The night passes chillier than usual. Areios wakes to the chirping of a hoopoe. Sunlight pours through the high window, striking his eyes and warming his body. He blinks slowly, then squeezes the hemation at his side and sits up on the kline.
Through the window, a hoopoe perches on an olive branch. The light makes him squint as he studies the bird. Feeling the heat, he coughs softly, summoning a maid. One enters, bows, and lifts the rhipis, fanning him from a respectful distance. A second maid brings a ceramic bowl of water, and Areios washes his face, drying it with a woolen cloth.
Breakfast is laid beside the kline. He picks up bread, dipping it into the soup, but pauses, catching his reflection in the bronze bowl's liquid. His thoughts spiral.
Was that a dream? Or something divine? Should I tell my brother? Would he believe me—or take offense? Vyrian… that sweet child… could he really bring doom? No. I am a god; I do not hallucinate.
The maid clears her throat. "Sire?"
Startled, Areios looks up. "W-what…?"
"Is something wrong with the food? I can bring something else if it's not to your taste," she says, trembling.
He shakes himself. "Ah… N-no. I'm merely distracted."
She bows again, muttering apologies. Areios notices her earnestness and chuckles quietly.
"What is your name?" he asks suddenly.
"Charis, sire," she replies, looking down.
He finishes breakfast, clears his throat, and asks, "Why are you so sincere? Most servants do not notice such things. Is there a reason I do not know?"
Charis' heart races. She has admired Areios from afar, and this is her chance. Yet he is lost in thought, adjusting his robe and fingers in his hair, absorbed in the shadow of last night's vision.
"Sire—" she begins, but her words are drowned by the echo of hurried footsteps and clanging armor in the hall.
Areios steps to the door. A squad of battle-ready soldiers marches toward Zenobios' chambers. One soldier, Erastos, approaches urgently. Areios watches as his brother's face darkens, shifting into grave seriousness.
"Erastos?" he murmurs. Without thinking, Areios moves toward the group.
"Your Highness—" Charis calls, but her voice falters. He passes without hearing, leaving her hand falling in defeat. An older maid pats her shoulder gently.
***
Areios listens from the edge of the crowd.
"But how? How did our angels fall? Who did this?" Zenobios demands, voice urgent, unlike any Areios has ever heard.
"We don't know, Sire," Erastos replies. "Only that their wings were severed. Demonkind can fly, but angels' radiance blinds and kills them—"
"No," Zenobios cuts in sharply. "I know that. Who did this, and how? Any injuries? Clues?"
Erastos falls silent, shameful. Zenobios exhales sharply.
"Prepare the Pool of Reflections. I will inspect the scene myself on Earth."
Erastos hesitates. "Sire… there's more."
"Speak."
"The realm of Arcadia—" Erastos falters. "It's—"
"What about Arcadia?" Zenobios presses.
"It has been completely leveled, Sire. Hellspawns—" Erastos chokes.
Zenobios freezes. Arcadia had deep personal meaning; a humble village his late grandfather insisted he visit, a symbol of humanity's finest virtues.
"Repeat that, Erastos," he commands, voice calm but burning.
"Sire… Arcadia has been annihilated by demonkind."
A long silence follows. Then Zenobios nods slowly. "I see." His voice is hollow.
He turns abruptly, bracing against a marble pillar. Head bowed, he stares at the floor. His shadow stretches before him, unrecognizable. Heat floods his veins; his fingers dig into stone, limestone dust erupting.
"I see… I see… Right…" he murmurs, words dripping like molten lead. His control frays.
From the back, Areios watches, fists clenched.
"Not now," he thinks. Someone, anyone—
"What's happening here?"
A voice, sharp and commanding, cuts through the hall. All heads snap to the top of the ramp. Athanasia stands, her blue robe glimmering like woven constellations under torchlight. Every soldier bows so low their faces vanish, save Zenobios, who remains upright.
Their eyes meet across the hall. His storm meets her glacial calm. She acknowledges the bows with a subtle nod but keeps her attention fixed on him. The air thrums with unspoken words.