Mithra woke up to someone mid-conversation, which should have been his first clue that something was catastrophically wrong.

  "I understand, General," his mouth was saying. The words had the texture of rehearsed obedience, smooth and hollow. His hands were clasped behind his back. The floor felt farther away than what he was used to.

  None of it was under his control.

  He was a passenger. A ghost riding shotgun in someone else's skin, watching the world through eyes that didn't belong to him while his body moved to a script he'd never read. At the same time he was able to look around without moving, as if it was a third person game.

  The war room smelled of oiled leather and old bronze, the kind of scent that clung to places where violence was discussed like weather patterns. In the private room stood five chairs carved of dark marble with veins of glowing red. Three of these chairs were filled with warriors in cloaks. To the sides of the center figure were two warriors in modern clothing layered with Ancient Greek armor. They were wearing ceremonial cloaks that were the color of fresh blood. The man sitting in the center had a different cloak, one of a rusty oxidized brownish red adorned with the clasps of a wolf, not a boar like others.

  The man who sat in the middle was none other than Arcturus Steelborn, the current house leader of the Red March. He was a man who looked like he'd been chiseled from granite and disappointment. Silver threaded through his dark hair like scars. His murky blue eyes were hidden with daggers, and they were fixed on Mithra's borrowed face with an intensity that made something in his consciousness recoil.

  "Tomorrow," Arcturus sighed, "you will challenge Tracy Johnson to a duel."

  "Yes, General." The words couldn’t come out fast enough, it was way too eager! Mithra felt the emotion underneath them, the desperate hunger for approval that wasn't his.

  Marcus. That’s the body's original owner. The name surfaced in Mithra's mind, more information started to bubble up but it was painfully slow. Tracy Johnson… the name felt familiar. Wasn’t that a character from a game he played recently? Yes, wait.. it was! He was originally a character from the book that got adapted into a comic, then a game!

  "Tracy Johnson," Arcturus continued, leaning forward, "is destined for the Bolt Quest next week. The prophecy child. The golden boy. The one everyone expects to save us all, but he could also be the same one that may ruin us all as well."

  Murmurs of disgust rippled through the other members of the house attending the meeting, they were standing near Marcus.

  "He's reckless," a woman to Arcturus's right said. She had a scar running from temple to jaw, the kind that told stories about surviving things that should have killed you. "Arrogant. He'll get his entire team slaughtered chasing glory."

  "Which is why," Arcturus said, pulling a blade from beneath his cloak, "you will ensure he never makes it to that quest."

  The weapon hit the floor near him with a bell-like toll. The dagger’s handle was bound in crimson leather, and its blade etched with runes that seemed to writhe when you weren't looking directly at them.

  "One cut, and divine healing fails. Wounds fester. Infection spreads like wildfire through dry grass," Arcturus eased to a smile.

  "You want me to cripple him?" Marcus questioned. The words came out steady, but Mithra felt the tremor underneath. A frantic heartbeat against ribs that weren't his.

  "I want you to protect the Concordium," Arcturus corrected. "Don’t worry, you’ll just cripple him and quickly call for help. Tracy Johnson's prophecy makes him dangerous. To himself. To his team of innocent demigods. To all of us should he fail and incur the wrath of the gods. Better he sits out this one quest than leading good demigods to their deaths."

  The logic was difficult to refute and was sound, but Mithra recognized it for what it was. The inscribed magic lettering on that blade was too wicked, they clearly aren’t telling Marcus the full story. Honestly even without figuring out the true nature of the enchantments? That weapon was ominous as hell! The way this scene was playing out, it’s not something anyone needed meta knowledge to figure out.

  This was clearly a set up, there’s no shot in hell the protagonist will get help he needs in time. This idiot will take the fall for the assassination or attempted murder! Mithra was pretty sure things didn’t end well for this side character. He genuinely couldn’t remember anything or had the sensation of familiarity like he had when seeing the cloaked figures sitting on the marbled throne chairs. Nothing pricked his brain when seeing Marcus.

  ‘Don't take it’, Mithra thought desperately into the void of Marcus's consciousness. ‘This is wrong. This is—’

  Marcus's hand reached for the blade. Mithra's ghostly hands tried to grapple the blade away from him. However as he tried with each attempt, they clipped out of Marcus’s body as if it was never meant to align. He felt strange electrifying shocks, it felt he was pushing against a current. However he couldn’t just stop here.

  ‘Listen to me you lanky blond bastard!’

  Marcus hand shook with hesitation as he reached forward until it finally stopped. Every eye in the room fixed on his paused hand like hawks spotting a rabbit's twitch.

  "General. I'll challenge him and I'll beat him... without this. That should be enough" Marcus said slowly, looking to the side. The words weren't automatic anymore. It felt like Mithra’s efforts weren’t in vain. There was thought behind them, something pushing back against years of conditioning.

  The silence that followed had teeth. Arcturus leaned back in his chair, studying Marcus with new interest. The other council members at his side exchanged glances. The other members of the house were confused, some laughed at the idea and couldn’t believe what Marcus suggested. Could a mixed blood beat Tracy in honest hand to hand combat? Tracy Johnson was not only the powerful son of Neptune, but he was a demigod with many quests under his belt. Where did Marcus find the confidence to take someone like that down?

  The hooded woman scoffed, "Enough? ENOUGH?"

  "Your parents gave EVERYTHING for this House and you can't even do THIS? You’re useless, as you are weak." Her sharp voice cut through the air. Marcus could only bite his tongue at the mention of his dead parents, heroes who he could never measure up to.

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  “Exchanging words is pointless, let’s see you back those words up.” The other hooded figure commented, growing bored.

  “How sir?” Marcus asked, a bit nervous.

  “How else? A duel! Of course.” He answered, his fingers snapping for one of his own warriors to step up. Interestingly enough, one of Arcturus's personal guards came forward stopping his own from interfering. The warrior drew his blade with a sound of singing steel. Marcus, with no other choice, drew his own. The warrior was built like violence made flesh. Broad shoulders that strained against his armor, arms corded with muscle and his face looked like it was chewed up with old scarring. He moved with the casual confidence of someone who'd never lost a fight that mattered.

  Marcus's blade trembled in his hands.

  Oh we're so fucked, Mithra thought from his passenger seat. His character design needs to be nerfed! What the actual hell is that!

  The warrior didn't bow or salute, He just attacked. His blade was already cutting through the air in an arc that would have split Marcus's collar bone if it connected. Marcus's body moved on instinct, years of training forcing his sword up to block. The impact rattled through his arms, sending painful vibrations shooting into his shoulders. He staggered backward, feet sliding on polished stone, barely keeping his balance.

  The warrior followed through with another strike. No pause. No mercy. Just a relentless advance, blade striking from angles that seemed to come from everywhere at once. High slash. Low thrust. A feint right into a strike left.

  Marcus blocked and parried whatever he could, holding on. He shouldn’t have lasted as long as he did, every now then he felt a jolt and his body followed through that command on instinct. But the truth was he was losing ground and everyone in the room could see it.

  Move! Mithra screamed internally trying to move him. LEFT! He's going to—

  The warrior's boot came up in a kick aimed at Marcus's knee. Some of the younger demigods closed their eyes, wincing at what should’ve been a brutal crack reverberating through the room. The fight would’ve ended right there with his shattered knee, except Marcus's body suddenly threw itself left with a speed that surprised everyone! Even Marcus himself.

  The kick whiffed through empty air. The warrior's eyes widened slightly pausing, giving Marcus a brief window to reposition himself.

  ‘It’s that sensation again’, Marcus thought. He wasn’t going to pretend to understand the impulse, but it was working so far strangely enough! Mithra on the underhand, somewhat understood. He could feel the way his consciousness was bleeding into Marcus's. It hurt a lot, but somehow Mithra was able to push his desires onto Marcus controlling him. They were connected. Not fully. Not cleanly. But enough.

  The warrior recovered and came in with a combination that should have been impossible to defend against. It was a brutal sequence designed to overwhelm defenses through sheer speed and aggression, red divine energy leaked through his blade.

  Marcus narrowly weaved through the sequence, each dodge was from an attack that narrowly claimed his life. Occasionally Marcus had to parry as he dodged, each of those exchanges bit into his sword cracking it. Was this a duel anymore? He couldn’t tell, there was no more room to retreat and he couldn’t block the slash. The warrior during one of the last exchanges, sent Marcus skidding across the room hitting the wall on the other side.

  *BOOOM*

  The sound reverberated across the room, it was followed by Marcus’s hacking cough. The warrior's blade was imbued by furious red aura, it looked like he was charging an attack as he slowly walked to Marcus.

  ‘You have to throw your sword and charge him. They’re trying to kill you, willing to deal with the consequences later!’ Mithra urged.

  ‘What am I thinking?’ Marcus shook his head.

  ‘If you don’t commit to this, we’re going to die. Do you have any other bright ideas?’

  Marcus looked like he agreed with Mithra, at least from what he could tell.

  ‘If dying doesn’t mean anything to you. Whatever that bitch said earlier is gonna be true, are you letting that slide or what?’

  Mithra created an instinct that Marcus's body obeyed before his brain could process it. He began to get into an odd fighting stance, as he held his sword in a reverse grip positioning it overhead. Mithra felt strange, controlling Marcus wasn’t the same as before. The currents were not fighting against him as much, if anything? They were aligning with him, giving power! Marcus’s eyes narrowed as he began to lock in, his hands whipped forward launching his blade.

  "Interesting," Arcturus murmured from his throne, leaning forward slightly. "I didn't know Marcus was the type to do something like that."

  "Neither did I," the hooded woman said, eyes narrowed with suspicion.

  The guard hurriedly blocked the projectile from skewering his face. Shards of steel almost powdered on impact and for the first time during the fight, he blinked. Marcus was gone from his sight! He quickly repositioned himself to find Marcus was suddenly closer than expected! He held his sword overhead, swinging downward preparing to split his skull. The question was would he be faster?

  ‘I’m not gonna make it!’

  ‘You are! Commit! Go lower and swing with everything you got!’

  Something inside Marcus's chest ignited. Marcus followed that feeling diving to the floor at an awkward angle, he was going to lose balance and crash. Suddenly strands of electric orange shifted to coiling red arcs around his legs and arms. He picked up more speed than he realized, his peripheral vision actually began to blur! The floor cracked under his steps. To the guard, Marcus looked like he teleported, he wasn’t prepared for this fast movement! Marcus pulled back his fist that briefly sparked red, swinging it against the guard. The blade was now a hair’s width away.

  ‘CONNECT!’ Mithra and Marcus shouted.

  "What-" the warrior couldn’t finish his words, he went flying. Mithra couldn’t believe his eyes, he was actually flying! The man was launched through the air by strength that Marcus didn't have and Mithra couldn't explain. He hit the ground hard, his back slamming against stone harder than what Marcus intended.

  Marcus stood over him, his chest heaved with each breath. The chamber was silent. Arcturus didn’t miss the brief sparks of divinity, released by Marcus. Strength like that shouldn’t be available for split-heritage demigods, was he wrong about Marcus? Too hasty?

  To everyone’s surprise, Arcturus then smiled. And clapped? The strange action was enough to break murmured discussion and staring towards Marcus. The sound echoed off marble walls like the crack of a whip. Slow. Measured. Five times.

  "You’re right, Marcus. Well fought." Arcturus stood, walked down to Marcus with the deliberate pace of a predator sizing up prey. "Maybe the blood of Mars within you is stronger than we all thought.”

  He picked up the cursed blade, holding it near a torchlight. "Perhaps you're right. Perhaps a fair duel is sufficient." His fingers closed around the blade's handle as he walked around the nervous Marcus. "Perhaps… we don't need shortcuts when we have warriors with actual skill."

  The other house members relaxed marginally. A few even nodded approval. The woman with the scar allowed herself a thin smile, perhaps she was rash in chastising the foolish demigod.

  But Mithra saw it. The micro-expression that flickered across Arcturus's face before the mask of the proud general slid back into place. The tightness around his eyes. The way his jaw clenched for just a fraction of a second.

  "Go," Arcturus said, clapping Marcus on the shoulder with the kind of force that was just shy of hostile. "Prepare. Rest. Show Tracy Johnson what a true son of war can do."

  Marcus saluted and walked out with military precision.