Page 58 of Of Empires and Dust

“If we save you – if we grant you the Sigil of Achyron – are you willing to leave behind everything that you were? To forget every piece of the man you are now and become something more?”

“What in the fuck is the Sigil of Achyron?” The man licked the blood from his lips, then coughed up a laugh. “Fuck it. I would give everything to forget. I thought we were on the right side. Itall made sense, until it didn’t. Though I suppose that’s always the way.” He stared at Kallinvar. “Yes.”

“If you take the Sigil of Achyron, you are bound to him. Should you betray his creed, your life will be ripped from you and you will know pain the likes of which you never thought possible. I must be clear. You will live, but there will be nothing easy about your life.”

“There never has been. But I’m afraid, if you don’t hurry up, I’m going to be dead pretty soon anyway.”

“I need you to understand the gravity of what it is to bear Achyron’s Sigil.”

“And I need to know…” The man grunted, then lifted his head and nodded towards the pit of smoking bodies. “Will Achyron stop that? Will he end all this madness?”

“Or die in the trying,” Kallinvar said, inclining his head.

“I’m dead already, am I not? I’ll take his Sigil, as long as he understands that his is not a name I’ve ever prayed to.”

“He doesn’t need your prayers. He needs your blade.”

“He will have it.”

Kallinvar nodded. “Sister Ruon, the Sigil.”

Ruon removed the metallic green Sigil from the pouch at her hip, and Kallinvar took it as though it were made of glass.

He traced his fingers along the sword that ran through the centre of the Sigil. “This belonged to a great man.”

“I’ll wear thick socks.”

Kallinvar laughed at that. “This will hurt more than the spear.”

The man closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, then nodded.

Kallinvar rested the Sigil over the Praetorian’s breastplate. The Sigil shimmered, brilliant light radiating from its surface. Unlike the previous times he had anointed new Sigil Bearers, Kallinvar couldfeelthe power flowing through him and into the Praetorian, the Sigil acting as a conduit. In the span of a fleetingsecond, the Praetorian’s memories flashed across Kallinvar’s eyes. Not all of them, not every moment of his life, but the defining ones. The moments that shaped and moulded the man before him now.

Three brothers, all lost before the age of twelve in the great fires of Khergan, along with both parents. Saldan – that was the Praetorian’s name – had spent nearly two days trapped beneath ash and rubble until he’d finally been pulled free by an Imperial Praetorian.

Five years later, at the age of fourteen, he killed a man over fish at Khergan’s port. He’d been starving and alone, and yet even still to this day the memory haunted him.

At sixteen, he was accepted into the Praetorian Order and finally found the family he had yearned for, the family that had been taken from him.

Many moments across many years flickered through Kallinvar’s mind. Saldan was not a perfect man, but he was one who always tried to be decent. He had taken many lives but never without questioning why.

The last memory was of that day. He’d been posted at the fort earlier that morning. The sight of the young men and women lying on the cots had stopped his heart. He’d gone into a rage when the rune markings had started to kill the hosts, twisting their bodies and snapping their bones. The others had subdued him and strapped him to the post in the clearing. When they’d carried the bodies to the pit, he broke his bonds and charged his own. They skewered him and left him to die.

The memories faded from Kallinvar’s vision and before him the Sigil shimmered one last time before waves of heat radiated from its surface, the steel of the Praetorian’s breastplate melting like butter.

Saldan’s eyes snapped open, bulging, but he didn’t scream. He shook, jaw clenched tight, hands tearing tufts from the grass.

“Pain is the path to strength, brother.”

Smoke drifted upwards, the smell of burning flesh reaching Kallinvar’s nostrils.

Saldan convulsed, mouth open, breaths short. And still, he didn’t scream. Kallinvar had screamed. He’d screamed like a newborn babe, and he’d wept rivers. The pain of taking the Sigil was unnatural. Nothing in all his years had ever come close. It was the first test of knighthood. Feeling pain, screaming, weeping, that was not the test. The test was whether the knight persevered.

In Kallinvar’s mind, perseverance was the single greatest attribute a human soul could possess. It was the one and only thing that was always within your control. Talent could be wasted, luck could run out, charm faded. But a soul that could persevere despite all odds could overcome anything.

After a few moments the power that coursed from Kallinvar into the Praetorian ebbed and faded, and the man stopped convulsing. A shiver set in, and Saldan’s teeth chattered, as was normal.

The centre of the ruby steel plate that had covered his chest had melted away, hardening in streaks along both flanks and in small pools on the ground. Through the gap in the armour, Saldan’s bare chest was exposed, dripping with sweat, his skin raw and pink. A tattoo in the shape of Achyron’s Sigil ornamented his skin, metallic green, glinting in the light of the moon.

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