The morning of departure came too soon.
The sky still wore the last fragments of night—deep indigo brushed with the faintest silver where dawn threatened to break. Cold air lingered, damp with memory. The city had not yet stirred, but within the sanctuary's walls, silence moved like a final breath held too long.
They stood in a loose half-circle around you. No one spoke. And yet, everything unsaid pulsed between them like a second heartbeat.
"You don't have to do this," Gilgamesh broke the silence first, his voice gruff but low. Pleading, though he'd never name it so. His arms were folded across his chest, but his fingers twitched restlessly against his biceps. "Let me go in your place. If they need another body—take mine."
You shook your head. "No, Gil."
"Then take me with you."
"You know I can't."
His exhale came sharp and frustrated, jaw tightening as he looked away. He didn't argue again. The decision had been sealed, and even fury had its limits.
The others carried their reactions quieter.
Sersi's gaze flicked toward the ground, lips drawn in as though silencing a thousand soft protests she would never say aloud. Makkari stood with her arms folded tightly, fingers tapping against her sleeve in a rhythm just shy of panic. Kingo for once had no quip—only the stillness of someone who didn't trust his voice. Sprite scuffed the toe of her boot into the dirt and said nothing.
Druig leaned back against a post, his expression unreadable—but you could feel the sharp heat of his thoughts pressing against the silence.
Then Thena stepped forward. She pressed something small into your hand.
A dagger.
Unadorned, elegant, its balance perfect for a weapon never meant to be thrown. "A soldier should not go unarmed," she said simply.
You met her gaze, and for once, her silence was not cold. Only steady. Only necessary.
When you turned back toward the others, the circle had begun to shift.
Makkari approached you next. She moved with purpose—quick, quiet. Her hands signed slowly, deliberately: Stay safe. The words were not theatrical. They never were with her. It was a wish, not a promise. One she knew you couldn't give back.
Before you could reply, a faint metallic clink sounded behind you.
You turned.
A single piece of armor sat propped by the door—a fastening ring, polished smooth and set with a small inscription in a language no human could read. Phastos said nothing as he passed by. Only tapped it once with two fingers before continuing on, as if it had always been there.
Sprite—half-hidden beneath the eaves—caught your eye just before you stepped toward the gate. With a flick of her thumb, she tossed something your way.
You caught it instinctively.
A coin. Gold. Worn at the edges.
"Daric," she muttered. "For luck. Or bribery. Depends on the kind of war." She looked away before you could answer.
And then—Ajak.
She had been standing apart, not out of distance, but reverence. When the final moment came, she stepped forward without ceremony, carrying nothing but something folded in her hands.
A cloak.
Dark as storm-washed velvet, lined with soft wool. Her own stitching, by the look of it.
She reached forward without a word and wrapped it around your shoulders—her movements precise, almost ceremonial. Then, she took the fastening ring Phastos had left, looped it through the folds, and secured it over your chest with a final, quiet click.
She didn't speak. Not yet.
Because she didn't need to.
The gesture said everything.
And when her hand rested on your chest just above the fastening ring, just above your heart, you felt something shift. Not in her. In you.
"Walk with me," she said softly.
You followed her through the quiet courtyard, the echoes of your footsteps mingling with the distant sounds of a waking city. For a moment, neither of you spoke.
"This is the first time we will be apart," you finally said.
Ajak nodded, a small, knowing smile playing at the corners of her lips. "Yes. But I trust you to find your way back."
"I don't trust them to let me."
"Then make them."
You exhaled sharply, looking away. "If something happens—if anything happens to you—" You hesitated, then turned back to her, your voice quieter but filled with a conviction that could not be shaken. "Promise me you won't be alone."
Ajak studied you for a long moment before answering, and when she did, her voice was softer than before, carrying something more than just wisdom—something gentler, something maternal.
"I won't be alone."
"Good," you murmured. Then, stepping back, you turned toward the others. "While I am gone, promise me you will protect her."
There was no hesitation. One by one, they nodded.
The others stepped back, giving you space. But Ajak remained, watching you with the same steady gaze that had guided you through centuries. This time, however, there was something else beneath it—something quieter, unspoken.
"Seidon," she said softly, "you know this is not your war."
Her words settled heavily in the cool morning air. You knew what she meant. You had always known.
"Then why am I going?"
"Because history has already chosen you."
There was no anger in her tone, no resistance to the inevitability of it all. Only a quiet acceptance, a deep understanding that neither of you had the power to turn back the tide that had already begun to shift.
"Do not let them turn you into something you are not." Her voice was gentle but firm, her hand pressing lightly against your arm in a gesture that felt like a silent vow. "Do not forget what you are meant to protect."
Her fingers moved to the edge of your tunic then, brushing lightly just below the collar.
She reached beneath the fabric and drew out the small leather cord that lay close to your skin—the charm Prince Nabu had given you long ago, burnished smooth by years of wear. It hung there now in her hand, small and worn, its edges darkened by time and touch, still faintly scented with cedar and fire-smoke.
"I remember when he gave you this," Ajak murmured, her voice almost a whisper. "He made it with his own hands, didn't he? Said it would keep the sea steady beneath your feet."
You swallowed hard, nodding once.
Her thumb moved slowly over the charm's surface, a tender gesture that said more than any farewell ever could.
"Take this into the world," she said. "Not because it will protect you—but because it reminds you who you were when you were loved freely. And who you are when no one is watching."
Then she let it fall gently back against your chest, pressing her palm flat over it.
"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."
"I won't."
Ajak smiled faintly, but for the first time, you saw a flicker of something else—something that felt like sorrow. Not because she doubted you, but because she wished she did not have to watch you go.
A pause. And then, quieter still:
"And no matter what choice you make, I trust you."
The city gates loomed ahead, their towering structure marking the last threshold between what was and what would be. The sun had finally begun its ascent, casting long shadows across the dirt path that led beyond the walls.
You adjusted the weight of the pack on your back, gripping Thena's dagger a little tighter before tucking it away. Then, slowly, you turned—one last time.
Sersi met your gaze first. She did not speak, but her lips moved soundlessly, offering a quiet blessing only you could understand. A whisper to the wind, a wish for safe passage. You nodded in return.
Makkari, standing slightly apart from the others, lifted her hands. Her fingers moved with measured precision—Stay safe.
Gilgamesh stood rigid, hands clenched at his sides. He did not meet your eyes. He didn't need to. His silence said everything.
And Ajak—still watching, her eyes carrying centuries of knowing—offered no words this time. Only the weight of a farewell not meant to be spoken aloud.
You breathed once.
"I'll see you again."
Then, you stepped forward. The gates opened, and the road unfurled—dusty, uncertain, waiting.
Behind you, the sanctuary stood unchanged.
But nothing felt the same.
You had walked into wars before, but never as one of them.
Behind you, Ajak remained still for a long moment. Then, as the last traces of your figure disappeared beyond the gates, she closed her eyes. Just for a second. Just long enough to let herself feel the weight of what had just happened. Then, exhaling softly, she turned back toward the others.
**********
The road stretched long before them, but it was not the distance that burdened their steps—it was the weight of a war waiting far beyond the horizon.
They moved in silence down the beaten dirt road, boots stirring dusk-colored dust as the sun bled orange across the sky, stretching their shadows across the dry earth like tethered ghosts.
You walked among them, your presence indistinguishable from the others. Just another name on the list. Just another body for the empire's war machine.
"How much farther, you think?" someone muttered from ahead.
"Should be by midday tomorrow, if we don't drop dead first," another grumbled.
"Quit whining. At least we're marching toward warm food and a proper bedroll," a third voice chimed in, met with a chorus of dry chuckles.
You remained silent, listening. Learning. These men did not speak like soldiers yet. They were farmers, fishermen, merchants—ordinary lives repurposed for war. And now, you were among them.
Just another soldier. The Persian army awaits.
As the sky darkened, the column of new recruits finally came to a halt. Campfires flickered to life, dotting the barren roadside like fallen stars. The men collapsed onto their packs, stretching sore limbs, rubbing aching feet. The murmurs of exhausted conversation wove through the camp—complaints about the road, speculations about the army that awaited them, and half-hearted boasts of what they would do once they set foot in battle.
You listened. But you did not speak.
You had volunteered for the first watch. It was easier than pretending to sleep.
The fire crackled at your side, sending flickering shadows dancing across your fingers as you turned the dagger in your palm. The metal caught the light, reflecting the faintest golden sheen—Thena's craftsmanship, unmistakable even in its simplicity. You shifted the blade in your hand—not as a warrior checking his weapon, but as someone reminding himself he still had a reason to hold it.
You exhaled slowly, leaning back against the rough bark of a nearby tree. Your shoulders ached—not from exhaustion, but from restraint. You had spent centuries moving without effort, your body never truly burdened by fatigue. Now, you had to let it weigh on you, let the illusion of mortality settle into your muscles, let the weight of the road press into your bones.
You had to make it real.
Your gaze lifted toward the sky. The stars stretched endlessly above, cold and distant. You wondered if they were watching. If she was watching.
Ajak, standing where you left her, the wind catching the hem of her robes. Gilgamesh, jaw clenched, refusing to meet your gaze. Makkari, signing a farewell before vanishing into the night. Sersi, her lips moving in a silent blessing. You could still see them, burned into memory, lingering just beyond reach.
Had they truly let you go? Or were they still watching? You stared upward, trying to count the stars, but they blurred against the smoke. Maybe they watched. Maybe not. Maybe the only thing watching was the man you were pretending to be—and even he was starting to believe it. For the first time in centuries, you were walking into war as someone who could die.
The fire warmed your hands, but not the question in your chest.
A slow exhale left you, but it was not quite a sigh. You tightened your grip around the dagger, the metal cool against your palm.
"Not sleeping?"
The voice pulled you from your thoughts. You glanced up. A young man stepped into the firelight, his hair tousled, eyes still heavy with sleep. His movements were too loose, too easy—untouched by discipline or danger. He had yet to learn the weight of war.
He dropped to the ground beside you without hesitation, arms folded behind his head, and let out a long, theatrical groan.
"Feels like we've been walking for a week," he muttered, voice light despite the weariness in his limbs. "One more day, they said. I'll believe it when I'm sleeping on something that isn't a rock."
You studied him, saying nothing at first. Then, quietly: "You'll have your answer soon enough."
"Hope so. Been waiting for this chance since I was old enough to hold a stick and pretend it was a spear." He grinned, boyish and bright. "Arian. From Media."
You paused a breath before grasping his outstretched hand. Firm, measured. Controlled.
"Parsa."
"Well, Parsa," he said, "here's hoping we end up in the same unit. I could use someone who doesn't snore."
You gave no answer.
He chuckled. "You don't talk much, do you?"
"Not unless I need to."
"Fair enough." He stretched again, letting the firelight spill across his face. "You ever been in a real battle?"
You glanced sideways at him. "And you have?"
"Not yet," he said, unbothered. "But I've trained plenty. My father used to say battle makes a man. You go in a boy, you come out a warrior."
The dagger turned once more between your fingers, catching the firelight in a slow arc.
"Wars remember the kings who start them," you murmured. "Not the men who bleed for them."
The smile slipped slightly from Arian's face. Not gone. Just quieted.
"Maybe," he said at last. "But every legend has its heroes. Who's to say we won't be some of them?"
You said nothing. He was young. He would learn.
But something in you stirred.
Not rejection. Not mockery.
Just memory.
The way Nabu used to speak of legends—his voice bright with firelight, tracing stories in the sand like they were maps to salvation. How his small fingers would wrap around yours when he whispered, "You'll be in mine someday." That same boyish certainty lived now in Arian's voice, undimmed by cost.
You had once believed in heroes, too.
But Babylon was long behind you. And every legend you had touched had ended in silence.
You looked away, letting the firelight shadow your face before the past could make itself too known.
The fire crackled between you, stretching shadows across the dirt.
"Try not to let it die out," you said, rising to your feet.
Arian gave a lazy salute, grin returning. "No promises."
You turned away, adjusting the cloak across your shoulders. A small, practiced motion—one of caution, of habit, of survival.
And yet, for the first time since this road began, you were no longer entirely alone.
**********
The first thing you notice is the silence—not the absence of sound, but its sharpening. A stillness too clean, too deliberate, like the moment before a blade is drawn.
Then the noise returns all at once: shouted orders barked in Old Persian, boots trampling packed earth, the metallic groan of armor shifting with bodies that no longer move like men but as parts of something larger. A war machine. Unyielding. Impersonal.
The Persian camp unfolds beneath you like a city made of leather and discipline. Tents stretch into neat columns under the harsh light, ropes taut, standards stiff in the wind. You and the other conscripts are herded forward like cattle, each step a surrender to order.
Beside you, Arian draws a slow breath through his teeth.
"Mother of all…" he murmurs. "That's more banners than trees in Babylon."
You don't answer. Your gaze has already begun to map every movement, every silence. There is no room for awe—only calculation.
When your names are called, they take you separately. One for the infantry division near the southern ridge, the other assigned to a supply battalion closer to the inner gate. You hear Arian mutter a quick "well, shit" as he's pulled away. You glance only once—his wave is crooked, uncertain. You do not return it.
He disappears behind the arc of a spearman's shoulder.
You're left with strangers.
The men around you are dust-worn, broad-shouldered, silent. Veterans, or at least hardened enough to seem so. They do not meet your eyes. They do not ask your name. A few glance your way, then away again—too quickly.
You can feel the shape of it settling over you: the recognition, not of who you are, but what you aren't.
You do not move like them. Do not carry weight the same way. Even in stillness, you stand too balanced, too precise. You fold your cloak more carefully than the others. Your eyes track motion before sound. You think faster than you speak, and that alone makes them uneasy.
The alienness has returned—not loud, not hostile, but cold. And it is familiar.
You were never one of them. And no campfire, no rank, will ever make it otherwise.
Your new unit is ordered to formation. You fall in, expression unreadable, hands behind your back. One foot sinks into the dirt, then the other. The ground feels wrong—too dry, too tight beneath your heel. But you do not shift.
A gust of wind stirs the camp banners behind you. You glance once over your shoulder.
Arian is gone.
You do not call out. You commit the weight of that absence to memory instead. His voice. His posture. The shape of his last words—Wouldn't that be something—like something unfinished, dropped mid-step.
You look forward again.
This is the beginning. You can feel it—not just in your bones, but deeper. In the hum of the air, in the way the earth tightens beneath this camp, in the silence that now sits too comfortably in your chest.
You adjust your cloak again—more precisely than needed. Not because it's out of place.
But because you are.
That night, sleep came slow. The camp had grown quiet, but not peaceful—too many bodies, too little space. You lay still beneath a thin woven blanket, eyes closed, waiting for sleep to take you somewhere less real.
And it did.
But not in the way you expected.
At first, it was only warmth—faint, golden. Not the heat of desert sun, but something older, something vast. It pulsed behind your ribs, like the echo of a memory not yours alone.
Then the light shifted. Not a place, but a feeling.
A stillness, heavy with purpose.
You did not see her—but you felt her.
Ajak.
Her presence came not in words, but in impressions—like water moving beneath ice. The scent of sandalwood ash. The hush of temple cloth drawn closed. Fingers pressed together in silence, not out of fear, but reverence. And through it all, that steady hum—low and unshaken.
She was praying.
Not to the Celestials. Not to fate. But for something that had no name.
For you.
It wasn't a plea. She had never begged for anything. It was steadier than that. A prayer woven from memory and certainty. The kind that could not stop you, but still reached across the span of earth to say: I see you.
And for one breathless moment, you did see her.
Standing in the chamber of flickering torches, her eyes closed, hands cupped as if holding something fragile that had not yet broken.
The moment stretched.
Then snapped.
You woke just before the horn.
**********
The horn was sharp, but it was the sun that truly stirred the camp—merciless, already searing the air long before its full rise. Dust drifted through the tents like breath through old lungs.
You were already up.
Most of the others rose with groans and curses, struggling into coarse tunics and wrapping their belts with trembling fingers. You moved deliberately slower than you needed to, mimicking exhaustion.
By the time you stepped outside, the camp was alive with motion—disjointed, but moving. Above you all, banners snapped in the wind: the winged lion of Persia, golden on black.
He arrived on horseback.
He didn't dismount.
The dust clung to his bronze-scaled armor, his face shadowed beneath a layered headdress. His voice didn't rise—it didn't need to.
"Men of the Empire," he began, not looking at any of you in particular. "You are not warriors. You are earth. And today, we begin shaping you."
No further introduction.
You were sorted not by name, but by region—Elamite, Median, Babylonian, Persian. The distinctions were immediate. Men from Persepolis received leather sandals. Others were barefoot. Some bore rusted blades. Most carried blunt spears with splintering shafts. The message was clear: you were not equal, not yet.
They did not begin with running.
They began with sun discipline.
You stood in open sand, spears planted upright beside you, your shield strapped uselessly across your back. No instructions were given. Just one command that echoed from the mounted officer's mouth before he turned away:
"Stand. Don't fall."
And so you stood.
The sun climbed. Sweat slicked skin and stung eyes. Flies gathered around nostrils and dried lips. Men shifted, stumbled, collapsed. The ones who fell early were ignored. The ones who tried to get back up were not.
A captain walked the lines with a whip—black leather coiled like a serpent in his grip. It struck without warning, carving sharp gasps from the air. One man who blinked too long received it across his neck. Another who twitched to scratch his thigh earned two lashes for "insubordination."
The whip never touched you.
But you felt its shadow every time it passed behind you.
Somewhere two lines down, Arian shifted his weight, eyes clenched. When he glanced your way, his mouth moved—just a breath: You still haven't moved. He looked away before the whip could catch him watching.
Later came drills.
Not instruction. Not strategy.
Breaking.
You were ordered to sprint across the rocky incline—then crawl back on your stomach, dragging your shield with you, over gravel that tore cloth and skin alike. A few groaned prayers to Mithra between gritted teeth. Others cursed the king beneath their breath.
You said nothing.
The drills bled into archery—if it could be called that. A row of unstrung bows lay on the sand, ten in total. Thirty men. No arrows yet.
No commands either.
"You want it?" a senior archer barked. "Earn it."
The first man lunged for a bow and caught an elbow to the temple. Another tried to reach politely and was shoved flat into the dust. The one who took it didn't look strong—but he looked mean. He walked away, limping, blood on his knuckles, bow in hand.
You did not move.
Arian hesitated when it was his turn—just long enough to lose his chance. When he returned to the line empty-handed, his lip was bleeding.
"You stand like a statue," one of the archers muttered when passing behind you. "You don't sweat like the rest." His voice wasn't impressed. Not yet. Just wary.
Later, during spear drills, you were paired with another conscript for thrust formations. The technique was simple: three steps, forward lunge, brace. Again. Over and over.
Your partner was broad across the chest, a smith's son by the look of his wrists. When your spears met mid-thrust, he recoiled slightly, then frowned. His gaze flicked to your arm, down to the way your bicep tensed—lean, but carved with strength that didn't match your frame.
"You're not like the rest of us, are you?" he muttered, not as a threat, but something nearer to awe.
You didn't reply. But you noticed, from then on, he never questioned the pace you set.
At dusk, the formations collapsed. Bodies sank to the ground like clay cut from its mold—unfinished, shaking, silent. Some cried softly into their palms. One man vomited behind a cart. A few sat with their backs to the fire, staring into the dust like it might offer some escape.
This was not a place for training heroes.
It was a place for turning men into weapons.
And for the first time since you stepped into this war, you wondered how many of them would survive their own becoming.
**********
The fire had long since burned down to embers, yet Ajak remained, standing beneath the vast expanse of the heavens. The sky stretched endlessly above her, stars gleaming like silent sentinels in the abyss. She knew they were watching.
So she called to them.
"You allowed this."
The moment the words left her lips, the air around her shifted. The sky itself seemed to deepen, as if reality was bending beneath the weight of something far greater than mortal comprehension. And then, their voices came.
It was necessary.
A voice like infinity itself, vast and absolute, resonated in her mind. Nezarr the Calculator. Cold, logical, without hesitation.
"Necessary?" Ajak's voice was steady, but there was a sharp edge to it. "Necessary for whom?"
For the sequence of events that must unfold, Nezarr replied. The probability of significant historical deviation increased exponentially upon Seidon's prolonged presence among humanity. This scenario provides an optimal test environment for evaluating the depth of an Eternal interference within human conflict.
"He is not an experiment."
He is a factor.
Another voice, different yet equally immutable, entered the space between worlds. Hargen the Measurer. Where Nezarr dealt in predictions, Hargen dealt in observation.
Seidon's presence in the war provides measurable variables, Hargen continued. His integration among mortals, his decision-making under duress, and the responses of both sides to his existence. We will record and assess.
Ajak clenched her fists at her sides. "You are treating him like a data point."
We are treating him as who he is, Nezarr corrected. A deviation from projected Eternal behavior. The anomaly has already begun.
Ajak inhaled slowly, forcing herself to remain calm. "And if I had stopped him?"
Irrelevant, Nezarr stated. The sequence was already in motion. Your intervention would have only delayed the inevitable. A different scenario would have formed to achieve the same result.
"You speak as if history is a prewritten path," she said. "Yet you are the ones who shape it."
We do not shape, Hargen corrected. We measure.
"You permitted this to happen."
Yes.
The answer was devoid of emotion, of attachment. To them, this was not cruelty. It was simply function. Design.
"And if he does not return?" Ajak asked, her voice quieter now.
A pause. The vastness of the cosmos itself seemed to hum in response before Nezarr answered.
Then we will measure the consequences of his absence.
Ajak exhaled sharply, her frustration unspoken yet unmistakable. "You do not care what happens to him."
Care? Hargen repeated, as if the concept itself was foreign. We do not interfere with the course of outcomes. We only observe them.
"You are playing with his life."
We chose him to step into history, Nezarr said. We are merely ensuring that history records it.
Ajak closed her eyes for a moment, grounding herself. They would not change their stance. They never did. And yet, for the first time in centuries, she wondered how much of her own faith had been placed in something incapable of caring for those it governed.
"If he falls, it will be on your hands," she murmured.
No, Hargen corrected. It will be on his.
The presence faded, withdrawing from her consciousness, leaving only silence behind.
But just before Nezarr's presence withdrew completely, his voice lingered one moment longer—so faint it could have been a trick of thought.
Uncertainty is inefficient, he said, the phrase as absolute as ever.
But not always… undesirable.
And then he was gone.
Ajak stood alone beneath the heavens, the silence pressing down like frost against her skin. The stars offered no answer—only their ancient, silent light. And for the first time in a long while, she did not know if she was meant to speak for the gods…
Or to speak against them.