Ithan sat pressed against the carriage wall, half-hidden behind the shadowed window drape. Outside, the city roared.
"Ashborn! Ashborn! Hero of the Imperium!"
The chants crashed like waves against the carriage, rolling through every street and alley. Children climbed onto their parents' shoulders to catch a glimpse. Merchants leaned from balconies waving crimson ribbons, their colors bleeding into the sunlight as they fluttered through the air. Flower petals—roses, marigolds, and white lilies—fell in drifts upon the cobblestones, trampled instantly by the crowd that surged alongside the procession.
Portraits of his face hung from every corner—painted on silk banners, etched into wood, even stamped into the gilded coins being tossed by street vendors. Every depiction was the same: the Ashborn cloaked in fire and valor, the slayer of monsters, savior of the Imperium.
The truth, Ithan thought, was far less noble.
He leaned away from the glass, jaw tight, hands clasped over his knees. The cheers outside felt heavier than chains. Each voice praising his name struck him like a hammer—reminding him of the storm, the screams, the lives he hadn't saved.
Helen, seated across from him, watched the tension in his shoulders with a faint smirk. "You should enjoy it," she said, her tone teasing but measured. "They don't cheer for men like us often."
He did not answer.
Instead, his eyes flicked to the crowd again—saw a boy running alongside the wheel, barefoot, waving a tattered flag with his likeness on it. The boy's face shone with wonder, and for a moment, Ithan almost envied that purity. But as the carriage turned toward the inner city gates, he caught sight of soldiers stationed along the route—rows of bronze-clad guards watching not with reverence, but calculation. Their polished armor gleamed, their stares cold and measuring.
The cheers were not for him. They were for the symbol the Senate had crafted.
Beyond the plaza, Arkanis Magna unfurled in all its grandeur. Wide marble avenues crossed beneath towering archways etched with imperial runes. The scent of incense and baked bread mingled with the metallic tang of the river breeze. Statues of emperors and warlords lined the way toward the Curia Solis, the Senate's shining heart—each monument a testament to the empire's arrogance and decay.
Helen leaned forward, her gloved hand brushing the curtain aside to glimpse the approaching forum. "They've gone all out," she murmured. "A hero's welcome, banquets, songs, medals. Gaius Varro must want something from you very badly."
Ithan's gaze darkened. "He'll be disappointed."
The carriage passed through the last archway and entered the grand forum. Trumpets blared, drowning the crowd in fanfare. Imperial banners hung from every column, their crimson folds rippling like tongues of flame. In the distance, a marble stage waited, flanked by the city's elite—senators, nobles, and generals in layered robes and armor polished for display.
Helen gave him a sidelong glance, her voice low. "You should fix your collar. They'll be watching every detail."
"I didn't come here to play their game," he muttered.
"No," she said with a faint, dangerous smile, "but you'll have to stand on their board if you plan to break it."
As the carriage slowed to a halt, the noise outside reached its peak—an eruption of sound that shook the square. The door creaked open. Light spilled in, blinding for a heartbeat. And then, as he stepped out into the brilliance of Arkanis Magna, the crowd roared his name again— not as a man, but as the legend they needed him to be.
The roar of the crowd thundered in Ithan's ears as he stepped onto the polished marble steps. The sun caught on the metal of his armor, scattering faint reflections across the plaza—reflections that drew gasps from those who saw him, as though the hero of their stories had stepped straight out of myth.
Soldiers lined both sides of the stairway, halberds crossed in salute. At the top stood Senator Gaius Varro, his crimson toga edged with gold thread, a polished smile carved onto his weathered face. Behind him loomed other senators and generals, the aristocratic spine of the Imperium—men and women who fed on power and called it virtue.
Helen exited after Ithan, her expression schooled into the easy confidence of a commander used to standing among predators. The Red Jaguar insignia on her coat gleamed under the sun, drawing a few narrowed gazes from the patricians above.
A herald's voice cut through the noise:
"Behold, the Ashborn! Victor of the Storm Forge! Savior of Mariathos! Hero of the Imperium!"
The crowd erupted anew. Ithan clenched his jaw as flower petals rained from the balconies. His steps echoed against the marble as he climbed, each one slower than the last. He could feel the eyes on him—thousands of them—burning with adoration, envy, fear, and curiosity.
When he reached the final step, Gaius extended a hand heavy with jeweled rings. "Welcome home, Hero."
Ithan hesitated, then clasped it. The old senator's grip was firm, too deliberate, the handshake of a man used to testing strength before granting favor.
"The empire owes you its gratitude," Gaius continued, voice rich and smooth enough to carry across the plaza. "And it shall show it in kind."
From the side, an attendant stepped forward carrying a crimson velvet box. Gaius opened it with ceremony, revealing the gleaming Medal of Solaris Virtus—a golden sunburst centered by a shard of white crystal. Kneeling slightly, Gaius pinned the medal onto Ithan's chest before the crowd. The crystal pulsed faintly, absorbing light, refracting it across the marble like captured flame.
"In the name of the Imperium Arkanis," Gaius declared, "we honor Ithan Ashborn, for his courage in the Storm Forge, his valor in the Ashen March, and his loyalty to mankind!"
The cheering swelled, and horns blared again from the city walls.
But amid the roar, Ithan felt nothing—no pride, no gratitude. Only the faint weight of the medal pressed against his armor like a chain. He could see Helen at the edge of the dais, her eyes unreadable but alert. And behind Gaius, his two sons—Vincent, calm and smiling, and Lucien, colder, appraising him like a weapon freshly forged.
Gaius leaned close enough for only Ithan to hear as the applause continued. "You've done the impossible, boy," he murmured, his breath scented faintly of myrrh and wine. "Now do it again—for us."
Ithan's lips barely moved. "I didn't do it for you."
Gaius's smile never faltered. "You will."
He turned to the crowd, raising Ithan's arm as if presenting a champion, the sun igniting the medal between them. Far below, the people shouted his name again—Ashborn! Ashborn!—while above them, banners of crimson and gold whipped in the wind.
Helen's gaze met his from the edge of the platform. She tilted her head, just slightly—an unspoken warning: You're in their web now.
And as the horns of Arkanis Magna cried their final salute, Ithan understood— he had not been welcomed home. He had been claimed.
****
"Is this really necessary?" Ithan asked as the carriage rolled to a slow stop before the wrought-iron gates.
The estate loomed ahead like a marble specter—grand, immaculate, and utterly foreign to him. The gates were gilded with sun motifs, the symbol of the Imperium, their golden bars catching the light of the setting sun. Beyond them, a long avenue lined with white cypress trees led toward a sprawling villa whose roofs shimmered faintly with enchantment. Lanterns burned with soft blue aetherlight, bathing the courtyard in an artificial twilight glow.
Helen stepped out first, boots clicking against the stone path. "You're a national hero now," she said dryly, glancing over her shoulder. "The Senate can't have its symbol of valor sleeping in a barracks."
Ithan followed, his expression dark. The air smelled of polished marble, lavender oil, and wealth—nothing like the steel and smoke of the Red Jaguar camp. Servants bowed as he passed, each movement precise and rehearsed, like puppets trained to worship power. It all felt wrong.
He turned, taking in the sight of the estate again. Two fountains flanked the main steps, each carved in the likeness of angelic warriors pouring endless water into silver basins. The villa's façade was white stone veined with gold, its windows arched like temple gates. Everything about it screamed status, ownership, belonging—things he had never cared for, and never trusted.
"Hero of the Imperium," Helen teased, motioning toward the engraved plaque by the entrance. "House Ashborn."
The name was still strange to him.They had given it to him in the same breath as his medal—a family name, a place in the registers of nobility. A title that meant he now stood among the bloodlines of merchants, senators, and generals who had ruled this empire for centuries.
He stared at the name carved into the plaque. ASHBORN.
Born from fire.A story they had written for him, not one he chose.
"I didn't ask for this," he said quietly.
Helen folded her arms. "No one asks for power. It's just handed to the ones unlucky enough to survive long enough to earn it."
He gave her a sideways look. "You sound like you've been here before."
"Once," she said, her smile thin. "Didn't end well."
The servants opened the doors, and warm light spilled from the interior. The scent of spiced wine, wax, and polished wood met them. Inside, corridors stretched wide and empty, lined with frescoes of past wars and triumphs—each painted face smiling in eternal glory.
A steward bowed low. "Lord Ashborn, your household has been prepared. The Senate insisted that everything be ready before your arrival. The master chambers await you."
"Lord," Ithan repeated under his breath, the word tasting like ash.
Helen walked past him, running a gloved hand over one of the marble columns. "It's beautiful," she said, though her tone carried no warmth. "And it's a cage."
He looked around at the grandeur—the gilded railings, the silken drapes, the echoing halls—and felt the weight of what the medal had truly bought him.
A title. A name. A mansion. And invisible chains clasped around his wrists.
Outside, the banners of the Senate fluttered faintly in the dusk breeze, crimson and gold bleeding together like fire in the dying light.
Ithan stood in the doorway a moment longer before following Helen in. "If this is what being honored feels like," he muttered, "I'd rather be forgotten."
Helen's voice floated back, cool and certain. "They'll never let you be forgotten now, Ashborn."
"Whatever," Ithan muttered, shoving his hands into his coat pockets as Lyra and Doran darted past him, their laughter echoing through the marble halls. The two of them had already disappeared deeper into the estate, their voices bouncing off polished stone and gilded walls as they explored every room with childlike wonder.
He had insisted they stay with him—his last remaining tether to the Mercenary Company he'd once known under Larson's command. The others, Nicodemus and Andreas, had chosen to remain at the barracks, no doubt drinking and flirting their way through the night. But Lyra and Doran? They were loyal in the quiet way of survivors who had lost too much to walk alone.
Helen trailed a few paces behind him, her heels tapping lightly against the marble.
"Why do I feel like you're enjoying this?" he asked, glancing back at her.
"I'm not," Helen replied, her tone deliberately flat—but her smirk betrayed her. The look she gave him could have meant anything: amusement, pride, maybe even mischief. "Anyway, you should prepare for tonight. There's a banquet in your honor."
"Huh." Ithan's brow furrowed. "I don't want to go."
"I didn't say you had a choice."
They entered the main living hall, and the sheer scale of the room made him stop. The ceilings arched high above, carved with sunlit frescoes of angels and warriors, while crystal chandeliers threw shifting reflections across the marble floor. The furniture was all dark wood and velvet, the kind of wealth that felt performative.
Ithan walked past a set of gilded armchairs and paused before a massive portrait that dominated the far wall—himself, painted in full imperial regalia, his eyes alight with divine fire, standing over a field of fallen enemies. The artist had caught none of his truth, only the myth.
"Guess I don't get to be just a man anymore," he said quietly.
Helen joined him, following his gaze to the painting. "You were never just a man, Ithan. Not since the Storm Forge."
He turned to her with a tired look. "Don't romanticize it. You saw what it cost."
"I saw what it proved," she countered smoothly. Then her expression softened, her tone shifting. "And besides, tonight isn't just about you. The banquet's also a celebration of Lady Diana's accomplishments. The Emperor himself will be in attendance to honor her."
That caught his attention.
"Lady Diana," he repeated, testing the name as though weighing its truth. He had heard the rumors—the Emperor's bastard daughter, half-royal and half-legend, the woman who commanded armies in defiance of every noble expectation. They said she was the one truly backing the Red Jaguars, though few had ever seen her.
He leaned against the nearest pillar, thoughtful. "I've heard she's not like the rest of the Imperium."
"Diana's a friend," Helena said as she moved toward the cabinet near the fireplace, pouring herself a glass of dark crimson wine. "Not just the patron of the Red Jaguars. In this rotten city, she's probably the only real friend I have."
The amber glow of the chandeliers reflected against the glass in her hand. For a brief moment, the sharp-tongued commander looked tired—like someone who had spent too many years surviving among predators dressed in silk.
"She's also my student."
Ithan leaned against the arm of a velvet chair, brow lifting slightly. "Your student?"
Helena smirked faintly. "I taught her war."
She turned toward him then, one arm folded beneath her chest while the other rested against the wineglass. "Strategy. Logistics. Siegecraft. How to command mercenaries, nobles, and terrified soldiers without letting them smell fear. Diana learned quickly."
"That sounds dangerous," Ithan muttered.
"It is." Helena's smile widened just enough to make the answer unsettling. "The Empire thinks she's dangerous because she's the Emperor's bastard. They're wrong. She's dangerous because she understands people."
The room quieted for a moment. Somewhere deeper in the estate, Lyra shouted excitedly about finding a heated bath, followed by Doran yelling at her not to break anything expensive. The noise faded quickly again.
Helena set her glass down. "Speaking of training…"
Her tone shifted, becoming sharper, more deliberate.
"Now that you've crossed into Bathos, it's time you understood the true difference between the Protos Stage and the Bathos Stage."
Ithan straightened slightly. "The main difference?"
"Aether Infusion."
The words settled heavily in the room.
"I've heard about it," Ithan said quietly. "The ability to infuse aether—the luminous essence that sustains existence."
Helena nodded once. "Aether is older than empires, as old as existence itself. Divine essence. The breath that once flowed through the realms of the gods when divinity still walked this world openly."
She stepped closer to one of the tall windows overlooking the city. Outside, Arkanis Magna glimmered beneath the dusk, its marble towers burning gold beneath the setting sun.
"The gods are gone," she continued softly, "but traces of their essence remain woven into existence itself. Most people can't perceive it. They live and die without ever realizing the world around them is drowning in invisible light."
"And Mystiques can?"
"They can touch it."
Helena turned back toward him. "That's what a Mystery really is, Ithan. A wound, a connection, a truth carved into the soul. The moment someone awakens a Mystery, they begin brushing against aether whether they understand it or not."
Ithan's eyes narrowed slightly. "Then why can't Protos Mystiques use it?"
"They do," Helena replied. "Just unconsciously."
She tapped two fingers lightly against her chest.
"In Protos, your body cannot properly contain or direct aether. So whenever you invoke your Mystery, fragments of that essence leak into your flesh like poison through cracked glass."
Ithan felt his jaw tighten.
Pain.
Not ordinary pain—the kind that stripped away thought itself. The Prometheus Mystery had burned him from the inside out since the day he awakened it. Every use brought suffering that felt ancient and eternal. He remembered collapsing into mud with smoke rising from his skin. He remembered the sensation of invisible teeth tearing into him, of starvation gnawing through bone, of lightning splitting apart his nerves. The agony had never felt metaphorical. It felt remembered.
Helena watched his silence carefully.
"Your Mystery doesn't just grant power," she said quietly. "It forces you to experience the suffering tied to its truth. Prometheus stole fire from the heavens. Punishment became part of the Mystery itself."
Ithan looked away toward the fire crackling in the hearth. "I know."
"No," Helena corrected gently. "You endured it. That's different from understanding it."
The flames flickered between them.
"When a Mystique descends into Bathos," she continued, "they stop merely surviving their Mystery. They begin synchronizing with it."
She extended her hand. A faint shimmer spread across her skin—soft silver light threading through her veins like liquid moonlight. The air around her distorted subtly, the pressure in the room deepening. The wineglass on the table trembled from the sheer density of presence radiating from her body.
"Aether Infusion," Helena said. "Instead of letting aether leak uncontrollably into your flesh, you consciously circulate it through your body. Bone. Muscle. Blood. Soul."
The silver light intensified for a heartbeat before fading again.
"That's why Bathos Mystiques become monsters physically," she said. "Strength beyond mortal limits. Speed that breaks perception. Bodies capable of surviving things that should kill them."
Ithan stared at her hand, already familiar with the sensation she described.
The relic.
Even now, he could remember the feeling of borrowed aether surging through his veins whenever he used it—the unnatural clarity, the overwhelming pressure, the sensation that his body was moments away from either transcending or tearing itself apart.
Helena noticed the shift in his expression immediately.
"Of course," she said, "there are exceptions. Relic bearers can force artificial aether infusion."
Her eyes sharpened slightly.
"But relics are unstable. They flood the body with power faster than the soul can harmonize with it. That's why they destroy people."
She stepped closer until she stood directly before him.
"But now?" she said softly. "You're Bathos."
Her finger pressed lightly against the center of his chest. For a moment, the room seemed strangely quiet. Then Ithan felt it. Not heat. Something deeper. A faint radiance stirred beneath his skin, like dormant fire waking somewhere inside his ribs.
"You should be able to start Aether accumulation," Helena said.