The Abyss had gone still.
The shrieking winds that once sang of forgotten battles and shattered dreams had settled into a hush, like a theater after the final curtain call.
Markos sat on a stone ledge that had no beginning or end, panting, chest heaving beneath the cooling shimmer of his battered armor. His helmet lay discarded beside him, and his sword — still faintly glowing — rested across his knees.
Scelestus stood a few paces away. No longer in her infernal regalia, but in something quieter. Regal, yes — but simple. A long cloak draped over her shoulders, and her black hair fell in gentle waves instead of a crown of flame.
"You fought like a storm," she murmured, not quite looking at him.
Markos scoffed, still catching his breath. "I fought like a desperate man who didn't want to get stabbed in the spleen."
"Still. The Blue Cuirassier stirs."
He shot her a glare.
"Don't call me that."
Scelestus tilted her head. "Why not? That is who you are."
He leaned back against the stone, exhaling. "That's who I was. Now? I'm just… Markos. From Constantinople. Nothing more."
There was silence between them. Not cold. Just… hesitant.
Finally, he asked, "Is this what you wanted all along? For me to remember?"
Scelestus looked away. "I wanted you safe. I wanted… one thing in this cursed world to not fall apart."
"So, you impersonated military leaders. You disguised yourself as nobles. You manipulated empires."
"I protected you," she snapped, her voice cracking. "Every time they would have let you die, I stopped it. Every time your own courage would have broken you, I stood behind it."
Her eyes glowed faintly — not with rage, but with something more painful.
"I gave up being worshipped to follow you across lifetimes."
Markos stared at her. He looked tired. Not frightened — never frightened. Just… deeply worn.
"I never asked for this."
"You didn't need to," she whispered.
A long pause.
He finally gave a weak, crooked smile.
"You're terrible at pretending not to care."
Scelestus laughed, softly. "And you're terrible at dying quietly."
They sat like that for a while. Just two old souls in the middle of a god-forsaken void, sharing silence. No armies. No masks. No prophecies. Just breath and presence.
Eventually, Markos broke it. "…You gonna kiss me or murder me?"
Scelestus leaned in, her lips near his ear.
"I'm still deciding."
The chamber was loud.
A long table stretched beneath a vaulted ceiling of painted glass and dark oak beams. Scrolls, maps, and goblets littered every inch of its surface. Around it stood dukes, strategoi, magistrates, and envoys — their voices clashing like steel.
"The Pazzonians will strike again — they never retreat without baiting a counter-offensive!"
"And we've no supply lines if Scolacium refuses to send grain!"
"Because we Scolacians aren't fools," growled Duke Barzanes. "We bleed, and you Florentine lords drink from golden cups. Let your peasants dig the trenches."
"You dare—!"
"Gentlemen, please!" Despotes Delia raised her voice, silken yet firm. "We are all standing because of the sacrifices made at Zariphon. And none of you led that defense."
The room quieted.
Whispers passed like ghosts.
From the edge of the chamber, Markos watched.
His outfit from his roman lammellar changed into a simple cuirass, travel-worn and unadorned. His dark blue cloak was pinned at the shoulder with no sigil. His hands rested behind his back — relaxed, almost bored. No one noticed him. They assumed he was a decorated soldier. Maybe a captain. A survivor. Nothing more.
Only Delia's eyes lingered on him a little too long. A flicker of recognition — but carefully masked.
"And what of the man who saved the region?" another noble spat. "What was his name again? Markus? Marzak?"
"Markos," someone corrected.
"Yes, that one. Where is he?"
"Vanished, they say."
Markos raised a brow.
Delia spoke again, smoother now. "Whoever he was, he rallied the hopeless. That is more than I can say for most of us."
"Or perhaps," muttered one Florentine general, "he was merely a pawn used by greater powers. Convenient."
Markos finally stepped forward, his boots clicking against the marble.
The room fell into a hush as they turned.
"If I may," he said, voice calm but cutting, "perhaps it is better to trust men who bled for the soil, than men who decorate it with speeches."
Some recognized him. Most didn't.
He offered a slight bow — not humble, not boastful. Just… measured.
"Markos of Constantinople."
Delia smiled behind her goblet. A dangerous smile.
Barzanes narrowed his eyes. "A mercenary speaks above his rank now?"
"A survivor speaks while the dead cannot," Markos replied.
No one could tell if it was bravery or madness.
But something about the way he stood — how the torches seemed to catch the faintest glint of old blue beneath his cloak — made even the loudest men pause.
The Blue Cuirassier was back.
They just didn't know it yet.
As the arguments of nobles echoed faintly down the stone halls. Markos leaned against a cold pillar in a side corridor, arms folded, staring out at the candle-lit gardens of Florentine's citadel.
He didn't turn when she entered.
Delia or rather, Scelestus, Veltrana, Helena, the thousand-faced goddess — stepped lightly behind him, her Nafonian silks rustling like whispers. She closed the door behind her.
"You never looked at me during the council," she said quietly.
"I've seen you in three different robes now," Markos replied. "Hard to know which one I'm speaking to."
She paused.
"This one cares."
"Do they all say that?" he asked without turning.
Delia didn't answer immediately. She stepped beside him, looking out the same window, hands folded like a diplomat, face unreadable.
"I proposed your transfer to the Nafonian front," she said. "They'll agree to it. You'll have full authority — I made sure of it."
Markos raised an eyebrow. "Because you want me close, or because you want to use me again?"
"Can't it be both?" Her tone was soft, but the edge was unmistakable.
He stared at her.
"You have a kingdom under every mask. But behind them, you're just a woman playing with souls like dice on a tavern board."
"And you," she said, stepping closer, "are still pretending you're not a part of it. You think you're a humble soldier? You're the Blue Cuirassier, Markos. You are mine."
That last word hung heavy in the air — not possessive, not angry, but frightened.
Markos lowered his gaze. "And what happens when your masks start to collapse? When one Delia dies? When a Stratega goes rogue? When your empire of selves starts slipping?"
"Then I will bleed for every version of myself," she said. "But not for them. For you."
She stepped close enough that her breath brushed his jaw. "If I must pretend to be every woman in this world to protect you, I will. Even if you hate me for it."
Markos, jaw clenched, looked her over — searching for a lie.
"The Scolacians warned me about your kind. About the gods buried beneath their cities. The cults that feed on broken belief."
"They're right," she said. "There are worse things than me beneath their gilded streets. Things I once sealed away."
He stared for a long moment.
"So you're sending me to the Nafonian front."
"To stop the Sea Raiders. And to be close."
She reached up, touched his collar — not flirtatious. Just… anchoring herself to him.
"One day," she whispered, "you'll remember why you loved me. Until then… I'll keep pretending. Even if it means wearing a thousand faces."
Markos stepped away from her touch, gently.
"Then let's pray the fourth one doesn't kill me."
The Nafonian coast glittered under a harsh sun, its breeze thick with the scent of brine and sand. Markos stood on the stone walls of the harbor fortress, looking down at the assembled recruits. They wore mismatched armor, mostly naval leathers, and wielded curved sabers and harpoons more suited to deck skirmishes than a proper battlefield. They stared up at him with a mix of awe and confusion. These were not land soldiers — they were fishermen, corsairs, and sea-scavengers. But there was iron in their eyes. He could work with iron.
He descended the steps slowly, letting his cerulean cloak billow with intention. Few here knew who he really was. To them, he was just "Markos of Constantinople," the foreigner chosen to whip them into shape. They didn't know he'd bled for empires, that the very sand beneath their boots had once been blessed by his triumphs. But that didn't matter. Names were masks. Steel was truth.
"Line up," he ordered. His voice cracked like a whip, surprising even himself. It had the kind of weight that made sailors freeze. He walked down the line, inspecting them as he did in the old days — the days of endless desert patrols and crumbling forts. "You lot know how to swim, yes?" A murmur of laughter ran through the crowd. "Good. Because the way you stand, you'll be floating belly-up in minutes if you meet a Pazzonian charge."
The men shifted. Some scowled. Some grinned. One spit at the ground and crossed his arms. Markos seized that one — a grizzled raider with a scarred chin — by the front of his jerkin. "I'm not your captain," he said, low and sharp. "I'm your last line between living like dogs or dying like legends. If you don't listen, you'll be a corpse before your next meal."
The silence that followed was heavy. The scarred man nodded once, and Markos let go. He turned to the others. "You know the sea. That's good. But the land doesn't sway beneath your feet — it breaks your legs and swallows your guts. You want to fight on land? Then learn to stand like a wall."
And so he began. The Nafonian fields were dry and plain, broken only by the occasional olive grove or ruined watchtower. Far less dramatic than the jagged cliffs and lush vineyards of Scolacium. But it made for good drills. Markos gathered them on the flat earth and began teaching them the phalanx not the brittle, ceremonial kind their ancestors copied from foreign scholars, but the living formation of his beloved Eastern Rome.
"Shield high, shoulder tight. You're married to the man beside you," he barked. "His life is yours. Yours is his. If you break rank, you die alone."
They were slow at first. Their sea-trained bodies moved too freely, too loose. It took days before they learned the tension of unity — the tightness of a human wall, shield to shield, spear to sky. But every hour brought improvement. Markos marched them until their feet bled. He sparred with them until their arms trembled. He fed them stories of battles long forgotten, where Roman discipline held against hordes.
In the evenings, he would sit with them around the fire, still wearing his cuirass. They asked questions, curious but cautious. "Were you a knight in the east?" one asked. Markos only smiled. "I was something less. And something more."
The recruits came from across Nafonia — cities like Syrkon, Thassamira, and Aionostra. Many of them had never held a pike. Fewer still had seen organized war. But they were quick learners, and under his gaze, they became soldiers. Not just sailors with boots.
He appointed captains. Chose them not for birth, but for grit. The scarred raider became his drill sergeant. A lanky fisherman with a sharp eye became the javelin master. They started naming themselves. "The Sea Lions," they called their unit. Markos let them. Names were power.
Markos pushed them harder than any had expected. They cursed him. They respected him. Some feared him. When asked why he fought like a man who'd done it for centuries, he gave no answer. Only corrected their stance, adjusted their spear, and kept moving.
The plains of Nafonia began to echo with the rhythm of boots. Dust clouds rose like storm fog. Farmers watched from the fields as a new army grew under their noses. It wasn't perfect. It wasn't noble. But it was ready.
One evening, as the sun bled into the sea, Markos watched his Sea Sons lock shields in a perfect phalanx, pushing against each other in brutal mock combat. A small smile touched his lips. It wasn't Rome — but it remembered it.
"We'll fight Pazzonians soon," he told them that night. "And you'll hold. Because the wall holds."
They cheered. Not loud, but fierce. He nodded once, then walked off into the twilight.
Later that night, as he cleaned his blade in the dim tent light, Delia stepped into his tent. No mask. Just her. Her presence brought no fanfare.
"They're becoming your legion," she said.
Markos didn't look up. "No. They're becoming their own."
She watched him for a moment longer. Then, softly, she said, "The Pazzonian group sails east. You'll meet them in days."
Markos sheathed his sword.
"Good. Let them come."
As days passed by, Markos heavily drilled his troops and spent time with them socializing with the locals as he also talked with his troops about his past command with the Scolacians. And suddenly, a report came from the scouts that group of galleys near the Hollow Sea, just anchored by the scattered isles which may aim to strike the city of Thassamira and as the wind lashed salt into Markos' face as the light Nafonian galley cut across the Hollow Sea, the wood creaking under the tension of oars and anticipation. Around him, a flotilla of ten ships—slender, fast, and low in the water—held steady. His command, five hundred hardened seafarers and newly trained spearmen, stood quiet, their eyes sharp as gulls.
Across the waters, nestled between the scattered isles of the Hollow Sea, sat the Pazzonian galleys. Larger ships. Hulking things. Dozens, spread like barnacled sharks sunbathing on the reefs. The bigger galleys and their black-and-crimson sails of the Veil Order marked them plainly—flapping like warnings in a storm.
Markos didn't flinch. He never did at sea.
"Scouting parties ready?" he asked, glancing to the captain at his right.
"Aye, lord. Two fast skiffs, one already circling to the east."
"Good," Markos said. "Let the sea tell us what the sails hide."
Minutes passed. Then a signal—three quick fire arrows which confirmed what he suspected: some of the Pazzonian ships, particularly the smaller war-boats, had split from their mother vessels and docked along the nearby shoals, perhaps to resupply, or due to overconfidence.
A smile tugged at Markos' lips.
"They think this is a routine patrol," he said. "Perfect."
He gathered his ship captains under a canvas tarp, maps spread across a crate lashed to the deck. His finger tapped sharply on one of the islands.
"We split. Five of our ships will sail east—make yourselves seen. Loud. Obvious. Draw the big bastards toward the shallows. Once they take the bait, the rest of us will cut behind and ram the smaller vessels while they're undermanned."
"But what of the main fleet?" one captain asked.
"We don't have the hulls to face them yet," Markos said bluntly. "But we can bleed them. We cut their claws before they strike."
The captains nodded. Orders echoed across the waves. Half of the galleys turned, oars dipping in coordinated rhythm as their sails bloomed. The bait was set.
Markos remained behind, on one of the quieter ships. His eye lingered on the silhouettes of the Pazzonian ships just ahead, still unaware of what moved in the mist.
Then, with a firm nod, he raised his arm.
"Rams ready. We strike fast and board faster. Leave none afloat."
The prow of his galley surged forward. The sea buckled around them as the galleys gained speed.
Moments later, with a great wooden CRACK, Markos' vessel slammed into the side of the nearest Pazzonian ship. Screams erupted as the boarding hooks flew.
The battle had begun in silence. It would end in flame.
The trap worked.
The hulking warships of the Veil Order turned their broad prows toward the decoy galleys, chasing them with grim confidence across the sea. Black sails caught the wind, and their hulls, heavy with enchanted timber and bone-lined rams, carved great scars across the waves. They did not expect resistance, only fear. But they were wrong. By the time they realized the bait was fleeing deliberately into open water, Markos and the rest had already struck.
The scattered Pazzonian ships—dozens of them, lighter but wide-decked and ripe for boarding—lay almost defenseless. As Markos' galleys slammed into their flanks, the soldiers of Nafonia leapt like striking eagles. Their newly drilled phalanx formations, adapted for ship-to-ship combat, came alive with eerie precision.
The shortened spears, crafted for close combat, jabbed forward in unison. Nafonian shields locked together not with heavy bronze like their Scolacian counterparts, but with boiled leather and iron bracing—lightweight and fast. They didn't need armor to stand like statues. They moved like waves.
"FORWARD!" Markos roared as he surged onto the deck of the first ship, his blade lashing out in a sharp arc that sent a Pazzonian shrieking into the sea. "Push them to the rails!"
The wide decks of the Pazzonian galleys, so perfect for their own loose formation style, turned into killing grounds under Markos' order. He had seen this before—in dusty skirmishes on river barges near Thrace, in brutal fights along the Golden Horn. You fight wide ships like you fight open fields. Corner them. Collapse them. Drive forward like a tide.
And so they did.
The Nafonians, with battle cries in their native dialects, surged across deck after deck. Shields forward, spears stabbing low then high. One Pazzonian officer, clad in chain dyed in dark purple, screamed for a counterattack. His men tried to form a circle at the mast—but found themselves penned in. Markos personally led the charge into their backs.
The shriek of bronze on wood rang out as the last of that circle collapsed beneath a flurry of thrusts.
"Do not kill all!" Markos shouted, raising a hand. "Take prisoners. We need to know what they know."
Some of the Pazzonians dropped their weapons. Others fought to the last. Those captured were tied with rope and bound near the ballast, stripped of weapons but left with dignity—at Markos' command.
By the end of the hour, six ships had fallen. Three were burned, as their hulls had splintered too much to be salvaged. But the rest now flew no colors, their decks repainted in blood and brine.
Markos stood atop the highest mast of one, squinting eastward, where the larger Veil ships had vanished into the haze.
He exhaled.
"These ones are learning to fear the sea," he murmured. "Let's make sure they never trust it again."
Below him, his men cheered—not wildly, but with the satisfaction of warriors who had earned a hard win. Victory tasted like salt and smoke.