The grand hall of Syrkon's naval palace was vast and austere a towering structure of blue marble and dark cedar beams, built to overlook the sea like a vigilant god. Banners of the eagle sigil hung from the upper rafters, the scent of seawater and oiled steel lingering in the air.
Markos stood alone in its center, armor still bearing soot from battle, a worn blue cloak hanging over his shoulders. His bronze-scaled cuirass gleamed faintly under the morning light seeping through stained glass. Around him, Nafonian guards stood in ceremonial rows, watching silently, their helms shaped like crested birds of prey.
From behind a pair of tall doors came the sound of approach rhythmic, confident steps echoed through the hall.
Then she appeared.
Valeria, Arch-Despotes of Nafonia.
She wore no crown, but the weight of her command needed none. Her naval uniform was a blend of officer's leather and reinforced silver-steel, finely tailored yet practical. A long coat hung behind her like wings of dark seafoam, and her gaze was sharp, regal, unreadable.
She stood taller than Markos by a hand's breadth, and her presence was undeniable.
Markos straightened, and then with the discipline of his old world, he bowed low right fist to his chest, and then to his brow.
"Arch-Despotes," he greeted, voice calm but resolute, "I am Markos of Constantinople. Former centurion of the Varangian Guard. I fight for order, against the rising chaos of this nation."
Valeria studied him, intrigued. "Constantinople," she repeated slowly. "That city does not exist in our charts."
"No," Markos replied. "Not in this world."
The silence lingered. She tilted her head slightly, approaching closer, until only a few paces separated them. Her eyes searched his for truth, perhaps, or lies he hadn't spoken yet.
"You are a relic, then," she said, almost to herself. "A soldier of another world. And yet… you lead men as if you were born for these shores."
"I've seen empires burn, my lady," he answered. "And I refuse to let another fall while I still draw breath."
A faint smile curved on her lips, though it held no mockery. "We were lucky then, that you drew yours in Nafonia."
She circled once around him slowly, inspecting the man who had been little more than myth only days ago. "You fought at the Hollow Sea, commanded a strange tactic not seen in this land for many years, and rammed your small flagship to save your men. Tell me do you always bleed for nations that are not yours?"
Markos smirked faintly. "Only when the cause is right. And the threat is worse than disunity."
Valeria paused in front of him once more, this time softer, more curious. "You carry more than a sword, Markos. You carry echoes."
He held her gaze. "I carry duty."
Another beat passed between them the world quiet outside the crashing waves.
"You're younger than I expected," she said at last, stepping back toward her elevated dais. "And yet older in spirit than most commanders twice your age."
"I could say the same," he replied, a touch of amusement. "I thought rulers didn't lead from the front anymore."
Valeria gave a low chuckle, genuine and short. "Then you haven't met many Nafonian women."
She sat on her throne-like chair, reclining slightly. "Come. Sit. I want to know the man behind the cuirass."
Markos hesitated, then obeyed, pulling a chair beside her a respectful distance, yet close enough for the conversation to remain personal.
They talked for hours.
About Constantinople, about his Varangian brothers the mad axe-bearers he joked about with fondness and wine-heavy stories. About how he arrived in Yaegrafane, unsure of fate, only to be swept into war again.
She listened more than she spoke, asking questions few would dare: What did he miss? What did he fear? What made him stay?
In return, he asked of Nafonia why she ruled, how she rose, and why she remained unwed, despite every noble surely begging for her hand.
To that, she only smiled and said, "I would rather rule a thousand ships than marry a man I could not respect."
She glanced at him then, just a flicker of something behind her expression.
"Then rule them well," he said simply.
That night, as Markos walked alone beneath the terrace overlooking the moonlit harbor, he couldn't help but wonder if something had changed not in strategy, nor alliance…
But in him, and perhaps, in her.
As hours passed, the hall was quieter this time. No guards lining the walls. No banners fluttering dramatically in the wind. Just the Arch-Despotes, seated beside a high table of dark-stained walnut, maps spread across it, glinting under oil lanterns.
Markos stood across from her, arms crossed behind his back, silent. He had just returned from overseeing the drilling of his warband his newly hardened Nafonian phalanx, his reunited Scolacian lancer-mace cavalry, the veteran slingers and the small crew of engineers now entrusted with the dreaded skorpios. Eight hundred men. And now they were to be paid.
Valeria regarded him without the usual flair of courtly presence. Today, she was not a sovereign. She was simply a commander speaking to another.
"You've earned the right to be salaried," she said. "You are no vassal of Nafonia, nor bound by oath to its laws. You are, by every practical term, a mercenary."
Markos's brow lifted slightly, but he said nothing.
Valeria continued, "And mercenaries are paid. Not begged, nor bound, nor indebted. Paid fairly. Your men as well."
A pause passed before she added, "I will ensure your wages are drawn directly from the treasury. Monthly, with bonuses for victories rendered."
"And what do you ask in return?" Markos asked, eyes steady.
"That you remain in the field," she said plainly. "That your sword continues to guard the Nafonian coast, and that you do not bend your knee to Scolacium or any power seeking dominion over Yaegrafane."
Markos chuckled under his breath. "You ask a mercenary not to be bought by others. That is rare trust."
Valeria offered a dry smile. "It is not trust. It is a gamble. But I find it easier to invest in a man whose price is known… than to gamble on lords whose loyalty isn't."
Markos nodded slowly, the flicker of amusement gone. "Then I accept. But I remain my own man."
"I would ask nothing else," she replied.
She walked toward a small drawer beneath the map table, pulling out a sealed scroll the written contract, already prepared. "This makes it official."
He read it briefly. Standard terms. Wages in gold florins, bonuses for naval and land victories, command over his warband to remain unchallenged, and immunity from conscription unless voluntarily sworn. A rare deal. Too rare.
"You're generous," he said, narrowing his eyes.
"I'm practical," Valeria replied. "I've read your reports. You've routed forces four times your number. You hold the phalanx line like our autokrators in the past. I would rather pay to keep you near… than pay double the cost cleaning up after your absence."
Markos smirked. "A tidy argument."
She stepped closer. Just a hair too close.
"And if one day you find cause to take a side?" she asked, voice quiet. "To support a ruler… not just a people?"
"I'll take that burden then," he replied. "But not today."
He signed the scroll. The contract was sealed.
But as he turned to leave, Valeria called to him again. "Markos."
He stopped at the door.
"You said once that you came from a place called Constantinople."
"Yes."
"Was it real?" she asked.
He turned, his voice low but certain. "It was my home. And it's gone."
Valeria said nothing. But after he left, she remained in the hall long into the night, staring at the sealed scroll with his signature… before taking out a second piece of parchment from her own chambers not a contract, but a letter.
A letter requesting the scholars of the Arcanum in the city of Nafonia too to investigate lost worlds, strange portals, and a city called Constantinople.
She sealed it with her own sigil.
And sent it in secret.
The sun beat down on the drills near the bay of Syrkon. Rows of Nafonian phalanx stood firm in linen-and-leather armor, shields tight, pikes thrust in disciplined rhythm to Markos' shouted cadence. A separate line of skoutatoi heavier infantry inspired by his Eastern Roman traditions flanked the square formation, bearing their kontaria and skouta shields in tight discipline.
Markos, standing elevated on a timber platform, arms crossed, observed their footwork with a hard gaze. Their line was straighter than before. Their stances more rooted. Still clumsy in close quarters, but they were learning. And more than that they are adapting.
Down by the sea, just past the drill grounds, the engineers worked. Nafonian minds the clever ones. While not warriors by tradition, they had tools, lenses, and mechanisms that astounded even him. Markos personally oversaw the assembly of the improved skorpios, the torsion-powered bolt thrower once used when they were in Scolacium. Now, Nafonian engineers had integrated crank gears, weighted counter-pull, and stabilizers to its frame. The Skorpios II, as they mockingly called it, could now rotate faster and fire more accurately from the deck of a moving galley.
Markos smirked as he watched it sling a bolt into a floating wooden target. "That's not bad," he muttered to one of his Scolacian officers.
"I still prefer the sound of a mace to a machine," the man grunted.
Markos merely chuckled.
The clamor of drills and invention continued until a runner approached, clad in deep blue robes. The insignia on the scroll pouch was unmistakable Arcanum Mystikos, the silent magi order of the capital.
The scroll was sealed in glimmering wax, marked with enchanted ink that shimmered as the courier bowed before Arch-Despotes Valeria in her study.
"My lady, urgent findings, as you requested," he said, handing the scroll reverently.
Valeria broke the seal with a silver dagger and began to read. Her emerald eyes darted across the page, line by line, brow tightening as she progressed.
The Arcanum had found traces of non-native soul-essence within the Weave of Yaegrafane. A rift, unnatural and old possibly centuries had torn open somewhere during a convergence of realms. The soul caught in it was powerful, branded with a seal of an empire long collapsed in their histories.
The scroll ended with a chilling certainty:"The man you've named Markos of Constantinople is not from this world. He is from another, one forgotten by all save time and myth. His soul is anchored here by divine thread. Tread carefully, for such men shape eras."
Valeria sat back, the parchment trembling in her hands. Outside her window, she could see him Markos, atop his horse, shouting formation commands, wind ruffling his worn cloak.
She exhaled slowly. "So… it is true."
He hadn't lied. He hadn't even tried to impress her with myths.
And yet, here he stood, reshaping her armies, drilling doctrine into minds that had never known real war.
A man of another world, in the skin of a mercenary.
But now, her mercenary… for a price.
Valeria placed the scroll inside a locked coffer. No one else would know not yet.
Outside, a shrill whistle signaled another volley from the Skorpios II. Markos was laughing this time, leaning against a post as his engineers celebrated the clean hit.
She watched him, arms folded, whispering to herself.
"Shape my world, foreigner. Let's see what it becomes."
As the Nafonian moonlight streamed faintly through the open window of Markos' quarters, its glow silvering the stone floor and flickering across the oil lamp's flame. The camp outside was quiet drills had ended, bellies were full, and guards rotated shifts under the stars. Markos sat on a plain wooden stool, his cloak draped over a nearby chest, armor unbuckled and piled neatly in a corner. In his hands rested an old, battered leather-bound book.
The cover had faded over time, but the title remained impressed in gold leaf:
Στρατηγικὸν Μαρουκίου, Strategikon of Maurice.
He ran his fingers across the letters.
This was more than a manual. It was a relic. A piece of home. A surviving voice of an empire now reduced to myth in this new world.
With care, he opened the text. The scent of old vellum and iron ink hit him like incense from Hagia Sophia itself.
"A general must not only be brave but wise. Cunning in thought, firm in discipline, merciful in victory, and ruthless in necessity."
He smiled grimly.
He read on.
The Strategikon was divided by books on formation, cavalry deployment, logistics, sieges, and, most importantly now, on the use of mixed troop types in hostile terrain.
He bookmarked Book XI – Mixed Formations and Counterinsurgency. Maurice had once detailed how lighter, more mobile troops should support the heavier lines in difficult terrain especially against irregular forces. This perfectly suited his Nafonian phalanx and slingers. The skoutatoi could hold the line; the slingers could break charges. Cavalry should be kept on reserve to flank and collapse weakened wings.
Then he flipped to Book XII – Naval Defense and Coastal Raids. Markos' eyes sharpened.
Maurice warned that fleets should be organized not only by speed but also by deception. Larger ships were tools of terror, but smaller vessels could be used to feint, flank, and burn enemy ships during supply runs or landings. Victory in naval warfare required speed, coordination, and unpredictability a lesson Markos had already begun to apply.
He made notes in the margins adjustments to his Skorpios formations on deck. Plans for how to arrange slingers in confined spaces. Ideas for temporary shields on the flanks of galleys. All guided by the ancient mind of a long-dead emperor.
"Keep soldiers well-fed, but not soft. Drilled, but not broken. Loyal, but not unquestioning. Teach them that survival lies not in bravery alone, but in the man beside them."
Markos exhaled and leaned back.
He glanced at the armor stacked in the corner his cuirass, which was given by Scelestus when he was in the Abyss. Today, that had been his new armour. Now he was a leader of strangers on strange shores. But here, in this book, in these words… he wasn't lost.
He was exactly where he needed to be.
He shut the book slowly, with reverence.
Tomorrow, he'd test their lines again but this time, he would do so under the ghost of Maurice. The phalanx would tighten. The skirmishers would find their rhythm. And the sea would learn to fear disciplined fire and maneuver, not just brute force.
As the flame of the lamp flickered low, Markos closed his eyes.
He whispered to the darkness, "I am no emperor, Maurice. But I will be the iron in their spine."
As the morning sun cut across the fields outside Skyron like a sword of bronze, painting long shadows over the dust-swept drills. Markos emerged from his tent, not in the gilded cuirass the Nafonians had come to associate with him, but in something far older, darker, and worn with the weight of years and battles.
His old lamellar armor, the scales of iron and leather laced together in tight rows, bore the scratches of Varangian brawls and the dents of Latin blades. Some of the Nafonian soldiers glanced at each other, murmuring. This wasn't the polished figure they hailed before. This was something else. Something older, more deliberate.
The cuirass he had worn the shining thing gifted by Veltrana remained in his quarters, folded beneath a faded blue cloak. His choice was symbolic. He would not walk this next path under Veltrana's shadow.
Today, he marched as Markos of Constantinople, a centurion who had drilled fools into killers.
He stood before the lines of his men a mix of Nafonian phalanx fighters, slingers, and skoutarion Scolacian veterans, now numbering close to a thousand.
"All right, my little fishmongers," he began, pacing, voice booming, "you've spent too long swinging spears like you're poking bread in a tavern oven!"
They chuckled. One of the slingers whispered something, earning a shove from his neighbor.
"You're no longer defenders. You're no longer city guards or tavern brawlers. You are now a field army. And today, you learn how to survive against cavalry that does not wait for permission."
He raised a long stick his makeshift pointer and sometimes back-of-the-head tapper and motioned to the drawn diagrams in the dirt. Inspired directly from the Strategikon, it featured staggered squares of infantry, with gaps between for slingers, and rear lines held in slight curves.
"Phalanx doesn't mean 'stand and die.' It means 'stand, breathe, then stab with discipline.' Understand?"
"YES, CAPTAIN!" they shouted.
The first drills were a disaster.
Spears tilted unevenly. Lines broke under pressure. A group of slingers accidentally flung stones into their own comrades. When the "enemy cavalry" a group of mounted Scolacian horsemen under his command made a mock charge, the entire left line collapsed, screaming and scattering.
Markos took a deep breath and barked a laugh loud enough to shake the hilltop.
"Congratulations!" he roared. "You've just died. Now let's try again, this time with less panic and more spine."
Each mistake was met with correction, often delivered with biting sarcasm.
"You there! That's not a spear, that's a wooden stick! God, if you waved it any faster, you'd fly away!"
"Phalanx means tight! If I can slip my finger between your shields, the enemy can slip a sword!"
"Your lines should be so close that if the man in front of you sneezes, you catch it."
Despite the chaos, something began to click. After the fifth rotation, the spears started to move as one. Shields locked tighter. Slingers repositioned with more awareness. Markos' voice, half-sergeant, half-storyteller, carried them forward.
"I once drilled with men who couldn't read their own names," he said during a break, "but they learned how to kill Latins by the dozen. You? You're smarter. But smarter doesn't mean disciplined and I'll beat that into you like a baker beats dough!"
The laughter eased the pain. The sweat. The endless repetitions.
By the time dusk fell, the drills were far from perfect but the formation held, even when Markos charged them on horseback again, bellowing like a demon and striking his own men's shields with the flat of his axe. The phalanx did not break.
He dismounted, panting, grinning.
"You see that?" he pointed to the silent line, their faces drained but still locked in position. "That's a real army."
The men roared. This time, not out of nervousness, but out of camaraderie.
Markos turned his gaze to the horizon, toward the sea and whatever forces brewed beyond it.
He would lead these men into death, yes but they would go with their backs straight, their shields forward, and their lines unbroken.
And they would know why they fight.
As the morning fog curled low across the Nafonian hills, where Markos once again took position before his troops. This time, it was not the phalanx that stood arrayed before him, but the skoutarion his old term for medium infantry, drawn now from both Nafonian volunteers and Scolacian veterans to make up from the casualties he suffered last week. These men bore shorter spears, curved blades, axes, and sturdy round shields. Some are not as heavily armored as the frontliners, yet not as light as the slingers they were the spine and ribs of his fighting force.
Markos walked slowly among them, clad again in his Roman lamellar, the eastern sun glinting off the worn scales like cracked gold. He carried no pointer this time, only a blunted spatha sword in his right hand the same kind his skoutarion were expected to wield.
"You are not statues in a line," he began. "You are movement. You are breath. You are blood when the phalanx locks, when it holds, and when it's struck."
He tapped one man lightly on the shoulder with the flat of his blade. "You! What's your name?"
"Leon, my lord."
"Leon. When the phalanx stops a charge, who finishes the kill?"
"The, uh, sword line, sir."
"Exactly. You. The skoutarion. You're the hook after the shield. The knife after the wall. The hidden blade behind order."
He motioned to the drawn sand diagram once more this time showing the flexible outer flanks of the formation. The skoutarion were never meant to hold the center. They flowed around it, filled the gaps, covered the sides when cavalry circled in.
"You're the lungs. If the phalanx is winded, you breathe for them. If they're overwhelmed, you cut the bastards off from behind. But never, ever break line unless I order it."
He brought them into tight wedge formations, positioning them just behind the phalanx flanks and teaching them how to shift and rotate. If the front collapsed, they filled in. If an enemy flanked, they met them in a spiked arc, jabbing with short spears and hacking with their blades at close range.
It wasn't elegant and Markos didn't want it to be.
"You're not flower dancers. You're butchers with better posture. I need your cuts clean, your eyes sharp, and your shield arms tight. If I see one of you throw a spear and forget your footing again, I will personally send you back to clean chamber pots in Scolacium."
The men laughed, but the edge of his tone told them he meant it.
He drilled them in shield-stagger shifts, how to drop behind the phalanx and strike into the sides of encroaching enemies. They trained in mixed teams two spears, one sword, and one axe per cluster moving like a single entity.
They practiced pulling down cavalry from the flanks while the phalanx held the front. Some of the Nafonian engineers even helped build mock torsos on posts for quick kill training.
The most critical drill came when he yelled, "Simulated breach!" and pulled ten men from the center of the phalanx, leaving a gap.
The skoutarion rushed in, filled the void, locked their round shields together, and stood firm.
Markos smiled. The Strategikon's layered unit structure was coming alive not just as theory, but as breathing, shouting men.
"Never forget," he said later, voice low as he walked the skoutarion lines, "when the shield wall cracks, the day is either won by you or lost by your absence."
One of the veterans, a Scolacian axe-man, muttered, "And what happens if we break?"
Markos didn't even blink. "Then the gods will know you tried. And that I failed to make you better. But we won't let either happen."
He looked over his gathered force the iron wall in the front, the bladed bloodline in the flanks, and the distant silhouettes of slingers preparing behind them.
Markos crossed his arms.
"This is not an army of coin-fed sellswords anymore. This is not a mob."
"This is a machine. And it starts with you."
The drills resumed blood, sweat, bruises, and jokes flying between commands.
And somewhere behind the lines, Markos caught a glimpse of Delia watching quietly. But he did not approach. Not yet.
He had more soldiers to sharpen.
As the afternoon sun arrived over the green Nafonian plain, its rays beating down on Markos and his men as the clang of drills echoed from the makeshift camp below. Just as the last phalanx rotation concluded and the skoutarion tightened their flanks in the final maneuver, a trumpet blast sounded from the west. Eyes turned, blades lowered. A company approached a local Nafonian force, distinct in their bright crests and sharp, navy-blue capes likely from one of the lesser coastal cities, proud and territorial.
At their head rode a lean captain with a square jaw and sharp tongue. He dismounted just a few paces from Markos, looking him up and down with faint amusement and something close to disdain.
"Centurion, or whatever they call you now," the captain began, folding his arms. "I see you're welding together Scolacian steel and Nafonian timber. A clever trick, but not a sustainable one."
Markos raised an eyebrow, keeping his tone even. "And why is that?"
"Because you can't mix oil and water. That's what your ranks are proud Nafonians who cherish reason and sea-borne freedom... and backward Scolacians still clinging to bronze-age oaths and rusted spurs. They'll never march as one mind."
Markos stared at him for a long moment, the wind gently pulling at the worn hem of his crimson cloak. Then he stepped forward, his voice calm and measured.
"You know, they said the same of us Greeks and Varangians. That we couldn't fight together. That an axe-man from the North would never stand beside an officer of the East."
"And yet we bled together. Ate together. Died for each other."
He gestured behind him at the array of sweaty, sun-baked soldiers some with Scolacian crests, others in Nafonian tunics, drinking from the same water barrels, passing jokes, sharing shade. "Unity is not born from sameness. It's forged from purpose."
The Nafonian captain gave a skeptical scoff. "Words sound good in the wind, but soldiers speak through steel."
A pause. Then a smirk. "How about a test, then? A mock battle. Your hybrid host against mine."
Around them, murmurs broke among both warbands. Markos simply nodded once.
"Agreed."
The two commanders locked eyes for a moment longer, then turned away the air thick with tension and anticipation. The clash would not be real... but it would decide more than just pride.
It would test the soul of a new army.
The rising tension in the field broke like a taut rope snapped under pressure. Dust kicked up as both warbands took their positions on the open plain marked for the mock battle. Spectators, the Nafonian officials, Scolacian observers, and soldiers off-duty lined the edge of the temporary field, curious to see how the self-made "mercenary commander" would fare against local pride.
Markos stood tall in his old lamellar armor, crested helm under his arm, the sun glinting off the scales. Around him, his warband gathered into position with practiced ease. He had drilled them relentlessly for this very day.
On his center, a dense phalanx of Nafonian troops, reinforced by experienced veterans, their blunt spears held at shoulder level.
On his flanks, Two flexible units of Skoutatoi, armed with short blunt spears, axes, and round shields responsible for catching and redirecting pressure from enemy maneuvering. Their formation was looser, but reactive.
Rear Right Flank: A small contingent of Scolacian cavalry, wielding mock maces and clubs, placed unusually far out almost as if Markos intended for them to be missed entirely.
Across the field, the Nafonian warband had formed in a traditional wedge, confident and direct. Their emphasis was on centralized strength a strong vanguard unit designed to smash through. But their sides were thin, almost contemptuously so, reflecting the arrogance of local commanders who believed themselves unmatched.
Markos mounted his horse, riding slowly before his men. He raised a hand, palm out, and then turned to look across the field. He spoke in his native tongue, loud and proud:
"Τί είναι αυτό; Ένα μαχαίρι σε κουζίνα χωρίς φωτιά; Αυτοί δεν θα μας ζεστάνουν καν!"("What is this? A kitchen knife with no fire? These won't even warm us up!")
A ripple of laughter surged through his warband. Even the sternest of the Scolacians cracked grins. The Nafonian captain across the field scowled, but gave the signal to begin.
As Markos ordered the phalanx to hold shields locked, spears tilted. The enemy wedge thundered forward, but instead of meeting them head-on, Markos signaled the left flank to pivot and partially withdraw, drawing the opposing force slightly off-balance.
His Skoutatoi, flexible and disciplined, tightened on the weakened sides of the wedge like a net being drawn. The phalanx then surged forward with sudden, unified force.
The enemy's vanguard met a wall of spearpoints and backswept clubs. Momentum faltered.
Then came the surprise the cavalry on the right, long hidden, looped behind the enemy flank like a scorpion's tail. A thunder of hooves, and blunt maces rained down on the rear of the Nafonian unit before they could react.
"Χορέψτε για μένα, όμορφοι!" Markos shouted again from horseback, raising the club of a fallen mock-enemy.("Dance for me, beauties!")
The enemy wedge buckled. Encircled. Surprised. Routed.
Markos raised his hand again, and the field fell quiet as the mock battle concluded. The Nafonian captain, breathless, his tunic dirtied, stared across at the smiling mercenary commander.
Markos dismounted with ease and walked across the field, offering a hand.
"One army," he said, this time in the local tongue. "One war. One chance."
From the grand stone terrace overlooking the Nafonian field, both women watched as the dust settled from the mock battle below. The sun dipped low, casting a golden hue over the assembled warbands. Cheers erupted from Markos' men, and even the local Nafonian troops despite their loss nodded in acknowledgment of his leadership.
The Arch-Despotes Valeria, clad in an embroidered violet cloak with golden tassels, let out a low whistle as she leaned against the carved balustrade. Her brow arched with mischief, the corner of her lip curling into a knowing grin.
"Well," she said aloud to no one in particular, "perhaps I should begin planning his dowry." She gave a sly laugh, her tone light but edged with sincerity. "A mercenary who commands like a prince, speaks like a philosopher, and fights like Ares reborn… Not bad for a man younger than I."
She turned to Delia, eyes glinting with amusement. "What do you think? Would you be terribly heartbroken if your handsome war-hero found himself engaged to Nafonia instead of you?"
Delia, in reality; Veltrana, standing rigid and poised in her noble guise, did not smile. She had witnessed the battle in silence, her amber eyes narrowed the entire time. At first proud. Admiring, even. But the moment Valeria's jest hung in the air, her expression froze.
Her fingers tightened around the marble balustrade, hard enough to crack a thin sliver into the stone.
"Oh?" she replied, her voice perfectly even, almost sing-song. "Why stop at engagement? Why not elect him Despot of Nafonia and name the whole navy after him while you're at it?" Her smile stretched too wide.
Valeria's laughter only grew. "Oh gods, I see it now. You're completely obsessed."
Delia tilted her head slightly, still smiling. "Only a little."
She looked back at the field. Markos, down below, laughed heartily with his men as he handed back a training spear to one of the locals, patting him on the shoulder like an old friend. His face was lit with pride, but not vanity. Joy, but not arrogance.
That only stoked the flame within her further.
"He belongs to this world," Delia murmured quietly, more to herself than to Valeria. "Not to thrones. Not to crowns. Not even to gods."
Valeria raised an eyebrow. "Did you say something?"
Delia turned, smiling pleasantly. "Only that I think you would find him… difficult to tame."
Valeria laughed again, but there was something wary in her tone now.
"I do like a challenge."
Delia's smile didn't fade. But behind her calm expression, something else stirred dark and possessive. A storm beneath calm waters. The kind of emotion only a goddess scorned could feel.
And as Markos glanced toward the terrace and waved at them both, neither woman moved.
One waved back with genuine delight.
The other only smiled… and whispered a promise under her breath.
"Mine."
As his boots step against stone, the clink of armor plates and the gentle sway of his sword belt Markos ascended the marble steps of the terrace where the two most powerful women in Nafonia stood. His lamellar armor caught the golden light of the setting sun, but noticeably absent was the polished blue cuirass he once bore a silent, deliberate statement.
He gave a respectful bow in the Eastern Roman fashion, one hand over his chest, the other tucked behind his back.
"Despotes," he greeted formally, eyes first on Valeria, then lingering for a second longer on Delia.
Valeria stepped forward with a playful smirk. "Your form is flawless, Markos of Constantinople. Perhaps we should all start bowing your way." She placed a gloved hand over her heart in jest. "Congratulations on that mock battle. Your formations were something else, I daresay the local captains were thoroughly humiliated."
Markos offered a modest grin. "They fought with heart. That matters more than any victory."
Before Valeria could answer, Delia stepped closer. Her eyes swept across his armor, and for the briefest second, her poised exterior cracked.
"You're not wearing it," she murmured.
Markos met her gaze. Calm. Steady.
"I laid it down," he said, voice firm but not cruel. "For now."
Delia said nothing, but her eyes said everything. Hurt. Surprise. A flicker of rage and then, she masked it beneath her usual cool expression, folding her hands before her.
Valeria, unaware or pretending not to notice, waved her hand with feigned innocence. "Well, I for one appreciate the new look. It suits you. Less divine mystery, more war-hardened charm."
Markos chuckled politely.
"In fact," she continued, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, "I'd be honored if you joined me for dinner tonight. Just you and I. My table is always better with someone who speaks like a soldier and thinks like a statesman."
Delia's jaw tightened.
"I'm sure he's far too busy for such formalities," she interjected softly, her voice light but her stare sharp as a dagger.
Valeria tilted her head. "He'll tell me himself."
Markos glanced between the two. He gave Delia a small, unreadable look then nodded toward Valeria.
"If the Arch-Despotes extends her hospitality, how could I refuse?" he said.
Valeria smiled, satisfied.
Delia remained silent, her fingers once again curling near the balustrade.
As Markos turned to leave and prepare, Delia spoke again, this time just loud enough for him to hear as he passed her.
"You can cast it off, but it won't let you go."
Markos paused briefly, then continued on,
The evening sun cast long shadows behind him and behind them, the silent storm inside Delia brewed ever darker.
As he ordered his men to camp or rent accomodations in the city of Syrkon, Markos trotted with his horse and small retinue of his lance-mace horsement to the city of Nafonia, and as the moon had risen high above Nafonia, casting a silver glow across the still waters of the fortified harbor. Lanterns swayed gently from the stone piers, and the sea breeze carried the scent of salt and jasmine through the quiet streets of Nafonia's ducal capital. Night had tamed the city's bustle into murmurs and soft footsteps, though even in this quiet, the heart of the Duchy did not sleep. Nor did its rulers.
Markos stood by the tall archway leading from the palace's eastern courtyard, adjusting the purple tunic beneath his worn lamellar armor. The fabric still held the faint scent of his old world leather, ash, and memories of Constantinople sealed within every thread. He hadn't changed it since the day he was cast into this realm. Somehow, it grounded him more than any sword or rank ever could.
Valeria stepped into the torchlight, her dark green gown flowing like a river under moonlight. The cut was elegant, noble in form yet tailored for comfort, with golden embroidery shaped like naval crests lining the sleeves and collar. A sapphire pendant glistened at her chest. She wore no crown, yet there was a quiet authority in her stride that needed none.
"You look... prepared for war even during a walk," she said with a coy glance, noting the armor still strapped to Markos' shoulders.
"I've worn this since I arrived," he replied. "Hard to let go of a skin that saved your life. I would've worn the cuirass again, but I find it easier to breathe when I remember I'm still just a man."
"Hmm," Valeria mused, stepping beside him as they began to walk down the torchlit colonnade. "That purple tunic it suits you. You said you are Roman, is it not?"
"Eastern Roman," he corrected, with the ghost of a smile. "But yes. I served in the Varangian Guard. I was a centurion there... before everything fell."
She slowed a step, curious. "Why Eastern Roman? Were there Western Romans, then?"
Markos nodded, his voice calm, almost reflective. "There were. Once. The old Empire was split centuries ago administratively, then spiritually. Rome fell in the West, overrun by warlords and faithless kings. But in the East, we endured. Constantinople became the new Rome, and we called ourselves Romans still. Not because of where we stood, but because of what we kept the law, the order, the Empire itself."
Valeria's gaze lingered on him. "So your empire lived even after the West died."
"For a thousand more years," Markos said. "Through plague, siege, and treachery. We bled, but we stood. Until... we didn't."
She looked at him, studying the shadow of sorrow behind his words, the grief he rarely showed. But tonight wasn't for digging up his pain not yet. "Come," she said gently, "I want you to see something."
They left the palace grounds through a private gate and followed the lower road that curved down the hillside toward the docks. The lights of the city glimmered like constellations reflected in the sea. Below them, massive shapes loomed in the dark ships, dozens of them, docked like sleeping giants beneath heavy chains and guarded piers.
Valeria extended her arm, and without thinking, Markos let her rest her hand lightly upon his. "These are my Ducal Ships," she said proudly. "Hull-plated with treated ironwood, rigged with Nafonian flame mortars by my beloved Arcanum.. The pride of our navy. My ancestors always thought the sea was our shield, but I've made it into a sword."
"They're impressive," Markos said genuinely, pausing to admire the sleek angles and tiered decks. "The hulls are wider than most warships I've seen."
"Wider, heavier, slower," she admitted, "but nearly impossible to burn. That's why we dominate the Hollow Sea, and the Scolacians in the water. But they are quite stubborn when we fight them in the land."
As they walked along the stone railing overlooking the harbor, Valeria's gaze shifted to him more than once quietly, curiously, with a subtle fondness that lingered between her words. There was admiration, yes. But something more. Something that made her fingers linger just a little longer on his arm, something that made her smile a little softer every time he spoke with that disarming bluntness of his.
"You speak with discipline," she said eventually. "But you walk like someone unchained. You command armies, yet seem uncomfortable being followed. You carry honor, and yet... you seem to hide from it."
Markos raised an eyebrow at her, the corner of his lip twitching. "That's a poetic way of saying I'm hard to understand."
"It's a poetic way of saying I'm trying to understand," Valeria replied, stopping as they reached a small lookout where a brazier burned low and warm. The harbor stretched far before them silent, armored, and waiting.
"I'm not used to rulers asking," Markos muttered, folding his arms.
"And I'm not used to warriors avoiding answers."
They stood there in companionable quiet, the stars above and the sea below reflecting the same cold shimmer. She watched him from the corner of her eye, her expression softened, though her mind remained sharp.
He wore the armor of a soldier, but the silence of an exile.
And still, she thought, not for the first time tonight, what sort of world did you lose, Markos of Constantinople... and why does mine seem to draw you so deeply into it?
She said nothing more, and neither did he.
But in the stillness, something wordless passed between them acknowledgment, curiosity, and perhaps, the first hints of something dangerously close to affection.
As they entered the Arch-Despotes' chambers were grand, yet tastefully modest dark oak panels carved with maritime motifs, deep blue drapes that billowed gently with the breeze from the sea-facing balcony, and a single table lit with silver candlesticks and soft golden glow from lanterns above. The scent of roasted duck, olive oil, and rare Nafonian spices filled the air.
Markos stood by the door briefly, eyes taking in the place not as a soldier, but as a man displaced by time, rooted once more in unfamiliar luxury. Yet when Valeria motioned him in with a smile and a gesture toward the chair opposite hers, he strode with the same confidence he did upon the battlefield.
Dinner began with fresh bread, sea fennel, and fine wine. Markos, to her mild surprise, handled each utensil with practiced grace. He cut cleanly, chewed thoughtfully, drank politely. There was no ravenousness to him, no hint of barbarity or war-born hunger.
"You dine like a senator," Valeria said as she raised her glass. "I half-expected you to rip the duck apart like a Varangian raider."
Markos smirked. "Once had supper with a Patrikios in Antioch. Drunk, pompous, and too fond of dried figs. I learned a thing or two mostly to chew quietly so I wouldn't draw his attention."
Valeria laughed, a light and genuine sound that bounced through the candlelit air.
They continued to talk between bites. Markos spoke of Constantinople, of its overwhelming mosaic of voices; Armenians haggling over silk, Syrians selling exotic perfumes, Latins bickering with Jews, and Greek bureaucrats screaming at all of them.
"You'd walk down the Mese and hear five languages in one breath. And always, always, someone trying to sell you bad fish."
Valeria sipped her wine, eyes shining with interest. "You make it sound like a living poem."
"It was," Markos said, gaze momentarily distant. "Loud, chaotic, beautiful. Even the whores were philosophers when they drank enough."
Valeria nearly choked on her drink, covering her mouth with her napkin as she laughed again. "Gods, Markos. You'll get me killed with laughter."
Markos chuckled and shrugged, settling back into his seat. "Better than arrows, I'd say."
Their laughter faded into a more comfortable silence as the main course was cleared. Valeria leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table.
"You fight like a commander, think like a philosopher, and joke like a poet. What are you, really?"
Markos tilted his head. "Just a man out of place. Fighting to stay useful in a world that I don't know."
She studied him a little more seriously then, brows narrowing just slightly. "Then let I introduce you to this world."
He didn't reply. Just raised his cup to hers, and they toasted under the dim light.
Outside, the sea wind howled. But inside the Arch-Despotes' chamber, warmth bloomed quietly between two warriors of vastly different worlds, and for the first time, Markos felt..like home.