Basil stared at the Legate as if the man had suddenly sprouted horns.

Pissed himself? Father? That... that is not possible.

He tried to reconcile this image with the man he knew, the Prince who stood atop the hill, watching the long, grey lines of the retreating army with the detached gaze of a god.

He thought of his father’s hazel eyes; they were plain, dull, almost entirely normal, seemingly impossible to concord with the great man he were, yet were anything but that.

It was if he could see inside you, could see how weak and worthless and ugly you were down deep. When he looked at you, you knew and he knew both.

He was a man of fate, acting as if every victory was a foregone conclusion written in the stars long before he drew his sword.

The idea of that man with wet britches, warm liquid running down his legs in a fit of terror, was a cognitive leap Basil simply could not make.

The sun bathed Asag’s features, highlighting the satisfied, crooked curve of his lips at the surprise in the boy’s expression. He looked like a man savoring a particularly fine vintage of wine.

Basil shook his head firmly. "It’s impossible. You’re jesting."

"It happened, lad. Every bit of it," Asag said, his voice softening into the cadence of a storyteller. "It was a long time ago, long before you were birthed, long before we even carved our names into the dirt of Yarzat. At the very beginning of our story. Your father told you I saved his life once, didn’t he?"

Basil nodded slowly, his eyes narrowing with a wary curiosity.

"Well, perhaps he didn’t tell you the whole of it," Asag continued, leaning back against the slope, smiling as if he revelled getting that one over his father. "It was during the rising, back when we were nothing but slaves with the copper taste of hunger in our mouths. Your father had managed to hide a shard of pottery in his cheek; he used it to saw through the ropes of the main pen. He took command of a host of starving, plague-ridden men and pitted them against the finest army the continent could muster.

Luckily for us, their main force was miles away, trading blood with the Arlanians. Surprise was our only ally. If the camp guards had been given a moment to breathe, to form a line and counter-attack, we’d have been slaughtered in our chains."

Asag’s gaze drifted, seeing the ghost of a wooden tower in the morning mist.

"Your father took the lead. It was the only time he truly fought at the front, truth be told, and he nearly paid the bill in full. I found him pinned against the groaning wood of a watchtower. He was alone, his dagger lost somewhere in the sand below, and a guard was pressing a blade down toward his throat, slowly, inexorably.

I kicked the bastard off him and buried my knife in the man’s ribs two times before the third made scabbard in his neck.He would have died if I were not there..."

He chuckled,as it was some fond memory of his "When I looked down to help him up, I found what would one day become a Great Prince breathing like a winded horse, with dark, wet marks spreading down his legs.

He thanked me and asked my name. He didn’t even notice it in the rush of the adrenaline.Perhaps he did but shame stilled his tongue from speaking of it.

When I saw him an hour later, he was soaked from head to toe.He’d thrown himself into a water barrel to hide the shame before the others could see. But I knew. And he knew I knew.We never spoke of it, except now , that is. Fifteen years have passed , I am sure he will forgive me for this one."

He turned his grey-green eyes toward Basil, the mirth fading into something more profound. "That was the first time your father ever saw me. We’ve come a long way from that mud, he and I. A very long way."

As the tale drew to its close, Basil began to understand why Jarza spoke of Alpheo with such reverence. There had been hundreds of slaves in that Romelian camp, broken men treading the same dust, yet only one had possessed the gall to do what his father had done.

He remembered the day Father had finally confessed his origins. He had watched him with a hawk’s intensity, searching the boy’s face for any flicker of disgust at the thought of his own blood originating in a slave pen. But Basil had felt no shame, only a soaring marvel.

Who else could have bridged such a chasm? From hauling sacks under the bite of a whip to having emperors beseech him for alliances; from toiling in the filth of the pits to architecting the trade and infrastructure of a rising nation. Even the title of Prince felt like a small, cramped station for a man of such reach. He was as grand as the sky allowed, and not a hair less.

"Uncle," Basil whispered, his voice trembling with a sudden, heavy curiosity. "Do you think... do you think there is truth to what they say about father....about...you know."

Asag’s expression shifted, his grey frickled with a brush of green eyes fixing on Basil with a strange, unreadable look before his head snapped back in a sudden, bark of laughter.

"Gods above, lad," Asag wheezed, wiping a tear from his eye with a scarred knuckle. "You’ve been spending far too much time in Jarza’s company. I can smell the incense on you from here."

He leaned back, the mirth lingering in the deep lines of his face. "Alpheo is a man, Basil. Just a man. A remarkably stubborn one with a mind like a steel trap, but a man who bleeds red and fears the dark just like the rest of us.And once pissed himself also..."

"But Uncle Jarza says—"

"Jarza may think what he likes," Asag interrupted, his voice firm but not unkind. He held up a hand to still the boy’s protest. "If he finds happiness in his faith and sees the touch of the Five in every shadow, he is more than welcome to it. It’s a comfort to believe there’s a divine hand on the tiller when the storm is howling.I cannot get myself to share such warmth."

The legate looked back toward the camp, where the rising smoke of a hundred fires smeared the morning air. "I’ve seen your father at his lowest, boyo. I’ve seen him broken, and I’ve seen him terrified. To call him a god is to steal the credit for the work he did just to stay alive. A god doesn’t have to choose to be brave. A man does."

He paused, his gaze hardening as if he were staring at something far beyond the horizon. "And truth be told, I am not that close to them gods." He caught himself, his voice trailing off as he realized the weight of his own words.

"What do you mean?" Basil asked, his eyes wide with the raw, unfiltered curiosity of a child.

"It isn’t a proper thing to discuss, lad. Were a priest to hear me, I’d find myself in a world of trouble."

"As far as I can see, there isn’t a temple for miles," Basil countered, a small smile tugging at his lips. "And I’m unlikely to go into the church’s business, my father would be most wrought. If it helps, I can keep my eyes closed so I cannot see who is speaking."

The Legate let out a dry chuckle. "I suppose that won’t be needed." He shifted his weight, his wounded thigh protesting with a dull throb. "I simply don’t believe in them, Basil. That’s all. It’s not that I deny they exist, it’s just that I don’t believe in them the way the others do."

He looked at the boy, his eyes unsentimental. "I don’t believe your father was sent by them as an angel, as Jarza does. Nor is he the vessel for some Shakai-spirit, or whatever nonsense the Voghondai whisper in their fires whenever the prince gift them the sweet nectar of conquest. I don’t believe the gods have their hands in our pockets or our lives. The sheer conception of it is absolute horseshit and is deeply insulting"

Basil flinched at the profanity, but Asag pressed on. "If you spare even a sliver of your mind to think it over, it’s disgusting to suggest they have such sway. Though I’m not surprised; it’s easy for a feeble mind to believe everything will be all right if they just pray hard enough to a higher power. Just as it is to sell a story that people are desperate to hear."

He spat on the ground, his lip curling. "The gods are either jerking off at the sight of our agony, or they simply have no interest in us whatsoever. They didn’t care then, and they don’t care now.

I realized that the more I followed your father. I have led my Legion through the deepest maws of hell, witnessed the most horrific sights war can conjure, and delivered plenty of horror myself, whether by my own blade or the orders of my mouth.My hands are red with countless crimes, men I love are even worse than me. If there is an hell, I’ll burn in the deepest pit of it."

He sighed, looking up at the vast, indifferent grey-blue sky before turning away as if disgusted by its beauty.

"I once camped my men near a cluster of destroyed villages when we were being pressed by the rebels, that was after we had dealt with the Oizenian and Herculeian. I watched one of my legionnaires spoon-feed a starving girl who had wandered into our lines.

I asked him about it, and he told me her family had perished from hunger. Her father was the last to go. That child... her lips were green from the grass she’d been eating to stop the cramping. Her stomach was swollen, and her ribs poked through her skin like the hull of a wrecked ship.We probably caused thousands of those in Herculia when Alpheo gave the order.Countless such stories were written by our hand, that girl however was ours, so it was different, I suppose. I don’t really know why that is.’’ he closed his eyes for a moment before continuing

’’They say that as long as they pray, the Gods will provide. Can you imagine how much that girl and her family prayed not to starve? How fervor those chants were when one by one she saw her brother, her mother and then her father fall down into the green grass she ate for every meal? Very little it served her. Of that entire village, only she survived, saved by the pity of a man, not a god. Saved by flesh, not the divine."

He paused, a flicker of something human softening his gaze. "That soldier was infertile; he had always dreamed of a family. He was honorably discharged years ago, and he and that girl found their happy ending. But her mother, her father, her brother? They got nothing but dirt. People pray to the Weaver for mercy and the Father for justice. Hah." He chuckled.

"How convenient to think there’s a higher being who protects you from the ravages of war. A being who maintains your dignity and your happiness.Much is to be taken from me,boyo.

I had a handsome face once, many told me so, and for the whim of one envious, evil bastard, it was stripped away. I had a father who loved me and a mother who treasured me. Both dead. Both gone. Both ashes. Both ghots. Only I remain of their work.

I prayed for deliverance, and I was ignored. You know who didn’t ignore me?’’He didn’t wait for Basil to respond. ’’ Your father. I told him my story, and some months later, I found a lone, severed head waiting on my bed. I could have prayed until my tongue bled, and no god would have delivered the justice your father gave me."

He leaned in kissing the top of the black curls on Basil’s head.

"If the gods exist, they simply don’t care. Don’t ever make the mistake of thinking they’ll aid you. Life is unfair. That is the only truth. Trust only in what you can take for yourself and by those you can trust, unless you wish to be deeply disappointed never expect anything from them.

The Gods know I don’t.And I pray they now know that I am happy, now. Such beings’ll never have my worship, I promised it then.

And I stand by it now."