The tavern was tucked beneath a leaning stone archway along the lower promenade, its carved sign swinging in the wind with the faded image of a boar and cup. Markos stepped inside, brushing aside the hide curtain, and was met with warmth and the low hum of voices. The scent of spiced stew, sweat, and old wood filled his nose—familiar in a comforting way. He took a seat near the hearth, far from the bustle at the bar, and rested his helmet on the table beside him. His eyes scanned the room for threats by force of habit, but it was mostly filled with tired guards, merchants, and a few city folk seeking to drown their worries.
The innkeeper, a portly woman with a braid of gray-streaked auburn hair, waddled over with a tired smile. "What'll it be, soldier?" she asked, squinting at his armor. Markos offered her a polite nod. "Bread, stew, and water." She raised a brow at that—no wine, no ale, no roasted meat?—but said nothing and moved off with a practiced grace. He exhaled and allowed his mind to wander as the fire crackled beside him.
A pair of men sitting two tables down elbowed each other and whispered. One gestured toward Markos' chestplate, the iron-laced lamellar catching amber light from the flames. Unlike the ringmail and gambesons common to Scolacium's soldiers, his armor bore traces of Eastern craftsmanship—Eastern lines and layered plates shaped for mobility and grace. Soon others began to notice too. A few of the younger ones tilted their mugs, eyeing him with curiosity, maybe even suspicion.
Markos ignored the stares at first. He focused on his meal when it arrived coarse bread and thick stew laced with carrots, onion, and salted pork. He ate slowly, deliberately, minding his posture and the position of his sword by the bench. But the muttering around him grew louder, tinged now with the edge of speculation. He caught snippets—"Eastern mercenary," "Black knight," "Church spy"—each one a misunderstanding layered over the next.
A girl approached him, no older than seventeen, her dress dyed in warm shades of orange and green. "Sir," she said hesitantly, "Are you one of the Ophions?" Markos looked up from his bowl, startled by the question, as he didn't know what it is. "I'm a traveler," he replied gently. "Nothing more." But the term stirred something inside him Ophion? What is that?
The girl nodded slowly and returned to her seat, but her question left a ripple. The chatter shifted. Some looked at him with newfound interest, others with veiled distrust. A drunken man staggered forward and squinted. "You with the Emperor's spies, then?" he slurred, pointing a sausage-like finger. "Or are you here to judge us for how we honor the old ways?" Markos stayed seated, calm. "I came to deliver something." he answered simply. "That's all."
The man grunted and stumbled back to his seat, grumbling. But the atmosphere didn't return to ease. Though no more challenges came directly, Markos could feel the tension wrap around him like cold smoke. He finished his meal in silence, his hand resting on the hilt of his sheathed sword, more out of caution than threat. The tavern's warmth now felt like a furnace of watchful eyes.
Later that night, the rooms were assigned. Markos took the smallest one, up the creaking stair and down a crooked hall. It smelled faintly of smoke and herbs, with a single straw mattress and a narrow window overlooking the alley. He set his sword and armor beside the bed, wiping each piece with a cloth. He did not undress beyond what was necessary—too many years had taught him not to trust quiet nights in foreign towns.
Voices drifted through the floorboards, indistinct and distant. Markos sat by the window, looking at the cobbled street below. The woman hadn't returned. Not that he expected her to—but something in her words lingered. The way she knew his name, the way she spoke of Veltrana and forgotten gods—it scratched at the corners of his memory. He pressed the silver charm she had given him between his fingers, its crescent shape glowing faintly in the moonlight.
He remembered again the shrine—the defaced statue, the cracked face too familiar, too vivid. Was Veltrana truly watching? Or had Helena played some cruel trick, drawing him deeper into a myth he didn't yet understand? He frowned. His faith had survived Constantinople, survived betrayal, fire, and exile. But now it was being tested not by men, but by gods—or things that once were.
Sleep came in restless waves. Dreams flickered with images of fire, shrines, and a woman weeping blood beneath a sky that bled like wine. When Markos awoke, the candle had burned down to a nub, and the morning bells of Scolacium rang low and hard. He dressed swiftly, binding his sword to his side, and made his way down to the common room. The tavern was quieter now—only a few early risers muttering into mugs of tea.
The innkeeper handed him a small parcel of bread and cheese without asking. "Message came early," she said. "The citadel wants you at noon." Markos nodded in thanks, tucking the food into his pack and paid for his meal and dropped 2 solidus coins, or gold coins and the innkeeper was in shock as paying in gold is a luxury. As he stepped into the gray morning, the streets of Scolacium were already waking—guards changing shifts, vendors setting out wares, and somewhere, faint and distant, a choir beginning a hymn to the gods, old and new.
Markos turned toward the inner walls of the citadel. A response was coming. He could only hope it would bring clarity, not more riddles. The charm in his pocket felt heavier than before. And somewhere in the alleys behind him, hidden from sight, Helena watched with eyes like embers, a silent guardian—or perhaps a silent threat—of things long buried.
The sun was still low when Markos ascended the broad, weather-worn stairs toward the Citadel of Scolacium. From below, the fortress dominated the city skyline like the prow of towers emerging from stone. Banners of deep crimson and gold fluttered along its bastions, and the guards at the gate stood stiff in their black-and-steel uniforms, spears at the ready. Markos clutched the sealed report under his cloak—a detailed account of the Pazzonian border raid—and hoped the scribes within the walls would read it with the urgency it deserved. His boots echoed against the flagstones as he approached.
The guard from yesterday, a lean man with pockmarked cheeks, spotted him. "You're expected," he said tersely, motioning for the heavy oak doors to be drawn open. "Wait by the chamber hall until the steward calls." Markos gave a nod and stepped into the inner court, the sound of boots and armor fading behind him. Couriers moved like fish through the current, ducking under archways with scrolls and letters in hand, while older nobles argued quietly on marble benches under statues of long-dead heroes.
He made his way to a side alcove beneath a balcony, taking a place near a sunlit pillar. The air smelled of parchment and steel. As he waited, his thoughts drifted uneasily to Helena. Her last words still echoed in his mind—"We're all part of something older than this petty war." Had she already moved on? Had she vanished like before, just another specter in his strange new world?
But then came the unmistakable click of heels, slow and deliberate. Markos turned his head sharply. She was there—Helena—draped in a deep blue cloak that shimmered like starlight, her dark hair gathered into a loose braid over one shoulder. Her eyes gleamed with quiet amusement as she approached, as if she'd been expecting him all along.
"You," Markos breathed. "What are you—how did you get in here?" Helena smiled faintly. "I have business with the citadel, just as you do," she replied, her tone smooth and unhurried. "The guards… proved cooperative." Markos narrowed his eyes, glancing past her toward the archway. The two armored men who flanked the hall now stood motionless, staring ahead with vacant eyes, as though caught in a trance.
"What did you do to them?" he asked warily. "Nothing permanent," she replied, inspecting her nails casually. "Sometimes, men only need a gentle push to see what you want them to see." Her voice was velvet, tinged with something older and more dangerous. Markos stepped back instinctively, hand brushing the hilt of his sword.
Helena cocked her head, amused. "Still so cautious," she whispered. "But I didn't come here to start trouble. Not with you." Her gaze fell on the sealed scroll in his hand. "Your report will be ignored, delayed, or buried unless someone makes them read it. I may be of more use than you think." Markos hesitated. Her presence unsettled him, but she had a point—one that he didn't like admitting.
They stood in silence for a few moments as officials passed by, none paying her any mind. It was as if she were invisible to them—or deliberately forgotten. Markos shivered. He had seen so called witches and magicians in his time in Constantinople, even monks who claimed divine visions all heresies. But none could walk through the very heart of a ducal stronghold unnoticed. "Who are you, really?" he asked softly.
"A wanderer," she answered. "Like you. Just older, and far more tired." But her eyes gleamed like freshly drawn obsidian. He wanted to press further, demand the truth she kept hiding behind riddles and charm, but the chamber doors creaked open behind them. "Markos of Scolatii," a steward called out. "The Duke's scribe will see you now."
Markos at first confused on what they called him from but he didn't acted hostile to it and quickly moved towards the door, but Helena walked with him as if it were her right. The steward's eyes passed over her—no recognition, no protest—and Markos felt a chill crawl up his neck. Inside, a high-roofed chamber opened before them, lined with wooden rafters and a long table at its center. A handful of scribes sat ready, ink and parchment before them. A lean man in fine robes beckoned.
"Your report," he said curtly, motioning for Markos to step forward. "You witnessed the border clash?" Markos nodded, laying the scroll on the table and recounting the events: the Pazzonian foray, the attempted sacking. He did not mention Helena or Veltrana—some truths were better left unspoken. The scribes murmured and scratched notes.
Helena remained silent at his side, arms crossed, eyes scanning every inch of the room. The steward glanced at her once but said nothing—his mind evidently clouded by her sorcery. When the questioning was done, the scribe rose. "The Duke will be informed. If you're needed again, a runner will be sent to your inn." He gave a perfunctory nod and turned away, already moving to the next stack of letters.
Outside, the light was harsher. Helena walked beside him like a shadow, her lips tight with thought. "You did well in there," she said eventually. "But they won't move until the threat grows larger." Markos rubbed his forehead. "Then their land may burn before they act." Helena turned to him, her expression suddenly soft. "And that is why you're here, Markos. You move before others wake."
He stopped at the foot of the citadel stairs, feeling the wind on his face. "Why are you here?" he asked again, this time with more conviction. Helena's smile faded. "Because," she whispered, "I once protected this land too." Then she turned away, disappearing into the streets like smoke in sunlight.
Markos complained in just annoyance as she kept disappearing.
"By Saint George, why always disappear?"
And for the first time, Markos wondered if the stories of old gods and demonesses weren't stories at all—but half-forgotten truths waiting to return.
The citadel's business had dulled by the third day. Markos remained in Scolacium longer than expected awaiting the Duke's response, delivering minor notices, and assisting in training drills with the garrison. Though not officially a Knight of Scolacium, his presence as a battle-hardened outsider earned him a measure of local respect. At night, he retired to the inn by the southern gate, refusing indulgence in wine or flesh. But by day, he explored the outlying village, a place still tense from rumors of Pazzonian invasion.
It was during one of these walks that he heard the commotion a cart had tipped over near the vineyard road, pinning a woman beneath it. She cried out as passersby shouted for help, but none moved swiftly. Markos grabbed his helmet and tied it on his waist and sprinted forward without hesitation. With effort and a groan of strained wood, he heaved the cart's side just enough for the villagers to pull the woman free.
She was young, sun-kissed and freckled, her name was Elira. Her leg was bruised, but not broken, and she gave him a grateful smile that seemed to disarm the whole square. "You saved my life," she said softly as he helped her sit under an olive tree. "It's what anyone would've done," he replied, brushing off his hands. Yet her gaze lingered on him, and more than one townswoman began whispering to her neighbor, giggling like bees around honey.
Helena watched it all from the distance. Perched atop the shadowed ridge behind a stone wall, her hands clenched around the edges of her cloak. She said nothing, but her eyes narrowed as Elira laughed at something Markos said. The way he knelt beside her, hand still hovering near her shoulder, was enough to make Helena's lip twitch ever so slightly.
Later that evening, Markos returned to the inn just before sundown. Helena was already there, seated at a far table, her expression unreadable. "You were gone long," she murmured without looking at him. "A woman's cart overturned," he replied plainly. "I helped her. She was grateful." Helena sipped from her goblet, her knuckles white on the stem. "How kind of you," she said flatly.
Markos narrowed his eyes, sensing a sharpness in her voice. "Are you angry with me?" he asked. Helena didn't answer immediately. "No," she finally said, voice smooth as polished obsidian. "Why would I be? It's not my place to tell you where to place your affections." He blinked. "Affections? I was just helping someone." But Helena's eyes met his now, deep and stormy.
"Of course," she said, rising gracefully. "And I'm sure you'd help anyone who smiled at you sweetly enough." She passed him as if brushing against him by accident, but the chill in her wake betrayed more than she let on. Markos watched her disappear through the inn's rear door, confused, uneasy—and strangely affected.
That night, he couldn't sleep. The memory of Helena's eyes haunted him more than Elira's gratitude ever could. He had seen warriors possessed by wrath, but Helena's emotion had been colder, deeper—a kind of pain wrapped in possessiveness. He remembered the ruined shrine, the broken statue bearing her face, the way she'd stood amid blood and smoke as if she were mourning something ancient.
The next day, Elira visited the tavern with a basket of bread and jam. "For your kindness," she said sweetly, offering it with both hands. Markos hesitated, but took it politely. "Thank you, Elira," he said. "But you didn't have to—" "It's nothing," she said with a shy glance. "Just don't vanish like the rest of the so-called heroes."
From behind them, Helena watched. She had reappeared as if from mist, her dark cloak framing her like a queen in exile. "A charming exchange," she said icily. Elira turned, startled. "Oh! I didn't see you—" "Few do," Helena replied, lips barely curving. "Markos, may I borrow a moment of your time?" The basket of bread felt heavier in his hands.
They walked behind the tavern, past the rosewood barrels, to where the wind whispered low through the fields. "If you're trying to provoke me," Markos began, "it's working." Helena turned to face him, her face clouded. "I've lived a thousand years," she said, "watched empires rise and fall… but never have I felt this… agitated." She looked away. "That girl looked at you like you were everything."
Markos inside is shocked at what she said but he didn't believe that she could had lived for that long, as he listened he folded his arms. "And that troubles you?" Helena didn't answer at first. Then, very softly, she said, "Yes." It was not shouted, not declared with fire but whispered like a truth too old to name. "I don't want to see you waste yourself on those who can't even begin to understand who you are, what you carry."
Silence stretched between them. The breeze played with the ends of her braid, and for the first time, Markos saw not just Helena the sorceress—but someone deeply wounded. "I'm not hers," he said. "And I'm not yours either. Not unless you stop hiding everything behind riddles and disappearances." Helena looked at him—truly looked—and for once, said nothing.
They parted again, and that evening, Markos declined Elira's offer for a walk through the vineyards. He returned to his chamber, placing the untouched basket beside the window. Outside, Helena stood under a swaying lantern, head tilted skyward, eyes dark as thunderclouds. The veil of her jealousy had lifted just enough for him to see the storm beneath.
The days in Scolacium grew warmer, the sun ripening the vineyards and casting golden light upon the cobblestone alleys. Markos remained dutiful, continuing to train with the garrison as they were astonished at his dueling skills and his exotic way of dueling with his spathos, and checking for signs of further Pazzonian activity. Yet between these tasks, he had begun to wander the village more freely partly to clear his thoughts, partly to distract himself from Helena's piercing gaze. Her moods were unpredictable, like a storm wrapped in silk. She came and went like a shadow, always present but never settled.
It was during one of these walks that Markos noticed an older woman struggling near a well. Her water pail had snapped from the rope, plunging into the depths with a loud splash. "Curse this old thing," she muttered, wiping her brow. Markos stepped forward. "Allow me," he offered politely, lowering himself down with practiced ease.
With some maneuvering, he retrieved the pail and hauled it back up. The woman clapped in delight, thanking him profusely. "My name is Annetta," she beamed. "You're not from here, are you?" "No," he replied with a wry smile. "Just passing through." She insisted he come by her home for a warm meal—"Just bread, lentils, and a bit of garlic stew," she promised. Markos, unwilling to offend her kindness, accepted.
Helena watched from a rooftop, her body cloaked in misty illusion. Her pupils had narrowed like slits. Her hand gripped the edge of the chimney so tightly it cracked beneath her fingers. "Again…" she whispered, voice trembling. "You smile for everyone else, Markos… but not for me." Her other hand trembled at her side, a strange energy coursing through it—dark, ancient, possessive.
Annetta's home was small but welcoming. Markos helped repair one of her crooked shutters after the meal, and they shared stories of old times. She laughed easily and praised his manners, calling him a "true knight of old" and "The Knight from the Hollow Seas." He smiled humbly, unaware of the eyes that tracked his every move from the shadows outside. Behind the window, Helena stood like a statue.
When Markos left and returned to the inn, the air felt different. Helena was already there, seated by the fire, swirling a goblet of wine she never drank. "Busy afternoon?" she asked, not looking at him. "I helped an old woman with her water pail," he said plainly, "then fixed her shutters." She tilted her head. "How generous of you. And did she reward you with kisses, too?"
Markos froze. "What?" he asked sharply. Helena's smile twitched, eyes still cast toward the hearth. "You seem very eager to give your strength to every female in this village. I wonder—what would happen if they all called for you at once?" Her voice was sweet, but undercut by steel. "Would you spread yourself thin… or choose?"
"I helped her out of kindness," Markos replied coldly. "Not everything is affection or desire, Helena." At this, she looked at him. Her eyes burned, not with rage—but possession. "No," she said softly. "But everything becomes affection when you keep smiling like that." She stood, brushing her cloak aside. "You're too generous with your soul. Someone like you will be torn apart if you keep offering pieces of yourself."
That night, Helena did not sleep. She wandered the edges of the village, her cloak rippling behind her like wings of dusk. In the forest beyond the vineyards, strange lights glimmered where she walked. Birds ceased their song, and flowers closed their petals. "They look at you like you're theirs," she muttered, brushing her fingers against a tree bark that withered at her touch. "But you're mine."
At dawn, Markos woke with a strange feeling in his chest—like being watched. When he stepped outside, the innkeeper nervously approached him. "You might want to speak to Mistress Annetta," he said cautiously. "Her shutters were torn from the wall during the night. She says it felt like a storm, but… no one else heard wind."
Markos rushed to Annetta's home, finding her shaken but unharmed. "It was like a hand of black fire," she whispered. "It came and went like a dream. I think it was a warning." Markos frowned deeply. Something dark was rising, threading the edges of this place like a phantom. "Did anyone see it?" he asked. "Only a woman in a cloak," Annetta said slowly. "With eyes like candlelight."
That evening, Helena reappeared, wearing a serene expression. "Is your old woman well?" she asked with feigned innocence. "Someone should keep her safe." Markos stared at her, lips parting—but the words died in his throat. Helena reached out and touched his arm gently. "You should be more careful," she whispered. "This world has many women… but not all of them are meant for you."
He pulled away slightly, unsettled. "You're hiding something from me," he said. "Every time I get close, you vanish—or grow cold. Who are you, really?" Helena smiled then—truly smiled, with a hint of madness buried behind the sweetness. "I'm the one who knows you best," she whispered. "And I'll make sure no one else ever forgets that."
It's been a week since Markos waits for the reply. The Citadel of Scolacium awoke before the sun, its stone towers catching the dim silver of dawn as market carts creaked across the inner bridge. Markos walked these streets now with a strange weight in his chest. Though he bore no wound, he felt watched—not by eyes in a crowd, but by something older, and unseen. The shadows in corners lingered a moment too long. Even the horses in the stables grew nervous when he passed.
Helena had not shown herself that morning. The last he saw of her was her smile, poised with eerie serenity, and the way she had said "no one else" with the softness of a promise—or a curse. Markos had left her at the inn, disturbed but still unwilling to believe something was truly wrong. "She's just… intense," he muttered aloud. "But not evil." And yet, doubt crept like fog over his thoughts.
That evening, the garrison commander asked for Markos' assistance. "Something's wrong near the river," the man grumbled. "A farmstead collapsed into rot overnight. No flooding. No termites. Just… decay." Markos agreed to investigate, intrigued. But even before he left the Citadel walls, he noticed the guards around the gates whispering uneasily.
He followed the trail of decay and found the farm—once a thriving estate—reduced to a skeletal husk. Crops turned to ash. Livestock fled. A horse stood frozen in the barn, eyes pale and wide as if it had seen a god. At the center of the field, carved into the soil, was a circle of symbols—faint but unmistakable. Markos crouched to inspect them and felt his stomach twist.
They weren't human.
Not even the Pazzonians held such twisted elegance. The lines pulsed faintly when he touched the earth, and a whisper brushed his ear though no one stood behind him. "Too close," it said. "Mine." He leapt back, sword drawn, but the voice was already gone—like breath exhaled into cold wind.
Back at the Citadel, Helena sat in the library. She moved between scrolls and tomes, her eyes flicking with inhuman speed. A clerk tried to ask her name but when she turned, her expression was too lovely and too hollow. The clerk stepped back, uncertain. Moments later, he forgot he ever saw her.
Helena pressed her fingers to the pages of an old codex—a map of divine lines crisscrossing Astonicum. "Still broken," she murmured. "Still bleeding." Her touch left traces of glowing script behind, invisible to mortal eyes. "They think Veltrana is dead. That Scelestus was banished." She smiled. "But we were only betrayed."
In the shadows beyond her, a mirror flickered with her reflection—though it twisted, showing horns, wings, and the eyes of a god. She gazed at it longingly. "He doesn't remember," she whispered. "Not yet. But he will." She looked down at the map again. "And when he does, he will love me… or this world will burn."
That night, in the Citadel, strange things began to happen. The wine in the noble's cellar turned to blood-colored brine. A dove landed in the marketplace and shattered into salt. A child dreamed of a woman with silver hair who kissed his forehead and said, "Do not follow him. He belongs elsewhere." The boy awoke screaming.
Markos returned to his quarters feeling cold despite the warmth of the hearth. He stared into the flames, hoping to find clarity—but saw only her face. Helena. The woman from Constantinople. The demoness. The statue of Veltrana. All the same face, like masks on a turning wheel. He shut his eyes, gripping his sword until his knuckles turned white.
Elsewhere in the keep, Helena walked the battlements in silence. Her feet made no sound. Her presence left no echo. Yet when she passed the torches, they flared and dimmed. One guard dared to speak to her—and forgot her name as soon as she vanished. His lips bled for an hour, unable to recall why.
She paused near the edge, eyes set on the inn where Markos rested. "He's changing," she murmured. "Piece by piece." Her fingers traced the cold stone. "The world will try to make him theirs. But I will always get there first." Her voice cracked slightly, trembling with quiet emotion. "Always."
In a chapel below, a priest prayed to the saints. One of the icons—an image of Veltrana in her ancient, regal form—crumbled into dust. The priest gasped and fell to his knees. "A sign!" he cried. "Veltrana is weeping!" But the truth was simpler: she was watching. She had never stopped.
The next morning, Markos awoke with a strange dream still lingering. Helena stood in the middle of a black sea, calling his name. Her arms were outstretched, not in welcome—but in demand. When he reached for her, the sea pulled him under. He awoke gasping, heart hammering in his chest. The taste of saltwater still burned his lips.
Later that day, a noblewoman near the eastern gate claimed her dog was stolen—snatched by a woman in silver robes who disappeared into smoke. "She smiled at me," the lady whispered. "Like I was a child, and she was my mother—and my murderer." The guards dismissed her claim, but a single silver feather lay near the scene.
As the week passed, The Citadel and the surrounding villages began to feel stranger. More restless. A creeping shadow beneath its beauty. And while no one knew the name "Scelestus," and the popular clergy dared not speak of Veltrana, their power was whispering through the land again. One man, however, stood at the heart of it. A man who bore no crown, but would decide the fate of gods and demons alike.
His name was Markos.
And Helena would never let him go.