The moonlight spilled like silver across the parapets of the Citadel, casting long shadows on stone. The city below murmured with the quiet of lamps and distant revelers, but up here, the world felt frozen in another time.
Markos leaned on the balustrade, watching stars flicker over the black hills beyond. His Lammellar was half-broken, his bandaged arm freshly cleaned. The skirmish had been days ago, but the ache in his bones lingered.
He heard the soft clink of metal behind him before he saw her.
"Commander," said a calm voice — Althenea's voice.
He turned. She stood with her hands folded, her long cloak swaying gently in the evening breeze. She wore no helmet tonight. Only a circlet rested atop her head, catching the light like a ring of flame.
"Stratega," he said with a respectful nod.
"You've been avoiding the council halls," she noted.
"I've been avoiding politics."
That earned the faintest flicker of a smile.
She stepped beside him, looking out over the dark forests. The air between them was thick with unsaid things — tension, history, recognition neither wanted to name.
"You're not like them," she said suddenly.
He blinked. "Who?"
"The nobles. The guildmasters. Even the soldiers. You act like one of them… but you aren't."
He chuckled dryly. "I doubt any of them wore lamellar plate and marched under purple banners."
"You carry yourself like someone who's lost something precious," she said, softer now. "But hasn't let the wound fester."
He looked at her carefully. There was something in her tone — too intimate, too familiar. And her amber eyes — they gleamed with more than command. They gleamed with remembrance.
"You speak as if you've seen me before," he said quietly.
She didn't respond right away.
Instead, she leaned forward, her hands on the stone rail. Her posture changed — the rigid Stratega melting into something gentler. Someone who had once held love in her heart, even if that love had turned to pain.
"I have," she whispered.
He stared at her, confused — but drawn in, heart thudding.
"You've been watching me."
"Yes."
"Why?"
She turned to him. In the moonlight, her face was caught between two worlds — the iron mask of authority… and the trembling gaze of a woman fighting herself.
"I don't know if I'm protecting you from the world," she said. "Or protecting the world from you."
That sent a chill through his spine.
"…Who are you really?"
She looked away. Her hand briefly reached toward him — as if to touch his cheek — then retracted, curling into a fist.
"I'm someone who remembers you… even when you don't remember me."
Markos's throat tightened. He searched her eyes again — amber like wildfire, like the demoness, like the Black Knight.
But then she straightened, the mask sliding back on with chilling precision.
"I'll see you at first light. The recruits expect their commander," she said curtly, and turned to leave.
Markos remained, heart pounding, torn between suspicion and something older — something buried deep in his soul.
And then, after a short time of his own moment he went back to his room.
However, the Abyss did not sleep.
It pulsed.
A realm of endless stone and shadow, suspended over rivers of molten memory and drifting bones of fallen gods. Spires twisted into impossible geometries. Voices echoed where there should be silence. And at the center of it all — a throne of obsidian and writhing flame.
Scelestus sat alone upon it, her fingers curling over the edges like talons, her golden eyes staring into a chasm that yawned at her feet.
No courtiers. No servants. Not even the whispering liege-spirits dared approach tonight.
Only silence.
Only her.
She no longer wore the armor of Althenea, nor the polished persona of the Stratega. The glamour peeled away like brittle leaves in a dying storm.
Her form shifted again into her tall, otherworldly, clothed in black silk and barbed jewelry. Horns curled back from her temples. Her skin shimmered faintly with otherworldly sigils, pulsing in time with her breath.
Helena was gone.
Only Scelestus remained.
But even now, she whispered his name into the dark.
"Markos."
It tasted like fire and snow on her tongue. Beautiful. Mortal. Infuriating.
She leaned forward in her throne, the flames at her feet flickering in response to her thoughts.
"I was a goddess once," she murmured, "before they spat upon my temples… before they desecrated the shrines, razed the altars, forgot my name."
Her voice trembled — not with sorrow, but rage barely restrained.
"I became a demon because they made me one. Because no one stood for me."
Her claws curled against the armrest.
"But he did," she whispered.
He, a soldier torn from a dying empire.
He, who looked at me with wonder, not terror.
He, who remembered… even when he didn't know what he remembered.
And, they took him away... from me.
Her reflection shimmered in the black mirror beside the throne — not as a monster, but as a woman. Soft-eyed. Long-haired. A goddess cloaked in stars.
And now… he was slipping from her.
Growing into his own legend. Rising like the sun she could never touch.
"What happens," she asked the shadows, "when he no longer needs me?"
The Abyss didn't answer.
But in the deepest corner of her mind, a whisper replied — an old fear she had buried:
"You'll burn the world to keep him close."
Her breathing grew heavy. Her aura expanded, pressing the walls of her throne room outward, cracking runes that had held for centuries.
Somewhere in the lower levels of the Abyss, a guard screamed as the stone split beneath his feet and darkness swallowed him whole.
Scelestus didn't flinch.
She stood slowly from her throne, walking barefoot toward the scrying pool carved from the skull of a celestial beast. Its surface shimmered with visions of the world above — Markos, tending his men. Markos, sharpening his blade. Markos, alone under a pale tree, thinking of someone he could not name.
Her expression softened — just for a moment.
Then she clenched her fist and turned away.
"You are mine," she murmured. "And if this world dares to take you again…"
The air crackled with infernal light.
"…then I'll tear down heaven and hell both to have you back."
The sun crested over the fields beyond the Citadel, casting golden light across rows of men — now soldiers — standing in perfect ranks. They wore gambesons darkened by soot, each bearing the sigil of their new cohort burned into the cloth: a lion standing before a shattered tower. Not yet knights, not veterans — but no longer green either.
One hundred and forty men — Markos' first command.
At the edge of the training ground, the dust kicked up as thirty mounted riders circled into position. Their horses were lean but strong, armor barely more than padded barding and leather caps. These were raw horsemen, peasants made riders — but they had eyes like flint, hardened by weeks of rigorous training.
Markos stood at their center, sun at his back, clad in half-plate with a crimson cloak fluttering behind him. His helm was off, tucked under his arm. The scar above his brow caught the light as he looked over them — not with arrogance, but with an iron calm.
"You are no longer fodder," he said, voice sharp and clear. "You are flame-tested. Baptized not in water, but in discipline and unity."
He paced before the cavalry, placing a hand on the withers of a stallion as it huffed.
"Today, we begin your second lesson. You ride not as scattered raiders, but as a wall — a thunderhead crashing against the enemy."
He gestured toward the open field.
"We practice what the Latins once called the Crux Formation. The first line charges with couched lances — break their shields, punch through their lines. The second follows with swords — drive them back. The third — maces and morningstars — to finish what remains."
He paused.
"Your enemy will hear only thunder, and by the time they see you — it'll be too late."
Some men straightened, pride rising in their chests. Others adjusted saddles, muttering prayers under their breath.
Markos mounted his own horse — a dappled grey warbred named Akanthos. He turned to face them again.
"When I rode with the Latin Knights of Antiochia, I saw this wall of riders break a Saracen wedge in the sands of Harran. When I stood beside the Cataphracts of the East, I watched gold-armored men ride like gods into battle — not because they were invincible, but because they rode together."
His voice softened then, just a touch. The teacher replacing the warrior.
"You do not need the armor of an emperor. You only need trust in the man beside you."
He raised his sword and pointed to the horizon.
"Form ranks! Show me thunder!"
The ground shook as they began — not perfectly, but together. The first charge was a little crooked, a few lances angled too high — but they moved like a single will. The second wave flowed in behind them like a crashing tide, and the third came like a closing gate.
By the third drill, they roared as one.
Markos watched, his heart swelling with something that hadn't been there in a long time.
Pride.
Not in himself. In them.
In what they were becoming.
From the distant ramparts, a figure watched beneath a veil — her golden eyes unreadable. Althenea, her posture flawless, arms crossed. But in truth, Helena was smiling.
And somewhere, deep in a realm beneath the world, a god-turned-demon whispered to herself,
"So like the man I loved… and still love."
The evening fire crackled at the center of the camp, casting long shadows across a ring of worn tents and sleeping packs. Markos sat among his men, a bowl of stew in his hands and his sword laying beside him — not in vigilance, but in relaxation.
It had been a long day of drills and riding formations, but the mood now was light. Laughter echoed under the open sky, and the scent of roasted onions and bread filled the air. A few of the younger recruits had even found a lute and were plucking out a terribly off-key rendition of a marching song.
Markos chuckled. "God help us if the enemy hears that. They'll die of horror before the swords touch them."
One of the bolder recruits, a broad-shouldered lad named Felix, leaned toward him with a smirk. "Captain, I'll challenge you to a friendly duel. Unless you fear embarrassment in front of your own men."
That earned a round of "oohs" and claps.
Markos set his bowl aside, smirking. "A duel? I suppose if I must defend my honor before this lawless rabble…"
The men cheered as both stood and took training swords from a nearby rack. They circled each other under the firelight. Felix swung wide — clearly strong, but not yet refined. Markos parried with ease, feinting left before tapping the young man's thigh with a clean counter.
"Dead," Markos announced.
Groans and laughter rippled through the group.
Felix shook his head, rubbing his leg. "Still faster than you look, Captain."
Markos grinned and clapped him on the back. "That's because I don't waste time lifting logs for sport."
They settled back down, stew bowls refilled and spirits high.
"You lot have improved quickly," Markos said after a moment. "Faster than most. You've earned your rest."
"Only because we have you," one of the older men said. "You're not like the others — the nobles bark, but they don't fight. You've seen real war, haven't you?"
Markos nodded solemnly. "More than I care to count."
"Where did you learn all this?" another asked. "You talk like you came out of a legend. You fought with knights, rode with eastern lancers, know the desert like a merchant."
There was a pause before someone added, more playfully, "And you've got the Stratega herself watching your drills. Like a hawk."
The men chuckled.
"I swear she was hovering around all afternoon," Felix said. "If I didn't know better, I'd say she's your wife."
Markos almost choked on his stew. "Stratega! They said thou art my wife!" he called out dramatically into the night, raising his arms like a man falsely accused in a comedy.
The camp broke into roaring laughter.
But unknown to them, not far — just beyond the tree line — Helena stood, partially cloaked in the veil of her divine disguise. Her arms were crossed, but her lips twitched into a rare, warm smile. It was genuine. Fragile. Foreign even to her.
"Wife, hmm?" she whispered to herself. "If only you knew how close they are to the truth."
Markos, still grinning, leaned back on his elbow. "You should be careful what you say," he told his men. "If the Stratega hears you, she might conscript you all to carry her scrolls for a week."
"Would still be worth it!" someone called. "She's the most beautiful terror I've ever seen!"
"You've never seen my mother-in-law, then," another replied, to fresh laughter.
The fire crackled. For a brief moment, the tension of war, borders, demons, and empires fell away. There was only warmth, laughter, and a sense of unity between a commander and his men.
And above them, the stars watched silently — as did a goddess in disguise, whose heart beat just a little faster.
The fire had burned low into glowing embers, and the camp settled into stillness. Only the distant rustle of wind through pines and the occasional whinny of a horse broke the night's hush. Markos sat at the edge of the camp, sharpening his blade out of habit more than need. His thoughts were tangled — of battles, of borders, of gods who wore mortal faces.
He felt her presence before he saw her.
"Can't sleep either?" Helena's voice was soft, barely above the whisper of wind.
Markos turned. She stood a few paces away, cloaked in a dark mantle, her hair pulled back, a rare vulnerability in her otherwise regal bearing. Without the armor, without the veil of command, she looked — human. Almost.
"Sleep's become a luxury," Markos said. "Besides, I half-expected you."
Helena tilted her head. "Oh? Why is that?"
Markos gave her a sidelong glance. "Because you always seem to appear when I'm unsettled."
She stepped closer, her boots soundless on the grass. "And are you unsettled now?"
"Wouldn't you be?" he replied. "I have green men going into a storm. A world I still don't understand. And a woman—" he paused, considering her — "who knows far more than she lets on."
Helena sat beside him without asking, their shoulders nearly touching. "You're not wrong. About any of that."
The silence that followed was not cold. It pulsed with unspoken things. Markos could feel it, like the weight of thunder before a storm.
"You trained them well," she said eventually. "Your men… they believe in you. That kind of loyalty is rare."
Markos gave a faint smile. "They believe in someone who doesn't truly belong here. I'm just a man from another war, another world."
"You belong more than you think," Helena said, staring up at the stars. "Even stars fall into foreign skies… yet still shine."
He looked at her. "Why are you really here, Helena?"
Her breath caught just slightly, but she masked it with a turn of her head. "To ensure your safety, of course. As Stratega."
Markos scoffed lightly. "Stratega. A woman who walks like a general, fights like a knight, and vanishes like a ghost. If you are only that — then I am a mule."
She laughed softly, her eyes shimmering. "You wound me."
He met her gaze. "You saved me more than once. You're watching me constantly. The men think you care for me."
"Do you think so too?" she asked, and the question was barely audible.
Markos searched her expression, but it was veiled — with grief, with secrets, with something ancient and deep and yearning.
"I don't know what to think," he said honestly. "But I do know this — I'm not afraid of you."
A beat passed. Helena looked down, her voice almost a whisper.
"You should be."
But before he could respond, she rose, brushing off her cloak. "You need your rest, Markos. Tomorrow may be bloodier than we hope."
She turned to go, but his voice stopped her.
"Helena."
She paused.
"They said you were my wife."
She glanced back over her shoulder, the faintest trace of a smile curling on her lips — a smile not of mischief this time, but of melancholy.
"Would that such things were so simple."
Then, like fog before the dawn, she disappeared into the dark.
Markos sat in silence for a long while after, watching the stars — and wondering just what Helena truly was.
And why, in her presence, he felt both more mortal… and more alive.
That night, as Markos finally surrendered to sleep, the world fell away.
He stood not in a field nor in a familiar land, but upon a vast plain of ashen earth and cracked stone, where the sky above was neither night nor day — only a roiling canopy of red clouds and glinting stars that wept blood.
The wind howled like the cries of the fallen.
Before him loomed a great obsidian gate, bound in chains that slithered like serpents and pulsed with a heartbeat that was not his own. Its surface shimmered with fleeting images — war, ruin, fire, and… her.
Helena. But not as he knew her.
In one blink, she wore armor of stars, a radiant queen with wings of gold. In another, she was clad in horned blackened steel, eyes burning like coals — the Demon Empress, Scelestus, enthroned atop a mountain of bones. And in yet another flicker, she was weeping, cloaked in ash, alone in a ruined sanctuary.
Markos reached out, but his hand turned to smoke.
"Why do you chase what cannot be caught?" came a voice — his own voice, but older, heavier, worn with grief.
He turned.
There stood another version of himself — wearing a tattered imperial cloak, eyes ringed with sorrow, a sword impaled through his chest.
"She is the key," the specter said. "She is the gate. She is the flame. And you are the spark that can light the end… or hold it back."
"What does it mean?" Markos asked. "Who is she truly?"
But the figure only pointed.
Behind the obsidian gate, something stirred. A titanic eye opened — vast, lidless, ancient — and it saw him.
The world cracked. Fire poured from the heavens. Cities burned, soldiers screamed, a throne shattered into dust. A horned shadow reached toward him — not to harm him, but to hold him.
And in that last moment, Helena's voice — soft, tearful — broke through the flame:
"If thou leavest me again, I shall become the very end itself."
Markos woke with a gasp, drenched in sweat, the fire embers at camp long dead. His heart thundered like a war drum. Around him, the men still slept — unaware of the storm screaming in his mind.
He rose and stepped out into the early blue of dawn.
Somewhere, he felt her eyes again. Watching. Waiting.
And in his chest, the seed of dread took root — not for war, but for a choice he feared he'd soon have to make.
Her... or the world.