Ithan had heard the word before, but hearing it in Atticus's mouth now gave it a weight that pressed against his ribs. Aether.
Helen's lessons came back to him, quiet echoes beneath the thunder. She had told him that Bathos was not simply another rung above Protos—it was the Deepening. The point where a Mystique no longer relied solely on mortal stamina and raw will but began to channel the same breath once drawn by gods.
Aether—the divine current beneath existence. Mortals filled their lungs with air, but the immortals, Helen said, breathed this. It was not wind or fire or water, but the scaffold that gave shape to all of them, the quintessence that wove the world together.
When a fighter reached Bathos, the barriers between themselves and that current thinned. They could drink of it, store it, and bend it to their Mystery. With Aether, exhaustion became distant, wounds sealed faster than they opened, and the backlash of one's own Mystery—the toll that bled out marrow and spirit—could be smothered.
Atticus had reached that place. He stood now as one who drew on the divine breath itself, and the storm raged around him in agreement. His fissured flesh had already sealed, his gait was steady, and the veins glowing pale across his arms promised endurance no mortal strength should have.
But Ithan's heart did not quake. If anything, the revelation sharpened him.
His instincts flared—the old rhythm he had carried with him since Achilles, since the night he had stood alone against the Dionian horde, thinking he would die with spear in hand. That was when he first felt it: the raw Mystery of survival, clawing up from the marrow, refusing to let him fall. Back then, it had been unconscious. Desperation. But now, it answered him like an ally, twining into the Promethean fire that seared his veins.
He gave it a name.
Ashen Reprieve.
White-gold fire rippled along his frame, not bursting outward, but folding inward. Logos Pyros burned cleaner, sharper, aligned with his own will. He felt it lick across torn muscle and battered bone, not healing in truth but cauterizing the hurts, burning away frailty, numbing pain with fire's discipline. His breath steadied, his vision cleared, and the trembling in his arms hardened into resolve.
The flame did not mend—it hardened. Where flesh tore, it seared shut. Where fatigue gnawed, it scorched weakness to ash. Where despair whispered, it set the spirit alight.
Ithan straightened, his chest heaving, white-gold fire glowing along the edge of his spear like the spine of a blade forged anew. Atticus's stormlight clashed against his flames, divine breath against mortal defiance.
If Aether was the gods' gift, then his fire would be man's rebellion.
The chamber thundered with their fury.
Atticus pressed forward, his greatsword carving arcs of stormlight, every blow stamped heavier than the last. Ithan's Ashen Reprieve flared white-gold along his body, keeping him upright when his bones should have splintered, cauterizing his ribs where the blade's graze had torn him raw. Each step he took left cinders on the floor, each thrust of the spear etched light into the storm.
But the gap between them was a gulf. Atticus was Bathos. His every swing carried the weight of earth and storm, his veins pulsing with Aether's glow. Where Ithan's flame burned to stave off collapse, Atticus's power made him inexhaustible.
Their weapons met again—spear and greatsword locking in a grinding clash. Sparks and fire burst between them, white-gold heat against pale stormlight. For a moment, Ithan thought he held him. His arms shook, teeth grit, flame blazing across his spear.
Then Atticus stamped.
The floor convulsed. Crystal split beneath Ithan's boots as jagged spears of earth erupted upward, impaling through his side and shoulder. The breath ripped from his lungs in a ragged cry as the stone tore through flesh, hot blood spilling down his frame.
The force hurled him back. He crashed onto the glassy floor, his spear clattering aside, his vision swimming in white and red. He could barely breathe. His fire hissed against the blood seeping from him, Ashen Reprieve burning furiously just to keep him conscious.
Atticus loomed above him, greatsword dragging sparks as it came to rest across his shoulder. He looked down at Ithan, stormlight shadowing his face, and shook his head.
"So much fight. So much rage. And yet—still too weak." His voice was a low growl, almost mournful, though his grin betrayed his hunger. He raised the blade high, the storm catching its edge in blinding arcs. "It ends here, Ashborn. You'll feed the earth, just like all the rest."
The blade began to fall.
And then cinders exploded.
Ithan's body vanished in a burst of white-gold sparks, Cinder Step igniting at the very edge of his strength. In a single, desperate streak of flame, he flung himself across the chamber, pain tearing through him but resolve burning hotter.
Not away. Not to safety.
To the lance.
The adamant relic towered before him, stormlight rippling off its jagged length. His bloodied hands wrapped around its shaft, the heat of it searing into his bones, thunder cracking like a war drum above.
The storm raged as if the world itself were split open. The crystal chamber shook, veins of light flaring wild, and in that heartbeat, all brightness bent toward Ithan, as though every bolt of lightning had chosen him.
His blood roared in his ears. Thunder wasn't just sound—it was a voice, a call that cracked through marrow and soul. Lightning split his vision, searing shapes into his eyes: a crown of stormlight, chains of oath, a throne wrought of cloud and fire. In that instant, he knew.
The Lance was no simple weapon. It bore the Mystery of Sovereignty—the right to rule, the power to bind oaths, the fury of the storm made law. It was Zeus's Mystery, kingly and absolute. The same god who had struck down Prometheus, chaining him for giving flame to men.
And Ithan carried Prometheus's fire in his veins.
Two truths, set against one another—thief and king, rebellion and dominion. Mysteries like these weren't meant to live in the same body. The clash alone could tear a soul apart. Ithan felt the tension immediately, fire and storm twisting within him, pressing, gnashing like wolves in the same cage.
From behind, Atticus laughed, the sound rolling like boulders.
"You fool, Ashborn," he thundered. His stormlit eyes gleamed with cruel delight. "Haven't you heard the stories? Prometheus, the thief of fire, chained for eternity by Zeus. Flame and Sky are enemies. Do you truly think a cursed brat with stolen fire can wield that relic?"
The words cut deep because they were true. Every tale Ithan had ever heard of the old gods confirmed it—Prometheus bound, punished, broken by the King of the Sky.
And yet—he did not let go.
Because ever since he had stepped into the Ashen Field, something inside him had been different. His blood boiled with a wild rhythm, his Promethean fire no longer scalded him with its backlash but burned with new intent, as if the Field itself had stirred something asleep within him. The corruption others feared… it did not eat at him. It awakened him.
Curseborn.
For the first time, the word didn't sting like mockery. It felt like a truth long denied.
Ithan's fingers tightened around the lance, the storm flaring as if it too demanded an answer. He looked up at Atticus, his body broken and bleeding, his eyes steady.
"Yes," he said simply, voice low but unshaken.
White-gold flame seared along his frame as he pressed his will into the Lance, and for the first time, he didn't fight the storm raging inside him. He aligned himself to it. Fire and thunder collided within his veins, clashing truths wrestling for dominion—yet his will bound them, forcing them into a single rhythm.
And with that act, the relic accepted him.
The moment Ithan pressed his will into the lance, the storm consumed him.
The chamber, the battlefield, even Atticus's looming shadow—all of it burned away in a blinding flash. He was falling, yet not downward. He fell through light and thunder, through centuries layered like ash and stone.
And then he saw it.
A mountain crowned in storm: Olythros. Lightning raged across its peak, where the gods once stood. A thunderbolt split the heavens, cast down with wrath so fierce the sky itself bled white. It struck Olythros, shattering the peak, splitting stone and sky in one breath. A shard of that divine weapon—pure thunder made solid—fell, smoking, to the earth.
Hammer on anvil. He saw it shaped by immortal hands into a lance, veins of storm sealed inside the adamant. The sound of each strike echoed like a thunderclap, ringing through eternity.
Then came the mortal who bore it: a champion-king clad in bronze, crowned by stormlight. He held the lance high, and lightning bent to him. Cities bowed at his passing. Enemies broke upon his march. He ruled not by birthright but by sanction of the sky. His name burned in the air, but when Ithan reached for it, the letters scattered like ash.
He saw the end too. The Imperium fracturing, faith splintering, the king betrayed and cast down. His name struck from every record, his legacy stolen. The lance vanished with him, swallowed by the Ashen Fields when the earth tore open and the gods withdrew from the mortal plane.
And there it remained, half-buried in storm and shadow, while lightning struck unnaturally often upon its resting place—called home, again and again, to its origin in the sky.
The vision trembled. The lance's truth pressed against Ithan's soul, demanding he choose: would he bear a power forged in Zeus's wrath, meant for kings, knowing it was born to bind oaths, to command obedience, to enforce rule?
The fire in his veins rebelled, Prometheus's defiance flaring hot. Storm and flame snarled, clashing like wild beasts inside his marrow. His body should have torn apart, his mind split by their contradiction.
But Ithan gritted his teeth, blood dripping from his jaw even in the vision. His spear hand clenched tighter.
I am no king. I am no god's servant. But if this lance was born to rule—then I will wield it for my own truth, not theirs.
The fire did not yield, the storm did not bow. Yet both burned inside him, searing his soul into something new.
When his eyes snapped open, he was still clutching the lance in the crystal chamber. Lightning cascaded down its length into his arms, white-gold fire coiling upward to meet it. The storm bent toward him, not with obedience, but with recognition.
Atticus's laughter died in his throat. What he saw before him should not have been possible.
The lance did not resist the Ashborn—it welcomed him. The storm that had once bent only to kings now poured its fury into a mercenary with cursed fire in his blood. Lightning cascaded down the adamant shaft, not burning him, not rejecting him, but flowing into his body as if the relic had always been waiting for him.
And it wasn't just lightning.
Atticus's storm-hardened eyes widened as he recognized the shimmer of what clung to Ithan's veins: Aether. Pure, undiluted Aether, pouring from the lance into the body of a man who had never touched Bathos. The divine breath itself was filling the Ashborn's lungs, threading through every sinew, fusing stormlight to fire.
It should have killed him. Instead, it transfigured him.
Ithan's voice rang through the chamber, steady, solemn, as though he spoke not just words but truth itself.
"Mystery of Prometheus: Logos Pyros — Truth of Flame: Ember Edge."
White-gold fire rippled outward, streaming down the length of the lance. The flames caught on the blade, not wild and ravenous, but honed into an edge. Fire fused with lightning, storm tempered by flame until they became one searing brilliance. The weapon sang as heat and thunder wove together, the air around it trembling with force.
And then Ithan spoke again. His tone was iron, his eyes burning with the storm's reflection.
"Mystery of Zeus: Logos Keraunos — Thunderbolt."
The lance answered. The blackened bronze shaft cracked with veins of molten gold, lightning dancing along its length. Sparks exploded outward, jagged arcs snapping across the crystal chamber, until the weapon glowed like a shard of living sky.
Ithan leveled it, the storm and his fire converging on its tip. He moved—one clean thrust.
The world detonated.
A thunderclap erupted, so loud it split the air and shattered crystal from the walls. The lance pierced forward, and the strike became a sonic boom that ripped through the chamber, tearing a path straight through Atticus. Lightning and flame erupted inside him, blowing through his sinew and blasting him off his rooted stance.
For the first time, Atticus was severed from the ground. His body convulsed as the earth's grip on him snapped, the glow of his Aether infusion flickering. Blood and grit sprayed into the stormlight as the explosion hurled him back, his roar drowned beneath the fury of Prometheus's flame and Zeus's thunder, bound together in one impossible stroke.
The silence after the thunderclap was deafening. Shattered crystal still rained from the ceiling, glowing fragments clattering across the floor. The smell of ozone and scorched flesh filled the air.
Ithan staggered, the lance still clutched in both hands, its glow dimming only slightly. His chest heaved, his body shaking as though it were no longer entirely his. The weapon pulsed with stormlight, his veins burned with fire, and the two truths wrestled inside him like chained beasts.
Prometheus's flame seared upward from his core, that familiar white-gold fire that had always burned him as much as it empowered him. But now it met something greater, something older: the storm's sovereignty, Zeus's dominion, Aether threading through marrow and lung like threads of lightning spun into his blood.
The result was agony.
His arms trembled violently, muscles straining as if they might rip from the bone. The fire cauterized one wound even as the storm tried to split it open again. His skin cracked along the shoulders and forearms, thin lines glowing like molten glass where the twin Mysteries pressed against each other, clawing for dominance. His breath was a ragged rasp, each inhalation sharp with ozone, each exhale laced with smoke.
It should have torn him apart. He knew it. No man could hold two opposing truths, Prometheus's rebellion and Zeus's sovereignty, without being consumed.
And yet—something in him refused to break.
The Survival Mystery rose again, the instinct that had carried him through the Dionian horde, that had flared when he first stepped into the Ashen Field. It didn't silence the clash—it bridged it. It took the tearing and wove it into motion, pain and power becoming one rhythm. Not harmony, but defiance: a body refusing to collapse, a soul refusing to bow.
The lance thrummed in his grip, fire and lightning snarling along its length. His vision blurred at the edges, rimmed with sparks and smoke, but his eyes remained locked forward.
Atticus had fallen. The ground was cracked where his body had been blasted free. But Ithan knew—knew in the marrow of his bones—that this fight was over. He could barely stand, his flesh splitting with light, his veins screaming with Aether and fire. Without any strength left, he fell into the darkness.
****
The lance still thrummed in his hands, fire and thunder snarling in his veins. Every muscle screamed, every heartbeat threatened to tear him apart. And yet—Atticus lay broken, cut from the earth, his strength spent.
The storm quieted. Not gone, but distant, its echoes fading through the crystal veins of the mountain. The silence pressed down heavily, broken only by Ithan's ragged breaths. His body swayed, his grip slackening on the lance. The floor beneath him rippled, not with quake or thunder—just memory.
The light around him blurred. The jagged crystal pillars softened into marble columns. The hiss of blood in his ears became the sound of rain against tiled rooftops. He blinked, and the battlefield was gone.
Marithiaos.
He stood in its narrow streets, the air damp with salt from the sea. Lanterns swung above shopfronts, their glow warm and inviting in the drizzle. The storm was replaced by the chatter of merchants packing their wares, by the laughter of children running barefoot through puddles. And there—amid the hum of the city—was her.
Sophia.
She walked beside him, her hair tucked beneath a pale shawl to keep the rain at bay, though loose strands clung to her cheeks. Her eyes held the calm warmth of someone who had seen his scars and didn't flinch. She had a way of smiling with the corners of her lips, as though she held back laughter until she was sure he was ready to share it.
The smile came to him unbidden, soft and fleeting.
It had been months since he and Larson had driven off the bandits that plagued Marithiaos. Larson, half-amused, half-wary, had raised an eyebrow when he discovered Ithan had struck up a friendship with Sophia. The older mercenary pretended to linger in the village out of caution—"just in case the scum came back sniffing for revenge"—but Ithan had seen through it. Larson simply wanted to watch how the boy handled this new bond.
Weeks turned into months. The scars of battle faded, and the rhythms of village life took their place. Ithan found himself at Sophia's side more often than not. She had a habit of appearing after his training, cheeks flushed from running, arms full of bread or dried fruit she insisted he eat before collapsing from exhaustion. Somehow, he never argued.
That day, they were walking back from the hill where he practiced calling his flames, his palms still warm, faint trails of smoke curling from his fingertips. Sophia's chatter filled the evening air, her voice bright and animated.
"I still can't believe it," she said, brushing a lock of damp hair from her forehead. "You're one of those people my mother used to tell me stories about."
Ithan glanced down at her, puzzled. "What people?"
"Heroes," she said, her smile blooming like sunlight breaking through rain. "Those touched by the gods' favor."
The look caught him off guard. For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to her face—eyes alight with belief, lips curved in warmth so radiant his chest clenched. Sophia had always been pretty in a way he barely noticed, the kind of prettiness that lived in gestures and laughter. But now… now she was something else. Beautiful. Utterly.
Heat climbed up his neck. He coughed, trying to bury the sound in his fist, and snapped his head away before she could see the flush in his cheeks.
"I'm not a hero," he muttered. "I'm a mercenary."
"But you have the gifts of a hero," she countered, grinning as though daring him to contradict her.
"No," he said firmly, though the corner of his mouth twitched. "I'm a mercenary."
Sophia's lips curled in a mock pout. Then, without warning, she jabbed her small fist into his ribs. The blow drove the air from his lungs in a surprised cough.
"You—!" He turned toward her, eyes wide, but she was already laughing, her shoulders shaking, her hand over her mouth as though she couldn't contain it.
The laughter was contagious. His indignation cracked, his lips pulling into a reluctant grin.
"You'll pay for that," he warned, lunging at her.
But Sophia was quick. She darted out of reach, skirts swishing, turning her head just long enough to stick her tongue out at him.
And so he chased her through the cobbled streets of Marithiaos, his laughter mingling with hers, villagers looking up from their work with faint smiles. For a little while, the weight of being mercenary, Curseborn, survivor—none of it mattered. There was only her, the chase, and the joy of running side by side.
Evening laid its hush over Marithiaos, the marketplace lanterns flickering to life, their golden glow stretching long shadows across the square. Sophia's mother appeared at the edge of the street, apron still dusted with flour, her voice sharp but not unkind as she called her daughter home.
Sophia looked back at Ithan, mischief still sparkling in her eyes from their chase earlier. "See you tomorrow," she said, and before he could answer, she leaned forward and pecked him lightly on the cheek.
Heat shot up his neck. By the time his mind caught up, she was already darting away, skirts swishing as she joined her mother. Together they disappeared into the family store, climbing the narrow staircase that led to the small rooms above. The door closed, leaving only the lanternlight and the sound of the sea in the distance.
Ithan stood frozen in the square, spear calluses tingling on the hand she had brushed. His eyes blinked once, twice, trying to decide if that had really happened. His chest felt too light, too tight at the same time.
A low chuckle rolled behind him.
Larson leaned against a post, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at the edge of his weathered face. "Looks like you're in love."
Ithan snapped his head around, cheeks still burning. "What? I'm not. I—I don't know what you're talking about." He turned his face away, trying to hide the flush, but Larson's gaze followed him with the weight of a man who had seen a hundred boys wrestle with the same thing.
"You sure are," Larson said, pushing off the post and strolling past him. "Nothing to be embarrassed about. All little pipsqueaks like you get a crush sooner or later. Part of life."
Ithan scowled, trailing after him toward the inn. "Were you ever in love?"
"Sure. Once or twice." Larson's tone was casual, but there was an edge beneath it, a roughness from old scars. "Didn't work out so well for me. Hard to hold on to anyone when you're always moving from one bloody battlefield to the next."
"I see," Ithan murmured, the thought sitting heavy in his chest.
Larson clapped him on the back hard enough to jolt him. "Anyway, we should be heading out soon. Off to the capital. Time to get your official mercenary license."
"But—" Ithan started.
Larson cut him off with a wave. "That bandit mess was my way of testing you, and you passed. Plus, it doesn't hurt that you're a Mystique. Stronger than most, quicker too. You'll do fine."
"But what about Sophia…" The words slipped out before he could stop them. She was his first true friend, the first person who made him feel normal. He didn't want to let that slip away so quickly.
Larson's grin softened, just a little. "As a mercenary, you don't get to stay in one place, boy. We move. That's the life." He paused, stroking his beard, then added, "But… there's no rule against having a place you come back to."
Ithan looked up. "But what?"
"Maybe we can make this village one of our stops. Rest up here between jobs, the way my old company used Ravenstone as a base. That way…" Larson's eyes glinted, amused. "You'll get to see Sophia now and then."
Ithan's face lit up despite himself. "So Marithiaos is like our Ravenstone."
"Exactly."
"Hm. That makes sense. Sure, let's do that," Ithan said, and the smile that spread across his face was so bright, so unguarded, Larson couldn't help but laugh aloud.
"You're not the same grim-faced brat I met months ago," Larson said, still chuckling as they reached the inn's doorway.
"Maybe that's a good thing," Ithan replied, teeth flashing white as he smiled—genuinely, fully—for the first time in a long while.