The journey back to Scolacium was supposed to be quiet. Markos left Nafonia at dawn, with only his horse and a satchel of dried rations. The road ahead twisted through low hills and the occasional patch of forest, peaceful enough to lull him into a false sense of ease. But by midday, the horizon darkened — not with clouds, but with smoke.
He approached cautiously, the smell of burning wood and scorched flesh thick in the air. The village ahead, Xeromantis, had once been a small but lively settlement nestled near the border of Scolacium. Now it was aflame, houses razed, and screams echoing through alleys. Bandits. No mere raiders — a full warband, organized, ruthless, and hungry for more than coin.
Markos drew his sword without hesitation. His instincts screamed retreat, but his heart — and his oath — forbade it. He charged toward the chaos, cutting through two marauders who were dragging a crying girl. A flash of steel, a spray of blood, and the girl fled. But the deeper he went into the village, the more he realized: he was surrounded.
The bandits were waiting. A trap. Fifty men, maybe more, circled him with axes and spears. Their leader, a brute clad in bear hide, sneered. "The knight from Scolacium," he growled. "We were told about you." Markos braced himself, tightening his grip. "Then you know I won't fall easy."
They laughed. The kind of laugh that fills graves. Markos fought like a storm — blades clashing, bodies falling — but numbers wore down skill. A blade scraped his side. A cudgel struck his shoulder. He staggered. Blood blurred his vision. As they closed in, the warband prepared for a trophy kill.
And then the wind changed.
A deafening clang shattered the air. One of the bandits' heads flew clean off. A black figure descended from the rooftops — armored in jagged obsidian, a crimson plume trailing behind. The Black Knight. The same Markos had fought in the tournament. Her presence sent a shockwave through the battlefield.
"Back away," the Knight said — her voice neither man nor woman, but something ancient, layered in echoing whispers. Flames erupted from the ground as she struck her greatsword into the earth, the shockwave flinging marauders like ragdolls. Markos blinked in disbelief, half in awe, half in dread.
She moved with terrifying grace — a blur of darkness and fire, slicing through armored men as if they were parchment. Her blade drank blood like a cursed relic. One bandit tried to flee. He exploded mid-sprint, scorched by magic that left only a scorched shadow on the wall.
Markos watched her work, his sword lowered now. He had killed in battle. He had fought Franks and Latins. But this was not battle. This was retribution. When the last bandit fell, gurgling in ash, the Knight turned to him — her helm glowing with molten lines.
"You bleed too easily," she said, voice low and amused. "You should be more careful, Markos." He froze. "How do you know my name?" The Knight said nothing. Instead, she stepped forward, lifted her visor, and revealed a face he'd seen far too often.
Helena.
She was no longer hiding. Her eyes glowed gold, her skin radiated a faint, unnatural heat. She looked as she did in the arena, but closer now — more human and more terrifying. "You... you're her," Markos whispered. "The Black Knight." His voice cracked.
Helena tilted her head, smiling faintly. "Are you only now catching up?" she said, with a gentle cruelty. "You see me and still pretend you don't remember me?" Markos took a step back. "You're not just a woman… you're something else. Something old." He wanted to run, but couldn't.
"I told you I was helping," Helena said, approaching him. "Saving you. Again." Her voice softened, but the glint in her eye burned with possessive fire. "They would have torn you apart. I couldn't allow that." She touched his wounded shoulder. It began to heal — faint golden veins sealing flesh with divine heat.
Markos flinched. "Why are you doing this?" he asked. "You said you were on my side, but you hide behind masks. You burn cities. You scare even the people you claim to save." Helena looked away briefly, something flickering in her gaze — doubt, maybe.
"Because you matter to me," she said at last. "And I don't care what they call me. God. Demon. Tyrant. I will not lose you again." The earth cracked slightly beneath her feet as her power surged — not from wrath, but raw, seething emotion. "They don't deserve your loyalty. I do."
Markos didn't reply. Not yet. He mounted his horse slowly, casting one last glance at the burning village. "Then stop hiding," he finally said. "If you mean to protect me, don't let the world fear you. Let them see what you really are." Helena's smirk faded. The fire in her eyes dimmed — not gone, only buried.
"I will," she said, barely above a whisper. "But be careful what you ask for, Markos. Sometimes, the truth burns worse than the lie." With that, she vanished into the smoke — like a nightmare with a memory, like the echo of a goddess who hadn't yet decided whether she was salvation or judgment.
As Markos rode onward, the wind behind him smelled of fire, salt, and something older. The Citadel lay ahead. But so did questions — not about war or politics, but about Helena, about Veltrana, about the strange threads of fate pulling them together. He did not know what awaited him at the Citadel... but he knew she would be there.
The road from Xeromantis to the Citadel curved through a steep woodland trail, where moss-covered shrines and half-buried stones peeked through underbrush like forgotten ghosts. Markos slowed his pace as he passed one such place — a weathered marble statue, cracked and faded, but still standing tall. The shrine bore the visage of a woman — serene, regal, divine. Veltrana. It was one of the older ones, long untouched, its offerings crumbled into dust.
He would have passed it without a second glance — until he heard voices. Murmured, angry. He pulled the reins gently, veering off the trail into the trees. Down by the shrine, three Nafonians in loose robes stood, one holding a torch, the other two with chisels. They muttered in their tongue, eyes flashing with disgust. "False goddess," one spat. "Corruption rooted deep in this land!"
Markos emerged from the brush calmly, but his hand was near his hilt. "Desecration won't win you favor in the heavens," he called out. The men froze. One stepped back, but the other pointed the torch at him. "This land is sick because of her. It needs cleansing," he said sharply. "Leave, foreigner. This is not your concern."
Markos dismounted slowly, letting the tension settle like dust. "Then allow me to remind you," he said, voice firm, "that even your fire would not burn so brightly if not for her name carved beneath your feet." He gestured to the worn inscription at the statue's base. "She was here long before your kingdoms. Long before ours. Whatever she was — goddess, demon, or myth — this place remembers."
The youngest among them hesitated. "She tempted kings," he said, uncertain. "She caused the Rainless War." Markos shook his head. "History makes monsters of women it fears." The oldest scoffed and hurled the torch at the statue in frustration — but it missed and rolled toward Markos' horse.
The stallion panicked. Reared. Markos swore under his breath as the reins slipped. Hooves thudded against stone, and the sacred silence of the grove shattered. The three men tried to flee, but a new presence had already arrived — unseen, yet instantly felt. The air grew dense. Heat radiated through the cold canopy.
A voice — deep, layered, and impossible — echoed between the trees. "Who dares defile this place with ignorance and fear?" Flames rose from the base of the statue, curling like divine serpents. The torch ignited on its own, erupting in white fire. Markos stumbled back, shielding his eyes as a figure emerged through the blaze.
It was her. The Black Knight. No armor now — only a flowing, shadow-colored robe threaded with gold, her hair whipping like smoke in a storm. Her eyes glowed not with anger, but with ancient judgment. The three Nafonians collapsed in fear, screaming prayers to gods who could not hear them here.
"You speak of cleansing," Veltrana said, her voice doubled in resonance. "But it is your pride that taints this land — not her memory." She raised her hand, and the shrine's broken edges began to knit together, the stone reforming in divine precision. Markos stared in disbelief. He had seen her power before. But not like this. Not... sacred.
"Go," she commanded, turning her gaze to the trembling men. "Before your bones join the roots below." They fled. Their cries vanished into the trees. Markos stood frozen, torn between awe and confusion. Veltrana turned to him at last, her golden eyes dimming as she returned to her usual self — her form still aglow with faint traces of divinity.
"You shouldn't have interfered," she said gently. "But you always do, don't you?" He met her gaze. "You came to protect me again?" Helena smiled faintly. "I came because I was summoned. Not by them. Not by you. But by this place. It remembers me."
Markos furrowed his brow. "How could it remember you?" He paused. "Unless..." His mind raced with fragments — the statue's face, Helena's grace, the fire, the whispers, her dominion over flame and silence alike. He thought of Veltrana. But no. That couldn't be. Could it?
She seemed to sense the question. "You're not ready to know," Veltrana said, voice tender now. "But you will." She stepped toward him and gently placed a hand on his chest. "And when you do... don't run from me." Her warmth lingered long after she vanished.
Markos was alone again — except for the restored statue of Veltrana. Her face was calm, eternal, serene. He didn't know whether to pray or flee. All he knew was that something was coming, and Helena — whoever she truly was — would be at its center.
As he mounted his horse again, now calmed, Markos cast one last glance at the shrine. "Who are you, Helena?" he murmured. The wind didn't answer. But far beyond the trees, the Citadel of Scolacium's spires caught the morning light — and the next chapter of his fate waited within its halls.
Markos didn't expect to see her again—not in a land so vast and split by pride. Yet there she was: the herbalist from Nafonia, her brown satchel bursting with dried herbs and folded linen, standing by a broken cart near the crossroads that forked toward the village of Silvanor. She looked up with a surprised smile when she saw him on horseback. "You again?" she asked, brushing her windswept hair from her cheek. "What luck!"
"It's fate at this point," Markos replied, dismounting. "You stranded here?"
She nodded, glancing at the snapped wheel. "I was trying to resettle in Silvanor. Too much heat in Nafonia over that last medicine I developed. Some nobles said it was too unethical." She rolled her eyes, then smiled again. "I need help getting the rest of this loaded onto a pack mule. Think you could lend a strong hand, hero of the tournament?"
Markos grinned at the nickname, though part of him hated how quickly the title had spread. Still, he offered his help without hesitation. As he hoisted bundles of herbs and vials into the mule's panniers, he glanced toward the darkening horizon. They'd have to move soon, or risk spending the night on the road.
The journey to Silvanor was uneventful at first. The woods surrounding the eastern edge of Xeromantis were quiet, mist curling between ancient stones and weathered tree trunks. As they walked side by side—him leading the mule, her carrying a small basket of crushed chamomile—Markos found himself surprisingly at ease. She asked about his past, and though he offered only fragments, she listened like someone who valued even broken stories.
They stopped at a stream for water. The herbalist knelt to refill her flask and asked, "You ever miss where you came from?" Markos didn't answer immediately. He looked at the reflection in the water—his hardened eyes, the old lamellar armor that no longer fit this world. "More than I admit," he finally said. "But there's no going back."
Unseen from the woods above, Helena watched. Her arms folded under the black cloak she wore. Her eyes were narrowed, unreadable, but her fingers twitched—faint sparks of crimson light weaving through her gloves. She had followed Markos quietly, curious, then furious. The girl again. The same girl. Another smile from him, another gentle touch on her arm.
The village of Silvanor came into view by twilight. It was smaller than Nafonia, nestled between low hills and fields of yellow wheat. Smoke drifted lazily from the thatched chimneys, and the bells of a small chapel tolled softly. The herbalist sighed in relief. "I think I'll like it here," she said. "Thank you again. I owe you."
Markos waved it off. "You owe me nothing. Just keep making things that help people." He helped her unload the last of her bags and crates onto a bench outside her new cottage. A few locals nodded respectfully at him, already recognizing the strange warrior who bested the Black Knight.
But the moment was pierced by an unnatural chill. Markos froze. A gust of wind swept the road, scattering dried petals from the cart. He turned sharply—there was nothing. Just trees and distant torchlight.
Inside the woods, Helena clenched her jaw. She could taste the bitterness on her tongue. She had seen enough. That woman had touched his hand. Thanked him with too much warmth. Markos didn't notice, of course. He never did. But soon he would. He would see who stood beside him when the rest fell away.
Later that night, Markos returned to a small campfire by the road. He roasted a piece of bread and fish in silence. The stars blinked above him. As he reached to adjust his sword belt, a soft voice echoed behind him.
"You've been busy."
He turned sharply. Helena stood in the shadows of the treeline, arms crossed, still in her dark cloak. Her eyes shimmered faintly in the firelight.
"Just helping someone," Markos said, watching her warily.
She stepped closer. "You help so many. Will there be anything left for me?"
Markos frowned, confused. "What do you mean?"
Helena smiled, but there was no joy in it. "Nothing. Just a passing thought."
Then she disappeared into the dark, the way mist vanishes when the fire is stoked too high. Markos stayed awake long after the flames died, trying to understand the unease that lingered in the air.
Markos returned to the Citadel of Scolacium under overcast skies. Rain had begun to threaten the roads when he crossed the final ridge, but by the time the great gates opened before him, the air had cleared and the wind carried only the scent of distant woodsmoke. Though weeks had passed since he first rode into the fortress-city, the guards still eyed his lamellar armor with veiled curiosity — a relic of a different world, worn by a man increasingly whispered about in streets and corridors.
At the administrative tower, he was met with polite indifference. "The Duke's council has received your reports," said a clerk with a nose high enough to part the clouds. "But there are... considerations. As always." Markos nodded. He didn't expect urgency from nobles, even in the shadow of war, he knows of this as during his time in his old world, Constantinople. He expected orders not to delivered in such a urgent matter.
With no orders and time to spare, Markos descended into the bustling lower quarter. It was there, outside the Guild Hall of Builders and Masons, that he was approached by a man with soot on his tunic and callouses deep as canyon ridges. "You're the one who fought in the tournament, aye?" the man asked. "We've got trouble down near Lucerium—small village west of the high road. A fire took half their homes. We're short on hands. You strong?"
Markos didn't hesitate. "Where do we start?"
By noon, he was hauling beams and cutting timber in the village of Lucerium. The smell of charred wood lingered in the ruins, but the people worked with unshaken resolve. Markos fit among them easily, sweat staining his tunic, hands blistering, movements steady. He lifted, dug, held, and carried — never once barking orders, only asking where he was needed next.
Unseen by the rest, Helena stood atop a distant slope, clad in a simple black cloak. She watched him as he moved between villagers with quiet grace, his head bowed, voice low, manner humble. Her gaze followed him not with awe, but obsession. As the rafters were hoisted onto the new house's frame, a sharp creak warned of shifting weight. A beam, poorly braced, began to slip.
Markos didn't notice — but Helena raised a single hand.
Invisible threads of force wrapped around the timber and gently stabilized it. The crew saw nothing. One of them muttered, "Guess the ropes held better than we thought." But Helena's eyes remained locked on Markos. He had nearly died. Because someone tied a knot wrong. She would not allow that.
Later that afternoon, Markos sat on a barrel, wiping sweat from his brow as children ran by chasing a stick in a hoop. A young mother handed him a waterskin with a grateful smile. "You saved my brother in the tourney," she said. "He's the Florentine Guard who yielded." Markos blinked, then laughed softly. "He fought well," he said. "I'm glad he's safe."
From the shadows behind the rebuilt well, Helena's knuckles whitened. That smile again. That warmth. Always women smiling at him. He was kind to them — too kind. Didn't he see what it did to her?
At sunset, the walls of the first rebuilt house stood firm. The guildmaster clapped Markos on the back. "Not bad for a war hero. You should think of staying with us longer. We need people like you more than the highborns do."
Markos offered a small smile. "I go where I'm needed." He looked at the horizon, thinking of Nafonia, of the Pazzonians, of what might yet come.
That night, Helena returned to the woods. She sat alone by a hollow tree, her hand curled tightly around a stone until it cracked. "I keep you alive," she whispered into the bark. "I keep you safe. But still you look at everyone else."
The wind stirred through the grass like whispers from another world, and Helena — Veltrana — whispered back.