Syrkon shimmered beneath the twilight like a net of silver spread across the sea. The docks sang with life — gulls shrieked, ropes creaked, and the distant thrum of shipbuilding carried over the salt-kissed air. Markos stood on a parapet above the harbor, watching the Nafonian sailors below drill with fluid precision, their sea-honed discipline surprisingly elegant despite their land-borne inexperience.
"Impressive, isn't it?" came Delia's voice, smug yet soft, beside him.
Markos gave a quiet nod, arms crossed over his breastplate, now dulled of its divine sheen. "I've seen harbors burn and fleets scatter. But this… this is order. You've made it something."
Delia beamed, stepping closer — a little too close. "Syrkon is the heart of our Duchy's navy. Our pride. Our jewel. And now… your refuge."
He arched a brow. "A temporary one."
She laughed, not offended — as if humored by a child denying sweets. "Of course. Temporary."
He didn't press the subject. There were layers to her presence, to her smile, to her scent that changed from rose to smoke to something older — older than Syrkon, older than the sea.
The two walked the marbled halls of the coastal citadel, Delia waving off attending guards with a glance. Markos caught glimpses of naval maps — deployments, Veil Order sightings, potential engagements in disputed waters. But Delia wasn't interested in war just now.
She led him through a garden terrace above the sea, where the waves below shattered against jagged rocks. Lanterns lit the path in hues of soft gold.
"I had this place carved out after the Battle of Klymene. I lost three ships that day," she said with a wistful smile. "I needed somewhere to remember that power doesn't mean invincibility."
Markos walked slowly, boots crunching gravel. "And now?"
Delia looked at him. "Now I have you."
He paused. "Me?"
She turned, cupping her hands behind her back like a courtly girl — except her eyes betrayed an abyss of millennia.
"Markos. Blue Cuirassier or not, you change things. Even in silence. Even in stubbornness. That's why I brought you here. Not just to rest — but to understand."
He looked down at the waves. "And what am I meant to understand?"
Delia stepped forward, her fingers brushing his wrist.
"That you belong here. With me. On the right side of history. The Veil Order creeps closer, and gods or not — you are the answer we were denied once before."
He didn't flinch. But inside, he heard Scelestus whisper through Delia's mouth, felt Veltrana's shadow in her touch.
"…Do they know?" he asked.
Delia tilted her head. "The mortals? About me? About us?"
She smiled. "Let them have their illusions. You, though—Markos of Constantinople—you must remember."
He didn't answer.
And for once, neither did she.
Instead, they watched the sun sink into the Hollow Sea — red, golden, silent.
A port between storms.
The sea breeze shifted, and with it, the silence that had fallen between them. Delia didn't speak as they left the terrace. She only glanced once — not as a ruler surveying her city, but as something else. Something older. Markos followed without a word, unsure if it was caution or curiosity that pulled him along.
Syrkon by night was a different beast. Warm lanterns swayed from ship masts and crooked alleyways alike. Street musicians played twanging lutes and pipe flutes, while children darted between crates of citrus and salted fish. The air was laced with garlic, saffron, oil, and smoke.
Delia, now dressed in a more casual gown of midnight blue, turned to him with a mischievous smirk. "You never ate grilled zalphi in Constantinople, did you?"
"I've eaten rats," Markos said, dryly. "If this is better than that, I'll consider it fine cuisine."
She laughed — not the ethereal, layered sound of Veltrana, but something more earthly, almost girlish. She led him to a busy quay-side stall where an elderly vendor was fanning sizzling fish over a coal brazier. Delia said something in local Nafonian dialect that made the old man grin and bow deeply.
Markos squinted. "What did you say?"
"That I was bringing a foreign mercenary here for his first taste of proper food."
He snorted. "I hope it tastes less political than everything else I've been offered lately."
She handed him a wrapped skewer, dripping with citrus glaze and sea salt. "Try it. No ambush. No poison. No divine contracts."
He bit into it.
He blinked. "Gods."
She smirked. "Which one? I wear several faces, you know."
He coughed slightly — partly from the spice, partly from her brazenness.
They wandered from stall to stall, trying roasted olives, stuffed vine leaves, even a strange fermented cheese that Markos refused to acknowledge as edible. Yet despite himself, he laughed. Genuinely. A small, weary smile that hadn't touched his lips since the Abyss.
"You've changed," she said softly.
He looked at her. "No. You've just seen more of me."
"And you've seen more of me," she answered. "Too much, perhaps."
They paused at a quiet bridge over the inlet where boats passed like ghosts beneath. Torches flickered on the waves. Syrkon breathed around them, alive and dreaming.
"Why all this?" he asked suddenly. "The food. The music. This city… this moment?"
Delia leaned on the railing. "Because gods forget. Mortals don't. And I needed you to remember what it's like to walk through a place that is yours. Not because you rule it — but because your presence gives it color."
Markos looked at her — really looked — and for a second, he didn't see Scelestus or Veltrana or even Delia.
He saw a tired soul with too many names. And in her eyes, she saw the man who once loved her — without knowing it.
"Markos," she said at last. "Would it be so terrible… to stop running?"
He didn't answer. But his hand, resting on the stone railing, didn't move away when hers touched it.
They returned to the citadel when the streets of Syrkon had fallen into lullaby silence. Lanterns flickered low. The harbor stilled. The city, for all its bluster and brilliance, now slept like a child — unaware of the ancient beings who walked among it.
Delia led Markos to a tower chamber far above the sea. Its walls were lined with aged murals and high, broken windows through which moonlight poured like pale wine. A brazier crackled low in the center, casting long shadows on the marble floor.
"Sit," she said softly.
He did, armor creaking as he lowered himself onto the mosaic tiles. "Something tells me this isn't about wine or flirting anymore."
Delia's face softened, the performative charm falling away. "No," she whispered. "This is about truth."
Then, without another word, she stepped into the brazier's light.
It began with a shimmer — not a grand transformation, not an explosion of magic or power, but a gradual peeling away of illusion. Her body shifted like water catching different lights.
First: Helena. The healer from Constantinople. Her face was calm, gentle, wrapped in a scarf. Her eyes glistened with the memory of their meeting — a time before war and portals and demons.
"I cared for you," she said in that same, silken voice. "I stitched your wounds. I brought you back. You forgot me."
Markos looked at her, silent. His hands curled slightly.
Then she turned, and Alethena stood before him — the cold Stratega of Scolacium, armor glinting red beneath the torchlight. A scar now marked her cheek.
"I tested you. I judged you," she said. "You passed. Barely."
He swallowed. "You were the first who looked at me like I was already broken."
"And still worthy of use," she said.
The form melted again — now into Delia, resplendent in her formal robe, the Naval Warden of Syrkon. Pride, beauty, calculation — all laced with familiarity.
"I wanted you to stay," she said. "Not for war. For me."
He looked down. "You're all the same. I should've seen it."
Delia smiled — then stepped back.
And finally, she changed.
The room darkened.
The brazier dimmed.
And Scelestus stood before him.
No disguise. No veil. No mortal affectation.
Just her — crowned in shadows, cloaked in divine flame, eyes like black stars. Not beautiful. Not monstrous. Simply true.
"I am Veltrana," she said. "And I am every name I wore for you."
Markos looked up.
His voice cracked as he spoke. "Why?"
"Because you wouldn't have loved me otherwise," she said gently. "Because you were afraid of what I am. Of what you are. Because I lost you once before, and I would not lose you again."
He stood slowly, the distance between them still vast — even within arm's reach.
"You lied to me."
"I preserved us."
"You manipulated me."
"I remembered you when all others forgot."
Markos clenched his jaw. "Then what now? You've shown me your masks. What do you want?"
Scelestus — Veltrana — stepped closer.
"I want you to choose," she said. "Not the god. Not the mercenary. Not the past. Me. As I am."
The brazier pulsed once — a heartbeat of light — and all fell quiet.
Markos did not speak. He only stared, the storm behind his eyes matching the stillness of the sea outside.
Because in that moment, he wasn't sure who he was either.
The brazier burned low now, the embers casting no warmth. Only that sullen red glow remained, like the pulse of some buried heart. Markos stood still — arms crossed, back tense, eyes never leaving her.
Veltrana.
Scelestus.
Delia.
All of them. And none.
He let out a long breath, sharp like a hiss through his teeth. "So," he said at last, voice hoarse, "what happens if I say no?"
Scelestus tilted her head. "Honestly?"
Markos raised a brow. "Please. I'd like a menu of consequences."
She smiled with alarming serenity. "Then I'll burn Yaegrafane to the ground. Slowly. Thoroughly. One province at a time. Perhaps start with Florentine's archives. Or Scolacium's wine cellars. Syrkon I'll leave for last — out of sentiment."
A pause.
Markos blinked.
Then snorted. "Gods help me, you're still dramatic."
She stepped forward, arms behind her back, like a general touring a surrendered city. "I'm also honest. The world was cruel to us both. Why should we not return the favor?"
"You want me to be your leash. Or your anchor. Or—what? Your excuse?"
"I want you," she said simply. "The only man who ever saw me beyond the horns and hellfire. The only man who might make me pause — before the world burns."
He was quiet for a moment.
Then he said: "That's an incredibly unhealthy way to start a relationship."
She chuckled softly. "Is there a healthy way when divinity and damnation are involved?"
He looked away. The sea outside Syrkon's tower glittered beneath the moon, quiet and endless. It reminded him of the Bosphorus. And the screaming that followed it. And the silence afterward.
"…I'm tired," he finally said. "Of pretending to be just a soldier. Of running from who I was. Or who I am."
Scelestus said nothing.
"But I'm not ready," he added. "Not for godhood. Not for whatever you are now. Not yet."
He turned back to her, gaze steel-hard.
"I'll walk with you. Not because of fate. Or power. But because I need to understand."
Her expression softened — just barely.
"And when you do?" she asked.
"Then I'll choose again," he said. "Freely."
A pause.
Then she smiled — and it wasn't smug, or victorious, or manipulative. It was weary. Relieved. Grateful, in some quiet, terrifying way.
"That," she said, "is all I ever wanted."
He walked to the door.
Stopped.
Looked back over his shoulder.
"One more thing," he said, voice lighter. "The Blue Cuirassier? That title stays buried. To the world, I'm just Markos. Still figuring things out."
She gave a faint nod. "Of course."
"Good," he muttered. "Because I'm not wearing sapphire armor again unless you make it less gaudy."
He left.
Behind him, Scelestus stared into the flame. It danced, flickering in ancient patterns older than speech.
For the first time in centuries, for millennias, she let out a long breath.
And did not burn anything down.
The room had gone quiet.
No promises left to weigh. No threats lingering in the corners.
Only the sound of the wind brushing against the windows of Syrkon's tallest spire — and the breath of two people who had once been gods to each other, now standing in silence.
Markos lingered at the doorway.
He didn't turn when he spoke. "You… knew me. Back then."
Scelestus's voice was soft. "I still do."
"I don't know if I believe you."
He turned then — slowly — and looked at her.
"But I want to."
Her eyes searched his, as if looking for cracks to pour the past into. "You always hated your own glory," she said. "Even when you saved cities. You never looked at yourself the way others did. It's why they loved you. It's why I couldn't forget you."
Markos let out a small, broken laugh.
"I still don't understand you. One moment you're ready to tear down mountains, the next… you sound like a poet with a crushed heart."
"I am," she whispered, stepping forward. "A goddess of grief, Markos. Of mourning. That's what they made me."
Her hand hovered near his — not touching yet. "But you made me something else, once."
He didn't pull away.
She brushed her fingers over his wrist — featherlight, like she was afraid he might dissolve. "Do you remember… the gardens of Melaris? You said I smelled like cold lavender and burnt honey."
"I was concussed," he muttered, face flushing.
"You were honest."
They were close now. Too close for the silence between them to be anything but deliberate.
"I'm not ready," he said again. "But that doesn't mean I don't feel anything."
Scelestus leaned forward — her lips barely brushed his cheek. Not possessive. Not demanding.
Just… real.
A pause.
Markos swallowed.
"…I missed that," he muttered. "Even if I don't remember it."
Her voice trembled, even as her smile steadied. "Then let me remind you. Not as a goddess. Not as your warlock. Not as Delia or Stratega or shadow…"
Her forehead pressed lightly against his.
"…but as Veltrana."
He didn't kiss her. Not yet.
But his hand came up — slow, uncertain — to rest over hers.
A moment suspended. Fragile, like glass. Sacred, like memory.
Then, quietly:
"You're still too tall," he muttered.
She laughed — and it sounded like the first spring thaw.