The snow came earlier than he expected, or the locals.
From the highlands of eastern Scolacium, the wind howled with eerie silence. Markos had seen such winters before, and this situation is no unfamiliar event for him.
The Duke of Scolatii's banner had been torn down at their castle, a fortress once thought loyal. The culprits? His knights.
Disillusioned by the duchies' temporary truce, they declared independence, calling the Veil Order's invasion a punishment for abandoning "Scolacian blood and gods." They raised old flags — rusted, ancient ones bearing the Circle of Flame a sect thought to have been purged long ago, which Veltrana herself had condemned in the past.
Markos read the report once.
Then he burned it.
He rode out with four hundred Nafonian phalanx under arms they are proud, disciplined, but unaccustomed to mountain warfare. Still, they marched without complaint, hardened by sea and blood.
Alongside them came the return of the Scolacian lancer-mace horsemen veterans who once swore loyalty to Scolatii, and now answered only to Markos. He had earned their trust through battle, not lineage.
They had waited too long for a leader who knew how to fight.
As they ascended toward the castle, reports trickled in burned waystations, butchered envoys, and captured merchant trains.
The traitor commander was Ser Calliven, once a respected knight-lord of the border garrisons, now calling himself "The Flamewarden." He had gathered close to 800 deserters, some of them warped by cult rites, others simply angry, hungry, and armed.
Markos looked over the narrow pass to the hold.
It would be a meat grinder.
So he did what the traitors would never expect.
He split his force.
At nightfall, Markos led his cavalry through a goat trail northeast of the fortress a path unknown to most maps, but remembered by his Scolacian riders. Meanwhile, his Nafonian phalanx set up false encampments below the ridge, torches blazing and shields pounding in fake war drums.
By dawn, castle's rebels had emptied the gates.
And Markos descended upon them.
The battle was swift, brutal.
From horseback, Markos led his lancer-mace cavalry like a hammer through the rebel rear, crushing lines and scattering command tents.
"Drive them to the gorge!" he roared.
On the slope below, the Nafonian phalanx pivoted and locked shields, catching the fleeing rebels between mountain and steel.
Some surrendered.
Most screamed.
The snow drank deep that day.
Ser Calliven tried to flee through the woods, but Markos pursued him alone, as he wounded him with his couched lance he dismounted and he found him wounded, bleeding beneath a dying pine.
"You were supposed to defend Scolacium," Calliven spat. "Not shame her."
"And you were supposed to be loyal to your nation, not to one self." Markos replied.
His blade sang.
And then there was silence.
Afterward, Castle Scolatii flew a new banner and it is white, with a broken flame and a spear piercing it. The garrison was cleansed. Cult symbols burned. Surviving knights were offered pardon, or steel.
Markos lost thirty men.
He buried them himself, he fought with them, and this is just a small casualty in the upcoming wars that he will face, that they will face.
Word came to Markos in the uneasy silence that gripped his command tent. A Nafonian scout, breathless and pale, delivered the report with trembling hands. A splinter group of Scolacian knights, once sworn to Duke Scolatii, had broken ranks again. They had abandoned their posts and fled toward the inner highlands, where the old mountain passes led to the forbidden ruins of Old Castarno.
Markos said nothing at first. He stood before a crude map laid across a campaign table, the lines of rivers and ridges drawn in dark ink. His eyes moved slowly from Scolatii to the rough sketched symbols of the Veil Order to the southeast. His men were still recovering from the last battle. His supply lines were thin. And now this.
"How many knights?" he finally asked.
"Perhaps forty, sir," the scout replied. "Not foot soldiers. Fully armed. And they've taken relic binders from the local monastery."
Markos grunted. That confirmed the worst of his thoughts. These weren't simple deserters. They were heretics or worse. Men who had made a pact with something ancient, and now marched under no banner but their own.
He dismissed the scout and stepped outside the tent, his boots crunching against the frosted earth. A thin mist curled across the camp. Scolacian horsemen were sharpening their blades under torchlight, casting long shadows that danced across the pikes of the Nafonian phalanx.
Delia, in her borrowed face, watched him from the rise above the camp. She said nothing. Markos didn't speak either. Not yet.
He was not ready to act. Not until he understood why they had gone rogue, and whether it was truly betrayal or something deeper. Corruption spread easily in these lands. In the silence of old ruins and forgotten shrines, loyalty could twist.
So he waited.
He ordered scouts to shadow the rogue knights at a distance. He placed his Nafonian infantry under strict drill rotations, reinforcing discipline. He reorganized his cavalry lines, pairing Scolacian lancers with Nafonian slingers to ensure mutual oversight. Trust was a brittle thing now.
By firelight, he studied the map again, surrounded by silence and parchments. The route to Caelmont was winding and old, half-ruined and rarely patrolled. A good place for traitors. Or rituals. Or both.
If they reached the ruins and completed whatever they intended, it could mean far worse than rebellion.
Markos clenched his jaw.
But not yet. He would not ride out half-blind and half-prepared.
Markos stood at the edge of a small bluff overlooking the newly arrived column. Dust rose gently behind the lines of marching feet, a welcome sight in these uncertain times. His camp, tucked in the shallow folds north of Scolatii, now swelled with life. Reinforcements had arrived — not in staggering numbers, but in the form he trusted most.
He stepped down the slope, eyes narrowing as he approached. The veterans moved with practiced ease, carrying round shields strapped to their backs, iron spears upright, and helms shaped in the style he remembered. He did not need to hear their chants to know what they were. Skoutarion.
It had been months since he last saw his footmen drilled in his style. Compact, precise, heavier than the Nafonian phalanx but flexible in formation. He passed between their ranks, nodding slightly, pleased with their discipline. They wore no flamboyant crests, no bright sigils. Only hard iron and the old ways.
He turned to his officers and smiled, his voice measured but firm.
"We now have eight hundred men," he said. "Our line is strong. Our reach is longer than it was. And our enemy is unaware."
The Nafonian phalangites stood nearby, watching the new arrivals with some curiosity, perhaps even unease. Markos saw it a small cultural rift, a hint of unfamiliarity between the two traditions. He would see it bridged. War had no patience for division.
He took the time to inspect his cavalry. The lancer-mace horsemen, his old warband from Scolacium, had reunited with him weeks ago before routing the Veil Order. Their mounts were sturdy, well-fed, their armor dull but serviceable due to months of wearing. The riders carried their maces with the indifference of professionals and the quiet pride of survivors.
He approached one of the engineers, a bearded man hunched over a scorched wooden frame.
"How long until the skorpios are ready?"
The man grinned through soot.
"One is already mounted, commander. Another's in pieces, but the crew is good. They'll be ready for battle in two nights."
Markos nodded. That would suffice. Precision tools, these siege torsions relics of a world that had once conquered continents. He wondered if the Pazzonian generals had ever seen Eastern artillery rip through wood and flesh alike. He doubted it.
Night fell with little ceremony. Fires were lit. Drills began anew under torchlight. The Nafonian and Scolacian units, once strangers, now trained side by side under Markos' eye. He drilled the skoutarion in line with phalanx maneuver. He spoke of pivots, collapses, and the trap of a false retreat.
Markos knew what was coming. The rogue knights were not merely deserters. They had allied with something ancient, something worse. His spies had whispered of blood sigils and black banners among them.
He sat alone that evening by the fire, looking over the battlefield map. His thumb traced the route toward the highlands. If the knights fortified the pass, the phalanx could pin them. If they bolstered with warlocks or cursed engines, then the engineers and the skorpios would answer. And if they ran?
Then the cavalry would ride them down like wolves through snow.
Delia watched from across the camp. She said nothing, only smiled as if amused by the grim thoughts flickering across his face. Markos knew better than to ask her what she saw. She saw more than just troop formations. She always had.
But for now, he had what he needed.
Iron in hand. Fire in heart. Eight hundred men and the means to deliver justice.
The fire crackled in the center of camp, sending lazy embers drifting into the night sky. Men sat in clusters — Nafonian phalangites, Scolacian cavalrymen, and the heavy-footed scolacians as well they are passing wineskins, oiling weapons, and cleaning armor with the casual rhythm of those preparing for war but savoring peace while it lasted.
Markos sat cross-legged near the largest fire, his helmet at his side, his cloak wrapped around his shoulders. His sword was planted upright in the earth beside him, a silent totem. Around him, a small crowd had gathered. Young and old, sea-born and land-hardened alike, all leaned in with the anticipation of a tale.
"So," Markos said, lifting a wineskin and taking a short swig, "you want stories, do you?"
A few cheers erupted.
"Well, too bad. I only tell true ones, and none of them are flattering, and I don't have a romantic one either."
That earned him a round of chuckles.
He leaned back on one elbow, gesturing lazily with the wineskin. "I served in the Varangian Guard. They are axe-wielding lunatics imported from the north to guard the Basileus himself."
The Nafonians exchanged glances. One brave recruit raised a hand. "Imported?"
Markos grinned. "Oh yes. The Emperors loved their loyal madmen tall and screaming in Old Norse. They called us Tágmata tōn Varángōn, but really? We called them axe-bearing drunkards in gilded mail."
The Scolacians burst out laughing.
"Loyal though," Markos added, wagging a finger. "Fiercely loyal. But here's the catch only to the throne. Not the man. Not the family. The literal throne."
That got a loud round of laughter.
"One time," he continued, "an emperor died mid-banquet. Slumped forward into his roast lamb. The Varangians didn't budge. Stood there like statues. I asked one of them why. You know what he said?"
He cleared his throat and mimicked the gruff accent. "'He ain't left the throne yet.'"
They roared.
Markos laughed along with them, shoulders shaking. It felt good, no weight of titles, no ancient burdens pressing in. Just men and stories and firelight.
As the mood softened, he leaned forward again, tapping the rim of his helm. "You think that world was glorious. It wasn't. But it was full of men who fought because they believed in something even if it was just a polished seat of gold."
The laughter faded into quiet murmurs of understanding.
The night stretched on. Slowly, the fires died down. Men began retiring to tents or laying cloaks beneath wagons. Some kept watch, others dreamed. Markos sat a while longer, staring into the dwindling flames.
He hadn't seen Delia that evening. Nor Helena. Nor any of her wandering shades or clones. No cryptic smiles. No riddles about destiny or forgotten love. No shadow lingering just out of reach.
And for that, he was… strangely relieved.
But worry crept in beside that relief. He knew her too well her absences were never accidental. If she was gone, it meant something was moving behind the veil.
He exhaled slowly, then stood. He placed his hand on the hilt of his sword and looked out toward the horizon.
The wind over the Hollow Sea had no warmth. It howled through the black spires of the shattered isle like a wailing choir, carrying salt, ash, and secrets. No birds flew there. No fish stirred the waters. Only warships drifted near the edges, their banners bleached white, their crews silent.
At the center of the isle, beneath a ruin choked by time and heresy, the Veil Order gathered in a circle of ash and bone. Their masks were off. These were no longer mere pawns — these were their high seers, their Oracles of Dusk, and among them stood a woman who was not invited, but whose presence none dared challenge.
She stood barefoot on the stone, her hair longer than it should have been, eyes burning violet in the gloom. Her voice was cold, unwavering.
"I was summoned in silence. You whisper my name in your temples. Yet when I arrive, you forget to kneel."
Scelestus.
One of the masked priests attempted to speak an apology, perhaps but the air in his lungs froze, crystallized, and shattered in his throat. He dropped without a sound.
The others knelt.
Scelestus stepped forward, her long robes trailing behind her, soaked in some ink-like ichor that never dried. Her face bore no expression of cruelty, only disappointment.
"You ask for liberation from the false old gods. You chant in the dark and make offerings to the abyss, pretending to understand what you beckon. But I… I am the one who answered Veltrana's murder."
At the name, some flinched. Others muttered prayers.
Scelestus ignored them.
"Veltrana was no monster. She kept balance. She bound horrors beneath Astonicum that would tear reality asunder. You, banished her because she was ugly. After all, she frightened your priests. And now?"
She raised her hand.
The ground cracked.
From the earth below, claws burst upward. Then wings. Then antlers. Dozens no, hundreds of malformed horrors crawled into the circle, each one half-born of the mortal soul and half from ancient hells sealed long ago. They bowed before her.
"You want power. You'll have it. But it won't be yours."
She turned to the chief Oracle, who dared to stand barely.
"You will deliver Astonicum. The cities. The cults. The cathedrals. And you will do it while their armies are still turned against each other."
The Oracle nodded, trembling.
Scelestus leaned forward.
"And when you meet the foreigner on the field and you will you will not speak my name to him. You will not claim to understand what he is. You will not insult me with your superstitions."
Silence.
Then, finally, one whispered. "Why?"
Scelestus gave a tired smile. Her voice softened not from mercy, but from memory.
"Because I loved him long before your orders ever burned your first heretic."
She vanished in smoke, and with her, so did the lesser demons — all except one, who remained behind.
A towering, antlered brute. It stood still, watching the Veil priests.
They knew it was their leash.
And that she would be watching through its eyes.
The sun had not yet risen over Nafonia, yet all throughout the coastal cities — from the salt-caked stones of Syrkon to the river harbors of Mestracil — strange bells rang in the temples. Priests in torn sashes screamed proclamations in tongues long thought dead. Symbols once hidden behind curtains of secrecy now hung plainly from rooftops. The cults, fractured and secretive for decades, suddenly moved with terrifying coordination.
Something had stirred.
Something had answered.
At the heart of a forgotten temple off the coast, cloaked figures knelt before a pool of black water. The high priest — skin covered in brands of ink and salt — lowered a relic into the water: an ancient shard said to be taken from Veltrana's shattered statue. When it touched the surface, the pool writhed. A voice, not their own, spoke through the ripples.
"He returns, but not alone. She watches from the deep."
They didn't question it. The cults had prophesied her return — in dream, madness, and nightmare. But they had not expected the rider to return with her.
Nor had they expected her wrath.
Within the hour, a dozen messengers were sent across the Duchy. Riders on black horses to Florentine. Cloaked sailors in swift ships to Scolacium. And a single sealed letter to a man they did not dare address by name only by his shadowed title.
To the One Who Wore the Hollow.
You must ride before the seas are lost.
She has stirred the depths.
They no longer listen to us.
They only listen to her.
Markos heard the news from the Nafonian messengers from the west, he quickly went to the coast of Syrkon to board their galleys but he was relieved by the Magraviate of Virella to guard the area of Scolatii.
As Markos stood at the prow of his galley, eyes fixed on the horizon. He hadn't slept. He rarely did when the air felt too still, when the seabirds flew inland and the sailors went quiet.
Behind him, his fleet was lean just over a dozen galleys, fast and maneuverable. The Nafonian crews were braver now, hardened by raids and victories. They trusted Markos not as a foreigner, but as a captain who shared their fire. Some of the younger men even whispered of the gleam in his armor, how it seemed to shimmer when the wind blew just right.
He hadn't worn the full cuirass in days, as he still preferred the old Roman lammellar that he loved, Not since Delia last smiled at him.
A lookout called out. "Sails! Four points north!"
Markos nodded. "Hold course. Archers ready, READY THE SKORPIOS!"
The enemy wasn't Pazzonian, at least not in banners. But the ships were wrong twisted things of old wood and flesh, propelled not only by oars but something darker underneath. Shapes swam beneath their hulls. Whispers echoed across the waves.
"Cults," he muttered. "What are..they?"
As the ships drew closer, Markos saw the figures aboard them. Wild-eyed priests with rusted blades. Women painted with blood. One held a newborn above her head like a banner.
Markos' blood went cold.
"Slings to the front. Load the Skorpios. Don't let them board."
The Nafonians responded without hesitation. Bolts were loosed. Stones rained down. The sea hissed red.
Markos barked orders like thunder. "Phalanx rear to protect the tillers! Slingers center-line! If they climb aboard, you drive your spears into the spine!"
The enemy ships didn't fight with strategy. They threw themselves at Markos' fleet like madmen, hoping sheer terror would break the line.
But it didn't.
Markos watched as two of the enemy vessels were rammed and broken apart by disciplined maneuvers. When one cultist leapt from a sinking ship onto his deck, Markos met him with a single thrust of his sword. The man gasped a name "She sees!" before falling into the sea.
Markos wiped the blade clean.
"She sees," he repeated quietly. "I know."
Markos smelled the salt and blood before the smoke. One of his rearguard galleys had veered too far from formation, tangled in debris, now boarded by the cultist ship a grotesque vessel draped in seaweed, skin, and the shattered relics of forgotten gods.
"Captain Meletos is surrounded!" the lookout yelled.
Markos turned sharply. He didn't hesitate.
"Rudder hard! Bring her to full speed!" he shouted.
The helmsman blinked. "Sir?"
"I SAID RAM THEM!" Markos roared.
The flagship turned with the wind, her oars biting deep into the water. The hull groaned, then surged.
Markos tossed his helmet aside. His cloak flew behind him. His eyes locked on the enemy vessel as it loomed closer chaos upon its deck, screaming cultists throwing pitch and glass, men of Nafonia backed into corners fighting with bloodied fists and broken spears.
One fell, impaled.
Markos saw red.
As the ships clashed, the prow of his galley struck the enemy just beneath the mid-beam. A sound like thunder cracked the air, splinters and bone and blood erupted in a geyser. Both decks buckled.
Markos was already airborne.
He leapt from his deck to theirs.
He landed like a demon among priests.
A blade came at him, he dodged, ripped a fallen soldier's axe from the blood-slick deck and swung low. The cultist's legs gave out from under him. Another screamed and charged. Markos buried the axe in his chest with a single upward cleave.
He remembered.
The heat. The chants. The sack of the Queen of Cities. The drunken, howling Varangians at the gates of the palace, hacking down Latins like wheat. The palace steps turned to rivers of red.
He shouted something in Greek. His men answered.
A group of slingers flanked the wrecked starboard side. Markos pointed. "THE REAR! THROW EVERYTHING YOU HAVE!"
He ducked under another blade, answered with a downward arc that split skull and helm. Blood sprayed across his chest. It didn't slow him.
The cultists began to break.
Markos rallied the nearest Nafonians, many of whom were wounded or dazed, but seeing their commander drenched in blood, eyes alight with fury, wielding the great axe of an Eastern brute, they surged forward with a howl. Spears drove into bellies. Short blades flashed.
Markos kicked a dying cultist off the railing and turned to see the mast of the enemy vessel snap in two. His own galley was locked in place now, half-sunk and wedged, but the enemy ship was done.
The last of the cultists jumped into the sea some swam, others simply vanished into the depths. No one cheered. Not yet.
Breathing heavily, Markos lowered the axe. It was chipped, soaked, and heavy.
He looked at his blood-covered hand.
Not trembling.
Not this time.
Captain Meletos limped toward him. "Sir... you rammed a ship to save us."
Markos laughed hoarsely. "You call it saving. I call it payment."
The winds shifted.
Behind the broken sails, far across the horizon, more shapes loomed dark sails barely visible in the dying sun.
Markos narrowed his eyes.
"This was only the voice," he muttered.
He turned to his men.
"Ready the wounded. Pull what you can from the wrecks. We sail before night. The Veil Order won't wait. And neither will I."
The men nodded.
And somewhere in the stillness, the sea began to whisper once more.
The sails strained against the wind as Markos' battered flotilla cut through the darkening sea. Syrkon's towers shimmered faintly on the horizon, but the waves behind them frothed with doom twenty, maybe more, black-draped Pazzonian warships gaining fast.
The enemy banners snapped with cruel confidence. Their hulls were deeper, broader, born for siege and slaughter. Markos' galleys were faster, but the wounded half were leaking, scorched, or bleeding men.
"Steady the line!" Markos barked from the prow, wind tearing through his cloak. "Engineers, load the Skorpios! Slingers to the rear galley! If we die, we do so ruining them!"
The Nafonian sailors answered with grim resolve. The Skorpios crews cranked feverishly, loading iron bolts and oil-soaked fire jugs. The scent of salt, smoke, and blood coiled in the air.
"They're preparing to flank!" a lookout screamed.
Markos narrowed his eyes. "Then we greet them first."
He turned to his second. "Signal all ships when I cry, launch everything."
"Aye, sir."
But even as the galleys braced for their last defiance, the skies above rippled.
A whistling sound, like distant shrieking gods, echoed from the clouds. A moment later, fire rained from the heavens.
Explosions blossomed across the sea glowing orbs of alchemical wrath launched from miles away. One Pazzonian ship was torn in two, another erupted into flames as its munitions stores detonated mid-wave. Screams tore across the winds.
The fireballs didn't come from Markos' fleet.
They came from behind Syrkon.
He turned in disbelief.
Dozens of silver-crested Nafonian ships were approaching from the eastern curve — sleek, pristine, and bristling with long-range mortars. Their sigils bore not Delia's serpent, but the black cross of the Arch-Despotes herself.
A voice carried on the wind, long and commanding.
"Strike formation! Leave none unburned!"
Valeria, Arch-Despotes of Nafonia, led them from her flagship a mighty ship-of-the-line gilded in navy and bronze, her war horns blaring across the sea like a divine decree.
The Pazzonians, once so confident, now scattered like panicked wolves. Some turned too late Valeria's mortars kept falling with surgical fury, splintering hulls and sending sailors into watery graves.
Markos watched as the sea turned orange with flame and black with smoke. His men erupted into cheers, gripping their weapons like survivors, not martyrs.
One of the engineers beside him muttered, "We live."
Markos chuckled, bitter and weary. "For now."
As the surviving Pazzonian ships fled westward, their sails tattered, Markos' galleys began limping toward the docks of Syrkon. Valeria's ships quickly spread into a protective crescent around them.
As the flagship pulled closer, Markos saw the Arch-Despotes herself armored in sea-steel, her eyes cold as the northern wind, raising a gauntleted hand in salute.
Markos returned it, nodding once.
Behind him, the sea hissed as wreckage smoldered and sank.
For now, Yaegrafane's western gate still held.
But war had officially begun.