Having never committed a crime before, Sethion chose to begin with a classic. Robbery.

Amidst the darkness of the night, adjacent to a dense deciduous forest, stood a patrician villa. Hopefully, it would be his first and last target. The luxurious country estate was built on the slope of a tall hill, standing on multiple stone terraces. The view from the roofs covered in clay-colored tiles extended right to the deep blue waters of the Middle Sea. Over a day away from the bustling streets of Sinu, the stars hung silently in the sky, and even the woods sounded subdued.

Occasionally, an owl's hoot pierced the stillness, hanging like a Devil Bird's cry over the estate. Even at night, half a dozen guards stood steadfast at the entrances, watching for trespassers, or worse, a myth. Encountering the second was much rarer and much more likely to end in a bloodbath. The guards held lamps, illuminating the moonless night with a dim light. Each had a Gladius hanging on their hip.

Legionnaires.

Influential Venatores, almost as revered as myths themselves, cared for their families, at least in the situations they could. A bitter smile streaked across Sethion's lips.

To the aspiring thief's knowledge, none of the men were Animi, which didn't surprise Sethion. Contracts were challenging to obtain at the best times, even with a lack of morals and enough silver denarii to drown in. Not even the most opulent patricians would dare to waste one on unassuming servants. And while the transmutation led to deaths among the upper class more often than political machinations, the results paid off. Assuming the new Animo didn't go insane, that is.

But that was a problem for future Sethion to consider, if there was a future Sethion.

At dawn, he would know the answer.

Now, the typical thief would infiltrate the villa without making a sound. Avoid the cones of light created by the few pottery lamps burning with oil. Pick the padlock without alerting the guards or the servants living next to the main house. Enter and leave before anyone realizes he has been there, carrying numerous valuables. That was at least what Sethion would try to do if he were a normal or at least skilled thief. But Sethion stood above such mundane matters.

He did not need trickery, deceit, or mastery to enter the estate. It was, after all, his home.

☫

The young nobleman's heart beat in an ever-changing rhythm. At times, it steadied, only to relapse into a wild crescendo when he considered taking the first step. The plan had started as a daydream, a play of thoughts to reduce the monotony of an awful long afternoon. Lately, they had become more common than uncommon. But as the fantasy reappeared daily, blazing in the back of his mind, it became a craving.

To not wake up in the same bed. To lose the need to feel his pulse with the index finger to assure himself that his heart was still beating. To not have to pray for wonders to see the next two summers.

Yesterday, it had all been clear. The preparations for the journey were complete, the bag fully packed, but now lying on his bed, Sethion struggled to get up as if weights were tying him down. What would happen if he succeeded?

This scenario had always seemed unlikely to him, but what if? Getting caught in the act, he could deal with that. There, he worked with known variables.

Sethion groaned, pressing his face against a pillow. Nothing had happened yet. Nothing had to happen. He could close his eyes and fall asleep. The cacophony of thoughts clawed at his resolve. It drowned the ever-beating drum in his chest. Wistfully, he stared out of his window into the dark. The world seemed tranquil, offering a semblance of peace. Merely, the familiar agony of thousands of daggers carving an ornament of scars from top to bottom persisted.

When it had seized Sethion for the first time, he had convulsed an entire night in pain, in a delirium between life and death, unable to even shout for help. Right now, it was more timid than usual. It would get worse, one certainty he never doubted. He had reached the point where his life without the pain looked further away than a dream. He pinched his cheeks.

Sethion had to leave not at the behest of the gods, the empire, or his family but for himself. The young scion of the house Mercor, his title a cruel joke, now half sitting, half laying on the bed, stared at his shoes. It took a while for his pupils to widen and let enough light through to get a clear picture. They were brown, flat-soled, and hobnailed. A lot more inconspicuous than the ones dyed red, which he usually wore. At this moment, their simple design mesmerized him like an exquisite fresco. The wind blew, clouds flew across the black sky, and he stared. The fingers resting on his leg shook.

He scratched his thigh with his fingernails until the skin became white, then red. When he felt the warm liquid running down his fingertips, he decided to risk it all.

It took him three tries to tie the laces of the leather shoes.

The young man's pale fingers trembled as he tightened the belt of the tunica. With a bag strapped on his back, he took a step, placing the ball of his foot first on the ground.

The blood hissed through his ears. Sweat dripped down his back.

He passed by the neighboring bedrooms, one step after the other he advanced. The corridor was quiet, but the rooms were not. He paused. Slowly, a sound wound itself through his ear conch. It had a deep, vibratory quality, snoring.

Occio. Be asleep. Please be asleep.

Sethion continued stalking through the corridor, his steps leaving no noise behind despite the lithic terrazzo floors.

Under the watchful gazes of the gods' depictions, he slipped into the Atrium. Well, if their statues could penetrate the blanket of the night with their eyes.

Heresy, robbery, and stupidity. A great combination.

Sethion bent down to the house shrine, a marble cubicle adorned with colorful ornaments. Atop towered the replica of a temple, supported by two elaborate pillars at the front. Three intricate bronze statues stood under the temple roof. They were the divine protectors of the house, the Lares. They wouldn't stop him. Their whole purpose lay in wasting the time of those praying to them. Such was at least his experience gained through countless hours of begging the gods for mercy, dizziness from all the blood loss, and many unhelpful visits by priests promising a cure. Looting, however, appeared much more profitable. He squinted, trying to identify outlines in the dark without any success.

Sethion had to rely on touch, feeling the cool metal on the side of the shrine for the lock in the middle of the door.

In retrospect, acquiring the key had been criminally easy for what the cubicle contained.

Most of the time, the key would lay inside the miniature temple out of practicality, but the thought of someone moving it had nagged at him the entire week. So Sethion had, after conducting the daily prayers with uncharacteristic enthusiasm, hidden it under his toga.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

Every time the bit scratched against the keyhole, the boy fidgeted and peered into the darkness surrounding him.

I should have brought a lamp. With this much noise, I might as well pound the thing open.

He didn't stop.

Finally, the metal door gave way, accompanied by a jarring sound, making him shudder. A small bottle of frankincense, diverse herbs, and spices stood crammed beside each other. Uninterested in midnight rituals for praising the gods, the young thief rummaged through the items until he found it. A small chest. His fingers ran across the smooth, unadorned holm oak. When his father had left the city with an entire entourage for the summer estate, he had brought the box. Unable to entrust the contents to the clerks of the temples or anyone but himself, he had watched over it like a phoenix hen over her eggs. Even now, he slept with its key on a chain around his neck.

The thought of stealing the chain had crossed his mind, but he had conceded. The chances of being caught in the act were too high. The contents would not help him right now, anyway. Still, it meant uncertainty. What if the chest was a ploy?

Sethion grimaced at the thought.

He would have to take the risk.

I'm sorry, little brother. You have worked years for this. Hopefully, Cassion will be able to get you another one. Try not to be mad at me when I come home again.

He stuffed the box in his bag and added the bottle of frankincense on a whim.

If I manage to sell it, I won't have to worry about acquiring extra funds for my travels.

Sethion exited the Atrium with confident strides, leaving nothing but a last contemptuous smile for the Lares.

He closed his eyes and took a sweet breath. The pain had stilled for a while, and the permanent noise echoing through his head had fallen silent.

Only in these increasingly rare moments, dangling a hint of normalcy in front of him, did he understand what the sickness took from him.

Sethion focused, shaking off the distractions and concentrating on the plan's next step.

The escape path led through a clear glass window imported from Farros. Their glasswork trumped the empires by a landslide. Carefully, the aristocrat moved the handle, creating an opening for him. Feet dangling from the rim, he sat down on the ledge.

There shouldn't be any guards here.

He scanned the garden for any movement before confirming his assumption.

On the verge of jumping down to freedom, Sethion halted.

Wait, I did not forget anything, did I?

He shrugged.

Now, it is too late anyway.

He leaped and cursed.

The slim boy, flailing with his arms to restore his balance, had landed with much less grace than he had hoped to.

The sound of his fall reverberated from the ground, loud and clear. The race was on, and for Sethion, becoming second spelled death. How far could he get until someone noticed the open half-open window? Until someone looked for the sickly patrician or the stolen items?

The answer presented itself quicker than Sethion had hoped, in the form of a pair of boots treading his way. A guard investigated the quiet noise in the silent night. The metal on the man's hips screeched as it left the scabbard, thundering like a war cry in Sethion's ears. These warriors were trained soldiers assigned to a Venator, and most would put their lives on the line for their duty and apparently, they were overly cautious. These men were ready and equipped to face bigger opponents than a frail teenager. Time slowed, making one breath last an eternity, but not long enough.

Fuck.

With his back against the wall, he scrutinized his surroundings. The playful water feature, beautiful walkways, and lovingly cultivated bushes his father took so much pride in made him curse again. There was nowhere to hide.

Sethion bolted, taking the initiative, unwilling to let the other party make the first move.

He chose a route without thinking, having played catch with his siblings in the same gardens during childhood. Across the gardens along the servant quarters, through the pergolas, shaded walkways, and over the pond. Behind, a myriad of footsteps and shouts echoed. The legionnaires had noticed the escapee and notified his unit. This mess was almost the worst scenario he could think of.

Gods! Carceres have fewer guards.

In his mind, the breath of the pursuers felt warm on the back of his head. Sethion barely resisted the urge to look over his shoulder.

He expected a man to subdue him at any moment now.

The wall surrounding the estate was coming closer. Sethion would make it. One foot stood already on a pedestal next to the depiction of an old kneeling satyr, his hands grasping the top of the brick wall. Then something caught up. A crossbow bolt parted the night sky with a hiss, covering the distance between the chaser and chased in the blink of an eye. The projectile ricocheted off the wall, chipping it and missing his chest by half an arm's length. They had fired at him like they would at a criminal. There was no second shot. Sethion had surmounted the obstacle. Even so, his heart sank.

The Vertragi. They can hunt me down with the dogs.

I need to lose them first.

His feet took a ninety-degree turn, not facing the distant sea and small village anymore but the closer forest. The one Cassion had almost lost his life in. Sethion began running again.

Every second counted, still, eventually, he had to slow down to catch his breath.

I think I'm about to throw up.

His insides churned, but he kept going.

Running through the woods at night proved challenging, not only due to a lack of exercise. The treetops blocked the already scattered light rays, creating darkness without shades. Unlike the villa, he could not maneuver through the woods while blind.

Sethion tripped and stumbled through the thicket like a man who had drunk wine for three. Another root, another fall, another bruise, but he had stopped cursing long ago.

Will it even help? There is no alternative.

You must have heard the story a thousand times, so why can't you remember? Calm down, breathe. We were playing. What were we playing? I don't know. Not important. Cassion went into the forest alone. No, Livi dared him to. He got lost, the idiot. He met it after meandering for hours. I don't have hours. Where was it? A clearing, he described a clearing. How do I find the damned place? I can't. What do I do? What can I do? There must be something else to it. How does a brat who has only seen ten summers attract the attention of a myth? How? There is no ubiquitous solution. It all depends on the creature. Curse you and your secrets, brother.

An abrupt howl behind Sethion halted his thoughts. The Vertragi had sniffed his trail, and those dogs did bite. From the start, he had understood that outrunning them would be impossible. Even so, he had hoped for more hesitation to enter the turf of a legend in the flesh.

Wait, do they even know about the woods? Or did Father give them some abstruse warning? Why is everyone keeping secrets in this damned family? Fucking Vappa.

He decided to double his tempo, despite the rapid accumulation of injuries. Pain was an old enemy. Someone he had fought more times than he could count.

Pain? I shouldn't be feeling anything.

A shiver raced up his spinal cord.

No, it can't be. Don't tell me it's time for that already.

If there are gods, their sense of humor is horrid.

His heavy breathing prevented even a dry laugh.

Behind Sethion, the sleeping forest awoke as heavy footsteps resounded in the distance, making the ground tremble. More of the legionnaires had joined the fray, tracking down the young man with the help of the leashed hunting dogs.

All for an inexperienced thief. Where do all of them even come from? Shouldn't they be asleep?

He could already picture what would happen

when they caught up when the canines were let loose. Sethion had observed the Vertragi countless times mauling hares. Only to be heartbeats away, changing from witnessing to experiencing.

I know all the dogs by name. They should recognize me. Still, I don't want to find out.

Zigzagging between trees and over rocks, creating a path where no way was, he gained precious time to think.

If I climb a tree, maybe...

No, no surrendering. The moment I give up, I lose my only chance. On paper, I'm already a dead man. So, think. I'm a child, lost in the woods. What do I do? The atrophied muscles burned. He gaped for air, his lungs a sieve, all his preparation useless. Cold sweat ran down his temples to his torso. Pain surged throughout his body like waves hitting the shore with the force of nature. Then he screamed. The pain intensified, leeching onto his weakness.

A quiet scream, full of exhaustion and desperation. There wasn't enough air in his lungs for anything more.

There is no doubt about it. I'm going to die.

Sethion's breathing grew even more ragged. The patrician almost collapsed, grasping a branch mid-fall, which bent under his weight. I can still walk. His body begged to differ. Muscles convulsed, the breathing faltered, and the urge to cough became irresistible. The fit seemed furious for having been ignored so long and ravaged him with despicable glee. It was a feeling he had experienced many times but never could get used to. Not a single body part did not hurt. The pain struck him. Cut his body open with infinite needles until there existed no inside or outside, only misery. The knuckles of the hand gripping the tree's limb turned white. There was no planning. Not anymore, just the distant feeling of having to escape clashing against the clouded mind.

In the end, his will prevailed.

Sethion took a step, then another, and broke down on the third. The world went black before he gracelessly landed on the ground for the second time. The very reason he had to leave prevented him from it.