The world was fire and iron.
Men screamed beneath banners tattered by musket fire, and the sky above them burned red as if the sun itself had fallen. Horses reared and died; pikes clashed; the ground was mud and blood. A man with no face struck down another, and then another. Marc saw himself among them—his hands blackened, his blade heavy, the air thick with smoke and the smell of rot. He looked down, saw his reflection in a puddle: a soldier not of this century, not of this world, and yet somehow himself.
A cannon roared. The ground split. The faces of the dead looked up, whispering his name—Moonveil.
And then the dream shattered.
Marc jolted upright, drenched in cold sweat. His breathing came sharp, fast. The sunlight leaking through the curtains painted golden lines across the sheets. For a moment, the sounds of battle still echoed in his head—until Alexia stirred beside him, brushing sleep from her eyes.
"Marc?" Her voice was soft, the morning still in it. "What's wrong?"
He ran a hand over his face, forcing air into his lungs. "I… I don't know. It felt real. Like I was there. An old war. Sixteen hundreds, maybe. There was so much death."
She reached for him, resting her head against his shoulder. "Hey. It's okay. Just a dream. You've been through worse."
He exhaled, tension easing under her touch. "Yeah… maybe."
Alexia smiled faintly. "It's morning already. You could come back to bed."
"I don't think I'll sleep again."
Her smirk was small but familiar. "Then join me in the shower. Might help."
For the first time that day, Marc smiled. "You're persuasive, you know that?"
"I'm a teacher," she teased. "Convincing people is part of the job."
---
Steam curled from the bathroom doorway like lazy ghosts. For a little while, the world was simple again—just warmth, laughter, the quiet intimacy of people who had forgotten the war outside their walls.
By the time they made breakfast, sunlight had filled the kitchen. Marc leaned on the counter, coffee in hand, watching Alexia flip pancakes in one of his old Teflon pans.
"It's nice," he said, his voice thoughtful. "Living outside the city. Quiet. Peaceful."
"Mm," she hummed, pouring syrup. "And we don't have to worry about being loud."
Marc grinned. "Was that a complaint before?"
She raised an eyebrow, smirking. "Observation."
They ate slowly, talking about nothing and everything—the garden that needed work, the nearby hills, the way the air here smelled less like metal and more like rain. For the first time in months, Marc felt almost human.
After breakfast, Alexia left for work. Her new school was small—one of the independent ones that sprouted after London declared itself a sovereign state. Children from border towns came there to learn science, history, and the new subject that had become mandatory since the War of Ascendance: Aetherian Culture and Interplanetary Ethics.
Marc watched her drive off before getting ready for his own day. His tie felt foreign around his neck now, a relic from a life he was already leaving behind.
---
London looked different now. The city that once bustled under gray skies now shimmered with the unease of modern mythology. Towers of Ynkeos glass stood like black mirrors, and drones floated between them, carrying news, packages, secrets.
Inside the Ministry of Defense, Marc found Howard waiting near their old workstation. Boxes were stacked, files sealed, the usual ritual of bureaucratic farewell.
"So," Marc said, setting his briefcase down, "this is it. Our last day."
Howard gave a crooked smile. "Guess so. You sure you're ready to leave it all behind?"
Marc shrugged. "I've died once already. Quitting a job feels small in comparison."
Howard chuckled but his tone turned serious. "You don't have to quit too, you know. You've got clearance, connections. I'm just… done hiding. I can't keep pretending the Aetherian work I do belongs to the government."
Marc leaned against the desk. "You're free now. Might as well use that brain of yours for something that matters."
Howard nodded. "That's the plan. I'm moving near your town anyway. The scanners I've been using picked up faint Aetherian energy readings nearby. There could be an old research outpost buried there—a lab or depot from the early settlement days."
Marc raised an eyebrow. "That's convenient."
"Coincidence," Howard said with a grin. "Or divine humor. Hard to tell."
Marc clapped his shoulder. "Then we'll call it partnership. You help me decode whatever Aether tech is left, and I'll keep teaching you how to fight."
Howard's eyes widened. "Wait—you're serious?"
"Completely." Marc's tone softened. "You're sharp, but you've lived behind walls too long. Out there, you'll need to defend yourself."
Howard's grin returned, bright and boyish. "I always wanted to learn. Never got the chance. The closest I came was fencing club in college—and I quit after slicing my own glove."
Marc laughed, the sound genuine. "Don't worry, kid. You're twenty-four. You'll learn fast."
---
When evening came, they walked out of the Ministry for the last time. The city stretched before them—steel, smog, and stars hidden behind neon glare. Somewhere within those towers, William Lex Webb still ruled from his throne of screens and silicon.
Howard glanced at Marc. "You think he knows you're gone?"
Marc smirked. "If he doesn't, he will soon."
They stood for a moment, watching the skyline.
For Marc, London was no longer home—it was a stage for gods and ghosts. Out here, in the quiet borderlands where myths met modernity, he would build something new: a refuge, a fortress, a future.
And for Howard, it was the beginning of freedom—a chance to stop pretending and embrace the Aetherian blood he'd hidden all his life.
Neither man said it aloud, but they both felt it: the peace between storms never lasted long.
The stars above seemed to tremble faintly, and somewhere in the distance, Tecciztecatl's voice drifted across the wind—
A dream of old wars is not a memory, Champion. It is a warning.
Marc's jaw tightened. He looked at the horizon, where the last light of day burned like the edge of a blade.
"Then let it come," he murmured.
---
Lore Expansion
The Dream of 1600s War: Marc's dream hints at an ancient reincarnation—an early vessel of Tecciztecatl's essence who once fought in Europe's hidden "War of Saints," a conflict erased from human record. The dream isn't illusion but memory resurfacing through divine resonance.
Post-Sovereign London: Following decades of unrest, London declared independence from the United Kingdom in 2045, becoming a technocratic city-state governed by corporate consortia and military oversight. Its freedom bred innovation—and corruption.
Ireland and Scotland: After economic collapse in 2032, Ireland absorbed Scottish territory through humanitarian occupation, forming the Celtic Alliance. The Highlands now host multiple Aetherian ruins, remnants of first-contact settlements.
Howard's Role: As a half-Aetherian scientist, Howard's genetic makeup lets him detect and interface with Aether tech others can't. His discovery of an "Aetherian Lab" near Marc's new home suggests a deeper purpose—perhaps destiny—behind their relocation.
Marc's Transformation: The limiter Tecciztecatl placed on Marc stabilizes his divine form, but it also fragments his dreams. Each "old war" he sees may not be metaphor but echoes of other lifetimes where gods and men bled together.
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