Ten days after the battle was won, the last of the city's ash was swept away by the winds. Only a single ember remained beyond the hearth of homesteads and campfires: nestled within Skippii's core burned a flame eternal. The power of the Primordial earth, his with each breath, smouldering in his heart.

"Safe journey." Skippii shook the arm of Fulmin. There was strength in the young man's grip, and colour in his cheeks again. All about them, sailors bound over the wharf to untie the ropes which held a fleet of freight ships in Nerithon's harbour. The large bows tugged against their reigns as the tide receded, and time came for the fleet to depart.

"My journey will be safer than yours, I think," he said.

Skippii smiled, and held the embrace a moment longer looking into his companion's eyes. There, a dozen promises were held, each belonging to a member of their companeight. Though Fulmin was to retire to Auctoritas, crippled–but not severely so–his duties as a legionnaire had not ended. Oionis was to accompany him. The slave steered a mule at his side, laden with trinkets and plunder, destined for each of their homes. And nested deep within one carrysack were eight letters, meant for the eight families who remained in Tonnage VI, Companeight IV.

"Remember," Skippii said. "She said she would go to Virelia. Look for a farmstead somewhere. She lives alone, but she won't be alone. She'll have found someone to help."

"I know," Fulmin smiled. "I remember. Or at least Oionis will."

"Tell her I'm safe," Skippii said. "But… don't mention…"

Fulmin snorted. "I wouldn't dare. How would I even explain it?"

"You may tell my mother for certain, and in detail," Tenoris said. "Let her know that I am the vassall of a great champion. But first, let my father and brothers look upon my corona muralis. Oh, their spirits shall be so lifted, that the harvest shall be a dance each day that my deeds are on their minds."

Tenoris' heavy hand rocked Skippii as it slapped his shoulder. His knees bent, but he hid the weakness from his expression. His body had not been the same since his confrontation with Cosmipox–the incursor god himself. Too much of his life's essence had been piled on the conflagration–too much of his own strength had burned away. A shadow encroached on his mind, but he shook it away. The day was too brilliant for such dark thoughts as those.

"What strength is mine, let it be yours." Skippii released Fulmin's grasp and stepped away. Present upon the crowded boardwalk was his whole companeight. They each gave their final goodbyes. Drusilla and Kaesii bayed like bulls on the range.

"Find a wife, Fulmin," said Kaesii.

"My father will seat you at his table," said Drussilla. "You would make a fine Summitus man if you do not return to the slums of Vestia."

Kaesii raised his voice above him. "Find a wife who is well social, who has many friends for us to pick from when we make our return."

"Make sure to buy land," Orsin added sagely above the two. "Get your own smithy. Learn a trade."

"Sod that," Cur shouted. "Just get laid."

Fulmin turned, half way to the galley, and raised his left arm in salute. His right was torn and bandaged–affixed to his chest. The physicians had done all they could, and foretold that it would never move properly again. But he still breathed, and that meant the world to Skippii.

Above, the ship's white sails were slowly unfurled. Four gangplanks crossed onto the freight, loading livestock and legionnaires. Many were from their cohort–the Second–who had been first into the frey upon the battle of Nerithon. But more numerous were captured slaves–Urkun men with sunken expressions, their faces hidden from the sun. Bound, they dragged their feet into the lower holds beneath the watchful eyes of sailors. Their lives in Auctoria would be hard. Skippii wondered if there were any among them who did not deserve such a fate. He feared the truth was more cruel than he cared to know.

A commotion nearby caught his eye. An ox, afraid of the gangplank, or perhaps sensing its impending slaughter, fought against its ropes. Its rump battered the line of slaves. Several fell before the beasts' wranglers could wrestle it back under control. Skippii watched, and felt a peculiar ache in his heart. He had felt it once before, weeks ago, when the Coven had captured him ready for ceremonious slaughter. Alongside him had been Urkun–men and women, the old. They had not appeared as fighters. Victims of this war. But they were still his enemy while he fought under the Imperator's banner, were they not?

The whip cracked. The slaves rose sluggishly, prompted by pain. But one clutched his head and would not rise. The whip was raised, but Cliae dashed to the slave's side.

"Wait," they said, raising an arm. "Give him a moment."

The whip hung suspended in the arm of a sailor–a short, stocky man with the blue sash of a Brenti citizen, the same as the legion's javeliners wore.

"Join him if you want," the Brenti man said.

"Whoa there. Hold off." Skippii strode to his side. Even before his transformation at the Sleeping Mountain, he had been tall–all legionnaires required at least six feet in height. Now, he was three or four inches taller still, well muscled and garbed with the Imperator's own crimson cloak. Though his shoulders sagged, and beneath his armour hid a fatigue which sleep or remedies would not rid.

Behind, his companeight turned to face the sailor. The presence of seven legionnaires spoke louder than any threat. The sailor shuffled aside while Cliae helped the man to his feet. There seemed an instant bond formed between the two; the ties of compassion. Then he was dragged away over the gangplank and below deck.

"Hey," Skippii said. "It must be. Don't lament."

Cliae took a long shaking breath and stared out towards the horizon.

Sunlight, glittering off the waves, formed a silver sheet of the Eúploos sea. Far off to the south was Auctoritas–homeland of the Imperium, and all in his companeight, except him. Skippii only knew those lands in tales told by others, but he carried its essence in his blood. However, he had no desire to go there, not while the enemy was abroad. North and east, the shoreline curved to a point. And further, much further beyond the haze of clouds was a thin line of land: the northernmost stretches of Philoxania.

Leaning on his spear, Skippii squinted into the mirk.

"Where do your eyes wander?" Tenoris asked. His voice was warm. He knew that something was amiss with Skippii's health, but spared him unwarranted pity.

"The Ikaros strait," Skippii said. "Think we can see it from here?"

"No chance," Cur said.

"On a clear day, you might see the city," said Arius. His eagle eyes gazed out over the waves. "Do you think we shall march there next? To Ikaros?"

"And beyond, the lands of our enemy," Tenoris said.

"To the Urkunlands?" Kaesii said, voice giddy with a threat. "Yeah, once we're done here, we should bring the fight to them."

"Done here," Cur scoffed. "Don't stay awake waiting for it. You'll be awake for a few years. Or more."

"Why the wait?" Tenoris said. "What must be done now, but to rally the legions and march forth?"

"Lots," Cur said. The old veteran turned to face the freight ship. Fulmin had since gone below deck, and the gangplanks were being raised, ready to depart. "Are we finished here?"

"Ceremonious as ever," Orsin said. "Listen, I'll meet you back at the tower later. I've got some old Brenti pals to catch up with."

"Will there be wine?" Drusilla asked.

"They don't drink wine," Orsin said. "But there'll be something for you if you come along."

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"Can't," Skippii said. "Don't want to be drunk for the Imperator's audience."

"Neither do I," Tenoris said.

"You were invited?" Cur scowled.

"Where the primordial heres goes, I, his vassal, shall follow."

"Yeah, yeah." Cur waved him off. "Brenti booze would knock you on your arse anyway. You're a liquor-lizard."

So their majority departed, leaving Tenoris, Cliae and Skippii in Nerithon's harbour.

"When are your summons?" Tenoris asked. "Might we visit the Ninth now? I am tired of the smell of salt and decay."

"The evening," Skippii said. "But, I'd rather get back to the tower. I need to collect my thoughts." And rest, he thought.

Cliae gave him a knowing smile. He could hide little of his emotions from the scribe, nor his fatigue.

"For the best, it seems," Tenoris replied. "We had all better wash before we make the Imperator's acquaintance."

Flocks of seagulls battled with sailors and their cats for dominion over the supplies imported from Auctoria. Barrelloads of grain and dried fruits, vases of wine and bales of hay for livestock amounted on the wide cobblestone wharf. Tools and materials had been hauled ashore for the labouring that was required to rebuild the city. However, they were the most crude implements of the Imperium. Soon to follow would be covens of magi dedicated to the masonry Gods. Only then could Nerithon be restored to its former glory.

Skippii walked tall and proud through the crowded streets. Many recognised him now–the hairless sheen of his skin, the absence of eyebrows and a slight orange tinge to his eyes. Citizens made way for him fearfully; legionnaires saluted him, and he always saluted back. No longer did he hide his magia for fear of persecution. Though, neither had he spoken with the Coven of Kylin ever since he and Kylinissa had combined their efforts to repel Cosmipox upon the temple steps. What exactly had happened between them remained a mystery.

Skippii's eyes wandered over the crowd, hoping to catch her face among the masses. Her midnight blue hood sheltering features smooth and fae, pale like marble, hard and discerning. But she did not come for him. No magi did, nor arcanus, nor lowly acolyte. An intrepid truce hung between him and the Coven of Kylin. But it would not be long before they crossed paths again. Perhaps that evening, when he was to meet with the Imperator, they would be there, and their truce would be tested.

The wind turned, and Skippii held his breath not to gag. They had ventured upon a forum, or at least, what had once been a democratic place. Now, its steps were heaped with corpses. The enemy had hid within its walls once the battle was lost, bitterly fighting the legions to their ends. Even many who surrendered had been slain. But the worst of the carnage had not been committed by the legions, but by the citizens themselves. The liberated peoples turned on their neighbors, in retribution and in cruelty. Old grudges were repaid, scores settled, and the toll was high–highest most amongst the paler-skinned of the populace, their half-breed siblings.

For six nights, Nerithon screamed. Only on the seventh had its torture subsided. Now, the bodies of the Urkun were piled into carts by slaves to be dragged far away from the city streets.

"Diamortis gorges, and grows greedier with every bite." Tenoris raised his cloak to his mouth. "We must burn these bodies, so that their butchery does not find his table of dining."

"You think I should help?" Skippii asked reluctantly.

"Such a task is fit for the slaves," Tenoris said, then his eyes shot to Cliae. "That is, the slaves of our enemy."

"It has to be done by someone," Cliae agreed quietly. "Can we walk around, though? I can't stand the stench?"

"The cyclopses?" Skippii said. "Yeah, I was hoping you'd ask. I didn't want to be the first."

"Nor I," Tenoris said. "But I would rather keep my breakfast were it lay."

Taking a wide route, they headed towards the southerly wall, and there, walked in its shadow towards their lodgings. But still, the stench met them where the winds broke against Nerithon's walls. As they turned a corner, Skippii stopped to let a procession of carts pass. They carried, not bodies whole, but chunks of foetid meat: butchery of the five huge corpses of cyclops which had made it over the city walls during the siege, only to be felled by Cosmipox's emissary. Now, they lay baking in the hot spring sun. Piteous slaves worked all hours of the day to excavate their rotting flesh from the city's streets and rooftops.

"At least the lands will be fertile with the spreading of such ashes," Tenoris said, cloak bunched about his mouth.

"Here, let's get out of the stench." Skippii led them into the nearest tower and up its steps onto the walls of Nerithon. Gone were the bodies and banners of the enemy. Now, the emblems of the legions flew proudly atop the battlements. A stiff wind furrowed their cloaks. Skippii planted his spear, suddenly dizzy, but found his knees weak once more. Leaning atop the parapet, he gazed over the city, hiding his fatigue as a moment of pensiveness.

"There he goes," Tenoris said, looking towards the far harbour.

The last of the legion's ships were drifting out to sea. Thirty, or more, he counted. Homeward bound, but soon to return.

"I hope he finds her," Skippii said. His fingers brushed his broach and he whispered his mother's name. "Ardenia."

"I shall make a prayer to Lacustris for his fortuitous travels," Tenoris said. "For I know, it is not your nature to pray any longer."

Skippii bit his lip. He preferred to avoid the subject of the Pantheon when it came to his allies; the question of his primordial magia threatened to draw divisions where he desperately needed their strength. "Does it bother you?"

"Not at all," he said, softer than usual. "For it was Kylin's winds who joined with your own fires to usurp the heretic at Chrysaetos' temple. There is a twining between you and the Gods. I sense it in my heart."

Tenoris turned a smile on him. "Besides, I am devout enough to pray for us both."

Skippii sighed, his heart a little easier, and gazed upon Nerithon from up high. At first, the city had overwhelmed him to look upon. So much construct and intricacy was alien to him; he had always lived among the legion's formal tents and pavilions, its ditches and low palisade walls. Nerithon was a colossus to them. White stone sprawled, crawled and climbed like a living fungus towards the shore. Timber sprouted from their brick bases, branching out to seize space, competing like saplings of a forest. Roadways cut through the disorder, winding like slackened rope draped over the chaotic streets. And in all was life. Desperate life, clinging to what remained of their city.

As they watched, wares from the Auctorian ships were hauled to Nerithon's central marketplace near the western gatehouse. A procession of citizens crowded the tradesmen, if not to purchase, then at least to celebrate their arrival. But Skippii saw their masses in a different light, tainted by memory. There, he and his companions had made a stand against the Urkun defenders, and pushed their way towards the temple of Chrysaetos–the enemy's last stand.

He remembered having spotted the temple from afar atop the southern hills some weeks ago; then, its marble had gleamed like a pearl, concealing what evil lay within. Now, it was dull and burnished, stained with soot that no meagre rains could cleanse. His and Kylinissa's Firestorm had done that. Acolytes worked with buckets and brushes to restore the temple to its former glory.

"Hail Firewalker." Three legionnaires patrolled the walltop, and saluted him as they passed. Skippii returned the salute, and looked each of them in the eye. They were of the Fifth Legion–veterans each, grim faced and sharp tempered. The smell of smoke lingered on their cloaks, and dried blood stained the white of their leather thorax armour–worn almost as a warning. Fatigued as he was, Skippii was grateful that they were his allies.

"Glory Auctoritas," he returned.

"You're not the only one burnin' 'em." One gave him a cruel wink, and their patrol moved on.

Here upon the walls, the Fifth Legion held the towers as their lodgings. Their sigils flew from the battlements, and from the rooftops of estates within the city–taken either by decree or by force. Only one such luxury had been spared for the Ninth Legion, and the Imperator had assigned it to their companeight. Their tower stood at the corner of the battements where the south and western walls met. It was the very same tower which he and Tenoris had climbed when they assaulted the city.

Leaning on his spear, Skippii continued their trek. "I hope we do not stay here long, in the city. I don't want to wait for the enemy to make the next move. I want to stay ahead of them. You're right, Tenoris. We should march on their lands, if that's possible."

"Anything is possible for us," Tenoris beamed.

"You may underestimate them," Skippii said, but withheld the further truth: Tenoris overestimated him, and his strength. Not only did he need more time to recover, he needed to discover the means of recovery. Though, in recent days, he had possessed an incline. Only, it was no quick feat. The Sleeping Mountain–which had first empowered his magia–may be able to restore it.

"Perhaps you should entreat the Imperator to give haste," Tenoris said. "Inform him of our eagerness to meet the enemy. Advise him. Tell him of these incursor gods. He should come to know the gravitas of our plight."

"I'll do my best," Skippii smiled. Tenoris' manner of speaking never ceased to amuse him. "But I might need some help?"

"Oh," Cliae blanched. "Not again. It was so hard the first time, and I had a lot less to say."

"Well, you're coming, whether you like it or not. I need your help."

Cliae laughed nervously. "Maybe if I could collect some tomes from the temple and do my research-"

"No time," Skippii said. "But tomorrow perhaps, we shall return to the temple of Cor. Let's bring the whole companeight, assuming they're not too hungover from Orsin's adventure."

"I hope Eirene is alright," Cliae said. "Do you think she would want to return to the city?"

"She'll have to. Her work is done. She deserves to retire."

"And the library?"

"We'll take it with us," Skippii said. "Whatever we can carry. Nerithon is safe now. It'll serve a better purpose here than in the mountains."

"You're not afraid of what is written there? It… I don't think the Pantheonos will very much like it, not while they're busy cleansing the city of heresy."

"I don't really care," he snorted. "Let them not like whatever they want. It's the truth, right? History, and the Gods and Primordials. There's power in those books, information that will help us fight the incursor gods. I don't care how they feel about it."

Skippii smiled cynically. The Imperator's blessing had emboldened him. Never again would he let the Pantheonos cast fear and doubt in his mind while he strode the righteous path.

"Their minds shall change," Tenoris mused. "They are not fools. What is right shall be clear in the heavens and on earth."

"Yeah," he agreed half-heartedly, then swung the door open on the tower's chamber and sought his bed. "Wake me, would you, when it's time."

Just as the light in his mind dimmed and his thoughts found rest, a hand shook him awake. Hours had passed in a restless blink. Cliae knelt beside him concerned.

"Drink this." They handed him a cup of sweet wine. "And wash, or we may be late."

Tenoris paced across the chamber in a fluster. "Indeed we should not be late. Hurry Skip, for our company's reputation depends upon it."

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