The Disgraced One of Rostov

The following morning, the young Stanillo walked over to the cabin. The young Illya must have taken on his offer to stay at the cabin, since the tensions with his mother were high after she had learned the truth.

The air was crisp as Stanillo made his way toward the cabin, the crunch of frost under his boots was the only sound in the early morning. He was not sure what he would find — whether the young Illya would be up and about, or still buried under blankets, resting from the long day that he had yesterday.

When he reached the door, he did not knock. The door was slightly open. He pushed it open, letting the smell of old pine and wood smoke greet him.

The cabin felt less like a place of refuge and more like a household of a husband and his wife. Stanillo paced the room, his eyes bright with satisfaction that felt out of place given the chaos of yesterday.

“You did it, kid,” Stanillo said, leaning over the table. “I was not sure if you had the courage to commit to this. Your mother is making a martyr out of Coria, of course, but that was to be expected. After all, Diana and your mother did not have a pleasant first meeting.”

Illya sat by the cold hearth, looking exhausted. “It was hard not to commit to this. Diana turned out to be quite a tender woman, the complete opposite of what you made her out to be. My mother must not want to see me right now, and to be honest with you, I do not have the courage to face her, right now.”

“You have not done anything wrong,” Stanillo insisted, his voice firm and grounding. “And I do not say this, because it opens up the path for me with Coria. I say it, because this was your father's vision. He knew that uniting with Stalavat was the only way to unify the three pillars of the west. Coria may have been a distraction of heart, but you do not have to abandon your obligation to your child with her.”

“I do not intend to abandon my child, Stanillo,” Illya assured, firmly certain. “Ultimately, the decision will be up to Coria on whether she wants me to be a part of the child’s life. I hurt her once more. This time I will not be able to remedy it.”

Stanillo walked to the window, looking out to the path that led to Coria. “She and the child will not starve. They will be under my care. But do not be surprised if the child grows up hearing your name spoken like a curse, especially if it is to be a boy. There is no other person in this world who resents another person than a boy whose mother was hurt by a man.”

Stanillo kept his back to Illya, his breath fogging the glass of the window. “A daughter might forget in time,” he continued, his voice low. “She might see the gold and prestige and think you did what you had to do. In general, daughters tend to have a strong bond with their fathers. But a boy? A boy sees every tear his mother hides. He feels every cold shoulder the village gives her. To him, you will not be the Great Illya. You will just be the man who made his mother cry.”

Illya flinched, the words striking harder than any physical blow. He looked down at his hands — the same hands that had held Diana just hours before, and the same hands that had yet to hold his unborn child.

“I will bear that burden,” Illya muttered, though his voice lacked conviction.

“You say that now,” Stanillo turned from the window, his smile gone, replaced by a piercing look of reality. “But when that boy is your age and looks at you with eyes full of the same fire you had, you will realize that no amount of political gain can triumph the bond of a father and son. You are building a kingdom on a foundation of those dear to you, kid. I am just making sure the ruins of your kingdom do not collapse on them.”

Diana stepped out from the shadows of the cabin’s small sleeping alcove. She had finished dressing, her movements wobbly and glistening, though a lingering flush still colored her neck — the only evidence of her flustered state when Stanillo walked in.

“Illya,” she called, her voice clear and grounding.

He did not move at first, still shaken by Stanillo’s words. Diana walked towards him, the soft sweep of her skirts over the wooden floorboards, a stark contrast to the heavy boots of the man who had just departed. She placed a hand over his shoulder, her touch firm, but as always, surprisingly tender.

“ Is he gone already?” she said softly, sensing the ghost of the ominous words spoken by Stanillo within the cabin. “I heard the door. What did he say to make you look like you have seen your own execution?”

Illya finally looked at her. In the dim morning light, she looked every bit like the appropriate women for him. He was not worthy of her love, like he was not worthy of Coria’s. As he looked into her eyes, he could see that her eyes searched for genuine concern.

“Nothing important, just the ongoing campaign against Rostov,” he lied, not wishing to tell her about Coria nor the child that he expected with her.

“Whatever it may be,” she replied. “You can always speak to me of your troubles.”

“I truly do not deserve you,” Illya admitted, holding onto her hands. “It must be the work of the gods to find such an understanding woman at my side.”

“Not the works of the gods, dear,” she countered, reminding him of what had brought them together. “It is the work of man and their never-ending hunger for greatness.”

“Well, dear,” Diana continued, giving him a final kiss before she returned to her domain. “Until we meet again. The next time we meet will be at an altar and you and I will be husband and wife until death puts us apart.”

“In the short time we spent together,” Illya confessed, flustered at what she brought out of him. “You and I experienced something unlike no other.”

Diana smiled, caressing her fiancés face. “You are worthy of my body and my soul. In time, you and I will grow inseparable.”

As Diana stepped out into the crisp morning air, the transformation was instantaneous. The wobbly, glistening vulnerability that she had shown Illya ceased at a moment's notice, as she tucked away the loving woman that was in his arms to put on her mask of cold, noble steel.

Her shield maidens, draped in heavy furs and iron-cladded armor, straightened as she approached them. They had spent the night in the dining hall, enjoying the treatment provided to them by Mirad.

Illya foolishly followed her to the threshold, his shirtless appearance causing a rippling of knowing glances among the guard. Diana turned one last time, her smile sharpening into something both regal and possessive. To her maidens, this was the sign that their lady had succeeded in what she had set out to do.

“Walk me to the horses,” she commanded softly, though it was more of an invitation for one last moment of intimacy before she left.

Illya took her hand, feeling the glares of the maidens amongst his person. He felt the weight of what it meant to be with Diana. Every step away from the cabin was a step toward the altar, and a step further away from the life that he had left behind. As he helped her mount her horse, the boy gave her one final kiss, causing the shield maidens to gossip amongst themselves.

Diana had not anticipated this moment, growing flustered and irritated at Illya for ruining her act.

Illya chuckled at her irritated face, her eyes telling him that she did not approve of it. However, deep down within, the woman was melting from inside. Diana ordered at once for the march to begin, waving goodbye to Illya.

Illya smiled, waving back at her. “Farewell, Diana.”

Illya watched the dust settle on the trail. The boy was still smiling, but the expression felt increasingly fragile. He was living a double life: the one where he was building something special with a brazen, noble bride, and the one that he had left in shambles in the village.

He stood there, uncertain of what to do now. For a moment, Diana served as a way to forget about his problems. With her departure, he had to return to his reality. The reality of a statesman.

The boy turned to the direction of the cabin, walking back as he kicked the dirt around.

He mumbled to himself, annoyed that she had left him.

The young Stanillo, who could not help himself any longer, crept up from the corner and laughed at Illya’s squabbles.

“There is no way you are hung up about that woman already!” he exclaimed, in disbelief of how attached he had grown to her already. “You truly are a hopeless case, when it comes to a skirt, you know that, right?”

His remarks startled the boy, causing him to jump. “You were there the whole time!?”

“Yes, I was. I thought she would be leaving soon, when I saw her guards outside the cabin awaiting her. Tell you what, kid, go get a shirt on and come with me to the hall. Let us have breakfast, and discuss what I left pending yesterday.”

“I guess,” Illya replied, reluctantly agreeing to the offer. “I could use a drink.”

“I cannot imagine why.”

“Oh, shut it,” Illya retorted, not in the mood for Stanillo’s jokes. “Whatever happened between me and her is not for you to comment on or talk about, okay?”

“Of course, my friend,” Stanillo joked, barely able to contain his grin.

Illya went back to the cabin to get his shirt. Waiting for him, Stanillo looked at the sky. 'Yarik, my friend, I can see why you and the boy grew to be so close. How I miss you, man.'

In the town of Rostov, the higher ups of the village debate on how to handle the ongoing war with Belomas. At the moment, Rostov has been unable to receive the necessary aid from their allies due to Belomas and Stalavat preventing them from penetrating the region. This has caused the higher ups to grow angry with Belomas, as they continue to push Rostov to a corner day by day.

The air inside the Rostov council chamber was thick with the smell of tallow candles and the heat of angry men. Maps were pinned on the walls of the chamber, marked with aggressive red lines of Belomas' continued advance and their general, Bay of Belomas.

“They are starving us out!” one elder shouted, slamming his fist onto the heavy oak table. “Belomas pushes from the north, and Stalavat has closed the mountain passes to the east. We are a fortress with no gate!”

“We had promises from our allies,” another countered, his voice certain that their allies would find a way to help them.

“Gentleman,” Perikles chimed in, his voice causing those present to roll their eyes, knowing full well what he was going to suggest. “You people, seem to forget that we have a very capable general within our village. If you were to compare him to the generals we have out there, it would be a night and day difference in terms of their capability to lead.”

“Perikles,” one of the elders replied. “You know full well why we do not have them in our ranks any longer. Do not insist, please.”

Perikles sighed at their disapproval, finding their poor judgement to be the cause of Rostov’s trouble. “Gentleman, there is no greater man to lead our forces than Alkibiades of Alcmae. The boys influence runs deep with the fleet and army…”

Kimon, one of the elders, interjected, disgusted at the idea of Alkibiades returning to their ranks. “It is laughable for you to have that faggot amongst us. There is a reason his influence runs deep within the fleet and army…”

Perikles chuckled at his derogatory remarks, citing his nephew’s relationship to not be of consequence to them. “The last thing any of you should be worried about right now is with whom Alkibiades sleeps with. Whether it is a man or woman, who cares? What is needed is a man of good health and mind to lead us in battle, not a man whose sexual life you people approve of.”

Sokrates, another of the council members, stood up in approval of Perikles' suggestion. “In all truth, he is the only one capable of leading us. In fact, he is the most experienced of the young amongst Rostov. If for a moment, you people put your prejudices aside. You will see how much of an asset Alkibiades is for the village.”

A heated discussion took place in the chamber, but the elders came to the conclusion that Alkibiades was the only suitable person for the task at hand. Alkibiades of Alcmae, nephew of Perikles and the student of Sokrates, was to be named general of Rostov immediately. The uproar was unimaginable amongst the villagers, but those who knew of Alkibiades' greatness were confident that it would be him that put Belomas and Stalavat in their place.

The room was cool, scented with expensive perfumes and the lingering musk of undiluted wine. Sunlight filtered through the linen curtains, casting soft, dappled light across the bed. Alkibiades lies in the center, unbothered by the war, flanked by a woman and man sleeping.

To Alkibiades, the prejudices of Rostov were merely the sounds of jealous people — the buzzing of insects so insignificant that they did not understand the true meaning of life. A good life is the one it prioritizes pleasure in. To him, the honor and freedom of Rostov mattered little compared to his personal pleasures.

The heavy thud of boots at his doorstep interrupted his moment with his lovers. A messenger, breathless and clearly uncomfortable at the scene before him, entered the extravagant and degenerate household of Alkibiades.

“Great Alkibiades,” the man stammered, his eyes darting everywhere but the bed. “The council has reached a decision. You are to take command of the forces immediately. The elders await your presence at the council chamber.”

Alkibiades did not move to cover himself. He simply shifted, a slow, cat-like stretch that showed the lean muscle of a man who was as much a warrior as he was a hedonist. He looked at the messenger with an expression of mild amusement.

“Immediately?” Alkibiades repeated, his voice smooth and devoid of excitement about the decision. “I had plans to marry the two that you see here, but it appears that my services are needed. Tell them, I will be there.

“But first…” he glanced at his companions with a sharp, beautiful, lustful smile, “... I believe that I must apply my services elsewhere first.”

The Disgraced One of Rostov, Alkibiades of Alcmae. A man so brilliant and handsome that he found himself in debates with the greatest philosophers of his time. The man’s looks were enough to bring out the passion of women and men alike. Truly, I say to you there was no man or woman that Alkibiades could not win over. If he desired them, he had them. As simple as that.

To him, traditionalism was a mere hinder to progression. Tradition has brought greatness in the past, but the times are shifting in this new age. The rise of Belomas was a sign of the new age upon them, and if they continued to be hesitant about change, it could lead to their demise. The philosophy of Alkibiades is that life is a constant flux.

The world lives through progress that causes never-ending change. Something is always evolving, shifting, or advancing to a much greater state. This constant flux is seen in the animals around the world. It would be foolish to deny that humans are not changing constantly.

A great power arises on the scene, laying claim to everything in sight. On the other side of the world, a great power is crumbling just as another arises in power. Everything has its natural course, and Rostov’s way of doing things has reached its natural course. A new thing is upon the world, and it is opening the path for those willing and brazen enough to take the opportunity and make their name in the world.

However, it takes a really courageous individual to challenge the world. Alkibiades was that courageous individual. He who desired to consume the world, and to display his greatness before everybody and everything.

Back in the village of Belomas, the atmosphere of the hall changes as a messenger bursts through the heavy doors, bypassing the breakfast tables to reach Stanillo and Illya. He is pale, his tongue carrying the burden of truth.

Stanillo set his glass of wine down, his eyes attentive at the messenger. “You dare to enter here, boy? We are at war with your people, and you boldly burst through our doors, like we are comrades.”

The messenger leans in, wiping the sweat off his face. “They have named a new general. Alkibiades has returned to his post. It is best that you reconsider negotiations to end this war, but I have only come here to deliver the message. After all, no man of any state can harm a messenger."

Illya felt a cold sweat at the mention of Alkibiades. He had heard of this man before. Everyone knows that man's name. He is the man that single handily brought the conflict with the Ugrics to an end on their borders, forcing them to acknowledge Rostov as an ally.

“Sokrates, pupil,” Stanillo muttered, a slight grin coming across his face. “Their wild card is out in the open.”

Stanillo looks at Illya, amused at the news. “Alkibiades, I heard many things. The most concerning being his willingness to do anything to win. The man is the only man alive that proved to be a challenge to your father, and now he will be the one you will face in battle.”

An hour had passed. The elders of Rostov were near the point of surrender, their patience worn thin by Alkibiades' failure to appear. Then, the heavy doors opened.

The doors were opened by the woman and man that slept alongside the general. The smell of roses and lavender engulfing the chamber as the general walked with his head held high. He was dressed now, but in a way that mocked the formality of the elderly — sporting loose silks' women tend to wear. The colors of the silk illuminated the room, partly because he had powdered his white silk chiton to embody purity, honesty, and virtue. A tradition in Rostov for women to do whenever they seek out a husband.

He smiled at the scowling Kimon and the hopeful Perikles, who believed him to be the key to turning the tide of this war.

“You called for a general, did you not?” Alkibiades said, his voice carrying that effortless elegance that had charmed his lovers and masters alike. “But looking at your faces, I see you were awaiting the priest. I am afraid I am anything but a saint.”

He walked over to the pinpoint map on the wall, memorizing the area where Belomas’ camp was stationed.

“Have you allowed them to get far? I heard Illya was not on the battlefield. Others informed me that Yarik had died against the Nori, who they overcame by the grace of the gods. Stanillo and Fedor do not seem to be present either. So I ask you who could be giving you such trouble?” Alkibiades mused, surprised to see Rostov being forced into a corner when nobody notable was leading Belomas. “Oh, it is that man, Bay, was it? From what I heard, he is a mere first timer and this first timer is the one driving people to lose the little hairs left on their heads.”

“A first timer,” he repeated, a mocking light in his voice as he turned away to face the red-faced Kimon. “You are drowning in your own piss. Illya is not on the field because he is campaigning against the Ugrics, and he sends us his third stringer general to claim our village. As far as the eye can see, it can be said that Rostov is nowhere near worth the effort those godless mutts of Ugrica are.”

His words pierced through the hearts of those present. The subordinates on his side lowered their heads, smiling as their lord and lover put up a spectacular performance before those who mocked him.

“You speak of virtue and honor,” Alkibiades said, turning to the other elders. His voice was no longer that of a critic, but of a man willing to confront those who made it difficult for him to achieve his dreams. “But those are mere facades! Your disapproval means nothing to me. I have seen what you people value and cherish. “

He walked toward Kimon, stopping just inches from the elder's face. Alkibiades' presence had become so great it was impossible for the elders not to sweat his every moment.

“Tell the soldiers to prepare for my arrival,” he ordered, looking only at Kimon, almost as if he were commanding his dog to behave. “We are going to strike them today, and put an end to their arrogance. For I will crush their three months worth of exploits in one singular afternoon.”

A bold statement had been made, and unbeknownst to Bay, a tiger was creeping behind him.

On the front lines of battle, the general of Belomas, Bay, awaited his opponents to make their move, still oblivious of the news of Rostov’s new general.

General Bay stood atop a small rise overlooking the outskirts of Belomas. The pincer was tight. From his perspective, the war was reaching its conclusion. His men were relaxed; some were sharpening and cleaning their weapons, while others gambled near the supply wagons. Belomas was convinced victory was inevitable.

“They are quiet today,” one of Bay’s close confidants said.

Bay nodded, his chest puffed out with the pride of a “first-timer who thinks he has won the war. “They are starving. Rostov will not last long, men. She will fall into our hands, and we will carry this prestige for ages to come!”

As Bay reached for a cup of wine, a sudden, discordant sound echoed from the direction of Rostov’s gates — not the sound of a dying state, but the rhythmic, thunderous beat of war drums.

“What is that?” Bay asked, his brow furrowing. “The reports said they pulled their soldiers into their gates.

“Sir,” a lookout shouted from the watch tower, his voice cracking with confusion. “The gates… they are not opening for an army. It is a group of people, probably ten at most. The majority of them are holding the standards, but there is only one of them clad in wrist guards, shin guards, and a cuirass. He carries no sword or shield on him.”

“No sword?” Bay repeated, uncertain of what Rostov had in mind. “How does this man look like?”

“He does not possess the rugged weather beauty of the typical soldier, sir. He possesses a lean, athletic grace — the results of what one can only imagine being from training — yet, he has a refined, almost feminine delicacy to him. He wears his long golden locks that defy the standards. Those eyes of his are piercing, full of confidence. The most stunning aspect of him is that porcelain skin of his, Sir.”

“His porcelain skin?” Bay repeated, not finding this to be significant.

“The man before us, sir, is a man of high status…” the lookout paused. “What!? He’s dashing at us! Is he insane!?”

General Bay stood frozen, the wine cup trembling in his hand. He prepared for a long battle of fruition, but he had not prepared for Rostov to send a singular man to combat them. This is not mere arrogance, it was something to be concerned about.

“He is almost in the first line!” the lookout screamed, gripped by the terror and uncertainty of this man’s charge.

Alkibiades closed the distance with a burst of speed that seemed inhuman. His blue eyes were wide, not with fear, but with a terrifying, lustful joy. He was not running to kill; he was running to consume all that stood before him.

The first line of Belomas surprisingly did the unthinkable: they took a step back. Something was off about this man, and they were right to feel this way.

As the first line of Belomas hesitated, terrified by his swift feet, Alkibiades came to a sudden, jarring halt. He did not brace for impact; he opened his arms wide, his porcelain skin beginning to hum with a low, vibrating frequency.

Then, the world turned white.

From his fingertips and chest, raw, concentrated light began to coalesce. It was not a mirage, but a solid, searing energy that hummed with the sound of a thousand bees. With a predatory grin, Alkibiades threw his hands forward. Beams of pure radiance erupted from his palms, shooting through the air with the speed of thought.

The light did not push; it materialized inside the armor of the first line. Spears melted, bronze breastplates were punctured as if they were parchment, and the soldiers — men who had spent months dreaming of a triumph — were silenced instantly.

The first line of defense did not just fall; it was erased. In the wake of the light, only charred earth and the smell of Alkibiades fragrances remained.

Alkibiades stood in the center of the massacre, his long blonde hair whipping around his face as the thermal updraft of his own power cooled. His blue eyes were glowing with the remnants of the discharge, looking less human than ever.

Alkibiades turned his head slowly to Bay, pointing at him. The light was still dancing across his porcelain white skin, making him appear more terrifying to the soldiers. “You are him,” he stated, his eyes set on killing him. “If you value the lives of your men, like I do, you will have them retreat immediately and fight me to the death. This is a duel between generals, and it will decide the lives of those present.”

General Bay shivered at his words, doubting that Alkibiades would stick to his word. “I will not retreat,” he countered, not wishing to throw away months of hard work. “If I were to give in to you, there would have been no point in me being born a man.”

Alkibiades grinned, finding his resolve to be commendable. “This is a good opportunity, so I will show you and my people what real power is…”