Time does not remember heroes. It remembers only victors.
Seventy-three winters had passed since the last great siege of Deviants. Babylon still stood, but the hearts within her walls had grown colder.
At dawn, you always begin your day in the quiet of nature—listening to its hum, attuning yourself to the whispers carried by the land. Call it a force of habit, but over the years, you've learned one truth: when it comes to sensing danger, nature always leads you in the right direction.
With one knee to the ground, your palm pressed against the cooling soil. You close your eyes as the faint inlay of cosmic power spreads from your fingertips.
Inhale. Exhale.
Beneath your closed lids, you whisper to the earth—
Show me.
The soil beneath your palm pulsed—once, then again—an echo not of earth's rhythm, but of something disrupted. A shiver ran up your arm.
From the stillness, the wind stirred. Not a breeze born of morning warmth, but a current laced with urgency. It carried with it the scent of sandalwood smoke—and something bitter underneath. Iron. Ash.
Your breath caught.
Vines near your feet twisted slightly, curling in an unnatural direction. In your mind's eye, the earth answered your call not with words, but with images.
A flash of dark cloth.
A hand—not a child's—gripping a torch.
The flicker of royal gold and black, glinting in the sun—then gone.
A small sandal, singed in the flame.
Your eyes snapped open.
The Deviants had retreated to Celestial realms unknown, to lick their wounds. But another kind of danger was already rising to take their place.
You rose at once, dusting soil from your knees. Whatever this was, it bore no trace of cosmic mutation. Not a monster from the stars. But something… human.
You returned to the city as the sun dipped below the ziggurat's edge. The vision clung to you like dust in the wind, refusing to settle. You knew it would mean something. But not yet. By nightfall, you stood in the Babylonian court—your presence still honored to a certain degree, your voice heard, but rarely heeded. The discussions among King Nabu-shar and his council had shifted. No longer did they speak of shape-shifting beasts assaulting the city's walls. Instead, they debated tensions between rival kingdoms, and unrest cloaked in diplomatic civility.
You stood beside Ajak and the rest of your kin, your back to the towering doors of the Great Hall, quietly observing the chamber.
Then—without warning—the great doors burst open with a thunderous crack. A moment later, a sharp gust swept through the marble hall—then, a small figure barreled into your legs. You reacted on instinct, reaching for the boy's arm to guide him safely to the floor.
Gasps rippled across the room. Guards reached for their weapons. Advisors half-rose from their seats, eyes wide with alarm.
At your feet, the child blinked up at you—wide-eyed, breathless. The young prince, Nabu-zir. His royal robe hung askew, black and gold catching the torchlight. His hair was tousled, bare feet streaked with dust, as if he had run straight from his bed.
Before alarm could escalate, Ajak lifted a hand—composed, commanding.
"Stand down," she said calmly. The guards froze, then slowly withdrew after a muttered acknowledgment.
"Your majesty, Lady Cassius, Lords…" Moments later, the prince's attendants arrived, stammering apologies toward the king, then to you.
The king, seated high upon his throne, did not rise. He leaned forward slightly, voice clipped.
"My son. This is not the time."
But the boy clutched your leg tighter. His voice cracked.
"I had a nightmare. There was fire… and shadows… and no one was there. I thought you'd be here. I wanted to find you."
The chamber fell still.
Ajak stepped forward, her voice a balm as she laid a hand atop the boy's head.
"You're safe now. The shadows in dreams cannot reach you here."
Slowly, the prince's fists uncurled.
Then Ajak turned to you.
"Lord Nereus," she said gently, "would you walk him back to his chambers?"
You nodded. "Of course, Lady Cassius."
The child reached for your hand before you could offer it. You said nothing, simply walked. The prince's servants followed behind at a respectful distance.
For a while, only your soft footsteps echoed through the corridor. The boy's fingers clung to yours—tight at first, then slowly easing.
Halfway to his chambers, he spoke again.
"My mother used to say nightmares aren't always pretend. Sometimes they're warnings."
You looked down. "And what did your dream warn you of?"
He halted you with a tug.
His lips parted, but no words came. Only the furrow of small brows, as though trying to assemble the shards of a dream already vanishing like smoke. You knelt to meet his eyes.
"There were banners," he whispered. "One was red—so red it looked like it had drunk fire. And on it... a golden wing, but it was burning."
He blinked, grip tightening.
"There was a man running. He wore metal on his chest and had a bird on his shield—a bird with wide eyes. He fell near a river. His blood made the water dark."
The hallway felt colder. Something unseen pressed in at the edges of your awareness.
"Then I saw someone standing between both banners. He wore the red one, but something in his face felt... wrong. Not angry. Not hurt. Just... like he carried the guilt of standing in a story not meant to be his."
He looked up.
"He looked like you."
A beat.
"Then there were voices. A thousand of them. Whispering from the sky. And the river caught fire. It burned white. He tried to escape, but the flames pulled him under."
He swallowed hard, as if his lungs had forgotten how to breathe. Out of compassion to ease the nightmare away, you drew the boy close to your embrace.
"Then it's a good thing you woke," you said at last, your hand gently ruffling his back.
You felt him blink against your neck. "You don't think I was foolish?"
"No. I think you were brave."
He pulled back to meet your eyes. When he saw that you meant every word, he gave your hand a gentle squeeze.
You walked on.
When you reached the prince's chambers, the two drowsy guards straightened.
"Lord Nereus."
"I'm escorting the prince."
Inside, the room was modest. Moonlight filtered through a high window. Shelves of clay animals and a charcoal constellation lined the walls. A child's bed sat beneath a canopy of stars.
You released his hand at the threshold. He hesitated.
"I didn't mean to embarrass my father," he said softly.
"You didn't. You reminded the court that fear doesn't make us weak. Pretending it away does."
The boy nodded, climbing into bed. You pulled the blanket around him.
"I'll send someone with something warm to drink."
He murmured a soft thanks, curling inward like a leaf folding at dusk.
You waited as a servant brought hot milk. The boy drank deeply, his expression easing. When you dismissed the servant, he looked at you again.
"Will you stay until I fall asleep?"
You hesitated at the first question—then came the second.
"And will you be here tomorrow morning?"
"Why?" you asked.
"Because... if the dream comes back, I want to know you're near."
A quiet beat passed in your chest.
"Okay," you said.
He smiled faintly.
"I will be," you added. "As long as the kingdom needs me."
When Prince Nabu slept again, you remained seated at the edge of his bed. A moment later, the chamber door opened quietly, then a guard's voice reached you.
"Lady Cassius."
Ajak stepped inside.
She came to stand beside you.
"You heard?"
"I did," she replied.
"He dreamed of me."
"Children don't always speak in symbols, Seidon. Sometimes, they see things we cannot."
You said nothing.
She added, "You've made an impression."
"That wasn't my intention."
"Which is why it matters more."
She paused.
"Did you sense anything this morning?"
"The wind smelled of iron. The earth showed flashes—cloaked figures holding a torch, a singed sandal. No Deviants. But something's coming."
Ajak's eyes darkened. "Then we stay alert."
"Do you think the vision and his dream are connected?"
She didn't answer right away. Then:
"Everything is connected."
"And sometimes, what children see… is not the future. But the choice that leads to it."
Her hand rested briefly on your shoulder before she turned to leave.
You lingered, staring at the boy's door, wondering if the earth had only whispered—or if this time, it had truly tried to warn you.
**********
Since that day, Prince Nabu began to draw closer to you.
You tried to keep your distance—especially as the king had grown more watchful, his gaze searching not for praise, but for faults. And yet, the boy's radiant smile, lit with that quiet joy only children carry when someone truly listens, made it harder to turn away.
It began with questions.
At first, the kind that tumbled from the mouth of any curious child: Why does the sun rise from the east? How many stars live above Babylon? If the wind has no hands, how does it move the trees?
But over time, Prince Nabu-zir stopped bringing such questions to the palace scholars, or to the tutors his father had chosen. He sought out Ajak instead.
And she never turned him away.
Not when he tugged at her robe as she stood at the temple steps. Not when she sat alone beneath the blooming fig trees. Not even after long hours in the council chambers, when weariness lined her shoulders and her thoughts lay elsewhere. She would lower herself to his height, meet his gaze with unwavering patience, and answer each question as though it were a sacred thread waiting to be woven into the fabric of the world.
From the shadowed colonnades above, unseen eyes took note of every conversation Ajak shared with the boy, each time she knelt beside him like a teacher before a pupil.
It did not take long before the others began to notice.
Sersi was the first to join. She would kneel beside Ajak and the prince in the garden, showing him how river stones could become clear water with a touch, or how brittle reeds could shimmer into gold. Nabu would gasp with delight, not at the transformation itself, but at the wonder behind it—that the world could be more than what it seemed, if only you knew how to listen to it.
Above the garden terrace, a scribe pretended to tend the incense burners while subtly recording what he saw.
Gilgamesh never said much. But when the boy wandered too close to the edge of a scaffolding or dared the temple steps barefoot, it was always Gilgamesh's hand that appeared first—steady, enormous, protective. Once, he caught the boy mid-fall from a fig tree and set him down with the gentleness of cradling a sparrow. Nabu had stared up at him in awe, then laughed, utterly unafraid. Gilgamesh only ruffled the boy's hair, muttering something about "reckless saplings."
From the courtyard shadows, a guard marked each silent rescue in a wax tablet, his face unreadable.
Makkari appeared less often, but whenever she did, it was as though the world grew larger. She brought him treasures from her excursions—curved stones from distant rivers, tiny glass beads from lands whose names even scribes didn't know. She'd zip past the guards before they could bow and deposit a new riddle in the boy's palm before vanishing again. Sometimes, Nabu would find messages scratched in the dirt outside his chamber window, written in Makkari's swift, looping script: "Race me to the fig tree at dawn."
Those messages never remained unnoticed for long. The dirt was brushed clean, but the palace chamberlains had already taken note.
Even Druig—grudging, aloof—seemed less guarded around the boy. Once, when Nabu's questions veered toward the fears of men and the reasons for war, it was Druig who answered, voice low and sharp-edged, but never cruel. The boy listened in silence, eyes wide. When asked later what he had learned, Nabu simply said, "That power without care is still a cage."
That quote made its way into a palace report—delivered to the king's steward before dusk.
Among them all, you remained slightly apart. Watching. Listening. Occasionally offering a quiet word or small elemental demonstration—coaxing saplings to bloom, drawing a gust to lift a fallen paper. You saw how the boy's eyes followed you most keenly. Perhaps because you were the one who always hesitated. The one he still hoped would stay.
In the evenings, he would sit by Ajak's side with scrolls forgotten in his lap, tracing patterns in the dirt as she spoke of constellations, ancient cities, and truths older than kings. His tutors called it disobedience. His father called it a distraction.
But to Nabu, it was something else entirely.
It was belonging. The very kind of emotion his father refused to give him.
It was belonging.
And wonder.
The first time in his young life the world had not felt so small.
Yet in certain watching eyes, what felt natural between you and Prince Nabu was beginning to look suspicious.
**********
They watched him from behind stone pillars and latticed screens.
The child—their future king—had begun to stray.
At first, it had been harmless. The boy wandered the palace corridors, curious and bright. But soon, he stopped seeking the guidance of his tutors or the company of his noble attendants. Instead, he drifted toward the Silent Ones. Toward the ones the court dared not name aloud.
The Silent Ones.
They had arrived long before the current reign, enshrined in stories and shadowed in reverence. Never aging. Never bleeding. They walked like humans but bore the stillness of carved stone and eyes too old for this world.
At first, the ministers tolerated it. The boy was lonely, and the Silent Ones had always kept their distance from court affairs.
But it changed.
The boy began repeating things he'd heard. Phrases not from his tutors, but from the quiet mouth of the golden-robed matron or the stone-eyed man who walked barefoot through fire. He carried strange questions into the court, asked about mercy where law demanded order, about wonder where duty required discipline.
Lady Cassius—respected even by the court—was the first to teach him. She never turned him away, and soon the others followed. One Lady showed him how to coax green from cracked soil. Another Lady ran loops with him through the palace gardens, letting him touch the edge of speed. One Lord lifted him onto his shoulder and told stories with his fists. And Lord Nereus, always watchful, always still, taught him how to listen to stone and silence.
They taught him many things. Perhaps more than they should have.
The boy had grown attached.
And attachment—was dangerous.
So the royal loyalists—the king's most trusted—began to whisper. Even the king, though silent, had begun to take notice. His silence, however, was not born of indifference—but of calculation. They noted every glance, every hand held, every time the boy's laughter echoed from the wrong direction. They watched and they waited.
It began with a whisper. A report left unsigned in the king's private chamber. A quiet warning spoken just loud enough near the wrong ears.
The Silent Ones, it said, had grown bold.
They interfered in royal matters. Took liberties with the prince's education. Exercised powers unsanctioned by the crown.
At first, the king dismissed it. Lady Cassius, after all, had served faithfully for generations. Nereus had bled for Babylon when others hid. But even kings were not immune to fear—especially the quiet kind that grew in shadows and sharpened in silence.
And so, the loyalists moved—deliberate, unseen, inevitable.
The plot was simple. Calculated. Brutal in its elegance.
Their shadows touched the garden paths and palace thresholds alike, but it would be the fig tree—where wonder had first taken root—that burned first.
A faint trail of smoke first rose from the northern servants' wing—a place too near the prince's garden chambers, and far too distant from the kitchens. No one saw who lit it. No one saw the oil poured into the cracks of the stone.
But within minutes, flame surged like a waking beast, curling up columns, devouring silk, and swallowing the breath of every corridor it touched.
A servant screamed. Another shouted the prince's name.
In the Great Hall, voices clashed like steel. Advisors surged from their seats. The king stood, for the first time in years, his face ashen.
"He was in the garden—he said he would be with the figs—he's not in his chambers—"
"Find him," the king barked. "Find my son—now!"
But the smoke answered first.
It billowed in from the archways like a tide, thick and choked with the scent of burning cedar and oil. Guards staggered back, shielding their mouths. Outside, shouts rose from the temple square as more flames licked the outer walls.
And then, for a moment, King Nabu-shar stood utterly still.
His hands curled into fists at his side. Then, with a voice lower than thunder and far more desperate, he turned toward the golden-robed figure standing near the columns.
"Lady Cassius."
Ajak stepped forward at once. Her expression did not shift.
"Please…"
"Bring him back."
She only nodded once.
Without waiting for orders, the Silent Ones moved. Sersi vanished into the wind before her name could be spoken. Gilgamesh charged toward the southern corridor where the walls were beginning to groan. Makkari was already gone, a blur of light past the colonnades.
You were the last to move. You felt Ajak's hand on your arm.
Her voice remained steady. "He's near the center wing. The blaze started behind the inner garden. Go. Find him."
You met her eyes. "If they set this—"
"They did."
A pause.
"But he doesn't know," she added softly. "He only called for help."
You nodded.
Then you ran.
The smoke was different here. Heavier. There was no panic in your breath, only the rhythm of movement—the shift of air beneath your feet, the pull of water in the air, the hum of the roots below the stones.
You passed the first threshold with a flick of your hand. Vines from the garden burst forward, slamming open a sealed wooden gate. The corridor beyond was already crumbling. Heat roared overhead. A support beam cracked, splintered—
You raised your arm.
The stone beneath your feet surged upward like a shield, catching the falling timber. You stepped beneath it.
A second later, you heard him.
A child's voice—raw and coughing—echoed faintly from deeper within the smoke. You followed. Every element in your body attuned to his presence.
At last, through the haze of fire and falling ash, you saw him.
Prince Nabu. Alone. Curled beneath a scorched archway, one arm raised over his face. A broken statue lay shattered beside him.
He looked up as the fire shifted behind you—and saw only light. Not fire. Not fear.
Just you.
Then wind howled into the corridor. Not natural. Controlled. Every flame near the boy guttered and died, pressed backward by invisible pressure. You crossed the scorched stones in three strides and knelt at his side.
He didn't cry out. He only whispered, "I knew you'd come."
You gathered him in your arms.
The stone behind you split. You raised one hand—earth surged up, forming a dome over the boy's head as debris fell. Even the roots of the fig trees stirred—curling upward to shield the path behind you.
A final corridor flared in flame. You turned your palm. Moisture condensed in the air, pulled from deep aquifers, gathering in spirals above you. Then—with a downward motion—you called it forth.
Water fell like rain—but only where you willed it.
The fire screamed as it died.
And then the garden opened ahead. The wind parted the smoke—slowly, deliberately—as if unveiling a stage before an audience.
You stepped into the light.
He clung to you in silence.
And from the terrace above, hidden eyes watched not a monster nor a savior—only something they could no longer understand.
A protector—not of war, but of care.
And that made you, to them, dangerous.
When you stepped from the smoke, cradling Prince Nabu in your arms, a hush fell over the courtyard.
The flames behind you hissed and sputtered into silence. Wet ash clung to your robes. Soot streaked across your jaw. The boy held fast to you, his face buried in your shoulder.
The royal guards parted, stunned.
No one moved.
Ajak was the first to descend the stone steps. She did not speak, only extended her hand to brush back the hair from the boy's soot-streaked brow.
He opened his eyes. "Lady Cassius..."
"You're safe now," she whispered.
Then came the applause—not of celebration, but of politics.
Slow. Controlled. Issued from hands not dirtied by flame.
From the shadow of the upper colonnade, Lord Balak—chief among the king's loyalists—stepped forward. Behind him, others followed: ministers in gold-threaded robes, nobles whose eyes gleamed not with relief, but calculation.
"Praise the heavens," Balak said, bowing low before the king. "The prince is unharmed. And the Silent Ones—" his voice lingered, pointed "—have once again proven their... reach."
The king said nothing.
He stood atop the stone terrace, unmoved, his robes unruffled by smoke. Only his eyes shifted—once, to you. Then to his son. Then, coldly, to the crack still running through the palace stones behind you.
"Your Majesty," said another noble, stepping beside Balak. "It cannot be denied. The flames were quelled before our men arrived. And yet, no one saw them enter. No doors opened. No guards summoned. And yet, somehow—they were already inside."
More murmurs followed.
"Elemental force, exercised without decree…"
"A breach of royal perimeter…"
"Unauthorized movement across royal wards…"
"And the prince—in his arms, without permission."
At that, King Nabu-shar raised one hand.
Silence.
His voice, when it came, was level. But to those who had known him long, it was the sound of a verdict forming.
"Bring the prince to his chambers," he said.
You hesitated.
Ajak gave a small nod. "Let him go."
Gently, you loosened your grip. Nabu did not resist—but his hand clung to your wrist a second longer than needed.
He looked up at his father.
"I wasn't afraid," he said, voice small. "They didn't let me be."
The king met his son's eyes. Then he turned away.
The boy was led out. You watched until he vanished behind the arched corridor, his silhouette shrinking in the torchlight.
Then the king spoke.
"In times past, the Silent Ones came when Babylon called. They fought beside us. They bled beside us. And they asked for nothing in return."
A pause.
"But times change."
No one breathed.
"I do not question your hearts. But I must question your presence."
He turned fully now, facing Ajak and you both. His face bore no anger. Only the polished chill of decree.
"You have walked too freely among these halls. Steered steps that were never yours to shape."
He raised his hand.
"From this night forward, the Silent Ones shall no longer reside within the walls of Babylon's royal palace. Your quarters will be vacated. You may remain within the city if you choose—but you will not pass the inner gates again."
The wind shifted.
Makkari stood frozen in disbelief. Gilgamesh's fists clenched. Sersi took half a step forward before Ajak's hand caught her arm.
And Ajak... bowed her head.
"As you command, Your Majesty."
You stood still.
Not in protest.
Not in fear.
But in silence.
The same silence that had always cloaked your kind—and for the first time, it did not protect you.
**********
History has a way of forgetting the quiet truths. In the centuries that followed, what truly occurred that night was twisted into something else entirely.
How humiliating it must be to have nurtured the great kingdom of Babylon, only to be cast out from the very palace you once guided. But that is the nature of legends—where the line between truth and embellishment is blurred, where history is rewritten by those who believe they will be remembered forever in text and epic tales, while those who truly shaped it are left forgotten.
Legends will tell their readers that a banishment did take place. They might even paint a vivid scene—a grand confrontation between a council long past its prime, the new king, and his guards. Tension so thick it could suffocate, the kind where even the drop of a pin would echo like a battle cry. And before the council left, they made sure the king's pride was wounded enough in front of his own soldiers, then turned their backs and stormed through the Ishtar Gate.
Without the old king's most trusted council—the very minds that once shaped the kingdom's rise—his court descended into chaos. Decisions grew reckless, alliances crumbled, and power slipped through the young ruler's fingers like sand in the desert wind. Desperate, he sent scouts to search for those who had once stood at his ancestors' side—the ones who had helped build the kingdom he inherited, brick by brick.
They were never found again.
Generations came and went. New kings took the throne, each rewriting the past in their own image. In time, the true story of the most trusted council was lost, buried beneath the weight of forgotten names. Only their legend remained, and even that became a subject of doubt—whispered in the halls of scholars, debated in the flickering glow of firelight, a tale caught between myth and history.
Yes, a banishment did take place—that part of the legend is accurate. But what the legends fail to tell is that, contrary to those vivid tales of confrontation between you, the king, and his guards, the process was far from dramatic. In truth, it was peaceful. Inevitable, but peaceful.
Long before that fire started, you had already taken matters into your own hands. One by one, you moved your accumulated belongings aboard the Domo, returning them to the private quarters that had long been your true home. Sersi and Makkari, ever the historians, took the opportunity to preserve a copy of human history. Your long memories ensured that nothing—not even silence—was ever truly forgotten. After all, this was not the first time you had witnessed such a moment.
So when the king and his guards entered at last—clad in full armor, faces set in a mixture of fear and forced bravado—you were not surprised. You had seen this before—more times than you cared to count.
The king and his guards stormed into your individual quarters, splitting into groups as they searched each room. But when they found them empty, their expressions shifted—expectation turning to disbelief. Even the king himself, though cloaked in authority, could not hide the flicker of shock at the scene before him. The captain of the guards and his men exchanged uneasy glances, shifting their gaze between the king and the empty chambers. They had come prepared for a fight—yet now, faced with nothing but silence, uncertainty took hold.
"Soldiers, what brings you here at this hour?"
Your voice was calm, steady—just as Ajak had instructed. Just as it had been in every cycle before this. There was no anger in your tone, no resistance, only the weight of inevitability.
The leader of the guards hesitated, gripping the hilt of his sword so tightly that his knuckles turned white. His breath came uneven, chest rising and falling as if he were preparing for battle. The men behind him shifted uncomfortably, casting uneasy glances at one another, their fingers twitching near the pommels of their blades. They had been ordered to "storm" your quarters, yet now, faced with the empty room and your unwavering gaze, none of them dared to move further.
One of the younger guards swallowed audibly. His hand trembled as he reached for his sword—whether as a sign of duty or reassurance, even he did not seem certain. Another, an older man with more years of service, leaned slightly toward his captain, voice barely above a whisper.
"This isn't right," he muttered, his eyes darting to the vacant chamber as if searching for an unseen presence.
The captain inhaled sharply, forcing himself to steady. He had to complete his duty, no matter how wrong it felt.
"Lo-Lord Nereus," he finally managed, the words catching in his throat. Even now, after all that had transpired, he hesitated to address you without reverence. He forced himself to straighten, though the rigid stance did little to hide the slight tremor in his fingers.
"By order of the king, you are to leave the palace immediately."
Silence stretched between you, deep and unbroken. You studied the soldier, his fear hanging in the air like an unspoken confession. The flickering torchlight cast uneasy shadows along the stone walls, dancing across his armor, accentuating the beads of sweat forming along his temple.
Then, you exhaled—slowly, deliberately. Not in defiance, not in submission, but in understanding. Your expression was unreadable, yet beneath the cold detachment, there was something else. Not sorrow. Not regret. A quiet lamentation for the inevitable course of history.
"Ah," you murmured, tilting your head slightly. "So it happens again."
The soldier's eyes flicked up, confusion warring with unease.
"You came expecting resistance, yet all you find is the absence we prepared for long before you arrived." Your gaze didn't waver, your words steady, woven with something deeper than mere acceptance. "Tell me, do you know what frightens a ruler more than rebellion?"
The soldier swallowed hard, but did not respond. His fingers twitched at his side, unsure whether to reach for his blade or retreat altogether.
"Irrelevance."
You let the word settle, let it carve through the weight of the moment.
"A ruler can crush an enemy, silence a dissenter, imprison a traitor. But how do you fight something that has already left? How do you exert power over those who have removed themselves from your grasp?"
The captain took a half-step back, a reflexive movement he barely seemed aware of. His men, still waiting behind him, exchanged uneasy glances. The younger guard, the one who had reached for his weapon earlier, now clenched his hands into fists, his face pale. The older guard beside him tightened his jaw, his unease now mixed with something dangerously close to doubt.
You turned slightly, glancing toward the open chamber beyond, the place you had once called home. There was nothing left here for you, and there hadn't been for a long time.
"Tell your king that we have obeyed his order before he even thought to give it," you said finally, turning your gaze back to the soldier. "And that no kingdom, no matter how mighty, holds dominion over time."
Then, without another word, you stepped forward. The soldiers parted instinctively, some flinching as you passed. Their hands remained near their weapons, but none dared to draw them. Not against you. Not against what you were.
As you stepped past the threshold of your quarters, your gaze drifted to the chambers beside yours. One by one, your people emerged, their movements measured, their expressions deliberate. The weight of this moment had long been decided, written into the fabric of what must be. But still, for the sake of the watching eyes, they played their roles well.
Gilgamesh adjusted the straps of his pack with slow, deliberate motions, as if savoring his final moments here. Kingo kept his head lowered, his jaw set tight, the very picture of a man reluctantly accepting his fate. Makkari nodded at you, a flicker of resolve in her expression—quick, but enough for those observing to mistake it for finality. Druig's fingers flexed at his sides, a performance of restraint, hinting at an internal struggle he did not truly feel. Thena's grip tightened around the hilt of a blade that no longer had a war to fight, the golden light flickering once before fading—a theatrical touch of nostalgia meant for the courtiers hiding in the shadows above. Even Sersi, ever the most human among you, exhaled softly, smoothing the folds of her garments with an air of quiet resignation.
None of it was real. Not the tension, not the hesitation, nor the sorrow they carefully painted onto their features. It was all for the humans—their audience, their spectators, their chroniclers of history who needed to see something tragic to make sense of what they could not understand. And so, you gave them a story to tell.
Together, you made your way to the Ishtar Gate.
There, in the eyes of the palace, Lady Cassius—Ajak—stood waiting. A figure of quiet resolve, a sentinel at the edge of an era. The golden embroidery of her robes caught the last flicker of torchlight, making her appear almost ethereal, as though she stood not entirely in the present, but between the past and the future, bridging what was and what must come next.
You had followed her for centuries, stood by her in battle, listened to her words even when you did not always agree. You had seen her break and rebuild, had witnessed the burdens she carried even when she refused to show them. And now, in this final moment, you found yourself searching her face—not for regret, nor for sorrow, but for something far more elusive. Something you could not name.
She turned to you then, and for the briefest moment, there was a flicker of something in her gaze—something unspoken, something ancient. A farewell that did not need to be uttered.
The air was thick with the scent of oil and burning wood, the towering blue walls of the Ishtar Gate looming ahead like the final threshold between what had been and what would be. Beyond it, the road stretched toward the horizon, bathed in the dim glow of a world that would continue without you.
But behind you, within the palace walls, the eyes of men still lingered.
In the shadowed balconies above, figures stood half-concealed by the stonework—courtiers, nobles, those who had once sought your counsel and now feared to be seen watching your departure. They did not weep. They did not call out. But you could feel the weight of their gazes, could hear the hushed murmurs between them. They whispered of what had happened, of what it meant, of whether this was a loss or a necessity. Of whether history would be kind to this decision or if, in time, the kingdom would come to regret it.
Closer still, stationed along the walls, were the guards. Some stood rigid, spines stiff with feigned indifference, gripping their spears as though to remind themselves that they still held power. Others shifted uncomfortably, their eyes flicking to one another, uncertain whether to feel relief or shame. And then there were those who watched with something else—something like hesitation, or perhaps a quiet, creeping dread.
"Do they truly believe this palace will stand stronger without us?" Thena murmured, her knuckles grazing the hilt of a blade she had no intention of drawing, her voice carrying just enough steel to be heard by those who lingered too close. No one answered her.
You took one last look at the world behind you, at the city that had once been yours to guide. There was no anger within you, no resentment. Only the knowing. Only the certainty that time would turn, and when it did, they would understand.
"They do not have to believe," you said finally, your voice quiet but unshaken. "Time will teach them."
The gates of Babylon loomed behind you—tall, proud, closed.
You had not looked back.
Not until the silence broke.
A small cry cut through the desert air. Light. Unmistakable.
And in that moment, you knew—some bonds defied even time.
The cry rang out again.
This time, louder. Frantic. Real.
And then—
Footsteps. Small. Bare. Breaking across the stone.
"NEREUS!"
The name tore from the child's throat with such force that even the wind paused.
You turned.
From the palace archway, through a veil of stunned guards and gasping courtiers, the boy burst forward.
Prince Nabu.
His feet were scorched and his tunic still streaked with soot, but his eyes—those wide, furious, tear-bright eyes—saw only you. Not the guards reaching for him. Not the voices crying his name. Only you.
"You promised!" he shouted, voice cracking, raw with betrayal and grief. "You said we'd walk the garden again—you said!"
One of the nobles lunged to stop him. Too slow.
A guard knelt, arms outstretched. Missed.
The boy ducked through them all like smoke through fingers. His body slammed into yours, arms locking around your waist with desperate strength no royal ever should've learned to use.
He shook as he clung to you.
"You don't get to leave," he whispered now, quieter but no less fierce. "Not like that. Not without saying goodbye."
Around you, silence cracked.
The watching nobles—who had moments ago whispered of pride and sovereignty—now looked away, shame rising behind their masks. The guards stood frozen. The air shifted.
You lowered yourself slowly to one knee. Your arms came up, folding gently around the boy. And still, he held you tighter.
"I wasn't afraid," he whispered. "Not when the fire came. Not when I couldn't breathe. Not when I thought the palace would fall. Because I thought—"
He broke off.
You rested your forehead gently to his.
"I was never leaving you behind," you said.
You felt his grip tremble, not from fear, but from the sheer weight of everything he couldn't yet name.
Then, as if remembering something urgent, he pulled back just enough to reach beneath the fold of his tunic. From around his neck, he drew a simple leather cord—worn, knotted, its ends fraying from the restless fidgeting of small hands. At its center hung a crude charm, shaped from coiled copper and a shard of smooth glass.
"I made it from the broken statue," he said breathlessly. "The one by the fig tree. You said even broken things can protect."
He held it out with both hands, arms trembling under the weight of the moment. "It's not magic. But… it remembers you."
You took it carefully, reverently. But before you could speak, he shook his head and reached forward again.
"No—wear it."
With unflinching determination, he rose to his toes and looped the cord around your neck, letting the charm rest just above your heart. His fingers lingered there, pressed to the center of your chest as if sealing a vow only he could hear.
"It's so you don't forget where your garden is."
And for a moment, you couldn't speak. Couldn't move. You could only hold him again, arms folding around his small form, protecting him from nothing and everything all at once.
Footsteps approached—soft, deliberate. Ajak knelt beside you both.
Her hand brushed gently through the boy's hair, smoothing back the strands clinging to his damp brow. Her voice, when it came, was barely more than a breath, but steady as the stars.
"You are brave, little one," she said. "Braver than most kings I've known."
He blinked up at her, lip trembling.
"But why can't you stay?"
Ajak smiled softly, sorrow threaded through the corners of her eyes.
"Because some protectors guard the world not by staying close, but by walking ahead. And one day, when you grow, you'll find his footsteps. Not to follow—" she paused, "—but to begin your own."
His breath hitched. He nodded.
Ajak pressed a final kiss to his temple. "Then that will be your gift to him."
And for a fleeting moment, the desert wind grew still, as if Babylon itself was holding its breath.
And with that, you stepped forward, crossing the threshold of history itself, leaving behind not just the kingdom, but the weight of human ambition.
The Ishtar Gate was far behind you now, its blue-glazed bricks fading into memory, swallowed by the desert's endless expanse. Sandstorms had erased your footprints long before any scout could trace them, and the towering walls of Babylon became nothing more than distant echoes in the minds of those who had watched you leave.
You walked for days. None of you questioned where you were going—not because there was a destination, but because it did not matter. There had never been a need for walls or borders to define where you belonged. You had existed before Babylon, and you would exist long after its golden age had passed. And yet, this time, something felt different.
For the first time in centuries, you were without a home.
The desert night stretched endlessly above you, a tapestry of stars scattered across the heavens. There was no city skyline to blot them out, no palace walls to confine your sight. The air was crisp, carrying only the whispers of the wind and the distant howls of unseen creatures. Ajak stood slightly apart from the group, her gaze lifted toward the constellations as though reading the next chapter of history before it was written.
"This is not the first time we've walked away from a civilization we've built," Gilgamesh muttered, his voice carrying through the quiet. He sat by the small fire you had built, absently turning a stone over in his hand. "But it is the first time it feels like we've lost something."
Kingo scoffed, tossing a piece of dried fig into his mouth. "Lost? We left before they could decide to burn us at the stake. I'd call that good timing."
"They would not have burned us," Sersi murmured. "They would have rewritten us."
Ajak finally turned, stepping closer to the fire. The flickering flames cast sharp shadows across her face, emphasizing the quiet certainty in her gaze.
"And they will, Sersi. In a hundred years, in a thousand. We will be remembered as myths, as whispers in the annals of kings. Perhaps as divine beings, perhaps as traitors. But never as what we were."
Makkari signed something quickly, and Druig chuckled under his breath before translating.
"She says she'd rather be a forgotten myth than a glorified fool."
"Then what do we do now?" Thena asked, her fingers idly tracing patterns in the sand. She wasn't looking at anyone, but her question hung heavy between you all. "Do we simply wait? Watch?"
Ajak met her gaze evenly. "For now, yes."
"And later?"
Ajak didn't answer right away. Instead, she turned her eyes back to the stars, where the constellations shifted ever so slightly, as they always had, as they always would.
"Later," she said at last, "we will see."
Survival was never a concern. Generations of kings had risen and fallen, their names fading into the dust of history, yet you remained—unchanged, unforgotten, simply waiting.
Finding ways to sustain yourself had never been a challenge. Beyond the powers known and unknown to mortals, your intellect had always been your greatest asset. Over the years, you had built wealth not through conquest, but through understanding—of trade, of craftsmanship, of the silent patterns that dictated the rise and fall of civilizations. What others called fortune, you called foresight.
And when the world grew tedious, when history became a cycle too predictable to warrant observation, there was always the hibernation chambers aboard the Domo—timeless, undisturbed, waiting for the next era to unfold.
But then again… where's the fun in that?
********************
You had seen time reshape the world once more, just as it always had. Empires rose, roads stretched farther than before, and cities swelled with traders, artisans, and dreamers seeking fortunes in lands beyond their ancestors' reach. Yet beneath the grand designs of kings and conquerors, life remained much the same for those who tilled the fields, shaped metal, and wove the fabric of civilization with their own hands.
And so, you lived among them.
No longer lords or ladies, no longer advisors in gilded halls, but craftsmen, laborers, and merchants—hidden in plain sight. The touch of eternity was still there, woven into the mundane, but only just enough to avoid suspicion.
Clay spun beneath her fingertips, taking shape with each careful press of her hands. Sersi leaned over the wheel, smoothing the edges of a forming vessel, the earthen surface cool beneath her touch. It was a simple craft, but it was enough. For now.
She had built cities before, turned sand into stone, reshaped the world with a mere thought. But here, she built one piece at a time—slowly, deliberately, the way mortals did. It grounded her, kept her close to the people she had long sworn to protect, even as history threatened to pull them apart.
The chisel struck stone with precision, the rhythmic sound echoing across the quarry. Ikaris worked in silence, his strength turning raw limestone into perfect slabs with ease. Beside him, others toiled, muscles burning under the weight of labor, yet he never faltered.
"You never tire, do you?" a young worker mused, watching him with awe.
Ikaris merely offered a small smile. "Discipline," he replied. "Strength is nothing without it."
He had built cities before, raised walls to defend kingdoms long forgotten. This time, he carved for others, not for war, not for conquest—just for the sake of shaping something that, for now, would last.
The road was long, the dust thick beneath the feet of merchants and travelers. But not for her. Makkari moved unseen, her presence felt only as a fleeting gust of wind. A parcel of messages, scrolls, and coin pouches shifted in the satchel slung over her shoulder, deliveries that would take others days completed in mere moments.
She did not mind the work. It was honest, simple. And most importantly, it let her run.
Fields of barley swayed beneath the afternoon sun, golden waves bending in the breeze. Druig walked through the rows, boots pressing into the dry soil, hands brushing against the stalks as he listened—not just to the wind, but to the murmurs of the workers tending the land. Fear. Uncertainty. Rumors of war.
He could have silenced their anxieties with a thought, but he did not. Not yet.
Instead, he listened. Observed. Waited.
In the center of a crowded tavern, Kingo leaned against a wooden pillar, spinning tales as effortlessly as a bard who had spent a lifetime perfecting his craft. His voice rose and fell with practiced charm, painting vivid images of battles fought, heroes triumphant, and monsters vanquished.
"And so," he continued, lowering his voice just enough to draw his audience in, "the warrior stood alone against the beast, blade glinting beneath the pale moonlight. Did he run? Did he surrender? No, my friends. He did what all great heroes do—he fought."
A round of applause followed as a cup of wine was shoved into his hands. He accepted it with a wink, basking in the attention.
They would never know how much of his stories were real.
"Tell us another!" the tavern-goers urged, eyes alight with drink and wonder.
Sprite smirked while she clad herself in her perfect illusions, tapping a finger against the wooden table. "Alright, but this one is not for the faint of heart."
Her voice dropped to a whisper, and as she spoke, the air shimmered—visions of forgotten cities, great towers lost to time, flickered like candlelight. The patrons leaned in, mesmerized, never questioning how her tales felt more real than any story had the right to be.
She never told the same story twice. And she never needed to. They wanted a legend, and she gave it to them.
"It won't work," the blacksmith scoffed, watching Phastos adjust the gears of an unfinished water wheel.
Phastos didn't look up. "Then we reinforce it."
With a final turn of his tool, the mechanism groaned, then spun smoothly with the river's pull. The blacksmith blinked in disbelief.
"I'll be damned."
"Probably," Phastos replied, wiping his hands. "But at least your mill will work before you get there."
He had built wonders beyond comprehension. Now, he built for those who needed it. That was enough.
The scent of fresh bread carried through the marketplace, mingling with the crackling heat of a forge. Gilgamesh wiped flour-streaked hands against his apron, barely noticing the way his movements sent tiny clouds of white dust into the air. His arms, thick with strength honed over millennia, worked the dough with a practiced ease that no mortal could match.
"You should stick to shaping metal," one of the other smiths chuckled, watching as Gilgamesh carefully placed a tray of loaves into the stone oven. "It's unnatural for a man your size to have such patience for baking."
"Bread and iron are not so different," he replied with a grin, wiping sweat from his brow before turning his attention back to the forge. "Both require fire, both demand patience, and both can feed a hungry soul."
The heat of the flames never truly bothered him, nor did the strain of bending metal to his will. Here, amidst the clamor of hammers against steel and the warm scent of baking bread, he had found a rhythm that suited him—one that required no war, no weapons, only the steady craft of creation.
Beneath the shaded awning of a bustling textile market, Thena moved a loom shuttle through the warp and weft of fine linen. Each thread aligned with effortless precision, the pattern emerging with a grace that seemed almost otherworldly. Her fingers, so accustomed to weapons, traced the soft fabric with an odd reverence.
"You work swiftly," an old woman beside her observed, adjusting the cloth on her own loom. "But weaving is slow work, child. You must not rush it."
Thena gave a small smile, her hands never faltering. "I have time."
She had always been a warrior, but here, in the quiet lull of a weaver's trade, she had found a different kind of discipline—one that required precision without violence, patience without war. And yet, with every pull of the thread, her mind remained sharp, her instincts never dulled. Even in stillness, she was always ready.
In a dimly lit chamber at the edge of town, Ajak knelt beside a fevered child, pressing a damp cloth to the boy's forehead. His mother watched anxiously, hands wringing in her lap as she murmured quiet prayers.
"He will be well," Ajak reassured her, voice soft, certain.
She had seen civilizations collapse, empires crumble. But suffering had always been the one constant. And so she remained, tending to wounds, easing pain, playing her part in the endless cycle of human struggle.
You stood at the docks, watching as ships were loaded with goods—spices, fabrics, grain bound for distant lands. You had no official title here, but those who worked the harbors knew you as a man who understood the tides, the winds, the unseen forces that dictated the success or failure of every voyage.
"Storm's coming," you murmured, glancing toward the horizon. The sailors around you tensed, casting wary glances at the sky, though not a single cloud marred its surface. Yet they believed you. They always did.
You had never steered them wrong.
It was not mere coincidence that you had chosen the sea. Unlike kingdoms, the ocean did not bow to men. It did not concern itself with dynasties, decrees, or war. It had no need for gold, nor loyalty to any ruler. The tides moved as they always had, a force beyond the grasp of mortal ambition. And yet, they could be understood, predicted, even tamed—if one only knew how to listen.
That was the order you chose to preserve, the balance you still held onto. You did not build empires anymore, nor shape their rulers with whispered counsel, but here, in the movement of ships, in the delicate threading of trade routes that stretched across nations, you could still see the patterns. You could still pull the strings—not as a kingmaker, not as a god, but as something far older. An unseen current, guiding history without leaving a trace.
You, who had seen the winds of change stir civilizations before, recognized the first shift of the coming storm.