Ithan sat stiff-backed in the office Helen had claimed as her own, the faint smell of parchment and lamp oil lingering in the air. The rented room in Ravenmarch was modest—stone walls bare except for the maps she'd pinned up, the ink still smudged from hurried hands. Kallus leaned against the shuttered window, arms folded, his gaze fixed on the darkening streets outside as though expecting trouble to come slithering up the cobblestones.
At the desk, Helen bent over a document, her eyes narrowing as she traced each line with the edge of her finger. The script was sharp, deliberate, every word carrying the weight of someone who knew too much. She read not as one taking in new knowledge but as someone measuring the intent of the hand that had written it.
The parchment had reached her in Achilles, pressed into her hand with all the quiet urgency of a confession. Now, under the Ravenmarch lamplight, its meaning sharpened: details of the Blue Orcas' movements, names and places strung together like a net closing around Varro's schemes.
Helen let the silence stretch until it pressed like a weight against the room. At last she looked up, her gaze sliding to Ithan. He met it without flinching, though there was still a faint edge in his jaw, the coiled temper of someone carrying too many ghosts.
She had not found him in Volos by chance. No—the trail had been laid for her, nudged by the will of the one who stood behind her company, the unseen backer who never missed a move in the Varro family's game. They had feared the Blue Orcas would seize the Ashborn, bind him in chains of coin and command. Yet fate—or perhaps something far older—had shifted the board. Instead of standing against her, Ithan now sat across from her, a silent fire at her side.
Helen allowed herself the smallest smile. Her patron would call it fortune, perhaps even strategy fulfilled. But she wondered what the woman would say when she learned of Ithan's own resolve—the raw, merciless path of vengeance he had begun craving. Would her backer applaud the Ashborn's fury… or condemn the danger it carried?
For now, Helen folded the document closed, her fingers lingering on the seal as though the parchment itself were a blade.
"So the two weeks of the Parade have come to an end," Helen said at last, her voice carrying easily in the quiet office. She leaned back in her chair, the lamplight painting sharp lines across her face. "Did either of you enjoy it?"
Ithan and Kallus exchanged a glance, then answered together.
"No."
Kallus spoke flat, almost bored. Ithan's answer came rougher, like a word dragged up from his throat. He shifted in his seat, adjusting the cloth tied tight around his head. It shadowed his features enough that a casual onlooker might not recognize the Ashborn, though his eyes still burned like live coals in the half-light.
"I've been patient," Ithan said, his voice edged with restraint. "Kept out of sight, just as you asked. I've avoided the Blue Orcas." His fingers tightened against his knee, knuckles whitening as he forced the words steady. "But every day I feel the pull. The urge to act." His jaw flexed, the longing in him close to spilling over.
Kallus let out a short, sharp laugh. "When are we going to do something that matters? Sitting in Ravenmarch, watching parades, wasting breath on pomp—it grates. I'd sooner face another Dionian horde in Achilles than rot here."
Helen's mouth curved in a knowing smile. She set the papers in her hand aside, folding them neatly before speaking. "Then fortune smiles on you both. The next rite begins this week—the Game of Thunder. Just as the Governor promised. And this one requires more than standing around in uniform." She let the pause stretch. "The hunt in the Ashen Field will be yours."
Ithan's head snapped up. "Ours?"
"Us?" Kallus echoed, incredulous.
"Yes." Helen's eyes gleamed. "Each Imperial Stratos company may send hunters into the field, as many as they dare. The prize is the Stormheart. And from what I've read, the Blue Orcas are sending only one champion to claim it."
Ithan leaned forward, every muscle in his body suddenly taut. "Who?"
"One of their best," Helen said softly. "Not Anastomus. Another."
Ithan's eyes narrowed. "Then who?"
"The warrior Atticus," she said. "The one with the greatsword."
The name struck like a hammer. Ithan's breath hissed out, his hands curling into fists on the table. The cloth on his head slipped slightly as he lowered his face, but the shadow didn't hide the fury in his eyes.
"Him," Ithan whispered. Memory roared up unbidden: Volos burning, the children's screams, the flash of steel. Lyra and Doran's terrified faces, trapped because of that man's strength. If not for Atticus, they would have escaped. They would have lived free.
The table creaked under Ithan's grip as his fist trembled.
"I'll tear him down," he muttered, low and dangerous.
Helen studied him quietly, weighing that rage, while Kallus shifted his stance, the faintest grin tugging at his mouth as if the prospect of a real fight finally lit his blood.
"Remember, Ithan—this is a test," Helen said, her tone carrying both warning and challenge. "If you can bring down Atticus, then you may truly stand a chance against Anipather and Anastomus." Her gaze flicked to Kallus, sharp as a blade. "He's going with you. If Atticus proves too much, Kallus will make sure you don't end up a corpse in the Ashen Field. Understood?"
Ithan's jaw tightened. He didn't like the implication, but he inclined his head all the same. "I understand."
****
The air in Ravenmarch pulsed with celebration. Music spilled from every tavern door, strings and drums weaving into a clamor that tangled with the laughter of nobles and commoners alike. The second ring blazed with color—banners snapping from balconies, garlands strung across stone archways—while even the outer ring carried the thrum of festivity. Street performers juggled torches, vendors cried their wares, and children darted between horses with sugared fruit dripping in their hands.
Through this revelry rolled the Red Jaguar's carriage, its lacquered frame cutting a clean path across cobbled streets. Inside, the air was quieter, though not free of tension. Ithan sat pressed against the side, cloth wrapped about his ashen hair, his face half-shadowed as though secrecy clung to him. Across from him lounged Helen, posture regal, eyes flicking now and then to the window as though measuring the crowd's mood. Kallus sprawled in the corner, boots stretched out, smirk tugging at his mouth. Benji, ever restless, fiddled with the buckles of his gauntlet.
The silence had cracked earlier when Kallus, with a crooked grin, had muttered something about Nicodemus and Andreas—"lovebirds nesting in their den." The offhand jab had sent Ithan's ears burning red, his gaze snapping down to his knees while the others laughed. Even now, the heat lingered on his cheeks whenever he thought of it.
The clamor of Ravenmarch faded as the carriage clattered through the south gate, leaving the city's walls behind. Fields unfurled on either side, furrows of autumn grain swaying in the breeze, farmhouses crouched beneath distant hills. Yet as the road bent toward the horizon, the land began to change. The soil darkened, streaked with veins of gray, and the scent of ash carried on the wind. The edge of the Ashen Field loomed—a scar that spread southward like the world itself had been burned and never healed.
Ithan leaned toward the window, heart tightening. He had hunted Daimons in the outlying fringes before, but this was different. This time, he would step into the depths—into a place most men spoke of only in stories.
As a child, he had heard those stories whispered by firelight. One told of Hercules striking down a Titan, the giant's blood soaking the earth until it blackened. Another claimed it was the battlefield of the gods themselves, where their fury had scorched the land beyond repair. No tale had ever settled the truth. Yet the people believed, and because of it, they also believed in the Curseborn—children marked with ash-colored hair. Children like him.
Curiosity coiled in Ithan's chest, hungry for the truth of the Field. But stronger than that curiosity burned the ember of justice, hot and sharp, consuming doubt with purpose.
By the time their carriage reached the gathering place, the festive noise had given way to ceremony. Podiums stood draped in imperial banners, guards posted at every corner, their armor flashing beneath the midday sun. On the field below, figures in golden and red robes moved with measured precision, staffs sweeping through the air as they etched glowing symbols into the earth.
"It seems they've enlisted the Magus Order for the spectacle," Helen murmured, stepping down from the carriage. Ithan followed her gaze to the robed men and women, parchments fluttering in their hands, ritual circles blooming at their feet like unfolding flowers of light. Above, mechanical birds of bronze and glass wheeled through the sky, their eyes glowing faintly.
"Magic is the only way to broadcast the hunt back to the city," Helen explained. "Those birds serve as the lenses—scrying pieces so every citizen can watch."
Ithan frowned, shading his eyes as one of the constructs soared past. "I didn't know magic could do that."
Helen's lips curved in something between approval and amusement. "A collaboration, no doubt, between the Magus Order and the Iron Guild."
"The Iron Guild?"
"A guild under the cult of Hephaestus," she said, eyes already scanning the stands. "Crafters of wonders. Makers of these machines." She turned back to him, her expression hardening into command. "Enough. You and Kallus will join the other champions. Benji and I will take our seats."
The four of them stepped down from the carriage. The crowd parted briefly around Helen's stride, their eyes catching on the flash of her crimson cloak. Ithan and Kallus peeled away, moving toward the cordoned ground where warriors tightened their armor and checked the edges of their blades, each one bracing for the game that was about to begin.
The champions' ground lay just beyond the stands, marked by tall stakes bound with crimson cloth. Guards barred the way with polished halberds until Helen's seal was shown; then the two warriors were waved through. The air shifted the moment Ithan and Kallus stepped inside.
The noise of the crowd faded into a hushed tension—like a forge right before the hammer fell. Men and women clustered in knots, each marked by the colors of their companies. Armor clinked, steel sang as blades were drawn and tested against whetstones. A few warriors sat cross-legged in the dust, murmuring prayers or incantations. Others laughed too loudly, the bravado of men who feared being the first to die.
Ithan felt their eyes as soon as he crossed the threshold. He was young compared to most, lean where others were broad, but there was something in the way he held himself that drew attention. He knew it, felt it pressing on his shoulders, yet he kept his gaze forward, his hands calm at his sides. The cloth hiding his hair itched against his scalp, a constant reminder of the identity he carried in secret.
Kallus, by contrast, met the stares with a grin. He swaggered, letting his hand rest on the hilt of his axe, nodding to those who glared too long. "Plenty of meat on the table," he muttered under his breath, smirking. "Let's see who gets carved first."
A murmur rippled through the crowd as a squad in sea-blue cloaks passed, their sigil stitched with the jaws of an orca. The Blue Orcas. They were fewer in number than the other companies, but the weight of their presence seemed to bend the air. At their center walked a figure as tall as any soldier there, a greatsword strapped across his back.
Atticus.
Even at rest, he looked like a statue hewn from granite—shoulders broad, eyes fixed forward, jaw set like an executioner awaiting the next head. His men gave him space, their steps unconsciously falling half a pace behind his.
Ithan froze, his chest tightening. He could still see that blade cutting down the villagers from Volos. The memory surged hot and sharp, and his fists curled until his nails bit into his palms.
Kallus noticed. "That's him?"
Ithan's throat worked once before he answered, low and certain. "That's him."
The champions' ground thickened with tension as more groups arrived: mercenaries wrapped in furs from the north, gladiators whose armor gleamed like mirrors, even a lone mystic draped in shadow-black robes, a crystal staff humming faintly at his side. Each eyed the others, measuring, weighing, calculating.
A horn blared across the field, the sound rolling like thunder, silencing the murmurs. One of the Magus Order stepped onto the raised dais, parchment in hand, voice amplified by the glowing runes at his feet.
"Champions of the Game of Thunder—" the words carried across the ash-stained air, "—the hunt begins at the setting of the sun. Prepare yourselves. The Ashen Field awaits."
The crowd erupted in cheers from the stands, but within the champions' ground, silence lingered. Warriors checked straps and blades once more, eyes turning toward the horizon where the land darkened into gray wasteland.
Ithan stared at the jagged edge of the Ashen Field, his pulse steadying, his fury sharpening into something cold. For the first time, he was not hunting Daimons in the fringes. He was walking into the very heart of the scar. And Atticus would be there with him.
The sun bled down the sky in long strokes of red and gold, shadows lengthening across the flatlands. As it sank toward the jagged horizon, the cheers of Ravenmarch's spectators swelled to a fever pitch. Trumpets blared, drums rolled, and the stands shimmered with banners and noble finery. For the aristocracy, it was all spectacle—a game played on scorched earth, a hunt to wager upon over goblets of wine.
For those standing at the edge of the Ashen Field, it was anything but.
Ithan stood among the gathered champions, the smell of dust and iron sharp in his lungs. He adjusted the grip on his spear, feeling the worn grooves in the haft. Around him, warriors shifted uneasily, the clink of armor and muted curses betraying nerves that bravado couldn't mask. The chants and music from the stands sounded distant, almost unreal, as though the world of celebration belonged to another realm entirely.
Beyond the boundary markers stretched the Ashen Field itself. What had once been farmland or forest was now a wasteland of gray soil and jagged stone, the ground cracked as if it had been burned hollow. Wisps of pale mist curled low over the earth, carrying a smell that was neither smoke nor rot, but something harsher, older—like a battlefield that refused to heal.
A flock of mechanical birds wheeled overhead, wings clattering, their crystal eyes glowing faintly as they took their stations. The Magus Order had completed their runes, lines of light forming circles that pulsed against the ground. With a sharp gesture, one of the robed figures signaled the start.
A horn roared, deeper and more primal than before, and the hunt had begun.
The champions advanced.
Ithan moved with Kallus at his side, Helen's last command still sharp in his mind. The first step past the markers sent a chill through him. The soil beneath his boots was dry, brittle, almost like walking on bone. The sound of the crowd dulled instantly, swallowed by the vast, oppressive silence of the Field.
Kallus let out a low whistle. "No wonder they say this place is cursed."
Ithan didn't answer. His gaze was locked on the land ahead, on the gray expanse stretching into forever. He had hunted in the fringes before, but already he felt the difference. This was no border skirmish. This was the heart of the scar, the land where myths bled into truth.
Behind them, the stands still rang with applause and laughter, nobles raising cups to toast the bravery of their chosen champions. Fireworks flared above the city walls, streaks of green and crimson tearing across the twilight. But within the Field, the only light came from the dying sun and the faint glow of the runes fading behind them.
Every step carried Ithan further from the pageantry of Ravenmarch and deeper into the wasteland where men disappeared and legends were born. His hand tightened on the spear until his knuckles whitened. Somewhere out there, Atticus was waiting.
And this time, Ithan would not be the one left helpless.
The boundary markers vanished behind them, their glow fading until the Ashen Field swallowed all trace of civilization. The air itself felt different—thicker, as though it carried weight. Each breath stung faintly in the lungs, carrying a dry tang of iron and something acrid that clung to the back of the throat.
The ground was worse. It shifted with brittle cracks beneath every step, layers of ash giving way to stone streaked with veins of black glass. Here and there, jagged spires jutted from the earth, twisted into shapes that suggested claws or spears frozen mid-strike. In the failing light, the landscape seemed alive—shadows stretching into grotesque silhouettes, tricking the eye into seeing movement where there was none.
The champions spread out in cautious lines. Gone was the swagger they'd shown near the stands. Now, whispers carried low across the ranks: oaths, prayers, muttered reminders to steady grips and sharpen focus. The laughter and bravado of earlier had drained away, leaving only the rasp of armor and the occasional hiss of someone testing their blade.
Kallus tilted his head, listening. "Quiet," he murmured. His hand fell to the haft of his axe.
Ithan stilled, his senses prickling. The silence of the Field was too complete—no rustle of wind through leaves, no cry of bird or beast. Only the crunch of ash beneath boots and the faint ticking of the mechanical birds circling far above.
Then—faint, but clear—a scrape. Stone against stone.
One of the champions, a broad-shouldered northerner in wolf pelts, froze mid-step. His eyes darted toward a cluster of spires half-shrouded in mist. "Did you hear that?" he whispered, voice tight.
Others turned, weapons raised, scanning the gloom. The mist seemed to thicken, curling low across the ground, shapes shifting within it—perhaps tricks of light, perhaps not.
Ithan's pulse quickened. He knew that sound. He had heard it in the fringes, hunting Daimons with Lason and his former company. But this was no fringe. This was deeper, where the creatures were older, stronger, less tethered by the boundary between mortal and nightmare.
Kallus spat into the dust, grin cutting through his beard. "About time," he muttered. But even his shoulders were tense, every muscle coiled.
A shriek split the silence—high and ragged, echoing across the barren expanse. The northerner flinched, raising his blade. From the mist, a shape lunged forward: too many limbs, skin pale as the ash it crawled upon, eyes like hollow coals.
The first Daimon had found them.
The Daimon burst from the mist like a nightmare given flesh—skin stretched tight over wiry limbs, claws hooked and glistening. Its shriek curdled the air, and from the fog around it came answering cries, dozens of them, each cutting into the marrow like glass.
The champions staggered at the sound. For a heartbeat, the line nearly broke.
"Form up!" someone bellowed—a veteran with gilded pauldrons, rallying the fighters around him. A few obeyed, shields locking into a ragged wall. Others panicked, breaking away in instinct, eyes darting too wildly to think of discipline.
The first Daimon slammed into the shield line with bone-cracking force, claws scraping sparks. A second leapt over, tearing into a man's throat before he could raise his blade. Blood sprayed, hot and metallic, and the shield wall faltered.
Kallus laughed like a wolf finding prey. "Finally!" He surged forward before Helen's order could echo in his mind, his axe cleaving through the Daimon's spine with a crunch. The beast fell in two smoking halves, but three more scrambled in from the mist, their hunched bodies quick as hounds.
Ithan moved with him, spear in hand, every step instinct sharpened by years of hunting. The first Daimon darted low—he pivoted, driving the haft across its skull with a dull crack. Another lunged high, claws flashing. He thrust upward, the spearpoint sliding clean through its chest. No mystery, no fire—just precision and muscle honed by blood and survival.
"Left!" Kallus barked.
Ithan spun, bracing the spear as the last of the trio hurled itself forward. The Daimon impaled itself in its frenzy, the weight dragging it down as Kallus's axe hacked its head clear. The pair stood back-to-back, breathing hard, ringed by bodies.
Elsewhere, the champions fared unevenly.
The northerner in wolf pelts roared, his greatsword sweeping in brutal arcs, cutting Daimons down like saplings. Blood streaked his furs, but his stance never wavered—each swing fueled by savage rhythm. Around him, his kin fought shoulder to shoulder, their unity steadying the line.
The lone mystic in shadow robes thrust his staff into the ground, chanting low. Black light crawled up from the soil, lashing out like serpents to coil around Daimon's limbs, snapping bones with sharp cracks. Yet his protection was narrow. A Daimon broke past the dark lash, claws sinking into his arm. He screamed, magic faltering, and staggered back into the mist, swallowed whole.
Others faltered worse. A pair of mercenaries broke ranks, sprinting away from the fight. The Daimons caught them in moments, dragging their shrieking bodies into the dark. Panic spread in their company, the survivors scattering like startled birds.
Over it all strode Atticus. The greatsword in his hands swept in wide, merciless arcs. Wherever it passed, Daimons split apart in fountains of black ichor. His company held firm behind him, emboldened by his presence, rallying around his brutal efficiency. To Ithan, even in the chaos, he looked untouchable.
"Stay close!" Kallus growled, dragging his axe free from another corpse.
But Ithan hardly needed the warning. The Daimons came in waves—snarling, clawing, but predictable in their hunger. Where others lost composure, he and Kallus fought with ruthless clarity, weaving instinct and skill into a rhythm. Block, thrust, cleave, parry. No Mysteries, no divine fire and frost. Just men who had learned how to kill.
When the last of the goblin-like Daimons lay broken in the ash, the champions stood panting among the bodies. Some were fewer now—faces missing, gaps in the companies. The ground was slick with blood, human and otherwise, soaking into the gray dust.
From the stands beyond the barrier, a cheer rose, distant and cruel. For the nobles, it was sport. For those in the field, it was survival.
Ithan dragged his spear free from a corpse, his breath steady, his hands firm despite the blood dripping down the haft. His eyes sought the mist again, listening to the silence that followed the skirmish.
"This was only the first taste," he muttered.
Kallus spat, wiping his axe clean on a Daimon's hide. "Good. Let them send more."
The mist stirred in the distance, darker, heavier—as if the Field itself had heard his challenge.
The Daimon corpses still smoked faintly as the champions broke apart. Some companies pulled their dead back toward the fringes, unwilling to press deeper. Others regrouped, rallying around their leaders. Yet no order was given—each hunter was left to choose his own path into the wasteland.
Ithan tightened the strap of his spear across his shoulder, eyes fixed on the horizon. The outer core loomed ahead, where the ash crusted thicker and the land twisted into jagged ridges. Somewhere beyond that lay the middle core, where the Stormheart pulsed in the dark. But more than the relic, Ithan hunted something else.
Atticus.
Kallus spat into the dust, his axe resting against his shoulder. "Well, looks like the pack scatters here. Let the fools thin each other out. We'll take our own road."
Ithan gave a curt nod, already moving. They slipped away from the larger bands, veering southeast into the mist. The noise of the others dulled quickly, swallowed by the Field's silence.
The land grew harsher the further they pressed. The brittle ash gave way to slabs of black stone split by glowing cracks, faint embers pulsing within them like veins of some buried heart. The air grew hotter, heavier, carrying the stink of scorched iron.
Kallus grunted, shifting his grip on his axe. "This place isn't natural. Feels like the ground itself wants to spit us out."
"Or swallow us whole," Ithan muttered. His eyes swept every ridge, every shadow. Shapes seemed to linger at the edges of his vision, slipping away when he turned to face them. His hair prickled against the cloth, hiding it.
They passed the remnants of another group. Armor strewn across the ash, blades half-buried, the earth clawed with deep furrows where something had dragged bodies away. Blood pooled black in the gray dust.
"Daimons didn't do that," Kallus said quietly. His hand tightened on the haft of his weapon.
"No." Ithan crouched, brushing his fingers over the grooves carved into the stone. They were too clean, too deliberate. Like the mark of a blade wider than a man's torso. His gut tightened. He knew whose blade could carve like that.
Atticus was ahead.
The thought burned through him, sharper than the ache of exhaustion. He could see it in his mind: the greatsword cutting down the people of Volos while under the hallucinative spell of Anipather, and Lyra and Doran dragged away by him. His grip on the spear trembled for a heartbeat before he steadied it.
They moved on, the silence thickening. The ridges grew taller, jagged spires casting long shadows in the dimming light. Every step felt like a descent into some hollowed hell, each breath carrying more weight than the last.
Finally, Kallus broke the silence. "So tell me, Ashborn. When we find him—when you're staring Atticus in the eye—what's your plan? You've got vengeance burning holes in you, but vengeance won't keep you alive if that brute swings first."
Ithan's jaw tightened. He didn't answer at once. Instead, he stared into the mist ahead, where faint tremors shivered through the ground, each one heavier than footsteps. His knuckles whitened around his spear.
"My plan," he said at last, voice low and certain, "is to finish what Volos began."
The tremors grew stronger, echoing from the depths of the core. The Stormheart's presence pulsed faintly in the distance, a rhythm felt in bone rather than heard with ears. And somewhere near it, Ithan knew, Atticus waited.