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It’s not often that Aglaea ventures beyond Okhema, these days.
She is too vital to the Holy City now – the World Wound Web, the day to day management of the city guard, keeping peace between the locals and the arriving refugees, counteracting the machinations of the Cleaners, all of it requires her to remain within the light of Kephale’s Dawn Device. She can barely remember the last time she travelled through the Evernight.
She’s forgotten how unsettling it can be.
Before her, the fire is crackling in its pit, a stew made of rations boiling within a small pot hanging above it. Aglaea is alone – save for a Garmentmaker, of course, for she is never without at least one of her Garmentmakers. It hovers silently beside her, the tip of its blade resting against the ground.
But yes, that aside, Aglaea is on her own. A distant part of her worries – not about any danger that may befall her here, two days’ journey from the border of dawn, but rather about the situation back home. Objectively, Aglaea knows, there is nothing to fear. Teacher Tribbie is there to handle the needs of the people, and that headache Anaxagoras is staying in the Grove. And should the worst happen and something assails Okhema, they have their latest arrival to protect them. Castorice may bear a curse of Thanatos, but Aglaea trusts her to defend her new home.
So no, there is no reason for her to worry. And yet, as she sits alone before the crackling fire, scent of food slowly filling the air, Aglaea finds herself uneasy.
The last time she travelled like this, camping in the wilderness… there were five of them, she remembers. Terravox and Hysilens arguing over food, playing games over who gets to cook that night; Trianne, laughing and egging them on; Cerydra sitting in the back, watching them with a smile on her face, a cup in hand. The memory is so vivid, as Aglaea rolls her shoulders, she half-expects the shorter woman to comment on her poor posture. But no-one speaks, of course. Aglaea is alone here.
Well. That’s not entirely true.
“There’s no need to be shy,” she finally decides to say. “You are welcome to join me by the fire, if you wish.”
The man who’s been watching her flinches, clearly surprised to have been noticed. Aglaea hides her smile. Her threads are not as all-encompassing here as they are back home, but she has spread them outwards a fair bit, so that she can sense any approaching danger. She knows that the stranger believed himself to be hidden in the shadows just outside the fire’s circle of light, but she has sensed his presence for some time now.
Still, now that she called him out, the man does not move, save to put one hand on the hilt of the sword at his hip. Aglaea raises her gaze, turning her head to where she knows he is standing.
“Lately, I’ve been hearing most interesting stories from refugees coming to Okhema,” she says, keeping her tone light. “Stories of people fleeing Black Tide monsters, only to hear the noise of battle behind them, and find their pursuers decimated in the aftermath. Stories of massive beasts and corrupted Titankin felled by an unknown hand before any of our warriors could reach them. And sometimes, stories of a silver-clad warrior appearing in the distance, so fleeting, many assume he’s nothing more than a hallucination of their tired minds.”
She smiles softly.
“Some believe it’s the work of the Kremnoan Detachment, but last I’ve heard, they’re far from here, embroiled in conflict against their own king. So, this mysterious warrior must be someone else… and I imagine it is him who now stands before me.”
She waits, quietly hoping that she has piqued the man’s interest. Ordinarily, refugees flock to each other on their way to Okhema, finding safety in numbers – but a man who has willingly spent who knows how long in the wilderness is bound to have become a little wild himself. Aglaea has to lure him out as she would a wounded animal if she wants him to join her by the fire.
Slowly, carefully, she leans forward, trying not to react as she senses the man in the shadows twitch and take half a step back. She stirs the pot, letting the smell of food waft through the air. It’s a base sort of bait, perhaps, but there’s little else Aglaea can do unless the man choses to engage with her.
“The food is almost ready,” she says. “As luck would have it, I have brought two bowls with me. Are you perhaps hungry?”
It’s a pleasant surprise when the man steps closer, out of the shadows. Aglaea lets her threads brush against him, taking in his appearance. The silver armour he wears is dented and rusted; Chartonus would weep at the sight of it. His sword is in a likewise poor condition, the blade chipped, and the guard missing one of its halves. He wears no helmet, letting a mop of pale hair spill everywhere, the bangs trimmed poorly – chopped off with the sword, Aglaea thinks, trying not to wince as she imagines the man bringing the half-wrecked weapon so close to his own eyes.
Its those eyes that catch her attention, though. Blue, but the pupils are Chrysos-gold, dull even in firelight. The shadows under them are deep, the skin around them pallid, like he hasn’t slept in days. It is no wonder the refugees who saw him in passing thought him a phantom; the man looks like a walking corpse.
“Hello there,” Aglaea says with a smile, looking to where the threads tell her he’s standing. “So – food?”
The man opens his mouth. A harsh wheeze escapes him, and for a moment, Aglaea worries he may be unable to speak. It’s not an insurmountable problem, but it would require the man to trust her to wind her thread around his hand…
“You shouldn’t be here.” He speaks at last. His voice is hoarse with disuse, and so quiet Aglaea would not be able to hear it without her threads reverberating with the sound, but she counts hearing it as a victory nonetheless.
“You shouldn’t be here,” the man repeats, this voice a little stronger. “It’s not safe for you to be alone out here.”
His words, though said without emotion, bring her a flicker of joy. It would be easy for a warrior like this to lose himself in killing, travelling alone on an endless hunt; to care nothing for the people, only for the slaughter. In truth, that is what she expected to find – a berserker obsessed with the hopeless idea of slaying every last monster of the Tide. To see the man show concern for her – no matter how emotionless his tone is – gives her hope.
“Your concern is appreciated, but you needn’t worry for me,” she tells him. “I am a demigod who passed the trial of a Titan and claimed a coreflame. It is the beasts of the Black Tide who are unsafe around me.”
She glances back towards her silent companion. At her unspoken command, the Garmentmaker puts its free hand to its chest and bows slightly. She can sense the way the man tracks its movement, and smiles as she turns back to him.
“A demigod,” the man whispers, and it sounds almost like a question. Aglaea pauses as she considers the idea that the man may genuinely be unaware of what her words mean.
“I am a Chrysos Heir, with golden blood flowing through my veins,” she clarifies gently. “As, I suspect, are you.”
By the way he inhales sharply at her words, she knows she’s correct.
“I am called Aglaea, the Goldweaver,” she finishes her introduction. “May I have the pleasure of your name, warrior?”
“My… name…” The man hesitates, and finally, an expression crosses his face. Unfortunately, it is distress, and after a moment, he shakes his head. Aglaea buries the sliver of disappointment in her heart; small steps, she reminds herself. That the man is willing to converse with her is already more progress that she had hoped for, for this first meeting.
“A Chrysos Heir or not, you should not stay here,” the man insists. “A large group of Black Tide creatures is coming this way. You are not safe.”
“Then I shall confront them as soon as I am done with my meal,” Aglaea says, reaching for the bowl at her side. “Would you like some as well? I am told it’s better to fight on a full stomach.”
The man lets out a frustrated growl. Before Aglaea can say anything more, he turns around and stalks off into the darkness, until her threads can no longer sense him.
She sighs to herself as she pours the stew into a bowl. Not an ending she has hoped for, but – at least the man should be easy to find again. After all, he all but told her what he was planning to do now.
Aglaea simply has to follow the sounds of battle.
***
An hour later, Aglaea stalks through the darkness, her sword drawn and the Garmentmaker at her side. Her threads fan out around her, wrapping around the edges of buildings and trees. She’s in ruins of an abandoned village; one not yet devoured by the Black Tide, yet dead all the same. She can hear quiet movement ahead of her, and familiar clang of weapons clashing, but she can’t quite pinpoint where the monsters are.
The beast of the Tide are quiet in battle. So is the man she’s here for, it would seem.
Finally, one of her threads brushes against a monster, and recoils. Aglaea gathers the rest of them, sends them outwards, and breaks into a run, the Garmentmaker flying ahead of her as she takes stock of the battlefield.
The man does have a sense for tactics, however rudimentary; he has lured the swarm of monsters into a narrow passage between two walls, forcing them to pile in, confront him only two or three at a time. The way he wields his blade speaks more to determination than skill, but it does the job, and scores of black-and-amber bodies surround him now. As Aglaea rounds the corner, a swing of his sword slams the weapon into a corrupted bird and sends it careening to join them. Still, he is one man against dozens, and Aglaea’s threads can already sense an archer in the back, raising its bow and taking aim at his head-
She leaps into the air, materializes one of her threads under her foot then pushes off it, sending herself flying towards the archer. She barely registers the man’s startled gasp below her; she reaches out and binds the archer’s wrist with her thread, and then she is close enough – with a single slice of her blade, she beheads it.
She hits the ground, the monster’s head landing beside her a moment later. She turns around just as the Garmentmaker rejoins her at her side. Silence falls briefly, both sides of the battle stunned by her sudden arrival. Above the crowd of monsters, Aglaea can see the man stare at her, eyes wide in muted shock. A heartbeat passes, then another; the man’s eyes narrow back and he nods to her. She nods back, and the man lets out a hoarse war cry as he raises his blade, calling all monsters’ attention to himself.
Thus, the battle resumes.
Their new plan is simple, but that makes it easy for them to cooperate. The man has no trouble making himself the central focus for all the Tide beasts in the narrow passage; Aglaea and the Garmentmaker dash around him, picking off stragglers, riddling the larger beasts with needlepoint strikes so that they are weakened and imbalanced by the time the man’s blade slams into them, his strikes more hammerblows than clear cuts. He keeps screaming as he fights now, his wordless shouts filled with fury stemming from whatever drives him on his crusade.
Eventually, there is only one foe left; a floating monster with spinning core atop it, throwing out buzzing projectiles that have both Aglaea and the man ducking as they crash into stone walls around them. Aglaea dashes behind it, wraps her threads around its arm and yanks them back, creating opening enough for the man to leap in and drive his sword through the monster’s chest.
She hears the weapon snap as it pierces the core. When the Tide monster falls apart into tar, the man is left standing with only the broken handle in his grip. Aglaea expects him to be frustrated, or mourn the lost weapon, but he merely stares at the hilt in his hand for a moment before tossing it into the pile of rapidly-decomposing bodies. Aglaea restrains her wince as she imagines Chartonus’s reaction.
She stops thinking about it as the man raises his head to look at her. He is silent, clearly awaiting her words.
“That’s one less group of Tide monsters that would threaten Okhema in the future,” she tells him. “From all of us in the Holy City, you have my thanks.”
The man stares.
“I didn’t do it for you,” he finally says. Aglaea nods.
“I know. But I am glad regardless.” She offers a smile. “Now, I still have stew left at my camp. Would you like some?”
The man sighs, then flinches, as though startled by his own reaction. He clenches his now-empty fists as he considers her words.
“You’re not going to let that go, are you?” he asks.
“You do look rather concerningly gaunt, warrior,” she replies. The man lets out a barking sound, too ugly to be called a laugh.
“Very well. Lead the way.”
***
The fire she’s left behind is still burning, thankfully. Aglaea adds fuel to it and puts the pot back above it, to reheat the remains of the stew. Opposite her, the man crouches, balancing on the balls of his feet. Aglaea’s threads tell her he’s not looking at her; he stares into the fire, his eyes seeing something a thousand miles away.
When the food is ready, she first lets out a soft grunt, so as to not startle him. He twitches still, before calming himself as he watches her pour the stew into a bowl and hand it to him along with a spoon. As soon as he has food in his hands, he stands up and takes a few steps back, almost outside of the circle of light.
“You needn’t worry about any ambushers,” Aglaea tells him as she settles down, leaning against the back of a wall of an abandoned home. She gestures to her silent companion floating beside her. “My Garmentmaker is keeping an eye out.”
The man considers her words for a moment, but doesn’t sit back down, instead opting to eat standing. Aglaea holds her breath as he takes the first spoonful – then digs in. She can’t help but feel quietly flattered, even as she is concerned. She knows full well her cooking is not up to par; an hour ago, she was complaining to herself about how bland the stew tasted. Yet the way the man is inhaling it, it might as well be one of Hysilens’s artful dishes.
It leads Aglaea’s mind to wonder – what does this man eat? She shudders to imagine the kind of food one might find out here. Old dried rations, supplies carried by refugees who were not lucky enough to make it to Okhema… a darker thought comes to her mind, one she dares not entertain for long.
There is a look, one she had to learn to recognize, to people who went down that path. She does not blame them for doing what they can to survive, but she knows it’s something that never leaves them. But the man before her… she doesn’t think he’s that far gone, thankfully.
He finishes the meal and wipes his face with the back of his gauntlet – Aglaea apologizes to Chartonus in her head for seeing this and saying nothing – before slowly crouching and putting the bowl down. He looks at her, and for a moment, they are both silent.
“Why,” he asks, then pauses, then picks back up. “Why are you here?”
Aglaea sighs, leaning forward.
“It is as I’ve told you before,” she says. “I’ve heard many stories of a warrior fighting the Black Tide, and sought to find him myself.”
“Why?” the man repeats. Aglaea smiles.
“To recruit him to my cause,” she says, and presses on. “The Holy City is the last safe refuge for humanity in all of Amphoreus, but even it is always under assault – mainly from the Black Tide, and from Nikador’s Titankin.” She decides not to mention the Kremnoans for now. “I need soldiers and warriors – skilled fighters who can take on those threats, and protect humanity from annihilation. I need people like you.”
She pauses to gauge the man’s reaction. He gives her nothing; he is still, his fingers half-clenched, his eyes wide as he listens. Aglaea takes a deep breath, less confident than she’d like to be, and makes her offer.
“We can give you food and shelter; better weapons and armour than what you wield now.” The rest – his destiny as a Chrysos Heir – can come later. “So – would you be willing to come to Okhema with me? Would you help me protect my people?”
At her final question, the man awakens from his stupor. Alas, his reaction is again not the one Aglaea’s been hoping for; he stands up and backs away, almost stumbling over his feet, his hands twitching. He shakes his head.
“I… I can’t,” he whispers, his voice trembling. “I’m not a… I can’t do that for you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
This is the most life Aglaea has ever heard in his voice, but she’s far from happy to hear it. She opens her mouth, searching for words that would calm him down, but before she can do that, the man speaks again.
“Thank you for the food,” he whispers. Then, he turns and flees into the darkness.
Aglaea watches through her threads until she can no longer sense him. Then, she sighs heavily, leaning her back against the wall.
The first attempt was a failure. But she’s not going to give up.
***
The next time she finds the man, two nights later, it’s raining. Clouds covering the sky make the Evernight even darker; Aglaea’s threads let her navigate without issue, but she imagines anyone else would be lost without a light of their own. Not this warrior, though; when she finds him, he’s not hiding away from the downpour.
He is standing in the middle of an empty road, the cobblestones under his boots overgrown by grass. His hair is plastered to his skin; water runs in rivulets down his armour, stopping at every dent and hole. He has found a new weapon somewhere; a sword in Kremnoan style, shorter and stubbier than what he had before and, thankfully, in a better state.
He's not moving. He’s looking up at the sky, gathering rainwater in his cupped palms and drinking it. It’s a peaceful sight, and, surprisingly, a little funny; it reminds Aglaea of the way children on the outskirts of Okhema would play at catching the rain on the rare occasion that clouds came to the Holy City.
Aglaea makes sure to scrape her boot against stone to give the man a forewarning of her presence. He startles immediately, his hand flying to his sword as he whirls around, his eyes peering into the darkness. Aglaea materializes some of her threads, lets their golden glint illuminate her.
“We meet again, warrior,” she says.
“You,” he whispers. “I gave you my answer. Shouldn’t you be returning to Okhema?”
“It’s not often I get the chance to leave the Holy City,” Aglaea replies. “I should like to take this opportunity to clear out some approaching threats before they become everyone’s problem.”
The man stares for a while; then, he lets out a quiet grunt of acknowledgement, turns around and marches off. Aglaea sighs as she casts a glance at the Garmentmaker behind her, and makes to follow after him.
Before long, they walk into a small group of corrupted Titankin. The man starts the fight without a word; Aglaea joins him after a moment, trying to hide her relief as the two fall into the same pattern as the last time. He is still willing to work with her, then.
Later, as the last corpse falls apart into dust around Garmentmaker’s blade, Aglaea turns to the man and opens her mouth, but he’s walking away already, guided by whatever instinct drives him towards monsters. Aglaea follows and before long, the three of them find another group of Titankin playing at a military march.
This time, she’s the first one to strike.
It’s not until five or six battles later – she’s uncertain about the count, not when a squad of Titankin ambushes the three of them just as they wrap up destroying another group – that the man finally relents in his endless march, leaning against the dead tree he’s found himself beside. Aglaea looks around, and finds ruins of a farmhouse in the distance.
“That looks like a good place to make camp,” she says. “Would you join me, warrior? I’m certain we both need rest.”
He stares at her with something close to incredulity in his eyes, but follows.
Later, he eats his fill of food, and disappears into the shadows without a word. Aglaea pushes down on her disappointment. Give him time, she tells herself.
***
This routine repeats for the next few nights.
The Garmentmaker wakes Aglaea from her repose, and she sets off, sending her threads out in search of the man. At times, she finds him already fighting; other times, he’s walking, or standing someplace tall, scanning the area. She joins him, and the three of them battle any group of monsters they come across, until Aglaea eventually proposes rest. The man eats, then disappears into the dark; and the next night, the cycle repeats.
As she observes the man, night after night, Aglaea notices that there is a stark difference in the way he fights Titankin and the way he fights Tide monsters. Against the soldiers of Nikador, he is silent; efficient and emotionless, killing them as though it’s merely a self-imposed duty he must fulfil before moving on. Against the monsters of the Tide, though, he is far more animate; his swings growing wilder, his blows more forceful than they need to be, his expression contorting in fury. He is more focused, on the days where they battle the Tide; his ever-present exhaustion driven back by sheer hatred.
It is telling, Aglaea thinks, of his past; but she says nothing of it. It’s not yet her place to comment.
Still, as nights go by, she notices small changes to their routine; a drift, perhaps. The man starts to linger nearby when she wakes, as though he’s waiting for her to join him on the hunt; as she approaches, he eventually begins to greet her with a nod, rather than marching off in silence. When she prepares food, he stays for a little longer every night, soaking up the warmth of the campfire before leaving. She can sense him lingering in the shadows for a short while after, as though unwilling to depart.
And each night, he grows more and more tired. Aglaea can sense it in the way his strikes grow heavier during battles, his feet dragging along the ground as he walks; the way he struggles to keep his eyes open when crouching by the firepit. He never makes any move to rest, though, and Aglaea doubts he sleeps when he parts ways with her. It truly does seem as though he intends to march on until he physically no longer can.
It’s a concerning thought; Aglaea finds herself paying more attention to the man, increasingly worried that the next time she finds him, he will have collapsed.
A true breakthrough in their routine occurs before that can happen, thankfully. There comes a night, eventually, when they find a place to camp in the ruins of an old home, only two walls left standing. When Aglaea starts setting up the firepit, the man hesitates, one hand leaning against a wall’s edge.
“I… brought food,” he says quietly. She turns to him in pleased surprise; her threads see as he takes a small bag off his back. “I don’t think you expected to be staying here as long as you are. You must be running short.”
“Oh, my thanks.” Aglaea says with a smile as she takes the bag from him.
It’s the first time he’s contributed to their camps, and so Aglaea aims to be encouraging of his efforts… even if the contents of the bag evoke within her a sliver of revulsion. The food the man has foraged on his own is as she feared – old rations that look like they’ve been preserved in salt for decades; jerky as dry as shoe sole, and about as tasty. As Aglaea takes a bite out of it, she prays silently it’s free of mould. Hopefully, the blessed waters of the Heroes’ Bath back in Okhema will be able to wash away whatever sickness she is currently eating.
The man, too, grimaces as he eats, and Aglaea takes some amusement in the idea that she may have spoiled him with her mediocre cooking. As soon as he is done eating, he stands up and looks at her with something close to embarrassment, as though ashamed of his contribution to their shared journey.
“Until next time,” he mumbles, takes a step away – and sways on his feet.
Aglaea stands, concern at last overriding her desire to let the man move at his own pace.
“You need to rest, warrior,” she tells him. “In all the time I’ve known you, I haven’t seen you sleep even once.”
“I don’t…” The man takes another step, then leans forward, just barely catching himself on his sword. It’s yet another new one, a stone blade of a Furiae praetor – and all of a sudden, it seems too heavy for him to carry. “I have to…”
“You have to sleep,” Aglaea pleads. “Please, rest. The Garmentmaker will watch over us both.”
The man turns to her, eyes narrowed in defiance, but another step has him leaning fully against his sword. He lets out a shaky breath, and that, at last, seems to convince him to surrender to his exhaustion.
As Aglaea watches, he drags himself and his weapon to the corner between the two walls and collapses there into a heap. After a moment, he curls up on himself, his hands gripping the hilt of the sword as he holds it to his chest, like a third wall to box himself in.
“You needn’t worry,” Aglaea reassures him, sitting back down. “The Garmentmaker will wake us both, should anything aim to disturb us in our sleep – and if no trouble comes, I shall watch over you until you awaken on your own.”
The man nods, barely keeping his eyes open, though his hold on his sword doesn’t loosen. He opens his mouth as though to speak, then closes it, opens it again. Aglaea watches, waiting.
“Lady Goldweaver,” he finally mutters.
“Aglaea is just fine,” she tells him.
“Lady Aglaea,” he corrects himself. “You… you can call me Phainon. Phainon of… Aedes Elysiae.”
Aedes Elysiae. Aglaea has never heard of it, but she thinks of the way Phainon fights the Tide monsters, and she thinks she knows what became of it.
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance at last, Phainon of Aedes Elysiae,” she tells him with what she hopes is a warm smile.
Phainon nods and closes his eyes.
Aglaea watches as sleep takes him, pleased to see him relax. Not fully, nowhere near – even in repose, he is still tense, his hands clutching his sword, his brows furrowed. Seeing this, Aglaea remembers the times before, when she, too, couldn’t rest peacefully in the wilderness; remembers how Terravox would put his coat over her when he thought she was asleep, to help her settle. She considers doing the same for Phainon, approaches him with her own blanket, but stops herself. It would not do to wake him, not after she has finally convinced him to rest.
As she lingers above him, watching his face, Aglaea is suddenly struck by a realization: the man she’s been following for the past week is, in fact, very young.
It’s not something she notices often in others; of the living, only her teacher and Castorice are anywhere close to her in age, so everyone else seems youthful. But even by the standards of Okhema’s mortal men, Phainon is young. He cannot be more than sixteen years of age; just barely out of childhood, a boy moreso than a man. Aglaea realizes that even if she eventually convinces him to head to Okhema with her, she cannot in good faith send him to the battlefield right away, no matter how used to it he is.
There is time; Kephale willing, she still has time aplenty before her prophesized end. Once she brings Phainon to Okhema, she would need to help him accommodate to the city, get reaccustomed to living around other people. She would have to teach him how to take care of himself; she would ask Tribbie to help assuage the nightmares that no doubt plague his mind. Perhaps… perhaps she could send him alongside Castorice to learn at the Grove of Epiphany. For all she ill-likes Anaxagoras, she cannot deny that he is an excellent teacher, and his prickly exterior hides a compassionate soul. He would no doubt take Phainon under his wing, even if the boy never realized it.
But that can come later. For now, Aglaea gently brushes Phainon’s hair out of his eyes with her threads. He mumbles something in his sleep; a name, though not one she can recognize. She leaves him be, and settles under the wall some distance away. Above her, the Garmentmaker watches the darkness beyond, a silent guardian for them both.
“May your dreams be restful, Phainon,” Aglaea whispers before closing her eyes.
***
She is awake before him, unsurprisingly; much as she expected, once sleep got its claws into Phainon, it refuses to let go. Overnight, the boy had pulled his sword closer to himself as a child would a plush toy, and Aglaea cannot help but be concerned at how close the blade is to his face and throat. The instinct to pull the weapon away before he can hurt himself wars for a moment with the desire not to interrupt Phainon’s hard-won rest. She eventually settles on a compromise and wraps her threads around the blade, ready to pull it back should worse come to worst.
As she takes stock of her supplies – Phainon wasn’t wrong, her rations are running perilously low – she senses the boy stir. He starts to move before freezing, no doubt confused about his circumstances in his half-awake state. Aglaea gives no sign that she has noticed him waking, letting him engage with her at his own pace once more.
It’s only when he sits up that she withdraws her threads from his sword and acknowledges his presence.
“Good morning,” she says as she turns to him. “Have you slept well?”
“Well enough,” he grunts, his voice thick with sleep; like this, his sounds his age. He looks away, lost in thought. Aglaea lets him take his time as she packs her bag back up, though she cannot help but wonder what’s on his mind.
It’s not until she hands her pack to the Garmentmaker that Phainon finally speaks.
“Lady Aglaea,” he says. “Why are you really trying to recruit me? I find it hard to believe you would go this far for a single soldier, no matter how hard-pressed for aid your home is.”
He is no fool; Aglaea exhales slowly as she nods. After a week of travelling together, she owes him greater honesty.
“I have told you before that I am a demigod that has claimed a coreflame,” she says. “I suspect you do not understand what this means.”
Phainon shakes his head.
“There is… a prophecy,” Aglaea begins her explanation. “One that shows us the path we must follow to bring salvation to Amphoreus. To bring forth Era Nova – a new age where there is no Black Tide, and all are reborn to live peaceful lives.”
Phainon stares at her, his eyes wide, but says nothing. Aglaea presses on.
“To do so, we must defeat the Titans who’ve been driven mad by the Tide; claim their hearts – their coreflames – and take up their responsibilities ourselves, becoming demigods who can shepherd the Era Nova. But only some people have the power to host a coreflame within their souls.”
“Chrysos Heirs,” Phainon whispers, his attention briefly straying to his hand; no doubt thinking of the golden blood that courses beneath his skin.
“Indeed,” Aglaea replies. “A thousand years ago, we began our great hunt for the Titans, but only half the coreflames have been gathered, and the Flame-Chase Journey of prophecy has stalled. I seek to restart it, and complete it, to save Amphoreus. But…” She sighs. “Amphoreus cannot be saved alone. I need the help of others; scholars, councillors, and yes, warriors. Heroes who would stand with me and hold back the tide of darkness, to claim the power of demigods and usher in the Era Nova. Heroes who would save Amphoreus.”
She pauses for a moment, closes her eyes to gather herself; then she looks into Phainon’s eyes and makes her plea.
“So, I ask you once again. Would you join me? Would you stand alongside me, and help me bring salvation to Amphoreus? Would you become a hero this world needs?”
Phainon stares at her, his gaze at once terrified and yearning. He clutches the massive sword to his chest; he tries to speak, and fails. Aglaea remains silent, well aware that to push any further would scare him away, and hoping with all she has left of her humanity that he agrees.
He tears his gaze away from her, looks somewhere distant; somewhere even her threads cannot perceive.
“A hero who brings salvation to Amphoreus… Just like you said, hah…” A bitter laugh breaks itself out of him. Aglaea doesn’t think he’s talking to her right now, so she remains quiet – but then, Phainon turns to her.
“I am no hero,” he whispers. “I could not protect… anyone.”
Aglaea has born witness to many tragedies – but still, what remains of her heart breaks for him.
“No-one is born a hero,” she whispers softly. “No-one is truly ready to become one, not ever. It’s all each of us can do to try and fulfil a role too grand for any one person. But you will not be alone, Phainon. The Flame-Chase is a journey of loss and sacrifice, but it is not one you will have to undertake on your own. There will be others, travelling alongside you, fighting with you, picking you up when you fall, and counting on you to do the same for them, should they falter. You will not be alone. That, I promise you.”
Phainon is silent for a long, long time, his breath hitching as he stares into the fire. Aglaea seeks to offer comfort – but there is nothing she can say anymore, nothing that would assuage his fears.
At last, he looks up at her, and she finds in his eyes a newfound determination.
“Very well,” he says, and gets to his feet, leaning against the sword. “Take me to Okhema with you.”
Aglaea smiles in relief.
***
Three nights later, they finally cross the border of dawn. The wide road they’re climbing winds between the mountains; at its final turn, the brilliant daytime sky comes into view. Aglaea is not ashamed to admit that she speeds up as she crosses those last few yards that separate her from daylight, relief settling over her as she feels sunlight caress her skin at last. The daytime air feels clearer; fresher. Gentle breeze caresses her hair, and for a moment, Aglaea lets herself enjoy it in silence.
She’s home.
She gives herself time to bask in daylight as she resumes her march, revelling in the last few moments before she has to reconnect with the World Wound Web and announce her return. But after a few steps, she pauses as her threads sense Phainon stopping behind her. The boy is staring up at the city, at Kephale’s vast form above, his mouth wide open. Aglaea turns to him, and cannot help a smile.
In daylight, Phainon’s eyes light up. Their blue matches the pure sky above, and the pupils gleam, gold like twin reflections of the Dawn Device, and equally brilliant. Aglaea’s threads can sense two pale rings in his eyes now, shaped like Kephale’s sigil. Her breath catches.
She knows, with the certainty of a demigod attuned to fate: she has found the Deliverer of the prophecy.
Joy flees her.
For a brief moment, Aglaea lets herself mourn, for if the Deliverer is here, then the Flame-Chase Journey shall soon come to an end. And if Phainon is the Deliverer, then he is destined to be the last one standing; to lose everything, everyone once more before he ushers in the Era Nova.
Later, Aglaea thinks; later, she begs fate. Right now, Phainon is just another refugee, one that will need time and care before he can sleep calmly and stop flinching at every sudden sound and motion. Right now, Aglaea will give him as much time as he needs; as much as she can give him, before she is forced to place the burden of Deliverance upon his shoulders.
So right now, Aglaea hums softly.
“Welcome to Okhema, Phainon. I hope that one day, you may see it as your home, as I do.”
And Phainon – Phainon smiles at her, a true, genuine smile that lights up his entire being, and Aglaea’s heart both soars and crumbles as he replies,
“Thank you, lady Aglaea.”