The memory unraveled, fading into the cold stone of Ravenmarch's second ring. Ithan leaned against the wall, breath tight in his chest as if the old exhaustion had followed him back. His scarred ribs ached faintly at the recollection, though he knew it was only his mind.
He let out a slow breath, steadying himself. The laughter from the feast hall rose and fell again in the distance, but he didn't return. Not yet.
He had walked too far from Mariathos, from Ravenstone, from Volos. And yet, in the flicker of torchlight across the jaguar banners, he felt the same fire burning within him. The flames had not abandoned him. They still demanded, still seared, and still chose him. And he would not waste them.
After shaking off the haze of nostalgia, Ithan left the quiet corridors behind and made his way to the feast hall, the sound of laughter and slurred singing growing louder with each step. Inside, the long tables were already packed. Pitchers of wine sloshed, chairs scraped against the floor, and the heavy scent of roasted meats, sweat, and spilled ale clung to the air like smoke.
Kallus was in the center of it all, shirt half-buttoned, arms thrown around two other soldiers as he roared out a butchered sea shanty. The moment he spotted Ithan lingering at the edge of the room, he bellowed like a warhorn, "ASH-HAIR! Come drink or I'll call you a priest!"
Ithan rolled his eyes, but he was smiling before he knew it. For once, the weight on his shoulders felt distant, blurred by firelight and the warmth of camaraderie. He sat down, let his cup be filled, and joined the chaos.
The next morning, he regretted it immediately. His skull pulsed like it had been struck by a war drum. Every heartbeat slammed against his temples, and his mouth tasted like ash and regret. The ceiling above his cot spun in lazy circles, and the sounds of the city waking outside only made it worse—vendors shouting, bells ringing, the occasional caw of ravens wheeling overhead.
Still, he didn't move. Not yet.
He lay there, breathing through the ache, surprised by how… alive it made him feel. He hadn't drunk like this since before Ravenstone fell. There'd been no space for hangovers in the wilderness, no time to be anything but alert and hunted. Now, here in the heart of Ravenmarch, surrounded by thick walls and well-fed warriors, he could finally let himself feel this strange and useless pain.
And in that moment, Ithan's mind drifted.
There—buried beneath the ache and fog—something stirred. A thread of instinct, a glimmer of possibility. His Mystery, dormant and coiled inside him, began to hum, gently, as if it too had woken up hungover but willing to help.
After a long minute, Ithan sat up and whispered, "Enough."
The silence on his Mystery unraveled. A flicker of Promethean fire lit behind his eyes. His veins flushed warm. He exhaled slowly as the flames licked through his spirit and burned the poison away—clearing his blood, sharpening his thoughts, silencing the drum in his skull.
He swung his legs off the cot and stood. The momentary dizziness passed, replaced by a clean heat spreading from his core. He padded over to the basin, splashing cold water on his face. The burn of it shocked him fully awake.
By now, wearing the crimson-and-black uniform of the Red Jaguar felt natural—no longer a borrowed skin. He tied the sash tight, buckled the belt, and stepped out, the scent of food luring him down the corridor as his stomach let out a low, grumbling snarl.
In the Feast hall, the hall was quieter than last night, though still lively. Morning light filtered through the open shutters, cutting across the room in golden beams. Helen sat at the head of the table, eating with casual grace. Kallus was hunched beside her, gnawing savagely at a grilled fish, while Benji sipped from a dark steaming cup that smelled bitter and earthy—coffee, strong enough to peel paint.
The other two team members were absent.
Helen glanced up as he entered, eyes narrowing with amusement. "Oh, you're alive," she said, gesturing with a snap of her fingers.
A cook promptly appeared, sliding a tray in front of the empty seat beside Kallus—thick porridge, two browned sausages, a fried egg, and a steaming cup of coffee. Ithan gave a nod of thanks and sat down, sliding into the rhythm like he'd done this a hundred times.
"Sleep well?" Helen asked, sipping from her own mug.
"Surprisingly," Ithan said. He picked up his spoon, tasting the porridge. It was hot, creamy, and laced with something sweet—cinnamon, maybe. "Better than I deserved."
Helen's eyes flicked toward him, but she said nothing. Just smiled faintly, then returned to her meal.
"So how long are we gonna be stuck here for this... festival?" Kallus muttered between bites, his mouth still half-full of sausage. He wiped his fingers on his uniform like manners were a distant memory.
Across the table, Helen didn't lift her eyes from her plate as she answered, tone light but laced with something sharper. "The Eagle Parade lasts a full month."
Kallus groaned, leaning back with a theatrical sigh. "Four weeks? Stuck in this stone beehive with stiff nobles and parade horns?"
Helen looked up now, smirking slightly. "Oh, I wouldn't worry about boredom. I have reason to believe the coming weeks will be... eventful."
Something in her voice shifted. Ithan felt it before he heard it.
"The Blue Orcas have already arrived."
Ithan's spoon hovered in the air, halfway to his lips. Steam curled from the porridge, but the warmth that had soothed him moments ago now choked the back of his throat. His grip on the utensil tightened. The wood creaked slightly under his fingers.
He didn't blink. He didn't breathe. Not at first.
Helen noticed.
"They got in late yesterday," she continued, her tone casual, but her eyes fixed now on Ithan. "Just after sundown. Quiet entry. No fanfare."
Kallus raised a brow. "You mean the merc company with the sea creature badge?"
Helen nodded. "That's them."
The name alone was enough to light a fire behind Ithan's eyes. The calm from earlier evaporated, replaced with the slow burn of memory—Larson's blood pooling in ash. Lyra's scream. The sick stench of burning timber and flesh in Volos. The sound of children crying. The silence of the dead.
The Blue Orcas.
He lowered his spoon, jaw clenched.
"They're here for the parade?" Benji asked, watching Ithan cautiously.
"They're here just the same as us," Helen said.
Ithan's voice came low, rough. "Where are they staying?"
Helen shook her head. "Not sure yet. I'm looking into it."
Then she leaned back, stretching her arms. "The parade starts tomorrow at the Curia Hall. That's where the local senators gather for the formal opening. I'll need to be there—part of the official escort."
Kallus groaned again. "Ugh. Politics."
Helen smirked. "Politics is just war with quieter weapons. And parades? They're nothing but armor polished for show. But someone always bleeds in the end."
Ithan didn't say anything. But his porridge went cold.
****
The first week of the Eagle Parade had begun, and Ravenmarch's second ring no longer resembled the mercantile heart Ithan had seen upon his arrival. The wide avenues were flooded with color, sound, and spectacle.
Banners of gold, crimson, and deep azure hung from balconies, their silk rippling like flame in the brisk spring wind. Merchants transformed their stalls into shrines of wealth, spilling spices, silks, and polished relics into the streets. Perfume fought with smoke, roasting boar clashed with incense, and the air seemed alive with the collision of scents. Children in painted masks darted between armored soldiers, tossing flower petals into the air.
The people shouted, sang, and pushed forward in throngs as if each was determined to seize their share of the city's brief season of splendor. Nobles processed on litters carried by servants, their faces powdered and jeweled. Priests intoned blessings not to gods long-vanished, but to the Eagle Standard itself, their voices echoing against stone facades while offerings of wine were poured at its base.
It was the first rite of the festival—the Rites of Power. Once sacred, now spectacle. The senators of Ravenmarch, flanked by banners of their houses, raised ceremonial blades in a procession through the avenues, swearing oaths of loyalty not to Zeus, but to the Imperium. Every time the Eagle Standard passed, the crowd roared as if the old divinity still lingered in its wings of bronze.
The Jaguar Claw cut their way through this sea of bodies, crimson uniforms stark against the kaleidoscope of silks and plumes. Helen rode at the head, helm tucked under her arm, auburn braid coiled like rope, her scarlet eyes drinking in the spectacle without flinching.
Kallus cursed under his breath as confetti rained down on his armor. "Gods save me from parades," he muttered, batting petals from his trident's haft.
"Careful," Benji teased, sipping from a skin of coffee even as he marched. "The gods aren't listening anymore."
Ithan barely heard them. His gaze swept the crowd, the alleys, the rooftops. His jaw was tight, the grip on his spear white-knuckled. Somewhere beyond these walls, the Blue Orcas walked the same streets, breathing the same air, and the thought coiled in his chest like a brand.
Ahead loomed the Curia Hall, the stone heart of Ravenmarch's governance. It dominated the plaza with its vast colonnade of black marble pillars, each carved with scenes from the various ages—the Titans' fall, the gods' descent, the Imperium's rise. Broad steps led up to bronze doors taller than a siege tower, guarded by double rows of soldiers in shining cuirasses, halberds glinting in the morning light.
Trumpets blared as senators in their ceremonial robes mounted the steps. The Eagle Standard itself—bronze wings outstretched, lightning clutched in its talons—was raised high upon a gilded staff, catching the sun.
The people roared, the sound shaking the square like thunder.
Helen dismounted, turning back to her soldiers. "Eyes sharp," she said. Her gaze lingered on Ithan a beat longer. "This is where the parade begins. And where our work begins with it."
Inside the Curia Hall, the roar of the crowd dimmed to a low murmur, replaced by the solemn weight of vaulted stone and echoing voices. The air smelled of oil lamps and incense—thick, cloying, meant to carry sanctity even in a world where the gods no longer answered.
The hall itself was built like a temple: high ceilings painted with constellations, marble pillars carved in relief with myths of fire and storm, sea and sky. Statues of long-departed Olympians stood in alcoves, their faces smoothed by centuries, eyes blank but still watching.
The Jaguar Claw filed in along the side, crimson uniforms stark against the dark marble. They were not guests of honor, not yet, but their presence drew glances from senators in their robes and jeweled collars.
At the center dais stood the priest, robed in white and gold, voice booming as he spoke to the assembled crowd. His words rang through the chamber with the rhythm of ritual, carrying an authority that had outlived the gods themselves.
"From the fire of the heavens they came, in war and thunder, to cast down the tyrants of the First Age."
His hand rose toward the painted ceiling, where the Titanomachy was depicted in violent strokes of flame and lightning. Titans of stone and shadow battled against Olympians crowned in light, their weapons carving the sky. Ithan's eyes lingered on one figure—Prometheus—chained, flames stolen from his heart. A strange ache stirred in him.
"The Titanomachy ended, yet the earth still shook with strife. For in their pride, the children of Gaia rose against the divine—the Gigantomachy, when giants shook their spears against Olympus itself."
The priest gestured to another mural: colossal figures hurling mountains, gods striking them down with spear and storm. Athena stood triumphant, her spear planted in the chest of Enceladus. Poseidon shattered the sea beneath Polybotes.
"And when the earth stilled," the priest intoned, "the spheres of influence were cast. To Zeus Kataibates, the storm and the sky, ruler of thunder and judgment. To Poseidon Enosichthon, the earth-shaker, the sea, and the endless deep. To Hades Chthonius, the unseen one, lord of the dead and the riches beneath the soil."
His words echoed, filling every shadowed corner. Senators bowed their heads; some touched medallions worn as tokens of lineage. Ithan shifted uncomfortably, his hand brushing against his chest as if to quiet the flame that stirred there.
The priest's voice lowered, heavy with reverence.
"And thus began the Heroic Age, when gods walked beside mortals, when heroes rose from the soil of Erytheia, wielding Mysteries gifted or stolen. It was an age of greatness—of trials, wars, and the forging of the Imperium itself. The gods stood at our side, and men achieved wonders."
Helen's scarlet eyes caught Ithan's. She didn't speak, but he saw the flicker of irony there—she, a foreigner, listening to a history that bound the Imperium together like scripture.
Around them, the hall fell into silence as the priest raised a hand toward the Eagle Standard now placed upon the dais. Its bronze wings gleamed in the lamplight.
"But though the gods have fallen silent," the priest said, "their order remains. Their truths live on in the Mysteries we wield. And through the Eagle Standard, their favor is remembered. Today, as in all years, we march beneath its wings, the Imperium eternal, forged in thunder, sea, and stone."
The senators erupted in applause. Nobles echoed them. Soldiers stamped their spears against the floor until the sound rattled the pillars.
Ithan, however, only stared at the murals, his flame restless, as if some part of that history was not only myth but personal.
The priest's final words still echoed when the great bronze doors groaned open again. A hush swept the Curia Hall. Soldiers stamped their spears in rhythm. Senators rose.
Praetor Varro entered.
He wore the crimson cloak of his office draped over gilded armor, the bronze of his breastplate chased with lightning bolts and eagles. His face was broad, his beard cut short in the old style of the Martian legions, and his eyes were sharp as iron, scanning the chamber as though weighing each soul present. Behind him marched an honor guard in segmented plate, plumes of red and black rising from their helms.
Varro mounted the dais, his boots ringing against the marble, and raised a hand. The hall stilled.
"Citizens of Ravenmarch, warriors of the Iron March, honored senators of the Curia," he began, his voice a thunderous baritone. "Today we open the Eagle Parade, a tradition older than the Imperium itself. Once sacred to Zeus Kataibates, the Descender, King of the Gods, now renewed by the Imperium to bind us as one people beneath the Standard."
He gestured toward the bronze Eagle gleaming behind him. "The Eagle is more than metal. It is the symbol of divine law—the bond of fire and thunder, sea and stone, life and death. Through it, we remember the gods' triumphs, and through it, we prove our worthiness to inherit their legacy."
The hall erupted in applause, but Varro lifted his hand again, silencing them as he began to pace the dais.
"The Parade shall last four weeks, each devoted to one truth of our strength."
He raised a finger.
"Week One—the Rites of Power. Already across the Imperium, temples blaze with sacrifice. The Eagle Standards rise upon every fortress and capital. Aristocrats march in their pageantry, vying in splendor to prove their devotion. Their wealth is not wasted vanity—it is a display of loyalty, for what man would spend so much and betray what he has sworn?"
Murmurs rippled through the senators, some smiling at the flattery, others stiff at the subtle threat.
Varro lifted a second finger.
"Week Two—the March of Arms. Our legions and auxiliaries will parade. Weapons shall be demonstrated. Mock battles will be staged before the people. Here in the Iron March, the frontier of the Dionian threat, this week shall weigh heavier than in any other province. For it is here that discipline and iron walls keep the barbarians at bay. It is here that we show the world the Imperium's shield is unbroken."
Legionaries in the audience slammed their fists against their breastplates, a rumble like thunder through the chamber.
A third finger rose.
"Week Three—the Games of Thunder. Chariot races, gladiatorial trials, and plays honoring the Titanomachy itself! Citizens shall feast, merchants shall thrive, and the gods' old tales shall be reborn in laughter and blood. And for our nobility, it is the season of banquets and of wealth measured against wealth. Let every household prove its glory."
The senators shifted, some smirking in pride, others casting sharp glances at rivals across the floor.
Varro's hand rose fully, four fingers extended.
"Week Four—the Illumination. Fires, torches, and fireworks shall burn in every street. The Thunder-Eagle itself will be paraded beneath the night sky. In Arkanis Magna, the great iron Eagle will blaze with lightning. Here, in Ravenmarch, our Eagle shall lead the procession, carrying with it the oath that binds us all. And on that night, the Imperium will shine brighter than any constellation."
He paused, letting the weight of the words settle. Then his voice deepened, shifting from celebration to challenge.
"But this year, citizens… warriors… Mystiques…" He let the word hang, his gaze sliding toward the ranks of mercenaries—Helen, the Jaguar Claw, and others like them. "…there is more."
The hall leaned forward.
"This year, the Eagle Parade will host a trial for the Imperial Stratos themselves. A game of strength and Mystery in the Ashen Field."
Gasps rippled through the chamber.
Varro's lips curled into something between a smile and a sneer. "In the heart of that cursed land lies a relic, older than the Imperium, older than the gods' silence. A relic of Zeus Kataibates himself, fallen during the Titanomachy. The Stormheart, as the old stories name it—a fragment of his thunderbolt, buried in the middle core of the Field."
Ithan's blood went cold, the flames in his veins stirring restlessly at the word relic.
Varro's voice boomed. "The Stratos who prove worthy will march into the Ashen Field to seize the Stormheart. To claim such a prize is to claim the favor of Zeus himself! And the unit that does so shall bring everlasting glory—not only to themselves, but to their province, their governor, their people!"
The Curia thundered with applause, the sound a storm of voices and steel. Helen did not clap. She stood with arms folded, scarlet eyes burning, her jaw set in calculation. Beside her, Ithan's grip on his spear tightened until his knuckles whitened. The Blue Orcas were here. And if Varro spoke true, they would be in the Field. And there, Ithan will get them.