The twin moons, Selune and her smaller sibling, Kythe, cast a duet of pale blue and silver light across the training ground. It was a cold, clean illumination that felt like a judgment. With every controlled, powerful swing of his gladius, Kaelen kicked up puffs of pale dust that hung in the air like ghosts. The movements were effortless now, his body a finely tuned engine of muscle and bone that obeyed his will with a precision that was almost frightening.
But his mind was a battlefield of its own.
Who were they? The question was a drumbeat matching the rhythm of his strikes. The attackers hadn't been Aethelian Lictors; their presence was too alien, their intent too focused. Their goal was the Godclimb. But how could they have known? It was locked away in the deepest vault of the Collegium Pontifica. The implications were terrifying. If a third party knew about the book, then his flight from the Republic was just the beginning of his troubles. He was a mouse caught between two—maybe three—different species of cat.
As the first sliver of sun bled gold over the horizon, banishing the moons, Kaelen finally stilled. The tension in his muscles had eased, but the dread in his gut remained. He gathered his few belongings, the weight of the bronze-bound book in his satchel feeling heavier than any shield.
Back in his room, the evidence of the previous night was gone, scrubbed away with a soldier's efficiency. Only a faint, almost imperceptible smudge of grey ash on the floorboards remained, a secret known only to him. He packed swiftly, the new silver tracery in his veins seeming to thrum with a low-level energy.
Downstairs, the innkeeper—a portly man named Gaius with a perpetual sheen of sweat on his brow—was wiping down the counter. When Kaelen approached, the man flinched, his eyes wide with a fear that was more potent than any insult.
"W-w-wh-what h-happened up there?" Gaius stammered, his voice barely a whisper. "There was… noise. A crash."
Kaelen met his gaze, his own newly pale eyes unnervingly steady. He offered a casual, slightly sheepish smile, a mask he'd learned to wear in the legions. "My apologies. I had a… visitor. A woman from the docks. Things got a bit carried away." He shrugged, the picture of contrite embarrassment. "I hope we didn't disturb the other guests."
The innkeeper's face cycled through confusion, relief, and then a sleazy understanding. "Oh! Oh, I see. No, no trouble at all, sir. Just… perhaps a bit quieter next time?" He forced a laugh that was too high-pitched.
"Of course," Kaelen said smoothly, placing a few gold coins on the counter—twice the room's rate. "For the trouble." Gaius's fear was replaced by greed, and he snatched up the coins with a quick nod. The lie had held.
Stepping out into the waking city was like entering a different world. The crisp night air was already warming, filled with the smells of baking bread and the distant cry of gulls from the Sunken Sea. Sybaris was a city of pale stone and red-tiled roofs, its narrow streets winding between tall buildings that housed countless inns and taverns catering to the endless flow of traders and travelers between the empires.
He moved with a new awareness, his senses heightened. He could pick out individual conversations from the growing crowd, feel the vibration of a cart's wheels on the cobblestones from a street away. It was overwhelming, and he found himself slipping into a quieter alley, seeking a moment of respite.
The alley opened up into the city's famed forum, a vast plaza coming to life with the dawn. The shopping district was a riot of color and sound. Weavers displayed bolts of cloth from Qin'Lun, shimmering with silk and intricate embroidery. Smiths hammered out tools and weapons, the clangor a familiar, comforting sound. I need to leave Sybaris, he thought, the certainty settling deep within him. Today. Before those things, or others like them, find me again.
He found a practical clothier and bought a sturdy, hooded traveller's cloak of dark grey wool and a set of simple, loose-fitting white robes suitable for the harsh desert sun that surrounded the merchant republic. As he paid, he felt a strange detachment. The soldier who had cared about his kit was gone; these were just tools for survival.
Leaving the clothier, he was engulfed by a new wave of scent—rich, pungent, and exotic. He had reached the spice market. Saffron, cinnamon, cardamom, and a hundred other unnamable aromas created a fragrant fog that clung to the air. It was here, amidst this sensory overload, that he felt it: a gaze, specific and intent, landing on him like a physical weight.
His new instincts took over. Without seeming to, he traced the source of the attention. And then he froze.
Leaning against a stall piled high with crimson peppers was a man he knew. It was Decimus. His face was thinner, etched with lines that hadn't been there a year ago, and he wore the worn, practical leathers of a mercenary, not the proud lorica of a legionary. But it was him.
A flood of conflicting emotions—warmth, guilt, panic—washed over Kaelen. He hesitated for only a second before walking over.
"Been a while, Decimus."
The man started, his eyes widening in disbelief. "Kaelen? By the Titans… I thought you were dead. You didn't retreat with the rest of us. After Lucius… I searched the field. I found nothing." His voice was thick with emotion, and tears welled in his eyes. "They mustered me out. Said I was 'unsuitable.' That trying to carry the wounded back instead of holding the line was a failure of command." He gave a hollow, bitter laugh. "My job, my life… it's gone. Now I'm just a vagrant with a sword, taking odd jobs up and down the Corridor."
Kaelen's heart ached for his friend. He clapped a hand on Decimus's shoulder, the gesture feeling both familiar and alien. "Haha, what did you expect from the Republic?" he said, but his own voice wavered, betraying the hollow bravado.
Decimus stared at him, his gaze sharpening through his grief. "Kaelen, that was my job. My life. It's gone." He paused, studying Kaelen's face, his new robes, the strange intensity in his eyes. "You look… different."
Kaelen shrugged, trying to sound nonchalant. "Yeah, well. This is where the Republic takes you. Only left me traumatized, paranoid, and willing to challenge reality itself."
The words were out before he could stop them. Challenge reality itself.
Decimus's eyes snapped to his, the grief replaced by pure, unvarnished shock. "What did you say?"
Kaelen's blood ran cold. He forced a laugh, too loud, too sharp. "I meant… willing to challenge the fate you were taught to live. You know. The 'glorious destiny' they feed you." He could feel the lie crumbling even as he said it.
Decimus didn't look convinced. He opened his mouth to speak, but Kaelen cut him off, the need to escape suddenly overwhelming. "Well, I'm busy. I have to go. It was… it was good seeing you, Decimus."
He turned away before his old friend could respond, plunging back into the crowd of the spice market. He didn't look back, but he could feel Decimus's confused, worried gaze burning into his back until he was swallowed by the throng. The encounter left him feeling more isolated than ever. He had a friend, a link to his past, and he had to flee from him too. The path of defiance, it seemed, was a path walked utterly alone.