Gideon Jura panted as he raced across the stone floor of the temple, sidestepping an armored guard's lunge and lashing out in return with his right hand. Propelled by his instincts and will together, his sural whipped through the illusion, blowing it apart in a gust of ephemeral sand. He staggered. He'd expected more resistance - damn, it was hard to tell the constructs from the illusions! Sir Yoshwe was renowned for his skill in creating both, and his training exercises were notoriously off putting.

"Focus, Gideon!" the elderly battlemage called out. "A misstep like that will earn you no sigils in battle - only the point of a blade."

Gideon gritted his teeth and tried to do as the man suggested. Sir Yoshwe was right. He should have been able to adapt to the enemy's sudden change of state even if he hadn't noticed a difference. He was relying too heavily on his old instincts. They had served only him, and left his friends to die. He must never return to them.

Turning to face the next combatant, Gideon swept his gaze from the head to the feet - a shadow, which meant a construct, which meant something solid to test his mettle against. He felt his spirits lift, and charged headlong at the construct. It lifted its sword in response, keeping the blade perfectly in line to skewer him and end his advance. It was a classic defense that had proved useful against even a charging rhox, and it no doubt would have worked against a human squire, even one as fit and well-trained as Gideon. But Gideon was not just a squire of Bant - deep within him lived the street rat of Akros, and he had some tricks the knights of Bant had not seen.

His right hand directed the whips of the sural at the feet of the construct, a movement treading the line between feint and attack and forcing the tip of the practice knight's blade to protect its legs - just the opening he'd required. His left foot rose to the middle of the longsword and his right pushed off the ground, moving quickly to the hilt. He flipped over the construct's head, lashing out with his sural and bring it up through the hips of the construct. The blades ripped out its back as he landed in a crouch, and with a flick of his wrist they curled forward to hang in a ready position. His eyes locked on to the next target - no shadow, an illusion - when it suddenly collapsed into a pile of sand that quickly dissolved with a twinkle. He stood up, confused, and turned to look at Sir Yoshwe.

The knight was not impressed.

"I understand, Gideon, that you have only moderate skill with a sword and immensely prefer your - what is it you call it? Ah yes. Your 'sural'. I have accepted this oddity as an additional teaching challenge, and indeed, I have learned enough from you and your weapon to allow its continued use in your training. There are, however, some things I cannot allow. Squire Gideon, are you an aven?"

Gideon's mouth had flown open to voice a protest and so was not prepared for the question. Taken aback, he stammered out a response: "N-no sir. I'm a human." He was also much more, but Sir Yoshwe did not know that and did not need to.

Sir Yoshwe sighed, and Gideon's heart sank. Clearly he had missed an important lesson, and he searched his thoughts for what it might have been. It occurred to him in a flash of embarrassment, and he cursed his instincts once more.

"What is a knight of Bant, Gideon Jura?"

"A knight of Bant is the shield that guards the holy castes. A knight of Bant is the sword that seeks righteousness and justice. A knight of Bant is the will of the angels made manifest in a perfect martial form. A knight of Bant is one who walks the path of glory and does not stray."

"And what does this 'perfect martial form' not resort to, Squire Gideon?"

Gideon looked sheepishly at the old instructor. "Acrobatics?"

Sir Yoshwe smiled in spite of himself. "Yes, Gideon. Acrobatics." He paused, and with a wave of his hand dismissed the now motionless training dummies, the remaining illusions disappearing in a puff. Kneeling on the steps to the empty throne that was a replica of Asha's gift to Bant and a fixture in every temple to the angels, he motioned for Gideon to join him.

"Gideon, it is true that you are like no other student I have ever taught. It is obvious I am not your first teacher - indeed, that whoever they were, they were certainly not a knight. Angels above, sometimes it seems as though you fight like an Unbeholden! Ah, that is unfair of me. I meant no offense, only that your ways, while effective, are... unconventional. I do not wish to discourage you, Gideon, but I think that perhaps your way is not the way of the knight."

Gideon's head snapped up from its prayerful position. He couldn't believe his ears. Not a knight? Reaching knighthood had been his only goal since his arrival on Bant almost two years ago. He couldn't fail now, not when he was so close. He had surpassed all the other squires in combat training, and he was about to say so to Sir Yoshwe when the old man held up a finger, silencing him.

"I know what you are about to say. I have heard others say it before - your fellow squires, for a start. It's true that you half proven nearly unbeatable in the training grounds, so long as you are allowed to fight in the manner of your choosing. And none would deny that you are ready and willing to serve and protect all the people of the world, from the angels above to the Mortar below, and even the Unbeholden, ungrateful and unruly though they may be. But a knight is more than the strength in their arms and the will in their heart. A knight walks the path of glory, and it is a narrow path. There are rules to being a knight, and rules to even war. You fight not to win but to survive, and until you learn the difference, you will forever hold yourself back from this path."

"I'll do better! I'll learn the martial forms, I will, I'll even take up the longsword and stop using - using - acrobatics!" His words spilled frantically from his lips, his heart beating as his one chance at redemption seemingly slipped away before his eyes.

"Child, child," said Sir Yoshwe. "Please calm down. It is not the end of the world - there is no shame in being a member of the Mortar, who labor for the good of us all. And I've seen you shrug off blows that would stun a rhox. There is an air of sorcery about you, and I believe you would live a happy life amongst the Sighted. Regardless, I am not disavowing you here and now, merely offering some advice. That is what teachers tend to do, you know." He smiled.

Gideon's heartbeat slowed, and his breathing returned to normal. He would be alright. He could still be a knight, still have his chance at redemption. His shame could not follow him forever, and his guilt could be assuaged.

…

His knees ached, pressed as they were against cold stone. It was nothing like kneeling in the temple in front of the throne to the angels. There the ground was warm and the stone forgiving, the prayers of knights and monks soothing to the ears and soul.

There were no prayers here, however – no sound at all. He was surrounded by thick mist, infinite and impenetrable, stealing the vision from his eyes in a way, he suspected, that was worse than any true blindness. Colder perhaps than even the stone, the mist chilled him to his core. Where was he? What was he doing here? He tried to move from his knees, to stop the aching that seemed to seep into his every joint with each passing moment. He needed to move, to run, but his attempts to stand were met with an unfeeling weight that pushed him back down. It was gentle but firm, and left behind a sense of exhaustion like none he'd ever felt.

Give up, a voice whispered in his ear. You wish to run? Where would you go? Home? You have no home, Kytheon Iora. Not anymore.

Gideon trembled with fear, the voice reaching into a deep, hidden part of him and ripping out any defense he might have had. Still he resisted. Kytheon is no more. A better man has taken his place, and his name is Gideon Jura. I walk the path of glory, and I am a knight of Ba-

A stinging laugh shattered his words and stopped his struggling mind dead in its tracks. Come now, it taunted. We both know that's not true. Gideon Jura? You'll answer to anything to avoid facing who you really are, won't you? And the path of glory? Did you not get enough of that on Theros? How many friends are you going to throw away before you're satisfied? You're going to get an entire plane killed someday, Kytheon. The heroes of Theros were always doomed, but you're the first one to bring that doom with you, spreading it across the entire Multiverse like a plague.

Gideon shook his head. It wasn't true. It couldn't be true. He had failed his friends, that much was so, but he was not who he had been. He was not a hero of Theros anymore. He was a knight of Bant, or he would be, and a knight of Bant walked the path of glory the right way. He would show this phantom tormentor. With that thought locked in his mind he tried again to stand. He called on his protective magic to throw off any harmful sorcery on him – nothing. It would not come to him. That was fine. He'd do it the hard way. That was what he deserved, so that was what he would do. With all of his natural might he pushed upward, struggling to find his feet and throw off the terrible weight of the mist. A final shove upwards saw him free to his feet – for a moment.

The voice chuckled. Leaving so soon? You're the guest of honor, Kytheon. And the hosts are finally ready to meet you. It's been so long since you last saw each other. I hope you recognize each other – you've changed so much, and so have they.

A golden chain whipped out from the mist and snared Gideon's right forearm, snapping it forward and toppling him from his already weakened position on his unsteady feet. He fell to the ground face first and smacked his nose off of the cold stone. With no time to prepare his protective magic, it hurt a lot. Stars blinked behind his eyes, and in trying to dispel them, he failed to notice the second chain. Coming from the opposite side, it dragged his left hand away from his face and out towards the ground. He was trapped, and two more chains shot from the mist to entangle his legs. They left only enough slack for him to return to his knees and flail uselessly around as he tried to view his captors.

The light from the glowing chains seemed to eat away at the mist around Gideon, allowing him to see a human figure approaching from the other end of each chain. They walked with a shuffling, uneven gait that unnerved him deeply. Their forms lied – they were not human. Something was terribly wrong. It was not just their walk. Their heads seemed slightly too large, in forms too perfectly shaped to be just ever so wrong. As they came closer, it was the glow of the golden chains that showed the truth.

A sickeningly soft light revealed ashen skin, pierced and seemingly frozen in mid-rot. The other end of the each chain was shackled to a grey wrist that clearly hadn't known a pulse in a long time. Yet as the other end of the chain grew closer, the chain itself grew no less taunt. Gideon felt revulsion and horror climbing up the back of his throat as he stared at the hands mutely. He knew what awaited him above. He didn't need to look to see the sightless, darkened eyeholes in the fixed golden faces. He knew what he'd find – but he looked anyway. He had no other choice.

Staring back at him were four golden masks, each one taking the twisted form of the face of an old friend. He knew them immediately: the Irregulars, Kytheon's Irregulars, his loyal and courageous band of street rats-turned-warriors. He opened his mouth as if to offer – what? A greeting? An apology? What could he possibly say that would get through to these – these – these things? He knew enough about the Returned to realize that he'd never be able to say anything meaningful. It was certain that they could not remember their pasts. It was likely they didn't even know him. Even though they stood not three feet from him, his friends were lost to him forever.

He was saved from having to speak first by the Returned themselves. In a chorus of voices they began:

We do not know ourselves, but we know you.

Who were you? Why can we remember only you?

You and pain. So much pain.

I will name you, though I know not what you are called.

Kinslayer.

Oathbreaker.

Murderer.

Betrayer.

Champion of nothing.

Failure.

We do not even know who we are, but we know how strongly you wronged us.

What does that say about you, Deathbringer?

Gideon shook his head, his heart dropping so low he thought for sure if he looked down he would see it on the floor. It couldn't be true – he'd meant no harm. He'd meant only to do the right thing, what the gods and the people of Akros wanted from him! A blinding light pierced his eyes, and he threw his gaze downward in pain. After the initial flash he picked his head up again and forced his eyes to pick out the source of the light. A pinprick through the mist, it grew each second. No, not grew – grew closer. It was a shaft of some kind, hurtling towards him, and he was powerless to stop it. He squinted, and a cold shudder racked his body as he recognized it – the spear of Heliod. It was happening again, his arrogance returning to give him his due. As the spear closed in and his doom breathed hot down his neck, the Returned spoke once more:

You destroyed us all, hero. And you'll do it again.

Gideon awoke in a cold sweat, shooting into a seated position, his wrist flying into his mouth to prevent him from screaming out and waking the other squires and pages of the temple. Tears streamed down his face as he channeled protective magic into his wrist to prevent his teeth from breaking the skin, so hard were they clenched around it. Strange scars led to awkward questions. Better to leave no mark.

Gradually, his pounding heart slowed and his breathing returned to normal. The tears stopped and he brought his hands down into his lap, hunching over in defeat. He shivered at the fading memory of the dream.

It was the third of its kind this month.

…

The third sigil clanked against the other two as Gideon took his positions amongst the other squires. It had been months since his conversation with Sir Yoshwe, and so much had changed – including Bant itself. The plane had, as best as he could gather, been invaded, not just by enemy armies but by enemy worlds themselves. He'd been taught the knights of Bant were without parallel, and he still believed it. But the horrors he'd witnessed (and the ones he'd fought) whispered otherwise.

Clink, clink. The sigils tapped out a rhythm as he walked, and each step made him wince. He didn't deserve those sigils, each one of them a reminder of another battle he alone had survived. He was uncannily good at doing that, and it seemed everyone had noticed. If they had suspicions as to why, they at least kept them to themselves – for now.

But how could he refuse? Two sigils awarded by the dying breathes of elder knights, and one conferred by an angel herself! To turn them away would be sacrilege. To accept them put another painful hole in his heart. The angel had seemed to know this, and she had not stayed long after placing the award on him. Besides, there were other battles that needed fighting. Even after a victory as great as the one in Valeron, the enemy had not slowed its march. Even worse, whispers of the cause of such a victory – Elspeth Tirel, a middling knight who had suddenly shown tremendous power after the death of her own squire – were always followed by whispers of her mysterious disappearance. Some knights openly called her a coward in spite of her years of service and the fact that she single-handedly wiped out a horde of invaders. Gideon secretly did not blame her. He knew that such greatness came at a price. Elspeth had clearly paid hers.

The war horns had returned him to the here and now, but it took a moment and a shake of the head to remember where that was. Akrasa. The invaders had cut a swath through the grasslands, laying waste to everything in their path. Aven scouts reported that there were no prisoners taken, that farmland and savannah were burned indiscriminately. This was not war, they said with a shake of their feathered heads. This was chaos. More horrifying still were the rumors of the fallen dead rising to fight against their former friends and allies. The thought made Gideon shudder. He had enough problems with the undead of his dreams without adding some to his waking life. Besides, even on Theros the dead did not just rise as a matter of fact, and this was not Theros. This was Bant. Bant was order and security, but it was failing, and Gideon feared it could not hold. No matter. If it came to it, he would die on Bant.

Anything to be free from his nightmares and the putrid truth they contained.

A sword was in his hand, his sural hanging at his left hip. It felt strange to not have it at his wrist. He felt unbalanced, but if he was to preserve Bant with his fellow squires and their knights he would to it as one of them. No more acrobatics. No more failure that ended in running away. The path of glory awaited.

The enemy too awaited, just beyond the gate and walls of the castle this part of the Akrasan army was barricaded in. Fewer scouts were returning, and they were returning faster, which meant two things. First, the enemy was very close. Second, some of them had wings and voracious appetites for murder. The first Gideon could deal with. He, and all the squires that stood in a row with him, were ready. The second would be harder. None of them could fly, but the angels above hovered stoically and appeared to be ready as well.

Finally, the call went out.

They were in sight of the walls. They were coming.

A thicket of spears went up towards the front, gleaming tips catching the dying rays of the sun as it sank beneath the castle walls. They flared up, and then –

Another spear, another time, racing at him through the sky, its point shining with all the power of the sun god. He was not afraid, for his patron would not destroy him at the tip of his own weapon, and so Kytheon Iora grinned and –

No. He was here in Akrasa. He was Gideon Jura. Others would die today, but it would not be his fault. Not this time.

A thundering boom sounded from the gateway. Gideon blinked. They were at the gate now, archers standing at the parapet with bows drawn, ready to release destruction unto the festering ranks below at a word's command. The fell army outside had shown themselves more than capable of plowing through the gates with little trouble. Why weren't they?

A second boom came, and then it hit him: the demons were knocking.

Seems they'd finally learned some manners.

The third knock pushed the ancient, time-tested gates inwards in an explosion of mortar and stone, a skeletal behemoth head rearing through the gap as rubble and rotting legions rolled over the footmen at the gate. Grinning skulls matched eyes with hardened knights as the two locked blades. In the sky above, angels and demons painted the horizon in sprays of blood.

The battle was joined.

His blade sung in his hand – there was no denying that he had grown more skilled with it, as it slipped through gaps in the rotting ranks, into the choicest places, crippling the enemy and delivering to them what death they did not already have. He was more lightly armored than anyone else on the side of Bant, and in this it aided him. He saw from the corner of his eye more than one squire fall to a blow they were too slow to ward off. He forced himself to look away. Not his doing. Not this time.

A wall to his left exploded as another behemoth broke through, sending a shockwave of debris crashing into every combatant for fifty feet. A huge chunk of stone shot at him, spinning –

The spear again, golden light streaming from it as the huge whip turned its direction, and then –

The rock crashed into an angel who had descended to rally the soldiers that had faltered, hitting her wings with a crunch and bringing her down onto here fallen soldiers. Dread reavers and zombies swarmed over her and the nearby knights, tearing them apart in a gruesome struggle of grasping hands and rough, stabbing blades. An ogre swung its worn, bitten blade up and brought it down on the trapped angel, ending her struggle forever. Blood sprayed.

An unexpected impact and blood on his hands, blood that was not his, blood of friends of brothers of those who trusted him –

Blood of a world coming to an end. The ogre stood now over him, sword raising slower than seemed possible but far too fast for him to stop. Where was his sword? Hadn't he had one? It must have gotten lost in the rubble. He looked at the ogre and the sheen of death it clutched in its right. What could he do? Where was his sword? Where was – where was – what? What did he need? Where did all the blood come from?

The end is now, he thought. I die as Gideon Jura of Bant.

Why? Countered a small voice inside him. Let them die. Live as Kytheon Iora of Theros.

The thought seemed to fill him up like a sickeningly sweet meal. He wanted to vomit, but its lure was still powerful. He could run. That was a choice none of the rest of them had. He could return to Theros no matter how bad it got here, return to who he was, return to his past. His past.

He would never return there. Kytheon was dead. The ogre's blade swung down.

Oh no, the voice said. Looks like you don't have to decide after all. Die as Gideon Jura it is.

No.

Kytheon was dead. But that did not mean Gideon Jura had to die as well.

Gideon swung his arms up, all of his power extending into his left while his right grasped at his belt. A golden light shown out from his blocking arm and it took the full force of the blade – shattering both the sword and the ogre's arm. The beast howled with pain until a path of gold and crimson split its throat from ear to hear, nearly severing its head. The eyes bugged out in shock, and as it fell Gideon used the arm as a ramp towards the broad, flat shoulders. He leapt from them into the fray.

For hours he fought, golden light deflecting fatal blow after fatal blow, the knights around him rallying again and again to a focal point who shouted no battle cries, carried no banner and had long since lost any sigils. He was chaos in a sea of orderly defense, and it was working.

In the defense of the invaders, it was quite unexpected. They didn't handle the surprise well, and after their losses in all areas of the battle began outweighing their gains, they sounded what retreat they could. Most did not make it out of the gate.

None made it far in the sea of grass as Akrasan leotau cavalry cut them down with sword and claw. The day was won.

…

After the battle, Gideon took a spare leotau out into the grasslands. No one stopped him. He needed time to himself. There were sigils aplenty at the castle if he wanted them – as though that meant anything now. The path of glory was not what he expected. It was lonely. He had not expected it to end like this, not again. There was blood on his hands again. He was tired of blood on his hands.

"I saw you during the battle."

Sir Yoshwe. He must have followed him.

"You fought well. Perhaps I should not have so greatly discounted the worth of, ah, acrobatics." Gideon could hear the weak smile on his lips even with his back turned.

"Gideon. Turn around."

He didn't.

"Kytheon."

Gideon's head snapped up and he whirled around, sural out. "That name is not yours to use. Where did you learn it?"

Sir Yoshwe looked decades older. "You talk in your sleep. Sometimes it's more like screaming. The other squires were concerned." The old knight sighed. "Look at the grass, Gideon. Do you know, my favorite part of Akrasa was always the grass. Underappreciated, I believe. It feeds our livestock, holds our plains together, and some kinds even keep our people clothed and fed. But at the end of it all, it is trampled underfoot and sheathed in blood." A pause.

"Have you thought of what I said, Gideon? About the path of glory?"

He had. Lots. Little of it seemed to matter now.

"I knew from the very beginning you were not fit for the path of glory. Oh, don't give me that look. Here me out. The path of glory, Gideon, is a relic of Bant that was. You are the product of Bant that is – our love of order given force, direction, and a true heart. When many fight together, glory for one so often means doom for the others. I sense you are tired of learning this truth."

He was.

"As I said – yours is not the path of glory. Gideon Jura, I know you are not of Bant. Stop – say nothing. I don't know your true origins and I don't want to. Leave an old knight his ignorance and his bliss. I suspect, however, that you can leave as you arrived. Therefore, I have a final task for you before I release you from your service. There are tales amongst a few of the knights of Bant of a group that promotes perfect order in lands far from here. Gideon, you are not meant for this path. Seek out that one instead. Find the path of service and protection. Find the Order of Heliud."

…

Long after Sir Yoshwe had left, Gideon finally stood and prepared for his journey. The knight must have anticipated his response, as he had brought some food and basic journeying supplies. It was a sign of kindness he hadn't thought he deserved. Maybe he'd been wrong. If the path of glory was not his, then the path of service, of protection, of order could be.

Gideon faced the rising sun. Tapping into a place he had not visited in a long time, he stepped forward – off of Bant and the path of honor, and onto a path all his own.