To Chrysaetos' radiant halls, the pantheon was summoned. Each rose from their domain at their own pace. Quickest to come was Hespera, ever eager for the sun God's light. And lastly was Maricorus, from the ocean's depths. The lesser Gods were not given entry. The counsel was to be supreme.

"Cor has borne a prodigy. A child of man," said Chrysaetos.

"That is not possible," said Sesmorix, keeper of the Primordial earth. "His tomb holds. His strength is my domain."

"And mine," rumbled the mountain God Summitor.

"It is so," said Chrysaetos. "My own light reveals it."

Hespera opened her mind to speak, but a touch from Oyaltun gave her pause. Ever since the child of power had awoken his powers true, Hespera had caught glimpses of him. But an icy shroud deceived her. Yet nothing could cloud Hespera's sight for long, and as the war below raged, his power was revealed in truth. The child of power had possessed a glint of her own essence–a tunic of resplendent moonlight. How it had come to him, she could only guess her sister had a part to play.

Oh, but Oyaltun was so lovely, so pure of heart. And she would be so helpless if the ire of their company was turned upon her. And so, Hespera held her peace until a time when they were alone.

"What is it? What is it?" Aequentia danced about her, pestering. The childish asteroid traced her form with their fingers, prodding and prying for attention.

"Hush," said Hespera.

"I know you have a secret."

"Silence, I said."

None others paid Aequentia any heed. They were ever in a giddy mood, gibbering about secrets. Seldom was there any substance to their ramblings.

"I know already. I know already." Aequentia giggled. "More than you. But not more than her."

Hespera fixed the asteroid with her brightest, stinging gaze. With a sudden flash terror, they fled from her sight. Hiding at her back, they muttered and raved, tossing dice to determine the fates of souls below.

"He has contested one of our kin, and emerged victorious." Chrysaetos' mind silenced the mutterings about his hall. "The void, whose shadows span our realm, and reach my very steps. Cosmipox, of the new arrivals."

"Incursors," spat Maricorus. Only he had the gall to interrupt Chrysaetos' speech. "Speak in truth, serpent. These are no brothers and sisters who come to our realm for communion. They are a blight. Lacustris' river waters are turned to sewage in their lands, and they spew into my oceans. Long have I contested their merrit to be here. Long have I desired to oppose them."

"And long you have abided faithfully," said Chrysaetos. "And within your merit, Oceanlord. But these are matters of the lands, and the lives on earth. When we first came here there was much change, and now I see the need for change again."

"War." Kylin's voice was thunder. "War. We have war. The hour of the storm is arrived. Death. I shan't be idle anymore."

"Alas, but who is our foe?" Chrysaetos' mind shone through the clouds. "Our kin, darkened as they are, from wayward stars. Or the element of our power? Our slaves, who now forge an uprising? What are we without their mana?"

Suddenly, his light wavered. His voice flickered. A shadow was revealed inside the sun–a binding coil of twisting submission. The serpent–Chrysaetos' true form. It tightened around the heart of the sun, strangling its Primordial host. The light stabilised and once again formed a soft glow.

"Why must it be a choice?" said Maricorus. "Why not drown them both, the child and these villains? Combined, we are undeniable."

"You have counselled us patience," said Erymenes, flame-son of the sun. "But too much patience, and we grow stiff, and rigid, and brittle. What delays you, my liege?"

"Advantage," said Chrysaetos. "We may banish the newcomers from our lands, but what then is to be gained? The realm once more within our domain. But it has been so for aeons. Does something not grow stale? Should we not at least entertain this change?"

"This change has ruined my gardens," said Frumentar, Harvestweaver. "It has exterminated life. It has twisted my brother's creations."

"My own lesser kin are disfigured by their malice," said Arctheros, Beastmaster. "I can temper it no more. We must have war."

"Alas," said Chrysaetos. "War and peace must be balanced evenly. And terms set by equals of nature. A contest, not a massacre. Come now, and join your minds in armistice. Behold, our distant kin."

A sunbeam glittered to the earth below, and on it rose a dreadful form. Horror struck Hespera, to see the sun's light blighted so. Aequentia's ramblings ceased. Oyaltun recoiled from the stench of its mind. Kylin growled and descended her lightning claws. All the Gods watched, their powers surmounting, but none were so brave as to defy Chrysaetos' will. And so, the incursor approached his halls.

Then, tall waves crashed against the shore. Maricorus departed their counsel. Oyaltun disappeared into the shadows of thought. In a flash, Kylin vanished, and her storm with her. The seasonal and earthly Gods–Siesmorix, Frumentar, Viridoe, Arctheros and Lacustris–all retreated to their realms. But Summitor remained, silent and mountainous. Hespera retreated to the fringes of the sun's light–placing the earthly realm between them. And there, she peered upon the remaining counsel. Aequentia clutched at her back, shaking with fear.

Up into the heavens, the sickly form rose. And into Chrysaetos' welcome council. A bell tolled in Hespera's heart. She knew then that the pantheon was over. The alliance of Gods was tarnished. What allies had she remaining? What new enemies amongst her kin?

"Hush," she whispered to Aequentia. "Do not shut your eyes, little one. The truth will find us in the end, no matter its burden. Think now, roll your dice. What new reality is this? What new realm shall be wrought."

Her attention returned to the earthly realm. There within the thin walls of a tent lay the Primordial child, a mist of ice concealing his aura. But, for once, Oyaltun parted her wards and let in her stare. She watched him sleep, assessing his heart, and discovered much that she had not guessed.

"What indeed of alliances old and new?"

***

The sea air was pleasant and warm. The spring sunlight felt soft on his skin. The ground was firm underfoot, pulsing with a radiant energy. Skippii closed his eyes and whispered to himself.

"If this is a dream, wake me now. Don't play cruel tricks."

But upon opening his eyes, he saw the legion's master-standard: a golden eagle with six wings and three heads, glimmered proudly in the sunlight. It had been two days since the second battle of Nerithon, and Legion IX was arrayed before Nerithon's walls. The Imperator strode down their ranks, bestowing medals and speaking with the legionnaires. He had started eastward with Cohort I–the Iron Cohort–and now came upon Cohort II.

Those of their comrades who were too injured to stand lay upon cots sipping wine for good health. No other cohort had borne so many wounded as had the Second. They had been at the forefront of the assault on the walls, and the vanguard who conquered the city's centre. Therefore, their wounded were placed at the head of their ranks–prestiged and acclaimed–most noble of men, whose sacrifice had been the greatest. Among them sat Fulmin, his arm torn beyond repair. The blacksmith's son would never hold a spear again, their companeight had sworn to make sure he wouldn't have to.

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Skippii smiled, spotting a friendly face amongst the injured. Cliae knelt beside Fulmin, attending to his needs. As though sensing his eyes, the scribe turned and looked right at him and returned the smile. They had talked only briefly during the last two days; Cliae's duties and Skippii's fatigue had forestalled a proper reunion. He looked forward to the hour that they could share bread and wine, and listen in earnest to Tenoris' retelling of the battle in lengthy detail.

"Glory Imperium Auctoria." Praegesta Summitor saluted and stepped forward to meet the Imperator. The two superiors talked personably–too quiet for Skippii to make out the words. Following behind, a troupe of musicians of the impedimenta played softly–mostly lutes, flutes and the like, but amongst them was a harpist positioned atop a cart, whose delicate notes swooned on the gentle air.

"I'm telling you, if this is a dream-"

"Quiet, Skip," Cur growled. "You're not dreaming. Stop talking to yourself."

"How's the head?" Orsin asked tenderly.

Ever since his encounter with the incurser god, Skippii's mind had felt fragmented. Visions sprung upon him all hours of the day, and his sense of self felt tentative. Leandra–the cohort's medic–had told him it was a concussion. But Kylinissa had seemed unconvinced. However, she had been too busy to assist him. Presently, the Coven and all arcanus were within the city, cleansing the streets alongside Legion V.

Smoke rose from behind the walls. There was liberation, and then there was brutality. Legion V, who had suffered the squall of a belated siege, took their vexes out on the enemy trapped within its walls. A few had barricaded homes and temples, but they were penned by the spears of legionnaires with a well-learned patience.

But more egregious than the Fifth were Nerithon's citizens themselves. So much hatred had festered up during generations of Ürkün occupation, and now it came to boil. There was disorder and murder in the streets. Martial law clung to the leash, but certainly, there was preferential treatment to Philoxenian citizens–or at least, those who appeared like them. Skippii wondered where that left half-Ürkün–those whose stock had bread with the invaders. Presently, it was their Imperator's wish to let the dogs fight it out. In the days to come, the storm would abide, and order could return.

"Look," Kaesii said, nodding to their flank. "They're reinstating him."

Skippii shook himself from woeful thoughts and returned his attention to the procession. Custos Maritor had stepped forward from among the five other Primus of Cohort II to receive the Imperator's grace. Apparently, the Primus had been demoted for a short time, but all of that seemed to be forgiven. What's more, their Octio Spurius Altivus was nowhere to be seen.

"I'm gonna get Octio," Cur grumbled. "Come on. I've earned it, haven't I?"

Orsin snorted. "You'll never get a promotion. Accept it."

The Imperator nodded and shook Maritor's hand, taking a brooch from a tray which a servant held and slipping it onto their Primus' wrist.

"What metal is it?" Drusilla asked.

"Silver," Arius said.

"You can see that from here?" Kaesii asked.

Cur shushed them.

"Oh, shut up, you," Orsin said.

The wrinkled veteran glowered at his fellow, but Orsin's gaze held firm.

"Let them chat, they've earned it."

Kaesii snickered. "He's still upset about Mary."

"Don't speak her name," Cur spat.

They each held back laughter; Cur's spear, which Skippii had destroyed to kill the heretic magus, had been a sore subject for two days.

"It was a good death," Tenoris said. "Better than any could hope."

After a pause, Cur sighed. "I suppose."

"I'll get you another one," Skippii said.

"Name her Mirander," Kaesii sniggered.

"Maisy," Drusilla offered. "Does it have to be an M?"

"Yeah, yeah," Cur relented. "Laugh it up."

As the Imperator strode before their ranks, all went silent. Their supreme commander spoke loudly for the whole of Cohort II to hear.

"My finest legionnaires, you make me proud to call myself Auctorian. Your superiors have made a fine job of training and leading you. But if it wasn't for your valour, their will could not be done. My will could not be done. It is due to your bravery, and the sacrifice of your wounded and dead, that Nerithon now stands before us, liberated for all the free world to embrace. And it is due to your brilliance–your unyielding spirit–that the heretic magus is dead. Say what you want of the Coven and their assistance that day, it was the Second Cohort who stormed the city gates; it was the Second Cohort who climbed the temple steps; it was the Second Cohort who drove a spear into the heretic's core."

Vexillum cawed like a crow, and all the cohort took up his jubilation, cheering and raising their fists to the sky. Even those bed-ridden before them raised a hand, if they could, and Fulmin sat up straight with Cliae's support, staring into his Imperator's eyes.

Patiently, the Imperator waited for their cheers to diminish, not hurrying them in the slightest.

"Each of you shall receive a stipendium as reward-"

A resounding hurrah drowned him out as the legionnaires rejoiced. A trumpet blazed, short and sweet, requesting their silence.

"Each of you shall receive a stipendium as reward," the Imperator repeated, "But some amongst you have earned better. Foremost, Septimus Tenoris. Step forward, legionnaire."

"What?" Tenoris blanched, frozen in place.

"Word must have gotten around," Skippii said slyly, pushing his companion forth. "Go see what he wants."

Dumbfounded, Tenoris limped down the rows of injured legionnaires to his Imperator's side. Skippii beamed as he watched Tenoris clumsily salute, shaking like a canopy in a gale. The Imperator extended a hand, and Tenoris grasped it. Though he was taller and broader, somehow he seemed dwarfed by Titus Vireliix's presence.

"Turn and face the legion," the Imperator commanded, taking Tenoris' arm and spinning him around. "This man was first upon the walls. Do any dispute this claim?"

The decree was relayed by superiors down the legion's ranks. Five-thousand men watched the big farmhand stand nervously beside their Imperator, and all remained silent.

"The Corona Muralis." The Imperator summoned one of his aids, and took the crown from atop a velvet cushion. Tenoris knelt before him, and the Imperator placed the golden crown atop his head.

"Yeah!" Skippii cheered, and a wave swept from him as other legionnaires joined his call. There was not one amongst the five-thousand who did not raise their voices in respect, nor one of their superiors who did not face Tenoris and salute. Trumpets blurted an improvised fanfare, lovely in its disorder, and all their voices echoed off the city walls beyond.

Tenoris rose to his feet and returned to the companeight, helmet in hand, golden crown upon his head.

"Hold me," he said, leaning on Skippii. "Unconsciousness approaches."

Cur laughed loudly, but not wickedly. He laced his arm under Tenoris' shoulder to aid him. "What do you say to a game of dice, kid? Wager the crown, won't you?"

"Cur!" Kaesii admonished.

"Fuck off, I'm joking, velvet," Cur spat, his tone shifting in a heartbeat. "Unless, of course, our hero feels like his luck hasn't run out yet."

Next, the Imperator handed out accolades for lesser deeds committed by Cohort II's legionnaires. Among them, Orsin and Fulmin received honours for assisting in slaying the Apertrox on the approach to Nerithon some days prior. Orsin returned to their companeight's ranks, fondly twisting the bronze brand, placing it in the company of his others.

"Comes with another stipendium," he smirked.

Arius whistled. "Two in one day."

"Yeah," Orsin mused happily. "Maybe I won't send all of this one home."

"Whores?" Cur asked eagerly.

Orsin tutted. "Don't cheapen my moment."

"Skippii Altay."

Skippii froze, a grin chiselling his face as he slowly looked up at his Imperator. This time, it was Tenoris who pushed him forward.

"Remember it well," he said.

Ever since the battle, Skippii had not spoken officially with his superiors about his desertion. But now, it was impossible to ignore. A truth which he'd rather forget rose to the forefront of his mind. Mouth dry, chest tight, he came before his Imperator and saluted, then bowed his head, and knelt in shame.

"Stand."

Skippii drew a little magia from the earth, encouraging his heart, and rose to face his master.

The Imperator stared deeply into his eyes. Two amber gems gleamed with wisdom and a crystalline discipline. He extended a brawny hand. Skippii shook it, holding his gaze.

"We have much to discuss," his Imperator said plainly. "But in no haste. I shall arrange some time, and we shall talk at length. However, for now, know this. Any transgressions… Any bad feelings between allies… Ill deeds, desertions: All are done." Firmly, he pulled Skippii in close and spoke slowly. "I was right to give you my blessing. You honour me."

Taking two bracelets from a tray–one bronze, one silver–he placed them on Skippii's wrist. Then, he removed the fastens of his golden breastplate which held his cloak, and extended his palm.

"Your brooch."

Cautiously, Skippii unclasped mother's brooch from his wrist and placed it in Imperator's hand. The tattered cloak which it had held had long since burned–all but Hespera's tunic had been consumed in the Firestorm of his and Kylinissa's making. He had since redressed and re-armed, but had not the boldness to claim a cloak for himself.

"A fine metalwork," the Imperator said. "Simple, sturdy. Auctoritan."

"It was my mothers," Skippii said. "Ardenia Altay. She gave me it before I left for disciplinia training."

"Turn," he commanded. "She must be proud."

Skippii swallowed a sudden surge of triumph as he faced his legion. All his companeight stared back in awe. Silently, the Imperator fastened his very own cloak around Skippii's shoulders. The fine red cloth was hemmed white and embroidered with golden thread, bearing the initials 'IX' on the rear.

"There," the Imperator said, patting his shoulder. "Now there can be no doubt that you have always been a legionnaire."

Skippii wept without restraint, nor shame, as he returned to his companeight's arms. They embraced him, and all the legion sang his name.

"Skippii, heretic slayer. Skippii, firebrand. Skippii of Chrysaetos. Skippii, Second Cohort."

Chin aloft, Tenoris raised his voice above the roar and bellowed to the heavens. "Skippii Altay, son of Cor."

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