The storm outside howled against the crystal walls, but inside the mountain the sound was muffled, distorted, like thunder echoing through water. The chambers glowed with an unnatural light, veins of energy running through jagged facets that pulsed with the same rhythm as a colossal heart.
Atticus led the way, his greatsword balanced easily across his broad shoulder, though his eyes weren't on the path—they were locked on the stormlit depths ahead. His men followed at a cautious distance, boots crunching across glassy stone, their shadows flickering with every arc of lightning overhead.
The deeper they walked, the stranger it became. The walls were no longer raw crystal alone. Here and there, metal jutted from the glass—rustless, seamless, and cold to the touch. In some alcoves stood hulking machines, their shapes alien: ribbed conduits running into the crystal, cylinders humming with faint vibration, plates inscribed with runes he couldn't read. They looked less like relics and more like pieces of a god's forge, abandoned yet still alive.
Atticus slowed once, resting his hand against a pillar of black metal that disappeared into the crystal wall. Heat thrummed beneath his palm, steady and mechanical, not the wild chaos of the Ashen Field. He frowned, pulling back sharply.
"What is this place…?" he muttered. But no one answered. His men only glanced at each other uneasily and tightened their grips on their weapons.
And then the chamber widened into a vast hollow, and there it was.
The Stormheart.
Not a crystal, not some formless relic, but a lance—a towering spear of adamant rising from the basin's core, its length jagged yet perfect, fused into the mountain itself. Lightning bled from its surface in constant waves, stabbing into the ground and leaping across the walls. Each strike shook the chamber like a drumbeat of war.
Atticus's breath caught in his chest. The weapon radiated presence—primal, divine, untouchable. And yet, every throb of its power pulled at him, whispering, promising. His heart quickened, his muscles ached to seize it, to drive it into his own soul and carve a second mystery from its storm.
That hunger roared inside him.
He thought of Anastomus—mad, laughing, now a wielder of three mysteries. The Volos massacre had fed him well, had lifted him above the rest. Atticus's jaw tightened, teeth grinding. He was the true warrior, the one who kept the Orcas' name alive in every campaign. And yet Anastomus was the one crowned with power.
No longer.
Atticus stepped forward, the storm clawing at his armor, sparks racing across his blade. His men shuffled uneasily behind him, but none dared speak. His gaze was fixed wholly on the lance, his voice low, nearly reverent.
"This… this is what I came for. What I deserve."
The machines around the chamber hummed faintly, their lights flickering as if reacting to the storm's pulse. Atticus spared them a glance, suspicion gnawing at the edge of his hunger. This mountain wasn't only a natural wound of the Ashen Field. Someone—or something—had shaped it long ago, binding storm and machine into one.
But the thought slid from his mind almost as soon as it surfaced. None of it mattered. The lance was before him, the storm was his to claim.
He clenched his grip on the greatsword, eyes blazing with the reflection of lightning.
And behind him, faint but clear, thunder rolled through the tunnel. The sound of others entering the mountain. Hunters who had survived the storm's gauntlet.
Atticus's lips curled in a humorless smile. Let them come. He would claim the lance first—and cut down anyone foolish enough to stand in his way.
****
The roar of the storm dulled as Ithan and Kallus crossed the threshold of the crystal mountain. The air inside was thick, buzzing with static, each breath sharp with ozone. The walls glowed faintly, veins of light pulsing like blood through crystal arteries.
Ithan slowed almost at once. His eyes roved across the chamber, wide with disbelief. Metal ribs jutted from the crystal, smooth and seamless, etched with markings no chisel could have made. Strange machines crouched in alcoves—towers of black steel threaded with conduits that hummed faintly, their inner cores glowing as if alive. Some resembled forges or altars, but twisted into forms too precise, too alien. Others bore pipes and coils that fed into the crystal walls, as if the mountain itself were part of a vast machine.
"What is this place…?" Ithan whispered. His voice carried low, half reverent. He brushed his hand across a nearby panel, its surface cool and flawless, humming faintly under his touch. It felt nothing like the raw brutality of the Ashen Field. This was something older, deliberate—crafted.
They pressed deeper, boots echoing faintly on the glassy floor. The storm outside seemed like a distant memory here, though lightning still flashed overhead, refracted through the crystalline veins.
Then the murals appeared.
Along the walls, vast carvings unfurled, lit by the glow of the storm. They told stories in sweeping lines and jagged relief: gods striding across battlefields, hurling spears of thunder; titans falling beneath their blows; mortals bowing in worship. Yet the faces of the gods were unfamiliar—names and forms Ithan had never heard in any tale. Their triumphs were half-erased, their glories buried, as though time itself had tried to strip them from memory.
He slowed, transfixed. His spear lowered unconsciously as he reached toward one of the carvings: a colossal figure cleaving the sky with a lance of lightning, the ground beneath him splitting open like the Ashen Field itself. Something in the image stirred deep within Ithan, like an echo pressing against his bones.
Kallus's voice cut through the silence. "Stop staring like a priest in a temple, Ashborn." He jabbed the butt of his trident against the floor, sparks leaping. "You came here for a man, not murals. Don't forget it."
Ithan blinked, pulling his gaze from the mural. His jaw tightened, his hand clenching around the spear shaft. The awe that had momentarily softened him hardened again into focus.
"You're right," he said, voice low. His eyes swept the chamber, narrowing as he caught the faint sound of boots and steel echoing deeper within.
Atticus was here. He could feel it in his blood, in the way the storm seemed to sharpen around him.
Kallus's grin flickered. "Good. Then let's keep moving before the Orca bastard gets what he came for."
Together, they pressed onward into the stormlit heart of the mountain, the forgotten gods fading into shadow behind them.
The chamber widened into a vast hollow where lightning fell without mercy, each bolt striking the crystal veins with a deafening crack. At its center rose the adamant lance, embedded deep into the mountain floor, arcs of raw power leaping from its jagged length.
And before it, Atticus stood. His broad frame was haloed by stormlight, his greatsword resting casually against his shoulder, as if the storm itself bent around him. His men fanned out at his back, blades gleaming, armor blackened from the climb.
The clash was inevitable.
Kallus twirled his trident once, sparks dancing along its prongs. His grin was savage. "I'll handle the dogs." Without waiting for agreement, he surged toward Atticus's men, trident sweeping in a blaze of steel.
That left only Atticus.
Ithan stepped forward, the storm's fury painting his face in flashes of white. His hand rose to the cloth binding his head. For a heartbeat, he hesitated—then he tore it free. Ash-gray hair spilled loose, catching the lightning's glare. The chamber seemed to pause, the storm's roar drowned beneath the weight of recognition.
Atticus's eyes narrowed, and then widened. A cruel smile split his scarred face.
"The Ashborn," he said, almost laughing the word. "I thought Anastomus burned you out of existence in Volos. So you lived." His grip tightened on the greatsword, his voice a growl edged with regret. "Good. I always regretted letting that rabid bastard finish you. I wanted to do it myself."
Ithan leveled his spear, eyes locked on him, his voice steady despite the storm clawing at his chest. "Then you'll have your chance."
Atticus's smile turned feral. He raised the greatsword, lightning flashing across its blade, the storm echoing his hunger. "And I'll enjoy every second of it."
The storm crashed around them as the two warriors closed the distance—one with vengeance burning in his veins, the other eager to claim the kill he felt had been stolen from him.
****
The Orca men surged forward as Atticus squared off with Ithan, their blades gleaming in the stormlight. Kallus met them with a grin stretched wide across his scarred face, trident spinning in his grip like a living current.
The first warrior came at him with a roar, axe raised high. Kallus didn't bother to parry—he stepped inside the swing and drove his trident through the man's gut. Frost erupted outward, a white plume of mist that swallowed them both. When Kallus ripped the weapon free, the Orca warrior collapsed, body crystallized, face frozen mid-scream before shattering across the glassy floor.
Another tried to flank him, blade flashing for his neck. Kallus swept the trident low, striking the ground. A shockwave of ice burst outward, the floor glazing in jagged sheets. The Orca slipped, his balance lost, and Kallus was on him in an instant, trident piercing his chest. Frost spider-webbed across his armor, freezing him solid before he toppled like a statue.
The chamber grew colder with every breath. Mist coiled at Kallus's feet, frost crawling up the crystal pillars, turning stormlight into eerie blue reflections. The Orca men hesitated now, their bravado waning as the temperature plummeted, their breath spilling white in front of their faces.
"Don't stop now!" Kallus roared, his voice booming, laughter mingling with fury. "Aegaeon's depths are endless—let's see how long you can swim!"
Three came at once, hoping to overwhelm him. One slashed for his chest, another for his legs, the third thrusting for his heart. Kallus's trident spun in a blur, deflecting the thrust, twisting to catch the leg sweep, then thrusting upward. Frost lanced from the prongs, impaling the chest of the third man. The body froze solid before hitting the ground.
The other two barely had time to recover before Kallus exhaled sharply, his breath a plume of white mist. Frost thickened around his arms, coating the trident in jagged ice, turning it into a weapon of the abyss. With one savage sweep, he cleaved through both warriors, leaving their corpses cracked and rimed with frost.
Blood steamed on the floor. Shards of frozen flesh glittered like blackened glass in the stormlight.
The last of the Orca men backed away, eyes wide, blades trembling in their hands. The storm roared overhead, but the cold was worse—biting into their bones, freezing the sweat on their brows. One broke and ran for the chamber's edge. Kallus hurled his trident after him, the weapon whistling through the air before pinning the man to the crystal wall. Frost raced outward from the wound, freezing him in place like an insect caught in amber.
The trident shimmered once, then dissolved into mist, reappearing back in Kallus's grip. He twirled it lazily, stepping over corpses, his grin wolfish.
"Pathetic," he spat, his breath still clouding the air. He slammed the trident's butt against the floor, sending a ripple of frost cracking outward across the chamber. "Atticus's mutts die like all the rest."
The chamber was his now, painted with ice and blood. The Orca men lay in pieces, frozen remnants of their arrogance. And as the stormlight reflected in the jagged frost, Kallus turned his head toward where Ithan and Atticus clashed, his grin sharpening.
"Don't keep me waiting, Ashborn," he muttered. "End him, so I can watch."
Kallus had barely lowered his trident when a ripple of malice prickled the air. The killing intent struck him like a thrown spear. He twisted on instinct, weapon snapping up to guard—but not fast enough. Steel kissed his flesh.
The edge tore a deep line across his right shoulder, hot blood spraying down his arm. He hissed and staggered back, frost already crawling across the wound as he pressed his will into it, sealing the bleeding with a hiss of ice.
From the stormlit shadows, figures rose. The men he had slain moments ago lurched back onto their feet, forms half-solid, half-wreathed in black mist. Their faces were blurred, their movements puppet-like, yet their weapons gleamed real enough. One became two, then four, until ten shadow-Orcas ringed him, their armor dripping with the same ichor mist that had spilled from their corpses.
Behind them stepped their master. His laughter was jagged, cruel, carrying above the clash of storm and steel.
"Ha! Ha! Ha! Did you think it would end so easily, fool?" His voice reverberated against the crystal walls, thunder answering his mockery. "You fought phantoms, and now their master stands before you."
Kallus bared his teeth, frost mist coiling from his lips. "So it wasn't Orca men I cut down after all." His trident hummed, ice spreading from its prongs to the floor beneath his feet. "It was your creation."
The man spread his arms, shadow-mist writhing around him, feeding his soldiers. "Born of my Mystery, yes. The dead obey me, their blades yours to suffer."
Kallus tightened his grip on the trident, the frost on his shoulder hardening to a patch of jagged ice. His grin widened despite the blood dripping down his side. "Then Aegaeon's frost will shatter them again. And you'll be next."
He lowered his stance as the shadow-Orcas advanced, ten blades flashing in unison.
On the far side of the chamber, Ithan paid the scene no mind. The storm drowned out all but the clash before him.
Atticus pressed forward, greatsword carving arcs of thunderous steel. Each swing crashed like a hammerfall, shuddering through the floor, forcing Ithan to pivot, to turn each strike aside with spear haft and desperate precision. Sparks leapt where metal kissed metal, their duel echoing like a forge under the mountain.
Atticus's grin widened with every clash, stormlight burning in his eyes. "You fight well, Ashborn," he spat between strikes, voice dripping venom. "But you're still just a mercenary brat with cursed ash hair. I'll split you open, and this time nothing will crawl out of the fire."
Ithan's jaw tightened. His arms trembled from the strain, but his stance never broke. He batted the blade aside with a twist of his spear, breath burning in his chest. "You should have finished me when you had the chance."
A lightning bolt split the ceiling, pouring white fire across the chamber. The light struck Ithan's face, glinting against the steel tip of his spear as he whispered words that burned hotter than flame.
"Mystery of Prometheus: Logoi Pyros — Truth of Flame."
White fire surged, but this was no wild inferno. The flames sharpened, refined into brilliance—white-gold light that clung to his spear like a sculptor's edge. Sparks trailed in brushstrokes of living light with every motion, cutting the air without spilling uncontrolled fire.
The pain of the Mystery was still there, gnawing at his bones, but dulled now, softened by the Ashen Field itself. Here, in the middle core, it was as though the land wanted his fire alive.
He pressed further, weaving Theosis into the flames, aligning his will with the storm. The spearhead glowed white-hot, flame drawn into a thin, steady edge of searing heat—no longer just a weapon, but a blade of Prometheus's truth.
And with that blade, Ithan met Atticus's greatsword head-on.
Steel and flame collided. The storm roared.
Atticus roared, bringing the greatsword down in an overhead arc, the weight behind it like a falling boulder. Ithan slid a foot back, exhaling sharply as he invoked the first expression of his flame.
Cinder Step.
Ash and sparks burst beneath his boots as the technique ignited, each step leaving a smoldering imprint of white-gold fire. His movement sharpened, quick as a spark leaping from kindling. He darted to Atticus's flank in a streak of brilliance, the spear lashing out in a blinding thrust.
Atticus twisted with shocking speed for a man of his size. The greatsword swept sideways, steel meeting flame. The clash rang out like a struck bell, sparks showering both men. Atticus snarled, the storm flashing in his teeth.
"Tricks," he spat, forcing Ithan back with sheer strength. "Pretty fire tricks."
Ithan's eyes narrowed. His arms trembled from the impact, but the white-gold fire clung to his spearhead, sharper than ever. He slid back, boots flaring in embers as he repositioned, the storm's light glinting against the sweat streaking his face.
Atticus lunged again, the greatsword sweeping in a brutal arc meant to split him in two. Ithan planted his spear, flame thrumming through his grip.
Pyric Clash.
He met the blade head-on, his strike exploding with refined fire. The chamber thundered as steel and flame collided, arcs of white-gold heat rippling out like a shockwave. The floor cracked under their feet, crystal veins glowing brighter from the resonance.
For a heartbeat, the world was only blinding light and roaring force.
Atticus's boots slid back a step, his teeth bared in fury. He had not expected the cursed mercenary's flame to hold against his raw power.
Ithan, chest heaving, pressed forward, his spearhead still burning with the Logoi's steady flame. His voice cut through the storm, low and fierce.
"These aren't tricks. This is the truth."
He surged again, Cinder Step igniting beneath him, each footfall carrying him in bursts of ash and sparks. The spear darted, white-gold arcs painting the air with streaks of firelight.
Atticus gritted his teeth, parrying one strike after another, the greatsword shuddering beneath each impact. But his grin returned, savage and hungry.
"Good," he growled, forcing Ithan's spear aside with a heavy swing. Lightning cracked above them, searing their silhouettes against the crystal walls. "Show me that fire. It'll make killing you all the sweeter."
The duel raged, flame and storm clashing in furious rhythm, each strike threatening to shatter the chamber around them.
The greatsword came down like a falling tower. Ithan slid, ash kicking under his heels as Cinder Step flared—bootprints blooming into white-gold cinders that bit the glassy floor. He reappeared on Atticus's flank; the spear flicked like a needle toward the gap under the pauldron—
Steel met flame with a ringing crack. Atticus rolled a shoulder and shoved, the sheer mass behind the blade blowing Ithan two paces off his line. The next stroke chased him—low, scything—forcing Ithan to spring, twist, and land in a spray of embers.
Atticus never let the ground go quiet. Every time his foot touched down, he drove it there—heel first, a stamp that sent tight ripples through the crystal underfoot. With each stamp, his cuts grew heavier, the air around his hips and shoulders tightening like a drawn bow.
Ithan felt it in his wrists. The parries bit deeper. The third Pyric Clash shuddered up both arms, numbing the fingers on his left hand. He bled off the force with a quarter-turn and a sliding step, but the greatsword still carved a wake of wind across his cheek.
Keep your eyes open. He hunts forward. He's not just strong—he's charging himself.
He tested a feint—high tip, heel drag, thrust low for the thigh. The spear tore a clean line across Atticus's flesh—
No, not flesh. The cut spilled grit, coarse and hot, like sand from a kiln. Atticus grinned through it and slammed the greatsword's guard into Ithan's sternum. The world jarred. Ithan staggered, boots skidding; only a snap of Cinder Step kept him from hitting a pillar.
Atticus followed, tireless, blade howling in a diagonal that would have split Ithan from shoulder to hip. Ithan set his stance and met it square.
Pyric Clash.
White-gold fire sheathed the spearhead and ran the haft; the collision boomed like a bell struck under water. A wave of heat rippled from Ithan's guard hand, distorting the stormlight—yet even as Atticus gave ground a single inch, he stamped again. The floor answered him. Strength rolled up his frame, visible in the cord of his forearms, the sudden heaviness of his next cut.
He's pulling power from the ground.
Ithan circled, breathing through the ache singeing his tendons. The pain of the flame was there—familiar needlework in his bones—but dulled, as if the Field itself buffered the cost. Atticus's cost, though? He looked for it.
He found it in the hairline fissures webbing Atticus's bicep where the grit had bled, in the way those cracks closed whenever the big man stamped and drew a breath through clenched teeth. He noted the footwork—no aerial leaps, no overextended lunges; always one foot planted, the other sliding, returning to the floor as if the ground were a scabbard he had to sheathe himself in between strikes.
Ithan fainted left, rolled right, then cut at the lead ankle and kicked behind the heel to pry it off the stone.
Atticus didn't budge. He let the spear bite and dropped his weight, heel punching into the crystal with a spiderweb of cracks. The reply was immediate: his next swing blew through Ithan's guard and shaved sparks off the haft, the force grazing his ribs hard enough to steal his breath.
Atticus saw the way Ithan's gaze kept drifting to his feet. The grin sharpened; he knocked aside a probing thrust and shouldered in, voice a grind of thunder and iron.
"Looking for the trick, Ashborn?"
Another stamp. The floor hummed. The veins in the walls flared brighter.
"You're not the only one with a patron godling in your lungs."
He slid the greatsword along the spear, twisted, and hammered a pommel strike toward Ithan's jaw. Ithan slipped inside it by a hair, cinders skidding, and raked the butt of the spear across Atticus's knee. The knee locked, stone-solid; the counter came like an avalanche, a backhand that clipped Ithan's shoulder and set his arm alight with pins.
Atticus laughed, deep and delighted.
"Fine. You want a name? Listen close."
He planted both feet. The storm seemed to lean toward him.
"Antaeus's Mystery: Chthonian Legacy. My Aspect is the Earth-Drawn Sinew."
The floor answered the declaration with a low, seismic tremor that rolled up into his hips. Muscle swelled; the fissures along his forearm drank the tremor and meshed shut like healing clay.
Atticus raised the blade one-handed now, as casual as a butcher lifting a cleaver.
"The ground breaks, and I remake. The deeper the wound, the sweeter the pull." He took a prowling step, heel kissing stone, smile carved in stormlight. "You figuring it out won't save you. Not here. Not with all this earth under my feet."
He came on with a rhythm designed to crush: stamp, cut, stamp, cut—each blow heavier than the last. Ithan's arms burned. Cinder Step blurred his outline in bursts of embered footwork; Pyric Clash rang and rang, but every ringing left a little more lead in his bones.
Watch the contact. Break the root.
Ithan feinted a retreat, drew Atticus forward, then snapped a thrust not at heart or throat, but under the forward arch of the boot, speartip screeching against crystal as he tried to lever the foot up. Atticus felt it, snarled, and ground down—cracks laddering outward, power sluicing into him in a fresh, ugly surge.
The greatsword punched through Ithan's guard and carved a red line across his upper arm. Heat and shock flashed white; he bit it down, rolled, and rose with flame whispering steady along the spear's edge.
Atticus stalked, tireless, stamping small earthquakes with every placement. "On your knees, ashboy," he said, voice thick with triumph. "Let the ground teach you how to die."
Ithan's breath came ragged, chest tight, but his eyes were clear, fixed not on the blade now, but on the space beneath Atticus—on the only seam in the giant's invincibility. Cut him from the earth. Even if it's just for a heartbeat. The storm crashed. The next exchange would decide if he could.
The storm cracked above them as Atticus stamped, greatsword lifted for another crushing arc. Ithan's lungs burned, every breath searing, but his mind was sharp. He had seen the rhythm: stamp, strike, stamp. Each movement chained to the ground, each surge tethered to the earth.
Cut him from the earth.
Lightning split the chamber in a blinding flash. Ithan darted forward, Cinder Step bursting beneath his boots, carrying him low to Atticus's side. The greatsword came down in a brutal sweep, but Ithan slid beneath it, sparks raining over his back. His spear lashed down—not at the chest, not at the arm—at the foot that stamped.
Pyric Clash.
White-gold fire burst along the spearhead, sharp as a blade of heat. The strike pierced under Atticus's heel and drove upward, searing flesh and shattering the stone beneath his stance. For the first time, Atticus's root broke.
The juggernaut staggered. His greatsword dipped, the force of his swing faltering. A ragged growl tore from his throat as his knee buckled. Ithan's eyes widened—this was the opening.
He spun, spear blazing, and struck again. The thrust ripped through Atticus's thigh, molten fire cauterizing the wound even as it carved deep. Black grit spilled with the blood, a fissure splitting across his skin. The greatsword trembled in his hands.
For a heartbeat, the storm seemed to falter.
Ithan's chest heaved. It worked.
But then Atticus laughed. Low at first, then rising, harsh and guttural, shaking his broad frame. His head tilted back, stormlight gleaming in his teeth.
"You found it. You clever little bastard." His voice was half-admiration, half-mockery. He slammed his greatsword point-first into the floor, cracks webbing outward, and stamped hard with his bleeding leg. "But you think Earth is all I am?"
Pale light flared across his veins, crawling up his arms, his neck, his jaw. The fissures sealed before Ithan's eyes, grit pulling back into hardened flesh. The wound in his thigh tightened, glowing as if molten stone had filled it. His chest heaved once, and then the tremor was gone—replaced by brutal vitality.
Aether Infusion.
Atticus ripped the greatsword free from the floor and rolled his shoulders, the storm reflecting in his eyes. The man who should have been limping now stood taller, his strength redoubled.
"You thought you'd break me by severing the root?" He took a prowling step forward, the floor humming under his heel. "Fool. This is the Bathos stage. The art of Aether Infusion. My blood, my sinew, my very Mystery flows with Aether now."
He slammed the greatsword across his shoulder, the pale glow still pulsing in his veins. "You can wound me a hundred times, Ashborn. I'll rise a hundred more."
The storm roared in agreement, lightning splitting the air above them.
Ithan lowered his stance, spear burning steady with white-gold flame. His arms ached, his chest trembled with the weight of exertion, but his eyes were clear, fixed on Atticus.
He whispered under his breath, almost to himself: "Then I'll just have to burn through Aether itself."