Skippii and Clidensis walked beyond the legion's camp and into the surrounding trees. The auxiliaries were returning to their camps from skirmishing with the enemy. Hard faced and clad in leathers, they trekked in packs, armed with javelins and bows. Though they were too short of stature to make legionnaires, they were still a fearsome sight to behold, like wolves moving through the forest.

Among them trundled the impedimenta–merchants and urchins who trailed the legion, selling their wares and services. A mule-drawn cart rocked through the underbrush, seeking sanctuary with the auxiliaries. Atop it sat four children. Despite the peril all around, they laughed loudly as the cart rocked and almost unsaddled the youngest from her seat. Skippii smiled. It had not been long since he had been in their place, hounding the legion for scraps, sneaking through the palisade walls to share campfire tales of heroes and Gods.

But misfortune had brought those legends out of the shadows, and into his waking hours. What would people say of his deeds once his tale was over? Would they claim he was a coward for withholding his curse from his superiors? Or would it end differently? Could he make use of the power, perhaps? Could he do good?

Skippii led the slave beyond the firelight of dwindling camps, forever in silence. A grey dusk swept away the sky's blue. Once he thought they were alone, he stopped by a fallen tree and planted his axe into its trunk.

"Where are you from?" he asked lightly.

"Clidus, my legio."

"Of course. I mean, I could have guessed from your name. But…"

"But not many from the noble city are bound as slaves," Clidensis finished for him. "I know. My family fell on hard times. I was their collateral."

Skippii nodded, but stifled his pity. No slave had a pleasant tale for how they fell into servitude, and it would do him no good to lament.

"Good companeight, though," he said, changing the tune. "I've seen a few in my time, this one's pretty friendly."

"In your time?" Clidensis smiled. "I thought you and I were the same age?"

"Nineteen last winter."

Clidensis covered his mouth and muttered through his fingers. "My apologies, legio. I should not jest. It is not my place."

"Oh, don't worry about that. I grew up amongst slaves. Practically was one myself. No, we're equals as far as I see it. Men of our merit, not of our birth or circumstance. Speak freely, I'd rather you did so."

Clidensis shuffled, gazing at their feet, the trees, the sky–anywhere but at Skippii. "What city are you from? I cannot place your accent."

"I grew up here, this is my city." Skippii spread his arms. "The road. The legion. Specifically, Third Legion Platinum, on the baggage train. My mother was a herbalist. She travelled with the impedimenta, so I've spent most of my life around legionnaires. Trust me, I know how it is to get bossed around and beat up. Don't let this red cloak fool you. I mean, look at it. It's brand new. Barely a scratch or stain on it. It's just a costume. I must admit, sometimes I feel like an actor."

"And your father?"

"Never knew him," he replied. "But I had plenty of older brothers. Legionnaires."

"Ah." Clidensis smiled, and something in his eyes sparkled in the waning light. A quiet fell upon them, and with it, the weight of what was to come.

"We are not here to pick up sticks, are we?" the slave asked. "I thought at first, maybe you would chase me away or…" he stammered and shut his mouth, eyes falling on Skippii's axe.

"Kill you?" he sighed. "I'm not a murderer. It didn't cross my mind."

Clidensis fidgeted nervously, eyes on the ground.

"Those fires, earlier today," Skippii sighed, suddenly nervous. "I've never done that before. I don't know what it is. I'm not a magus. I'm not even astral. I'm astray–I don't pray to any of the Gods. I have no arcane training. I just… it just came out of me. It was like a boiling pot. I took the lid off and… Well, you saw the rest."

"It was incredible," Clidensis said softly. "Like one of Chrysaetos' own, yet, you were not yourself burned."

"Not yet. My hands are pretty sore. I was very thirsty. Honestly, the thirst might have killed me if you'd not been carrying a waterskin." He tried to smile lightly, but it felt heavy on his lips. Guilt gnawed at his insides–likely, the slave had feared execution for hours while he waited for Skippii's summons.

"I don't know how this works. I might not be so lucky next time." Skippii clenched his eyes shut in silent admonishment. "What am I talking about next time? That's it, that's the thing. The power is alluring. Of course it is. It has always comforted me. I've always felt it, minutely, beneath the earth. So is it mine, or was I cursed from birth? I don't know what to do."

Clidensis pursed his lips cautiously. "You could invoke it again?"

"No, I won't. I only did so because I was going to die anyway. I reached out for it. But never again."

"You won't even try?"

"Try?" he whined. "Don't you know what the arcanus will do if they discover this curse in me? They'll pick my brains, scour my soul and flay me for the Gods to pass judgement. I'm astray. Do you have a God?"

Clidensis nodded. "Aequentia is my acheron."

"See," Skippii laughed bitterly. "Even slaves in the legion are astral. I'm lucky to even be here. I trained all my life for this and they almost didn't accept me as a legionnaire. No one else is astray. You know…" He lowered his voice. "I've never even been to Auctoria. I'm barely a citizen. I don't belong here. A lot of people see it. Think it. The Octio–he thinks it. I can tell by the way he looks at me that he despises me. I had to fight to be here, to earn the right to wear the cloak. I'm not going to throw that away. Not for anything."

"If you don't mind me saying, a stallion too stubborn to be trained only becomes more dangerous each year. Perhaps it would be wise to gain a basic understanding of your… magia."

"My affliction," he retorted, but the words felt wrong the moment he uttered them. "Oh, perhaps you're right. But how could I know? Who can I ask? An arcanus? Do you think they would be reasonable?"

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

"I must clarify," Clidensis said tentatively. "Are you asking my opinion or speaking out loud?"

"Your opinion of course," Skippii said exasperatedly. "I didn't think I was talking to myself."

"No, sorry. If you request my assistance, I shall comply."

Skippii scowled. The slave had an odd manner of conversing. His timidity–rather than placate or please Skippii–was instead beginning to test his patience.

"I am well versed in the Pantheon," Clidensis said. "And, if you pardon me saying, somewhat the occult. You see, the library of Clidus possesses many alcoves and tombs that illuminate an inquisitive scribe."

He hesitated, scanning Skippii's face for a reaction.

"Go on," Skippii said, turning away to chop the branches of the nearby felled tree.

"I studied, before this life." Clidensis spoke as he harvested dried moss to use as tinder. His voice was softer than any man's he had ever heard, and there was a delicacy to his step which reminded him of a deer moving carefully through the forest.

"Magia and the occult were somewhat an obsession of mine," he continued. "I mean… What is it? We are all taught that magia is the power of the Gods, granted to their faithful subjects to perform their will. But that doesn't account for the mystics–witchcraft and ancient ritual–and heroes of old. But you won't learn about that from priests of the pantheonos. There is a whole depth of history that has been forgotten, or swept aside. In the catacombs of Clidus, there are tales of powerful beings who changed the world, built empires and enlightened humankind. Which Gods did they beset for such power? Ours? Or others?"

"So, your magia…" Clidensis' voice lowered to a reverent whisper. "What I witnessed earlier could be of the pantheon's blessing, but it may not be. It could be something else… Something more mysterious. Something more ancient, perhaps. Or something new."

The axe felt heavy in Skippii's hands. His breath came roughly as his chest tightened. "So it could be heresy?"

"There are many things it could be. Who is to say what is heresy?"

"The arcanus." His heart beat faster at her utterance, and his eyes were drawn to the darkness of the forest. He couldn't run from the legion, not after what he had sacrificed to get here. But could he go back? Had he the strength to face their inquisition? Clenching his fists, he felt a heat rising up from the ground. It pooled in his chest, challenging the cold night's air. Mists formed around him as sweat dripped down his temple.

"You're steaming," Clidensis said, taking a step back.

"It's the curse," Skippii whispered. Beneath him, the earth hummed softly. Shutting his eyes, he controlled his breath, calming his nerves. Faintly, as he unfocussed on the world around him and delved within, an imprint appeared behind his eyes: a ring of gold. The halo seemed to shine from within, centred in his chest. But as he concentrated on the halo, it disappeared, and so did the heat, evaporating on his flesh.

"I think it reacts to how I feel," he said. "Does that sound like anything you've learned in these mysteries?"

Clidensis shook his head. "I'm sorry, but my investigations unearthed more questions than they answered. The pantheonos' priests buried our ancient history–they would prefer we believe that the world started with the Aetas Arcanum three hundred years ago. While investigating, I noticed gaps in the explanations of things... And in those gaps, something else. There is a mystery in this world, but I dare not guess at it for fear of uttering something which cannot be unsaid."

Shrinking, Clidensis raised his head to the stars, as a hound fearing his master's reproach. "But perhaps you are the answer. Or a piece of it. I wish I could describe it better, but I was not permitted to take my research into servitude, nor any of my possessions…" his voice trailed into silence.

Skippii tied their firewood into a bundle and set off on a slow trek back to the legion's camp.

"You know of the War of Heavens?" Clidensis asked.

"A little," Skippii said. "The pantheon fought against Titans, and won."

Clidensis nodded excitedly, shedding their caution. "Think about this: if the Gods came from the stars, then who was here before them? Who did they war with? Titans, they say. But has anyone ever seen a Titan? We can talk with the Gods, so where did their ancient enemy go?"

Skippii shivered. It had been a long day, and he was far from being in the mood for such daunting stories. "Why is it on your mind now?"

Clidensis' shoulder shrank as he looked away. "It is often on my mind. An old obsession of mine. You have gotten me talking about the mysteries now. I apologise for rambling. Let me be brief: I would not seek certainty with this magia, for you might find answers where they are not. The wisest of men are those who can admit what they do not know. A man who is convinced he is being watched has a sleepless night, only to wake and find his cloak hung above his bed. That would be my advice, if I were so bold to give it, and if you were so foolish to take the advice of one whose wisdom resulted in them being enslaved."

"Somehow, I doubt it was your fault you became a slave," Skippii said. "You remind me of my old tutor, Thales, speaking in lessons. I'll take your advice, about the untrained stallion. I will control the urges."

"Will you train them?" Clidensis asked, a flicker of excitement in his voice. "I might be able to help, if so. My father was an ordinator. He trained professional magi, enabling them to turn the raw energy of the Gods into a set of specific, wieldable skillset. It's called an ordinatio–a system of order, from chaos. Imagine turning a lump of ore into a key. That's how my father used to describe it to me."

"We shall see," Skippii said, turning away. "But, if I've been unknowingly forged into an axe for some evil master to wield, then why sharpen the blade? I'd sooner act with caution, and toss the axe into a lake if it proves itself tainted."

"The axe…" Clidensis said, confused. "Are you talking about yourself? Of suicide?"

A hardness crept over Skippii's heart as he met the slave's gaze. "I'm talking about duty."

"Oh," Clidensis said, bowing their head gravelly. "How do you feel? What does your heart say of this power?"

"I think, if this power really is mine to wield, I could use it in service of the legion. I could dominate our enemy. But…" He shook his head.

"If you need any assistance with this errand–with exploring it, and training it–I am at your disposal, legio."

"We'll see, but thanks." Unsure of how to feel about the situation, Skippii resolved to be purely practical, just as he had been taught. "I must ask something of you."

"My secrecy," Clidensis said. "You have it. You need not ask. I understand."

"Thank you," Skippii said, then paused to consider his next words carefully. "I am in your debt."

Clidensis laughed. "A slave has no debtors."

About them, the auxiliaries' campfires cast shadows on the canopy above. A glow rose from behind the palisade walls in a meadow beyond, and familiar smells of the camp wafted on the wind: cured leather, sodden clothes and pack animals, all seasoned with a clinging wood-smoke.

"Aequentia was my mother's too, you know," Skippii said, a lightness in his heart. "If I remember correctly, that means your name isn't Clidensis at all?"

The young slave bowed his head shyly, fidgeting with the hem of his cloak. "My name is whatever is written in the legion's records."

"Oh stop that," Skippii chided. "So you're a slave, so what? You don't have to act so pathetic. Be a man-" Biting his tongue, Skippii realised the contradiction of what he was saying.

Aequentia attracted the worship of artists and eccentrics, such as his mother. Growing up, there had been no shrine in their wagon, nor daily prayer, but she always carried a beaded necklace. As she rubbed it between her fingers, meditating on the wagon's perch during the long march, a tranquility spread from her, draping their nomadic home in an ever-present calm. She had rarely shared her deity with Skippii, only to endow him with one crucial mantra: "It is the right of everyone to choose their own path, so long as they follow the truth within."

"So… it's Cliae, then?" Skippii said. "I presume that was your name before?"

"That's right," Cliae said carefully, as though stepping on eggshells. "Do you mind?"

"No, I don't mind. It's not like you're special. Cur has a nickname, and now so do you." Skippii punctuated it with a teasing grin.

Cliae winced. "To be likened to such a grouch."

"Come on," Skippii said, pushing them ahead of him like a pack mule. "Get a move on. If we spend any longer chatting, all the bread and meat will be gone."

"Doesn't make a difference to me," Cliae said quietly.

"It told you, didn't I? For your oath, I'm in your debt."

The slave turned around, hungry eyes glistening hopefully.

"You can have my crust," Skippii said with an evil grin. "Keep it up, and I might throw you a bone."

Though, the choices before him were difficult–perilous–he was not without a choice. And that lifted his heart out of shadow. But the relief was brief. Stopping at the edge of their campfire's light, his heart dropped.

Hood pulled deeply over her face, awaiting in the shadows was an arcanus. The ceremonial standard rested in her lap, its silver plates catching the firelight, glinting like executioner's sabers, imbued with the power to commune with the Gods.

A power from which he could no longer hide.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.