CHAPTER 9: To Scolacium
Markos woken up to the sound of his door opening, he is being called by the reeve again as he is now tasked to deliver the letter personally to the Council of Scolacium.
"Markos, you must bring this to the Citadel of Scolacium there is a longer path yet safest way to go there by passing the Scolatian Way, it is usually used by caravans and merchants alike." Herran said that to Markos as he handed the letter to him covered in leather and oil as Markos begins to wear his lammellar armour and helmet.
"Why me? And I need someone to come accompany me in this...domain." Markos is confused on why he is being tasked alone, but the reeve said to him that they need every guard to protect the village and the border. However, they gave him a horse and some supplies for his journey to the south, the Citadel.
The morning air was sharp as Markos rode down the Scolatian Way that paves through the Scolatii village. His orders were clear: ride north to the Citadel of Scolacium and deliver a comprehensive report on the Pazzonian incursion. The sky bore a cold clarity, casting long shadows from the hills that lined the road. His horse's hooves kicked up dirt, and behind him, the village receded into the distance. He was alone now, bearing the weight of his duty and the watchful eyes of both the villagers and the duchy's military council.
The Citadel of Scolacium was a long ride away days through uneven terrain, thick forest, and winding rivers and the threat of highwaymen. Markos had packed light, carrying only the essentials: food, water, a blanket, and the sealed letter tied in oiled leather. The attack had left tensions running high, and the duchy's nobility would not treat the report lightly let alone their Emperor. As far as Markos was concerned, this marked the beginning of something greater—an omen of war brewing beyond the peaceful façade of Astonicum. The Heiliges Reich von Pazzo had acted boldly, and someone had to respond with equal resolve.
Markos traveled along the forested roads until the path narrowed between dark boughs of ancient trees. The air here was colder, damp with unseen mist, and birds rarely sang. He kept his hand near his sphathion, ever cautious of ambushes or wolves. But it was not brigands that he encountered.
As he counted the days of the sun rose, it was the third day, as the sun dipped behind grey clouds, Markos came upon a gathering by an abandoned shrine. At first, he mistook them for travelers or mourners, but something was off. They stood in a half-circle around a broken idol, cloaked in ash-dyed robes, chanting in a strange tongue. The figure of Veltrana, once carved in smooth stone, lay shattered at their feet.
Markos slowed his horse, instinct warning him to keep his distance. He observed quietly from behind a thicket, noting the torches and the ritualistic manner of their movement. The cultists were not merely desecrating the shrine—they were performing a rite. Smoke billowed in red spirals from censers, and their voices rose in a crescendo that sounded more like a curse than a prayer. He could make out the words "new flame," "broken goddess," and "cleansing."
One of them stepped forward, a woman with a sharp, angular face and eyes glazed with fervor. She held aloft a dagger carved from bone, and as she spoke, the crowd responded in perfect unison. "Veltrana is dead," they chanted. "Her reign ends with ash. Let the fire consume what THIS REALM ONCE GUARDED." The dagger came down, not on a sacrifice, but on the last standing piece of Veltrana's image—her face, which cracked with a sickening sound.
Markos could bear no more this weirdness. He stepped forward, sword drawn, his voice loud and clear. "
"What you destroy, you cannot replace with madness!" Markos retorted. "This land still breathes through her name." Without another word, the tension snapped. The cultists lunged, but Markos was quicker. Parrying their daggers with ease as he grabbed the hand of one of the cultists, he plunged his sword at her throat as she fell onto the ground, and in the space of heartbeats, another two lay wounded, their robes soaked in blood, and the others scattered into the woods.
He did not pursue. Instead, he dismounted, catching his breath as he surveyed the ruined shrine. A bitter sorrow filled his chest as he looked at the broken face of Veltrana. Though her image meant little to him in the way Christ did, he had come to respect what she represented to the people of Scolacium, and as he stared at the face even more, he slowly remembered that this statue looked too...too similar to the demoness he had first encountered at Constantinople. Markos is terrified and quickly mounts his horse. He dropped the head, and it shattered again as he rode away. A woman is again watching him, with a smirk that doesn't speak of good.
Markos's horse galloped with unyielding pace across the forested ridge, hooves pounding like war drums on the uneven path. The unease from the shattered shrine still clung to him like the mist in the morning woods. He kept seeing the face—Veltrana's face, the demoness's face—blurred into one in his mind. The smirk, the broken stone, and the blood left behind from the cult all echoed a warning he couldn't yet understand. And though he tried to reason with himself, to cast it off as coincidence, something in his bones told him the shrine was more than just a forgotten relic.
As the path narrowed and twisted through denser brush, Markos slowed his horse. The highland winds whispered between trees, brushing branches aside like ghostly fingers. He felt watched again, and not by crows this time, though one did perch on a boulder, unbothered by his presence. He caught the glint of something unnatural between the trees: flickers of blue, shimmering sparks. Magic, he realized. Someone was doing something, and it wasn't far.
Then he heard the scream.
It rang sharp through the woods, not a peasant's cry, but something laced with power and desperation. He spurred the horse forward. The woods thinned slightly to reveal a clearing where a group of armed bandits had cornered a lone figure—a woman in crimson robes, her silver hair loose and wild as her hands glowed with swirling incantations. She stood her ground despite the odds, releasing bolts of energy that struck two men off their feet, but the others pressed in relentlessly.
Markos didn't think. He roared and charged in, his spathion drawn in one smooth motion. The bandits turned too late. He struck down the first with a clean slash to the neck, his sword singing through the air. The second lunged, only to meet the flat of Markos's blade against his temple, crumpling like a sack of flour.
The last two hesitated, unsure of whether to fight or flee. That moment was all Markos needed—he closed the distance and drove them back with a flurry of aggressive blows. One tripped over a root and scrambled away into the trees. The other dropped his dagger and followed. Markos exhaled hard, watching the treeline, ensuring they didn't regroup.
The woman stood, breathing hard. Her robes were singed in places, and a fine line of blood traced her cheek, but her posture remained proud. She looked at him with piercing eyes—an unnatural shade of purple and for a moment, Markos froze. It was her. The same woman. The one who watched him from the shadows, from the shrine, from dreams he refused to remember.
"Are you hurt?" he asked quickly, sheathing his sword without taking his eyes off her.
She tilted her head, amused. "No. But you are persistent. Even when you don't know who I am."
That sent a chill down his spine. "Do I know you?"
"Not yet," she said cryptically, and walked past him toward her staff, which lay half-buried in the moss. She retrieved it with a practiced hand, the crystal at its head still glowing faintly. "But you've seen me."
He nodded slowly. "At the shrine… and before that. In the capital. Who are you?"
She offered no name, only a faint, enigmatic smile. "A traveler. Like you."
Markos didn't trust her, but he didn't feel like she was his enemy either—not now. "These woods are no place for anyone alone," he said, unsure why he was still talking to her. "Even such women with skills like..witchcraft."
"A mage, and yet," she replied softly, "I'm never truly alone, am I?"
Before he could question what she meant, she turned and began walking again down the road toward the Citadel, as though she had always intended to go that way. Markos hesitated, then mounted his horse and followed at a cautious pace. He didn't like riddles and he hates it so much, but something about her presence unsettled and intrigued him in equal measure.
They traveled in silence, the forest eventually giving way to the hilled paths that led to the outer territories of the Citadel of Scolacium. The ancient stone watchtowers loomed in the distance, their jagged silhouettes framed by thick banners fluttering in the cold wind. Markos's eyes narrowed. The duchy's capital was not a place for games or illusions.
As they neared the gates, the guards spotted them and called out. Markos raised his hand and shouted his name. He handed over the sealed letter, the weight of the report burning in his satchel like a quiet truth.
Beside him, the woman said nothing, watching the city as though she had seen it a hundred times before.
And as the gates of the Citadel creaked open, Markos realized that whatever path he had started on when he survived the Sack of Thessalonica, he was never..alone.
The gates of the Citadel of Scolacium shut behind Markos with a slow groan of iron and stone. Inside, the streets bustled with soldiers, messengers, and cloaked figures weaving through narrow alleys. He had expected urgency, perhaps even an escort, but the officer who accepted the letter merely nodded and told him to await a response. "The Duke's council must deliberate," the guard said flatly, before waving him off to the waiting quarters near the lower barracks. Markos clenched his jaw but complied—after all, this was Scolacium, where blades earned more respect than scrolls.
The waiting quarters were modest, tucked behind the training yard and flanked by a dry well. Markos leaned against the stone wall and sighed. His armor was dusty, and dried blood still clung to the edges of his greaves. He hadn't even had time to wash the smell of smoke and forest from his cloak. Behind him, the strange woman he had rescued earlier stood still, watching the sun descend over the citadel roofs.
She had followed him through the gate with no resistance. No guards stopped her, and no one questioned her presence. It bothered Markos more than he admitted. Most travelers were questioned, searched, sometimes even detained. But her? She walked through like wind between blades. "You have friends here?" he finally asked, breaking the heavy silence.
"Not friends," she replied without looking at him. "But they do not fear me. That is enough."
He frowned. "You speak as though fear is the only currency that matters."
She smiled faintly. "In this land? Sometimes it is. But fear can be respect, if wielded carefully."
Markos crossed his arms, unsure how to respond. There was a grace in her words, like a noblewoman's, but with the bite of someone used to walking alone. "You never told me your name," he said.
"Names are promises," she answered, turning toward him now. "And I am not ready to make one."
That answer irked him. He rubbed the back of his neck, unsure if he was being played. "I can't keep calling you 'you.'"
"You can call me Helena," she said finally, her voice almost teasing. "If it eases your discomfort."
Helena. The name didn't match the haunting presence she carried, nor did it feel like a lie. Markos repeated it quietly in his mind, letting it settle. "Thank you, Helena," he said cautiously. "I'm Markos Markos Doukas Vatatzes."
"I know," she said.
Markos blinked. "What?"
"I've seen you," Helena said softly. "From afar. You stand like someone who's lost a home but refuses to bury it. I could always pick you out in a crowd... even when you didn't notice me."
Her words cut deeper than he liked. "Then you've seen too much," he muttered. But her eyes didn't mock him—if anything, they were filled with something between sorrow and longing. A strange intensity lingered in her gaze, like someone clinging to a memory too tightly. She turned away, watching the distant spires of the inner keep.
"You believe in old gods?" she asked suddenly.
He hesitated. "I believe in Christ
"That's not what I asked." Her voice dropped to a near whisper. "Do you believe they're still here? Watching?"A faint smile curled her lips. "Watching you, maybe."
Markos thought of the shattered shrine. Of Veltrana's face. Of the demoness in the flames. He swallowed. "I think… some things don't die. Not truly."
Helena looked pleased by that answer, though she said nothing. Instead, she reached into her robes and pulled out a charm—a silver crescent marked with symbols he didn't recognize. "This was once worn by her priests," she said, handing it to him. "Veltrana's."
He took it, the metal cool against his palm. "Why give this to me?"
Her expression turned distant—then sharp. "Because soon, others will try to make you choose. And you must remember who truly sees you. The gods of this land are not gone. Only forgotten. Some of us… never forget."
Markos wanted to ask what she meant, but a bell rang out from the citadel walls—a signal to end the day's curfew. Torches were lit. Shadows stretched.
Helena turned to leave, her steps unnaturally quiet. "Wait," he called after her, "where are you going?"
She paused. Her voice was almost gentle, but something in it felt off-kilter. "To the temple quarter. There are memories there I wish to visit. Ones I would never let anyone erase."
And without another word, she vanished into the winding alleys of Scolacium, leaving Markos with the weight of her words, the silver charm, and a chill that hadn't been there before.