Page 6 of Flamesworn

It was late, and she was…not drunk, exactly, but she’d had far too much Athenero andthen,because Theron was a terrible influence, Starian whiskey as a nightcap. She’d stumbled into bed and fallen immediately asleep, and had a vague memory of dreaming about the desert, a tomb, before she’d been pulled out of her still-drunken slumber to attend an emergency meeting.

She was a bit unsteady as she finished lacing her pants and went to grab Theron from his room. She threw open the door, bracing herself, and said loudly, “Get up, we’re–”

She stopped. Theron’s room was empty, his bedsheets completely undisturbed, and it was clear that at some point after the liquor worked its way through her bloodstream, he’d just--left, and hadn’t yet returned, which meant the messenger who’d pounded on their door, shouting the phrase meant for the Aktis and their inner circle, would have to make do with only one of them. She struggled into her uniform jacket and ran a comb quickly through her hair, which wasn’t quite as unruly as Theron’s but could use a trim.

Her head was pounding, and she was cursing Theron to the ends of time and back as she made her way to the civic building. Her heart was racing, but she was too miserable from over-indulging to give much thought as to why she’d been summoned. Ever since the incident with the cult, they’d haddrillsinvolving middle-of-the-night summons to the civic building. Theron had attended the first few, then deliberately slept through the rest, claiming it wasn’t going to do anything in an emergency but make him roll over.

Her father’s second-in-command, a severe, strict dominant named Acacius Stavros, was waiting just inside the entrance. He gave her a nod and pulled the door open with a gruff, “Soldier Akti,” and she nodded in return as she followed him into the room. Everyone knew that Stavros’ line would have inherited the title of Strategos if he’d had children instead of Evander. It had even been rumored around Axon that if he’d found a suitable partner and had a child before Elena and Aleks had come from Lukos, Malik wouldn’t be in the conversation about who would be Strategos after him. Stavros himself seemed to have little interest in being Strategos, focusing instead on reeducating soldiers who had fallen out of line.

Theron had been sent to him twice during his years in the barracks. He’d spoken only of Stavros squinting at him, making him write lines, then spending a perfectly enjoyable weekend organizing all of Stavros’ books and kitchen spices. Theron had tried, of course, to seduce him, but Stavros had merely clicked his tongue and asked Theron if he thought spices should be organized alphabetically or by usage, and had helped him improve his running times, though that was probably only because he wouldn’t let Theron smoke.

“Do you know what this is about, Taxiarchos Stavros?” Kataida asked, curious, as she accompanied him down the hallway.

“I have no idea,” Stavros said, looking as put together as ever, as if he slept in his uniform–and maybe he did. There were rumors that Stavros was too hard to please to ever take it off for anyone. Kataida wondered if they’d end up saying the same abouther.

She became aware, gradually, that something was wrong. As she stopped and turned toward the door, she had the strangest feeling like she wasn’t standing in the civic building–she was asleep, this was another dream, and whatever lay beyond the closed door wasn’t her father’s war room at all. It was the bonfire beckoning her closer, urging her to burn herself to ashes in its flames. She could almostsmellit, that intoxicating scent of ash and copper and ozone, blood in the embers, smoke thick in the air.

But that wasn’t asleep. Was she? Usually it would be inconceivable not to know, but she very rarely drank at all, much less to excess. She gave a discreet pinch to her inner left wrist, but the pain was very real, and you couldn’t smell in your dreams, could you?

But if that was true, if this was real and she was awake–

What is beyond that door?

“Taxiarchos–” she started, stumbling a bit in her haste to get to him before he opened the door. It didn’t work. He simply gave her a slightly concerned look as he turned the handle, eyebrows raised.

“Soldier Akti?”

Kataida couldn’t speak. As the door opened, she was assailed with a wild, manic feeling that she could only describe as a mix between euphoria and violence, a rush of adrenaline second only to what she’d felt when she’d fought the cultists who’d tried to kill her in Atreus Akti’s tomb. Her vision went hazy and she could hear the distant echo of something that was too rhythmic to be thunder…was itdrums?

Someone spoke–her father, maybe, or Menelaus Keri, her mentor who she could see was there–but she couldn’t make herself focus enough to answer. She couldn’t even look around the room, only taking in that her father, Stavros and Keri were speaking to a few lower-ranking soldiers and one who was looking with terror at a soldier in the corner.

Kataida’s gaze settled on the soldier, and she knew who they were.

Her bonfire.

They were about Theron’s height, pale-skinned with an underlying sheen of gold, their hair was pure white, with red and orange tips at the ends. Their eyes were shaped like an Arkoudai’s, heavily-lined and distinctive, but they weren’t dark like Kataida’s. They were a burnt red like dried blood, with white, red and orange flecks in them that seemed to be glowing.

As Kataida stared at them, unable to speak or do anything but feel her entire body begin to shake, they rose to their feet, a look of pure, utter adoration on their strangely familiar features.

“Oh,” they breathed, in a voice that made the Castor burst into tears, and Kataida feel like she was burning up with fever. “Oh, it’syou!”

“You can see them?” Castor demanded, but his voice was far away, a tinny echo compared to the rush of blood that was drowning every other sound in the room.

As Kataida watched in shock, the soldier’s uniform altered subtly, the insignia and rank shifting so it looked like hers.

“Soldier Akti,attention,” her father commanded, dominance heavy in his voice, but Kataida, maybe for the first time in her entire life, didn’t respond. She couldn’t.

The soldier stood before her now, their eyes twin flames, their smile wild. “You know me,” the soldier said, and their voice sounded like the drag of a blade over a whetstone, the sound of drums echoing so loud she could barely think. “Youseeme.”

“Soldier Akti, report!” Evander said, clearly trying to work out why she wasn’t speaking.

“Don’t!” Castor wailed. “Don’t say it! If you do, it’ll be too late!”

It had been too late for her the moment she’d realized who they were. It had been too late for her the moment she’d felt her blade slide into that cultist’s throat. It was too late the moment she saw the fire in her dreams, her unsuccessful attempts at seeking its ephemeral heat.

Of course she knew them. She’d seen them before, in a tomb in the desert she’d never managed to find again, a simple, plain sword hanging on her ancestor’s tomb. Her ancestor’s tomb, her ancestor’s sword. Atreus Akti had known who this was.

“Yes,” the soldier–no, not a soldier, not even a human–breathed, the flames in their eyes growning brighter, brighter. “Yes, say it. Sayit, I’ve waited so long for you.”

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