Many times, Euthymius made turns in the embrace of the damp, tattered sheet he stole from the north-eastern market district, thrown out by a lavishly dressed mer-kin. Yet it was not the clammy, rigid marble floor which shackled him to the waking world, nor the threats which lurked in the sewers, ranging from monsters slipping in from the wilds, but the custodians, the headhunting adventurers who trudged in the waste dispersing tunnel of Luth-Astaril.

  A little, foolish regret slipped into his mind for not waiting in the cell. With his faculties and body his own again–and even improved greatly–no doubt Calaviril could have reasoned with her brother. But he hushed it away, recalling the enigmatic warning of his new divine mistress.

  For the next few days, he experimented his new gifts the Seed of Mineirvia given him. First Euthymius tested his endurance with small exercises. First a hundred pushups, then three hundred and five the third day, each time he felt neither exhausted, breathless nor even hunger. A little thirst he felt, but he satiated it with the flowing water in the underground canal, with a bit of hesitation. Though it appeared clean, reflecting his dense hair that grew into a lion’s regal mane, paired with a haggard warrior’s beard, it tasted pleasant. He felt refreshed as if he had three days sleep, while in truth he rested not a second.

  Then he continued, reaching eight hundred pushups, where he felt his new, defined muscles aching a little. With a bit childish joy and curiosity, he continued them with only one hand, which reached his bodies’ limit a bit sooner, around six or seven hundred. Next, he tested the endurance of his smoothened epidermis, nearly as lustrous as Calaviril’s or Mineirvia’s. Euthymius closed his right hand into a fist, the cold wall soothed his sweat laden body, cooling him before he pulled back and slammed it gently. His strong jaw fell, as he stared a little flustered at the indentation and the fractures forming a spider’s trap.

  The pain barely registered throbbing his knuckles and fingers, the spots of purple and green returned into his light, olive tone.

  Surging with confidence, Euthymius waited for the fourth night after his escape, ventured across the sinuous system, hunting down the oversized rodents scurrying in the shadows, feasting on the discarded corpses of legionaries, custodians, adventurers and the scoundrels of Luth-Astaril. They were quick, sensing danger upon glancing at his menacing silhouette wreathed in the darkness, yet not quick enough to escape when he charged after them. His sight improved greatly, seen clear in the sections flooded by thicker shadows.

  With bare hands, little exertion, Euthymius pummeled their heads into bloody pulps littered with chunks of their skull and brain. He grabbed a few leaping up to deepen their curving, sharp teeth into his flesh, grabbed them by their long ears and tail, tore them in two. Their blood and innards sprayed his face and broad bosom, matted his ragged tunic. The last few routing got impaled on marble lances jutting under them after Euthymius slammed his sole against the floor, smiling from the euphoria of the earth aspect spell.

  Trembling from exultations, he took deep breaths and continued testing, practicing for the next few weeks.

  From the oversized rodents, Euthymius switched to hunting packs of goblins lurking in the outer segments of the sewage system. Proceeding with testing his limits, recalled the lessons from Luelia with a little bitterness, on transmutation and augmentation of self. Euthymius turned his skin as hard as the minerals, alloys in the mine, gave them an unseen sharpness of swords, axes crafted by the aevhei and the dwarven smiths, whilst keeping their general shape designed by the Seven. The first few goblins died from the forceful hits, breaking their bones, which soured his enthusiasm a little bit, but he continued on, and when one of them stroke at his firm thighs with their crude blades, he used the mild pain, the sensation to grasp the sharpness. From then onwards, he cleaved through, lessening their numbers lurking in the sewers greatly, and more importantly, he realized his arkhaine euphoria lengthened, the threshold of the Rage felt more distant then before.

  Continuing his practice, his hunt of the rodents, the goblins, a few minotaurs and ogres finding the entrances where the water flown out into the river, Euthymius became tempted to visit climb up the streets. A simple desire to see his parents led him back to the streets above. In an alley not far from his home, he stretched his fingers out, and as they approached the marble wall, holes deep and wide enough to fit them in appeared. Quickly as he climbed, the dulled alabaster marble parted as if he trailed them along a pond as he climbed up towards three pieces of long, thick ropes where a long, dark brownish robe fluttered as the vernal winds of the new year soothed him in the dimness.

  They fitted on his defined, muscular frame a bit too tightly, the round, uneven hem with a front slit barely reached his knee, whilst his mane and beard seemed to meld into the hood framing his face. Initially, Euthymius planned to enter, to hug them and reassure both he was fine, even better. He knew, Medea would weep warm tears of joy, wrap her slender arms around his waist, not letting go even beyond the awakening of the Illius. Nor would she let him leave, and instead would force him to stay, to hide believing that like how the Harrowing came to an end, the current troubles would cease too.

  And he knew whilst his father, Myrthilos would have a dour expression, holding back tears to be the sober of the two, would understand his desire to not linger. To not alert the eyes of the New Dawn, whose wicked sorcerer already sensed or may have known the last of the binding chains shattered by divine aid. Euthymius knew, the two would quarrel, and in the end would have a nice dinner quickly cooked by Medea. A dinner he knew had to wait, when he noticed two figures spotting him, their eyes lively, yet he sensed not their own. He quickly retreated back to the sewers, where the steps echoed behind.

  Quickly he gulped, and asked for their forgiveness when he struck down the orkh in tattered garbs, wrapped around his hulking frame. Like with the hobgoblin chief in the eastern section, his left arm cleaved across the pale green, bulging neck, whilst his sole broke the feeble face of the indigo mer-kin with two long fleshy strands protruding forth his bulbous, long nose giving him an air of elderly wisdom. Looking at their carcasses, reality caved in and he felt the acidic taste of bile coming forth, loudly splashing onto the marble tainted by blood and bone. His arms trembled even when he returned to his hideout, where he cleansed his hands until morning–or the descent of the next night.

  As skirmishes, ambushes betwixt legionaries, custodians and the populace unfolded above the streets, shattering the peace of Luth-Astaril once again, within the twenty and five years of Euthymius. He heeded not his new instincts to join the fray, instead satiated it in different manners, one he believed to be helpful to return to the dull, halcyon days he desired. His focus fell on the agents of the New Dawn lurking actively down in the sewers and its myriad junction points.

  After his first two killing, he began practicing reining in his own Deos given strength. Euthymius sensed and knew well many of them were as enslaved by that Vhouromancer as he was, as those felled upon the seating of the colosseum. Regardless of his efforts, many still perished under the pressure of his arms, their necks snapped in their iron clad hold, or by the thrusts of his fists shattering their jaws, caving in their chests or faces. Each time the contents of his own stomach mingled with the bits of bone and flesh. With time – two months in approximation since his first two kills – he managed incapacitated at last. It brought more joy than he expected.

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  As if Fate wished to aid his endeavor of mercy, kindness the first group he succeeded reigning in his strength included his father’s Sylvan-Kin friend whose bark covered arms cut a few little scratches upon his palms as he wrung him close and thrusted his vertically aligned hand into the joint of his soft feeling neck. Quickly used a few coils of rope he borrowed from some shop and secured each of the group, then delivered them to the nearest barracks of the Custodians, cloaking himself in shadow before anyone arrived after his firm knocks that nearly adorned the thick wooden door with a hole.

  Still as the months passed and the season of Maerhia came, Euthymius continued his efforts to find a way within the Cathedral. Though Mineirvia did not point it out to him, the words of his brother echoed in his mind on the 2nd day of Martzea as he laid on the rough cloth bed. It was a faint memory, one of his brother’s boasting when he was still studying in the commoner’s academy, after Isocrates returned from a class tour to the Cathedral where they received invitation to become members of the Order after graduation.

  For a moment, he wondered if Isocrates took the offer, would he still be alive.

  But as he remembered, Isocrates mentioned how the Cathedral’s place was chosen to be above the junction of all the leylines of the Caesselis Islands. The greatest of all the Nexus Points across the chartered lands of Elhyrissian, the culprit behind most citizens casting cantrips with ease compared to the other provinces where only few bothered even learning them. “A curse and a blessing on each side.” Euthymius murmured the old saying Mamerkhed once uttered about the arkhaine bathed alloys they mined.

  By the 25th of Martzea, he still seemed far from finding an entrance. Euthymius believed there had to be one, as he was sure neither Luelia nor Isocrates entered from the front during The Harrowing. He pondered if it was the oldest structure they entered, and entertained the idea of trying there. Weeks he spent trying to find a path there, and many days were lost to fighting the mind slaved–a few familiar faces included–and returning every third or fourth evening to make sure his parents were safe in those tumultuous days.

  There were even a few shady folks, ruffians and a few of the atoning races of Dusk who started living, hiding in the sewers as the skirmishes, ambushes grew frequent atop the streets. Euthymius cared not of them, and mostly cloaked himself in shadows, melded into them when passing through them. For the most part at least. When he noticed they were doing dastardly business of carrying kidnapped children or folk, he came to their aid, and beaten all until they could move barely, and could only emit raspy groans. After that, he led the distressed folk and children back to the surface, usually to the nearest barracks of the Custodians where before with the mind slaved, he stole back to the shadows, into the sewers.

  With time, his own myth born from the tongues of these folk, passed from mouth to mouth, of a hulking men draped in rags and shadows, coming to the aid of the taken. A little shine on the city draped heavily in shadows.

  On one colder summer night of Indaemetrua, Euthymius slipped up to the streets, surveyed from the alley his home. Temptation grew stronger to see them, to step through the threshold of their door, to embrace them tight.

  As he turned, Euthymius saw from the corner of his eyes the right window opening, revealing a faint light of a candle. At first, he froze not with fear, but desirous to enter, believing he had been noticed by either Hedea or Myrthilos. His fists trembled, cracked softly as he struggled resisting the temptation, and the more he pondered, a furtive wind stirred darker thoughts in his heart, his mind. He realized it was a late hour, as a gloomy tint of violet slipped into the silvery rays shining right upon his home calling out with sweet notes to enter.

  Climbing down, ambling out in the open, empty streets where the lullabies of wind could clearly be heard, it also carried the faint, yet profound scent of death. The door moaned ominous ajar, and for the first time since the Seed of Mineirvia bloomed in his soul, Euthymius felt the wild pounding of his heart, sweat pour from his pores.

  Euthymius advanced over, feeling cold, creeping weights twinned his ankles and calves. He tried seeing not the yawning blackness occupying the space within, but with the envisioned sceneries of the past months. His mother cinching his waist taut with her frail arms, wetting his ragged raiment with her warm tears, his father following in her step. The moaning of the door evaporated all the conjured sensations, brought back the cold dread. The light slowly parted the dimness inside. Euthymius’s legs shook as if the ground trembled beneath, collapsed loudly onto the floor. Tears poured from his eyes, down they cascaded upon his sharpened, strong cheeks, as he gazed at the two corpses sitting at the table set with three plates, the food cold as their corpses.

  Their skin parched, blackened, their bones beneath horridly pronounced as they stretched and tore their withered skin. Seemingly their necks lengthened as their heads rested upon the softly arching backrest’s rim. Mouths frozen agape as if they still bellowed their last cries, shrieked his name one last time before death came, their kindly eyes amiss, dark holes stared at the ceiling half draped by the silver waves billowing in. Euthymius breathing grew rapid as snot and tear mixed upon his chiseled face tarnished by the anguish.

  “They suffered not much I can assure you.” From the dark, narrow corridor came the raspy, deep voice of Naghig. Then his pale form parted from the utter darkness, as if he stepped through dangling veils. A sculpture in his hand from oaken, a tall muscular man breaking his chains. Gently he placed it betwixt the two plates of his parents. “They suffered less at least than Isocrates. Turning into gold, retaining your consciousness is an agony words cannot transfer.”

  Euthymius howled with grief and anger, leapt and this time he had all the intent in his heart to extinguish the life of another. There were words parting his frothing mouth, but not intelligible more than a beast’s. His fist came close, but Naghig caught it and all his momentum ceased. With a flick of his fingers, nearly all air parted from Euthymius as his massive form hurled across the room and into the wall, leaving a crack ranging from floor to ceiling.

  “You are angry. I get it, I understand it. I’ve seen it a thousand times before.” Naghig sauntered over, phasing through the table like a phantom, before planting his right sole into his chest, pinning him in place with force, that one of his slender constitutions could not possess naturally. “This was my mercy to them, for their contribution of… a New Dawn. And with time, when the pain of their absence faded at last, I am sure you shall see the grander picture too. And be glad even possibly for what we did for you.”

  “Why let time pass. Tell me now, what you all did for me?” Feeling a bit calmed strangely, Euthymius spoke in a half-growl. “Tell me why you killed them who knew nothing, why my brother had to die!”

  Naghig chuckled cold and hollow. He pondered a little, gazing at the Lunarius, the undulating black sky. “They were your shackles, the ones who would have robbed you of greatness.”

  “How can any of you know that?” Euthymius gripped the orkh's calves and tried lifting them, without any success. Not even a slight tremble other than his own straining arms and hands popping with searing veins.

  “You don’t start a game without inspecting all the pieces on the board.” Naghig said with a cold smile, putting pressure upon his foot. Euthymius screamed as he felt something slither, and gnaw into his being. His popping veins started flailing about all over his body, his bones shifted and his flesh contorted within his form, nearly he passed out from the agony but he pulled through then the pain shifted at once when Naghig lifted his foot off.

  “Do not forget this, little Euthy.” By the time he managed getting onto his feet and charged out to catch the orkh, the street was empty, except for the hollow wind carrying his sobs.