The Eagle Parade was a relic from another age, a festival first born in the Heroic Age, when men and gods still walked the same roads. It had begun as a sacred procession to honor the birth of Zeus Kataibates—the Descender, the King of the Olympians, the one who struck lightning into mortal soil. In those days, the rites were solemn. White bulls led in garlands of laurel were sacrificed at the altars, their blood poured into marble basins as hymns rose into the air. Priests carried the great Eagle Standard through the streets, its bronze wings gleaming in the sun, blessing the people with the sanction of heaven. For a brief span, the entire city had felt closer to the divine.
But the gods were gone. Their voices silenced, their shrines empty. When their sanction vanished, the sacred became hollow. Still, the Imperium could not let the ritual die—not when so much of its power rested on the memory of the gods. And so the rites endured, reshaped. The sacrifices became spectacles, the prayers little more than verses mouthed without conviction. The Standard was still paraded, though now more as a symbol of imperial continuity than a channel of divine blessing.
The holy procession became the Eagle Parade.
Now, each year in Arkanis Magna, the capital of the Imperium, the parade marched. The provinces mirrored it in smaller measure, their governors echoing the motions to show their loyalty. What had once been sacred fire was now polished theater.
The wealthy lined the streets in silken robes, their balconies draped with crimson banners and gilded cloth. Senators and governors rode in carriages of gold-trimmed oak, flanked by guards in plumed helms, each straining to be seen above the next. Soldiers of the Imperial Stratos marched in perfect columns, their shields gleaming like mirrors, their boots shaking the cobblestones in practiced thunder. Merchants erected grand pavilions along the route, where wine poured freely and coins changed hands.
Where once prayers had risen, now cheers roared, and where once bulls had bled at the altar, now exotic beasts were paraded as curiosities—lions in gilded cages, elephants draped in embroidered cloth. The Eagle Standard still led the procession, but instead of awe, it drew shouts of rivalry between factions, each claiming their place beneath its wings.
It was no longer a holy rite. It was power on display. Wealth paraded for envy. Strength paraded for fear. A theater where politics bared its teeth and the people were meant to forget the silence of the gods.
The Jaguar Claw unit rode for three days along the Imperial Road, their horses' hooves drumming against stones laid centuries ago. The road was a relic of the Golden Age of the Imperium, its surface cracked but enduring, stretching like a scar across the land. Along its edges lay the bones of ruined watchtowers and weathered mile-markers, reminders of a time when the gods' sanction had made the Imperium untouchable.
The company traveled in a disciplined column, crimson cloaks of the Red Jaguar snapping in the wind, their steel glinting beneath the pale sun. Ithan rode near the front, his spear slung across his back, his eyes tracing the barren horizon that led toward Ravenmarch, the provincial capital of the Iron March.
Helen guided her mount beside his, her voice carrying easily over the steady rhythm of hooves. "Every year, the nobles throw a grand game in both the Imperial capital and each provincial capital. A display of wealth and strength, meant to lure mercenary companies into their orbit. It's how the powerful expand their reach—by buying loyalty with coin and spectacle."
Her scarlet eyes flicked toward him. "It's how I came to serve the Imperium. I led my company out of the Aurelion Leagues, away from the squabbling city-states in the west, and into the service of something greater. My destiny brought me here." A faint smirk touched her lips, though it did not reach her eyes. "And here I remain."
Ithan absorbed her words in silence, surprised. The Aurelion Leagues—he had heard of them. Confederacies of free cities, each more arrogant than the last, where mercenary companies were prized like coin and discarded just as quickly. He hadn't expected Helen to admit ties to them.
She continued. "This year will be different. Governor Varro has commissioned something special for Ravenmarch. A game tied directly to the Ashen Fields."
"The Ashen Field…" Ithan muttered under his breath, the name alone heavy in his chest. He thought of blackened earth, Dionian war-cries, and the endless battles he had already fought there.
Helen inclined her head. "Yes. Apparently, the contest will center on a hunt for Mystery relics hidden in the middle reaches of the Ashen Field. A spectacle designed to dazzle the nobles, tempt mercenaries, and remind the people that the Imperium still controls the wilds at its gates."
Her tone carried a faint edge of disdain, as though she already knew the danger hidden behind the pomp.
"Mystery relics," Ithan muttered, his hand tightening around the reins. His voice carried more bite than wonder. "From what I saw with the Blue Orcas… it wasn't just relics they wanted. They hunted Mystiques—powerful ones. Enough to slaughter an entire village just to cover their corruption." His jaw clenched as Volos flashed before his mind, the blood, the smoke, the silence after.
Helen's expression didn't shift, but her scarlet eyes hardened as she looked toward the road ahead. "It's always been that way. In a world as dark as ours, power is the only means to survival. Those who have it take. Those who don't—are taken."
Ithan glanced sideways at her. "You think the Governor's involved?"
She exhaled through her nose, a sound halfway between a laugh and a scoff. "Probably. A company like the Blue Orcas wouldn't move on their own. Not like that. They had to be backed—by someone with reach. Someone untouchable. A governor fits that description well enough."
The conversation died as the company crested the last rise of the Imperial Road. There, Ravenmarch sprawled before them.
The fortress city rose atop a plateau of blackened stone, its walls carved directly from the cliff face, towers jutting like spears into the sky. The gates loomed vast and iron-bound, their shadows spilling across the road below. Beyond them, banners of crimson and gold snapped in the high wind, the insignia of the Imperium visible even from here.
At its feet stretched farmlands, thin and stubborn, their fields cut from the ash-gray soil that bordered the wastes. And just beyond those fields, like a scar along the horizon, began the Ashen Fields themselves—a bleak expanse of black earth, where nothing grew, and the faint echo of battle cries seemed to ride the wind.
And to the west, dominating the skyline, stood the Spine of Hyperion. The mountain range cut across the continent like a wall from heaven, jagged and immense. At dawn, the peaks glowed with red-gold light, as though still burning with the essence of Hyperion, Titan of Light, who legend said had fallen there during the Titanomachy. Sheer cliffs and glaciers sealed its heart, streaked with volcanic veins that spat firestone, making the passes near-impassable.
Ithan's eyes lingered on the mountains. The Spine divided the world itself—the Aurelion League and Thalassarchtes kingdoms lying beyond the west, while Ravenmarch sat at the crossroads of everything else: north toward the Dionian Wild Forest, east and south toward the endless Ashen Fields, and westward barred by the spine's fiery peaks.
As the wind carried the distant clang of the city's bells, Ithan felt the weight of Ravenmarch settle over him. A fortress not just of stone, but of power—where the games of gods and men would soon unfold.
Not far from Ravenmarch lay Ravenstone, his village, though Ithan could not bring himself to look west. The thought pressed heavy on his chest, a reminder of what he had lost and why he rode now beneath Helen's banner.
The Jaguar Claw thundered up the stone road toward the great gates of the city. The air grew thicker with smoke and voices, the clamor of markets clashing with the bark of drill-sergeants from training fields that flanked the outer road. At the gates themselves, a crowd had gathered: carts waiting to be searched, peasants with bundles, merchants sweating beneath the weight of packed wagons.
When Helen raised her insignia, the change was immediate. The guards straightened, the gatewardens saluted, and the heavy iron-banded doors groaned open without so much as a word of challenge. An exemption earned only by power and recognition. The common folk stared as the Jaguar Claw passed through, whispers chasing them like wind: Red Jaguar… Helen of Themyskira… mercenaries turned Stratos.
Ithan felt the stares burn into him as hooves clattered onto the basalt.
They entered the first of Ravenmarch's three concentric rings, the city's skin of stone and iron. The outer ring loomed as a barricade of towering basalt walls, black and unyielding, reinforced in places with scavenged ash-glass that caught the light and shimmered faintly. The walls smelled of soot, as if they had absorbed centuries of smoke.
Inside was the roughest face of the city—the scarred skin of Ravenmarch. Houses were pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, many little more than patched huts of stone and timber. Barracks lined whole blocks, soldiers drilling in tight squares, their shouts carrying above the clang of steel. Smithies blazed in every other street, sparks flying as hammers fell, filling the air with the stink of sweat and molten iron. Displaced villagers crowded the alleys, their faces drawn and hungry, clutching bowls as they pressed close to watch the mercenaries ride past.
Some spat, some bowed their heads, some merely stared with hollow eyes. A child pointed at Kallus's trident, whispering to his mother as if it were a relic of the gods themselves.
Nobles in lacquered carriages rumbled past in the opposite direction, their noses wrinkling at the dust kicked up by the mercenary horses. They pulled aside quickly enough when Helen rode forward, her crimson cloak snapping like a banner.
The Jaguar Claw's presence pulled every eye. Warriors clad in worn crimson, helms decorated with jaguar motifs, trailed behind their captain like a hunting pack. Some of the garrison soldiers saluted them; others scowled, muttering into their beards. Respect and envy both followed them in equal measure.
Ithan said nothing, but as he passed beneath the shadow of the basalt towers, he felt the weight of Ravenmarch settle on him like a mantle—stone, fire, smoke, and eyes. Always eyes.
From the scarred skin of the outer ring, the Jaguar Claw pressed deeper into the city. The road curved upward, stone slopes guiding them toward the second gate. Unlike the smoky barracks and smithies below, this gate gleamed—its basalt reinforced with brass filigree and marble plates. Statues of winged eagles flanked the arch, their eyes set with polished obsidian.
Helen rode at the head, insignia raised once more. The guards at this level did not simply salute—they bowed, armor clattering as they moved aside with quick deference. The iron gates yawned open, their hinges singing like a chorus of steel.
The second ring spread before them: Ravenmarch's heart of trade and power. Wide avenues cut between stone buildings five stories high, their walls faced with pale limestone rather than black basalt. Merchant stalls spilled into the streets, silks fluttering in bright colors, spices perfuming the air in waves that clashed with the sharp tang of tanneries. Jewelers hawked their wares beneath awnings of gold-threaded cloth, their voices rising above the clatter of hooves.
Nobles in lacquered carriages crowded the avenues, soldiers marching in crisp formations beside them. Wealth radiated from every block, polished clean and gilded bright, as if this part of the city tried to deny the soot and smoke of the outer ring entirely.
The Jaguar Claw cut through the bustle like a crimson spear. Traders fell silent, carriages pulled aside, and common folk leaned on balconies to watch the mercenaries pass. Whispers carried again, sharper here, tinged with curiosity, envy, even fear.
Helen led them into a square lined with statues of Imperial generals. At its center loomed a building three stories tall, its facade reinforced with ash-glass and carved reliefs of eagles descending from the clouds. The banners of the Red Jaguar already hung from its balconies, snapping in the wind.
"This," Helen said as she dismounted, her boots striking the stone with finality, "is ours."
The double doors were thrown open. Inside, the space had been gutted and remade for the unit: a great hall lined with weapon racks, banners hung from the rafters, training dummies shoved to the walls. Side corridors led to barracks fitted for soldiers, mess halls, and even a command chamber where Helen could meet with her officers.
Ithan stepped down from his horse, his boots echoing in the cavernous entryway. He had expected a barracks, a corner of the city ceded begrudgingly to mercenaries. Instead, this was a fortress within the fortress, carved out and claimed.
Kallus whistled low, dragging his hand across the polished stone wall. "Not bad, Captain. Not bad at all."
Helen's smirk carried more than pride—it carried the weight of a woman who had taken what she wanted from the city and made it hers. "You'll all bunk here now," she said, her voice carrying across the hall. "The Jaguar Claw doesn't scrape by in slums or barracks. We take our place where the city can see us."
The mercenaries cheered, their voices echoing off the rafters.
Ithan, standing in the shadow of the banners, felt the weight of it all—the step from the smoky alleys of the outer ring to the polished heart of Ravenmarch. Helen had carved a place for them in the second ring, in the view of nobles and merchants alike—a declaration. The Red Jaguar was not just passing through Ravenmarch. It was staking its claim.
Night fell heavy over Ravenmarch, the fortress city alive with distant bells and the muffled roar of taverns spilling laughter into the streets. Inside the Red Jaguar headquarters, the feast hall rang with celebration. Wine sloshed, meat cracked between teeth, songs half-sung and half-shouted clattered against the stone rafters. The air reeked of spilled ale and smoke from torches mounted along the walls.
Ithan's squad sat among the others, mugs raised, shouting his name in jest and praise alike. But Ithan wasn't with them. He slipped out of the hall, boots echoing down quieter corridors, his hands brushing the cool stone of walls newly claimed by Helen. The clamor behind him faded to a dull heartbeat as he walked, thoughts unraveling with each step.
He had come far—too far, it seemed—from Volos. Larson and the Ashborn Mercenaries were gone, burned out of existence by Anipather and his Blue Orcas. The company had never been large, never been wealthy—just a handful of blades and willpower—but it had been his. And now, with the wine-soaked laughter echoing behind him, Ithan felt the old ghosts creep back in.
His steps slowed as memory took him.
The smell of smoke and blood. The night sky bruised with cloud. He was fourteen, standing in the village of Mariathos, his palms still glowing with pale flame.
The bandits lay scattered, some unconscious, some writhing, their bodies marked not just with burns on the skin, but with the deeper sear of soul-fire. They screamed not because their flesh blistered, but because their very will to harm had been stripped raw.
Ithan's chest heaved. Every breath felt like glass scraping his lungs, his limbs weak as though his bones might splinter beneath his own weight. The white flames always left him aching, his body unprepared for their cost. He tightened his grip on his spear to keep from collapsing.
Larson walked through the carnage like a shadow, his boots crunching over the dirt and the bloodied remains of the few who hadn't fled. The older mercenary's eyes swept across the boy, across the flames that flickered faint and stubborn in his hand.
"You didn't kill anyone," Larson said at last, his voice carrying neither judgment nor relief—just the blunt edge of an observation.
Ithan shook his head, swallowing against the bile clawing his throat. "I didn't see the need to."
His stomach still churned at the memory of Ravenstone—the Dionian raider whose life he had taken in chaos and fear. The image replayed at night, haunting his sleep, and even now it threatened to drag him down. But he refused to let it. He refused to sink beneath it.
So he had burned without killing, sparing even those who deserved none. The bandits had come with bloodlust and steel, yet they still breathed. Their cries faded as their wills broke, leaving them hollow, incapable of more violence.
"I'd rather they live, even if they remember this pain," Ithan whispered, his voice hoarse.
Larson studied him long and hard. The torchlight glinted off his blade as he sheathed it, and his eyes held something between weariness and respect. "Then you'll be different from the rest of us," he said quietly.
Later that night, Larson stayed behind to deal with the bodies, the firelight from the outskirts still flickering against the horizon. Ithan had been sent back to the inn, his limbs heavy, his veins still simmering with the afterburn of his Mystery.
He sat alone at a rough wooden table, the tavern quiet save for the low hum of distant voices and the creak of floorboards above. A plate of soup sat before him, long gone cold. He lifted the spoon anyway, the broth cooling his throat, soothing the raw burn that spread from his chest to his ribs every time he drew a breath.
The door creaked. A shadow crossed the threshold, then a figure approached. A girl slid into the seat opposite him without a word, her dress plain brown, frayed at the sleeves. Soot smudged her cheeks, streaked with the faint shine of sweat, as though she had been helping bucket fire somewhere in the village.
She grinned at him, teeth flashing white through the dirt. It was a strange grin—bold, unafraid, as though she had every right to sit with him, a stranger still trembling from battle.
Ithan blinked at her, unsettled. That grin tugged at something deep, something buried. It reminded him of his mother. Tessia had smiled often, even in hardship, her laughter threading through Ravenstone's gray winters like sunlight through clouds. He hadn't realized until this moment how long it had been since he'd seen a smile like that.
After her death, his own had vanished. In Ravenstone, no one smiled; the villagers wore frowns like armor, grim lines carved into their faces from years of raids and hunger. Ithan had inherited that same expression, never thinking to question it.
But now here was this girl, soot-faced and grinning, as though the night had not been filled with blood and fire.
Ithan's spoon paused halfway to his mouth. He frowned, not in anger, but in confusion, and muttered hoarsely, "What are you smiling for?"
"Nothing," the girl said, tilting her head, the grin never leaving her face. "I just thought I should thank you for protecting our village. And…" her eyes flicked up at his hair, catching the pale strands in the torchlight, "I also thought your hair was quite pretty."
Ithan froze, the spoon trembling in his hand. His hair—the ash-gray curse that had shadowed him since birth. In Ravenstone, it had been the first thing the villagers sneered at, the mark that set him apart, the reason whispers of Curseborn had followed him everywhere he went. His jaw tightened, an old reflex bracing him for the cruelty he expected.
"Are you mocking me?" His voice came sharp, colder than he intended.
Her grin faltered just a fraction, then steadied again. "No. Why would I mock the hero of my home?"
Before he could snap back, she pulled something from her pocket, a small bundle of cloth carefully tied. She set it on the table and unwrapped it with deft fingers. A wave of sweetness rose into the air—warm bread, honey, and butter all mingled together. The scent made Ithan's stomach twist in surprise and sudden hunger.
"What's that?" he asked before he could stop himself, his voice cracking with boyish curiosity.
"It's pastry," she said proudly. "My mom owns the bakery down by the west square. I snuck a few pieces before she could yell at me for running off. Consider it my gratitude—for helping us." She nudged the bundle toward him. "You want?"
Ithan hesitated. He stared at her, at the soot on her cheeks, at the grin that never seemed to dim. She unsettled him—too forward, too bright. But the smell was irresistible, rich in a way his tongue had rarely known. Hunger and curiosity overpowered his suspicion.
He took one, biting in cautiously. The pastry flaked beneath his teeth, soft and buttery, the sweetness bursting across his tongue. For a moment, his shoulders loosened, his expression breaking from its habitual frown.
"This is…" His words trailed off, caught between awe and disbelief.
"Right?" she said, grinning wider, her soot-streaked face lighting up as if she'd just won a battle. "Told you."
Ithan swallowed, suddenly unsure of himself. The last time he remembered tasting anything this good had been long before his mother's sickness, when Tessia had once traded handwoven cloth for sweetcakes at a midsummer fair. The memory stung, but the warmth in his mouth softened it.
The girl wiped her hands on her dress and offered her palm across the table. "I'm Sophia."
Ithan blinked at the hand, then slowly took it, his calloused fingers awkward against her smaller grip. "Ithan."
Sophia's grin widened, undimmed even by his guarded tone.