The banners of Scolacium fluttered in the wind as drums thundered through the citadel streets. The monthly tournament had begun, an ancient tradition to celebrate martial prowess and solidify ties between noble houses, guilds, and duchies across the region. Markos had heard of it only briefly during his stay, but upon learning that all able warriors were welcome to participate, he signed up without hesitation. The tournament was open to competitors from both the east and west, a proud display of the duchy's neutrality and strength.
Crowds poured into the central arena — a wide circular platform encircled by stone bleachers carved into the heart of the Citadel itself. The excitement was palpable: children waved wooden swords, merchants shouted praises to their favored champions, and the scent of roasted meats filled the air. Markos stood among the competitors in the preparation grounds, tightening the straps of his Eastern Roman lamellar. His armor glinted oddly in the Scolacian sun, anachronistic against the patchwork of regional mail, scalemail, and tabards around him.
His first opponent was announced with a flourish: "Rashid of House Al-Khayr, representing the sands of Nafonia!" The crowd clapped respectfully as the Nafonian fighter emerged, wrapped in layered robes and adorned with curved steel. Markos's eyes narrowed the moment he saw the stance — low, nimble, measured. It was not the brute force of the western knight, but the sharp, dance-like strikes of the Arabian schools he had once fought against in the Holy Land.
The duel began with a flourish of swords, Rashid moving fast, his blade flicking like lightning. Markos met the blows with a calm, grounded style, parrying rather than attacking. His opponent tried to bait him with feints and flourishes, but Markos recognized every step — he had trained against these movements before, against Saracens and Mamluks. "You lean too much into your lead foot," Markos muttered as he swept Rashid's leg from under him and pointed the tip of his blade to his throat. The crowd cheered as Rashid yielded.
Helena watched from the stands, her eyes hidden under a silken veil. Though her smile remained composed, her fingers dug into the armrest of her seat. The women around her whispered praises of Markos' skill, their glances lingering a little too long. Helena barely noticed the finishing move; she had sensed the moment when a passing young woman had slipped Markos a flower as he exited the arena. Her jealousy began to ferment like poisoned wine.
After the match, Markos was ushered into a resting tent where water, bandages, and bread awaited. Several local ladies had gathered there as well, pretending to tend to wounded fighters, though most only hovered where Markos sat. A younger girl, perhaps a merchant's daughter, offered him a woven charm of luck. Markos accepted politely, unaware of the stare he was drawing from a shadow just outside the tent flap.
He spoke briefly with Rashid, who was not bitter about the loss. In fact, Rashid smiled and extended a hand, praising Markos for his restraint and grace. "You have the bearing of a man who has seen real war," he said in accented Scolacian, but he spoke in his native Nafonian language which is quite similar to Greek on his world. "You fight like someone trained by the old empires." Markos, half-laughing, replied, "Perhaps we've both been shaped by the ruins of great men."
That night, while festivities continued with music and drink, Markos wandered toward the fountain square where lanterns floated in shallow basins. A storyteller recounted tales of Veltrana — the goddess of old — who had once judged tournaments like this one. Markos paused, unsettled, remembering the broken statue from days ago, and the eerie resemblance it bore to Helena. He looked around, half-expecting her to emerge from the crowd.
But Helena did not appear in the square. She had taken herself elsewhere below the Citadel, into an ancient hidden reliquary where forbidden relics of the old gods were kept. Cloaked in shadows, she passed through locked doors using whispered words older than the duchy itself. Her fingers brushed against stone altars and weathered charms, awakening energies that had long slumbered. The runes glowed faintly as if in recognition of their mistress.
"They look upon him," Helena whispered to no one. "But they do not know him. They do not deserve to speak his name." Her magic pulsed faintly, twisting the air in the chamber as she whispered Markos' name like a prayer and a curse. Candles extinguished around her, one by one. Her love for him grew, not like a flower, but like a vine that strangled everything else.
The next day brought another round of duels, though Markos was not yet called again. Instead, he explored the village outskirts, where farmers had set up stalls of cheese, honey, and carved goods. A young woman selling apples struggled to fend off a drunk nobleman's advances. Without thinking, Markos intervened, pulling the man away and offering a coin to make the woman's day better. She thanked him profusely and blushed — not realizing Helena saw everything from a shadowed alleyway.
That night, several dreams invaded Markos' sleep. In one, he stood before the statue of Veltrana, which now wept blood from its eyes. In another, he found himself buried in sand, with hands clawing from the dunes to drag him under. Helena stood atop the dunes in the final dream, wearing both a veil and a crown, her voice sweet and terrible as she whispered, "You are mine." He woke with sweat on his brow and a vague sense of being watched.
The final rounds of the tournament approached, with higher nobility attending, including envoys from other duchies. Whispers of war also stirred in the crowds — some claimed Pazzo was preparing another push. Markos, still bound by duty to wait for the duke's audience, decided to stay. If he could win the tournament, he figured, it would grant him more favor and perhaps open quicker channels to deliver his warnings.
Helena finally reappeared at his side that morning, graceful and radiant in her pale robes. She claimed she had been "studying the Citadel's great library" for her research. Markos did not question her, though something about her presence now felt heavier — like a storm waiting to break. She stood close, almost touching, every glance now laced with a possessiveness she didn't bother to hide.
As Helena walked with Markos through the festival lanes, others noticed her beauty and grace. But they also sensed the way her gaze turned sharp when other women drew near. A flower-seller approached with a garland, trying to place it on Markos — and Helena simply raised her hand, subtly. The garland burst into harmless dust, as if old and rotted. The seller blinked, confused, and walked away without knowing what had just happened.
Markos paused beside a weaponsmith's stall, admiring a finely balanced longsword. The smith offered it to him to test, and a small crowd gathered to watch him practice. A few women clapped and smiled at his form, their admiration clear. Helena's smile turned tight. She whispered to herself in a forgotten tongue, and a nearby brazier cracked from heat, causing several to jump and scream.
That evening, as Markos sat alone on a balcony overlooking the torch-lit arena, Helena joined him with two goblets. "To your victory tomorrow," she said, handing him one. He hesitated, unsure, but took it. As he drank, he felt her hand gently cover his. "I am glad you are here. So many things in this world are…lost. But I will not lose you."
Markos felt a strange chill run down his spine. Helena was beautiful, kind in many ways, and often helpful — yet something beneath her gaze unnerved him. It was as if he stood on the edge of a cliff, admiring the view, unaware of the slow crumbling beneath his feet. He excused himself soon after, claiming fatigue, but her eyes followed him until he was gone.
In the shadows of the Citadel's upper towers, Helena stood under moonlight, whispering incantations over a map of Astonicum. Her fingers hovered above regions — Nafonia, Florentine, Pazzo. "They will try to take him," she whispered. "But I will tear their kingdoms down before I let them." Her eyes glowed faintly, and distant winds howled without cause.
That night, the temple bell rang out once a sign of a divine omen.
The sun dawned clear and sharp over the Citadel of Scolacium. The final day of the tournament was upon them, and the arena throbbed with expectation. Flags of different houses adorned every arch, with drums pounding like war hearts beneath the stone terraces. Markos rose from his bed early, bathed, and donned his lamellar armor — the last day demanded both strength and composure. Though rested, his thoughts were heavier than steel.
His second opponent was a knight from Florentine, the northernmost city, famed for its disciplined cavalry and refined swordplay. The announcer's voice rang out: "Sir Alerio of House Bardellini! Victor of nine duels, undefeated since the Spring of Ardens!" The crowd thundered approval as the tall knight stepped into the ring, his armor gilded and robes marked with the golden swan of Florentine. Markos stepped forth next — a foreigner clad in Eastern gear, unfamiliar, yet respected.
The duel began with a graceful salute between the two men. Sir Alerio moved like a dancer, his strikes fluid, swift, and precise — not brute force, but orchestrated finesse. Markos parried the strikes steadily, gauging the rhythm, his body remembering the disciplined forms of Constantinople's best. The fight dragged longer than most, drawing cheers and gasps with every turn, and finally, Markos slipped under Alerio's guard and knocked him to the ground with a disarming strike.
Alerio lay on his back for a moment, panting, before laughing and extending a hand. "You fight like no one I've ever seen," he said, his tone genuine. Markos helped him up, nodding in respect. "I come from a place that no longer exists," he replied. The crowd roared as both men exited the ring, warriors forged in different lands now bonded by steel.
Back in the waiting quarters, murmurs began to rise. The final duel was unlike any other — it was not with another duchy's champion, but with a lone warrior called The Black Knight, a name that had only appeared a week prior. No one had seen the knight's face, nor heard their voice. Clad in pitch armor with crimson accents, they fought with fluid brutality, defeating every opponent with eerie silence. Many whispered that the knight was a sorcerer, others claimed it was a former god.
Helena had vanished once more that morning. No words, no explanations. Only a lingering scent of jasmine and parchment in the room she had claimed in the guest wing of the Citadel. Markos felt her absence like the absence of a blade in a warrior's belt — too quiet, too unnatural. And part of him feared that her silence meant something was about to change.
As the sun reached its zenith, the final duel was called. The announcer's voice, usually filled with flair, seemed subdued: "And now… the final match. Markos Vatatzes… versus the Black Knight." The crowd fell into an uneasy hush as the Black Knight entered, armored from head to toe, their helm shaped like the head of a demon, obsidian-black and glinting red where the sun caught it.
Markos stepped forward, every instinct screaming caution. The knight said nothing, only tilted their head, acknowledging him. No salute, no formality. Just presence. As the horn blared to begin, Markos raised his blade — and immediately, he knew this was no ordinary duel.
The Black Knight moved like shadow and storm. Their strikes were overwhelming but elegant, magical yet grounded. Every blow forced Markos back, each parry barely catching the crushing momentum. And their aura — dark, divine, suffocating — seemed to bend the air around them.
"Who… are you?" Markos gasped mid-duel, parrying a spinning overhead strike that nearly cleaved through his guard. The knight said nothing but flicked their wrist, sending a crackle of crimson energy through their blade. Markos stumbled back, barely avoiding the blast as it shattered part of the arena wall. The audience cried out, unsure if they were witnessing a duel or a divine battle.
Helena's voice — disguised and deeper — finally emerged from behind the helm. "Do you not recognize me, Markos?" it echoed, both human and inhuman. Markos froze. His eyes locked with the visor slit, where for a split second, he swore he saw glowing red eyes. "You've seen my face in dreams. You touched my shrine in ruin."
Markos's chest tightened. "Veltrana?" he whispered, shaken. The knight's sword clashed against his, and this time it was personal — full of pain and longing. "They betrayed us and they made you left me behind," the voice murmured. "They tried to erase me… but you remember. That makes you mine."
Every strike that followed was a storm of emotion. The Black Knight fought with ferocity born not of hatred, but longing. She wasn't trying to kill him. She was trying to prove something, to make him see her. Her sword danced like fire, and her eyes, when glimpsed through cracks in the helm, held a terrifying love.
Markos's strength faltered under the strange magic that now coiled in the air. It was not just metal against metal — it was divine wrath. He could barely hold his ground, blood dripping from a slash at his shoulder. Yet still, he fought, not to win, but to reach her. "You don't need to do this," he said, breathless.
"But I do," she whispered, pausing only briefly as if his voice wounded her more than any blade could. "You belong to this world now. To me." The final blow came but Markos in time parried it with the hilt of his sphathios as he used his mace to lose her footing but he failed and a sweep from the hilt of her sword meant to drop him, not kill. Markos, battered and aching, fell to one knee, sword lodged in the earth and his mace on the ground, refusing to collapse fully.
The silence that followed was deafening — thick, choking. The crowd froze, held hostage by the moment. The Black Knight — Veltrana — slowly lowered her bloodstained blade, eyes locked onto his with fevered intensity. A twisted smile crept across her lips.
"You remembered my name," she breathed, voice trembling with something darker than joy. Her fingers curled around the hilt like a lover's grip. "Even after they tried to erase me. Even when they told you I didn't matter."
She took a step forward.
"I knew you wouldn't forget. I knew you were mine."
She stepped away, her blade vanishing into smoke. A swirl of black and red engulfed her as her form disappeared entirely from the arena. Gasps and shouts broke out as some cried sorcery, others swore they had seen wings — great, demonic wings. Markos remained kneeling, confused and breathless, not knowing what this meant for the days to come.
Later that night, the duke's envoys announced that the winner was undecided — the duel had exceeded mortal measure. Markos was granted honorary champion status, and envoys from all corners spoke to him with renewed respect and unease. Yet he noticed none of it. His thoughts were consumed by her.
Helena returned that night, acting as though she had merely been watching from afar. "I heard your fight was... intense," she said with a smirk, offering him a cup of water. Markos said nothing, only studied her face. Her eyes gleamed red just long enough for him to know she had never truly left the ring.
As the moon rose high over Scolacium, Markos stood on the Citadel balcony once more. He looked east, to Nafonia. West, toward Pazzo. But the deepest war was no longer outside — it was the one in his heart, and the name that now echoed in his mind like thunder: Veltrana.
The Citadel of Scolacium slept under a blanket of silence, but Markos could not. The wind pressed against his chamber window, whispering old secrets he could not unhear. He sat at the edge of his bed, his armor removed, his tunic sweat-drenched and clinging to him. Despite the cool mountain air, a heat clung to his chest — not physical, but emotional. The kind of heat that memories stir when they refuse to die.
The duel played over and over in his mind — the strikes, the magic, the voice. He had faced countless men in his life, but never had he felt such a dreadful familiarity in combat. Her words rang louder now in stillness: "You belong to this world now. To me." Who was she to say that? What right did she have to lay such claim on him?
Yet beneath his frustration, a deeper question pulsed. Why does she seem so familiar? He recalled the shrine — the ruined statue, the face that mirrored hers. He remembered Constantinople's final moments, the demoness that had pulled him away from fire and death. The connection was too complete, too precise to ignore.
Markos stood and washed his face in the cold basin water. He caught his reflection in the mirror: a scarred warrior, yes, but also a man adrift. The east had been his anchor, his world — yet it was gone. This realm, filled with gods and devils masquerading as women and knights, was replacing it. And she… she was at the center of it all.
At dawn, he found Helena sitting alone by the citadel's garden court. She wore no armor, no robes of power. Just a simple dark cloak and a dress that swayed with the breeze. She looked peaceful, almost mortal. But Markos knew better.
"You fought me," he said without ceremony. Helena turned, unsurprised. Her smile was small, quiet — more sadness than joy. "You saw what I am," she replied. "At least, a part of me."
Markos folded his arms, standing firm. "Then stop hiding. Tell me who you are — not in riddles, not in half-lies. The truth." His voice was sharp, yet underneath was confusion — and perhaps fear. "Are you Veltrana? The god they once worshipped here?"
She stood slowly, brushing dust from her cloak. "I was," she said. "And I am. And I am something else too." Her eyes glowed faintly — not threatening, but alive with ancient light. "Before they called me demon, I was their protector. Before they burned my name, they offered it in prayer."
Markos stepped back slightly, shaken. "Then why the deception? Why hide behind the name Helena? Why come so close to me if you're—" He paused, uncertain of the word. "Divine?"
"Because divinity is lonely," Helena whispered. "Because being worshipped is not the same as being loved." Her voice trembled. "And when I saw you again — when I pulled you from your crumbling world — I thought… maybe, this time, you would remember me."
"Remember you?" he asked, stunned. "We've met before?" She nodded slowly. "You died in my arms," she said, her voice barely a breath. "Another life. Another age. But your soul — I would know it anywhere."
Silence fell between them like snowfall. Markos couldn't speak. The weight of her claim — of having lived and died beside a god — was too much. Yet deep inside, he didn't recoil. He wanted to disbelieve her, and yet something about her presence felt like coming home.
"So you pretended," he said finally. "Followed me. Fought me. Jealous of others who came close." Her expression darkened just slightly, the way coals shift beneath ash. "I had to be sure," she said. "I had to know if your soul still burned for me… or if it had been reborn cold."
Markos looked away, fists clenched. "You don't get to decide that," he said. "You don't get to test me like some puppet." His voice cracked with something that sounded like betrayal. "If you truly knew me… you'd know I don't give love by force or spell."
Her gaze softened, but her posture remained unmoving. "And I won't force it," she said. "But I will wait. For you to remember. For your heart to catch up to your soul." She stepped forward, and though she did not touch him, he felt her warmth like a fire.
"What if I never do?" he asked. "What if I never remember who you were to me?" Helena smiled — not sadly, but with a conviction forged in centuries. "Then I will still protect you," she said. "And I will still remain near… whether you love me or not."
The wind stirred the garden, brushing against rose vines and marble columns. Markos turned to leave but paused. "One more thing," he said. "When you fought me… you held back." Helena looked at him, her smile deepening. "Of course," she said. "I've already lost you once. I will not lose you by my own hand."
That night, Markos did not sleep. He walked the battlements of the citadel, his mind running circles. He didn't know what disturbed him more — the idea of being loved by a goddess… or the possibility that she truly did know a version of him lost to time. And deep down, a part of him feared how far she might go to keep him.
Helena, alone in her quarters, opened her palm where a faint ember glowed. The same magic that scorched the earth in the tournament now hovered like a heartbeat. "One step closer," she whispered, her voice somewhere between longing and warning. "One step back to what was taken."
Beyond the Citadel, storms brewed. In the distance, Nafonia stirred, and rumors of Pazzonian ambitions began to harden into threats.