The cold ring of metal on metal sounds out. A spark flares as the blades scrape against each other. A grunt emerges as we throw our weight into the movement. The Rigas staggers, and then grits his teeth and pushes back against me. His face is red; his forehead is beaded with sweat; he snarls at me.

“You think you are better than me?” he demands.

I say nothing. He may be weak, but he is not without cunning. I focus solely on the fight, my sword arcing through the air to meet each strike precisely.

“You think you can beat the son of a god?” he screams, punctuating each word with a thrust of his sword.

I deflect. I conserve my energy. He is already weakened, I wait for the fight to steal what is left of his physical strength.

But the man who raised me is stubborn. He is a King who has never backed down from a challenge. I don't expect him to forfeit his throne easily.

“You, who I gave such power to?” Gallus rages. “You, who have squandered my generosity so recklessly? You do not deserve to rule! You do not deserve to continue to breathe!”

I strike, his sword deflects my blade. I strike again; he deflects again. We move across the crater of Mount Eden, sparks flying, sweat glistening, the harsh sounds of breathing interspersed by the clang of metal on metal.

He realises his words aren’t reaching me. I am steel as much as my sword is steel. I am resolute before him. An unmovable object that just keeps on coming. Blow after blow after blow.

He hides his exhaustion well. I know he is calling on Pyrkagia to fuel him. And the Element is answering his call. Why would it not? He is Pyrkagia. As I am Pyrkagia. So, although I do not need the strength yet, I call on Pyrkagia also.

It is the only use of our Stoicheio that we make.

This battle will be won in the old way.

Metal rings, sparks fly, edges scrape. I nick him. He manages to nick me. Blood pools in the cuts, soaks our clothes, drops to the earth at our feet. But Pyrkagia does not touch it.

Gi does.

My Thisavros connection is still there. I am doing nothing to make it present. It swells around me, comforts me, bolsters me. Urges me on.

Casey.

I must succeed. I must return to Casey.

“You think Pyrkagia will accept you?” Gallus says. His words are hurled, but he lacks the energy to yell them now. They are said through gritted teeth. Equally as unforgiving, but not quite as spectacular.

I continue to parry, offering a strike when the opportunity presents itself, but I have nothing to say to him. He is nothing to me.

“You think your little whore will be accepted as Basilissa?” he snarls.

I had expected the slur, but even so, it stings.

I miss a strike, then rally. But he has seen the dent in my armour.

“She is Gi,” he snarls. “And not even born that way. She’s an Alchemist bastard, and no Pyrkagia in their right mind will accept an Alchemist as Queen.”

He strikes out fast and hard; his strength renewed in sight of my momentary wavering. But I have regained my balance. I scent scorched earth and sweet vegetation. Gi does not fuel me, but it certainly steadies.

I block a particularly harsh blow, having to use two hands to hold the sword in place. The Rigas moves closer, his face scant inches from mine, the gold of his eyes blazing.

“I hear the Gi even abused her,” he whispers. “Fucked her up completely.”

I bare my teeth at him.

“I wonder if she will be as sweet to taste as Melita was,” he muses.

I want to close my eyes. Close my ears to his hatred.

I hold his golden gaze with one as equally molten.

“Melita called your name,” he says softly. “Cried out for you to save her. You can’t save a soul. Hell, you can’t even save yourself, son.”

“I am no son of yours,” I say. And the relief of knowing that truth fuels me.

I punch him in the side with my free fist and swipe out with my sword as he staggers away.

“It’s like that, is it?” he sneers. “So be it, whelp.”

He raises his sword, but the movement is as quick as lightning; not long enough for me to take advantage of his lack of guard.

In the next instant, a dagger flies from his free hand as his sword arm strikes.

I twist. The dagger skips across my upper arm, drawing blood and making me suck in a breath. But the move has placed me in the path of his sword, and the blow is met. The blade slices through my thigh; a puncture that comes perilously close to an artery.

Gallus twists the blade, sinks it in further, and then yells with the effort required to yank it away.

A large portion of flesh goes with it. I stagger. Fall to one knee. Pant for breath. But before the King can spin back around and deliver the death blow, I roll out of the way.

Coming to my feet, I force myself not to feel the pain. Not to give in to the weakness now invading my left side. I present my sword arm and strongest profile to him. And I wait.

I can not strike out; my leg would collapse beneath me if I shift on it now. I stand only because I place my weight on my right side. But I present a tall figure. Waiting.

I suck in air through my teeth and ignore the sweat that beads my brow and watch the man before me as he realises he has the upper hand at last.

He coughs out a laugh as he tries to get his rapid breathing under control. He even goes so far as to lean over his sword, using it as a crutch. If I could move without falling over, I could end this. He is toying with me. Making a show of my weakness. Dragging out the inevitable.

He wipes his face, flicks the sweat away. Slides his blade through the hem of his shirt, removing my blood. He stares at the metal glinting in the moonlight. Checks his reflection in it. Smiles.

Then points the tip of his sword toward me.

“Any last words you wish me to convey to your Thisavros?” he asks.

I say nothing. He will never face Casey.

“So be it,” he says and walks towards me.

He takes his time. He saunters, really. I want to tell him he is cruel and twisted. He will never be accepted into Elysium. Aetheros will make him pay.

But I don't waste my breath. He does not deserve it. Nor would he heed my warnings. For him, it is too late.

I steady myself. Lower my sword as if I am resigned to my fate.

Pyrkagia surrounds me. Gi soothes me. The thought of Casey and the baby fill me with such love and longing, I think I might float away.

He sees something in my face. He hesitates.

And then I breathe in the Elements. Suck in the Stoicheio that stands around this crater. Thank Aetheros for the gift of such beautiful magic. For his benefaction. For making us this way.

For we are all Athanatos. All Ekemetalleftis. Some of us just live longer than others. And some of us are able to touch and taste.

But all of us are blessed by our god.

Gallus Petroupolos strikes without warning. I don't bother to lift my sword up to block. As he moves in for the death blow, I simply let him get close enough.

And when his sword cleaves my flesh, I swing my blade.

It is sharp. It is precise. It is the eternal edge of Aether. And unlike the man before me, I have gone for his neck.

Pyrkagia’s former Rigas is arrogant and forgetful. He has forgotten the old ways and is too sure of his win. Of his superior place.

His sword pierces my heart. It is agony multiplied. He begins to withdraw it, intending, no doubt, to decapitate. He assumes I am beaten. He assumes his words have laid the way. He assumes I have nothing left to live for.

I have Casey and the baby. I have a world balanced. I have everything to live for, and I will fight with my dying breath to ensure its safety.

My blade is sharp and it is precise.

His head rolls before my heart stops beating.

But then, I am Athanatos, and a silent heart will not kill me.

But the absence of a head for Gallus Petroupolos portents his grave.