1.68

The Young Griffon

I leaned back.

Six Heroic cultivators crowded around the table alongside Sol and I. They had been at the furthest edges of the room when the story began, but now each of them leaned forward on elbows and crossed arms to get as close to the fading papyrus as they could.

In the dull silence that followed the story Chilon had gifted me, the world seemed to lose a certain quality that I hadn’t known it possessed before. Without the warmth of heroic glory suffusing the air, each breath felt colder in my lungs than it truly was. Without the lights of triumphant flame suffusing all above, the shadows in Elissa’s home seemed that much darker.

“-iffon?”

I blinked. Little King Leo tugged again on my arm, confused and wary. To my right the little sentinel, Pyr, crouched beside their guardian, watching Lefteris with concern.

“Yes?” I responded belatedly.

“When are you going to tell the story?” the little king asked as the last embers died out in the hearth and the papyrus dimmed.

“It’s already been told,” I informed him. His expression tightened indignantly, his distinguished nose wrinkling.

“Leo. Not now.” Lefteris shook his head once, his eyes riveted to the story on the table. The little king made to protest, thought better of it, and slunk back to his brother’s side.

In the weeks since my arrival at Olympia, I had achieved an adequate understanding of the Heroes and Heroines gathered around the stout wooden table. Nothing near what I wanted, but assuredly more than they were happy with me knowing. Their mannerisms, the quiet martial habits that they carried with them everywhere, as well as their feelings towards one another. There were power dynamics at play there, ire and affection depending on who was paired with whom.

It was a given that they had all known each other before Sol and I ever set foot in their city. Heroic cultivators weren’t nearly common enough for them to have missed each other. It was said that in a crowd of a hundred Citizens you might find only one lonely Philosopher. The same rule applied the further up you went. In a crowd of one hundred Philosophers and ten thousand Citizens, if you were fortunate, you might find a single shining Hero. The city of Olympia was an exception to this rule in some ways, especially when it came to her Tyrants, but not enough for these six to be unacquainted.

Our Heroic companions had history. They had enmity and affection for one another. The three that I had claimed as my own were friends, or at least friendly. Elissa was familiar enough with Kyno to not stab him when he held her back in her heated moments, and Kyno was familiar enough with her to know when she needed holding back. Lefteris liked them both well enough to try warning them away from me, and they liked him well enough to try to justify their involvement.

Sol’s companions, similar to the Roman himself, were a mess. Jason and Scythas kept company with each other but hated my three, and my three disdained them both in turn. Anastasia was somehow feared by all, in the way that hunting cats feared a cobra – a wary understanding of her nature. They weren’t cowed, but they kept their distance from her when they could. For her part, she regarded them with a cool amusement. Content to let them skirt around her.

All of that was gone now. Those small nuances that they so carefully kept, the thousand-thousand truths and convictions they had used to sculpt their identities. The interplay between each other. Whatever required conscious effort to maintain had been stripped away. Friends did not look to friends to discuss what we had just seen. Enemies said nothing to enemies as shoulders and knees brushed together at the crowded table.

Scythas, Elissa, Kyno, Lefteris, Jason, and Anastasia had each withdrawn into themselves, struck by a portion of what we had all seen. I knew them well enough to know it had been a different moment for every one of them that did it. I had my suspicions as to what those moments had been. But for now, I could still only guess as to why.

Finally, I glanced at the Roman directly across the table from me. Gray eyes stared piercingly back.

You didn’t know, the raven in his shadow whispered to mine under the table, quiet enough that the others wouldn’t hear.

There are many things I don’t yet know, the raven in my own shadow whispered back, levity in shifting ink. You’ll have to be more specific.

In lieu of a response, Sol clenched his fist and then slowly unclenched it on the table. His eyes trailed meaningfully down. I followed his gaze.

Hm.

I relaxed my right hand, dismissing fifteen hands of violent intent that had layered themselves in the same space. Pain drove through each finger like a needle as it uncurled. My nails weren’t long enough to break skin, but they had left four crescent grooves in the meat of my palm.

You didn’t read it first, Sol accused me.

There wasn’t time. I flexed blood back into my fingers, distantly observing the pain. If I had been taught the hunting bird’s breath, I could have dispersed it. Made it future strength.

So you laid it out in front of them. Legendary cultivators from all over the known world whose motivations and allegiances we still don’t fully understand. And you rolled the dice on this convincing them to work with us, rather than against. When you had no idea-

No.

I saw the storm gathering in his glare.

I knew it was a Hero’s story. Because the only other thing Chilon carried in his fishing net was the satchel of letters he’d never replied to. And I knew who it was about.

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

In a grand parade of one hundred heroes, only one among them could be expected to ascend to the realm of ravenous authority. It was only natural for that singular Hero to stand head and shoulders above the rest. A legend among legends. A Hero’s deeds were always worth hearing of, no matter if they lived and died at the lowest of the ranks. But that didn’t mean they were all equally inspiring.

Every Tyrant was once a Hero. Every Tyrant was once the greatest of one hundred greats. The magnitude of their deeds could only reflect that.

The details were irrelevant. What was important was that each of these wilting cultivators had seen what a Hero was meant to be. That even for just a moment, they had felt what they could feel if they only took the risk. Glory above all.

The contents didn’t matter.

I inhaled deeply, and listened past the roaring in my ears as my brother broke the silence.

“Elissa,” Sol said. “Do you have any wine?” The Sword Song stiffened and looked up from the table, blinking rapidly. Unaccompanied by her usual scorn, the scars that riddled her ceased to be fierce – they became something nearly tragic.