“My gods but I've never seen a more pathetic group of so called men in my entire life! Get the fuck up! You make me sick! I rue the day your crusty lipped sow of a mother didn't cast your ugly mug off the mountain when she saw what she'd spat from her--”

Tiber was back.

And Tiber rambled on, no matter how hard the men trained his words only got harsher. Some even tried to fire back with words of their own, and they were punished for it in such creative and inhumane ways that ensured their bodies would see no real harm. Simultaneously making them aware of the terrible retribution they'd suffer if they resisted further. They could only keep running, this wasn't compulsory, after all. There was no conscription, they'd chosen this and Tiber was clear on that fact. All this existed to serve as was a filter and anvil by which they could identify those worthy of what he was about to offer. For what came next. “Get the fuck up, you fat lazy fuck! You cock sucking worm! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU LOOKING AT!? DID I TELL YOU TO STOP FILLING THAT WELL WITH OATMEAL!?”

“N-no sir! I'm going as fast as I can!”

Holy hells... Tyr, uh, had doubts...?

Tiber was joined by Rorik, the old headman from Riverwood – both of them lending their expertise to their drills in the best way they knew how. For Tiber, that meant a lot of screaming – beating men emotionally. For Rorik, it meant calmly and patiently setting an example – giving them encouragement and stern lessons. They couldn't possibly be more different in their approach. Tiber was a straight up demon whereas Rorik was rather kind and fatherly with his sincere advice, good constable and bad constable...?

“This is your plan?” Alex grit her teeth, cringing at the idea that their old mentor was capable of screaming nonstop and so crudely. Tiber had been a knight commander for many years, raised an aristocrat in Milano but the Scarr's were an old martial household. A man who had been tutored in command since before he could properly walk, Alex had never seen this side of him before though. As a master at arms he was fairly calm, a bit snippy when someone was being an idiot but he'd never shouted. “Isn't it a bit much? And... Oatmeal?”

“A bone must be broken to be properly reset. There is no magic to compel a man's spirit in perpetuity that I'm aware of. This will come from pain, and great effort, the opportunity to save themselves.” Tyr replied, watching over the newly made training yards that had taken the place of Tykr Brandos' personal estate, little more than a flat field of compacted dirt now. He hoped Darius wouldn't be wroth with him, but doubted it would be a problem. Calling themselves 'Guardians', but they didn't seem to be much interested in guarding anything – certainly not humans. Nor the city that they themselves called their capital, from their point of view the vermin known colloquially as mankind would simply build another collection of hovels over the ruins. Ten years, or a thousand, didn't seem to matter to them.

But Tyr was not bothered with saving Amistad, for whatever reason he had come to the perhaps insane conclusion that he was expected to save the world itself. He didn't even know why.

What was strange, though, was the fact that they did not address him like the others – and that included the other primus'. Jartor was 'human', but Signe was not – she was something else and he'd been combing the known world over in a bid to find her and ask what he was. Half blooded, and yet it didn't influence his status as a nephilim, only made it harder than his peers to progress. With that being said, he wondered also why Jartor would breed with a foreign race – surely he must've known what would happen. Tyr's mother had told him many lies, or at least mistruths, she wasn't human – and she wasn't an alternate reality 'version' of himself either. Also, Jartor was an unabashed racist and had led a literal genocide against the beastkin, so...? Perhaps this was all a front.

“It's cruel, unworthy,” Alex remarked, and Tyr nodded in agreement.

It was cruel, but... This was one of those rare opportunities where Tyr (at least in his own mind) was about to seem cool.

“So is war. So is cowering behind flimsy walls while your friends and neighbors are butchered by the enemy come to kick down your door.” The first shift of morning drill saw nearly six thousand men on the field, and they'd started with ten. Ten thousand, that is, losing more than half total across all the pseudo legion they were trying to build as quickly as possible. Men and women from the Krieg, Asmon, but mostly Amistad. Tyr Faeron was still a primus, his voice had pull, people would flock to his banner for that simple reason, a future 'god emperor' of mankind, or howsoever they wanted to process it all in their heads. Just by being born, he realized, he was important, it made all of his accomplishments seem like one big nepotistic joke.

Not everyone believed the claims of the council that they were 'safe now', and those on the edge had changed their mind when it was revealed that Tyr hadn't died after all. Some even saw it as divine intervention, proof that the gods were at their backs. An odd claim to make considering that the papacy was likely to invade and kill them all now that they had their Cassus Belli.

Amistad was by no means a place overly familiar to religion, given its nature as a magic city, but men tended to look toward the divine only when their lives were on the line. “Tiber and Rorik know best, let them do their work.”

“You could hire mercenary companies with far less work than this, we're wealthy – Tyr, or I am, we have money, means to acquire foreign assistance,” Alex frowned, these were commoners. Maybe 1 out of 5 of them had ever drilled in anything like a militia, which wasn't all that great to begin with. Not in comparison to what was coming. “These are boys and old men...”

“Boys and old men who won't betray me for coin, who are of faith. Commoners with no traceable family in the region that can be used against them. The rest comes later. I will give the worthy their tools, and they will do with them as they please. You look beautiful today, by the way.”

“...Thanks.” Alex replied flatly, trying to appear uninterested in hearing something like that – but she'd fail. Always did, she liked validation as much as he did, but she'd only ever accept it from him, wrapped around his finger. Ensorceled by the power inside of him, there was nothing to be done but use her in ethical fashion. And in reality, that was a two way street, and so she did not feel used, Tyr had his reservations but she was not some weak willed thrall. “Please stop there and don't--”

“Cheeks looking extra plump in those riding leathers.”

“There it is,” Her voice remained flat, closing her eyes and exhaling through the nose at his ridiculous self. But... At least it was still his self.

There were others there, blackguard similarly skilled in drilling that stalked through the neat lines, led jogging squads sweating in their kit, and doled out punishment. There was no great reward for enlistment, but for some it was enough to eat well on a regular basis and receive a soldier's salary. None of those present were mages, Tyr had refused even those who'd asked him to take them in, weak mana-capable individuals at best, and this wasn't the worst job some had had. He did not trust the mage, and never would, they had – perhaps hypocritical in his assessment – lived life too easy. They were not prepared.

Rorik of Riverwood, the one-time captain of the Moon Legion coming south to lend a hand at Alex's request. To serve alongside Tiber as an advisor, calling in her favor and seeing it done. He couldn't fight in the army, obviously, but he knew a thing or two about shouting at people until they listened to instruction. Observing rising talent and tossing waterskins to men who looked fit to collapse in the swelter of their exercises. Vigilant eyes, his great experience come to fore for the first time in near 2 decades.

Alex didn't say much more, but she would continue to observe. To her, it didn't make sense to train an army like this, an army with few if any mages. Unless he expected Amistad to throw the full support of their free personnel behind him, which was a foolish dream at best, an army like this was worthless.

Conscript armies were near unheard of in smaller nations, simply because magic existed. Only the twin empires could afford the vast logistical costs of keeping standing legions equipped to deal with the force multiplier that was a mage. And even then, without the primus', and taking all the colleges away, they'd be fish in a barrel in their tight formations. Large armies didn't clash in shield walls or lines of pike in this era. The successor states were ruled by highly mobile units of mounted knights equipped in protective gear, not fyrd's.

Tyr kept repeating that it was 'necessary' and that he 'had a plan' – not elaborating on that. Of course she'd stand behind him, but his insistence that they fight in legion blocks was blatant suicide. Haran in particular fought beneath the umbrella of vast mana engines turned towards warding rather than offense. They could afford to, they possessed these things, Amistad did not.

And he just kept insisting it wasn't foolish, that this was the best and only way. Asking her to trust him.

And there was another problem...

Amistad had absolutely zero people sworn to the 'oath sentinel'. Well, it wasn't their custom here in the south in the first place, but to be concise... They, as a 'free nation', did not have a single person that was required by oath to stand and die for their city. Not even the guards and council mages, all of them were free to run whenever they pleased if a war did occur, and many already had. That left them at a unique disadvantage, one could say what they wanted to of nationalism, but this place had very little.

Tyr walked down the raised platform, removing his shirt and joining the men in their training, why did he remove his shirt? Only the gods knew. It was easy for him, naturally – he was superhuman, but it bore significance. Rorik and Tiber yelled at him just like any other, and while he was a stranger to these aspirants, the old man had said that it would help communicate solidarity among the soldiery. It worked. Some of them looked at him with reverence, others with disgust. Like the people in the street who called him 'monster' or the business establishments that refused to serve even their 'king'. This would continue for several weeks, gradually growing harder as the men went through several evolutions in both body and mind within half the time expected. Forced to drink when they weren't thirsty, eat when they were not hungry, and run when they were tired.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

Seeking out the worthy, separating the wheat from the chaff.

Creating an army of superhuman mage killers to compliment the elements he already possessed.

But whether or not this was even necessary remained an unknown. He wasn't doing this to build an army, he was doing this to build himself.

–

Tyr lived by his urges now. He could say he'd done that before – but not truly, giving way to emotion, but there were some he still kept bottled up. Namely the compulsion to pull a knife from his belt and cut free the tail on Alex's head if only to keep it at his side always. The smell alone was intoxicating to him, as he grew and evolved, so did she. Concerning, toxic, but he had no qualms about these things now, they amused him.

Her soft lips pressed against his own, unbidden and unsolicited, but he couldn't resist that hot passion that dwelled inside of him. No matter the place, he'd accept it. Every day he got closer, his spirit brighter, ambitions coming to fruition. Whether it was enough or not was a question, one with answer irrelevant, but he had to admit that the turnout of bodies had been far beyond expectation.

He'd expected, at best, a thousand. He'd received 30,000, and now there were 3,000. One in ten, it wasn't bad, though it might seem so on paper. 3,000 men tried and tested by the blackguard, and this was only the beginning. Others would flock, or he would ruthlessly subjugate them and leave behind an immortal legacy by force. All were men, and all men had their choices, he'd made his, but Tyr had no interest in letting any other man die for him.

Soon they would come. Baccia, the Brotherhood, and all of the combined might of the churches. Some other smaller nations, but he didn't consider them a threat. None of them were, this was all a shell game to begin with. Hastur was fomenting war and didn't care which side won or lost, a great many would die whatever the result and this served him. Tyr was here to ensure that it was 'his' side that came out on top. Because with all of his emotions came a lion's pride that stood far above most of the others. Worse than ever before, the arrogance, but he'd not allow it to cloud the possibility of failure, confidence was key but not the goal.

To speak softly and carry an enormous army slaughtering stick. He couldn't do it himself, but he could make and build men into serving that same purpose. He would be the instrument, but not his instrument, theirs, the instrument of mankind even if they did not know it.

“Why are you doing this?”

Not 'this' as in the war, or the defense of Amistad, but 'this' pertaining to current context entirely. Tyr was a young man, strong, durable, and lustful in the night, but eleven couplings in one day was wearing on her. She was sore and bruised from the waist down, but she suffered through it because he said it was necessary, that Alex needed it. She hadn't been his first in the carnal, but his eyes seemed to only look at her now, and she took great pride in this. Well aware that she was being twisted and manipulated by him, but seeing him rise from the dead again was something. Thinking him gone forever, for the third time, caught between her want to stop the abuse but afraid he would turn his eyes elsewhere, or walk out on her again.

Tyr was not a good man, he was the villain, the only thing that prevented him from seeming like some great demon was his existence as the underdog. Even still...

I am weak.

Being able to stand without stumbling would've been nice, but bruises could be healed. For now, he insisted she bear with it, and she did. With sodden hair and a stitching heaving of breath during and after every repetition of the ritual. Every time her screams of pain grew louder as he punished her, but as always, she trusted him. Alex knew it must've been the aspect, that thing that had wormed itself into her brain, slowly making her a slave to his will, but she did not care. The others feared it but she was not like them. More than willing to give herself up if it would save him the way that he'd saved her, there was a debt between them that could never be settled, but she could try.

“I am sorry, Alex,” He said, and she nodded consent each time, even while she wept, grateful that he had asked for it. His touch was gentle and there was concern in his eyes as he stared pointedly at her bruised body. Lashing her, beating her and breaking her bones, forcing her to drink the blood even when she wept and begged him not to. Burning her and forcing her eyes open. Always staring. The torture.

I am weak.

Because he trusted her, surely, he had done this with no other, she was sure of it.

And then it would begin again, beneath the moonlight. Thrusts and grunts, no lust to it whatsoever – just a dire need to give and share. Every time they grew closer until she could feel her fragile psyche begin to crack. No words for the agony, a bonding, a chain around her neck that she'd never break should she allow it to settle itself there.

They'd been bashful once, ever so briefly, nervous, and young, and inexperienced. Now it was wild, untamed. A manic desire to see and be seen, to please, even to serve, alien emotions that overrode her want for a respect or equality, and she did not resist them.

Beneath the moon with the grass to cushion her body near the breaking point as he had his way with her. Even after all this time, as his white mingled with the ebony of her hair, she realized her love for him hadn't changed in the slightest. Even after all he had become, it was still there, and she wept both in the longing and the regret for it.

Do you love me?

I love you.

Do you need me?

I need you.

Will you serve me?

I am you.

I am sorry, Alex.

I know.

She knew it must be necessary, for him to cut her this way.

–

“It is time.” She said, staring out over the balcony of the Vatican. And what a sight it was, over one hundred thousand soldiers neatly organized into a glittering host of bronze, gold, and silver. From all corners of the world save the northern states. There were bound to be a few Harani among them, but most had come from Baccia. Even the telurian's had come this time. Though not from the calling of a crusade, simply from threat that if they did not – they would be next. The beastkin had refused, whether they shared many of the same gods or not. They were no kin to the churches of man and it came as no surprise when they rejected the papal order.

Saorsa was untouchable, despite their centuries long status of war with Varia, that same empire protected them from all other threats. Octavian's endless schemes, surely... It made her sick.

Milano, with its wide avenues of white granite, seafront and temperate weather. Fat and rich, the streets filled with people beyond counting, all praising the church and offering them their well wishes. Cheering on the army that would form in that glorious capital of faith and... Those people made her sick, too.

And the old man himself. The pope few had ever seen in person, 205 years old, was orating some triumphant monologue of all things holy. The House of Light spearheaded the crusade, and though the other Houses did not bend the knee to any other, they were more than eager to lend their support. It disgusted her, all of it, the fanaticism these people were capable of, some only coming for the fun of it. As if war and murder were sources of sport, but only if the 'gods' said so. Because a war had not happened in so long that their idiot brains were full of some romantic ideal that it would be a good experience, a rewarding adventure against a significantly weaker force. Something to define them and bring them glory, fame, and all of the other ridiculous things men told themselves.

All they'd find was their deaths. All of them. These tiny little cogs in the machine, ignorant to reality. Believing that the gods, the government, or any other body of authority cared about them. They were all wrong, but they'd never know it, what a waste of a sapient brain, they were. It disgusted her.

“Quite a sight,” Hastur nodded in satisfaction. This gathering didn't include the proper Baccian army or Brotherhood forces who would merge into the greater host once they headed eastward. Kriegstad was an unknown, but they had given their support verbally at the last hearing. It didn't matter if they changed their mind at a later juncture. Manipulating this force yet again to turn back and flatten the Krieg was a simple thing. It was a shame, though. Hastur didn't care if a million or ten need be slaughtered to right the wrongs of this world, they were all insignificant animals. But humans begat progress and minimizing deaths would have been preferable. Recovery after a war was the antithesis of his goals for this world. But... “Soon I will awaken again, and we'll finish what we started.” He looked toward Signe dispassionately, such a flat, mechanical man, bereft of anything that inspired.

Below, the forest of spears and lances were being slammed into the ground as all of the assembled men and women howled the names of their individual gods like the lunatics they were. Their patron deities that had agreed to fight. A crusade was coming to Hjemland for the first time in centuries, and these hairless apes couldn't be more excited for it.

“Just ensure you hold up your end of the bargain,” Signe said with a frown, abruptly turning away and marching through the marble arch at his back. Such a beautiful woman, but her behavior could do with some improvement. 'Woman', though, that carried the identifier of 'man', and she was certainly not one of those, so perhaps it was all irrelevant. Attempts to understand the alien...

Hastur grimaced. To think that her only price for teaching him the proper ritual of ascendance had been to remove her only son from the world, a testament to her ruthless character. He'd already done that, and then Tyr had simply risen from the grave and torn Amistad apart again. He hadn't wanted to kill the young man at all, but a bargain was a bargain, and the world was far better off in Hastur's hands than any of the others. Signe owned him, and had for a long time – finding him after the 'him' that had been a primus had attempted to assassinate her son.

Once, Tyr had been the chosen one, a bridge between races – and now all he was to her was a cosmic mistake that needed correcting. And yet still that boy loved this woman so, still wearing that dampening bracelet designed to keep him in constant suffering so as to prevent him from ever truly connecting with his aspect. Tyr had once said that there was no evil in the world, but Hastur believed the boy was wrong. There was evil in this world, Tyr Faeron had been born of it, that poor boy.

One son, and one daughter of different fathers – Hastur had come to learn this only recently. Born in the same year so as to be constant companions of one another. One who'd succeeded from day one, a prodigy, and one an abject failure. Strong, but too blunt, animalistic, taking more after the mother than Jartor himself. That, too, was a shame. Jartor was a man of many flaws, but he had foresight, and knew what was necessary unlike Octavian's ridiculous idealism.

And one day, very soon, Hastur was going to be forced to fight the only person he truly cared about in this world. Even over his own children, Tyr was the one. He knew it, deep down, there would never be a primus more intent on balance than Tyr Faeron. A man who couldn't die, and would never bow to the powers that enforced their law on his kind. Who would fight, possibly wiping them from the face of the world and enforcing control by might and fear. Two very valid methods of getting what one wanted.

Maybe... A rare and honest smile split Hastur's lips. Those things always pretended to be in control, believing humans below them. But with two primus' of a right mind standing together... Maybe. Signe could bark as much as she wanted to, but Hastur and Tyr together might be able to end that threat once and for all.

Hastur to think, plan, and guide. Tyr to do, rip, and tear.

Perhaps. Only time would tell.