Far beneath the mortal world again, beyond the veil of fire and forgotten prayers, lay the Abyss — an endless kingdom of obsidian spires and floating ruins, stitched together by cursed wind and the echoes of ancient gods. At its center stood the Citadel of Ashglass, a palace woven from the bones of fallen realms and suspended over a bottomless chasm of screaming stars.
Upon the Hollow Throne sat Scelestus, the Empress of All Seven Circles, her form unbound by human limitation. Horns coiled from her temples like serpents of obsidian; her wings, vast as storm clouds, crackled with silenced lightning. The shadows of the realm clung to her like armor, alive and whispering.
And yet… her gaze wandered. Not toward war, not toward conquest — but toward a pool of scrying silver to her left. It shimmered faintly, displaying the image of Markos, still unaware of the true depths of her identity. He was a flicker of light in her eternity of shadow — the last, perhaps, she could still reach.
"Still so brave," she whispered, brushing her clawed fingers across the water's surface. It rippled, distorting his face, and the moment was gone.
But her moment of vulnerability was interrupted.
The heavy doors of the throne room creaked open, and six figures entered. The Demon Council, another group of lords in the remaining circles, arrayed in eldritch finery and illusions of grandeur. They bowed — some out of fear, some out of ritual. None out of love.
The first to speak was Mordaek, Lord of Chains, his voice like metal dragging over stone. "Empress," he said with a dry sneer, "there are rumors in the higher realms. That your… fixation with the mortal knight is weakening the Circle's resolve."
Another, Lady Theryssa, her eyes stitched shut with runes, stepped forward. "You summoned hellfire once when he was struck. You rewrote the fate of a battlefield. Your control over the boundary weakens, Scelestus. The veils tremble."
A third, Vellian the Silent, simply nodded — a shadow shaped like a man, bound in silver bands. His silence often spoke the loudest.
Scelestus did not rise from her throne. She merely exhaled, and the room chilled until frost crackled on stone. Her voice was calm — too calm.
"You mistake love for weakness," she said. "But what I feel is not love. It is reclamation."
"You cannot reclaim what never belonged," Mordaek spat.
Scelestus' gaze snapped to him. "And you think power belongs to you?"
The chamber dimmed. Reality itself bent. One moment, Mordaek stood tall and armored. The next, he was on the floor, choking on his own breath as invisible hands crushed his lungs.
"I have shattered gods," she hissed. "I crafted the Circle you now infest like rats. I let you live because I am merciful… and because I have hope."
She released him. He gasped, dragging breath into a body that hadn't known fear in centuries.
"I have not forgotten who I am," Scelestus murmured, her wings folding behind her like the closing gates of a prison. "But remember this: if any of you raise hand or whisper against him again, I will burn the Circle down myself."
A pause. Then, like the crack of lightning, her final words echoed:
"The Abyss bends to me. Not the other way around."
The council bowed and retreated, silent now, their earlier bravado crushed beneath the weight of her fury.
As the doors shut once more, Scelestus turned back to the scrying pool. Markos' face reappeared, distant and unaware.
Her hand trembled, just slightly.
"I will not lose you again," she whispered. "Not to gods. Not to men. Not to time."
In the Abyss, love was a dangerous thing. But obsession was far worse.
Markos awoke before the sun in a room that he is temporarily in, the cool stone walls of his chamber in the Citadel of Scolacium exhaling faint drafts through hairline cracks. He sat upright, his hand instinctively drifting toward the sword that lay propped against the bedpost. Another nightmare or was it a memory?
He had dreamed of fire. Not the crackling warmth of hearths, but flames that tore the sky open — hellfire, he was certain. He had stood alone at the edge of a field blackened with ash, and above him, a woman with wings of night wept molten tears as the world burned. Her face was familiar… too familiar.
He shook his head. "Madness," he muttered.
Yet the unease did not leave him.
As he dressed in the stillness of early dawn wearing his purple tunic, belt as he sheaths both sphathion and mace, he noticed something else: the iron clasp on his tunic a gift from the herbalist in Silvanor had twisted out of shape. Melted, as if exposed to heat. He hadn't gone near any fire.
He frowned. "That's not possible."
But it wasn't the only sign. Birds no longer sang when he passed the orchards near the village. Horses in the stables shifted and whinnied with white-eyed fear as he approached. Even the dogs — creatures he once trusted more than men — now gave him wide berth.
At first, he dismissed it as post-battle fatigue. He had seen too much, endured too much. Blood still stained the dreams he couldn't forget. Yet when he passed the chapel of the local god, Veltrana, even the candles guttered at his presence. And he noticed something else: one of the monks had dropped his censer and whispered something as he fled.
"Marked."
Markos tightened the straps on his belt that morning with more purpose than usual. He found himself watching shadows — not for enemies, but for something worse: intention. Like something watched him through them. Not hostile, but… possessive.
Later that day, he walked the outer walls of the Citadel with one of the scouts from his last mission — a Scolacian named Rael. They spoke little, but the man's sidelong glances said enough.
"You alright, sir?" Rael finally asked. "You've been… different."
"Different?"
Rael hesitated. "Not in a bad way. Just… something follows you. The priests won't say it, but I've seen them draw salt lines after you pass. They think you've been touched."
Markos did not respond at first. He stared out into the forests east of the Citadel. Silvanor was there — and beyond it, Nafonia. And somewhere in those woods, she watched.
"Touched?" he said at last. "Perhaps we all are."
When he returned to his chambers, another gift awaited him. A ring of silver, set with a dark garnet, left with no name. Helena came to mind. She had vanished since his return, though he knew better than to assume she was ever truly gone. When he picked up the ring, a pulse ran through his fingers — like recognition.
He placed it in a drawer and locked it.
That night, he walked alone near the shrine ruins outside the walls. The broken image of Veltrana still stood there, defaced but not forgotten. He stared at it long, his breath turning white in the cooling wind.
"Who are you really?" he whispered. "Why do you wear her face?"
No voice answered, but something moved — not in the trees, but behind the veil of the world. The air thickened. A nearby torch sizzled out.
When he turned to leave, he saw footprints beside his own. Fresh. Bare. Clawed.
Markos did not sleep that night.
The Council Hall of Scolacium was cold, lofty, and reeked faintly of wax and ink. Sunlight pierced through the stained-glass high above, casting colored streaks upon the polished stone floor where the regional lords, ministers, and military advisors convened in tense deliberation.
Markos stood at attention. The summons had been abrupt. The decision, drawn out.
"Commander Markos of Astonicum," the Seneschal called aloud, his voice echoing across the hall. "You have been selected to lead a detachment of new recruits to patrol and reinforce the southern marches near the Twin Hills. Reports suggest Pazzonian scouts have reappeared. We cannot delay."
Markos gave a short nod. "As you command."
The Seneschal continued, but Markos barely heard the words. His attention had shifted — not by choice — to the lone figure standing on the eastern dais. She wore the formal attire of a high-ranking officer: the cloak of indigo and silver denoting a Stratega of the Council. Tall. Composed. Expressionless.
Althenea.
She was Helena — he knew that now. Or at least, he knew she was something beneath that skin. He still did not know what.
Her amber eyes flicked to him only once during the meeting, cold and unreadable.
"And what of their equipment?" asked one of the merchants seated nearby. "We have no coin for proper arms."
"They'll wear gambesons," said the master-at-arms. "We can't waste mail or plate on raw boys."
"They're barely trained," someone muttered.
"They'll learn under fire," another responded.
Markos clenched his jaw. These weren't soldiers. They were farmers, coopers, and third sons conscripted by duty or hunger.
He was about to speak when Althenea's voice cut through the room like drawn steel.
"This is folly."
All turned toward her. She stepped forward, the faint clink of ornament echoing with each graceful stride.
"You assign a foreigner to lead unblooded recruits into a potential confrontation," she said. "And what if the enemy doesn't send scouts, but riders? Or worse — full cavalry?" Her tone was calm, but beneath it, restrained fury curled like smoke.
Markos stood silent.
"If he falls, we lose more than just one patrol," Althenea continued. "We lose a deterrent. We lose momentum. We send a message to our enemies that we send babes with sticks."
There was a hush. Then the Seneschal raised his hand. "Your protest is noted, Stratega. But your vote was cast, as was ours."
For a heartbeat, she did not move. Then her lips twitched into something unreadable — half-pained, half-pure disdain. She turned.
Without another word, Althenea strode from the hall, her cloak trailing behind her like the wings of a silent storm.
Markos watched her go, unsure whether he felt insulted or protected.
Outside, the recruits were already assembling. Most no older than twenty, dressed in padded coats, clumsy with wooden spears and round shields. A few looked at him with nervous awe — the man who fought the Black Knight, who held Sepultana.
Markos sighed.
"Line up," he ordered. "If you survive me, you'll survive anything."
As the troops clumsily formed ranks, a soft breeze whispered across the square.
High above, in the shadowed cloisters of the Citadel, Helena — no, Veltrana, perhaps even Scelestus — watched with storm-dark eyes. Her fingers curled around the stone railing, nails biting deep into the mossed granite. She said nothing. But the wall cracked beneath her grip.
Dust rose from the practice field east of the Citadel like incense from an open censer. The sun glared above, pitiless, as raw recruits grunted, stumbled, and sweated beneath Markos' unrelenting gaze.
"Again!" he barked in Greek.
Ten men fumbled into position — line formation, small round shields front, spears angled low.
"Not like that! Shoulder to shoulder. Taxis! Do you want to be skewered like pigs?" He stomped over, correcting one lad's grip, spinning another to face the right way.
The recruits, all clad in thick gambeson and wooden helmets, muttered among themselves. Some obeyed with awe, others with visible discomfort.
"This isn't how we fight," one of the older boys whispered. "It's like marching in chains."
Markos heard him. He walked straight over.
"Do you think war is a brawl?" Markos asked coldly, switching to the local tongue. "A man with instinct and rage? That is how fools die. And you will die, unless you learn."
He clapped his hands sharply. "Form ranks again. Three lines. First shield wall. Second spear. Third, reserve."
They obeyed, this time with sharper movements.
Eastern Roman doctrine — the inheritance of centuries — was based not on brute charges, but cohesion, discipline, and strategic flexibility. Maniple-like formations, drungos of thirty to fifty, working in concert. Cohorts could adapt their shape mid-battle, rotating tired men from the front, maintaining line integrity even under cavalry charges.
Markos drilled them in spear-and-shield coordination, rotating formations, feigned retreats, and the use of small shields (skoutarion as he called them)to create temporary walls when defending narrow passes.
He even introduced the kontarion thrust, a leveled spear jab favored by Roman cavalry and infantry alike, meant for precision — not brute force.
By the third day, many were aching, bruised, but sharper. The muttering had lessened.
Some outsiders watched from afar — nobles, townsfolk, mercenaries. One commented, "It's like watching a dance." Another sneered, "Looks more like a funeral march."
One man, a young noble's son named Aurex, stepped forward after a round. "Commander… where did you learn this?"
"Constantinople," Markos replied. "Before it fell."
A hush passed over the recruits.
"That's the old marble city from the Hollow Sea."
Markos was shocked to hear that as he knows that Constantinople is not in this world.
As the sun lowered, Markos dismissed them. Most collapsed into the grass, some offering salutes, others simple nods of respect.
From a higher parapet, Althenea — ever composed — watched in silence, her arms crossed. Her eyes lingered on Markos for a long time before she turned away.
Unseen by all, her steps echoed as she descended into the deeper halls of the Citadel.
Markos learnt that a hostile mercenary force hired by the Pazzonians has reached the western border of Scolatii, they reached the ravine just before dawn. Mist clung to the earth like a phantom's breath, curling around the legs of the new recruits as they peered over the rise.
The scouts returned quickly.
"About thirty of them, sir," the lead whispered. "Raiders. Mixed arms. Probably mercenaries from the western border."
Markos nodded, scanning the terrain. The enemy had camped near a bend in the shallow river, their watch lazy — not expecting resistance.
Perfect.
He turned to his raw detachment. They were tired, nerves worn thin, but the drills had shaped them. Eyes clearer. Movements sharper.
"You will not charge," he said. "You will not scream. You will move with the quiet of wolves and strike like hammers."
They nodded, gripping their spears tighter.
He pointed to a narrow pass near the river's edge. "We split. First line holds here — shield wall tight. Second and third maneuver left to flank them once they react. We let them crash on our wall, then surround."
The boys moved — not like soldiers yet, but no longer scared villagers.
The attack began with sudden fury. Markos led the charge, planting his own skoutarion like a war banner. The first enemy wave broke upon them, blades flashing — but the recruits held.
"Hold the line!" Markos shouted. "Push back on my signal!"
For a moment, it looked as if the wall would break — until the second line, hidden in the trees, surged forward in a silent rush. Spears drove into the flank. The enemy buckled, surprised.
Markos' wall advanced. Not fast. Not wild. But relentless.
By the time the sun broke the mist, a dozen raiders lay dead or wounded. The rest fled, limping toward the hills.
Breathing heavy, Markos walked the line. Some of the boys cheered. Others knelt, shocked at what they'd just survived.
He didn't praise them — not yet. But in his chest, something stirred.
They were learning.
Back at the Citadel, the council chamber's walls reverberated with the murmur of voices. Althenea stood before them, motionless — but those who knew her saw the tension bleeding through her shoulders.
"You placed him in command of untested youths," she said, voice flat. "And now you're sending him deeper into the borderlands?"
A Magistrate raised an eyebrow. "You objected once already. And yet, he prevailed. Our reports confirm he repelled the raiders."
"He prevailed this time," Althenea said. "But next time it may not be a band of mercenaries. It could be the main Pazzonian host. Or worse — internal dissent."
"Stratega," a noblewoman interjected, "Are you implying we should recall a proven commander out of fear?"
"I am saying," Althenea said slowly, dangerously, "that the board you're playing on has more pieces than you see. And not all of them move according to your rules."
The room quieted.
She stared at them all, her amber gaze searing into each member, and then — in a whirl of velvet and steel — she turned and exited the hall.
Alone, in a hidden passage beyond the council chamber, she leaned against the cold stone and exhaled shakily.
"Why are you risking everything for him?" a voice whispered in her head.
Because he matters. Because he remembers what I was — not what they made me.
Her grip tightened, and the torches flickered as her aura surged briefly beyond containment. No one noticed — this time.
But the balance was slipping.
And somewhere in her depths, Scelestus stirred.