With Athanasia in his arms, Zenobios strides toward the citadel doors. Two male servants strain to push open the massive limestone slabs, their muscles taut with effort. The moment they enter, a wave of light washes over them—the flickering glow of countless oil lamps illuminating the vast interior.
The hall stretches wide, its cyclopean stone walls jagged and imposing. Animal pelts line the floor, leading toward a steep stone ramp that ascends to the second level. To the left lies the throne room, its empty stone seat placed against a mural of faded battle scenes.
The upper floor holds Athanasia's quarters, while Zenobios dwells below. But tonight, with her ankle sprained, he intends to carry her up himself.
"First, let's eat," he says softly. "And what about our son? Who will feed him?"
Athanasia glances at the maid cradling Vyrian, then back to him.
"Let me eat first. I'll nurse him before I sleep."
Zenobios nods and turns toward the dining hall beyond the ramp. Servants trail in quiet procession. Inside, a long stone table dominates the space, low couches set around it. Zenobios lowers Athanasia onto a couch before reclining beside her.
Attendants approach with knives, portioning a roasted hare. Its skin still crackles from the fire. Athanasia selects the heart with her spoon while Zenobios tears into a leg, a servant holding the joint steady. Nearby, the maid rocks the infant gently.
Then the air changes.
A company of warriors in green robes marches into the hall, spears upright and shields tight. They form a circle around a silent figure. Zenobios calmly washes his hands in a bronze basin, then looks up as the man steps forward.
"Elder brother—it's been too long."
"Areios!" Zenobios rises with a smile, embracing him tightly.
Unlike the armored guards, Areios wears the plain robe and worn sandals of a commoner. His task is among mortals, performing miracles to keep faith in the old gods alive. His brown hair and beard glint in the lamplight.
"It's been years," Zenobios says warmly. "How have you been?"
"The same," Areios laughs. "Learning tricks to keep mortals impressed. Can't let their faith fade, can we?"
He bows to Athanasia.
"My queen, forgive me for missing your wedding."
Still seated, she raises her hands.
"Brother Areios, please. Your duties come first. No apology is needed."
"You honor me," he smiles, then leans closer. "But I heard news I could not ignore. Is it true? Am I an uncle now?"
Zenobios clasps his shoulder. "You are. He's over there."
The maid steps forward, placing Vyrian into Areios' arms. The child's face peeks from the cloth, peaceful in sleep. Tears spring to Areios' eyes—then turn black.
The world collapses into darkness.
"Brother?" he calls. No answer.
"Athanasia?" Silence.
The infant is gone. Only the empty cloth remains. Fear coils in his chest.
A figure appears ahead, robed in white, glowing with a holy light. Yet his eyes burn with fury. His hair and beard are black, framing a face twisted in rage.
"W-who are you?" Areios demands. Nothing.
Silence presses in until he breaks.
"Where is my brother? Where is Athanasia? Answer me!"
The black shifts to red. Ash drifts in the air. Bones litter the ground. Flames consume Eden.
He stumbles through the ruins of Anaktoro. Crimson clouds bleed across the sky. The air reeks of smoke and flesh. A throne sits amidst the wreckage, a skeleton slumped upon it.
"Brother?" he whispers.
Another set of bones lies nearby. He cannot tell who they belonged to. Heat rises. His skin burns.
"What's happening?"
Far off, the glowing man still stands, staring at him. Areios watches in horror as the figure's face melts away, flesh dripping to reveal raw muscle, teeth, and eyes. His clothes ignite, his body dissolves into bone—yet the skeleton remains upright. Then, a gust of ash-laden wind, and the figure vanishes.
Areios staggers on until he reaches a half-ruined temple. It should not exist here—not in heaven. Yet it grows larger with each step, towering by the time he reaches the stairs. He climbs through the broken entrance, pillars collapsed, soot covering everything inside.
A slab crashes from the ceiling. He dives aside, the stone shattering where he stood.
Then a voice.
"Heed fate." Deep, familiar. Almost his brother's.
"What you see is the weight of your sins," it intones.
Areios forces himself up, trembling. Another voice—closer this time, right behind him.
"That child…"
He jolts. The man stands inches away, resembling Zenobios yet younger, fiercer.
"That child in the arms of royalty will end the heavens," the man says. Heat intensifies.
"The wrath, the hatred, the spite he carries…" He points at Areios' hands. Vyrian lies there, eyes closed.
"…will turn all heavens to hell."
The temple trembles. Pillars crack, the roof begins to collapse. The man's gaze sears into Areios, his heartbeat racing, sweat pouring.
"Stop it before it is too late."
The roof falls—then darkness.
"Areios!"
The voice is distant, muffled. Slowly, the haze lifts. His vision clears.
Zenobios is cradling his head, shaking his shoulders. Athanasia hovers nearby, worry etched across her face.
"Areios, are you alright?" Zenobios asks, fear in his voice.
Areios breathes hard, blinking away the vision. He is back. Safe—for now.