Letter 17

The following letters tell of the remaining expedition’s experiences after the maritime tragedies that befell them. I will leave Tacitus to elaborate upon the events. Although, while I acknowledge that Tacitus commits himself to candor and sincerity, even as I write this, I do not know if even I believe what Tacitus tells in this letter, and neither do many scholars. I will leave future readers to determine their own conclusions.

- E. Celestina

It has been fourteen days since we had gotten shipwrecked. Both of our remaining Triremes are in tatters, with pieces still occasionally washing ashore. While our remaining few Warlocks and crew seem somewhat confident they can create a single vessel from the remains, that does not nearly solve all of our predicaments. For, even if we were to build a ship from these pieces, the wind is blowing into land, rather blusterously as well, making any sort of takeoff improbable. And, assuming we even accomplish that, Augusta had rightfully, though unfortunately, induced the wrath of the Maiden. I imagine that that creature would not allow us passage in any regard.

We could, in theory, trudge our way home, for even this far out, maps of Britannia are accurate, but we would return empty-handed and we theoretically possess enough time to attempt some sort of arrival to Arcadia, which was only a single voyage away. Augusta in particular is determined to go forward, though has told me she does not want to share her determination when our crew is simply trying to get by. Thus, the past several days have been simple: build fires, pitch tents, go hunting, forage for fruits among the red trees. Strangely, despite it being in the dead of winter, being near the forest gives the warmth of autumn months, so the temperature is not wholly unforgiving. Cassian has been shifting between zealously happy to keep our morale up and encouraging us to play hunting games, to crying the loudest tears at night while Athina holds him. I wish I could do more for him. Augusta, too, hides her emotion from the crew, using myself as an excuse to step away for an ‘officer discussion’ only to start crying while I keep watch. I wish he hadn’t died, either.

We are also not a significant distance away from the eastern side of the Dragonshard Mountains, and occasionally hear the distant roars of Wyverns, though none have ever come close to us to be a threat. Perhaps, in some twisted sense, our meager numbers mean that beasts of prey do not even consider us a worthy meal. To our location’s further credit, we have been able to stock up on fruits, such as apples and pears, that otherwise would not be readily available this time of year, thanks to the unnatural nature of the Red Forest. Animals are also numerous—two days ago, I recall Cassian returning with an entire boar over his shoulder, and another over Athina’s, and our men cheered as we cooked and used up every part of those animals for our suppers and morning breakfast. It was a supper filled with much-needed morale, and I recall Augusta tearing up once again seeing her men joyful, though I could tell deep down, she was not content herself. While our days have not been unreasonable, none of this solves the chief issue: there is no plausible way for us to make it to Arcadia.

I spoke with our Pedagogue two nights ago about our circumstances, inviting Cassian, Athina and Augusta to join us. After giving condolences about Marcus, to which I noticed his semi-corporeal form tremble at least a little, he admitted that the wisdom he could give now may not be enough. We have barely survived death from the Maiden, yet even he, the man who taught us of the Maiden’s existence, had neither the field experience nor depth of expertise to tell us something reassuring. It was sobering, then, hearing our Pedagogue muse the words, “I do not know.”

This morning, with parts of the new ship starting to perhaps come together, Cassian suggested that we capture seven or eight animals and take them with us on our journey, but I have doubts if the normal ritual will even work, for the Maiden harbors wrath for us, specifically, and will no doubt crush us even with proper sacrifice. During lunch, Augusta gathered us around the fire and told us she will deliberate her options for two more weeks: either we risk it all for one more journey, of which none of us may return, or we return home empty-handed. This decision, she still cannot deliberate. I asked her personally to sleep early, but I can hear her rustling in the tent across from mine. I do not envy her. I just wish her, and all of us, rest for now.

I write this letter from a peculiar place. I will recount, and it will lead back to where I am sitting now.

We were twelve days into Augusta’s deliberating, of which for that entire time, she was stuck on what to hold onto. Go forward, she said, like she always willed herself to, and it may lead to everyone’s demise. Yet, return home, and we will all perish regardless. It seemed as if, to her, she would just be delaying the deaths of us forty-three for a few extra months. Yet that night I told her, as her High Praetor, that she must give us an answer by morning. Such was her duty, and though I spoke to her coldly, she looked at me with warmth, which I still find strange, even as she sits next to me now.

By morning’s arrival, I awoke to commotion outside and Cassian shaking my tent. Upon exiting, he told me that the nightguards had encountered a stranger on the beach, and had them tied up in the center of our camp. When we arrived with Augusta, it turned out that who our soldiers had tied to a broken mast was what appeared to be a woman in a hood, dressed in dark clothing. Augusta requested to unhood her, and she agreed. She was just a girl, perhaps three or four years our senior, dark haired and grey or silver eyes. Augusta questioned why she was detained, and our junior officer that kept night watch told us she had arrived by boat, and gestured to the small wooden fishing boat by the shore.

This did alarm us. Such a boat was only fit for lakes, for the sacrifice the Maiden demanded required vessels large enough to contain many men and animals. Augusta asked for her name, and she said she did not have one. We asked where she was from, and she said she had no home. We asked who her parents were, and she said they had disowned her, so it was irrelevant. She then, speaking in a calm tone unbefitting of a woman who was being held captive by rugged soldiers, said that she was merely a traveler, and wanted to pass through.

We told her that she would be released, only if she told us how she braved through the waters without catching the ire or the eye of the Maiden. She told us, plainly, that it was not something she could simply grant to us, and no amount of advice she may give could help us. In my head, as she and Augusta were speaking, I felt that that answer was peculiar, for if it was not advice she could speak or a secret she could hand out, then the method of her survival upon the seas was rather a trait she possessed. But what was it? Even now, I am wondering still.

I know not if Augusta held the same conclusions as my own, but she pressed her further and ordered her to tell her “on the Authority of the Princeps.” The woman’s response puzzled me even further.

“No title can grant you authority.”

Augusta could not reply to that. After a moment of staring between the two, she ordered her men to untie her, and the woman calmly cleaned herself, hooded herself, and began walking. Though we were among our men, I could see the emotions welling in Augusta’s face, and thus felt, at that moment, she needed comfort beyond just her office. So I told her, “I’m sorry, Julia.”

When I said that, it felt as if the air had shifted, and the woman who seemed to have no interest in us turned around, and asked for her name again. Athina, knowing our procedure that citizens could not speak to the Princeps directly, told her that she was Lady Augusta, Princeps of Exetia.

She paid no mind to Athina at all. “You. Your name. Tell me.”

That is when Julia uttered her given name once more, something unbefitting for the Princeps publicly amongst her men, and that is when the woman stepped forward with a haste I hadn’t seen of her to that point. She directed Julia, and only Julia, to follow her to her fishing boat. What they fully discussed is only knowledge Julia knows. After only a minute or two, I watched as Julia made her way to us, and the woman prepared her boat for release. Julia informed us she can take two people—two, and no more, for the journey would take three days, and she only had enough provisions for two others. Julia, then, seemed determined to go with her, but much of the rest of our men were too distrustful or uncertain, Cassian included. We knew nothing of this woman, nor how she survived, yet that talk Julia had with her was allegedly enough for her to give her full trust. Though I noted something key, which allowed our crew to tolerate the Princeps’ journey. The woman was apathetic at her invoking the highest title in the land. Yet, to her name specifically, she showed interest. Thus, I inferred this was not an attempt at political assassination or conspiracy. It was as if she did not even know Augusta was Princeps at all.

After deliberation with our crew, we decided that this was the only path. It was uncertain, but all other options were certain failures. Thus, we trusted a gamble over inevitability.

The only question then, was the person who would accompany her on the voyage. Upon positing that, she had grabbed my arm and was already dragging me to the boat, with our crew laughing and telling us to have a good time, which in hindsight was an extremely optimistic view of our circumstance. As I write this, she is joking next to me that I did not resist, therefore I already knew the answer to my own question.

We had noted early on the voyage that there was only one pair of oars, and so we both volunteered to row for her, but she refused. We noted she had a steady pace, but incredible stamina, able to row for four, five, six hours at a time before only needing to quietly rest for perhaps half an hour. She also ate little of her provisions, and insisted we take her shares. We moved much slower than Triremes—if we still had them, our row to Arcadia from our position would perhaps take no more than a day. Yet, strangely, the waters around us were calm, devoid of even ice. I felt the water, and it was the temperature of a summer lake, which I found intriguing.

As the first day started to grow dim, the woman took a break from her rowing and turned to me. “You have a soul in your bag. Show me.”

I froze, then. I had no idea how she knew, but backed into a corner, I presented her the Lithos. Moments later, our Pedagogue sprouted from it, taking a seat next to me, and immediately looked at the woman with intrigue. He asked the same inquiries that Augusta had before, and the woman answered the exact same way: no name, no home, no family. Anaxagoras then said, “They do not tell the full story of a person, but names are important for basic human dignity. Would you mind at all if I gave you one?”

She shrugged, apathetic, and told him she cared little what people called her. Anaxagoras, then, chose a fitting name from ancient Exetian tongue, one that told others everything, and nothing about her.

“Sine Nomine. It means ‘Nameless’.”

“If that is what you wish.”

The evening is dimming and the oil in my lamp must be preserved until we reach Arcadia, so this shall be my only entry for today.

As of writing, we are halfway through our voyage. Earlier, perhaps only thirty minutes into her rowing, Sine came to a stop. I asked her why, for she normally could traverse for hours, but simply reached into her mantle and handed us wax. I knew what this meant, but I could not hear any distant singing, so I had no clue how she intuitively predicted the Maiden’s appearance. Augusta and I did as she requested, yet she herself put no wax in her ears even as we felt the waters calm, then ripple not with natural currents and waves, but of something moving beneath us. Though deafened, I felt the waters froth, churn, then Sine turned around as a great geyser burst before us, soaking us where we sat. The Maiden emerged, her beautiful face filled with rage, and one of her eyes was black and bleeding with bright blue blood. She saw Augusta next to me, and her expression grew even more vengeful.

Then, she looked upon Sine. I could not see Sine’s face, hooded and facing the Maiden, but whatever they had communicated, whether it was verbal, silent, or within the mind, the Maiden did no more than glare at us, perhaps wishing to destroy us with her eye alone, as she dove back into the seas. After moments of silence, we removed the wax, and Sine began rowing as if nothing major had even occurred. I had many questions at that moment, but because of her secrecy, I assumed that every question I asked about her in particular she may redirect or simply refuse to answer. Yet Augusta asked one that she could, and it was a question that had been bothering my curious side ever since we encountered it.

“The Maiden, does she have a name?”

“Siraea.”

As I write this, I stare at the setting sun, centered on the inlet that provides the only entrance and exit to Arcadia. Julia rests on my shoulder, and Sine’s boat rocks quietly by us, and the woman herself sleeps quietly upon it. Up until now, I never thought she could actually rest like we could. Allow me to recount.

In the earliest hour, just at the crack of the sun’s dawn, Sine woke us up with our names. She invited us to look up, and surrounding us is what we had traveled so far to see. Arcadia, half-sunken in the ocean, spiraling towers of white and gold. We were passing into its inlet, which from the stories I read used to be two cliffsides where the Arcadians would fire arrows at intruders. Further ahead was the city itself, which was built upon a low-incline, massive hill, though now all that could be seen above the water were the inner city’s walls and the crumbling palace within. Just as our Pedagogue had said, the Walls of Arcadia, once strengthened by their god-king, was crushed. Even countless years after the war we read in history books, I could tell from a distance that the massive wall, entrenched partially by the sea, had been destroyed not by erosion, but by some great force, for the stone that had once made up of it was blown inward and scattered across the inner city.

The boat stopped short of the wall. The tide, it seemed, was low at that moment, allowing a short walk into the inner city. Sine began her work anchoring the boat to the shore as Julia and I took our provisions, and she told us, “You have all of today and into the night to find what you are looking for. I leave at dawn tomorrow morning. If you are not here, I will leave without you.”

We thanked her, but she did not respond. So, we entered the inner city.

The temperature of the city was, and continues to be, warm, like a spring day, as if the realm of Arcadia was its own microclimate separate from the harsh winters outside. I wondered, as I walked, if the warm water I had felt before was truly an ability of Sine’s, or perhaps our growing proximity to Arcadia.

All of the homes were eroded from wind and water, though I could still make out that these were once the extravagant homes of the upper citizenry, multi-storied. Through the damp streets, I could imagine children running amongst them, adults shouting to sell their bread, adolescents playing games in the courtyards. I asked Julia what she thought of it all, but she did not answer—not out of rudeness, for I could tell her eyes were still taking it all in. Standing in the home of our ancestors made me feel a sense of sonder that was unfamiliar to me until then. Some time, a myriad years ago, this was what thousands had called home.

I wonder if, assuming these words I write last into the next decades and centuries, that these buildings will remain just like the dried ink on this page? Apologies, but looking to the past makes me think of the future just as strongly. Yet, of course, there was someone there to keep me grounded in the present.

It was then, as we walked amongst the ruins and toward the palace, that the girl sleeping on my shoulder now spoke to me then.

“I’m sorry, Tacitus. For sending you away. I never properly apologized for that. I do not take back what I said that night at the lake, but I do regret my actions afterward. I took away your right to choose.”

I told her that it ended up well for me.

“But that is not the issue. I care not of what happened afterward. Well, I do, but you understand what I mean. It is that I sent you to Londinium in the first place. Even if it wasn’t going to be what you picked, you still had the right to choose whether to stay near me or not, right? And I took that from you.”

I acknowledged her then by stopping our walk. It was in some sort of clearing, perhaps a grand courtyard, and I could tell there was supposed to be a statue near the center where we stood. I said,

“You must know I was hurt. I’m sure you had a feeling I was, but I would like to make it clear. Your actions did hurt me.”

She was quiet, then, so I extended my hand. “But if it is any consolation, being with you on this journey, none of the pain I felt from then I feel now.”

And just as I finished my sentence, she grabbed my hand and pulled me into an embrace. It was so tight that I actually struggled to breathe a little, looking back, but right then I simply and immediately hugged back. And she cried. Apologized to me, over and over, then thanked me, over and over. It was the most mess I had ever seen her in, and no doubt the feelings of our bond was being melded with the loss we’ve faced on our journey. I held her, and we rocked back and forth among the ruins.

I knew of nothing else at that moment but to keep embracing her.

And after some time, of which I could not quantify, our tears turned to sniffles, then our sniffles into laughter. It was ridiculous, after all, two people embracing into the great ruins of our deceased ancestors. If their souls were viewing us then, they must have been mocking us for our melodramatics. And to clarify, I did not recount all of that on an unprofessional whim. Before I started this entry, she gave me full permission to write of our moment. “Give future readers something to cry about, Taci.”

As our laughter came down, we chose one more embrace for posterity, which we again lingered on for a little longer than we intended. And when we finally separated, with a fullness in my heart I cannot fathom with just words, I took her hand and we continued on.

“Aww, you two are just so cute!”

When we heard those words, we immediately drew our swords. A breeze came through then with a scent of flowers, yet nowhere on our journey did we spot any growing in between any cracks or in any ruined garden. In the corner of my eye, I swore I could see a hint of pink peeking out behind a building, though at the time I thought my eyes had tricked me. Later, I found out that they had not.

Julia shouted for them to declare their presence, but they continued to remain evasive, yet playful, their voice seeming to lead up toward the palace. We followed gradually, looking at each other’s backs. I had asked if we should return and get Sine, who seemed to be strangely knowledgeable about occurrences that we were not, but there was no safe way for us to keep an eye on this anomalous girl, remain by each other’s side, and get Sine, so we instead trusted each other and continued on. The palace doors were tall and arched at the top, though it was curious to me that the great oakwood they were made of was still standing after thousands of years, and even more strange that, while we had a feeling the girl’s voice was now inside, the doors were shut. Julia and I, then, carefully took one handle and pulled the entrance open, revealing the within. Though the inner palace was long devoid of lightning, the light from the sun shone through the broken windows, letting us see how ruinous those grand halls truly were.

Marbled floors with mosaics. White and gold columns that etched the tall ceilings, greater than even the cathedrals of Colchester. With every one of our steps, they echoed. Though the ground was dusted in rubble, I knew that this was once the grandest hall in all lands.

Yet as we walked, I remember blinking, and something appearing before both of us. Two warriors, though stiller than ice, unmoving and only focused on one another. One had a plumed helmet, dressed almost like an Exetian legionnaire, but armor and clothes dark and mute. The other was in royal blues and purples, and a cape lay at his feet as he seemed to be in the middle of dodging the other warrior’s spear. Julia and I walked around the two for a moment, and we agreed this must have been some illusion made by that girl.

Then we heard it again. “Up the stairs, up the stairs~” as if the girl was singing. We turned away from the warriors and followed her then, up the grand staircase, though we still could not properly view her. I reached into my bag and called upon our Pedagogue, and asked him if he could by any chance pursue her. He could not, though he told us he could ‘sense’ her. Which only made our guards higher, for Anaxagoras may have implied her existence to be otherworldly.

We traveled through two halls, passing by chambers of what were no doubt ancient servants and past princes and princesses. Julia stopped me at one, then, as she peered inside and saw the still visage of a beautiful young woman draped in royal purple, panicked as a man guarded her from the swords of the invaders.

The hidden voice spoke to us of her relevance. “Her name was Aeaea. It seems like you recognize the name, don’t you~?”

I nodded then, though still in deep astonishment. I never thought that I would gaze upon the face of Exetia’s ancestral mother, from which King Artorius claimed lineage and legitimacy. Julia seemed keen on continuing to examine her, but I convinced her to move along until we finally came across a set of double doors which, once again, were properly maintained and perhaps only saw a month’s worth of absence rather than millennia. I knew not the method then, but questioned it not before making my way to the door, Julia in hand.

“Wait! Before you go in there.”

And the voice was behind us, and we turned and pointed our blades. The girl, now fully visible to us, put her hands up in surrender. She was simply dressed in white, only a gold sash around her waist, hair silver as the moon with streaks of pink like dawn, eyes blue as the sea.

“Ah! I mean no harm! I apologize!”

We asked for her name, her affiliation, her country of origin. The girl cleared her throat and leaned forward, even though our swords remained dangerously close to her face.

“Right now, my name is Briseis. My affiliation is…this city. And my country of origin, I do not remember. Please, I just wanted to take you here. I don’t get visitors often.”

“Visitors?” Julia had asked.

The girl nodded. “Indeed. Though, the adventurers that come this far typically are not as close as you two are.”

I distinctly recall then, that I had not let go of Julia’s hand ever since I took it. Julia protested, but also did not let go of me. We then told our names, if anything to reduce tension.

Briseis bowed. “Please relax, I was just poking fun. Every so often, adventurers come here to explore and find something valuable. When they do, I show up, have some fun with them, and take them here. What do you think of the city you’ve traveled so far to see?”

“It’s beautiful, but sad,” Julia said. “I can tell it was great, and I knew it was great from the stories. I pity that it’s like this now.”

Briseis quietly nodded her head, and in her eyes I could read her sympathy. “Nothing worthwhile can last forever, you know. But even if something great like this is now gone, still: we can see the proof of its existence, right?”

She walked beside us rather excitedly, and gave Julia a wink.

“When was the last time someone was here?” I asked.

The girl passed me by and hummed, took the door’s handle, and pulled it open. She did not answer me. We came through, and it was the room that we were suspecting: the one of Arcadia’s king.

The king’s chamber seemed to be untouched by time. The desk remained lacquered, the floors were tidied, the nightstands kept neat, the curtains gently flowing. The only thing sticking out was the bed. Upon it was the body of a man, chest unmoving, nostrils not flaring with breath, but his flushed skin and well kept hair made it seem as if he was simply resting underneath the sheets.

“You’ve heard the story, right? Olympion executed his trick, and the walls came crumbling. As Chaos reigned throughout paradise, the great and wrathful hero Akhellion took his Great Spear, bathed in pinken gold, and marched to the coward king’s chamber, and slayed him in his bed. But, legend and history often confuse one another.”’

“What do you mean?” Julia asked.

“I mean that it was never that simple. In truth, the king, brave king Phaethon, took his sword and marched down to meet Akhellion in the great hall, and the two fought for thirty-three minutes straight before Akhellion dealt upon him a blow that would prove to be fatal. Phaethon, the valorous king, held the spear tight and refused to let Akhellion go, until the king’s son Phobos struck Akhellion in the nape of the neck, his only weakness, with an arrow. Then, Phaethon, who helped slay the wrathful hero, watched as his kingdom fell. Knowing the end was coming, he came back to his bedroom, found his youngest daughter burned and pierced and crying for him, and embraced her until they both passed away.”

She lifted the covers, and underneath lay a little girl dressed in an adorable royal gown of tarnished white, clutching her father as if he was her entire world.

“The invaders made it seem as if Akhellion slew Arcadia by his own hand, or that Phaethon was a coward who hid away in his chamber. I hate that. I hate that history always remembers the voices of the victors and the valorous, and never of the every day. I wish we could see, underneath all the grandeur, the voices of normalcy. Don’t you agree?”

I nodded my head. It was so much to take in. Even now, it is so much for the history books to rewrite of our origin. I wanted to ask more, more of this city’s history, but Briseis interrupted before I could. “Let me ask you two another question: why are you so far out here?”

We explained our journey, from Exeter to Colchester to the Nevermeet Rivers, to Edinburgh to the vast oceans, to the attacks, to our lost souls, to our shipwreck and to our passage.

“And we came here to find out just how the walls fell,” Julia explained, “because out there is a threat that can destroy all of civilization. If we found out what the trick was that broke Arcadia, then it may be the key to slaying the Dragon.”

Every word we spoke, Briseis smiled and nodded as if they were the most important words to her at that moment.

“What is Exeter like?” she asked us. It was a rather ordinary question, but I understand now why she wanted to ask us. We told her of the children’s games, of the Romance Festival, the Holy Festival, of the golden walls and the gardens where young men and women were taught scholarship and martial combat. Julia told her of the lake where her mother stood, where we sat together and watched the stars. It took several moments of talking, but she never looked away.

“That’s a beautiful city, you two. It wasn’t the architecture that ever made it beautiful, though. You two, who lived within it, are a part of what makes your home beautiful.”

Her face was saddened then. “But I’m sorry you had to leave that home, and I’m sorry you went through so much to get here. Adventurers have come and gone over time, but never the same ones twice. And I always have a sense that the stories of truth I tell them, never became the truth the outside world ever understood. Whether it means they died on their return home, or no one ever believed them, I can never know. But it fills me with sadness. And it fills me even more with sadness to tell you that,”

I recall her opening the curtains, and showing us the great, ruinous city outside, “there is nothing like that in Arcadia. All loot has been claimed. All treasure taken, all people gone. There is no grand weapon, no great warriors, no great wall-breaker. It is just ruins.”

Julia had stepped forward. She doubted her words with every syllable. She looked around at the pristine room, and asked the obvious question.

“How come this room hasn’t decayed?”

Briseis tensed, then giggled. “I was going to get to that. It’s because of a trick. The trick is rather mundane, though.”

The word ‘trick’ had caught my attention then. “Briseis, you say that there is nothing left in Arcadia. But you, you are here. And you claim to know the truth behind Arcadia’s war. What are you, really?”

“That’s right. Do you want to know my secret? However, it is truly nothing special. Not anymore.”

Her body then glowed. It filled up the entire room, temporarily blinding us then, and during our blinding, we felt the air change. No longer was it warm, for then I felt the chilly breeze of the outside.

When our visions cleared, the rooftop had been eroded away. The bed and all furniture was gone. Not even the dust from the bones of the king and his princess remained.

Yet at the center of the barely stable room, floated a great spear. Its metal was polished and had the faint yet unmistakable sheen of pink. Toward the end of the spear was a small red emblem of a country that no longer existed, and across the shaft was an inscription from a language that I could not recognize. If I may etch it down here:

“κατακλυσμός”

It was then that we heard Briseis’ voice once more, this time echoing in our ears.

“I am the one who struck down Arcadia: the Great Spear, Kataklusmos. I have a unique ability, you see, to remember all the lives I lived before, and can catch glimpses of the lives I will live. Because I knew that I would eventually see tomorrow, even if it was in a different form, I went ahead and gave myself to Olympion’s plan: to use a soul against a soul, and strike down the god-king Nous whose soul dwelled within the walls. It worked. Human souls possess something stronger than divine souls, you see: what we lack in eternity, we gain in myriad possibilities. We are not shackled to one purpose, but can become whatever purpose we desire.”

“That is how I broke the walls,” Briseis continued. “Once Nous was gone, our siege weapons did the rest. But killing Nous destroyed much of myself. I don’t remember, anymore, what my parents look like. I don’t know which city I was born in. I don’t know the name of my lover, if I even had one. The only solid memories I still have are my name, and what I did as Kataklusmos. The first soldier to pick me up after the throw was Akhellion, and…I already told you that story.”

Julia and I looked at each other then. We had found it. The spear that Akhellion wielded, that was lost to history, was not just the trick, but really was the girl in front of us. Yet, she tempered our expectations.

“I cannot do the same thing again. Too little of my soul remains…so this great spear, that created that one trick, can no longer serve its purpose.”

That is when my bag glowed, and the shine of the Lithos Philosophos took the full form of my Pedagogue. He laughed, told us all he was listening the entire time, and stepped forward to the ancient spear.

“So these ancient invaders discovered soul transmutation before I did…fascinating. But, that does mean, dear students, that we have a path forward. Briseis: if the container of the spear is empty, can it be filled again?”

She was hesitant, then, and rather unsure. I thought for a moment, and realized that they cannot occupy the same space. That is, presumably, how she killed Nous: their souls collided, and hers destroyed his. “The same would happen if you two tried to combine.”

“Then what if I relinquish my will to live, destroy all my personality, and all Anaxagoras will encounter is pure, blank soul essence?” Briseis asked.

We asked if that was even possible.

“I have been inside this spear for a long time. I know that I could possibly let go, and let everything fade…but my duty to remain and tell the truth to those who pass by overrode that. Now that I told it to the Princeps and her dashing partner, I have a feeling the truth of Arcadia will come true. So, in exchange for the remnants of my life, I want you to promise you’ll tell our story truthfully. Tell the world the trick that broke the invincible…and do it again, with my power.”

Without us even being able to object, we returned to the more stable grand hall, and I noted that the wooden entrance doors that were once there had long since rotted off. I know not of the exact mechanism, but it perhaps had to do with Briseis’ memories, and she had some sort of ability to release them and make them, even temporarily, real. Anaxagoras directed us, and with the only viable mana-holding fluid we had, our blood, we etched out the circle that was at the bottom of his workshop, exactly as he told us. He ordered one small part of the outer circle to remain incomplete, so the spell may trigger on his order.

Julia and I tried to appeal to her as we were making it, though the young lady within the spear seemed absolutely certain. “This way, I can finally enter the new life ahead. So it’s okay.”

When we finished, we placed Briseis’s spear and Anaxagoras’s stone in the center. We watched as Anaxagoras’ shadowed form approached the circle, and, across from him, so did the shade of Briseis.

“Are you sure about this?” Anaxagoras had asked her. She nodded.

“In my next life, I can see possibilities I had never seen before. I want to reach out to that life. This way, you all will give me that chance. Plus, I get to do what I did before: slay a god, but this time, save the world!”

With her resolve as strong as it seemed to be, Anaxagoras ordered us to complete the circle. I pressed my bloodied finger, but hesitated then to swipe it. I looked to Julia, and she held my hand and steadied my mind. And so, I flicked my finger and completed the spell.

Our Pedagogue winced, then I watched his body disappear, and the glowing aura from the stone flowed out and into the spear. Briseis gasped, then her see-through body fell backwards, and color faded from her. Her peachy skin grew pale. Her cheeks sunk down. Her eyes lost their light.

Yet, she still reached out with her hand, and grasped something out of her reach.

“How pretty,” she murmured. “Pink clouds…”

She vanished. I know not to what time or period, nor do I know if she was lying about her reincarnating powers to simply make us feel less guilty upon her death. But, if she is out there, I have to thank her. After the spell finished, Julia picked up the golden-pink spear and raised it to the sky. And I smiled alongside her.

For with Briseis’ last breath, we finally have the trick to make our new tomorrow.