Ithan blinked, uncertain if he had heard Kallus correctly. Two mysteries? He turned his gaze to Helen, searching for some hint of jest in Kallus' words. Her expression, however—measured, serious, with the faintest crease between her brows—told him this was no exaggeration.
The three of them sat around the low table in Helen's office. Steam curled from the cups before them, carrying the faint fragrance of mint and herbs. Ithan's tea had gone untouched, the warmth fading from the porcelain as it sat forgotten at his elbow.
Kallus leaned back, shoulders finally at ease, a faint glint of pride in his eyes as he finished the last of his soup. He set the bowl aside with a satisfied sigh, then lifted his cup of tea, draining it in a single long pull.
"So," he said, setting the empty cup down with a quiet clink, "after you collapsed, I slung you over my back and ran like hell out of that cursed field. Didn't stop until I was clear."
Ithan tilted his head. "That's good and all," he said slowly, his fingers brushing the rim of his own cup, "but what about the Relic? You didn't just leave it behind, did you?"
Kallus gave him a look, sharp and almost amused. "Huh. That's rich, coming from you. Shouldn't I be asking you about it?"
A prickle of unease ran down Ithan's spine. "What do you mean?"
Helen answered before Kallus could, her tone calm, almost instructional. "When one bonds with a Relic, it no longer exists in the world as something to be lost. It's drawn into your soul, folded into the fabric of who you are. You and it are bound now. If you wish to see it, simply think of it. Call it, and it will answer."
Her words hung in the air like a gentle command.
Ithan hesitated, then closed his eyes. He focused on the memory of the lance—the weight of it, the storm it carried in its heart, the way its presence had thrummed against his veins. A mote of light sparked in the air before him, expanding, twisting, solidifying until cold metal pressed against his palm. He opened his eyes.
The lance was there, gleaming in his grip, its surface alive with faint currents of stormlight. Power hummed from within the weapon, a tide of mystery and raw aether that made his arm tremble slightly as he adjusted his hold.
Kallus let out a low whistle. "By the sea's breath… that's a true Divine relic if I've ever seen one." He leaned forward, his eyes reflecting the lance's glow. "Not like mine—mine's only Heroic grade."
"Divine?" Ithan repeated, brow furrowing. "Is there really such a difference?"
"There's always a difference," Kallus said, his tone sharpening with the edge of a lecture. "Relics come in two main kinds: power relics and mystery relics. Power relics bolster the body, sharpen the senses, make warriors stronger, faster—better. Mystery relics, though…" He tapped the table lightly, as though weighing his own words. "Mystiques like us prefer them. They expand what our mysteries can do, add layers without drowning us in corruption."
Helen nodded, her gaze still fixed on the lance in Ithan's hand. "Relics are graded too—by the quality of the will or essence that forged them. Divine grade, Chthonic grade, Heroic grade, Beast grade, Daimonic grade. Each grade has its own dangers and temptations. Most are locked into either mystery or power."
Kallus leaned back again, arms folding across his chest, though his eyes hadn't left the weapon. "But the Divine grade? That's different. It can be both. A relic of soul and of strength."
The stormlight from the lance pulsed once in his grip, a flicker that felt like acknowledgment—or warning. Ithan tightened his hold and dismissed it with a shake of his head. His thoughts drifted back to the fight against Atticus. That moment had been nothing short of a gamble, reckless even. The lance could just as easily have rejected him outright; his Prometheus mystery had nearly caused exactly that.
For a heartbeat, he'd felt the weapon's will pressing against his own, resisting, ready to tear through him. If not for the thread of his survival mystery binding the fracture between the two, he would have been left hollow—burned out from within. And perhaps, though he loathed to admit it, his curseborn nature had tipped the scale in his favor. The storm had accepted the outcast.
"Now that you're awake," Helen's voice broke into his thoughts, measured as always, "I suppose it's time to give you this."
She slid a parchment across the table. Its seal bore the mark of Ravenmarch's office. Ithan frowned and took it, the texture rough beneath his fingers. He unfolded the letter and read in silence. Line after line, his scowl deepened, jaw tightening until his teeth ground together.
When he reached the end, his voice was low, sharp as flint. "They're demanding I hand over Stormheart."
"Of course they are," Helen said evenly. She leaned back, her arms folding, the lamplight catching in her eyes. "That was the point of the hunt—the mercenaries were meant to deliver the relic to the Imperium. The government dresses it up with promises: land, titles, riches. All to make it look like honor instead of theft."
"Praetor Varro doesn't care about honor," Ithan muttered, the parchment crumpling slightly in his grip. "He just wants the relic for himself. What happens if I refuse?"
Helen's tone left no room for doubt. "You'll be branded an enemy of the Imperium. Possessing stolen property of the Imperial family. Once that seal is broken, there's no going back."
Ithan stared at the letter, weighing its words against what he knew. Atticus had tried to take Stormheart for himself, but the truth was clearer now: if the Blue Orcas were in the governor's pocket, then any victory Atticus claimed would have been his master's in the end. And since Ithan had stopped them, Varro sought to use law and politics to finish what brute force could not.
Helen had warned him already—the governor wanted Mystiques, wanted Mysteries bound and bent to his cause. That was the reason the Blue Orcas had destroyed Larson's company. The pieces fit too easily.
He set the parchment down and looked up, eyes cold. "What if the relic wasn't bound to me? If I were to offer it, they'd give me whatever I asked, wouldn't they?"
Kallus straightened, frowning. "What do you—"
But Helen's hand lifted, silencing him. Her lips curved faintly, as if she'd already walked ahead of Ithan's thoughts. "Ah. I see. You want to negotiate."
"Yes," Ithan said without hesitation. "For Lyra and Doran. Larson made me swear to keep them alive. I intend to honor that."
Helen's gaze softened, though her voice remained firm. "Then you should know—both of them are already here in the city."
Ithan's head snapped up, eyes narrowing. "What? How do you know that?"
Helen raised a brow, half-smirking. "Did you really think Nicodemus and Andreas have been wasting their days playing lovebirds? No. They were assigned to dig into the Praetor's holdings. The Blue Orcas have charge of the building's defense. Andreas sent me word. Lyra and Doran are alive—imprisoned, yes, but not broken."
Relief cracked through him for an instant before Helen's next words sank like iron.
"They are being tortured. Not with blade or lash—worse. Anipather's mystery gnaws at their minds. Mental chains. Illusions. The kind of torment that leaves no scar but hollows the soul."
Ithan's hands clenched until his knuckles whitened. Heat rippled off his skin, smoke curling in thin gray streams as anger coiled tight in his chest. His breath came sharp, his vision narrowing.
He forced himself to inhale slowly, then again, until the smoke began to thin. His teeth remained gritted, though, the fury burning just beneath the calm.
"So—the relic in exchange for them," Ithan said at last, his voice steady though his hand still gripped the lance a little too tightly.
Helen tapped a finger against her teacup, her lips curling faintly. "Hmm. We can do that. I see no reason why Praetor Varro wouldn't agree to such terms."
"What about Atticus?" Kallus cut in, leaning forward. His eyes gleamed with a wolfish curiosity. "What's your plan for him?"
Ithan's gaze darkened. "Atticus. He's alive."
Kallus snorted. "Alive, sure. Barely. You've no killing intent in you, Ashborn. Besides, I bought him with us in case the Captain needed to interrogate him."
"But how did you bring him here? In front of all the spectators?" Ithan asked. Suspicion edged his tone.
Kallus smirked and tugged at the cord around his neck, pulling free a charm etched with faint runes. He held it up between two fingers, letting its dull glow catch the lamplight. "This. The Iron Guild calls it a storage ward. Craft of smiths, mages, and mystery-binders working in concert. Subspace pocket—lets you tuck away more than weapons. Even half-dead foes."
"You mean to tell me you've been carrying him in that thing the whole time?" Ithan asked, brows lifting.
Kallus only grinned. "Expensive little trinket, worth more than a small fortune. Captain gave it to me—'just in case.'"
"I thought it was for protection. Against the Ashen field," Ithan said.
"It is," Kallus replied, tucking the ward back beneath his collar. "It's both."
Ithan turned then, fixing Helen with a look heavy with unspoken questions. He didn't voice them, but the silence between them carried weight. Helen read it plainly enough.
"I didn't give you a ward," she said smoothly, "because you didn't need one. Your curseborn physiology makes you immune to curses, doesn't it?"
"Yes," Ithan admitted.
"That immunity extends to the Ashen field. The corruption there slides off you, doesn't it? According to superstition, the field itself is the cradle of your kind—where curseborn first drew breath."
Her words struck too close to the marrow. Ithan's fingers flexed on the lance. He had always felt a pull to that blighted place, as if something beneath the black soil recognized him. It was in that field that he had discovered the chains that tore open his mystery. No, it wasn't a coincidence. It was deeper than that.
"I feel," Ithan said slowly, his tone edged, "like you're not telling me everything."
Helen held his gaze, her poise unshaken. At length, she exhaled. "Very well. I didn't save you in Volos by chance. My… investor—the one who bankrolls this company—has long had eyes on the Varro family. When word spread that the Ashborn mercenary had caught their attention, my patron wanted you reached first. Brought to their side."
"Me?" Ithan asked, his voice flat with disbelief.
"Yes. You. Because your mystery is… inconvenient to the Imperium."
Ithan's brow furrowed. "Because it's Titan in origin."
Larson's lessons resurfaced in his mind: the legacies the gods left behind, the fragments that shaped Mystiques—Olympian, Titan, Heroic, Noble Creature, Chthonic. The Imperium, descended from Zeus himself, had little love for those who bore Titan fragments. That much he had known.
But Helen shook her head. "Not quite. The Imperium disdains Titan legacies, yes, but that alone isn't your problem. Yours is rarer still. The Prometheus mystery."
The room seemed to quiet around them, as though even the air leaned closer to listen.
Helen's voice lowered, deliberate. "There is no cult to Prometheus. No records of a wielder. You are the first I've ever heard of to bear such a legacy."
Ithan's jaw tightened. "Because Prometheus stole fire from the gods to give to mankind. I thought mankind revered him for it."
"And they do," Helen said quickly. "In most nations, Prometheus is hailed. Even the Imperium sings of him as benefactor."
Her eyes hardened then, a shadow passing over her face. "But—"
Ithan finished for her, his voice bitter. "But the Cult of the Imperial Eagle works in the dark to hunt down his heirs. Just like the Blue Orcas tried to do with me."
The silence that followed pressed down heavy, broken only by the faint hum of the lance resting against Ithan's knee. Its stormlight throbbed like a heartbeat, reminding him of what he had taken—and of the eyes surely now fixed upon him. The Cult of the Imperial Eagle. He had heard whispers: the private order of the Imperial family, steeped in a mystery tied to Zeus himself. If their talons stretched this far, then they would not rest until Stormheart was torn from his grasp.
"I take it the cult will not be happy I hold the lance," Ithan said at last, his tone measured, but edged with certainty.
"No," Helen replied simply. There was no room for doubt in her voice.
"So." Ithan leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. "Your investor sent you to recruit me. But by the time you found me, it was too late. You saw my need for justice…and you used that to tie me to your side."
Helen tilted her head slightly, studying his face. "Are you angry with me for it?"
"No," Ithan said, after a beat of silence. His gaze steadied on her. "But this investor of yours…I would like to meet them."
Helen's lips parted, her composure wavering only slightly. "Unfortunately—" she began, but a sharp knock at the door cut her words short.
"Come in," she called.
The door swung open. Benji stepped inside, his broad shoulders framed by the light of the corridor. His bearded face was drawn tight with apprehension. Behind him, another figure followed—a man whose presence carried the weight of battle.
"Captain Alaric of the Imperial Guard is here to see you, Captain," Benji announced. He stepped aside.
The man entered. He bore the mark of a soldier who had endured too much: his armor dented and scorched, his cloak torn at the hem, the scent of steel and ash lingering about him. Scars crossed his jaw and cheek, some fresh, others old. His eyes were sunken but sharp, alive with a grim focus.
Helen rose immediately, her chair scraping softly against the floor. "Alaric…what are you doing here?" Concern flared across her face. She turned toward Benji. "Bring him refreshment. And healing salves—at once."
Alaric shook his head, lifting a gauntleted hand in refusal. His voice was steady despite his weariness. "I'm fine, Captain Helen. The wounds are closed. The journey itself…pushed me forward. By the time I reached the Marches, I had broken through to Bathos."
Ithan studied him closely, narrowing his senses. It was true—the man carried a deeper resonance now, a tempered weight in his aura. His mystery had the feel of hard-earned steel, the kind that comes only from endless battles, each one chipping away the old until something sharper remained.
"I came because Lady Diana asked me to," Alaric continued. His words carried urgency now, the tone of a man who had seen too much.
Helen frowned. "I heard she traveled south to investigate the disappearances there."
"We did," Alaric said grimly. His hand tightened on the strap of a satchel slung across his chest. "What we found was…horrifying. Things not of this world. Things I still cannot explain." He shifted the strap, unfastening a cluster of satchels and laying them down with a heavy thud. Each one bulged, filled with something he clearly deemed too important to abandon. Also, Ithan felt something graze his senses. Something that pulled at him. The sensation came from the satchels. "But we uncovered the truth. We have evidence."
Helen's gaze flicked from the satchels to Alaric's face. "Where is Diana?"
Alaric's expression darkened. His jaw worked before the words escaped. "We were ambushed. By the Iron Guild."
The air in the room seemed to still.
"For reasons I still don't understand, they have entrenched themselves in the South. It was them. They were behind the disappearances." His voice grew hoarse, as if every word cut at him. "Their leader came in person. He slaughtered our men. All of them. Only the Lady and I survived."
Helen's hands curled into fists at her sides. "And Diana?"
Alaric's eyes flickered with something between shame and grief. "She fought him. She fought the Guildmaster to give me time to flee. I rode for three weeks, driving my horse past its limit. Through forests crawling with abominations not of this world. I should not have survived. Only my advancement—only Bathos—kept me alive."
He drew in a long, ragged breath. "If not for that…I would have never made it to Ravenmarch."
Ithan was already piecing it together. By now he knew who Helen's mysterious backer truly was—this Lady Diana. The name alone suggested someone of the aristocracy, a woman with the influence to fund mercenary companies, maneuver in the shadows, and place Helen within the ranks of the Imperial Stratos. Whoever she was, she carried weight.
"Where is the evidence?" Ithan asked, his tone direct.
Alaric turned toward him, clearly preparing to speak, but Ithan didn't wait for introductions. His eyes had already locked on the satchels. He strode forward with a suddenness that caught even the seasoned soldier off guard.
"Wait—" Alaric's hand flew toward the hilt of his battered blade.
But Ithan was quicker. He unfastened the flap of one satchel and pulled it open. Inside lay shards of crystal, jagged and faintly luminescent. The moment air touched them, they began to glow. A low hum filled the room, vibrating through the floor and walls. The shards in the other satchels answered, resonating in reply.
"What in Poseidon's name—" Kallus swore, pushing back his chair as if the sound itself might split him.
Even Ithan froze for a moment, caught between curiosity and alarm.
One by one, the shards broke free of their bindings, whirling into the air. They spun, catching the lamplight, their glow intensifying. Ithan felt it immediately—the thrum of Aether within them, thick and alien. His grip tightened on Stormheart as the lance began to vibrate violently in his palm, as though it wanted nothing more than to strike out, to obliterate the presence of this rival energy.
With a sharp breath, Ithan forced it back into his mindscape. The stormlight winked out, leaving only the unnatural glow of the shards.
The fragments swirled tighter, fusing together in a shower of sparks until a flat plate of translucent crystal hovered in the air. Symbols crawled across its surface—sigils half-familiar, half-foreign, etched like scars in glass. Ithan's brow furrowed; he recognized faint impressions of the script, though he couldn't place from where. Something in his bones remembered them.
The plate was incomplete. Along one edge, a corner was missing, the break clean as though deliberately removed—part of an unfinished equation.
"The Lady…" Alaric's voice was tight, his eyes fixed on the artifact. "She must have kept one shard with her."
Helen nodded, her expression unreadable. "Of course. Insurance. If you fell, she would retain the key fragment herself."
Ithan barely heard them. His eyes were locked on the plate. For a heartbeat, he wondered if he was staring at a forbidden tome given form, some knowledge mortals weren't meant to glimpse. Every instinct screamed to stay back. But curiosity—reckless and hungry—pulled his foot forward.
The aether within the glass stirred. As if sensing him, the plate shivered and then hurtled toward him like a spear.
The impact slammed into his chest. He staggered back, gasping. His tunic split and smoldered as the plate burned through cloth and skin alike, grafting itself to him. The searing pain went deeper, branding not only his flesh but his very essence.
"GHHH—!" Ithan's scream ripped through the chamber as lightning burst from his body, white flames erupting along his limbs. The resonance reached deeper than his Prometheus mystery. The lance within his mindscape shuddered violently, storm and fire colliding with the invading energy. His mysteries clashed, spiraled, and threatened to tear him apart.
Helen and the others staggered back, shielding themselves from the violent aetherstorm radiating off him. Sparks scorched the wooden beams above; smoke curled from the floor where his flames licked at the stone.
"What in the gods' names is happening?!" Alaric barked, pulling free his broken blade. His stance was defensive, his eyes wide with suspicion. "Is he one of them? A spy?!"
"No!" Helen's voice cut across the roar, sharp and unwavering. She stepped forward instead of back, placing herself between Alaric and Ithan. Her cloak snapped in the wild winds tearing through the room, her eyes locked on the boy convulsing in light and fire.
Alaric hesitated, blade raised. "He'll tear us all apart!"
Helen didn't flinch. "He'll survive it." Her words were quiet but steady, a conviction that carried even through the chaos. She wasn't certain why—only that something in her core told her this trial would not break him.
Because Ithan wasn't meant to break.