Montreal, Canada

They were on the 8^th floor of their luxury hotel, but even so, the night’s traffic could still be heard, thanks to their open balcony window. Faith glanced towards Xander as he strode out of the bathroom, wearing only a towel around his waist.

The years of battle had left Xander with a gymnast’s body, thick and muscled, seemingly etched from stone. But it had also left its mark in other ways, faded teeth-marks on his left shoulder, a knife scar on his right side just above the towel, faded scarring on both his biceps, and an ugly jagged mess on his left thigh, reaching up under the towel.

"Hey, Xan," Faith licked her lips, a sudden compulsion she’d fought off many times before rising up again. "I was wonderin’ if I could ask you something."

Xander’s eyes gleamed with amusement as he sat on the edge of their bed and tugged a pair of black boxers on. "You’re not normally so shy."

"Funny guy," Faith rolled her eyes before sobering. "I was wonderin’," she took another breath.

"Faith?" Xander rose, concern replacing the amusement in her lover’s eyes. "Are you alright? Is something wrong?"

"No, no," Faith forced a smile, heart warming at her boyfriend’s worry, his concern providing her with the impetus to ask her question. "Mithras, we’ve talked about him in like broad terms, but what was he actually like?"

The words had barely passed her lips when it happened. An aura of power shrouded the room, pressing down on her chest until she could barely breathe, her teeth jangling with its resonance, an indomitable will filling the hotel room the like of which would cow the fiercest vampire. And then worse, she saw it in his eyes, a hardness the like of which she’d never seen in them, a cold determination the sort of which brought down empires and made gods quake.

Faith’s mouth opened, but then he spoke, not his usual warm voice, but a cold rasp like sharp metal dragged across unyielding stone. "The Old Ones were merciless owners, creatures that constantly sought amusement at the expense of those they called slaves, and treated worse than cattle. One such amusement were the Pits. Every Ten-Day, the Old Ones and the puppets through which they ruled would gather at the Pits to watch humans face one another, animals, and even demons themselves in battles with no quarter, the only ending death."

Faith’s lips moved, but no sound came out, mesmerised by the unreal nightmare she found herself in. "But centuries passed and the Old Ones, immortals that they were began to tire of the Pits. And so they sought to make their games more amusing, tampering with the procreation of humans, enhancing them. Then," ‘Xander’s’ lips twisted into a fearsome scowl, "Lillith had an idea, and she gained permission from Sammael, leader of the Old Ones, to institute a breeding program. Male and female champions were forced to mate and reproduce, the children altered in their mother’s bellies, pushed to the edge of what could be called human, and perhaps even beyond. Then upon birth their spawn were forced into a training program where they would learn the science of war, the weakest of their class culled on an annual basis, until after sixteen years only the best, the elite, remained, honed in the fires of competition and agonies of war. A most ruthless but effective inducement." The eyes of the stranger wearing her lover’s face narrowed, pain and the sort of rage that razed cities to the ground burning in his dark orbs. "Then it was time, time for us to enter the pits. At first we killed other humans, slaughtering warriors thought to be the best their broken nations could offer, but few were even close to matches for us. Those who survived fought the big cats, manticores, and other horrors besides, before finally fighting demons. This went on for years, our numbers dwindling from several hundred to less than a quarter that number, but then I heard rumblings they were planning to set classmate against classmate, people who had fought, trained, and lived together for decades." The warrior shook his head, the scorching rage replaced by unmoveable determination. "This I could not, would not, allow."

Faith licked her drier than a desert lips as the stranger confirmed his identity by opening the Always Pocket, pulling out a bottle of water and taking a drink before continuing. "We had fought in those pits for over a decade, lived in the school attached to it since birth. We were seasoned like no warriors before or since," the man’s face darkened, the hotel seeming to shake before his quiet rage. "The Old Ones knew not what vipers they clutched to their chest. But we showed them." The man began strolling the hotel room’s floor, an undeniable predatory majesty surrounding him despite his attire of just boxers. "There were fifty-three of us when we began our escape, eleven died before we escaped the pits themselves, their names forgotten in history except by those they called kin. And the rest of us would have died too, but for Thor and his friends." A laugh rumbled out of the stranger’s deep chest. "Aye, there was a warrior, a giant amongst giants. Chance was on our side when we met Thor and his friends and fought our way free of the capital of the Grom empire."

The monarch’s eyes hardened again. "We’d won through, although only three dozen of us escaped the city itself. But we were left with a task, a quandary to tax the greatest minds. What to do next? We knew the Old Ones would send their minions against us, armies against a scant handful. It was Loki who suggested the answer." Mithras shook his head. "Ah, cunning Loki, a mind as sharp as any assassin’s dagger, if only he hadn’t fallen to jealousy. If an army was to come for us, then we should have an army to fight it with. A good plan, a great plan, but where to find such an army?"

Mithras scowled. "Perchance I heard the rumour of the great rebel turned notorious bandit Hades, and his daughter Styx kidnapped by Harpies. I knew such a man would thirst for both vengeance against the empire and for his daughter’s return. And so I sent some of my friends to the north, to Thor’s Nordvik, to bring his father’s fleets to battle. While there Thor was the first of us to slay an Old One, the first but not the last. Another group I sent after the robed Sword-Sisters, the wild bitches that today’s tales of Amazons do not do justice to. Still others I sent to unify the Hyboran Battle-Dukes, and others to end the feuding between Cel and Gael, to force them to face the greater enemy, the one that stood between us all and freedom. Chance was on my side when the Old Ones sent their sirens after us, those demon bitches immobilising the men amongst us after using their song to order us to take prisoner the women in our number. If Artemis," the man laughed again, the rumble escaping his chest as his eyes gleamed with amusement, "had not happened upon us with her sisters, we would have died for sure. Artemis," the man shook his head, "she had fire to shame a volcano!"

"For myself, I took on the task of destroying the Harpies and freeing Hades’ daughter. Entering their darkness-cloaked caverns with my ears filled with beeswax to block out their screams, I fought them deaf and almost blind, rescued the girl, and then with those of my friends still with me, rode for Hades." Mithras shook his head. "Hades was a man of honour once, from the family of a lord foolish enough to protest the indignities that the Old Ones enacted on their slaves. His family was butchered, but Hades escaped, but the slaughter warped his soul, leaving a man unconcerned with the plight of others. Still, he was a man of power, and swore his forces to me, and with that, other rebels," Mithras smiled slightly, "Seaxneat Noir, a former Gael Justice Knight who’d blighted the Old Ones with his raids in Gael for years, and Nodens Darko of the Cromian Confederacy in the empire’s east, swore themselves to our cause. My army grew, and while we were attacked by forces lead by Death’s Hand, the timely arrival of Minerva and her Sword-Sisters saved us."

"After a Season we were marching back to Avram, the Grom Capital, not on our own, but at the vanguard of an army numbering in the tens of thousands, the Hyboran Battle Dukes, the Sword-Sisters, the Cel tribes, and Gael warriors riding with us. My friends had succeeded in the tasks I sent them beyond my wildest expectations." Pride seemed to swell Mithras’ chest. "We arrived to besiege the Avram’s high walls, the Crown Marshal, Prometheus himself standing against us."

"Then," Mithras laughed lowly, but no amusement entered his eyes, "as I hoped Thor arrived at the head of his father’s fleets, Othin having regained his nerve after his eye-gouging so many years ago, his courage bolstered by his own son’s defiant heroism. We bombarded Avram from three sides, while Thor’s catapults sent death flying into it via its costal side. The city soon capitulated. But it was just the first victory, there were so many battles yet to be fought."

"And so our forces had won a great battle," Mithras continued, his eyes briefly firing in triumph. "But it was not the entire war, not by a long shot. And so I set about securing myself an empire, ever mindful that the Old Ones were lurking, waiting to strike, in the background, plotting against me like the poisonous vipers they were. First I sent my new ally Prometheus at the head of four Iron Legions to conquer the Northern Reaches, then I sent another four Iron Legions led by Ares into the Cromian Confederacy to bring their rebellious forces into my new empire while I myself attempted to broker a truce with the empire’s nobles. Ashur was sent at the head of a group to bring the Urad Horse Clans to our side. Still others I sent to the continent’s Centaur Tribes, Elven Hordes, and Dwarven Strongholds to plead our case. At the same time, I instituted a massive program of civic improvements, a ship-building program, and trials of those who’d colluded with the Old Ones."

"But success always breeds jealousy and envy, and I held a snake close to my chest." Mithras shook his head. "That year I made some of my gravest errors, some of them were due to the devious machinations of Hades, but some were due to my own drive blinding me. Eventually I realised Hades was plotting against me, and the two of us almost tore Grom’s capital apart in our battle for control, but in the end I won." Mithras shook his head. "Treachery bites more deeply than any infected wound."

"Then I was ready, a fleet the likes of which had never been seen before assembled. Thousands of boats to ferry my hundreds of thousands strong force to their next battle. To their burial grounds." Mithras’ shoulders slumped briefly before retaining their usual square posture. "We swept into the southern nations, through the sun-blasted deserts of Carpo and Prya, then onto the Shem and Kush empires with their tropical jungles and sweeping grasslands. After defeating the Shem Witch-King and the Kush High Chief, we finally had the southern lands under our heel. Those years were bloody indeed, the Demon Wars took a heavy toll amongst the strong, and as wars always do, a still heavier one amongst those who could not defend themselves.  Plague and starvation ravaged more people than war could ever do, that is the tragedy of war that is all too often forgotten. The vultures had their fill and more besides." Guilt flashed in the warrior’s eyes. "Freedom and justice for all are easy words to say and admirable concepts to aspire to, but sometimes the cost can be very high."

"But still," Mithras’ eyes returned to their chill inscrutability, "in our battles we had gathered still more allies, Agurzil, the leader of rebel Carponians, Ogun, the leader of the escaped pit-fighters in the southern nations, Neith, the leader of the southerners’ Sword-Sisters, and Kush’s rebel prince, Shango. Each and every legend bringing gallant armies with them to stand by our side."

"All this time, the Nordviks had been building yet more boats, and the people I’d left behind to rule Grom in my stead were training yet more recruits," Mithras shook his head. "More grist for my mill. And so there were yet more warriors when we sailed for the mysterious east. More to die in battles against the Pryan Vizier, Summyrian Sultan, Peran Shah, and Ishanti City-Houses, each foe eventually falling before us. But still more heroes joined us, brave rebels willing to stand against the darkness."

"At the last battle, over half a million humans stood with me, their banners representing over twenty powers from the three continents. But their bravery was as nothing to that to the staunch axemen of the Dwarven Strongholds, the gallant horsemen of the Elven Hordes, and Centaur Tribes who stood with us. Every one of them knew that because of their low birth rates and the losses they would likely suffer they would be condemning their peoples to extinction even if we won our battle, but were willing to stand with us if it meant dying free. Against us were massed the towering trolls, the apish ogres, howling goblins, winged gargoyles, and other horrors from the darkest nightmares, three times our number and more. And so for four blood-soaked days we stood against the fury of those who called themselves our gods, holding the ground while our massed mages cast the greatest spell ever cast, the spell that would make this world uninhabitable to the most powerful of demons. The ground shook to our passing and the heavens bore witness to the slaughter, the blood soaking the corpse-strewn ground."

"And so at the last, The Free Empire was won in battle’s thunder," Mithras paused for a second. "Acclaim rained down on us like a downpour. The freed called me by so many names – Indomitable Will, Tyrant’s Bane, Iron Justice, Honour’s Sword, and Bringer Of Hope," Mithras’ smile carried with it a ton of wistfulness. "That last I liked the most. An empire spanning the three known continents and over three dozen nations was ours, but now we were free I had to enforce that freedom."

Mithras paused then laughed, a note of mad bitterness in his voice. "So many thought they could profit from the Old Ones’ absence. Mages that had learnt the arts at the feet of the Old Ones and thought to take their place. Petty despots who thought that their nations need not be just and fair, that we would allow the cries of the oppressed to go unanswered. Bandit lords who thought the vastness of my empire inured them from my grasp. Minor demons that were too insignificant to be caught by the spell, but dangerous enough to the populace at large. Cults that worshipped their former masters and sought to bring them back. Ever were our lives lived in the saddle and in battle. All these enemies and more had to be stopped, peace was not the life for me and my kind. I fought for freedom and peace, but in the end I ended up with a life of battle and of blood. It was a time that legends grew to appreciative cheers but died to their own screams." Mithras shook his head. "But I would not have it any other way, the rule of demons was wrong and could not be tolerated, I would not allow it!"

"You would ask what it means to be an Ascendant?" Mithras’ lips pursed together in a wintry smile. "It is to be so esteemed for your deeds during life, that at death so many people pray for you to look over them, duty compels you to ascend to a higher level. It is to know justice as a brother and honour as a dearest friend."

"Yeah," Faith licked her lips as she stared up at the somehow taller than normal man, her normally cocksure voice a croak, "that’s great." Sweat gleamed on her almost shaking arms and her heart thundered. "But how about you get out of my man before I kick your ascended ass?"

"Ha," the man chuckled at her threat, seemingly unmoved by her threat. "You misunderstand me, girl. I’m only here to give you an object lesson on just who you love and his worthiness."

"I already know all I wanna know about Xan and how worthy he is." Faith glared at the man, in her anger almost forgetting just what he was. "And I wanna him back now."

Mithras continued over her hiss as if she hadn’t spoken. "Even if I wanted to hold your lover’s body, I could not hold it for more than a day or so, such is his love for you and his sense of duty, he is of my line, he carries my will within him. But that is not the honourable way to act towards anyone, much less to one who is of my blood. I hold myself as better than that. His path is his own to tread, I will seek only to aid. And so I bid you farewell and remember who it is you love." A sudden Xander-like warmth returned to the man’s eyes. "Faith," Xander looked around, his eyes confused, "what was I-."

All at once she was in his arms, heart pounding with relief. "Just hold me, honey," she husked.