The pain ceased not in his chest, tears continued streaming down his stout, pronounced cheeks each night as Euthymius curled up on the laid-out bed. During the passing days, the pleasant scent of coming summer eased his silent suffering, whilst the cold of the night and the wall he pressed his back against reminded him of the void left in his soul, now that he was all alone. Day and night circled on slow and agonizing, and after a few weeks, he turned sorrow into anger, and by the midnight at the end of 1277th’s Indaemetrua, vengeance roused him to action.

  Though it failed to remind him of the warning given by his divine Mistress, he focused only the soothing satiation that shall surely come of vengeance. Euthymius cracked his fingers, and trampled out from the small, damp space he called home for the past few months.

  Euthymius step’s reverberated across the sewers, the wind lifted his lush mane as he aimlessly arrived to a cistern not far from where the sewage water of the Cathedral–even more rich in the cleansing energies of Dawn–circulated around an elevated platform, connected to the segmented paths. Four, sharp arches carried on his steps until they ceased, when he heard approaching thuds on the white marble. From the shadows, a small group appeared, each moderately dressed in common garments. Brown, yellow, blue and green tunics, vests and pants with a few having them folded up onto their calves. The one thing which unified them were the long shawls wrapped around, masking their faces.

  Their eyes wide open in surprise, yet Euthymius noticed traces of malice in each pair. Not of their own, though it went by his notice, blinded by the flames of anger.

  Two at the back lowered a large crate whilst the three at the front stood before them, not yet readied for the battle. Euthymius waited not, lunged at the first, grabbed the bosom of his brown tunic and hurled him across, against the wall. A loud bang stifled the cracks of his spine as he sagged onto the stone, tainting it red. Another slashed his arm with their dagger, though the blade was sharp, it stirred sparks instead of slicing the side of his neck open. Euthymius grabbed and shattered the arm, pushed the jagged bone into the head hidden under spiraling white shawl. The tainted cloth fell, revealing a youthful boy no older than him, hard lines drawn upon the countenance in his last moments.

  Using the corpse, he shielded himself from the axe, parting flesh, tendon and bone right in the joint between the shoulder and neck. No fear glinted in the eyes whilst the third struggled pulling out the axe. Euthymius thrusted his fist right in the middle of his veiled face, and the cracking of the skull, the tearing of flesh on both sides emanated a tender, horrid echo across the cistern and beyond the wide tunnel. The last two realized they had no chance, yet they could not escape as Ephraimur’s command triumphed over their basic instincts.

  With a single swipe, Euthymius cleaved the first in two, shattering most of the mer-kin’s ribcages, whilst his arm stopped at the center of the orkh’s bosom. Standing over their cadavers, he stared at his trembling hands, and felt disgusted at himself, not just for butchering the five enslaved, but also at his lack of remorse. Once more he was enslaved like them, but not by another, but by his own rage ridding him of his own mercy, compassion which he showed to those he believed fought for good, yet willingly sacrificed others like the Empire he now fought for.

  He crumbled at the edge, washed his bloodied arms with the cleansed water, even dove his head to cool the searing heat that enveloped it whole. Soothed by it, for a moment believing the energies of dawn healed his mind too and not just cleansed the blood of his arms, chest and face. Euthymius turned his gaze upon the crate they carried, now sensing something queer within. A slight breeze blown from it. A breeze void of warmth and cold, nor even lukewarm. Merely, the empty presence of a breeze, not even a scent to carry, beyond an impression raising hair all over his improved body. He felt his muscles, flesh creep at once.

  Lifting it up, a strange hue pulsated within, splashed onto his bearded, handsome face. The only things he could decipher about it, was that it was dim, not quite gray, nor black or the darker shades of others, but it was dim and ominous. The object was crystalline, but also membranous, oily and dry to the touch, and he felt something beyond its queer dimness. Eyes which saw, smelled and tasted him all the same, or as he pondered more, a seventh way of sense, combining each into one. Or at least thought so for a moment, then whether because of feeling foolish or a new notion, a revelation of sorts believed it to be a perception, a sense only higher beings may possess.

  Most outstandingly, he felt his power swell just from a mere touch. Euthymius was sure, with this stone or crystal or organ, he would be the equal or superior to Great Augermil who contended with the mighty Dragons of the Deossos, with one swipe could obliterate the whole city and the mountains, could leap into the infinite sky, and saw beyond the Mortal Fold of Reality, glimpsed the flittering particles of creation, saw the vague shapes of higher beings, outer intelligences whose plots, schemes seemed not so distant. And he wanted to shatter it, but even with its gift, he could only drop it back to the crate.

  Yet the longing remained, casting oblivion over Euthymius who grabbed the crate and returned to his damp abode. There he argued with himself for a week, whether to accept the gift hiding behind the dim queer light. Or bring it above, leave it at the Order’s doorstep, so they can study it, learn from it possibly to counter whatever plans the enemy has. In the end, he feared the temptation would be stronger for those, devoid of the Seed of a Deos, so he beseeched the marble, created a small space where he fitted the crate within before the slabs slid back, sealing it hopefully forever within themselves.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  Up on the streets, Euthymius continued observing the clashes and skirmishes escalate into outright battles between the citizens reinforced by the well-kitted sorcerers, magusos and adventurers. Many a times he nearly leapt into the fray, seeing how even the legionaries of the First seemed overwhelmed in the chaotic vortex. But remained in the shadows of the alley, tugged in a few of the magusos and spellcasting adventurers augmenting the enslaved citizens. Above dragons and their riders soared past, raining down fire of multifidous color and effect. Charred corpses of queer coloration tumbled shrieking, others burned not at all, instead vines and roots torn them apart from within. The rest, he could not look at, he retreated further back before seen by the survivors of either side.

  Quickly the surviving members were apprehended then and somewhat eased, he returned to the sewers each time, continuing his search for an entrance into the cathedral. At least until the 25th of Seintrua where a change unfolded within the folks of the capital, one he had an inkling feeling the queer and eerie stones were responsible for.

  Overnight, the citizens gained arkhaine knowledge on par with the lowest members of the Order, whilst the allying magusos proved equal to the dragons of Dawn the capital’s chapter rode in the skies with. On the 29th of the same month, whilst watching another battle unfold in favor of the empowered citizens, a pure Dawn Dragon tumbled from the skies, crashed a building, flattened dozens including almost Euthymius himself. A little dizzy he landed in the alley on top of three folk egressing from the sewers to needlessly reinforce their fellows.

  One got crushed beneath the weight of his reformed frame, the other two laid cold as Euthymius made little adjustments whilst falling from the tall building, planted his fists onto their crowns of hair. He dusted himself off and rushed out from the alley, his hands appeared to be of chiseled rocks moving fluid as flesh, aiming his thrusts and jabs at the two magusos in fine draperies of rich colors. The first who took down the dragon and its rider, he decapitated with one hooked strike from below to the chin, the force tore flesh and skin, broke even the bone.

  The second quickly reacted, a wind as powerful as conjured by the flaps of dragon wings plummeted him through a few people and into the wall of a half-crumbled building. Euthymius spit his own blood on the shirt of a young demikin, and leapt over, evading the second torrent tearing off the skin from the incapacitated whilst he dodged towards the right. With a swift strike, aimed at the soft, shapely bosom of the half-aevhe, Euthymius broke through flesh and the sturdy ribcage, his arm stuck within her corpse she used as a shield against the spears of the few turned against him.

  One aimed at his protruding bloody fist made of earth at that moment, the head and half of the shaft shattered upon impact, the rest penetrated the fine clothing and poked even more and smaller holes upon the corpse. Thanking their aid silently, Euthymius pulled out his arm and hearing scraping of torn flesh and cracking of bone, he gagged a little before pushing his palm onto the abdomen just below the hole. The spearman tumbled over at his push and he leapt into the middle swiping his fist, knocking and breaking the neck of a few folk from behind. He swallowed his regret, hoping he would have time to mourn each of them, whilst the rest he pummeled gentler with his fist.

  Amidst this, seeing the enemy’s number dwindle, empowered the remaining legionaries led by Hektrahd who watched with relief first Euthymius making short work of the people, then with caution not knowing the stranger. “State your name citizen of the Empire!” He called out, feeling himself a bit regret for treating their savior with caution. His right hand remained upon the handle of his short sword even as the last of the rebels they apprehended.

  Euthymius hesitated for a bit, still riveted by the surge of thrill from the battle. “Euthymius, my lord!” The youth answered with his fist against his bosom, over his excited heart.

  There was a sour smile on Hektrahd lips. His eyes searchingly inspected each and every detail of the youth’s chiseled face hidden under a thicket of hair. “Are you a chosen sent to our aid?” He asked, sensing something preternatural about the towering youth before him.

  “I am, my Lord. Mineirvia is my fiery mistress.” Hektrahd chuckled and Euthymius raised a brow, not knowing if his answer was right or wrong.

  “Clearly. These times are for her most favored.” Hektrahd commented to himself. “Will you come with us, Euthymius, Champion of Mineirvia?”

  Euthymius contemplated, whether to speak the truth, but realized it would be pointless. The First Legion was already preoccupied with returning the city to its peaceful state and he doubted not they could not spare the man especially now. “I am afraid not right now.” All he said as he bowed apologetically.

  “No need for that son. Here take this, it shall come in handy I am sure in your task! May it return peace upon our city and lands.” Hektrahd pulled out a second, longer blade and given it to Euthymius who took it after a short hesitation. They slapped arms, and Euthymius felt strange holding his gaze to his before he departed to the sewers again, continuing his search late into the night. An hour past midnight, he slapped himself forcefully, for not recounting the warning of Mineirvia. It may have brought him entrance to the Cathedral.

  Silently, he vowed to do so the day after or when next he encounters either Hektrahd or another officer of the First. He returned upon his sheet of a bed, closed his eyes and found himself again before the little, quaint shack in Oneiron, the Land of Dreams. A spider with the face of men crawled over his temple, its forked tongue thrusted through skin and hair.