The infirmary in Sepultana's castle smelled of poultices, iron, and soot. Markos sat on a low cot, stripped to his waist, wincing slightly as a healer pressed a warm cloth against the gash along his ribs. The bandage had soaked through from the battle, but he had delayed being treated until his men were seen to first.
"You're stubborn," the young herbalist chided, dabbing carefully. "A cut and bruise like this would bring down most knights."
Markos offered a weary smile. "Then it's fortunate I'm not like most knights." Another healer — a woman older, with streaks of gray in her braids — examined his arm and sighed with mock frustration.
"Three bruises, two cuts, and a possible cracked shoulder. You wear injuries like a badge, foreigner."
A third giggled softly nearby as she fetched clean cloth. Markos chuckled, shifting slightly. "They tend to accumulate when you stand in the front line."
What he didn't see — could not see — was the faint shimmer of shadow curling along the rafters above. Eyes like molten garnet watched silently. Helena's breath caught when one of the younger women leaned too close, touching Markos' arm with a smile. The candle flames briefly flickered, though no wind stirred.
Not yet.
Once bandaged, Markos rose with slow dignity and passed by the infirmary's long row of wounded men. He knelt by each soldier, speaking to them not as commander, but as one of them, sharing water, grasping arms in gratitude, whispering encouragement. Many had never been addressed personally by a leader. That changed today.
"You held the line when others would have broken," he told a boy barely sixteen, whose spear hand had been split by an axe. "Your courage saved lives."
The boy blinked, stunned by the praise. Markos gave him a nod, then moved on.
Word reached the great hall soon after. The Magistrate of Sepultana, draped in emerald and silver, stood at the dais when Markos finally entered, escorted by an officer. Tension hung thickly for a moment — some nobles still eyeing him with disdain, a foreigner who had shown up their knights.
But the Magistrate raised a goblet in salute.
"Markos of Constantinople, as you prefer to be called," he boomed, "your leadership turned the tide when we would have been overrun. Your retreat was tactical, your resolve unshaken. For your actions, I award you three hundred Florins, and the gratitude of Sepultana."
A servant approached with a lacquered box filled with golden coins. The hall murmured.
Markos bowed deeply. "I did not fight for coin, my lord. But I will accept this on behalf of the men who bled beside me."
A round of applause followed. Some slow, some sincere. Others cautious. But recognition had been given.
Outside, as the sun began to set and torches lit the stone streets, Helena remained unseen, still cloaked in invisibility atop the western tower. Her gaze never left Markos. She whispered softly to the wind, and for a moment, the fire in her eyes dimmed — with longing, with jealousy, and something else.
She could not be touched. She could not be understood.
But she could feel.
And in that feeling, something dangerous stirred.
The stables behind Sepultana's inner barracks were warm, despite the chill that crept across the southern wind. The scent of hay mingled with sweat and the earthy musk of horses. Markos lay against a pile of rough blankets, his bandaged arm across his chest. Around him, half a dozen soldiers snored softly, murmured in their sleep, or whispered jokes in the dark.
He had chosen not to stay in the noble quarters offered. Instead, he preferred the company of the men he fought beside. Straw prickled his skin, and the floor was hard, but it felt… honest. Real.
"I thought heroes slept on feather beds," one of the men joked as he turned over.
Markos smirked in the darkness. "Then you've never known real heroes."
The laughter was low, tired, but genuine.
Eventually, silence fell.
Markos closed his eyes.
But sleep did not come gently.
He stood alone beneath a black sky. Stars were absent — the heavens stretched endlessly like a sea of ink, thick and alive. Below him, a wasteland of shattered marble and burning rivers twisted endlessly. Towers melted into ash. Stone hands reached out from the ground, as if begging mercy from a god who had long since abandoned them.
In the far distance, an obsidian throne stood atop a mountain of bones.
Markos took a step forward.
The air shuddered.
"Markos…"
A voice, sweet as a lover's sigh, cruel as a dagger's edge. It echoed in all directions, yet nowhere at once.
"Who calls me?" Markos turned, but found only flame and shadow.
A figure stepped from the void. She wore armor darker than night, adorned with runes that pulsed faintly like beating hearts. A veil of silk covered her face, but he knew that presence. He knew it in his bones.
The Black Knight.
But not merely that.
She removed the veil.
Veltrana.
No — not the statue. Not the memory. Not the ghost. This was her — as divine as she was terrible.
"You walk a path drenched in blood," she said, her voice no longer echoing, but whispering right beside his ear. "You bear burdens not meant for mortals."
Markos stood his ground, though the dream tried to crush him.
"I do what must be done," he said.
She circled him. The sky bled red above them.
"Do you fear what you cannot see? Or do you fear what you begin to remember?"
He did not answer.
"Would you still walk with righteousness," she purred, "if I told you your very soul once burned brighter than mine? That you made a vow to me, in a time before time?"
Markos stared at her, a war within his eyes.
"I don't remember that."
"You will." Her hand grazed his chest, right over his heart. "And when you do, will you still look at me with fear? Or love?"
He gasped—
And awoke.
The stable roof above him looked dim in the morning light. His heart pounded like a drum. Around him, the men were still sleeping. The horses shifted softly in their stalls.
Only one figure was awake.
Helena — in her mortal guise — leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, eyes unreadable.
"You were dreaming," she said softly, not asking.
Markos wiped his brow. "More like drowning."
She said nothing.
For a brief moment, he wondered if she had stepped into that dream. Or if it had been something far, far older.
Something divine.
And something dangerous.
Markos stood at the ramparts of Sepultana's southern wall, morning wind brushing through his cloak. His eyes scanned the horizon — but his thoughts were elsewhere. The dream, the voice, the touch that lingered like embers beneath his skin.
It had been her. Veltrana. No, not just Veltrana.
Helena.
He clenched his fists, knuckles pale. He had seen her by the stables after the dream. Watching him. She knew something. She had to.
He turned, marched back down the steps, boots echoing off cold stone, and passed through the lower hallways of the fortress, heading toward the guest quarters.
She stayed here. He had seen her enter the night before.
Now he would have answers.
He reached the door. Knocked.
Silence.
He knocked again, louder. "Helena?"
Nothing.
He pushed it open — it creaked slowly, light revealing a room undisturbed. The bed was untouched, the hearth cold. Her presence, so often felt in whispers and tension, was gone.
He searched the nearby halls. The courtyard. The balconies.
Nothing.
Helena had vanished.
Again.
"Damn it," he muttered under his breath, pacing a slow circle. "Damn it, damn it—"
He slammed a fist against a pillar.
She always did this. Appeared when he was vulnerable. Disappeared when he sought truth. Cloaked in riddles. Veiled in affection. Was she protecting him? Or playing him?
He didn't know.
And that frightened him more than anything else.
Far, far from Sepultana, beyond the veil of mortal sight, in a realm carved from nightmare and old, broken gods — the Abyss stirred.
A twisted citadel of obsidian and bone rose from a sea of glassy darkness, lit only by chains of crimson fire that slithered across the sky like serpents.
Here, she returned.
Helena's form melted away — flesh unraveling like silk — revealing the full, towering figure of Scelestus, Empress of Ruin, Sovereign of the Abyss, Veltrana Unbound.
Her eyes glowed like dying stars as she entered the Throne of Silence, where the Demon Council awaited her in nervous stillness.
They rose as one, cloaked in forms both monstrous and regal. Ten of them — once lords of cities, plagues, and forgotten moons.
"Scelestus," spoke the eldest, a winged husk of a man with hollow eyes. "You return... later than expected."
"Do not speak as though I answer to you, Serak'tul," she said coldly.
Serak'tul lowered his head, but not without bitterness.
Another general, Damaea, serpent-bodied and crowned with knives, stepped forward. "The Abyss grows restless. Whispers say you've allowed your heart to beat too closely to a mortal's rhythm."
The air thickened. Fire dimmed.
Scelestus stood tall — terrifying and beautiful in her rage.
"If you fear my obsession, speak it plainly."
"It is not fear, my Empress," Damaea replied carefully. "It is concern. You vanish for days. You shift forms. You toy with the gates of hell. The walls between realms thin. You—"
"I am the wall," Scelestus snapped. Her voice cracked the obsidian floor. "I decide when realms bleed."
The council fell silent.
She descended her throne's steps slowly, fire licking her cloak, her voice quieter now — but more dangerous.
"You forget, each of you, who I truly am. I shattered the Celestial Compact. I burned the Suns Beyond Dawn. I ruled all. I forged this realm from the ribs of dead deities."
"And now," she said, "you doubt me… because of a man?"
No one answered.
Scelestus turned her back to them, staring at the endless black beyond the citadel's open gate.
"Markos is not just any man," she whispered to herself. "He is… remembered. He is the spark."
And deep within her, fear and longing danced together like old lovers reunited.
The road to the Citadel of Scolacium was long and dry, cutting through wind-beaten plains and clustered hills. Spring sun bled gold across the terrain, but it brought no warmth to Markos' thoughts. The news from Sepultana — the ambushes, the divided councils, the increasingly bitter tone between the southern lords — all pointed to one thing:
The realm was on the brink of something far worse than a border conflict.
Civil war.
The air was heavy with unspoken curses, even the birds seemed to avoid these roads. Markos rode flanked by two dozen men from Sepultana, mostly infantry and a few scouts ahead. All carried their arms at the ready.
When they reached a fork in the road past the village of Virello, a man from the forward unit returned in haste.
"Riders approaching," he said, "Nafonian banners."
Markos stiffened. "Let them through."
He rode ahead, stopping just short of the clearing. Dust curled over the horizon — and from it emerged not an envoy, but armored horsemen, shields marked with the sunburst sigil of Nafonia's Silver Guard.
They didn't slow.
Markos raised his hand. "Halt!"
No reply — just the dull thunder of hooves.
Then it came: a shouted order.
"Traitor! He wears the colors of Scolacium!"
Markos barely reacted in time. The lead horseman drew a saber and lunged. Markos rolled off his horse and slammed into the dirt, blade drawn in an instant. His men clashed into formation, shields locking with the sound of steel on steel.
"Hold the line!"
Chaos erupted. The Nafonians charged like zealots, convinced that Markos had defected. Their fury was not personal — it was political. Misguided. Deliberate.
Markos' left line buckled under the force of lancers, two of his men falling from their feet, cut down on the spot.
"Regroup left!" he shouted, slicing through a rider's leg as he was nearly trampled.
They were outnumbered two to one.
This was an execution.
"Where the hell is our support?!"
Then — a horn.
From the ridge above the road, arrows rained down with frightening precision. Figures clad in dark, unmatched armor charged the flanks of the Nafonian horsemen — mercenaries, brutal and silent, striking with organized chaos.
"Get behind us!" one barked to Markos as he staggered to his feet.
The mercenaries moved with uncanny coordination, harrying the Nafonian rear and encircling them with shocking speed. Within minutes, the sunburst banners were torn or burning. The surviving riders fled into the hills.
Markos breathed heavily, blood on his sleeve. He scanned the mercenaries — masked, anonymous. Paid blades.
"Who sent you?" he asked their commander, a tall figure with a broken halberd strapped across his back.
The man simply grunted. "We go where coin flows."
"Whose coin?"
But the commander only tapped his temple with two fingers — a sign of respect, or a warning — and walked away.
Later that evening, they made camp outside the Citadel's outer wall, wary of further attack.
Markos stared into the fire, face grim.
Who had warned the mercenaries? Who had paid them?
There was only one name that curled into his mind like smoke.
Helena.
She was watching him again.
Helping.
But why? For whose war?
And when would she stop hiding?
As sleep took him beneath the firelight, Markos began to realize that the war ahead might not only be between kingdoms.
It might be for his very soul.
The road to the Citadel of Scolacium again was long and dry, cutting through wind-beaten plains and clustered hills. Spring sun bled gold across the terrain, but it brought no warmth to Markos' thoughts. The news from Sepultana — the ambushes, the divided councils, the increasingly bitter tone between the lords — all pointed to one thing:
The realm was on the brink of something far worse than a border conflict.
Civil war.
And he already encountered that in his time from his world, as he served Alexios III & IV respectively, but not bowing to the Latins.
The air was heavy with unspoken curses, even the birds seemed to avoid these roads. Markos rode flanked by two dozen men from Sepultana, mostly infantry and a few scouts ahead. All carried their arms at the ready.
When they reached a fork in the road past the village of Virello, a man from the forward unit returned in haste.
"Riders approaching," he said, "Nafonian banners."
Markos stiffened. "Let them through."
He rode ahead, stopping just short of the clearing. Dust curled over the horizon — and from it emerged not an envoy, but armored horsemen, shields marked with the sunburst sigil of Nafonia's Silver Guard.
They didn't slow.
Markos raised his hand. "Halt!"
No reply — just the dull thunder of hooves.
Then it came: a shouted order.
"Traitor! He wears the colors of Scolacium!"
Markos barely reacted in time. The lead horseman drew a saber and lunged. Markos rolled off his horse and slammed into the dirt, blade drawn in an instant. His men clashed into formation, shields locking with the sound of steel on steel.
"Hold the line!"
Chaos erupted. The Nafonians charged like zealots, convinced that Markos had defected. Their fury was not personal — it was political. Misguided. Deliberate.
Markos' left line buckled under the force of lancers, two of his men falling from their feet, cut down on the spot.
"Regroup left!" he shouted, slicing through a rider's leg as he was nearly trampled.
They were outnumbered two to one.
This was an execution.
"Where the hell is our support?!"
Then — a horn.
From the ridge above the road, arrows rained down with frightening precision. Figures clad in dark, unmatched armor charged the flanks of the Nafonian horsemen — mercenaries, brutal and silent, striking with organized chaos.
"Get behind us!" one barked to Markos as he staggered to his feet.
The mercenaries moved with uncanny coordination, harrying the Nafonian rear and encircling them with shocking speed. Within minutes, the sunburst banners were torn or burning. The surviving riders fled into the hills.
Markos breathed heavily, blood on his sleeve. He scanned the mercenaries — masked, anonymous. Paid blades.
"Who sent you?" he asked their commander, a tall figure with a broken halberd strapped across his back.
The man simply grunted. "We go where coin flows."
"Whose coin?"
But the commander only tapped his temple with two fingers — a sign of respect, or a warning — and walked away.
Later that evening, they made camp outside the Citadel's outer wall, wary of further attack.
Markos stared into the fire, face grim.
Who had warned the mercenaries? Who had paid them?
There was only one name that curled into his mind like smoke.
Helena.
She was watching him again.
Helping.
But why? For whose war?
And when would she stop hiding?
As sleep took him beneath the firelight, Markos began to realize that the war ahead might not only be between kingdoms.
It might be for his very soul.
The Hall of the Citadel was colder than Markos remembered. Perhaps it was the stone walls or the presence of the ten lords that sat upon the crescent council dais, their eyes sharp and voices measured. Each one represented a faction within Scolacium — nobility, knighthood, clergy, commerce, and the various military orders — but all bowed to the Ducal Council's authority.
Markos stood at the center, flanked only by his sword and honor.
"You were meant to deliver a message," said Lord Calbrius, a wrinkled man whose beard was like salt in dark wine. "Instead, you return with mercenaries, a skirmish, and blood."
Markos bowed. "And I bring warning, my lords. The Pazzonians are probing more than your borders. They are testing your divisions. They hoped to capture a Magistrate, and had I not taken his place, they might've succeeded."
"You presume much, foreigner," hissed a younger noble, Magistrate Vedro, clad in purple-trimmed armor. "You are not of us. Your victories are convenient. Too convenient."
Markos met his gaze. He no longer stumbled in his Latin. "And yet you sit here safe because of them."
A murmur rippled through the hall.
The Ducal Chancellor, Magistrate Cuculus Maximus , silenced them with a wave. His voice was iron wrapped in silk but there is a hint of foolishness as Markos saw on his eyes. "Let him speak fully. You were at Sepultana. Then at Tarsinium. What did you find?"
Markos took a breath. "A force driven by opportunism. They believe the emperor's absence is a vacuum to be filled. And they are not alone in this belief. Nafonia's tensions with Scolacium grow. Your banners no longer inspire unity — they inspire suspicion."
"What would you suggest?" asked Cuculus.
"Unity through action," Markos replied. "A clear line drawn against any who threaten peace. But not through arrogance. We must win the people's trust. Show strength, but also justice."
An older knight among them leaned forward, Knight Rascian. His eyes were clouded by age, but not by foolishness. "You speak like one twice your age. What would you do now, if you sat where we do?"
Markos answered without hesitation. "Send envoys to the Florentine Electors. Show them the realm is not yet fallen to chaos. Rebuild the watchposts around the south. And above all — stop feeding the flames between Nafonia and Scolacium."
Lord Vedro scoffed. "Words."
"And swords, when words fail," Markos answered, stepping closer. "But you cannot unsheath a sword where a hand would suffice. I come from a world where empires burned for that mistake."
Silence.
Finally, Cuculus nodded. "You will not be given command, not yet. But we see your value. You will remain as our advisor — and you will train with our officers. Let your actions speak further."
Markos bowed again. "Then I serve."
As the council dismissed, several lords whispered among themselves. Some with suspicion. Some with admiration.
Outside the chamber, Helena stood cloaked in mortal form, hidden in a shadowed alcove. Her lips curled in satisfaction.
"They begin to see you," she whispered to herself. "Just as I always have."
But in her eyes, a flicker of danger danced.
Because what she saw, others would try to steal.
And she would burn them before letting that happen.
While Markos still stood, he waited. Yet, the council chamber of Scolacium was awash with tension. Stained glass cast fractured light over the long table where lords, generals, and magistrates bickered over what to do with the foreigner, Markos. Despite his battlefield victories and growing admiration among the people, there were whispers — that he was a wild sword, loyal to none. That he could not be trusted with the responsibility they were now proposing: to serve not only as an advisor, but as a military trainer to the duchy's green recruits.
Just as the debate reached its peak, the tall doors of the hall opened, revealing a woman cloaked in midnight-blue Florentine military garb. Her features were hidden beneath a golden laurel mask, her tone composed and confident. "If I may," she said, stepping into the council's spotlight. "This appointment may not be as wise as you think."
Introduced as Stratega Althenea, she claimed to be an envoy sent by a Florentine noble house to assist Scolacium in maintaining regional cohesion. Her bearing was regal, her command of war theory impressive. She argued with subtle poise that Markos was too valuable on the broader board — that anchoring him in a single training camp or forcing him into domestic logistics would waste his strategic flexibility. "Let the hawk fly," she said, "not cage him in a coop with squawking recruits."
Her argument was sharp, tactical, and strangely persuasive. A few nobles shifted in agreement. Even Magistrate Riccardus, a staunch traditionalist, folded his arms and nodded slowly. It was decided — Markos would remain unattached for now, free to move between fronts and respond to rising crises.
Yet not all were convinced. A grizzled veteran commander, Septimus Varro, narrowed his eyes at Althenea as she left. Her step was too graceful for a soldier. Her knowledge, too specific. He leaned to a fellow councilor. "She defends him like a lioness," he muttered. "And speaks like she's seen more centuries than any of us."
That night, in a quiet cloister above the chamber, Helena removed the laurel mask before a mirror darkened with ancient runes. Her eyes flickered with eldritch light as she smiled faintly to herself. "I bought you time again, Markos," she whispered. "While they squabble, I watch."
But even gods behind masks cannot remain unseen forever. In the corner shadows of that council hall, a court chronicler sharpened his quill, scribbling notes not just of the meeting — but of the mysterious woman who had swayed the room like wind through banners. Doubt had been planted.
The courtier's name was Lucan Aelius — a junior scribe, twenty-four winters old, clever-eyed and cursed with the burden of curiosity. He served under one of the lesser knights, transcribing council sessions and managing the daily affairs of parchment and seal. But unlike the others in his rank, Lucan paid attention not just to the words spoken, but to the weight behind them.
And something about Stratega Althenea unnerved him.
Her arrival had no record. No escort. No coat of arms. Her command of Florentine military doctrine was immaculate, but her dialect held undertones of an older tongue, long since buried beneath the empire's revisions.
He began to watch her in silence. Tracked her when she walked alone through the halls of the Citadel. Once, he saw her glide across the marble courtyard while no wind blew, and yet the hem of her cloak danced as if caught in a breeze not of this world. Another time, he noticed that her reflection in the polished obsidian columns did not quite match her motion — a blink behind, like a memory reluctantly trying to mimic the present.
Lucan made a mistake.
He approached Markos.
They met in a quiet corridor near the archives. Markos had just come from the training yard, still smelling faintly of sweat and steel.
"I need a word," Lucan said, his voice tight. "It's about that Stratega… Althenea."
Markos raised a brow. "Go on."
"She's not who she says she is. I don't know what she is, but I've seen her shadow move without light, heard her whisper in tongues no one should know anymore. You have to be careful."
Markos didn't respond immediately. He respected paranoia — it had saved his life more than once — but this felt... exaggerated. Still, the scribe's eyes held a desperate sincerity that couldn't be faked.
"Do you have proof?" Markos asked.
Lucan nodded. "I've written what I've seen. It's hidden, in case something happens to me—"
He never finished that sentence.
Later that night, a quiet ripple passed through the lower halls of the Citadel — the kind of gossip that fluttered before it was ever confirmed. A body had been found in the river outside the walls. Pale, limbs snapped in awkward directions, lips blue as if frozen in fear rather than cold.
Lucan Aelius, the scribe, had been "granted leave" to visit the springs of Maronia. A "free vacation" was what the nobles joked in hushed tones. The papers were already signed. His superior claimed he had gone willingly.
Markos suspected but didn't pushed it any further as he didn't know who she really is.
And high above, cloaked in moonlight and shadow, Stratega Althenea watched the river run red. Her fingers curled lightly at her side. A whisper of a spell, a flicker of old vengeance.
She had no intention of letting anyone take Markos away — not by lies, not by suspicion, not by truth.
Let the world burn, if it meant he would live.