The parchment arrived without ceremony. No herald, no fanfare, not even a simple hello, just a folded envelope bearing the seal of the Duke of Scolacium and their council, delivered by a silent, stone-faced courier. Markos opened it by the window of his rented room in a inn. The letter's contents were brief but heavy: he was to ride east to Nafonia, bearing the full report of the Pazzonian intrusion and the tournament's results. A diplomatic duty, they called it — but Markos had learned by now that in this world, diplomacy often meant stepping onto a blade's edge.
He gathered his belongings, dressed plainly in travel-worn lamellar armor, and passed through the gates of the Citadel. Helena watched from the battlements though she did not bid him farewell, but Markos could feel her presence like the warmth of a hidden sun. Whether she was angry or sad, he couldn't tell. Only that something unspoken lingered between them since their conversation in the garden.
The road to Nafonia cut across the midlands, weaving through riverlands and golden fields. Where Scolacium was rugged and martial, these lands were calm, industrious — a tapestry of irrigation canals and wind towers humming with quiet innovation. Yet the closer Markos drew to the Nafonian border, the more he felt the air shift not in temperature, but in attitude.
The first signs came subtly. A village where the children ran from his horse. A merchant who refused to meet his eyes after noticing the Scolacian wax seal on his satchel. The tension built slowly, like a storm over calm waters. He was not unwelcome, but he was clearly not wanted either.
Nafonia's capital, Nafonia it's name as well, damn. But it was a marvel — polished marble buildings, domed observatories, and elegant bridges crossing silver canals and their marvelous port. Their guards are quite different from what he encountered in the lands of Scolacium, where they wear woolen uniforms instead of chainmail and weird cylinder hats, but still it looked fashionable. Their guards wielding halberds instead of spears which Markos was quite unfamiliar being identical to a Bardiche from his world. The guards at the city gate regarded him with thinly veiled suspicion. "A courier from Scolacium?" one muttered and Markos easily understood it since their language is quite similar to Greek from his world. "Took them long enough to send a dog." The insult was not shouted, but spoken just loud enough to sting.
Markos remained composed, offering the sealed scroll. "I carry official documents regarding the recent Pazzonian aggression. I seek audience with your administration." The guards exchanged glances, their expressions caught between protocol and prejudice. Eventually, they let him through with a grunt, but no escort.
The city smelled of ink, spice, and steam — a place alive with invention and words, not steel and war cries. Markos couldn't help but admire it, even as eyes followed him with judgment. His armor marked him clearly as foreign — and worse, from that side of the political divide.
Scolacians were seen here as brutes: warlike, backward, too eager to spill blood rather than share dialogue. It didn't help that Markos looked the part — broad-shouldered, scarred, and silent. But behind his eyes burned centuries of memory, a legacy lost in Constantinople's fall. He was not so easily read.
At the appointed hall, he presented the scroll to the Chamberlain of Foreign Affairs — a sleek man named Charidemos Krataios, who received it with a raised brow and thin fingers. "You've come from the Citadel?" Charidemos asked, his tone laced with a smile too polite to be sincere. "Brave of them to send one man."
"One man who survived a siege, sir." Markos replied coolly referring to his past event before the Siege of Constantinople. "I've lived through worse than your border tensions." The room grew a little colder at that. Charidemos's attendants whispered to one another, surprised by the soldier's eloquence. Markos didn't care to impress but to only to finish the mission.
He was told to wait while the scroll was reviewed. A day, perhaps two. During that time, he wandered the city with caution. In the market, a woman offered him figs but recoiled when she saw his armor. In a library, an old scholar mistook him for a guard and scolded him for touching a book. Only a few curious minds saw him for what he was — something alien, yet not hostile.
That night, in a quiet tea house near the city's heart, Markos sat alone — not sulking, but studying. He observed the Nafonians: how they spoke, how they debated, how they measured their words as if words could build walls or bridges. Maybe they could, he thought. Maybe this place was proof of it.
Yet as he watched, he felt again the pressure of eyes — not from locals, but from someone who shouldn't be there. Across the plaza, by the columns of an old clock tower, a woman stood beneath a flickering lantern. Black cloak. Sharp eyes. A too-familiar smirk.
"Helena," he muttered, barely hiding his sigh. She didn't move toward him, but she let him see her. Just for a moment. Then she vanished into the alleyways like smoke. Markos stood abruptly, heart pounding. Why was she here? Had she followed him all the way from Scolacium?
The next morning, a letter awaited him on the table of his guest chamber. No seal, no signature—just the scent of lavender, faint and clinging like a memory that refused to fade. Inside, written in graceful, deliberate strokes:
"You shouldn't stir what sleeps in this land, my dearest. Some memories bite when you try to touch them... and I can't bear to lose you again."
His breath caught. A chill spread through his chest, too precise to be fear alone. He crushed the parchment slowly in his fist, his knuckles whitening—yet the paper felt warm, as if someone had only just let go of it.
Later that day, the council summoned him again. The report had been accepted — diplomatically — but Charidemos offered no thanks. "We will respond in writing to your duchy. You've fulfilled your task." The dismissal was casual. Markos nodded, keeping his temper in check.
As he walked through the halls, he passed a mural of Nafonia's founding. It depicted the great divide — scholars fleeing persecution in the west, forging a new land of knowledge and peace. He admired their resolve… but now wondered if it came at the cost of openness. They escaped one form of tyranny only to wall themselves against others.
Markos did not leave Nafonia immediately. Though his official duty was done, the courier assigned to carry the council's response was delayed due to administrative clutter — or perhaps, political hesitance. Rather than pace in his chamber like a caged wolf, Markos decided to walk the land and know it for himself. Understanding breeds wisdom, he thought, and perhaps even peace. So, with time on his hands, he ventured into the surrounding villages and quiet corners of the city.
His armor made him stick out like a knight in a scholar's abbey, so he stripped it off for a worn purple tunic that he wore always and belt with his sword and mace. As he wandered, he found a fishing dock struggling with recent floods. A small boat had capsized while hauling goods, and two men clung to it for dear life in the freezing current. Without hesitation, Markos dove in.
The water clawed at his limbs like wolves, but he powered through, pulling the panicked men to the shallows one by one. Villagers stood stunned as he hauled them to shore, coughing and shivering, but alive. Someone brought a blanket. Someone else began shouting that the stranger was mad — but others started clapping. Slowly. Hesitantly. Then louder.
That night, he was offered a warm fish stew and a dry place to sleep. A grizzled old man clapped him on the back and told him, "You're not like the ones they tell stories about from Scolacium. You've got more than iron in your heart." Markos merely nodded, content to listen to the crackling fire and let the silence speak for itself.
Days passed. In one village, he helped children repair their kites and played a lute borrowed from an innkeeper. In another, he helped push a cart from a muddy ravine, drawing laughs from a woman who teased that he looked more mule than man. These acts were small, almost trivial — but they left impressions. The stranger in the lamellar armor was no longer a threat. He became the foreigner with calloused hands and a good back.
One morning, near the wooded edge of a rural commune, he met an alchemist named Syraya. She was collecting medicinal herbs but had injured her ankle. Without question, Markos offered to carry her basket and help finish the work. "You're oddly gentle for someone with scars like yours," she remarked. "War teaches you to value peace and I love the solace of it." he said.
As they worked, Syraya explained the properties of each plant — fever reducers, pain dullers, sleep inducers. Markos listened intently, his hands surprisingly deft as he peeled bark and stirred mixtures under her instructions. When a young boy came crying for help — his brother had a snakebite — they rushed to the hut and administered the paste. The child survived. Syraya was stunned.
"You could've been an apothecary, you know," she joked. "Or maybe a priest. But I'm guessing your blade speaks louder." Markos gave a tired smile. "It's not the only thing that speaks." Her eyes lingered on him longer than necessary. In another life, perhaps something might have grown from that.
But in this one, Helena watched.
She stood far off in the trees, her silhouette cloaked in illusion. Her golden eyes narrowed at the way Syraya smiled at Markos, how he wiped sweat from his brow and laughed softly at her joke. You're laughing for someone else, she thought bitterly. Her fingers twitched with magic she didn't unleash — not yet.
That night, a shadow passed through Syraya's hut. The herbs she had dried for weeks were reduced to ash, though no fire was lit. Her cat fled, hissing at empty air. Syraya, for all her knowledge of alchemy, could not explain the cold that filled her lungs or the fevered dreams she suffered — dreams of a woman with hair like fire and eyes that bled light.
Meanwhile, Markos returned to the town square, where villagers now greeted him without suspicion. Children waved. A carpenter offered him a carved wooden charm for protection. He declined politely, but thanked the man with a firm grip. The warmth in his chest surprised him. For the first time in years, he felt not like a soldier or relic — but like a part of something.
In the library quarter, a young historian named Osei invited him to speak of his past. "Your armor is foreign," he said. "But your soul feels older than any nation." Markos deflected gently, speaking more of Constantinople and old battles than of hell portals and demonesses. Yet he saw in Osei's eyes something he missed in most others: curiosity, not fear.
Helena watched that meeting too. From the rooftops, draped in shadow, her smile flickered. She was not angry this time — only possessive. Let them marvel, she mused. Let them see the ember while I hold the flame. But as Markos shared stories with the scholar, her mind churned with thoughts of betrayal not yet committed.
That night, Markos returned to his chamber in the inn. The moonlight spilled through the curtains like spilled milk, pale and quiet. He sat by the windowsill, staring at the streets, wondering how long this moment of peace would last. Something was coming — he felt it. And not just from the west or the Pazzonian banners. Something closer. Something watching.
The next morning, he found Syraya had left town. A note explained she had been offered a post in another region, and she thanked him for his help. Yet something in her writing felt rushed. Off. As though she had been afraid to stay. Markos folded the note slowly, unease crawling up his spine. He said nothing.
That same day, he was approached by a child — a girl no older than ten — with bright eyes and a scroll of parchment. "You're the man who beat the Black Knight, aren't you?" she asked. Markos blinked in surprise. "Are you a hero?" she added, hopeful and wide-eyed. He knelt to her level and answered gently, "I'm just a traveler. But I fight for the right reasons."
As he saddled his horse once more, the city lay behind him — domes gleaming, canals sparkling. He had not changed the world here, but he had touched a few lives. And they had touched his. He looked back only once, not at the skyline — but toward the alleyways, rooftops, and woods where he knew she had been watching.
Helena did not follow him that morning. But her gaze burned with quiet fire.They can have your kindness, she thought. But your heart? That's mine. As she turned and disappeared into the fog, the earth beneath her feet pulsed faintly like something ancient waking up again.
On his final day in Nafonia, a girl — no older than ten — approached him in the street. "You're the man who beat the Black Knight, aren't you?" she asked. Her eyes were wide with wonder. "Are you a hero?" Markos knelt, offering her a warm smile. "I'm just a traveler," he said. "But I fight for the right reasons."
As he mounted his horse, he looked back at the domes and towers of Nafonia. He respected them, even as they rejected him. There was strength in this place — but also pride, and pride could rot even the most enlightened roots. Still, his message was delivered. The next steps were beyond him now.
But he knew this was far from over. The Pazzonians would not stop with one border raid. The tension between Nafonia and Scolacium would only grow. And somewhere, in the shadows of these shifting lands, Helena watched — not as a woman, but as a god with unfinished business and a burning heart.