far too smug for the hour. It was the same way he'd woken Ithan his first night in the barracks, except this time, he looked irritatingly fresh.
"You…" Ithan rasped, his voice rough as gravel. He squinted through the dripping strands of his ash-colored hair, glaring. "How are you so damn fine?"
Kallus shrugged, tossing the bucket aside with a clatter. "That's because my Mystery is unmute."
Ithan blinked, wincing as the motion made his headache worse. "Wait… we can do that?"
"Apparently, you figured out how to mute yours," Kallus smirked. "Didn't think to flip it back on when you woke up, did you?"
Ithan groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "You're enjoying this way too much."
"Mm. Maybe," Kallus said, leaning against the post of the bunk with all the satisfaction of a man who hadn't lost a single coin in last night's betting pool. "Shouldn't you be getting to the Captain's office? She said she wanted you early this morning."
Ithan's blood ran cold. "Shit."
He lurched out of bed, nearly tripping over his own boots, and forced his Mystery back into motion. The fire stirred instantly in his veins, burning away the fog of alcohol, sweat prickling across his skin as his body steadied. His headache dulled into nothing, the echo of his flames chasing the stupor from his blood.
Snatching a towel, he wiped the water from his face, then yanked on a clean uniform in hurried motions. His spear leaned against the wall, waiting, though he left it behind as it was not needed at the moment.
By the time he reached Helen's office door, his breath was even, his eyes clear, and not a trace of wine clung to him. He raised a fist and knocked firmly, though his heart still pounded faster than he'd admit.
"Come in," Helen's voice rang through the wood, firm but not raised.
Ithan pushed the door open and stepped inside. The office smelled faintly of ink and wax, parchment stacked high in neat piles across the long desk. Sunlight streamed through the wide window, glinting off the steel fittings of the shelves lined with maps and sealed scrolls.
The Mayor stood stiffly at the desk, handing over a thick file to Helen. She sat behind the desk with her posture straight as a drawn bow, dressed in a long-sleeved white tunic embroidered with blade symbols along the cuffs. Black pants and polished boots grounded her presence, sharp and commanding, a balance of grace and authority.
Ithan's gaze lingered, and unbidden, his mind flicked back to the tavern. The quiet moment between them, her hand brushing his on the table, the look in her eyes softened by firelight. It hadn't been romantic—he knew that much. He'd never once felt that kind of pull toward anyone, man or woman. It was something else. Something closer to what he had felt beside Larson—a sense of being guided, anchored. A sibling's bond, forged in fire.
Maybe it was the training she had hammered into him, the hours she'd spent shaping his spearwork, or the simple fact that she had given him a path toward his vengeance. Maybe it was the Red Jaguars themselves. He'd never thought a mercenary company would feel like anything more than hired blades, but three months in their ranks had forced him to admit it—they weren't as bad as he'd thought. They were beginning to feel like comrades.
"And this, Commander," the Mayor said, handing Helen the last set of documents. She flipped through them quickly, her eyes skimming as though she could weigh every word at a glance. Then, with a stamp of her seal, she dismissed him.
The Mayor bowed low and retreated, his eyes darting toward Ithan only briefly before the door shut behind him.
Helen leaned back slightly, her scarlet gaze lifting to Ithan. She smiled, a small but certain gesture, and gestured for him to take the chair opposite her desk.
Ithan sank into it, shaking his head faintly. "I never thought you were the type to do paperwork."
Helen arched a brow, dipping her quill into the inkwell to sign the last page. "When you're in charge of an entire city—where millions of lives rest in your hands—you learn to take your job seriously." She set the quill aside, folding her hands atop the desk. "Besides, I won't be here for a while. Best to finish the important matters before I set off."
Ithan straightened. "You're leaving Achilles?"
"Yes." Her voice carried no hesitation. "Governor Varro has requested the presence of all Major Imperial Stratos of the Iron March province at the capital. In time for the Eagle Parade."
"Imperial Stratos…" Ithan repeated, testing the name on his tongue.
He knew what that meant. The Imperial Stratos weren't just mercenaries—they were the official armies of the Imperium, sworn to the Emperor's family, though with the Emperor silent and weakened, their command had long since shifted into the Senate and the provincial governors' hands. For a mercenary company to hold that title was no small feat. It meant recognition. It meant power.
And suddenly it made sense. Why Helen could walk into Achilles and strip authority from the Mayor without resistance. Why no one in the Senate had moved against her. She was backed—by the governors, by the Senate, maybe even by someone in the Imperial family itself. And on top of all that, she was a Mystique of foreign blood, one whose strength on the battlefield was impossible to ignore.
Ithan sat back in his chair, studying her anew, a knot tightening in his chest. Helen wasn't just a mercenary captain. She was something far more dangerous.
"I'll be taking the elites of my crew with me," Helen said, setting her quill aside and leaning forward on her desk. The firelight from the lantern at her side glinted in her scarlet eyes. "A small unit. The rest will remain here in Achilles, keeping the city secure. That much is routine."
Her gaze sharpened as it fixed on him. "But that's not why I called you here. I want you to come with us. I want to officially assign you to the Jaguar Claw unit—the unit I personally lead."
The words hit heavier than he expected. Ithan straightened in his chair, his fingers tightening against his knee. "To the provincial capital…" he muttered, the words bitter in his mouth. The memory of his last time there returned unbidden—the weight of marble towers and sneering eyes, the stink of gold and politics, a place where he had never felt like he belonged. He wasn't sure he wanted to walk that road again.
"Yes," Helen said simply, her tone brooking no argument. "And I assume you still want to rescue your comrades. To find your justice."
Lyra. Doran.
Their names struck him like a blade. In an instant, the faint warmth of camaraderie that had softened his expression vanished. His lips pressed into a hard line, and the cold frown returned to his face like a mask he hadn't worn in weeks. Even his eyes darkened, filled with a murderous edge that startled the room with its intensity.
Helen noticed every shift. She hid the grin that tugged at the corner of her mouth, though inwardly it pleased her. For weeks, he had trained, fought, laughed, even begun to smile among her Jaguars. For a moment she had wondered if his hatred had dulled, if the fire that had first drawn her to him had faded into smoke. Clearly, it hadn't.
"The Blue Orcas," Ithan said, his voice low and tight. "They're going to be there."
Helen leaned back in her chair, folding her arms across her chest. "All the major Imperial Stratos will be in attendance. And this year's Eagle Parade—" she paused, letting the words settle "—is going to be unlike any before. Trust me, Ashborn." Her smirk finally showed. "You won't want to miss it."