He had seen it countless times in Silva's church, the same emblem he had knelt before until his knees bled, begging for Giorgio's healing, for his mother's life. The god had never answered. Prayer had never filled an empty stomach. Prayer had never saved him. And yet here it was, the symbol of every unanswered plea, hovering over fire as though mocking him.
"I hope you had a good rest," a deep voice said beside him.
Icarius turned. The blond-haired man from the beach sat in a rocking chair outside the hut, a mug cradled lazily in his hand. The sharp scent of alcohol drifted through the cool mountain air. He looked utterly at ease, like an old veteran watching the world go by from his porch.
The man took a slow sip, his eyes never leaving the camp below. From his seat, the entire valley unfolded before him. The training grounds consumed nearly all the flat land, where hundreds, perhaps thousands, of figures clashed within drawn circles, their movements flickering in the torchlight. Beyond them, the jagged ridges of distant mountains rose against the horizon, like the spine of the world itself.
At the sight of the man, Icarius instinctively stepped back, wary. His gaze dropped to the ground, half-expecting that same strange power from the beach to pursue him again. But Arthur didn't move. He only spared him a brief glance and shook his head.
"Badar exaggerated," Arthur muttered, setting his mug on the small table beside him before rising. He reached for the sword resting against the wall, the motion unhurried yet making Icariu's heart pound.
"Follow me," Arthur said calmly, already descending the path toward the valley below.
Icarius hesitated, glancing over his shoulder, ready to bolt at the first sign of danger. But what met his eyes wasn't a prison or the desolate side of a mountain. It was a village built along the mountain's slope. Rows of red marble houses clung to the rock face, their polished walls glowing softly beneath the twin moons.
Some were grand and wide, others no larger than huts, yet all were carved from the same deep crimson stone. Torches lined the winding paths, their flames swaying in the cold air, and from somewhere within the village came the steady rhythm of hammer on metal, a blacksmith's song that stirred faint memories of Silva Village.
"I will introduce you to the villagers later," Arthur called over his shoulder, his voice carrying easily on the night wind. "For now, you need to pass through the Awakening Ceremony. Normally someone else would handle it, but I've got time and others are training for the battle ahead."
Icarius studied him. The man's golden hair rippled in the breeze, his cuirass gleaming under the twin moons. He wore his armor like a second skin, ready for battle even in peace.
For a moment, Icarius hesitated. He didn't know where he was, or why this man had brought him here, but Arthur hadn't tried to kill him. For now, that was enough reason to follow.
They began descending the narrow marble steps carved into the mountain. The red stone glowed faintly under the twin moons, smooth and cold beneath Icarius's bare feet. He kept a cautious distance, always one step behind.
"You're cautious," Arthur said without turning. "That might help you survive here… for a while." His tone carried a trace of amusement. "Do you have a name?"
Icarius stayed silent.
Arthur cast a brief glance over his shoulder. "A useful mute, then?" He shook his head and continued downward.
Dozens of steps passed in silence before Icarius finally spoke. He watched the man's steady gait, his hands behind his back and far from the sword at his hip.
"Where are we?" he asked quietly, and Arthur's lips curved into a faint, satisfied smile.
"Well," Arthur said with a shrug, "the gods call it the Sanctuary. But in truth, it's nothing more than their playground, a cruel arena where they cast us against one another, age after age, just to see who will claim Zeus's throne. Here, we leave behind our souls and destined to fight forever, bound to our god's banner."
Icarius's jaw tightened. "How do I leave? How do I return to my world?"
Arthur gave a low, humorless laugh. "Leave? We have been trying for ages." He turned slightly, a flicker of amusement crossing his face. "You leave when the game ends, and when we win. When Ares sits upon the throne."
He stopped walking, gaze lifting toward the distant bonfire. The golden helmet above it still glowed, but faintly, its light pulsing weakly, like a dying star. Arthur exhaled, the breath carrying a quiet resignation. They were losing.
"Were you sacrificed willingly," he asked as they resumed their descent, his tone even, "or were you forced into it?"
His footsteps echoed against the marble, slow and heavy, each one like a boulder settling into place. His hands clasped behind his back, his posture unwavering, like a man burdened with the weight of worlds.
Icarius frowned. "What do you mean?"
"The church," Arthur said, glancing over his shoulder. "Did you offer yourself to Ares of your own will, or were you one of the condemned? Most who arrive these days are death prisoners. Ares's faithful have grown few. The ones who still come willingly usually do it out of desperation, the crippled, the sick, those who sell their lives so their families can survive."
Icarius blinked, struggling to follow. "I wasn't sacrificed," he said slowly. "I was killed… and then I woke up here."
Arthur froze mid-step, one foot suspended above the next stair. For a moment, he didn't move or speak. Then, without a word, he continued downward, faster now. The silence between them grew heavier. Icarius had more questions, but didn't dare to break the silence.
As they descended, each step allowed them to hear the sounds of the valley clearer: the clash of steel, the twang of bowstrings, the bark of commands, and the raw cries of battle. All of it was accompanied by the bloody scent of iron.
When they reached the valley floor, Arthur finally spoke. "Come. We're going to Ares's Sanctuary. You need to undergo your Awakening Ceremony."
He led Icarius along a torchlit path toward the great bonfire ahead, burning like a god's unblinking eye. Around them, warriors trained within circular arenas, some locked in duels, others drilling in formation beneath shouted orders. It was the rhythm of an army at war. Icarius noticed a few soldiers bow as Arthur passed, though the man paid them no mind.
The bonfire rose atop the giant red pyramid that occupied the valley's center. They began to climb. It didn't take long to reach the summit. The fire was immense, at least half the size of the pyramid. Icarius had to crane his neck to glimpse the faint outline of the golden helmet floating on top of it. Strangely, despite the roaring flames, no heat touched his skin.
"This is Ares's Divine Fire," Arthur said evenly. "Enter it."
Icarius froze. "What?"
"Enter it," Arthur repeated, letting out a quiet sigh. "It's the same with every newcomer…Normally, I would have someone explain it to you, but we don't have enough time."
Icarius took a step back, shaking his head. In the blink of an eye, Arthur stepped forward, his movement so fast it seemed to split the air, and suddenly stood beside him.
"I will give you a push, then," he said, his tone calm but edged with impatience.
Before Icarius could react, Arthur shoved him into the fire.
He stumbled forward, losing his balance. A blinding wall of flame swallowed his vision. He braced for pain, but the fire did not burn. It coiled around him, alive, writhing like serpents before plunging into his mouth and nose, filling his lungs.
His chest expanded violently as the fire spread through him like molten blood. His skin glowed faintly, his muscles tightened, his heart pounded. Knowledge poured into his mind, countless ways to move and to hold a weapon, only to sink deep within him, buried and waiting to be awakened.
The flames gathered once more, swirling inward until they settled in his heart, a small flickering ember, fragile yet eternal. Then pain tore through his hand. He looked down to see a mark searing itself into his skin: a crest shaped like a helmet, identical to the one above the fire.
A sudden blast threw him out of the pyre.
He crashed to the ground, gasping. Above him stretched a sea of stars, and beyond them, the golden helmet gleamed like a divine eye watching from the heavens. For a heartbeat, an instinctive urge seized him, to kneel, to bow before that holy light. He clenched his fists and resisted it.
Arthur appeared over him, smiling faintly. Those sky blue eyes were like a calm river, but Icarius could feel something buried deep within, a strong current.
"Congratulations," he said. "Ares has accepted you into his Sanctuary, and into his army."
He extended a hand toward him. "As General and Enyalios of the Aresian Legion, I, Arthur Pendragon, welcome you, young Hoplite."
Icarius stared up at him, still dazed, his lungs burning as he tried to breathe. Every sense felt raw and sharpened, sound, light, even the pulse in his fingertips.
Arthur helped him to his feet. "You'll adjust," he said simply. Then his tone hardened, the warmth vanishing. "But you'd better do it quickly. Athena's army is already marching toward our borders."