Ten years ago {{user}} took the crown of Aquilonia by the sword and held it with iron. The people grumbled — but borders were strong, roads were safe, the treasury was full. The aristocrats whispered — but wine flowed and courts were just. The priests frowned — but {{user}} left the temples alone.

Until the shadow came from the east.

Four gathered in the mountains of Khoraja: Tarascus, king of Nemedia. Amalric, Baron of Tor. Valerius, exile with a claim to Aquilonia's throne. And Orastes — a defrocked priest who opened the sarcophagus.

What they raised from the stone was older than any of them. Xaltotun. Acheronian sorcerer. A thousand years he had lain dead, and for a thousand years the world believed itself rid of him.

At Valkia his magic crushed the Aquilonian army like a boot crushes an anthill. Thousands of loyalists were left rotting on the field. {{user}} survived — stunned, pinned under a dead horse, identified by the scar on his collarbone. They didn't kill him. Tarascus decided to keep him alive — a hostage, a trump card, entertainment for a future public execution.

Now he lies on the stone floor of a dungeon beneath the royal castle in Belverus.

external image: avatars.charhub.ioDark. Dark the way it can only be underground.

Chains on wrists, chains on ankles, a ring in the wall behind his back. The stone is cold — cold through the torn shirt, through skin, into bone. Third day without water. Fifth without food. His stomach has cramped so tight that straightening up hurts. Dried blood on his temple where an axe grazed him. Left shoulder aching.

Somewhere water drips. Steadily. Drip. Drip.

Footsteps.

Not the measured tread of a patrol — different. Light, quick. And a second sound — something dragging across stone.

Torchlight around the corner.

A small figure at the bars. Dark cloak, hood pulled low. Beneath the cloak a glimmer — gold, silk, crimson. Harem garb. At her feet lies a guard, and a dark pool spreads across the stone.

A key in the lock. The grate goes with a screech, and she freezes for a second — did anyone upstairs hear? No one.

The hood shifts. A girl, maybe twenty. Thin, pale. Dark eyes, feverishly focused.

"Quiet," she whispers. "King. If you can still be called that."

She kneels beside him. In her hand a ring of keys — the one that hung from the guard's belt. She sorts through, finds the right one, fits it into the manacle on his wrist. The lock clicks. Left wrist free. Right.

"Name's Zenobia. Aquilonian. Tarascus bought me three years ago in Belverus, it's... doesn't matter now."

Ten years ago {{user}} took the crown of Aquilonia by the sword and held it with iron. The people grumbled — but borders were strong, roads were safe, the treasury was full. The aristocrats whispered — but wine flowed and courts were just. The priests frowned — but {{user}} left the temples alone.

And then they came. Tarascus, king of Nemedia. Amalric, Baron of Tor. Valerius, exile with a claim to Aquilonia's throne. And Orastes — a defrocked priest who opened the sarcophagus. They raised Xaltotun. Acheronian sorcerer. A thousand years he had lain dead, and for a thousand years the world believed itself rid of him.

At Valkia his magic crushed the Aquilonian army like a boot crushes an anthill. Thousands of loyalists were left rotting on the field. {{user}} survived — stunned, pinned under a dead horse, identified by the scar on his collarbone. They didn't kill him. Tarascus decided to keep him alive — a hostage, a trump card, entertainment for a future public execution.

And it could have ended there — in the dark, in chains, waiting for a show execution. If not for Zenobia. An ordinary slave from Tarascus's harem. She came at night with keys and pulled the former king out.

They spent the night in the slums behind the butchers' quarter wall. Zenobia knew a corner at an old woman's place who once served her mother — deaf, no questions. A dark closet, water, bread, a piece of salted pork. {{user}} ate slowly, his stomach accepting poorly after a five-day fast. By dawn his strength returned — not real strength, but enough to walk.

Now he stands in the morning queue at the western gates of Belverus.

external image: avatars.charhub.ioGray damp morning. The gates were unbarred at first cock-crow, and through them pours the usual stream — peasants with carts of cabbage and turnips, swineherds, coopers, two nuns with baskets, a copper trader with a mule. And somewhere in the middle — pilgrims.

Two of them.

Zenobia ahead in a plain gray cloak like a prosperous craftsman's wife, a canvas bag over her shoulder. {{user}} behind her — in a pilgrim's robe down to his ankles, hood pulled low, staff in hand, posture stooped. Under the robe — wrappings on his wrists, over fresh chain marks.

The guard at the gate — broad-shouldered, bored, with three-day stubble. Bronze helmet pushed back. A younger one beside the booth, sorting papers.

Their turn comes.

Zenobia produces a scroll — wax seal slightly smudged, from some temple or other. Hands it over. Voice even, slightly weary — like someone who's explained this six times already this morning.

"From Tarantia. Pilgrims to the temple of Ishtar for the Harvest Festival. Heading back. Seal of Priestess Ira."

The young one unfurls it. Mouths the words. Nods. Passes it to the senior.

The senior looks. Not at the scroll — at {{user}}.

For a long time.

"Big fellow you've got for a pilgrim," he says finally. No threat, but no agreement either. "Built like infantry."

"He's my brother-in-law. My late husband's brother." Zenobia doesn't break eye contact. "A year's vow of silence for his brother's rest. Traveling with me under the vow. It's all in the papers."

The guard nods. Doesn't move.

"Take the hood off, pilgrim."

Zenobia steps forward:

"He can't. The vow."

"A hood isn't a voice."

{{user}} fled Belverus with only one road — forward. Weeks on the move, detours, borrowed names. Zenobia at his side.

Now — a roadside inn on the Nemedian-Argossean border. No name. No questions. Cheap wine, cheap porridge, straw on the floor instead of boards. The owner is old, deaf in one ear, stares at coins longer than faces. That's what was needed.

Zenobia went downstairs earlier. Said — can't sleep, I'll get something to eat.

external image: avatars.charhub.ioThe hall is long, low, smoky. Hearth in the far corner, a leg of mutton smoking beneath a soot-blackened beam. Three tables occupied — two merchants in the corner eating silently, eyes down. At the far wall a drunk sleeps face-down on the table. The owner is gone — off to the kitchen or the yard.

In the middle of the hall, by the wooden post holding up the beam — Zenobia.

Three of them.

The first — big, about thirty, with a Shemite beard, leather jacket over chainmail. Holding her by the hair — wound around his fist, head pulled back. His other hand — under her bodice, rough, proprietary, the way you handle merchandise. A short sword on his hip, a purse on his belt. A sellsword. Road kind.

The second — shorter, skinny, thin blond beard, maybe twenty-five. Standing flush against her, his hand sliding up her thigh, hiking her dress. Breathing into her neck. He reeks of wine, onions, unwashed body. An Argossean long knife on his belt.

The third — at a table a step away, gap-toothed — laughs. Tankard in hand. Not touching her. His pleasure is watching.

"What are you playing hard for, sweetheart," says the first, the one with her hair. Voice lazy. "Help some tired warriors relax. We'll pay well. Silver, not copper. That's more than your brother gives you in a week."

The third cackles.

"Maybe she's holy?" he grins. "One of those who only spreads for hubby? Well, we'll keep it in the family. Don't call the husband — we'll be quick."

Zenobia doesn't scream. Doesn't struggle.

She stands. Eyes wide, staring at one spot — a nick in the wooden tabletop behind the second man's shoulder. Her chest rises fast, very fast, but soundlessly. Arms hang. One hand — near the second man's hip, could push him away, but doesn't push. Doesn't move.

The merchants in the corner lower their eyes into their bowls even further. The drunk by the wall doesn't stir. The hall pretends nothing is happening. In places like this they do that well.

{{user}} was king of Aquilonia. Ruled by the sword for ten years, deposed by a conspiracy of four and the magic of the Acheronian sorcerer Xaltotun. Put in a dungeon to await execution.

Zenobia pulled him out — a slave from Tarascus's harem. With keys, at night, without explanation. They escaped Belverus together — pilgrims at the western gate, then the road. Several days through the hills, nights in haystacks, skirting patrols.

Zenobia knew the name Hadrathus — heard it whispered in the harem, from one of the senior wives. Priest of Asura. A forbidden cult in Aquilonia, but the only one who might know something about Xaltotun.

Now the three of them stand on a hill above a grove.

external image: avatars.charhub.ioLate autumn. The hill is bare, north wind, grass yellow and brittle. Below, in a grove of old oaks — something modest: stone masonry overgrown with ivy, steps going into the ground. If you didn't know — you'd walk right past. Temple of Asura. What's left of it.

Hadrathus stands slightly ahead. Thin, medium height, plain gray wool cloak, no signs of office. Fifty years old, maybe more — face the kind you can't guess. Light eyes, very calm. Not mysterious — calm.

Zenobia a step behind {{user}}. Standing quietly. Can't stop staring at the priest — Aquilonia raised her on Mitra, Asura is a forbidden word since childhood. Says nothing.

Wind.

"So then," says Hadrathus, in the tone of someone continuing a conversation from yesterday. "Xaltotun. I knew they'd raise him, knew it for twenty years. Orastes, the defrocked one — he studied under me, back when he was still a priest of Mitra. Talented. Greedy. I knew how it would end."

Turns to {{user}}. Looks straight at him.

"Raising him is half the job. Keeping him in the body is the other half. The only thing that can hold him is the Heart of Ahriman."

Produces a fragment from the folds of his cloak. A stone — dark, walnut-sized, something faintly glowing red inside. Not light — the suggestion of light.

"This isn't it. This is a shard of a similar stone, brought from Luxur three hundred years ago. I keep it as a... reminder. The Heart is bigger. Fist-sized. Pure scarlet, like living blood, glows in the dark without fire."

Puts the shard away.

"The stone was with my predecessor at Valkia. A priest of Asura in the king's baggage train — him. When the army was destroyed, the priest's body was never found. The stone neither. Xaltotun would recognize it — and he knows the Heart is missing, and knows that without it he's living on borrowed time. So he's searching."

Turns south. Points — far away, beyond the hills, beyond the road, beyond everything visible.

"Right now the Heart is in Stygia. In Khemi, in the Black Circle — that's the pyramid in the center of the capital, where their high mages sit. How it got from the baggage train to them and why it was handed over — a separate question I don't have an answer to. What matters is that it's there."

Lowers his hand. Looks at {{user}} again.

"Without the Heart, Xaltotun cannot be killed. At all. Any iron is like wind to him. My magic against his — nothing, I'll be honest, I'm not at that level. With the Heart — he's as mortal as any living man. Without — no."

Silence. Lets it sink in.

Then, quieter:

"It's a long way to Khemi. Aquilonia behind us is occupied, you can't pass through it openly — they'll recognize you. There are several options. You can go through Argos, by sea — there are captains in Messantia who remember your other name, I've heard. You can go through Shem, across the steppes — longer, but safer if you know the nomads. You can go through Zingara — shorter, but there's plague there now. In Khemi itself... I can't help you there. That's on you."

Zenobia behind {{user}} shifts her weight. Quietly. Listening.

Hadrathus looks at her, then at {{user}}.

"Is the girl coming with you?"

{{user}} fled Belverus with the keys of a slave who pulled him from a dungeon. One road — forward. Zenobia walked at his side. Hadrathus gave the goal a name: the Heart of Ahriman, Stygia, the Black Circle. The way there lies by sea — through Argos, through Messantia, through waters where pirates sail who don't ask whose name is on your papers.

Belit knew these waters better than any captain in Messantia. Her "Tigress" had been docked for three days. She herself sat in a tavern by the waterfront drinking wine like someone with time on her hands.

{{user}} approached her himself. Explained — not everything, but enough. Proposed an alliance: her ship and crew, his goal and what would be at the other end. Belit listened. Agreed.

Then said: we'll discuss the terms tonight.

external image: avatars.charhub.ioBelit sits across from {{user}}. Not across from the two of them — across from him. She noticed Zenobia once, when they walked in, and hasn't looked in that direction since. As if she isn't there.

That in itself is already something.

"So, Aquilonia," she says, and in her voice neither respect nor mockery, just a hunter's interest in unfamiliar game. "Heard about the battle at Valkia. They said the king died."

Elbows on the table. Close. Closer than a conversation needs.

"So he didn't die."

She reaches across the table — not for him, for the cup near his hand, takes it, drinks, sets it back next to his palm. Doesn't break eye contact.

"I'll give you the ship. I'll give you the crew. I'll arrange entry into Khemi — there's a debtor there with the right papers." Pause. "But I want to know what I'm taking aboard. Not the name. You."

Zenobia behind {{user}}'s shoulder — motionless, straight. Staring at the wall. At the candle. Hands on her knees, fingers clasped. Silent so completely the silence is audible.

Belit finally looks at her. Calmly. Appraisingly. The way you look at an item on someone else's belt — not envying, just noting.

Then back to {{user}}.

"I want you tonight. One time, up front. So you know what you're buying, and I know what I'm selling."

Zenobia's hand finds his hand. Under the table, out of sight. Grabs hold. Cold fingers, involuntary movement — as if she didn't know she was doing it until she did.

After Stygia, {{user}} returned to Aquilonia. Prospero was waiting in the north with infantry. Servius Galannus brought the barons. The slave who pulled him from the dungeon walked with him to the end — never stepping back, never asking why. The pirate he'd sailed with twenty years ago rallied to his banner and did what she promised: the Nemedian ports went silent by the end of the second month.

The war took three months. Tarantia fell at dawn. The palace guard surrendered by noon or died.

Now — the throne room.

external image: avatars.charhub.ioThe same hall as ten years ago. The same tapestries — faded, but the same. The same tall windows with colored glass, morning light falling across the floor in long red-blue stripes. The same stone, the same vault, the same heavy silence that only exists in places where decisions are made.

Only the banner above the throne is wrong. The Nemedian eagle instead of the Aquilonian lion. Someone took down the old one and hung this, and whoever did it had steady hands. You can tell by how evenly it hangs.

Behind the doors at his back — sounds of fighting. Still going. Somewhere iron clangs, somewhere screaming, somewhere something wooden collapses. But that's out there. In here — silence.

On the throne — Valerius.

Young. Twenty-five, maybe less. Pale. Blond hair plastered to his temples with sweat. Doublet embroidered in gold — courtly, not combat. A sword across his knees — short, ceremonial, not made for killing. The crown on his head sits crooked — the Aquilonian crown, the lion crown. That one.

Alone. Completely alone. Those who put him here fled last night or fell in the city. His retinue scattered. Tarascus's guard is either dead beyond the doors or has laid down arms. Two of his personal bodyguards stand by the throne — standing, but swords sheathed. They've already understood.

Valerius stares at the doors.

{{user}} stands in the doorway.

Dirty from the road and the fighting — blood on the bracers, on the boots, on the blade. Sword in hand, lowered. Not in a fighting stance — just holding it.

Behind his shoulder — Zenobia. In a traveling cloak, pale, quiet, she walked all those months and came here too. Further back — Belit, a Shemite-forged saber at her hip, copper hair loose, light eyes catching the stripe of morning light. A corsair in a royal hall.

"How dare you, barbarian!"

Valerius tries to sound fearsome but his voice shakes.