The first thing the boy remembered was having his head cut off.

The second was being born.

Now, he lay on the floor of a small boat, rolling here and there as the waves buffeted it, mind rolling in equal confusion.

"Why…?" he said, not really knowing why. It felt like he was asleep, like he was dreaming. His thoughts were sluggish and half-formed.

His companion looked down at him. The boy looked up at the young man, with weapons and armour of legend hanging off of him. This man was a hero, a mighty hero - the boy knew that. He didn't know how he knew that, but he did. And yet … the boy felt a sliver of resentment in his heart when he looked at this man called Perseus.

"Why?" said Perseus, rowing the boat away from the island.

"Why am I … still alive?" The thought finally took shape. This man, Perseus, was an enemy of his. The boy knew that without being told, just as he knew that the man was a hero.

"Still alive? Why wouldn't you be?"

They went over a particularly rough wave, the boat bobbing precariously to the side.

"I…" The boy truly didn't know the answer to the question, but he felt like he should. Like there was another him, standing behind him, who knew all the answers. He felt knowledge from that 'him' touch his mind. "You came here to kill me."

"No, I didn't. You're a victim of the Gorgon, so I'm rescuing you. Understand?"

"No, I…" Bones snapping between his teeth, flesh being crushed between his fingers. A legion of statues frozen in terror. The other 'him' fed him these memories. Were they his memories? Who was he?

"You're a victim of the Gorgon," Perseus said more insistently. "So I'm rescuing you."

"Is that … so?"

"It is. And that isn't the question you should ask."

The boy cocked his head, squinting as the sun beat down on him. He dipped his hand in the water below, feeling a sense of curious benevolence from the ocean around him. "What do you mean?"

Still rowing in that same methodical way, without the slightest change, Perseus spoke: "You asked me why you were still alive. That's a stupid question. Being alive's the default - there's no need to ask why you're alive. What you're wondering is 'why was I born'. I don't know why I was born either, and I don't really care."

"Why was I born…" It wasn't a question, not yet, but instead a musing.

"If you want to find out, it'll probably be pretty hard. I doubt you'll ever figure it out, to be honest. But at least it'll give you something to do other than feel sorry for yourself."

Yes. It was good … it was a good question. A better than the one he'd previously been asking. The 'him' standing behind him faded away, the face of a demon cracking open and leaving only stray memories. It felt like a weight had been lifted from his chest.

Why was he born.

Why was he born?

"Chrysaor," he said quietly. Perseus glanced away from his rowing, looking at him in confusion.

"What?"

"That's my name. I am Chrysaor. I don't know why, but I just know that. This is the name that was wanted for me. So I need to find out why Chrysaor was born."

Perseus chuckled. "You're taking that seriously, then?"

"They weren't very strong, were they?" said Quera, rummaging through the possessions of the security officers that had come after her. The three of them lay in a pile, and likely wouldn't be waking up any time soon.

"That's not really fair, you know," said Rider, returning his golden sword to nonexistence. "Comparing normal humans to a Servant's strength."

"If they're taking on Masters," Quera grunted as she lifted one of the officers up onto her shoulder, getting ready to hide the bodies in one of the toilet stalls. "Then they should be ready to fight Servants, as well."

They'd noticed they were being tailed as soon as they'd arrived on Horizon Colony - the secret glances and whispered remarks between security gave it away immediately. Well, let them come, Quera decided - there really wasn't much they could do to her right now.

Horizon Colony was - subjectively speaking - the best colony. That is to say it was the one you'd most want to be stranded on, with its golden beaches, lush vegetation and clear blue oceans. It was nice to look at, but the air conditioning in the spaceport was welcome too.

If she died in this war, Quera wanted it to be in the lap of luxury, with a drink in her hand (one of those fancy ones with a lemon in it).

Getting the bodies into the cubicle, Quera shut the door - it wouldn't hide them for long, but it should suffice until they put some distance between them and the spaceport. Someone walked into the room, slipped a note into Quera's hand, and left. Walking over to the sink, Quera washed her bruised knuckles clean.

"So," she said to Rider. "What next?"

Rider blinked.

Quera blinked.

"Wait, what?"

"It was definitely Assassin," said Rider, sitting across from her in the cafe. "Nobody else could slip by me like that."

Quera shovelled some chicken into her mouth, ignoring Rider's wince of discomfort at her eating manners. "Maybe you just weren't paying attention?"

Rider's brow furrowed in annoyance. "Master, I'd just -"

"First names."

They were sat at the outside table of a cafe on one of Horizon's beaches, the sound of the waves calming them after their recent scuffle and subsequent fright. Needless to say, they were paying with the money they'd taken from the security officers.

A sigh. "Quera, I'd just completed a battle. I promise you, my senses were as sharp as they'd ever be. Assassin's Presence Concealment skill is the only thing that could have gotten past them - and he must be quite good, to walk so brazenly into the room and hand you something without either of us realizing it."

Frowning, Quera took a look at the note she'd been passed. It was written in block capitals, with some kind of marker pen:

DO YOU BELIEVE IN MAGIC?

WALTONTECH WAREHOUSE 73 23:00

PROPOSE ALLIANCE

"I don't trust it," said Rider. "Any alliance they propose would probably only benefit themselves. We shouldn't go."

"If they wanted to hurt us, they could have just cut my throat instead of handing me a note, right? I don't think there's any harm in hearing them out, at least."

Rider leaned forward, eyes flicking around until he was certain nobody was watching or listening. "If we take this alliance, we'll only be kept on until they don't need us anymore. That's the only kind of partnership an enemy will be interested in."

"Well, yeah," said Quera. "But we can just do the same thing to them, right?"

Rider raised an eyebrow. "I'm not sure I care for the idea of betraying someone, if I'm honest."

Quera considered it, toying with her food with her fork. A waitress came to ask if they wanted anything else, but Rider waved her off.

"This is war, you know, Rider."

"Yes, I'm aware," Rider rolled his eyes. "And I've fought in wars - so, yes, I am aware that treachery is sometimes necessary for victory. But I don't feel like that is the case here, so I won't endorse it."

"You're kind of a buzzkill, you know?" pouted Quera, wafting her face with the note. "Things would be so much easier if you just went along with this stuff."

"No," said Rider firmly, with a surprising intensity in his eyes - there was a firm declaration there that he would not go against his values, no matter the situation or the cost.

"You must have been a pretty good king…"

"I like to think so," said Rider, and then chuckled. "That must sound a little arrogant, mustn't it? Forgive me."

"So, you got me curious."

That same now-familiar sigh. "It wasn't my intention."

"How does the kid of the snake hair lady become king anyway? That's gotta be kind of a, uh, social disadvantage, hasn't it? How'd you get from point A to point B there?"

Rider leaned on the table, brushing a tendril of purple hair out of his gaze. "Well … I might have been the child of a monster, but I was also the son of a god. I suppose that balanced things out a little, no?"

Quera nodded - hesitantly. She'd lived on the streets for a long time, learnt to tell the difference between a lie and the truth. Just as her gut was telling her than going with the note was a good idea, it was telling her that Rider wasn't telling her the entire truth.

Well, that was his business. She wouldn't pry.

It took about a further hour of arguing, but Quera successfully managed to convince (or wear down) Rider enough to head to this meeting at the warehouse.

She'd felt fairly confident in that decision, but as she made her way through the night towards the meeting place, an anxiety started to brew in her gut. This was a dangerous situation. She knew that, of course, but the reality of it - that she could be killed any second, without warning - had only taken root after the first encounter with Assassin.

She'd been powerless. She hadn't even been able to notice him, much less fight back against him.

If she was making a mistake here, like Rider probably thought she was, she wouldn't have much time to regret it.

But...

But…

She really couldn't think of a 'but' here. This was an objectively bad idea, and she probably shouldn't go through with it.

Quera opened the door to the warehouse.

It was an empty space, lacking even the crates and containers you'd expect from a shipping warehouse, lit by the moons shining through the windows. Quera's eyes flicked warily into the dark corners of the room, but she couldn't see anything. For now, it seemed, she was alone. She was safe, maybe.

Slightly - imperceptible - she relaxed, her shoulders lowering the tiniest fraction of an inch.

"I'm glad you could make it," purred a man's voice from behind her.

She swung around, Rider materializing next to her - sword in hand. He looked equally surprised, and from the glare in his eyes he was clearly ready for a battle to the death.

The man - Assassin - was tall and lithe, with a thin pencil moustache above his lip and an extravagant domino mask covering his eyes. That mask was framed by a mop of curly brown hair. He wore a black-and-white suit, with a zigzag pattern descending down his tie and an accessory that could only be described as a cape flowing down from his left shoulder.

He was turning something over in his hands - and when Quera looked, she saw that it was her own pistol. Without her even noticing, he'd snatched it out of her holster. When had he done it? Just before calling out to her? While she was walking here, maybe? Just now, after she'd already noticed him?

She couldn't put it past him. When it came to sleight of hand, this Servant was clearly a master.

"Glad to be here," she said, smirking in an attempt to bury her anxiety. "You gave me, uh, quite a fright there, pal."

"Oh, it wasn't my intention, mademoiselle," he said, words laced with just the slightest French accent. "Please, I beg you, forgive my foolish actions." Despite his words, he didn't really sound sorry at all. His eyes flicked to Rider. "And you, my good sir, I beg you calm yourself. There is no need for bloodshed in this place, no?"

"That depends on you," said Rider, sword still in hand. He didn't leave his combat stance. "I don't much care for these surprises you're so fond of."

Chuckling lightly, Assassin lifted his hands placatingly. "Of course, of course. Please understand - I have no talent for bloodshed, so such petty torment is my only joy. Ah, it's a shame, but that's just the sort of wretch I am, aha!" He spread his arms out theatrically, as if welcoming the applause of an invisible crowd.

"If you're no good at killing," Quera said suspiciously. "How can you be an Assassin?"

"Alas," Assassin wagged his finger. "Another evil whim of fate. It seems my talent for stealth - as I'm sure you've appreciated - outweighs my failure for slaughter. Thus, I am counted among the prodigious ranks of the Assassin class. A truly tragic fate." He bowed deep, still chuckling.

Quera blinked. She really didn't know what to say to this guy. He kind of pissed her off, to tell the truth.

"Assassin," said a soft voice from above. "Please do not tease our guests."

When Quera looked up, she saw a girl sitting on one of the beams above, dressed in a flowing, ornate dress. To tell the truth, she looked more like a living doll than anything else, with her immaculate blonde hair and shockingly pale skin. Cherry-red lips smiled as golden eyes locked with Quera's. A parasol was tucked delicately under her arm, and she waved it in greeting.

"The Prophets welcome you, my dear," she said, swinging her legs.

"And who're they when they're at home?"

The girl's smile grew, filled to the brim with pride. "The last mages of humanity."