III Orion: Paragon

Orion carefully inspects the old cart. The axle and wheels still look sturdy, and the grain is securely loaded on the bed. He has already hitched the oxen, and they lazily graze on the last patches of grass still growing from the ground. Their best years are behind them, but they should still be able to pull the plow and cart for some time yet. At least, they will have to, because a new animal costs a small fortune, and that kind of expense was never part of the plan.
Even though the harvest has been good this year, they need new tools first: the plow is rusting, and yesterday cost them both a pitchfork and an axe. The sheep that were torn apart will be expensive losses as well. Their wool could have been sold for a good price or spun into clothing.
All of it comes at a bad time, especially if the winter turns out as harsh as the augury foretold.
Illias and Helen have already made themselves comfortable on the cart bed, while Scylla paces back and forth anxiously because Philo never appeared for the family breakfast. He insists that everything is fine, but judging by the state he was in last night, getting the giant ready for the journey may prove difficult.
“Should I go inside and help him?” Orion asks.
“He said he can manage on his own,” Scylla replies hesitantly. “You know how stubborn he is.”
“Pride or no pride, I’m getting him, or we’ll never make it to Paragon.”
He sets one foot on the first step when Bella comes racing out of the house, laughing loudly, with a panting Philo close behind her. He catches up, grabs her, and lifts her into the air.
Orion watches in disbelief as his brother lowers Bella into the straw, gives Scylla a passionate kiss, then takes his place on the passenger seat, whistling his little tune.
“You planning to stand there forever, or should I drive?”
Still incredulous, Orion sits down beside him. “How’s the foot? Looked pretty bad yesterday.”
Defiantly, Philo stamps it against the wood. “Good as new.” Then he raises his voice so everyone can hear him. “That’s love for you, little brother! That’s what happens when the best woman in the world takes care of you!”
Scylla’s face flushes red, and when Helen whispers something in her ear, she looks shyly down at the ground.
“Your scrapes are gone too,” Orion remarks.
“You planning to spend the whole morning pestering me with questions? Come on, get moving before Grandfather notices we still haven’t left.”
Orion shrugs and raises the reins, but before he can urge the oxen forward, the front door flies open with a crash and Grandfather comes limping toward them, cursing all the way.

The leg he broke years ago never healed properly, and even with a crutch he struggles to walk. With his shaggy gray hair and wildly overgrown beard, he looks like an old billy goat, and he is just as fond of complaining about everything that displeases him.
“You still haven’t left?” he asks in a voice like fingernails scraping across a slate. “What a useless bunch you are! Did everyone sleep well and have a nice hearty breakfast? Why not put your feet up a little longer! No need to earn money or take the boy to the healer. After all, tomorrow’s another day!”
“We were just about to leave. Philo took a little longer!”
“In case you haven’t noticed, Orion, that simple-minded giant takes longer at everything. Thinking, working—only when it comes to eating is he faster than everyone else!”
While Philo pretends not to hear him, Illias and Bella double over with laughter on the cart bed, and Grandfather shoots them a venomous look. “And you could stand to raise those children properly! Young people should show respect to their elders, or they’ll get what’s coming to them!” He raises his stick threateningly, waves it around so wildly that he nearly loses his balance.
“Was there something else you wanted?” Orion asks impatiently. Grandfather beckons him closer with an air of secrecy and lowers his voice, though he still speaks loudly enough for everyone to hear.
“Get a good price, and for the gods’ sake don’t let Philo handle it. He hasn’t got the knack for that sort of thing. And while you’re at Silvana’s, get me some ointment for these boils. They’re driving me mad!”
The children can no longer contain their laughter, and even Scylla and Helen struggle not to burst out laughing.
“Yeah, yeah, just wait until you’re old yourselves,” Grandfather grumbles, striking the side of the cart with his crutch.
Orion rolls his eyes and gives the oxen the command to move, but before they are out of earshot, he turns back toward the old man once more. “Even if you’re every bit as useless as you are old, please watch the farm—and don’t die, so we can keep enjoying your company for as long as possible!”
A stream of furious curses follows them until the cart rounds a bend and the farm disappears behind a sea of trees.

They follow a path buried beneath fallen leaves and broken branches, with a river flowing alongside them. The rushing current leads directly to Paragon, vanishes into an underground cave system, and emerges again on the far side of the settlement. Wells carved deep into the rock allow the villagers to draw fresh drinking water from it.
That, combined with its central location among the surrounding farms, makes the settlement a popular trading post. Caravans from distant lands often stop there on their travels, rent a soft bed for the night, and enjoy protection from raiders.
Paragon may be little more than a sleepy backwater, but its palisades are thick and its guards attentive.
Excitement runs high on the cart bed. Visits to the settlement are rare, and so they not only discuss everything that happened the day before but also go over every purchase they intend to make.
Scylla gushes about the new dress Philo promised her, describing the cut, color, buttons, and ruffles in painstaking detail. Jealously, Helen remarks that Orion has not bought her a dress in ages and that she is tired of sewing her own. Instead, she is already looking forward to a new rolling pin and baking molds and explains what cake she intends to bake in spring to thank the gods for seeing them safely through the winter.
Illias tells Bella the story of yesterday’s hunt again and again. Each time, it becomes wilder and more spectacular, and whenever he reaches the part where Philo plunges into the abyss, Bella claps both hands over her mouth in horror, only to breathe a sigh of relief when Illias finds him injured but very much alive.
Orion listens to the tune his brother is whistling and hums along contentedly. Without exchanging a word, they understand one another, enjoying the gentle rocking of the cart and the peace around them.
There is no other man he trusts so completely.

Columns of smoke rise above the thinning forest, and crimson roof tiles adorn the simple timber-framed houses.
Massive palisades block their path until the wooden gate swings open and the guard raises his spear in greeting. “Anything new in Oak Valley?”
“The sun comes up in the morning and goes down again at night,” Orion replies with a smile. “Is Theophilus around?”
Thoughtfully, the man scratches his sparse beard and points his spear toward the main building. “Unless I’m mistaken, he should still be holding a meeting at the town hall.”
Orion nods his thanks, and the guard returns to his duties.
The road of roughly cut cobblestones leads to the settlement’s most important places: the market square, the town hall, and Silvana’s cottage. Freshly baked bread lies on display at the baker’s, and its sweet aroma fills Orion’s nose. He would love to buy one or two loaves for tomorrow’s breakfast, just once without having to count every copper coin; perhaps next time.
Wiping sweat from his brow, the blacksmith pauses briefly, greets them with a curt “Hello,” then returns to his work. Over the steady pounding of his hammer, the barber calls out his promise of the finest shave and the best haircut in town.
Orion ties the cart beside the modest, almost tiny market square, and several caravans immediately catch his eye. Foreign-looking merchants and mercenaries carry crates and goods into the small tavern, which is nearly bursting with guests. Winter is approaching, and no one wants to face it unprepared.

Helen, Scylla, and Bella head for the tool merchant, while the others have a visit to Silvana ahead of them. Afterward, they will sell the grain at the market and report the successful hunt to the mayor.
Near the stone well stands a wooden shack. Above the door swings a sign depicting two snakes coiled around a cross: the symbol of the healers.
“Do we really have to go to her? I don’t like her,” Illias asks, but his father pushes him through the door, with Philo trudging in behind them.
A bell rings, and from behind shelves crammed with herbs, envelopes, bandages, and measuring cups comes a faint, irritated voice. “How many times do I have to tell you? The rash isn’t contagious, and it isn’t going to fall off!”
A middle-aged woman in a white linen dress and a cap over her hair balances several jugs onto a nearby desk and looks relieved when she recognizes her visitors.
“Praise the gods, it’s you. How persistent can one man be just because he has pus-filled boils on his… Oh, never mind.” She looks the three of them up and down, places a hand on each of their foreheads, and checks their pulses. “Couldn’t Illias have come by himself? I can’t stand worried parents taking up what little space I have!”
“Twisted my foot yesterday. Maybe you could take a look at it so I can head to the market afterward,” Philo mutters, and Silvana points toward the freshly made bed.
Roughly, she twists his foot in every direction, pulls and tugs at it, then turns toward Illias with an annoyed expression.
“No internal or external injuries, and no infection either. Unusual for a lumbering oaf like you, but could you please finally get out of here!”
Her words are barely more than a whisper, but her expression leaves no room for doubt.
“Sorry, Silvana. Thank you, Silvana,” the giant stammers before stumbling hastily outside.
“You! Sit down! Shirt off!” Her irritated tone permits no argument, and Illias obediently removes his shirt. She examines the bandage, shakes her head, and mutters something about “amateurish work.”
Orion cautiously points out that the wound has already been washed with hot wine.
“Helen at least has some skill when it comes to treating wounds. No pus. The wound isn’t weeping or giving off a foul smell… those are good signs. I’ll put some ointment on it. Would be a shame if the arm rotted off.”
With the hint of a smile, Silvana disappears between the shelves while Illias looks fearfully at his father, who shakes his head emphatically.
Without hesitation, she selects one jug from among a hundred others and tucks a loose strand of hair back beneath her cap. “Don’t move… nice and steady…”
The boy grimaces in pain. Orion gently strokes his hair while Silvana prepares needle and thread.
“What happened, and why?” she asks, staring intently at Illias.
Orion clears his throat to explain, but falls silent again when he sees Silvana’s angry look. “I want to hear it from him,” she whispers.
“We killed three breedings! They were eating our animals, and Father said that once they finished with the livestock, they’d eat us too.” Illias groans in pain as the healer pulls the wound closed and ties the thread. “I was supposed to stay back with the bow, but Philo fell into an abyss, so I had to help fight the male. Put an arrow right through its skull, but it bit me first.”
“And now you’re a beast-slayer, like the heroes in the legends?”
“Of course. Soon you’ll be hearing the greatest songs and stories about me,” Illias replies with a laugh.
“Heracles, Achilles, Jason. Everyone knows their names, but people quickly forget that they either lived short lives or died horrible deaths. Often both. And it wasn’t only them—their followers were eaten or cut to pieces too. The brave and foolish die quickly. The clever and cowardly live long and fulfilling lives.” Silvana ties one final knot, wraps a fresh bandage around the wound, then pulls the boy close with a firm grip. “It doesn’t look pretty, but it’ll hold. I don’t want to hear any more stories about adventures or breedings from you. Now get out! Orion, you stay!”
Illias leaves with his head hanging low, and then she turns on Orion.
“I thought you were clever enough to keep him out of things like this!”
“We need every pair of hands on the farm, and he’s old enough to take responsibility. I had no other choice.” Nervously, he lowers his gaze, avoiding her furious eyes.
“I brought that boy into this world. I don’t want him joining the ranks of dead would-be heroes. How is Grandfather?”
“His leg and the boils are giving him trouble. And he deals with the loss in his own way…”
“It’s never easy for a man to outlive his wife and child. Try to be patient with him. I’ll come visit you in two weeks and take a look at the boy and Grandfather. I’ll give you some bandages to change the dressing and an ointment for the boils. And Orion…”
He raises his head.
“If that’s everything, you know where the door is!”

Carrying a basket packed to the brim, Orion leaves the cottage, glad to have survived the encounter.
Illias is leaning over the well in the gathering square, gloomily tossing a stone into it.
“Don’t look so miserable. We got off lightly enough,” Orion says, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly.
“She didn’t have one good thing to say about me. I saved your lives, and that’s why she puts me down?”
“That’s just her way. As a healer, she worries about everyone living in and around Paragon. Once, I got a splinter that became infected. I thought she was going to eat me alive.”
The boy throws an especially large stone into the well and watches as the rushing water carries it away. “Will I have to live on the farm forever?”
“Of course. One day, when you have a wife and child of your own and I’m an old man, it’ll be yours. We’ve been farmers for as long as I can remember, and if the gods will it, we’ll still be farmers a hundred generations from now.”
“And what if I’d rather travel the world and have adventures?” Illias asks.
“Why would you want that? The simple life is in our blood. It’s what we do best. In a few years, you’ll realize there’s nothing you enjoy more than scattering seed and swinging a sickle.”
Sadly, the boy looks down into the shaft and listens to the roar of the flowing water.
“Look, when I was young, I wasn’t thrilled about the future laid out for me either. But if I’d gone out into the world, I never would have met your mother, and I never would have had you.” Orion gently takes his son by the shoulder and pulls him close. “You changed everything. When I held you in my arms, only a few breaths old, I felt true humility. Humility before life and the gods. And I swore I would protect everything I love: you, your mother, Philo, and his family.”
Throwing one last stone into the depths, Illias looks up at his father and smiles. “That was beautifully said.”
“Good, because if we don’t hurry up and report to the village elder, your mother will make our lives hell.”

The heavy oak door slams shut behind them, and two men bent over a table in heated discussion look up.
The older of the two, with thinning gray hair, a full beard, and round cracked spectacles, approaches them with a broad smile. His white tunic and red sash flutter with every step as he greets the newcomers warmly.
“Orion, Illias! It feels like an eternity. Look how tall and strong the boy has grown. Constantine and I were in the middle of an important discussion about preparations for the coming winter.”
He nods toward the other man, who stands with his hands planted on his hips and clearly has no intention of giving up his position just yet.
“Perhaps you can convince him that with two storehouses full of provisions, we are very well prepared.”
“You’re taking this far too lightly,” Constantine says. “The food will last a month and a half. Two and a half if we ration it. What if the winter lasts longer? And we don’t have enough firewood. I suggest sending the hunters and woodcutters out again.”
“Nonsense. Everyone is exhausted from the harvest and all the preparations. Give them some rest. What do you think of his proposal, Orion?”
The mayor waits attentively for his answer.
“Theophilus, I don’t think my humble opinion matters.”
“Orion, please call me Theo. Speak freely! You are the foundation of this village. I am only its elected representative. In a democracy, exchanging views is important if we want to find the best solution. My opinion is no better than yours.”
“Well…” Orion clears his throat. “The augury foretold a long, harsh winter, and wild animals are desperate enough to search for food in Oak Valley. If you ask me, Theophilus, we should prepare as well as we possibly can. Send them out again.”
Constantine claps his hands and raises his arms as though thanking the gods for their support. “I told you. Better to expect the worst than be caught by surprise.”
But Theophilus waves the remark aside, and the cheerful expression he wore before darkens. “What was that you said about wild animals?”
Orion tells them about the fight with the breedings and Illias’s role in bringing down the male.
“Fine work, boy,” Constantine says from beside the fireplace, nodding approvingly.
The mayor pats Illias on the shoulder. “Killing a breeding isn’t easy. Tough beasts, I tell you. More than a few travelers have met their end because of them. Has anyone ever told you why we call them that?”
Illias shakes his head, eager to learn more.
“Once, they were the pets and livestock of the ancestors. But they turned feral, bred with their wild relatives, and became the creatures we fear today. Hard to believe they were once said to barely reach a man’s knees. To be honest, I see great potential in you. When you’re older, if you realize the simple life isn’t for you, we can always use good guards and hunters.”
The spark returns to Illias’s pale blue eyes, the same spark that had gone out after his visit to Silvana. “You really mean that?”
“Of course! Have I ever shown you the village relics? They are sacred treasures. Gifts from the gods. And perhaps one day, you’ll be the one protecting them.”
The boy shakes his head curiously, but Orion clears his throat. “Silvana and I discussed the same subject, and we came to the conclusion that adventures are dangerous.”
Theophilus snorts loudly. “What does that woman know? Men are meant to travel the world and make it a better place. Come upstairs. I’ll show you Sharpeye.”
Illias eagerly follows the mayor up the creaking stairs to the upper floor, while Orion reluctantly follows behind.

Several candles cast the room in dim light, and the biting smell of incense stings their eyes.
“Look. This is Sharpeye,” Theophilus says as he carefully lifts the hunting rifle from the small stone altar. “See the protective runes carved into the metal?”
“What do they mean?” Illias asks curiously.
“Each symbol represents an enemy slain. They grant me strength, endurance, skill, courage, and determination. There must be several dozen by now. I’ve barely got any room left for more. Every single one killed with one shot straight through the heart. Here, look through the scope.” He hands the rifle to the boy, who struggles to hold it steady.
“Everything looks so close! What kind of magic is this?”
The mayor laughs. “That isn’t magic. The lenses magnify the target, just like my spectacles. If you were to pull the trigger now…” Illias pulls the small lever, and it clicks. “…and there were a bullet in the chamber, you would have put a fine hole straight through the wall.” He takes the rifle back, works the action, and aims through the sights at an imaginary target. “Unfortunately, we don’t fully understand the mechanism, so we can’t reproduce it. Which means we have to protect it with our lives!”
Setting the rifle back in its place, he picks up a faded red box. “This is all the ammunition we have left. Like a prayer, I count all seventy-three bullets every day and hope they will protect the village for many years to come.”
The box rattles as he sets it down again, then he takes the mask lying beside it and holds it over Illias’s mouth. “This is Anapoi, the Long Breath. Breathe through it.” A mechanical sucking sound follows. “It allows you to breathe underwater. We use it when the cave system becomes blocked and the wells run dry.”
But Orion takes the mask from his son and places it back on the altar. “That’s enough. We still have a long journey home, the others are probably waiting for us already, and before we leave, I need to pray at the shrine for a safe return.” He takes hold of Illias and pulls him down the stairs with gentle force, while Theophilus follows them with a crestfallen expression. “Goodbye, Theophilus. We still have plenty of work waiting for us,” Orion says through clenched teeth as the mayor grabs his hand and shakes it enthusiastically.
“Please forgive me if I interfered in something that wasn’t my concern. You know me, I’m…”
A rumbling noise cuts him off.
It grows louder.
So loud that the walls begin to shake.
Screams and gunshots sound outside. Then the warning bell begins to ring, only to fall silent moments later.
Constantine looks out the window, his face pale, then turns to the mayor. “Get Sharpeye!”
As fast as his legs will carry him, the old man rushes up the stairs, while Illias looks anxiously at his father.

The oak door swings open, and five heavily armed figures enter. They seize Orion, Illias, and Constantine and drag them onto the market square, where many of the villagers have already been herded together.
Swords, axes, even rifles make up the strangers’ arsenal. Dozens of soldiers surround the crowd or drive more villagers toward the gathering square.
The same symbol is emblazoned on their leather and chain armor: three horizontal green lines ending in a spiral on the right.
Gunshots echo from the outer districts, and then a shrieking creature descends from the sky and blocks the main road.
Orion has never seen anything so terrifying. Wooden wings are stretched with leather and cloth, ending in fire-breathing turbines. More soldiers march out from its thick, oval belly. Rust, holes, and brittle sections have been crudely patched with wooden plates, and even the components themselves look as though they were thrown together at random.
The flying machine settles to the ground in a cloud of dust, and only now does Orion realize that every entrance to Paragon has been blocked by one of the machines.
With all his strength, he keeps Illias close and searches for his wife and Philo. Then he spots the black-haired giant towering above the crowd. As Orion forces his way toward them, silence begins to settle over the square. Hardly anyone speaks.
A gust of wind rises, and the strangers strike their weapons against their chests. At last, Orion reaches Helen and pulls her into his arms. Scylla and Bella stand anxiously beside Philo, who looks around in confusion.
“What happened? Where did they all come from so suddenly?” Orion asks as the wind grows stronger.
“Those things appeared in the sky, and before we even noticed them, they were landing all over Paragon. The next moment, the soldiers were herding us together,” Helen replies.
“They must be well trained,” Philo remarks. “No one even had time to fight back.”
Illias points upward. “What is that?”
A ship almost as long as Paragon and half as wide hovers above them. Its hull, half-hidden by the clouds, looks as though it were cast from solid metal. Enormous balloons are attached to it, and at the stern turns a ship’s propeller fitted with broad blades.
Orion cannot stop staring as the wind becomes a storm and roof tiles are torn from the timber-framed houses.
The soldiers continue beating their weapons against their chests and stamping their spears against the ground. Faster and louder, they chant a name: “Aeolus.” Lightning flashes across the sky, and one bolt strikes a rooftop. The wind lashes violently through the streets, nearly tearing the clothes from their bodies.
The chanting grows louder, louder than the hurricane itself. “Aeolus! Aeolus! Aeolus!”
Terrified villagers crouch down, screaming and praying for help, and Orion too begs the gods for aid when the wind suddenly stops.
Silence.
Thunder growls as lightning crawls along the clouds. Something drops from the airship, plummeting toward the ground at incredible speed. At first, it is as small as a bird—no, a man, falling farther and farther. He seems certain to smash into the earth, but then he slows. Almost as though he were floating.
His skin is black as ebony, his face a marble mask. His feet touch the ground gently, and the soldiers—everyone present—fall silent.
“Kneel!” someone cries. “Aeolus, God of the Wind and member of the Pantheon. The Lord of the Four Winds, descended from Olympus, stands before you!”