My world is consumed by dough. Barred from pursuing most of my normal activities, I throw myself into the science of baking with a relish. Contessa only allows me to perform a light workout every morning to maintain my fighting trim. Pliny, likewise, watches me to ensure I only cultivate enough essence to refill my Ancient Frost Cor before banishing me from the loci for the day.

Rather than rage against the bars that prevent me from my path to Ascension, I spend my time scouring the markets around Anteforum, looking for new wheat to try. I learn to bake dark rye, to nurture the strange living mess that becomes sourdough. I experiment with grains that have gone through different levels of grinding, resulting in finer or coarser flour.

I do not gain a new attunement to the Symbol of Bread, but I do begin to develop an affinity for the work that is all me. The cooks no longer grumble about my presence, accepting me as a part of their landscape.

With each day, I feel a little closer to my missing friend. A little bit of the guilt I carry for losing him in the snow of the North melts from my shoulders. There is no Thanatos to bring his soul to Hades, no everflame burning at his grave to guide him home. But maybe my newfound appreciation for bread will be enough of a beacon.

Despite the centering I find in this exercise, I know that it will not last forever. My path is not one of peace and tranquility. I may be allowed to visit them from time to time, but I can never stay there. I bring destruction and ruin in my wake. I am in the gaze of the Goddess of Vengeance, and even in death, she follows behind me with whips, driving me forward.

My two Ironbound shadows follow me through the market as I head toward my favorite vendor, Vanta, the woman who first sold me Segestan wheat. I smile at the men and women who call at me as I pass, hawking their wares.

They are used to my presence and know that I will sometimes purchase things that few of my status are interested in. How often does an electus come to their market and buy flour? They must think I am mad, but my denarii are real, so they are happy to indulge me.

In my head, I mull over an idea for a new dough recipe, mixing two different types of flour to achieve something new. I am not quite sure what exactly, but my instincts tell me it will have a different texture, and I am curious to try it.

To my surprise, Vanta is nowhere to be seen. Her stall lies empty, closed for business despite it being early in the day. Peering inside the little shack, I can see several baskets of flour waiting to be shown to buyers. I cannot imagine why she would not be here when the crowds are the thickest.

The danger comes so quickly that I do not notice its approach. I am here as a baker and not constantly sweeping for enemies with my animus as I move. Even if I was, I’m not sure I would have been fast enough to save the guards from the sudden burst of violence that erupts in the middle of the market.

A woman wrapped in a heavy cloak and carrying a child passes behind Atrius. As she does, she twists sharply, pulling a shortsword from the bundle of swaddling cloth at her chest and driving it into the back of the Ironbound’s neck with uncanny precision.

“’Ware!” I bark to Shotus, the second man, falling back on my legion training in a heartbeat. My animus explodes out around me as I embrace my Silver Symbols, focusing on Iron as I sweep for more attackers. My stomach drops as I feel five weapons in the crowd around us, all concealed under disguises like the first sicarus wore.

Shotus draws his blade and moves forward to challenge the woman who murdered his partner. She wisely retreats, having no interest in letting the Ironbound touch her sword. I carry no swords with me, but thanks to Aquilo, I am never without teeth.

My hands snap to the side, each curled in preparation to hold the hilts of a Glacialis Falx. Ancient Frost essence flows through me as I use my ability to manifest essence into physical form. The power courses through my Cor veins and slams against a hard, unyielding wall at the surface of my palms, stopping it in its tracks. Something blocks my Winter Symbol with incredible force. I can still feel it simmering coldly within me, but I cannot extend it beyond myself.

I freeze in stupefied terror as my blades refuse to form. I do not know what to do. I am outnumbered and unarmed, far from the safety of Domus Pelias’s estate. My Iron Symbol warns me as someone rushes me from behind, armed with a similar blade. I hear his feet crunch on the stones. He moves with purpose—to kill me.

I twist without looking, dropping my right hand on his wrist. My fingers dig into his flesh as I twist, snapping the weapon out of his grip. It clatters to the cobblestone at our feet, out of both of our reaches.

I stagger in pain as he drives his left fist into my kidneys from behind in a cruel punch. I let go of his wrist, deliberately stomping backward with my boots to tread on his sandaled feet. He lets out a scream of pain, and I feel something crunch under my heel. I turn to my left, driving my fist into his ribs with all the power my Cor-infused body can muster. I use Iron to reinforce my finger bones, keeping them from shattering under the force. It still stings when my hand bounces off his bones, but the anger burning in me eats the hurt gladly.

The sicarus staggers back, reeling from the force of my strike. Under his sleeve, I catch the telltale glint of Silver veins running through his dusky skin. Whoever he is, he is an electus of the same caliber as me. Well, almost the same caliber.

There are no argentum like me.

I take advantage of his momentary reset to press myself forward, staying inside his guard. My fists flash as I pummel his body, unleashing the full extent of my strength. There are more rushing to his aid. I cannot afford to take my time finishing this would-be assassin off.

My anger burns like a living inferno, and to my surprise, the Symbol of Unrelenting Fire leaps into my empty mind easily, like a child eager to take its turn. It is not bound like Ancient Frost, only limited by its tier. I cannot use it against anything I cannot reach.

My assailant is well-trained. He weathers my storm of blows, finding the space in my tempo to try to break free and take control of our dance. His hand catches my left wrist, squeezing it with the same Silver strength that I use against him.

Instinct takes over, and I slap him in the face, closing my fingers down to hold on to his head so he cannot break contact. As we touch, I release Unrelenting Fire like a rabid hound, and it hunts. I cannot manifest fire the same way that I can ice. Conjuring a physical element out of thin air is a rare and special ability. However, flame is not truly a solid. I cannot use it to make a sword and stab someone. It exists only as vis—energy—and essence has plenty of vis. Heat erupts from my hand, powered by my reserves, driven by my will.

I cannot tell what type of Symbol this electus is bound to, but I am certain it is not in the ignis domus. I can feel his will faintly scrabbling against mine as I shove the fire into him, but his lack of congruency renders him impotent. He lets go of my wrist, clawing at my hand wrapped around his face. But it is already too late.

The assassin’s scream is truly horrible. Steam erupts from his mouth as an unstoppable, unquenchable fire devours him from the inside out. The fight around us grinds to a halt as he collapses to his knees, already dead. His eyes are gone, consumed by the fire that rages within him. I turn my back on him to face the other sicarii, grateful that I don’t have to keep looking at the horror I have created.

Ancient Frost’s calming effect is reduced while Unrelenting Fire is my foremost Symbol. Its heat makes me less congruent to my own Symbol. Instead, I rely on Iron, which is not as cold, but it is hard.

The woman who killed Atrius lies next to him, dispatched by Shotus. The lone legionnaire is surrounded by three more killers, but he has been holding them at bay with his scutum, doing the Iron Legions proud. All four of them are frozen now, staring at me in horror. The assassins are wrapped in loose clothing, their faces obscured by hoods and veils. Any innocent bystanders have all fled, wisely wanting no part of a contest between electi.

A couple of puzzle pieces click together at the same moment. This is a trap meant to kill me specifically, and if I was only bound to Ancient Frost, I would already be dead. Whatever relic or power that is making it possible for them to block me from using my Symbol is absolute in its power. It reminds me of Aquilo’s will crushing me in the white abyss where his throne sits.

I stare at the three attackers, bending down to pick up the dead assassin’s fallen shortsword without looking. I roll my neck to release some of the tension in it as I straighten up, no longer thinking about bread.

“Now, then,” I say into the suddenly quiet market. “I think you three are looking for me?”

None of them respond, but one of them turns toward me, leaving the other two to keep Shotus contained. My smile grows as I step to meet him, swinging my stolen blade a few times to get a feel for its balance. I would do anything for a gladius, but it is Iron, and that will suffice.

“Just one?” I laugh condescendingly at the wrapped attacker. “Brave of you.” The attacker does not respond, but a tremor of worry runs down my spine as he tosses his sword to the side, like a worthless trinket. I cannot see the Cor veins under his clothes, but he moves with a confidence and power that tells me he has Ascended at least once.

A leather pouch hangs from his belt that his left hand moves to adjust, almost a habitual motion. My eyes narrow in suspicion. I’m guessing that holds the relic that blocks me from using Ancient Frost.

“So that’s how you’re doing it,” I say conversationally, taunting him. He shrugs slightly, unperturbed. He thinks I am already dead. But his charred compatriot behind me should be a warning that I still have some teeth. Tired of waiting, I step forward, giving my sword a little twirl as I try to close with the big man.

I stop cold as he draws a long, white dagger from behind his back, holding it easily in a reverse grip. Tellus. My heart skips a beat as I stare at the Symbolless ceramic, finally understanding what is at play. I have seen this krakenus-branded knife twice before.

Once when it was used to threaten me and my friends in Agogia and again when it was used to kill Macer. It belongs to Brennus Valerus, nephew of the Empress.

I am discovered. My old rival has come to finish me off. But then again, only my access to Ancient Frost has been restricted. If Brennus truly knew who I was, they would have tried to seal me away from Iron too.

I am the rising star of Domus Pelias, a chance for the family to escape the trap that has been built for them. I killed one of Domus Valerus’s favorite gladiators. I embarrassed Brennus in the basement of the arena. Any of those moments make me a prime target for assassination. Especially pricking that idiot’s pride. Stupid, I curse myself, for coming to buy wheat without your sword.

I was a fool for letting myself be distracted by bread. It did not fix my life or undo the votum that I labor under, but for a little while, I finally felt light again.

But now Brennus and his killers seek to take this peace from me. A grim chuckle escapes from my lips as I eye the tellus blade warily. I find it amusing that I have managed to make Brennus hate me enough to try to kill me as two different people.

The assassin hesitates no longer, leaping forward, slashing at me with his weapon that is blank to my senses. I still have my eyes, but I feel blind as I catch his weapon with my shortsword, reinforcing the iron as the tellus tries to carve it like butter. The ceramic is impossibly strong and sharp. No wonder the Censors guard it so jealously.

A strange numbing sensation flows down my arm, like I have touched some sort of endless void. I try to shove my animus through my blade into his, but there is nothing there. All elements share at least the congruency of existing, but his knife is foreign even to that.

My one advantage is that my weapon is longer than his, which means I can keep him at a distance. I know little about knife fighting. From what I have seen, it is more like a fistfight with sharp edges than it is like a proper duel. I have no interest in being educated by this assassin, who clearly knows his business.

We exchange another series of blows at lightning speed. He is at least a Silver electus. It takes all my focus to keep up with him. I do not have the time to even consider a counterattack. My Iron Symbol pulses in bruised pain from the numb pressure of the foreign ceramic. If not for the teachings of Durus, of Gaius, and Contessa, I would die in our opening exchange.

Instead, I only bleed. The assassin feints right before dropping his knife underneath my sword and stepping forward to cut at me as he flies past. I understand his move a couple steps too late, but early enough to keep him from burying the tellus blade up to its hilt in my chest.

Instead, it scores a long line of fire across my ribs. Even Ancient Frost’s chill cannot keep me from screaming in pain as my blood splatters on the stones. I turn, placing my left hand on the wound to check how bad it is, as I continue to drive at him with the sword in my right. He dances out of my range, clearly not willing to let me get my hands on him after what I did to his charred compatriot.

I snarl in rage. I am outclassed by this warrior in every way. He is stronger and faster, even if he does not seem to be actively using his Symbol against me. But more than that—he is better than I am.

My attunements give me incredible power, but without them, I am revealed as a pretender. In the North, I could feel the footsteps of my enemies on the ice, betraying their intentions as they shifted the weight on the balls of their feet. Against anyone carrying an iron blade, it is child’s play for me to follow their movements, to read their plans in the angles of their weapon.

But these advantages are crutches. Without them, I am lame, unable to keep up with a real fighter. Contessa is right that I need to become more than this. How am I ever going to kill Atticus if I can’t fight on my own?

Heavy certainty begins to build in my chest as I stare at my opponent. I am going to die here. Shotus still battles the other two behind me, but they keep him contained—unable to come to my aid. At the end every man must stand alone. I do so now.

The sicarus circles me, confident now that I am bleeding. My demise is a certainty that we both understand—the inevitable end of this encounter. All that is left is to finish the rest of the dance before the song is done. I square my shoulders, thinking of the brave men I have watched go to their end. Marcus showed no fear when he stood against Astrid. I will follow his example, one last time.

“Well?” I ask, extending my blade toward my enemy, meeting his dark-eyed gaze with a ghost of a smile. “I believe it is your move.” He shrugs, willing to accept the invitation. There is no fear in him. He closes the distance between us in two long strides, tellus knife moving to knock my shortsword to the side.

I steal his move from earlier, dropping the point of my weapon so that his weapon passes over it. I have just enough time to see his eyes widen in surprise before I explode forward, trying to drive my sword into his guts. He leans into his superior speed—he must be at the peak of Silver—twisting away from my attack.

I realize my error as he moves closer, getting inside my guard, fists flashing as he drives a powerful punch into the wound on my ribs. I choke down a scream, barely managing to block a stab from his knife that would have opened another hole in my chest.

We exchange a series of frantic blows. It is more like a back-alley brawl than a true fight. Another line of fire sears across my arm as I earn another cut. I lose the tempo of the exchange, falling behind. It is all I can do to survive. Soon, I will not be able to do that.

In a lucky twist of the fight, I manage to grab his wrist with my left hand and unleash Unrelenting Fire. The ravenous essence pours out of me, eager to devour more flesh. But instead of burning into the man like it did with his ally, I let out a gasp as my animus slams into a stone wall of will. Whatever his Symbol is, its congruency is more than enough for his Silver Cor to rebuff my Copper one. Desperate to escape, I drive my knee into his groin. He staggers back a couple of steps, and I retreat, panting and bleeding from several wounds.

My eyes flicker from his bloody tellus knife to the bag that hangs from his belt as an idea begins to form. It is not a good one. In fact, it might be the worst I have ever had. Which, given that I have made three different vota with dead gods, is saying something.

There is only one way that I can defeat this assassin. Ancient Frost’s animus rages impotently at the barriers that lock it within me. I hammer at it with my will, but no cracks appear. The wall is just as unyielding as it has been.

My Iron is useless. Unrelenting Fire is outclassed, unable to find any purchase through his mental armor. As long as the relic that he carries is active, I am denied the Winter Symbol’s aid.

Here we go, I complain to myself as I realize that I have already committed to the plan that I do not think will work. I lunge toward the sicarus, not willing to wait until I bleed more of my strength out on the stones at our feet.

He meets me easily, blocking my strike with his knife, forcing it high, and stepping back into dangerous range. I welcome him, throwing a punch at his kidney with my left fist while I try to pull my sword back into the fight.

It is a mistake that leaves my chest open for a quick attack. Ready to finish me off, he takes the opening, ducking and bending his wrist inward as he lunges forward with his knife still held in a reverse grip.

Just like I hoped.

I sidestep, rising up on my tiptoes so that the tellus blade bites into my upper right chest, far away from my flesh-and-blood heart. I scream as white-hot fire burns through me. Iron numbs the pain as much as it can, keeping me from fainting from the pain.

The assassin’s eyes widen as he tries to pull his blade from me, but I lunge toward him, keeping it buried in me. He staggers backward, trying to create enough space to free his weapon. I slam him into the side of a vendor’s stall.

My left hand shoots out, reaching for the pouch that hangs from his belt. His free hand reaches down to protect it, but he is too late, distracted by the knife he cannot get free from my chest. I rip the bag free, leaping back from the man. The tellus blade slides out of me and I cry out in agony. Its edge is sharper than anything I have ever felt. It cuts through me like I am paper.

I stagger slightly, lightheaded from the blood I have lost, but not without my prize. The sicarus tries to follow me, but I throw my shortsword at him, forcing him to duck. I won’t need it anymore. Either this move will result in my salvation, or I will be too weak to fight him any longer.

I thrust my right hand into the pouch and grab the heavy metallic object that rests inside. I rip it free, feeling my desperate smile widen as I spy the dark gray of dead Cor. Set on the surface in golden lines is the outline of a jagged crown, the sign of Ancient Frost. It is the same design that appeared on the Censor’s relic when they tested my Symbol after Varus bought me.

We told her. I remember Xania’s reaction to hearing that I bore an Elder Symbol. We told her exactly what she needed to block. Suddenly, I am no longer sure if Brennus did this on his own.

The sound of feet scuffling on the cobblestones pulls me from my study of the relic. With a wrench, I pry the golden outline from the surface. It pops out easily, designed to be replaceable. With a disgusted toss, I throw the pieces to the ground, smiling as the weight of the relic’s nullification lifts from me.

Ancient Frost leaps eagerly to my call. It has been with me this whole fight, but I have not touched its essence reserves. They are teeming to the brim, ready to obey my commands. I stagger slightly, as my weakened body struggles to hold me upright. I do not have much time left. Shotus still fights with the other two sicarii a dozen paces away. Even if I kill this one, it may not be enough for us to survive. A certain kind of clarity descends upon me as I come close to death.

But the grave is cold and familiar.

It is not truly a Winter Symbol, but it is congruent. I feel its icy fingers reaching for me, and I see the path. It is easy for me to seize all the essence within my Cor, every single ounce of it, and wrap it up in my will. If being close to fire makes it harder for me to use Ancient Frost, then dying makes it easier. I am united with Ancient Frost in a way that I have only ever been once before. I understand what the Glacialis Falx can truly do. The Frozen Sword is poorly named, for that is the least of its creations.

I now see why the dead God of Winter named me Cold Wind before the consul did.

I trigger my ability, manifesting my frozen essence into ice. The frozen gladius grows out of my hand in an instant. It appears in the space between heartbeats. That familiar wall of resistance forms in my mind, restricting what I can manifest, limiting the Glacialis Falx to what Aquilo bestowed upon me.

I am so cold.

The power coursing through me cannot be contained by something so frail. I feel it bulge and crack under the force of my power and will. It resists my command, but I cannot be denied. My sword swells as it absorbs the torrent of essence pouring out of my Cor. Then it shatters like crystal, exploding into a thousand pieces that shoot out before me like shrapnel.

Freed of its restricting vessel, Ancient Frost sweeps out of me, flowing across the ground. I expect it to form a thin layer of ice, but I underestimate what my Heart is truly capable of. Winter spreads like wildfire across the market. It covers the ground and sweeps up the sides of vendor stalls. The temperature plummets as if the market were transported into the depths of the North. Nothing within fifty paces escapes my cold touch.

All four of the other fighters freeze, stunned by my power. I laugh in delight, despite the monumental cost of essence. I can feel the footsteps of the other combatants breaking through its crust. It is like I am back in the North with my brothers, hunting Normans.

I think my veins are burning with the effort of using all my Ancient Frost essence at once, but I can’t feel them very well. My world is numb; the edges of my vision begin to go black. Only the knowledge granted by my Symbol does not fade. It burns brightly in my mind like Sol on a cloudless day.

I am not done. I have enough essence left for one more move. My open hand curls into a fist, and I think of Vixa and her stolen Earth Symbol. Nine spears burst from the ground like rapidly growing stalagmites, growing in the blink of an eye. Three of them stab through each of the sicarii, impaling them where they stand.

All of them die instantly, unable to fall to the ground, propped up by my spikes. Shotus lowers his shield and stares at me with wide eyes, panting with exertion. Silence descends on the market, like the deep woods of the North buried in winter. My smile is vicious and cruel. Inside of my body, the last of my Ancient Frost essence is consumed, leaving my reserve barren and empty. I have hit the crassamentum—the dregs.

“I’m going to need you to carry me,” I tell the Ironbound before the darkness takes me.