Helen stood with one hand lifted, eyes aglow, while the air around her rippled like heat off a forge. The phantoms swirling in her wake were not random—they were shaped, sharpened, born of something older than herself.
This was no grand Olympian storm or flame. Her mystery carried the chill of a lesser divinity, one most men forgot until the moment their courage failed. The god of fear and panic on the battlefield. Phobos.
Whispers slithered through the ash—echoes of screams from wars long buried. Spectral forms flickered behind her shoulders, twisted silhouettes of warriors breaking under invisible weight, faces stretched in silent terror. The fragments orbiting her shimmered like blackened glass shards, each one a splinter of dread honed sharp enough to cut the soul.
Ithan recognized it then—not just a mystery, but a fragment tied to the Olympian legacy system, plucked from some journey far from her homeland. She had carried it, nurtured it, folded it into the fabric of her being until it meshed with her bloodline's major mystery.
Now it was whole.
The resonance hit him like a wave. He could feel it in his bones, a vibration deeper than sound. Her Phobos fragment had reached its third stage. Complete. Finished. The result was undeniable. The revelation flared, and dread became a domain.
Though the power of the mystery wasn't directed at Ithan and the others, Ithan's mind still flashed across moments in his life when he felt true fear for the first time in his life. His mind went to the time in Mariathos, with the events that happened with Sophia.
Imperium soldiers froze mid-step, blades slipping from trembling hands. Armor rattled with shivers they couldn't control. A magus clawed at the runes etched into his wrists as though he could scratch away the terror searing through him. Even Lucious' face drained of its polished composure, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the table.
All around her, the mighty Imperium forces bowed—not willingly, but bent beneath an invisible weight.
Ithan's grip tightened on Stormheart as he watched, his chest pounding with the truth. She wasn't merely strong. She had reached the final resonance. Her mystery was no fragmentary echo—it was dread incarnate.
The air split with a sound like bone scraped against iron—long, low, and jagged. A horn's cry, carried on the wind from the tree line east of the farmland.
Every hair on Ithan's neck bristled. He knew that sound. The Dionians' raid-call, raw and guttural, the kind that sent farmers scrambling to shutter their homes and mercenaries scrambling to arms.
His eyes snapped to the forest. The shadows between the trunks writhed with motion, dark shapes pouring out like a flood. Spears glinted. Painted skin flashed. The earth itself seemed to quake beneath the stampede of war boots.
Helen's head turned sharply, her gaze narrowing as her senses swept across the incoming tide. She didn't need a scout to tell her who led them—she felt him, like a scar reopened.
At the head of the host, a figure loomed larger than the rest. Antlers caught the moonlight above a stag skull helm. His broad chest was bare but scarred with spiraling brands that glowed faintly red in rhythm with his steps, marks of Dionysian frenzy.
Archon Damarchos.
The same warlord who had once hurled himself against Achilles' walls under her watch, battering at the gates with unrelenting fury until her command had thrown him back. She had carved his name into her memory then. And now here he stood, striding through the forest's edge with an army at his back.
Helen's voice was cold, her breath steaming in the night air. "So you've shown up here too."
Her aura flared outward, invisible claws of dread sweeping across the field, pressing against the onrushing Dionians like a wave crashing on stone.
Nothing.
They did not falter. They did not so much as blink. Their eyes blazed with unnatural brightness, mouths frothing as they shouted guttural chants. The weight of fear slid over them like water over oil.
Ithan's stomach knotted. He could see it now in the wildness of their steps, in the way their movements rippled as one—this wasn't ordinary rage. They were already under something else. Something deeper, stronger. A frenzy that was more ecstasy than rage, their bodies driven by a murderous joy no mortal fear could break.
Helen's jaw tightened as the truth settled in. Even her Revelation could not pierce them.
The Dionians were already claimed.
Helen's eyes narrowed, her voice low but certain. "So he's finally reached Aletheia. That's why he dares show himself here."
She turned sharply, her cloak snapping in the ashen wind as she fixed her gaze on Nicodemus and Andreas. "Take the children. Get them back to the city. Warn the guards."
Nicodemus gave a quick nod, already pulling Lyra and Doran toward him. Andreas fell in step without question, his hand never leaving the hilt of his blade. Alaric hesitated only long enough to look back at Ithan, as if torn, before joining them. Together, they ushered the frightened pair toward the waiting carriage, boots crunching against the ash as they hurried.
Ithan didn't follow. His attention swung back to the Imperium's side.
The once-proud soldiers still stood locked in place, their eyes wide and trembling under Helen's Revelation. But the absence was louder than the silence—two figures no longer stood among them.
Anipather was gone. So was Anastomus.
And not just them. One of the Imperium's magi had vanished as well, the faint trace of scorched aether lingering in the air like a half-erased signature.
Ithan's gaze shifted toward the black horizon of the Ashen Field. He felt it then—a whisper against his curseborn senses, a disturbance sliding like knives across his skin. Their presences were moving through the fringes, slipping into that cursed wasteland as though drawn toward something within.
His hand clenched tighter around Stormheart.
"Go," Helen said, her tone cutting through his thoughts like steel.
The wind whipped around her suddenly, gathering at her feet, coiling up her legs in twisting currents. The ash parted as though obeying her command. Then she launched herself upward, leaping into the night sky as if invisible steps held her aloft.
Ithan's eyes followed her ascent as a weapon shimmered into her hand—its shape half-shrouded in stormlight and phantom dread. She angled herself like a falling star, streaking toward the Dionian lines.
At their front, Archon Damarchos lifted his stag-helmed head, his frenzy-branded chest glowing brighter as he raised his axe to meet her descent.
The battlefield was about to tear itself apart.
Helen fell from the sky like a spear of dread, the air buckling around her as her weapon carved a streak of shadowlight through the ash.
Below, Archon Damarchos lifted his axe. Its blackened blade caught the moonlight, antlers crowning him like a god of the hunt returned to earth. The frenzy-marks spiraled across his chest and arms, glowing with a wine-red light that pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat. His war cry rolled out, guttural and wild, carrying with it the voice of a thousand maddened throats.
The clash came like a storm breaking.
Her weapon struck his axe, and the impact sent a shockwave tearing through the ash field. Ash and dust burst outward in a ring, flattening grass and rattling the pavilions where Imperium banners shook loose from their poles. Soldiers and Dionians alike stumbled as the very ground seemed to quake under the force.
Helen pressed down, the fragments of Phobos swirling around her, bleeding dread into every corner of the field. Phantom silhouettes screamed in silence, pressing claws of terror into the minds of all who watched. But Damarchos only laughed—low and thunderous, his frenzy-marks flaring brighter as he pushed back against her with brute strength.
Their weapons locked, sparks of lightning and shadowlight crackling between them, then burst apart with a resounding crack. Helen landed lightly, her cloak swirling, eyes hard and unflinching. Damarchos' boots dug furrows into the earth, but he grinned under the stag skull helm, teeth flashing white in the gloom.
"You'll not break me, Helen of Achilles!" his voice boomed, guttural and rich with mirth. "Your fear is nothing to the frenzy! We dance in panic and madness, and we love it!"
Helen raised her weapon again, her voice cold and sharp as steel. "Then drown in it."
She struck once more, her blows precise, driving dread into every swing. Damarchos met her with wide arcs of his axe, each strike ringing with enough force to splinter stone. Around them, Dionian warriors howled and beat their weapons on their shields, their frenzy only deepening at the sight of their Archon clashing with the mercenary captain who once held them back. The battlefield was no longer waiting—it had already ignited.
****
Ithan tore across the fringe of the Ashen Field, his breath burning in his chest, his first spear clutched tight in his hand. Stormheart was gone, left behind in the negotiation farce. All that remained was iron and wood—the weapon Larson had taught him to wield, scarred and worn, but truer than any relic.
Ahead, Anipather's shadow flickered between broken stone pillars and drifting ash, always just out of reach. Each stride dragged Ithan deeper into memory. Larson's voice echoed in his ears, heavy with patience and quiet strength, the same voice that had once pulled him through the worst days of his childhood.
~
He was small again, standing in the square of Mariathos with his hands shoved into his pockets, the sun lowering in a haze of orange light. He kicked at a pebble, waiting.
Sophia should've been there by now. She was always there, smiling, running to meet him with her hair loose in the wind. But the square was empty.
He waited until the shadows stretched long, until his stomach twisted with unease. Then Larson appeared, his step slow, his gaze already searching Ithan's face.
"Let's go," Larson said.
Ithan scowled, trying to hide the knot in his chest as he fell into step beside him.
"What's wrong with you?" Larson asked.
"It's nothing," Ithan muttered.
Larson's brow arched. "Come on. Spit it out."
Ithan's voice cracked when he finally answered. "It's Sophia. She was supposed to meet me this afternoon… but she didn't."
"Want to stop by her place?" Larson asked.
"You don't have to—"
"I'm hungry for a pastry," Larson interrupted with a faint smile. "Let's go."
Ithan nodded. They walked the short path to the bakery, the air heavy with the smell of yeast and sugar. But as they rounded the corner, the sweetness turned sour.
A crowd had gathered outside, muttering, their faces dark with unease. The low hum of their voices carried on the air like gnats. Ithan caught fragments—words he had heard before, words that had burned into him.
Curseborn.
The people turned as he approached, their eyes narrowing, lips curling with disgust. His ash-grey hair glinted in the sunset, marking him out, branding him as other.
"You're not welcome here, Curseborn," a man spat, his rough clothes stained with flour. Others hissed and whispered, voices sharp as knives.
Ithan clenched his fists, refusing to answer, his chest tight as he pushed through the murmuring wall of bodies with Larson at his side.
Then the smell hit him. Copper, thick and sharp.
His stomach turned even before his eyes fell to the ground.
A dark pool spread from beneath the bakery's door, seeping over the threshold, glinting crimson in the last light of day.
Blood.
And Ithan knew before Larson pulled him back by the shoulder—Sophia wasn't coming.
~
The memory split away like shattered glass as Ithan ran harder, teeth bared. His grip tightened on his spear until the wood groaned beneath his fingers.
Ahead, Anipather's form darted between shadows. And all Ithan could think of was Larson, Sophia, Garrick—every wound carved into him by this world.
He would not let Anipather add to that list.
The ashen wind stung his eyes as Ithan pushed harder, spear angled low, feet pounding against blackened earth. The silhouette ahead loomed larger. Anipather, cloak whipping behind him, armor glinting faintly in the fractured moonlight. He could feel the man's aura, sharp and suffocating, like a blade always an inch from his throat.
Finally—after all the words, all the schemes—they were alone.
Ithan bared his teeth. "Anipather!"
The Blue Orcas' captain didn't turn at once. He slowed, letting his boots crunch against the cracked earth, until he stood at the threshold of the Ashen Field proper. Shadows pooled around the jagged stones, the corrupted land breathing like a living thing.
Ithan charged, spear raised. But before he could close the gap, another figure stepped out from the drifting haze.
Anastomus.
The madman's grin was carved wide across his face, teeth glinting under the stag-light of the moon. His dagger twirled in one hand, the blade catching stray sparks of aether as if it thirsted for blood. His eyes gleamed with fever-bright joy.
Anipather finally turned, his gaze cold and deliberate. He looked Ithan up and down, then shifted his eyes to Anastomus. "Keep him here. Break him if you can. I have other work to finish."
"You're leaving me scraps?" Anastomus asked, voice lilting like a jester's tune. His grin widened as he tilted his head toward Ithan. "But oh, this one isn't scraps. He's fire and curse and broken promises. He's beautiful."
Anipather didn't answer. He stepped deeper into the Ashen Field, his figure swallowed by drifting ash, his aura receding like a blade sheathed but not forgotten.
Ithan skidded to a halt, spear raised, chest heaving. His eyes darted between the disappearing shadow of Anipather and the dagger-flashing figure who remained.
Anastomus chuckled, spreading his arms as if welcoming an embrace. "Looks like it's just you and me now, Ashborn. I've been dying for this dance."
He lunged, dagger flashing like a serpent's fang, his grin a smear of madness in the dark.
Ithan didn't hesitate. His spear snapped into motion, the old drills Larson had burned into his bones carrying him forward. Sparks spat as wood and steel clashed—parry, thrust, pivot—every stroke meeting Anastomus' dagger in a shower of ringing metal.
Anastomus was quick. Too quick. His movements blurred, his body lit by that unnatural glow that clung to him like grains of burning sand grinding against his skin. Each strike of his dagger was sharp, precise—less a weapon and more an extension of his frenzy.
Steel hissed as Ithan deflected another slash, twisting his spear to drive Anastomus back a step.
The madman only laughed, eyes bright, grin splitting wider. "Huh. Your combat skill… better than I expected. Refined. Clean. Not the wild thrashing of a curseborn brat." His dagger spun in his fingers, flashing. "Interesting. But tell me—why is your resonance still stuck at Protos?"
Ithan's jaw clenched, his grip tightening on the shaft of his spear.
Anastomus leaned close in the clash, their weapons locked, his voice dropping to a giddy whisper. "I left my Aspect with you, Ashborn. That's why I advanced. Just like your Aspect made me advance."
The words crawled through Ithan's ears like barbed wire.
"Shut up," Ithan snarled, his voice low, cutting through the clash of weapons.
Anastomus only grinned wider, his dagger spinning lazily in his hand as though the fight was a game. "I heard you defeated Atticus," he said, words rolling out in a sing-song mockery. "He was Bathos stage. Stronger. Older. And yet, you killed him." The grin sharpened into hunger. "Show me. Show me the power you used to break him."
He shoved off Ithan's spear, his body whipping backward in a blur. His movements bent unnaturally, sliding between broken stumps and twisted stone like a shadow come loose from the world. The ash clung to him, trailing in wisps as though drawn into his glow.
Ithan steadied his footing, planting his spear firm against the blackened ground, eyes tracking as best he could. But Anastomus was fast—too fast. His figure flickered, there one heartbeat, gone the next, moving as though time itself slowed to his will.
A shiver raced down Ithan's spine. How is he moving like this? The question gnawed at him with each impossible step. What kind of Mystery grants him this speed?
If he was going to win, he couldn't just block, couldn't just endure. He had to understand.
If I'm to defeat him, I need to uncover his Mystery.
It wasn't guesswork. It never was. Mystiques always revealed themselves through their Aspects—the slivers of truth that bled into the world when their Mysteries were invoked.
An Aspect was the partial manifestation of the truth hidden within a Mystery. Some showed as flames or shadows, others as illusions, toxins, or the bending of elements. To identify an Aspect was to glimpse the heart of what made a Mystique dangerous.
Take Kallus, for instance. In his fight against Pleops, he'd unraveled the man's Chthonic fragment when he noticed the shadows clinging unnaturally to his strikes. Shadows were his Aspect, tied to the truths of his homeland, steeped in underworld fragments.
The key was always the Aspect. Find it, and the Mystery could be read. And once read, it could be broken.
Ithan's grip on his spear tightened, his eyes narrowing as Anastomus blurred through the ash. "Come on then," he muttered under his breath. "Show me what you really are."
Anastomus darted through the ash like a phantom, dagger flashing in and out of sight. Ithan turned with him, spear sweeping in tight arcs, but each time the strike connected, there was something wrong.
The haft of his spear groaned under the dagger's touch—not just from impact, but from something deeper. The wood fibers darkened where blade met shaft, splintering like years of rot had been crammed into a heartbeat.
Ithan's eyes widened.
Again Anastomus struck, and again the same effect bloomed—edges of his spear bruising, fragments of the iron tip flaking as though time itself had passed it by. Even the ground bore marks where Anastomus' feet touched; stones cracked, weeds shriveled, ash crumbled into finer dust as though the world aged beneath him.
Anastomus laughed, high and shrill, his voice echoing unnaturally as he blurred past. "Do you feel it, Ashborn? Every second you fight me is a year shaved off your weapon, a year stolen from your life."
Ithan parried another slash, but the spear shaft shuddered, and his arm tingled with numbness. He glanced down to see faint hairline cracks racing across the surface of his weapon, glowing faintly before fading. Not ordinary damage. Not ordinary speed.
Anastomus stopped for a heartbeat, dagger dangling from his fingers. His body twitched, vibrating faintly, the unnatural glow clinging to him like a second skin. Up close, Ithan saw it clearly: the aura wasn't light at all—it was dust, fine motes of ash and sand crawling across his flesh, grinding like the endless erosion of stone in a desert wind.
Decay.
The realization struck Ithan with a jolt. This wasn't just speed. Anastomus wasn't outrunning him—he was stripping moments away, breaking the world into fragments of time and letting it collapse into dust. His dagger was the scalpel, his body the conduit, and the truth of his Mystery was Kronos.
Ithan steadied his breath, spear angled low. So that's it. His Aspect is decay—time eating everything it touches.
The thought grounded him, cutting through the haze of panic. If he could see it, he could fight it.
But Anastomus' grin only widened, his dagger twirling faster. "Good. You've noticed. Now—let's see how long you last before your body breaks like your spear."
He lunged again, the ground beneath his feet cracking into powder where he stepped, time itself unraveling in his wake.
Ithan's voice rang out, low and steady, as he set his stance."Mystery of Prometheus: Logos Pyros—Truth of Flame."
The words weren't just spoken—they reverberated, each syllable tugging at the marrow of his bones, sparking something deep inside. His spear answered the invocation, flaring alive with white-gold fire.
Flames hissed along the haft, clean and sharp, without smoke or soot. They burned with the brilliance of a forge, light dancing like brushstrokes across the night air. Sparks and arcs curled from the tip, trailing in deliberate patterns as though the weapon had become a painter's quill, inscribing radiant sigils into the Ashen Field itself.
This was Ember Edge. The spear's head gleamed white-hot, cloaked in a blade of pure heat, the air rippling violently around it.
Across from him, Anastomus froze in mid-spin, eyes widening. His grin faltered only for a heartbeat before twisting back into delight. "So," he whispered, almost giddy. "You've learned to express your Mystery. Not just raw fire… but Logos itself."
He tilted his head, dagger flickering in his restless fingers, his voice rising in a fevered laugh. "But how? How is it you remain shackled to Protos, yet wield techniques that even Bathos Mystiques fumble to master? What are you, Ashborn?"
He straightened suddenly, snapping his arm out. The dagger in his grip pulsed with that sickly glow, and his voice cut the air like a knife.
"Mystery of Kronos: Logos Phthorás—Truth of Decay."
The dagger's surface corroded before Ithan's eyes, black fissures crawling across the steel even as the weapon held together. Its glow was not light but entropy, a crawling radiance of sand and dust, the very skin of time peeling away. Every breath of air near it grew heavy, brittle, as if aging in an instant.
The two weapons faced one another, flame and decay, truths made manifest. One burned pure and bright, unyielding. The other consumed, hollowed, and reduced all things to ash.
The space between them bent with heat and rot, sparks of white-gold colliding with grains of black dust as their Mysteries clashed, not just steel against steel, but truth against truth.
Ithan's spear hummed in his grip, the white-gold flames sharpening to a razor's edge, hissing as they licked at the ash around him. The heat bent the air, shimmering in ripples that made the broken stumps of the Ashen Field blur like mirages.
Across from him, Anastomus whispered the name of his art like a lover's sigh."Rotted Edge."
The glow along his dagger curdled, bleeding into the steel until the blade looked half-eaten, rusted and corroded by centuries in a breath. Yet it did not crumble. Instead, it pulsed with decay made tangible, every flicker of its edge eroding the ground where he dragged it. Ash turned to fine dust. Stones cracked and collapsed into powder. Even the air tasted older, stale, as though time itself withered in his presence.
The two lunged.
Steel kissed steel, and the field shuddered.
Ember Edge met Rotted Edge, flame against rot, truth against truth. White-gold fire hissed, searing the corrupted aura. Sparks rained down like molten stars, lighting the night. But the decay bit back, gnawing at the spearhead, pulling at its fibers, trying to hollow it out.
Ithan gritted his teeth, muscles straining as he shoved forward, the spear's fire roaring hotter. The heat pushed against Anastomus' decay, burning away flecks of corrosion that flaked off his dagger.
But Anastomus only laughed, the sound jagged and raw. His eyes gleamed fever-bright as his blade screamed against Ithan's spear. "Yes! This is it! Fire and rot, Prometheus against Kronos—truths clawing at each other! Which do you think lasts longer, Ashborn? The flame that burns out… or time that devours all?"
He shoved, the decay eating deeper into the spearhead, blackening the edge even as the flames fought to cleanse it.
The clash wasn't just physical—it was philosophical. One sought to preserve by burning pure, the other to consume by corroding endlessly. Sparks and motes of dust swirled in the air, each strike rewriting the battlefield in streaks of gold and black.
Ithan felt his weapon groan under the strain, Ember Edge hissing against the decay. If I push too long, the spear will break. I need to end this clash—now.
He twisted his grip, angling his spear to deflect instead of lock, letting the flames snap in an arc toward Anastomus' chest.
The madman ducked low, dagger lashing upward in return, the corroded edge whistling past Ithan's cheek so close he smelled rust and rot in the air. Both pulled back, eyes locked, breaths ragged, weapons glowing with their respective truths. The fight had truly begun.
Anastomus tilted his head, dagger twirling in his fingers, that wild grin stretching wider across his face. "Your flame cuts clean, Ashborn. But mine?" His body blurred, a shiver running through the air around him. "Mine rots everything it touches."
Then he moved.
Not just fast—unnaturally fast. One heartbeat he stood before Ithan, the next he was already on his flank. His dagger dragged streaks of blackened dust through the air, each swipe a smear of withering entropy.
Ithan spun, Ember Edge hissing in a defensive arc, sparks spraying as spear met dagger again. But even as he deflected, Ithan felt it—his body lagging, like the air itself had aged around him, made heavier. His limbs screamed to keep pace, sweat beading on his brow.
He's bending time around himself.
Anastomus laughed, his voice flickering from one side of Ithan to the other. Every word came from a different angle, as if sound itself couldn't keep up with him. "Aether infusion, Ashborn! You know it, don't you? Pouring raw Aether into flesh, into muscle, until every vein burns with power. But combined with Kronos—"
He appeared in front of Ithan, dagger thrusting for his chest.
"—it means every step I take steals the seconds from you."
Ithan barely turned his spear in time. Ember Edge met Rotted Edge, sparks exploding, heat clashing against corrosion. But even blocked, the decay bit through—the haft of Ithan's spear groaned, a new crack racing down its length.
Anastomus pressed closer, his body vibrating with the force of his infusion. Every strike of his dagger came heavier, sharper, like his thin frame had been packed with years of strength in an instant. The ground beneath his feet split and crumbled, aged to dust beneath his steps.
Ithan staggered back, his lungs burning, his body weighed by that crawling aura of entropy. He planted his feet hard, forcing his spear up to parry another slash. His jaw tightened as sparks flared across his vision. If I can't adapt, he'll grind me down. If I let him keep the pace, my body will break before my spear does.
Anastomus' eyes glowed fever-bright, dagger carving patterns of rot through the air. "Come on, Ashborn!" he howled, voice half-laughter, half-shriek. "Show me that fire again—before your time runs out!"
Anastomus pressed harder. Each step he took left craters of rot in the soil, the blackened earth crumbling into powder. His dagger blurred like a streak of dying light, every clash against Ithan's spear rattling bone and nerve.
Ithan tried to match him, muscles burning as he poured everything into Ember Edge. But the decay was relentless. The cracks racing down his spear spread further. His hands blistered where the rot gnawed through the shaft.
A slash grazed his arm—just a touch—and already the flesh beneath his sleeve blackened, veins spidering gray as though decades had passed in a second. He hissed through his teeth, yanking himself back, but Anastomus was already there.
"Too slow," the madman whispered in his ear.
The dagger slammed across his ribs, the rot flaring like acid fire. Ithan's body screamed, his legs buckling as the world tilted sideways. He crashed into the dirt, Ember Edge sputtering, flames guttering down to embers.
Anastomus loomed over him, dagger dripping with that crawling, corroding light. His grin was manic, triumphant. "This is the fate of fire, Ashborn. It burns, it rages, it dazzles—but it ends. Everything ends. Time devours all."
He raised the dagger high, the glow crawling down its edge like a tide of dust and ruin. "And now you will end too."
Ithan's vision swam, his chest heaving, lungs seared by pain. His Prometheus flames sputtered, his body breaking beneath decay's weight.
But somewhere beneath the roar of agony, something stirred. Not the fire. Not Prometheus' gift. Something older, quieter. The instinct that had carried him through Volos. The stubborn refusal to yield when every law of the world said he should.
Words rose unbidden to his lips, heavy as stone, fierce as breath:
"Mystery of Survival: Logoi Hypomonḗ—Endure."
The world buckled.
Anastomus' dagger plunged down—and struck flesh that refused to break. The rot spread, veins of gray crawling over Ithan's chest… and then stopped. The blackness shivered, stalled, and began to fade. His skin pulsed once, then twice, like a second heartbeat, forcing the decay back out in a hiss of smoke.
Ithan rose slowly to his knees, every muscle trembling, yet his body knitting itself against the assault. Bruises lightened. The black veins receded. His grip on the spear steadied as the embers along its edge sparked back to life.
Anastomus stumbled back a step, dagger twitching in his grip, eyes wild. "What—what is this?!"
Ithan's gaze lifted, blood in his mouth, fire in his eyes. His voice was hoarse, but it carried like iron.
"Survival," he said. "I endure."