The light draped Okhema in lush of gold and shine. From his perch atop the high rooftop, Mydei gazed upon the great figure of Kephale, its solemn visage forever cradling the orb from which golden ichor trickled like the lifeblood of the city itself. It cascaded down the statue’s form, splitting into streams that wove through the streets below—a reminder of the divine order that Amphoreus had sworn to uphold.

Beneath him, the city breathed in murmurs and whispers. The soft hum of life, of priests chanting their hymns, of merchants securing their wares. But it was the voices that spoke of him that clung to the air, strands of sound twisting into sharp threads that reached his ears.

"The prince of Castrum Kremnos... He's watching again."

"Have you heard? They say he was cast into the Sea of Souls when he was born."

"Nonsense. But did you know? When he first held a blade, it wasn't training—it was execution. A traitor, bound at his feet, and he cut them down without hesitation."

"No, no, that's wrong. It was three traitors. And he laughed while doing it."

The words slipped between the clatter of feet on stone and the rustle of fabric in the air. Some were truths, twisted just enough to sting. Others were wild fancies, spun from the awe and fear that trailed his name.

Mydei exhaled slowly, the breath steady, measured. He had heard it all before. The legend of his birth, the tales of his past—some whispered in reverence, others in quiet dread. And yet, none of them truly saw. None of them stood where he stood.

The weight of a warrior, a prince, a son, of a fractured land pressed upon his shoulders, but it was not for the voices below to define him. He had long since stopped flinching at the stories others told in his name.

Instead, he turned his gaze forward, as if the future lay bare beyond the horizon. There were greater things to be concerned with than ghosts of the past.