Skippii's mule laboured to keep up with the trotting horses, tethered as it was to the Octio's stallion. Clarivoxa Kylinissa followed after them on foot, but before long, she was outrun and out of sight, and he was bereft of allies.

Storm clouds gathered as they delved into the wilderness. A chill ran through Skippii's spine. Suspended atop the mule, he could not draw upon the warmth of the earth to comfort his nerves, even if he permitted himself to do so. Alone, he suffered the anxiety of what was to come, and dreaded every step that brought him closer to the Coven's chambers.

Arriving at the warmagi's camp by early-afternoon, Skippii was pulled from his mule and led inside the palisade walls. The two legionnaires standing guard barely noticed him–barely recognised the red of his cloak. He did not appeal to their loyalty. He did not want to burden anyone else with his misfortune. He had made his choice to openly explore this strange magia in spite of the Coven's directive, and now he would face the consequences.

Inside the wall, a roof enclosed the defences, forming a narrow tunnel down which Skippii was led towards a cave. On the left, a crooked double door, like that of an old stable, was locked to the camp's central grounds. Light cut through the cracks in the wooden panels, which had been nailed together shoddily, reflecting the overall haste of the camp's construction. Outside the cave's entrance, two slaves sat beside a smoldering brazier. Upon their arrival, each lit a sconce and drew back a canvas which covered the cave's mouth, lighting the way.

Beyond was a spacious cavern strewn with chalk-white boulders. Tiny salt crystals twinkled in the torchlight like a sky of fading stars. He was pushed towards a chasm at the cavern's rear. As they strode over the stones, the smell of sewage foetid the air. It rose from the pit on a hot draft. Skippii held his breath, but tried to hide his trepidation from his captors.

A slave threw a rope ladder into the pit, and the Octio jabbed him towards the edge. The chains around his wrists were unlocked, but those around his elbows remained as the Octio reattached them before his stomach, locking his arms close to his body.

"Climb."

Helpless to disobey, he descended into pitch blackness, counting the rungs. Five, ten. Twenty. There were rustling sounds beneath him, like animals in a den, and the stench. His heart raced, expecting the wet muzzle of a creature to brush his ankle. If he must fight, he would do so. He would touch the earth and summon his powers and kill anything that assailed him until he himself laid low. Anticipation riled in his gut, flaying his insides with each rung he descended. This was it. This was his death. He would meet it, then he would demand answers from the Gods.

Suddenly, the cold ground found him, and no such molestation came. A chain rattled in the dark. Something shuffled towards him, one leg at a time, like a man. As his eyes adjusted to the dim firelight from above, Skippii thought he saw somebody's face, and the red colour of their dress.

The firelight fled, and all that remained was his hearing and scent.

"Hello brother," the voice came from close. "Welcome to Diamortis' latrine, may your days here be numbered."

***

Hours seemed to pass in the dark while Skippii waited in the company of many silent prisoners. If he had to guess at their number by the sound of their rustling and moans, maybe fifty. Of course, he could light a flame to see with, but did not want to draw unwanted attention. He could only guess at what sort of people he shared the prison with–criminals, deserters–the enemy.

He tested the strength of the chains around his wrists, considering what it would take to break them. He was capable of dousing his body in a naked fire, but the heat of flames could not weaken steel, only blunt it. Resigned to waiting, he wrapped his cloak around his mouth, breathing tentatively to avoid the stench.

Time trickled by. Each breath was thick and rancid, but they came and went as they must.

The image of a ruby appeared in his mind's eye, vivid in the blackness. Around the gem was a gold ring–together, they made up his core–the centre of his power, whereupon drawing magia from the earth, he was able to redirect it into evocations. But the image was incomplete. He had known this for a while, and had employed patience with its unearthing. But here and now, in the sorry blackness, the missing piece taunted him. It appeared like an iris of black, dividing the gem and halo. If he were to die today, he would never discover its true nature–never completely assemble his core.

The time for restraint was at an end.

Breathing through his cloak, he drew magia from the earth below him, condensing it within his core. The ruby pupil at his centre came to life–the source of his Seismic Quake evocation. And so too did his halo shine–the machination of his Blazing Fist, Armour, and Firetail Lance. But the space in between remained dark.

Straining, Skippii funnelled his magia into the iris. Like black smoke, it suffocated the heat and evaded his grasp. Straining, he growled lowly and pushed on. Waves of magia, he drew from the earth, careful not to let it shine on his skin. But even still, a dull red glow emanated from beneath his tunic. Kneeling on the ground, he hid the light from the other prisoners, pressing his palms into the earth.

Power flowed up through all four of his limbs, burning in his lungs, swimming in his chest. The halo and ruby of his core shone, eager to be expelled. His chains became taught as he tensed and stretched down, deep into the earth, drawing its power forth.

Smoke swirled in the iris–clear currents amongst the blackness. Gritting his teeth, he poured more power onto the pyre. With it rose anger. At first, it was the mere rumble of vexation of storm clouds from afar. But the more he bent the power to his will, the more it rose, swelling in his chest, crackling in his mind, prickling his feet with the need to act.

The smoke billowed. His blood boiled. The iris glowed with rage.

With a gasp, Skippii released himself and shot backwards. His body was stiff and shaking from exertion. His muscles twitched as his heart raced like never before, hot in his chest, fierce on his breath. Helpless, he panted, swallowing the stench of the room. Bile came next, then vomit. He bent and wretched, choking on it. Spitting and panting. Minutes passed as he drew his cloak over his head, heart pounding, scraping desperately for a clutch of clean air.

His guts were empty, but still he felt sick to his bones. Gradually, the bodily sensations receded, and he gathered the composure to look once more into his core. Drawing a shaky breath from the earth, he witnessed it brighten in his mind's eye. The halo, the gem, and the iris. A faint smoke swirled–orange and white and red–twisting and blossoming, then diminishing. Fascinated, he watched the clouds dance, never able to fully focus on their movement, like seeing a strange design in the corner of one's eye–when he tried to focus, they fled him. But they were there, dim, as his gem and halo had been before he had fully unlocked their potential.

A murmur spread throughout the prisoners. Skippii raised his head to see the firelight above return. The rope ladder was slung down.

"Rise, everyone," a figure in a black cloak commanded. Beside him were two archers, seemingly from the legion's auxiliary divisions. "Anyone who can't make the climb, gets an arrow. And it's dark, so it won't be lethal."

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Getting to his feet, he followed the procession shuffling towards the ladder. In the light, he inspected his company. They were a sorry mix of folk, mostly men, but some women too. The skin of many was chalk-white like the walls above, their black knotted hair falling like tangled nets about their heads. Ürkün. Captives from the war who hadn't been granted the grace of ransom or execution. Many bore injuries–swollen red cuts, white with puss. They slouched and swayed like aging mules who had never known a day's rest. Their eyes were already dead.

One woman slipped as she climbed the rickety ladder, and two beneath her raised their arms to help. Beside him, gathering separate from the majority of Ürkün, were three men. Each bore what was once a proud legionnaire's red cloak, but now was black with filth and tattered. They talked in hushed voices, and Skippii approached them as the procession of prisoners etched forward.

"What's going on, legio," he said. "Bring me up to scratch."

"Gladiators," one said. He was an older man, perhaps his mid-twenties, with a lean jaw and confident eyes. "That's my best bet."

"Gods willing," another said. Shortest of the four, his teeth were rotten and his hands crusted with dirt.

"Gods be damned," the older man said.

"It's a bit late for that, don't you think," another said. Tall and somewhat skinny, Skippii imagined he'd make an excellent second-rank fighter with long reach, but reckoned those days were over.

"What are you down here for?" Skippii asked.

"Same as you," the tall man said. "Blasphemy."

"Heresy," the shortest spat, then stuck out a hand. "Carus."

"Skippii," he squeezed the grime between his fingers.

"Pictor," the eldest said. "Victor Pictor."

"Gallus," the tallest said. "Unlucky bastard. You were the last one caught, eh?"

"Caught? By the magi?" Skippii said. "Yeah, they've been after me for a while."

"Well, we're all here now," Gallus said. "Let's hope it's a quick death."

"Don't be so cynical," Victor said. "If you regretted your crimes like I, perhaps the Gods would show you mercy."

"Crimes?" Carus snorted. "You know what I'm here for, Skippii… An acolyte lost a bet to me. The little scrote was betting with priestly money. Trinkets and shit. He put faith in his God to make the dice roll his way, and when they didn't, and he wouldn't pay up…" Carus shook his head. "Well, you just can't let that sort of thing slide."

"True," Skippii said, falling easily into old agreeable habits.

"What about you?" Gallus said. "May as well air our sins in the time we've got left. Prepare for what we'll tell the Pantheon's gatekeepers up above."

"I…" Skippii started, but found he couldn't explain the Coven's actions by any swift means. "They mistook me for someone else."

Carus laughed with a nasty grin, and patted him on the shoulder firmly. "Well, we've all gotta die some day."

Soon, it was their turn to climb the ladder into the rocky chamber above. There, a team of slaves stripped the prisoners, tearing their clothes with knives and dousing them with buckets of water. When it came for his turn, Skippii gripped his mother's brooch. A slave reached to strip him of his cloak, but Skippii drew back and raised his chin above the boy.

"Slave," he said. "You have no right."

Fear flickered behind the boy's eyes and he drew the knife down, stripping his tunic instead. The fabric fell about his waist in tatters. Skippii staggered over boulders, following the procession out of the cave. More slaves surrounded them with buckets of tar and thick brushes, daubing their bodies in sticky black streaks. Suddenly, there was little to distinguish him from the Ürkün men and women around him. All were naked and disgraced, chained or else tied with ropes.

A canvas was drawn back and the light of day called them forth. Outside, the air was wet and cold, and evening was waning. Like cattle, they left their pen and ventured out onto the field. Rounded slightly by the contour of the hills, the arena had been cleared of bracken and debris, scythed and trodden flat. In the centre stood a rotund man. He waited for them to assemble, hands crossed over his stomach.

Atop the surrounding palisade were many silent figures, judgement in their eyes like an audience of plebs witnessing an execution. The majority of them were hooded–men and women–acolytes of the Pantheonos. The Coven's lessers–priests who possessed no favour of the Gods, no magia, not even the divinity of arcanus. Besides them, dressed in togas were scribes, clay tablets in hand. Sparser yet were legionnaires. They were helmed and armed, red cloaks flapping like noble banners in the growing wind. Skippii looked up at them, but none would meet his gaze. They were not to blame, he reminded himself.

As the last of the beleaguered prisoners hobbled onto the arena grounds, the heavy doors were closed behind them. A foreboding chill swept through him, and he saw it on the faces and shuddering bodies of others. Atop the palisade, the acolytes hissed like vipers joining with the wind.

The fat man raised his arms and the winds died down. The palisade went quiet. All around him, the Ürkün prisoners fanned out, not wanting to be the closest to the herald. Some fell to the soft ground, and there they lay, defeated already before their verdict was declared. Other Auctoritans gravitated towards him and the three disgraced legionnaires, coming up behind them. Small men and women–slaves or else members of the impedimenta who had the misfortune of angering the Coven. Skippii had heard of such goings on in the Legion III as a boy, but had always taken them as rumour, meant to encourage obedience to the Gods. In a legion as large as Legion IX, with all its auxiliary warriors and slaves and many hundreds of civilians in the baggage train, it would be easy to not notice four legionnaires go amiss. As for the Ürkün prisoners, whoever wondered too long the fates of your vanquished enemy?

"Villains," the fat man shouted, arms outstretched. "Knaves. Heretics. All your sins shall, today, be purged, as blood is purged from the body of one diseased. Look about you, and you will find tools… weapons, if you may. Arm yourselves now. Display your evil conviction. Rally your hatred. Fight, if not for your vile beliefs, then for your wretched lives."

A murmur drifted over the prisoners as many of the Ürkün struggled to translate the herald's words. However, he and the other legionnaires were not so slow to react. Sighting a rack against the outer wall, Skippii ran over to it and searched amongst the weaponry, eager to return a spear to his hands. Though, bound as he was, one would do him no good. A knife and shield at least could work. However, what he discovered was unorthodox: shafts with thickly wrapped bandages at their tips, drenched in sticky black tar; batons soaked in buckets of pitch, and crossbows whose bolts had been blunted and padded, their draw strength reduced to that incapable of dealing a lethal blow. Skippii took a wicker shield made of thin woven sticks, gripping the leather straps tightly.

"Survive this trial, and you shall be freed," the herald bellowed. "Die, and your souls be cleansed by Kylin, and you shall be sent to the afterlife cleanly, as a baby who perishes upon their first breath of life."

As the prisoners armed themselves with meagre weapons, Skippii regrouped with the other legionnaires. A gate at the opposite end opened and rows of acolytes ran out of the palisade gate towards the herald, carrying five long chains between them.

Gallus chuckled. "They're gonna make us tan some scribes?"

"What's the point?" Carus said. "Shall we go? Shall we kill them?"

"I don't much feel like it," Victor said. "What have they done?"

"Nothing yet," Gallus said.

"This isn't an execution," Skippii said. "You were right. They want us to fight."

"To what end?" Gallus said.

"Perhaps we are sport," Carus said. "Or maybe sacrifice tastes better to the Gods this way, wriggling with life."

"Then they underestimate us," Skippii said coldly.

The acolytes laid their chains in the centre of the field, then turned and fled through the palisade gate.

The herald raised his voice once more, and his sermon thundered off the arena walls. "Sacrifice yourselves now, willingly or else. Sacrifice yourselves to strengthen the Coven of Kylin, to gather the clouds and fill her storms with wrath. Die now, and rise to the clouds. Die!"

Turning, he marched towards the timber doors opposite them. Anxiety trickled into Skippii's veins, and the urge to call upon his strength built within him. He had sworn to abandon his magia upon Custos Maritor's counsel, but where was his Primus now? Where was the legion and its laws of hierarchy, save for the few red-robed men who stood guard atop the palisade who watched on with indifference? He had been abandoned, betrayed by the Octio and captured by the Coven. For all that the legion spoke of brotherhood and the bonds between dutiful, fighting men, he had been so swiftly cast aside once claimed to be corrupted. Judged by apostles who valued the opinion of a maleficent mind in heaven more than the very real, very warm bodies marching each day at their sides. For the legion, he would surrender his gift. But for the Coven… for the Pantheon, he would not roll over and lie down. He would draw upon his strength without shame, no matter what.

The heat of the earth rose to him, swelling with his anger as he witnessed his enemy approach. Out from the opposite gatehouse emerged twelve figures in black; twelve magi, strong and tempered, whose combined strength was known to topple city walls and crumble a horde's will. As one, they opened their arms to the sky, and thunder fell upon him.

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