The Nameless Heir

Getting out was the easy part.

At first, he thought it would be difficult. The great lord of the sky had set a bounty on his head, and that kind of order usually turned rats into hunters.

It didn't.

The moment they learned what he had done, the world stepped aside. Eyes dropped. Mouths shut. The air shifted, as if the streets themselves wanted no part of him.

He walked without hurry, steps steady, cloak brushing his boots. A few lingered in the corners, watching, but none of them moved.

Pride sat in his chest, cold and certain. They feared him. And fear was the only shield worth keeping.

No one was foolish enough to trade their life for a wish they'd never live to ask for.

They waved their goodbyes, and he sent Alice back to the Underworld.

The air was cooler this high up, tugging at their hair, carrying the faint scent of the sea. Liz kept her gaze on her parents—now just small, distant shapes below.

He read it in the way her shoulders stayed turned, in how her breath caught every time the gap widened. She wasn't ready to leave.

"You can stay," he said quietly. "I'll come back for you after Orion and Selene."

No reply.

Her arms only tightened around him. She pressed her head to his back, the weight of it steady, the warmth soaking through the fabric. It wasn't desperation, but it carried the same refusal—like letting go meant more than just loosening her hands.

Then her grip shifted again, sharper this time, like she was upset.

"I didn't do anything," he said, tilting his head slightly as if that might draw a reaction.

"So… what did my mother talk to you about?" she asked.

He didn't answer right away. His gaze stayed on the horizon, the wind pulling at his hair.

After Apollo flew into the sun, she called him aside.

The queen had looked him straight in the eye before speaking, her voice steady but edged with something she'd carried for years. She told him about Liz's childhood.

Because she was a descendant of Apollo, she dreamed often. Some were harmless, even pleasant. Others were not. The bad ones came rarely, but always when she was happiest. Those were the dreams where she saw herself die.

And one day, she dreamed of a boy. Messy hair. Red eyes. A presence that pressed against the air like a god's. He stood before her, sword raised, smiling. That was the last time she ever dreamed of her death.

It explained why her mother faltered when he landed. Liz had been too young to remember, but her mother remembered every detail. The moment she saw him, the pieces fit.

All day, the queen had been cold toward him—measured looks, clipped words, a distance that said she wasn't convinced. But before he left, her expression softened. She gave him a single hug, brief but firm, and told him to protect Liz.

He didn't know how to answer that.

A faint weight settled in his chest. He felt bad—not because of her words, but because he'd never carried those dreams. He never had to wake in the dark with those images in his head. The only time he'd seen his past self was when he touched his father's sword… and found that sad, old man looking back at him.

He glanced at Liz. "Oh, she was telling me how violent you can be, and not to mind."

Her fist slammed into his arm without hesitation.

He let out a slow breath through his nose. "Yeah… she was right," he muttered, rubbing the spot. The ache stayed, sharper than it needed to be. She wasn't holding back.

He adjusted his grip on her before pushing higher into the air. Poseidria was a fair distance. They'd already lost a day with Apollis, and now he'd have to make up the time. Shadow travel would be faster, but too quiet. Too uneventful. Flying meant the gods could watch, and he didn't mind giving them a reason to.

Below, the world opened wide. Centaurs moved across the plains in small herds. A pegasus drifted through the clouds far ahead. Giants strode across the horizon like they'd been there long before any map was drawn.

Outside the academy, there was nothing to break the land. Just wind, sky, and the occasional creature big enough to remind him the world still had teeth.

The sun was dipping low before he noticed how much time had passed. He told Liz to get some sleep. She slid her arm around his waist, head settling against his shoulder, and was gone within moments.

He let a shadow coil around her—not because she needed it, but because it felt wrong to leave her uncovered.

The moon rose bright and clean. The ground below stretched on, empty. It made him think of Earth—the one from a few days ago. Roads choked with cars. Houses stacked on top of each other. Not a patch of land left untouched.

In all his lives, he'd never had one like that. No gods. No magic. Just people, trapped inside the smallness of their own reach.

A world without gods. He almost smiled at the thought.

A flicker of movement caught his eye—eagles, closing in. He didn't need to guess.

Still watching, Zeus?

He could almost imagine the god listening. You don't have to keep this up.

The reply came as a sharp screech.

So you are still upset.

The clouds thickened. Lightning danced inside them before breaking loose in a crack that split the air. Liz stirred and lifted her head.

"What happened?"

"He's mad again."

He glanced at Baal. Faster.

Poseidria was close now. The sky above it was heavy with cloud, but dry—as if the rain waited for its own permission.

On the ground, the king stood ready, soldiers lined beside him like part of the landscape.

He looked at Liz. "Stay here. Watch my back."

He stepped off the dragon. The wet mud sucked at his boots, but his stride didn't slow. His eyes stayed on the king.

"Kael Voss," he said flatly. "I'll be taking a ship."

The king didn't flinch, but there was a pause before he spoke. "We were told not to let you pass. The Abyssal Triangle isn't safe."

He tilted his head, letting his expression shift into something mocking—half pity, half boredom. "But I must," he said, tone dry. "Don't worry. I'll talk to Zeus. Or Poseidon. Whoever gave the order. We're very good friends."

"Sorry," the king said again, voice firmer. "You can't go."

The soldiers moved in. Spears rose. Shields angled forward.

His gaze slid over them. "Come on. I just fought someone not too long ago. Give me a break." The words carried a lazy edge, but his tone cooled on the last line. "Do you think you can stop me?"

No one answered. They didn't have to. He could read it in the way their grips shifted on the spears, in how their weight stayed too far back. They weren't confident. They were just following orders, hoping he'd turn around and leave.

He leapt back onto the dragon. "Well, sunshine, they won't give us a ship… so, yeah."

Liz was already tightening her bowstring. "Then let's finish this quick."

His smile didn't reach his eyes. "Don't shoot unless you have to. We're not here to kill them."

They're doing this not because they want to, but because they're forced to.

She gave a brief nod.

He stepped to the edge of the saddle, eyes on the line of soldiers below, then dropped back into the mud.

He took a single step forward. The front line stiffened. Shields inched higher.

"You know," he said quietly, "it's one thing to block my way when you believe you can win. But standing here like this?" His eyes moved over each face, slow enough for them to feel it. "That's just waiting to die."

One of the younger soldiers flinched. His grip shifted, the spear dipping before he yanked it back up.

He smiled—not wide, but enough.

"I'm asking for a ship," he went on. "Not your lives. You get to decide which is cheaper."

The king's jaw tightened, but he didn't speak. Instead, he stepped closer, testing the space between them. For a second, he thought the man might actually try.

He didn't.

The signal came, and the soldiers charged.

He drew his sword from the shadows, the steel catching what little light there was.

The first soldier lunged. He shifted his weight, letting the spear slide past his side, then snapped the hilt up into the back of the man's head. The soldier folded into the mud.

Another came in from the right. A shadow curled around his ankle and yanked. He stepped over him, tapped the hilt to his temple, and kept moving.

A third tried to circle in. He sank into the mud and came up behind him. One quick strike to the base of the skull, and the man went limp.

The next thrust came straight for him. He caught the shaft with the flat of his blade, pulled the soldier forward, and drove a shoulder into his chest. He hit the ground hard and stayed there.

Another charged head-on. He ducked under the swing, his shadow snapping against the man's helmet. The soldier staggered. He swept his legs and dropped the hilt into the back of his neck.

He didn't stop moving. The fight turned into a steady rhythm—step, strike, step, strike. Shadows hooked ankles, swept legs, tripped men into the mud. A sharp blow here, a quick tap there, each one dropping another soldier out of the fight.

One made a break for the castle. His shadow lashed out, caught his legs, and slammed him face-first into the ground.

When he stopped, the mud was littered with bodies. The last few soldiers gripped their weapons tighter but didn't step forward.

He rested the point of his sword toward the ground, eyes on the king.

"You're running out of pieces to move, old man."