As a new morning rose over Nafonia's spires, casting sharp lines of light across the city's salt-washed stones and red tiled roofs. Markos stood quietly in the Arch-Despotes' inner courtyard, already clad in his old lamellar armor. He had polished it himself at dawn despite its age, it gleamed like obsidian bronze, dignified and foreign among the silk-robed attendants moving about. His helmet hung at his side, and over his shoulder he wore a plain dark-blue cloak not the cuirass of old, but something unmistakably his.
The palace doors opened, and Valeria emerged, regal in deep green and silver. Unlike the opulence of her chambers, today she bore the presence of a ruler subtle jewelry, her hair woven back in intricate braids, a blade at her side not for show but for power. She glanced at Markos and smiled faintly.
"Ready to stand by my side, Roman?"
Markos grunted with a smirk. "Didn't know I was being knighted."
"You're not. You're mine for the day," she said teasingly before striding forward. "The Council of Despotes is less a meeting and more a battleground. I could use someone beside me who isn't bound by petty alliances."
He followed with deliberate, silent steps. "And yet you choose a mercenary."
"I choose a commander."
The inner chamber of the council was circular, with a domed ceiling painted in a mosaic of stars and the sea. Around a crescent-shaped marble table stood nearly a dozen figures eight of them women, and only three men. Each Despotes ruled a city, a fleet, or a province of Nafonia. Some were young, others seasoned. Delia was already there, seated near the left side of the crescent, clad in sapphire robes. Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly when Markos entered behind Valeria.
Markos stood silently near Valeria's side, one hand on his belt, the other on the hilt of his sword. His presence did not go unnoticed. Whispers stirred. Eyes flicked to him, and some brows lifted.
"A new Strategos?" one asked under her breath.
"No," another replied, "just a mercenary from Scolacium. Valeria's new pet."
Markos ignored them. His eyes scanned the room like a seasoned sentinel. He stood proudly, calmly, with the air of a man used to courts, even if they were from a different era.
Valeria began the proceedings, her voice smooth but commanding.
"Esteemed Despotes. The civil war in Astonicum is no longer a regional affliction it threatens all of Nafonia. Cults are on the rise. The Veil Order grows bold. And now the Scolacian knights march against their duke. We must decide: do we keep to our walls, or march united?"
The room erupted in an argument. Voices clashed like blades. Some argued for independence, others feared Scolacian trickery. One old Despotes scoffed, "We have no Emperor. Why rally like sheep around an empty throne?"
Markos remained still, listening. But when Valeria subtly leaned and whispered without looking at him, "If you have words, speak them now," he took a breath.
He stepped forward.
"You squabble while the world burns," Markos said, his Greek-accented Nafonian cutting through the noise. "Your walls will not save you from fire that spreads from within."
All eyes turned.
"Divide and you die. Unite and you may still die, but with steel in your hand and not a knife in your back."
Silence followed. Even Delia stared, uncertain if she should smile or frown.
A younger Despotes, intrigued, leaned in. "And who are you to lecture us, stranger?"
Markos's eyes narrowed. "Someone who has seen empires die from within."
He stepped back into silence.
Valeria gave no visible reaction, but her lips lifted ever so slightly.
Delia finally spoke. "Then let him stand here not as a stranger. Let him prove if he can speak for both sword and council."
The council chamber was tense.
The Despotes are still seated but now in a tighter crescent than before, with a larger, more detailed map now unfurled across the central table etched with inky lines showing the Hollow Sea, scattered isles, and ominous red sigils where Pazzonian galleys had been reported. News from sailors and mystics alike told of unnatural storms, vanished fleets, and dark silhouettes stalking coastal settlements by night.
This was no longer just politics. This was war on the waves.
Markos stood beside Valeria again, arms crossed, listening as the Despotes shouted over one another.
"Our ports are vulnerable.."
"Their ships are triple-decked, iron-clad-"
"We cannot meet them at sea. We must fortify instead!"
"And abandon the islands? Let the cultists take root?!"
Valeria raised her hand to silence the noise but gave Markos a brief glance.
He took it as his cue.
Markos stepped forward, dragging a linen-covered crate he had brought in earlier, now set before the map. He pulled the cloth aside, revealing a small model an intricate, scaled-down replica of a Nafonian galley fitted with two modified skorpios mounted near its bow and stern.
A murmur rippled through the room.
"I've seen what the Pazzonians and the Veil Order sail, When we first encountered them I orddered my men to hastily build this on the small galleys that we have." Markos said, his tone iron calm. "And what we face is not just size or numbers. It's fear. Spectacle. That is why we must fight with precision. And terror of our own."
He turned the model slightly to show a small tube affixed to the prow.
"This," he said, "is what we had begun building. The Skorpios a siege bolt thrower modified for ship combat. Shortened arms, faster draw. Accurate. Punches through hulls. They will expect arrows. Not these."
He looked up.
"But there's more."
He stepped to a second, sealed jar he had brought, he had made it during the night as he was bored and couldn't sleep. It was bronze, capped tightly and sealed with wax. Carefully, he tapped it with the hilt of his dagger.
"I call it πῦρ ῥωμαϊκόν pŷr rhōmaïkón."
Some of the Despotes flinched.
Valeria leaned in slightly. Delia smiled, her eyes unreadable.
"It burns on water," Markos continued. "No wind can snuff it. It sticks to sails, to flesh, to the sea itself. I do not claim to have invented it, but I remember it. I know how to make it."
"You expect us to approve of... hellfire?" one older Despotes asked, clearly disturbed. "This is madness."
"No," said another with a hushed voice, "this is... sorcery, maybe heresy."
Valeria raised a brow. "Are we so desperate we fear the tools that may save us?"
"I will not use it on cities," Markos assured, "nor on the innocent. This is for the Hollow Sea. For the invaders."
He stepped back. "You wanted ideas. I brought weapons."
A heavy silence fell.
Delia was the first to speak, her voice like velvet. "You always bring more than what we expect, Markos."
Valeria nodded slowly, her eyes still fixed on the jar. "You claim you can build these weapons?"
"With engineers, iron, and time. I need the best black powder you have. Tar. Resin. Naphtha. Clay and bronze vessels. And naval crews willing to try something terrifying."
She smiled faintly. "Then you'll have them."
Several Despotes still looked unconvinced some crossed themselves, others muttered prayers under breath. But none could deny the fear gnawing at the edges of the map before them. Or the fact that Markos had offered the first solution not borne of retreat.
"Let it be recorded," Valeria said, turning to her scribe, "that the Arch-Despotes of Nafonia will sponsor this project. We'll call it the Markian Fleet Initiative until a better name arises."
Markos gave a shallow Roman bow.
As the council dispersed, Delia lingered near the map, watching him with narrowed eyes and the faintest curl of a smile.
They still didn't know who he truly was.
But she did.
With the council's approval, Markos was given full command of a naval engineering compound just beyond Nafonia's inner harbor. The Arch-Despotes Valeria assigned her finest smiths, alchemists, and shipwrights while Delia, still ever-smiling, quietly ensured a few of her own "agents" were among them. For better or worse.
Markos wasted no time. Blueprints were drawn. Tools clanged day and night. His warband rotated between drill formations and labor crews, assisting in ship retrofitting, ballistae calibration, and construction of sealed containers meant to hold the volatile pŷr rhōmaïkón. The Nafonian engineers, skeptical at first, soon rallied behind the precision and vision Markos offered. His leadership turned confusion into order, disorder into purpose.
He didn't smile often, but when he watched his design come alive across three refitted galleys, he almost allowed it.
But as the forge hissed and fires roared in the mortal world
A different fire stirred beneath.
Far beneath.
In the Abyss, in the space where flame met void and screams echoed without end, a new meeting was taking place.
Dark thrones formed out of black stone. Demonic lords and veiled horrors sat in council some with eyes like voids, others with mouths that whispered in dead tongues. At the head of this abyssal congress was the one who had long defied their gathering.
Scelestus, the Queen of Despair, stood.
Gone was her old crown. In its place, shadows curled behind her back like torn wings. Her expression was cold, unyielding.
"You stood against them a millennium ago," one of the dark lords hissed, its voice made of shattering glass. "You burned their banners. You shattered the cults of the Veil Order with your bare hands. And now you kneel beside them?"
Another voice, hollow and ancient: "You betray your own war. You swore vengeance."
Scelestus gazed upon them, unmoved.
"I do not kneel. I use them," she said. "As they once tried to use me. The balance has shifted. And in this world, there is one force more dangerous than all of you combined"
She stepped forward. Images burned in the void: Markos shouting orders on horseback, leading phalanx through impossible odds. Markos swinging a Varangian axe on a burning ship. Markos at dinner with Valeria, speaking calmly, laughing.
"A mortal man who refuses to die, refuses to break. A man who turns empires not through blood alone, but belief."
"Then why not destroy him?" a voice snarled.
Scelestus narrowed her eyes.
"Because I once loved him. And still may."
The chamber fell into silence.
She turned.
"If I must sacrifice this world to bring him back to me then I will."
And without another word, Scelestus vanished into the swirling dark, leaving behind the question no one dared ask aloud.
On the outer ramparts of the naval yard near Nafonia, the first test was set.
A narrow canal had been cleared, and a dummy ship a stripped-down hull was placed at a safe distance. Markos stood alone near the edge, armored in his worn lamellar, his helmet off, sweat beading his brow under the weight of responsibility and risk. Behind him stood his engineers, his soldiers, and a few Nafonian officials. High above, Valeria watched from a balcony beside Delia, both cloaked against the sea wind.
Markos took a deep breath, gripping the bronze lever connected to the siphon device, which had been fixed to a rotating stand. A clay vessel beneath bubbled with the volatile mixture an alchemical fire made from pitch, resin, sulfur, and something else the Nafonian alchemists still couldn't name.
He muttered a prayer in Greek.
"Κύριε Ἰησοῦ Χριστέ, ἐλέησόν με.""Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me."
Then, without waiting further, he pulled.
The nozzle spat.
A roaring stream of fire jetted out with a horrible gurgling hiss, crashing against the wooden target. But in mere seconds, the siphon shook violently the pressure wrong. A backfire surged from the valve, splashing a gout of flame onto Markos' side.
Gasps erupted.
The fire danced across his right arm and waist briefly licking the edge of his cloak and bracers. But he did not scream. He staggered back, slapped the flame down with gloved hands, and collapsed in the sand, coughing smoke.
Soldiers rushed forward.
And yet he rose.
Markos stood up with soot on his face, armor scorched but body unharmed. He looked at the shocked engineers, the gawking officers, the terrified young slinger who nearly dropped his helmet.
And he shouted with a grin:
"ΧΡΙΣΤΟ ΜΟΥ![1]... IT'S HOTTER THAN THE WENCHES!"
Laughter burst out from his own warband. Even the engineers sighed with relief.
High above, Valeria exhaled slowly, one hand clutching her collar.
Delia, however, had not laughed.
Her eyes never left Markos. Even when she smiled and turned away.
And in her mind, something darker stirred.
"If he dies before returning to me," she whispered to herself, "I will burn this world... and all its gods."
Markos had barely dusted the soot from his shoulder when two familiar figures broke through the crowd. The first was Syrkas, a Nafonian phalanx captain, his bronze armor still gleaming despite the chaos. The second was Aureliu, a seasoned skoutatos from Scolacium, his helmet slung under one arm and a crooked grin spread across his scarred face.
"By the sea-god's salt, Strategos," Syrkas panted, eyes wide with a mix of worry and disbelief, "you trying to cook yourself before the next battle?"
Markos chuckled, brushing a burned scrap of cloth from his belt. "Only testing if I'm still mortal, Syrkas."
"Idiot's method," Aureliu barked, shoving Syrkas aside with his shoulder. "Next time, let the engineers burn instead. They're softer and make less noise."
"That so?" Syrkas snapped, stepping forward. "You lot barely stand in the line without clanking like a bunch of pans!"
"Better clanking than running with sticks shoved where the sun doesn't shine, like your Nafonian drills."
Markos raised a hand as they half-snarled, half-smiled, circling one another like lions ready to spar.
"Enough," he said, his voice firm but amused. "You both stink of smoke and pride."
The two soldiers glanced at him, then at each other, and finally broke into laughter.
Their exchange, rough and real, drew chuckles from the nearby warband. Nafonian and Scolacian soldiers watched their captains trade jests and blows on the shoulder like brothers, the tension of the failed sea fire test already fading into memory.
Under Markos' command, unity wasn't forged by banners or decrees. It was found in burnt fingers, shared insults, and men from different worlds laughing over the same fire.
[1] "My Christ or My God"