You had known the shape of exile before—its silence, its coldness, the way it wraps around the ribs like a chain forged not in anger, but in necessity.
But this time, something clung differently.
It was not the taste of unfamiliar wind, nor the ache of distance from stone walls once called home. It was the sound that stayed.
His voice.
Even now, it echoed—frayed by memory but no less sharp. That cry, still caught between your shoulders, a thread that refused to break.
You walked east. The sands beneath your steps were coarser here, the rhythm of the wind too dry, too fast. Babylon's fertile breath had given way to something harder, hungrier. Yet your pace never faltered.
"You said we'd walk the garden again."
The boy's words returned not like guilt, but like gravity. You did not answer them. Not out loud. But your silence carried them still.
The others with you—nameless conscripts—spoke of glory, or pay, or which gods might favor them in war. You listened. You measured. You said little.
You were no longer Nereus of the fig tree. No longer a protector beneath golden roofs.
Here, you were Parsa—a name without history. A shadow among the march.
Word travels fast. And in times of uncertainty, whispers turn to rumors, and rumors spread like wildfire.
The first tremors of rebellion drifted through the streets like the scent of burning oil—thick, acrid, and foreboding. No one dared speak of it openly, not yet, but unease clung to the city like moisture before a storm, seeping into the gaps between conversations, slipping through shuttered stalls and silent glances. And still—it spread.
You heard it in the rhythm of markets gone quiet. In the way dockworkers paused before lifting cargo. In how ship captains hesitated at the edge of the quay, eyes scanning a sky too still.
"Ionia burns," muttered a trader beside a stack of pomegranate crates, his fingers tapping the wood as if each beat could steady his breath. "They think they can defy the King of Kings. Fools."
"They are not alone," said another—older, salt-lined, the kind whose voice had tasted every wind. His gaze stayed fixed on the horizon. "Athens stands with them now."
You said nothing. Just watched the wind shift. Watched the birds avoid the open water.
You had studied the language of tides your whole life—the unseen geometry beneath the sea, the subtle pressure before a wave crests. And now, the same undercurrent stirred in the affairs of men.
Trade would falter. Routes would fracture. Ports would close like eyelids before a blow. And armies—silent for too long—would begin to march again.
War was always coming. You had known that. But something in this silence felt different. As though the world had just inhaled—and was waiting to exhale flame.
You weren't the only one who heard the murmurs. The rumors traveled faster than caravans, slipping past markets, through temple courtyards, down to the very edges of the fields where empires bled into myth.
And the others—your kin—they heard them too.
You saw it first in the way Sersi's hands moved slower over the spinning clay. Her gestures, once fluid and light, grew more deliberate as the apprentices around her began whispering over their pots. One boy, barely old enough to know war, muttered about Ionia defying the Great King. The older potters scoffed—but their fingers hesitated, hovering over half-shaped vessels. Sersi didn't speak. But her eyes shifted ever so slightly. She had seen too many empires mock the will of the broken—and lose.
From the quarry, the sound of stone echoed sharper that day. You passed by and saw Ikaris at work, sweat streaking down his spine as the chisel struck harder than usual. The men beside him argued: Persia would crush the rebels, no question. Then someone mentioned Athens. That name shifted the air. Ikaris didn't turn. He simply gripped the tool tighter and drove it deeper into the slab.
In the fields, Druig moved through barley as if listening to ghosts. You watched him pause by a pair of farmers whose voices trembled beneath the wind. One feared his son would be taken. The other vowed no king would touch his blood. Druig didn't answer either. Just watched them with that gaze of his—the kind that could silence a crowd, but chose, for now, to let fear bloom.
The taverns buzzed. You stayed in the shadowed corner while Kingo leaned against a post, wine in hand, soaking in every heated word like kindling for a future tale. Men shouted about Athens, about vengeance, about glory. Kingo only smirked. He was always most alive when stories were preparing to write themselves in blood.
At the edge of the village, you saw Makkari pass in a blur—barely a streak against the olive groves. She didn't need to eavesdrop. The air itself told her all she needed: Ionia rises. Athens joins. War is near. She slowed only long enough to carve a single line into the bark of a fig tree: Run when the drums start.
Sprite's voice reached you from the market square, masked as performance. She spun her illusions for a crowd, speaking of a young hero defying a tyrant. They thought it was myth. You knew better. Her stories always mirrored something real, whether people recognized it or not.
In the forges, Phastos wiped his brow with the back of a soot-smeared wrist. The blacksmiths bickered about shortages, about iron, about how long it would take before the army took every last blade. He said nothing at first. Then quietly: "It's not about whether Persia wins. It's how much it will cost."
Gilgamesh didn't comment. He was kneading dough again—forearms like pillars of marble. A younger boy nearby asked if he thought the war would come. Gilgamesh nodded once. "It always does." Then he pressed a loaf into the oven with a motion as calm as breaking a spear.
Thena wove beneath a linen awning, her hands passing the thread through the loom like drawing blood across a battlefield. She didn't join the conversation of the merchants nearby, even as they spoke of cities set to burn. She didn't need to. Her silence had always said more.
And Ajak—Ajak listened.
You saw her tending a fevered child in the corner of a shaded alley, her touch steady, her words quiet. The mother asked if the war would take her son. Ajak said nothing. But her eyes, when they lifted to yours from across the narrow street, held all the sorrow of someone who had watched too many sons march and not return.
And still, none of them asked you what you thought.
Because deep down, they already knew.
You stood at the edge of the harbor that night, watching ships rock gently against the moorings. Salt clung to the wind. And beneath the moon's pale curve, you could feel it again—that low, tidal shift. That familiar pull beneath the earth. The kind that didn't mark if something would break…
Only when.
And then—like a blade dropped into still water—the decree arrives.
Darius's command rolls through the town not as surprise, but as confirmation. Riders descend at dawn, their hooves striking cobbled stone like war drums, their voices sharp and precise:
"By order of the King of Kings, one male from each household shall submit himself to the royal army!"
You feel it before you hear it—like the shift in pressure before a storm breaks.
From house to house, scrolls are pressed into shaking hands. Some receive them in silence, others with curses muttered beneath their breath. A few try to argue. No one listens. The empire does not debate. It collects.
Then, they reach your home.
Gilgamesh opens the door. You're standing just beyond the threshold when you hear the messenger's words again—louder this time, more personal.
But it's not until the scroll is unfurled, and the name is read aloud, that the air truly changes.
"Parsa," the man declares. "By name and order, you are hereby conscripted into the Great King's army."
Your name—your borrowed name—hangs between heaven and earth.
You don't speak. But the silence that follows is deafening.
Around you, the others still. Gilgamesh's jaw tightens. Sersi exhales, soft and slow. Druig does not move, but you feel his gaze—sharp, unreadable. Makkari lowers her eyes. Ajak watches you most intently, and in her gaze you see it: not surprise, but sorrow.
Of all the things the scroll might have held, you hadn't considered this.
You, who had watched the rise and fall of kings like the shifting of tides. You, who had stood outside the sweep of mortal history, now reduced to a name on a parchment, a pawn in a game of conquest that meant nothing to you.
The irony tastes like ash.
Parsa. The name that allowed you to walk among them now binds you in chains they don't even see.
To refuse would be unthinkable. To run would risk everything. You had spent centuries maintaining the balance, cloaked in silence, hidden in myth. And now that very silence demands your submission.
You wonder, not for the first time, if the Celestials are watching.
You wonder, bitterly, if any of them are laughing.
"Not possible."
Gilgamesh's voice strikes the moment like thunder on dry stone.
The courtyard, already strained with silence, cracks beneath his outburst. He steps forward before anyone can stop him, towering over the messenger with a presence that makes the soldiers nearby stiffen. His fists clench instinctively, as if the sheer force of his will could shield you from the decree hanging in the air.
"You must have misread," he says, his voice sharp, raw, laced with something between disbelief and defiance. "Parsa's no soldier. He's a—"
The messenger's eyes narrow, suspicion tightening the lines of his face. He holds the scroll like a verdict, his grip whitening as he surveys the group before him. "Do you question the will of the King of Kings?"
His tone cuts colder than the desert wind.
Around him, the soldiers shift. One steps forward, slow but deliberate. Hands drift toward hilts. Breath catches. The moment sharpens into the edge of something irreversible.
"Gurzad."
Ajak's voice cleaves through the rising tension—not loud, but absolute.
She moves with quiet authority, placing herself between them with a single step. Her hand touches Gilgamesh's forearm—not restraint, not command, but something deeper. A reminder. A boundary. A choice.
For one breathless moment, he doesn't move.
Then he exhales, sharp and slow, the fight withdrawing from his posture like a tide retreating from shore. His jaw locks. But he says nothing more.
From the edge of your sight, the others stir.
Druig stands too still, his fingers twitching like a whisper of a thought he dares not voice. Sersi's hands hover near her sides, as if unsure whether to reach for you or hold herself still. Phastos mutters a sharp curse under his breath, while Thena's hand brushes lightly over the hilt at her side—reflex, not threat.
They are all holding back.
And in the center of it all, Ajak lifts her gaze to the messenger. Her expression is composed, distant—but her presence anchors the storm.
"It is the King's decree," she says. Her voice is calm. Controlled. Final. "We will not stand in its way."
She doesn't look at you. Not yet. But in her silence, there's a promise: *We will speak of this. Just not here.*
The messenger lingers for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly, before giving a short nod. He turns, continues down the path, his voice rising again at the next household. The machinery of empire does not wait.
In his wake, silence settles again—deeper than before.
You feel their eyes on you.
Not just eyes—*witnesses*. Your family. Your kin. The ones who have walked with you through ages of fire and silence. None speak, but none need to. Their silence is not judgment. It is recognition.
And yet, none weigh heavier than hers.
Ajak watches you now—not as a leader, but as something older. Something closer. Her gaze holds no blame. Only sorrow. And in that moment, you realize what she already knew:
This war is no longer a distant fire.
It has found you.
You inhale slowly, feeling the weight settle in your chest.
There must be a Celestial laughing at me right now.
The air inside the dimly lit chamber is thick, pressing down like an unseen weight. The fire crackles in the center of the room, its embers casting flickering shadows against the stone walls. No one speaks at first. No one dares.
The door had barely shut behind you when a dull crack broke the silence.
Gilgamesh's fist collided with the stone wall, sending dust fluttering from the ceiling. The impact echoed through the chamber like thunder trapped in a cage.
No one said a word. The wall didn't break, but the message was clear.
He stood there for a beat longer, his chest rising and falling like a beast struggling to cage itself. Then, slowly, he turned back to face the fire—his jaw tight, his knuckles raw, the storm still alive behind his eyes.
"This is madness," Gilgamesh growls, his voice rough with frustration. He paces near the fire, his movements restless, as if standing still would somehow make this reality settle better. "We're not going to let this happen, right? We're not just going to sit here while they take him?"
"And what do you suggest, Gilgamesh?" Ajak's voice is calm, measured, but there is steel beneath it. "Do you plan to storm the King's palace? Slaughter the messengers? Perhaps announce to the world what we are, just to keep Seidon from a war that has already begun?"
"Better than letting them drag him off like cattle." Gilgamesh's fists clench at his sides.
"This isn't about you." Sersi cuts in, her tone sharp. "Seidon has to decide what happens next."
"Decide?" Druig scoffs from where he leans against the far wall. "What choice does he have? If he refuses, they'll suspect something. If he runs, they'll come for him or even for us. If he fights—" He shrugs. "At least he'd be in a position to influence the right minds."
"You think marching into war is an opportunity?" Sersi's voice rises, incredulous.
"It's better than being a bystander." Ikaris speaks for the first time, arms crossed, expression unreadable. "This war is happening whether we want it to or not. At least if he's there, he can shape it."
"Or he could die." Makkari signs sharply, her fingers quick, deliberate. Her eyes lock onto you, searching your face, her expression unreadable but weighted with concern.
"Or they can notice that Seidon is different than the rest of them on the battlefield."
Her hands still for half a second, emphasizing the unspoken danger in those words before she continues.
"Have you considered that?"
The room fractures into voices, arguments overlapping, tempers flaring. But through it all, you say nothing.
Because the truth is, you don't know what to say.
You had always believed in order. In the quiet certainty that history moved as it should, and that you were meant to watch—not to interfere. But now, history had reached out and pulled you in. This was not a distant war, not another rise and fall of mortal kings. This was your name, etched in ink, bound to a decree that now you had no power to change.
"Enough."
Ajak's voice is quiet, but it silences the room. She turns to you, her gaze steady, unwavering.
"This is your choice."
Every pair of eyes turns to you then, waiting, expecting, demanding an answer.
You open your mouth, but no words come. Because for the first time in centuries, you don't have an answer.
So instead, you exhale slowly and shake your head.
"Not tonight."
You turn and walk away, leaving the decision hanging in the air behind you, heavier than the weight of the decree itself.
The silence behind you felt heavier than any war you had ever witnessed.
The night air did little to ease the weight pressing against your chest. You walked without direction, each step echoing with unspoken frustration, with the conflict you refused to voice inside that room. A protector. A guardian to the Prime Eternal. That is what you were meant to be.
Not a soldier. Not a weapon to be wielded by men who saw only conquest in the tides of history.
You were meant to uphold balance, to guard the order of things and, most of all, be there to protect Ajak—not to be reduced to a name on a scroll, another faceless soldier in a war that had nothing to do with you. And yet, here you were, called not as a protector of greater things, but as a mortal conscripted for a king's ambition.
Had it been arrogance? To believe you all could live among them and remain untouched by their conflicts?
Or had it been foolishness? To think you all could observe history without becoming part of it?
"You think I'm going to let you leave it at that?"
Ajak's voice was calm, but there was something else beneath it—something deeper. She was never one to force an answer from someone. She didn't need to. She knew the right words to make someone face the truth themselves.
You let out a slow breath, your fingers curling slightly as if resisting the weight of this moment, but you do not turn to face her. "This isn't how it was meant to be."
Ajak stepped closer, waiting. You continued, your voice low, burdened with something heavier than frustration—something closer to grief.
"I am supposed to be a protector," you murmured. "I am meant to guard something greater than this. Above all I'm ordained to protect you. And yet, I stand here, forced into a war that does not concern me, called by a name that is not my own."
Your hands clenched into fists at your sides, the tension in your shoulders refusing to ease.
"We have spent centuries watching the tides, maintaining the order of things. But where is the order in this? Where is the balance in a war that exists only for the greed of men?"
"Balance," Ajak said softly, "is not the absence of conflict."
Your head turned slightly, your gaze finally meeting hers.
"It is not standing still while the world moves around you," she continued. "It is choosing when to act and when to hold your ground. You call yourself a protector, but tell me—what good is a protector who does not stand among those he is meant to guard?"
You exhaled sharply, looking away, the words striking deeper than you wanted to admit. "They are not ours to protect, Ajak. This is their war, their battle, not ours."
"And so far we've seen no Deviants involved in this war."
Ajak studied you, her expression unreadable. "Do you believe that?"
The silence that followed was answer enough.
Ajak sighed then, her shoulders dropping ever so slightly. And for the first time in a long while, she looked… tired.
"If you think I want this for you, Seidon, you're wrong."
That made you pause. You turned fully to her now, and for the first time that night, you saw something in her expression you had not expected—something that cut through all the logic, all the leadership, all the carefully measured words she had spoken before.
Worry.
Real, human worry.
"I don't want you to go," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "But this isn't about what I want. It hasn't been for a long time."
She shook her head, gaze drifting upward toward the darkened sky as if searching for answers among the stars. "There was a time when I thought we could guide them. Shape them. Keep them safe. But this…" she gestured vaguely at the city, the streets still filled with the echoes of war preparations, of uncertainty. "This has spiraled beyond my reach. It no longer matters what I hope for. The world moves, with or without us."
She looked at you again, and there was something raw in her expression, something stripped of the wisdom and certainty she usually carried.
"I can't change that. And I can't change this decree. But I can tell you this—" she reached forward, her fingers brushing against the fabric at your collar, "if you go, do not let them decide who you are. Do not let them turn you into something you are not."
Then, gently, she slipped her hand beneath the edge of your tunic and drew out the worn leather cord you always kept tucked close to your chest. The small, handmade charm swung in the moonlight—Prince Nabu's gift, still faintly scented with the fire it had once survived, its edges burnished by time and touch.
She held it for a moment between her fingers, not as a reminder of duty, but of something more fragile. More human.
"You are not just another soldier, Seidon. You are more than this war. And if you must walk into it, then walk in as yourself, not as their pawn."
Her fingers curled slightly around the charm before letting it fall gently against your chest once more, her hand lingering just above your heart.
"And no matter what choice you make, I trust you."
You inhaled sharply. Of all the things she could have said, that was not what you expected. But Ajak had never needed to command your loyalty—she had always simply had it. And now, she was offering hers in return.
You were silent for a long time. The weight of the moment pressed against you; against everything you had ever stood for. You had always believed that history was meant to move on its own, that you were meant to watch—not to interfere.
But history had called your name.
You could walk away, let the war take its course. But walking away meant becoming nothing more than another ghost in the tide of time. It meant standing still while the world moved.
"I don't want to fight their war," you admitted.
Ajak nodded. "Then don't. But be there. See it for what it is. And when the time comes, decide for yourself what must be done."
For the first time that night, something settled inside you. Not peace, but certainty.
You exhaled slowly, looking at her. "You already knew I would go, didn't you?"
Ajak smiled faintly. "No. But I hoped you would make the choice yourself."
You let out a breath that almost sounded like a chuckle. Then, you nodded.
"I will go."