Chapter Text
Light Calendar Year 4936, Day 7, Month of Freedom
The makeshift splint for his leg — made out of torn cloth and old wood — serves its purpose well enough. Phainon, golden blood-blessed, heals faster than the average soldier. Soon, flesh and bone knit back together; wounds vanish, leaving behind unblemished skin. Yet, there was an ache in his chest that lingers. His cheeks sting still, and the tips of his fingers, where he clings tightly to Mydei’s cloak as if it would disintegrate into the wind, are numb and cold and unfeeling.
Phainon follows a river upstream towards the towering, radiant statue in the distance, pausing only briefly to scrub the ichor from his clothes to the best of his ability. The black mass that had congregated at Castrum Kremnos had dissipated save for a few stragglers, the divine light they were chasing now extinguished. At the point where the rushing water lightens from black to a soft violet hue, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the dromas whistle. The object had been a smooth, lacquered wooden piece when he had left for Castrum Kremnos; now, after the gruelling battle, it is chipped and dented. When Phainon blows into it, it lets out a shrill, off-pitched sound. The few birds nestling in the surrounding trees -- a miracle considering the blight that is the Black Tide -- take flight with startled squawks.
He waits, huddling beneath a small outcropping, settling his sword and Mydei’s cloak aside. A few sticks and a rock build a makeshift fire. The flames dance before his eyes, brilliant shades of red and gold. He prods the small fire with a branch. Sparks jump onto his skin. Pink welts form on his palms. Phainon stares at the reddening flesh, feeling a warm tingling spread up his forearm, then snatches his hand back. The stick he was holding drops to the ground with a hiss, the smoke curling from its ends. Flames lick up its length, consuming it entirely.
Phainon cradles his burnt hand to his chest and draws up his knees until he can rest his chin on them.
“Sorry,” he tells the fire. His voice scratches uncomfortably in his throat. He leans his head back against the rough rock, then curls in on himself tighter.
“Sorry,” he says again, quieter, letting the crackle of burning wood fill the silence.
A man ducks into the small shelter. He is dressed for battle, toned muscles rippling under red-marked skin. Clawed golden gauntlets gleam under the firelight when he moves to settle against the wall. Phainon tracks his movement tiredly, his gaze lingering on the way the man sits, regal, with poise. The blood-red cloak he wears, a twin to the one carefully folded at Phainon’s side, is thick, and drags along the dusty floor.
“Stop it,” Phainon whispers. He picks at the peeling flesh at the base of his nails, letting the sting of torn skin ground him. “You’re not real.”
The man’s eyes — bloodied amber, molten gold — flick over to Phainon. His lips twitch, the ghost of a smile darting across his features. His mouth moves, a soundless command.
The ground trembles with the impact of heavy footsteps. Far away, a dromas’ low call echoes.
Phainon stands abruptly, hoisting his sword over his back and gathering his belongings. He kicks dirt into the fire, extinguishing it and plunging the small shelter into darkness. His jaw aches when he pulls his lips into a smile.
He stalks out from under the outcropping, his stride purposeful. When he looks back, the man is gone.
The journey back to Okhema is a silent one, save for the low rumbles of the dromas Phainon sits on and the crackle of dead leaves under its feet. Castorice used to say they are gentle, sensitive creatures, able to sense grief and mourning, amongst other human feelings. Phainon hunches over the reins, unconsciously tightening his grip on them when he feels a cold numbness spread from the tips of his fingers. Mydei’s gauntlet rests, its weight heavy and unfamiliar, on his shoulder.
“What good,” Phainon whispers, tucking his chin close to his chest, the smile on his face gone, “is a hero, when he can’t save anyone?”
The dromas croons lowly in response.
“I couldn’t save him,” Phainon tells it. Eight graves lie empty in the Garden of Life. When Phainon returns alone, there will be one more built. The ninth too, would be empty, with no body and no casket beneath the earth. “I couldn’t save any of them.”
If he had been born earlier, could he save the lives of the Heirs he had never met? If there was a way to transcend time and defy their fates, can he rewrite their endings?
Time.
Phainon jolts upright, letting go of the reins in the process. The dromas makes a low noise of protest, but continues its steady gait forward towards Kephale’s Dawn Device in the distance.
Oronyx’s Coreflame is still unclaimed. The Titan lingers, alone, in the Temple of the Three Fates in Janusopolis, waiting for a successor.
If Phainon could pass Oronyx’s trial, claim Their Coreflame for himself, and use the Titan’s powers to traverse time and rewrite fate, maybe, just maybe…
He could save them. Mydei. Aglaea. Tribbie. He could save all of them. Then, they could work together again to usher in the end of their journey.
Phainon reaches out, patting hurriedly on the dromas’ scaly neck. “Turn around,” he tells it, urgency in his voice. “Please. I need to go to Janusopolis.”
The dromas chuffs indignantly, but it turns with a swish of its long, heavy tail.
Child of Prophecy, Oronyx says. Their voice is both a waterfall’s roar and the gentle trickle of water rolling over rocks. The sound reverberates through Phainon’s bones. Why do you seek the Coreflame of Time? This is not your destiny.
“Because I want to save them!” Phainon all but shouts at the giant, spectral mass in front of him. “I have to save them!”
Their fates have already been written. Their stories have reached their conclusions. Time is an infinite cycle with no beginning and end. It will not be changed. This is not your path, One who Calls Himself Deliverer.
“Then who will take your Coreflame?” Phainon demands. “Era Nova will not come to pass unless all twelve Coreflames are returned to the Vortex. You know this. There is no Chrysos Heir willing to shoulder the burden of Time.” Except for him.
Oronyx makes a noise, murmuring in a language Phainon does not understand. They quiet, and silence echoes for an infinity between seconds. You are not meant for this, They say eventually, stubbornly. Your fate lies elsewhere.
Frustration bubbles in Phainon’s chest. Why couldn’t They understand how important it is for him to save everyone? Why must They stand in his way?
Leave this place, Savior—
“Enough, Titan!” Phainon roars. He draws his sword, pointing it at Oronyx’s ghostly figure. Dried gold stains marr its silver edge. Phainon’s grip trembles when he sees his reflection — tired, sunken eyes and weary lines atop a bloodied face — in the blade. “Surrender your Coreflame, or I will take it from you.”
There is a low hum, considering. The Titan quiets again, contemplating Phainon’s words.
I am tired, Oronyx admits begrudgingly. Perhaps I will rest. Very well, Phainon of Aedes Elysiae.
Their form shimmers in the dark, fading into starlight. In front of Phainon’s eyes, obsidian crystal begins to take shape. Phainon sheathes his sword, and reaches out to it.
I am no Prophet, Oronyx whispers, their voice becoming quieter. But I will leave you a warning.
Time is not your friend, Oronyx says. It will not be kind to you. To tamper with it is to break the laws that govern this world. A debt will be demanded. Are you prepared to pay the price, Deliverer of Amphoreus?
A small stone drops into Phainon’s palm. A symbol is carved onto its surface.
“Whatever it takes,” he whispers into the dark. Golden blood drips from his hand, where the ridges of the Titan’s Coreflame digs into his skin.
Even if it takes countless rounds, even if Phainon must suffer unbearable pain, even if he fails, again and again and again…
“Whatever it takes.”
Mydei’s grave is a simple thing — the gravestone is a slab of marble lined with brass, fashioned by the forge-burned hands of Chartonus. A small mound of dirt sits at its foot. Beneath the dirt lies what little was left of Mydei’s belongings and Kremnoan symbols of war — ornate spears, ceremonial armor. It is ritualistic, Krateros had told him, when they stood over the finished grave. Offerings, for a god who could no longer hear prayers. Gifts that could never be received by the once-guardian of Amphoreus.
“For you,” Krateros had murmured too, when the Kremnoan procession had dispersed, dropping a small piece of metal into his palm. “He sent this back with his last message.”
“Oh,” Phainon had said quietly, thumbing over the signet ring he had given to Mydei, all those years ago.
In another life, Mydei had said.
Phainon had tried to imagine it. Mydei. Him. No wars, no Black Tide, no Titans, no Prophecy. Just them. Maybe they would own one chimera. Or two. Maybe five. They would be menaces, scratching at the expensive wool carpets and the wooden shelves of Mydei’s library. Mydei would threaten to kick them out; Phainon would have adored them.
Another life. Just not this one.
“Thank you,” Phainon had choked out, sliding the ring onto his finger.
Krateros had offered the shadow of a smile, something like regret flickering in his gaze. Then, he had squeezed Phainon’s shoulder, and left with what remained of Kremnos’ citizens, leaving Phainon alone in the Garden of Life.
Slowly, Phainon sinks to his knees, fixing his gaze on the nameless slate in front of him.
“Give me some time,” Phainon murmurs. “I promise I’ll—”
“Mister Phainon!” a child shouts from behind him. Phainon whirls, a hand on his sword. “Please, please, help!”
“You—” Phainon starts exasperatedly.
“It’s Miss Cipher! A big group of bad guys showed up, a-and Miss Cipher, s-she told us to r-run a-and—”
Phainon freezes. He scans his surroundings, narrowing his eyes when he spots a figure in black slinking away behind a marble pillar. He tears his gaze back to the child. He looks terrified, and snot and tears drip down his face messily.
“Take me to her,” Phainon orders. The child nods, and sprints in the direction of the market.
“Hiya, boyo,” Cipher says weakly, clutching at a wound in her stomach that dribbled gold. The Spirithief Bartholos flutters around her, making unintelligible, panicked noises. “Maybe you can challenge me to a race and actually win this time.”
“Stop talking,” Phainon snaps, dropping to the ground. “Let me see.”
Cipher chuckles, then breaks off with a sharp inhale. “You can’t do anything. The Cleaners know how to kill a demigod. They hit a whatsyoucallit— ah, an artery. I’m gonna bleed out.” She jerks her head towards a shadowed alley, where three men clothed in black lay limp.
“Shut up, Cifera,” Phainon grits out. He rips off a part of his sleeve, and reaches for Cipher’s wound.
“Don’t you think this is incredibly ironic?” Cipher gasps out. “I’m supposed to be the fastest demigod alive, and they still got me. Well, I guess the Prophecy came true.”
“What?”
“Left pocket,” Cipher says. “There’s a pouch of gold coins in there. One of them stole it from a child — an orphan, mind you — in front of my eyes, then led me straight to their goons when I gave chase. Huh, all those treasures stashed away, and I die for petty gold. Big Sis Tribbie was right. At least those kids won’t go hungry.”
Phainon bandages Cipher’s side, his brow furrowed in concentration. Gold blood seeps through the fabric almost immediately, so he tears off another part of his sleeve and tries again.
“Don’t waste that on little old me,” Cipher says tiredly. “You should just leave me here.”
“I’m not leaving you!” Phainon barks out. Bartholos makes a high-pitched sound of distress, pressing its jelly-like hands to Cipher’s wound in a futile attempt to staunch the bleeding, and letting out shrieks whenever Cipher’s eyes droop.
“Oh, you stubborn thing,” Cipher nearly growls. “And you,” she snaps at Bartholos, who shrinks away with a whine. “Quiet before I sew your mouth shut. Permanently. I’m no Goldweaver, but I’ve picked up a thing or two.”
She sits a little straighter with a wince, then reaches up and pulls off her hoodie in one smooth motion. She tosses the black fabric to the ground, next to Phainon.
“Take that,” she orders. “If the Cleaners got me, they’re definitely looking for you. Consider this a parting gift. It’ll hide you.” She looks at Phainon appraisingly, sizing him up. “Probably.”
“But, Boss!” Bartholos cries finally. “That’s…”
“Aglaea’s. Yeah,” Cipher replies. “Considering that I’m literally going to die within the next few minutes, I might as well do something for dear Deliverer over here, right?”
Bartholos floats closer to Cipher, whispering in her ear.
“Huh? Oh, yeah, that,” Cipher mutters. “Almost forgot.”
“Forgot what?” Phainon asks desperately. His hands are soaked in Cipher’s blood.
“Phainon,” Cipher starts. Her gaze is solemn. “What would happen if everyone believes a lie you tell?”
“I don’t know. It becomes the truth?”
Cipher snorts out a laugh. “Good to know you’re not all muscle-brained. We’ll make a scholar out of you yet. But yeah, full marks. What happens when the liar dies?”
“The truth gets revealed,” Phainon breathes.
Cipher smiles. She raises a finger to her lips in a hushing motion, then winks at him.
“Bingo. Good luck, boyo,” she says. “Try not to die, yeah?”
Above him, Okhema’s sky begins to darken.
You shall walk with greed, and die over petty change.
Rejoice, o’ Titan of Trickery! Let the world know that the Titan scorned by all, the one whose name is spat out like filth, is the one who has saved Amphoreus from a thousand years of night.
In a shadowed corner of Okhema’s Mamoreal Market, a silver-haired girl grins up at the burning sky, golden blood dripping from her lips. Her companion, Spirithief, Titan, vestiges of a god’s memory, giggles as it dances in the air, bowing with flair to an invisible audience.
Sing, o’ muses, of the end of days. Speak, o’ poets, of a dying sun kept alive by a millenia-old lie. Mourn not the death of Cifera the Fleet-Footed, for this is a finale worthy of the Demigod of Trickery, the one who treads upon the thin line between truth and falsehood, the cat who has lived a thousand lives and a thousand lies.
In the Vortex of Genesis, under ten glittering constellations, a lone swordsman stands, gold-slicked hands cupping an ageless black stone.
O’ majesty of the twelve Titans, pillars of the world, we seek your divinity, to mend the rifts of the world.
The basin’s water ripples with an unseen force. The voice of Oronyx rises from a whisper to a crescendo.
Fill our bodies with blood of gold, till we wither in willing service to the prophecy.The stone drops into the water with a quiet plink, and the world explodes into brilliant, blinding white.