Fate/Thorns of Glory

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The gates of Akrytos do not resist him.

No soldiers bar his path. No cries rise from the city walls. No memories recoil in defense. The white stone arch opens like a smile, like a curtain drawn to welcome a familiar guest.

But Leonas does not smile.

His steps are quiet, bare against polished marble roads. A sunlit haze rolls over the rooftops, filtering warmth through soft clouds. It smells like lavender, not ash. Like bread, not blood. The distant sound of children laughing replaces the clatter of chained merchants.

He walks alone.

Above his collar, a crystal earpiece hums—Sion's voice, clipped and clinical.

"We confirm it. This is Beast IV/L's territory. Crown of Echoes. Manifestation type: Imaginary Sin. Primary function: mnemonic digestion. It doesn't just rewrite memories—it replaces historical truth with emotional substitutes."

Da Vinci's tone follows, smoother. Almost nervous.

"Think of it like a dream that bleeds into history. It doesn't erase—it soothes. Your entire legend is being overwritten with a lie. A comfortable one."

Leonas says nothing.

He walks past a courtyard where marble fountains once ran dry with rust. Now they sing. Goldfish shimmer in crystal water. A woman waves at him from a garden, holding a baby with red ribbons tied to her wrists. A child plays a harp beside a statue of a man with kind eyes and a gentle crown.

The statue's nameplate reads:

Leonas the Benevolent. Restorer of Harmony. Protector of Peace.

He doesn't stop. Not until he reaches the cemetery.

It is flawless. Rows of pale stone markers under flowering trees. The wind smells like rosewater and thyme. No soot. No smoke. No broken names.

He kneels by the oldest grave—once a mass burial site. Now? Just a sundial. Clean. Peaceful. Fiction.

His fingers curl into the grass.

"No blood. No fire. No bones."

"Just petals."

"Cowards."

The crystal hums. Holmes speaks, voice low.

"It's the work of the Beast, certainly. But it reflects collective will. The city wants this delusion. It feeds the lie."

"So they chose to forget?" Leonas replies, softly.

"Worse," Holmes says. "They chose to forgive what never happened. They've canonized a fiction."

Leonas stands.

The streets do not react to his anger. A man nods politely as he passes. A girl offers him a flower—white and perfect. He takes it, looks at it, and lets it drop.

The flower hits the ground like glass. Shatters.

---

In the market square, music plays from unseen strings. Dancers twirl in silk. A banner flutters with his name—Leonas—written in soft gold, surrounded by olive branches and doves.

But no one remembers his soldiers. His blood edicts. His burnt proclamations carved into stone.

He walks among them. Not as a tyrant. Not even as a man.

They see him and smile. As if seeing an old friend.

But not him.

Not the one who buried kings in their own wine vats.

Not the one who conquered Akrytos with fire and fear.

No.

They see the other Leonas. The beautiful lie.

His hands tremble. For a moment, he almost speaks. But the words taste like ash and come out as silence.

He walks on.

---

At the edge of the city, he finds a girl sitting by a well. She's quiet. Drawing shapes in the dust with a broken stick.

She doesn't smile when he approaches.

"What are you drawing?" he asks.

"A fire," she says. "But it keeps turning into flowers."

She looks up. Her eyes are too old.

"Mama says I'm sick. That I dream too hard. But I remember it. I remember the red sky."

Her voice wavers.

"Did it really happen? Was there… a fire?"

Leonas kneels. His hand brushes the dirt from her cheek.

"Even your dreams aren't yours anymore," he murmurs.

"That's disgusting."

She blinks. A tear slips down her face. He stands before she can ask anything more.

Behind him, a wind passes through the orchard.

And for the first time, the sky trembles—not from thunder, but from the pressure of a truth pressing against its false bones.

Leonas walks on.

And every step makes the dream a little more afraid.

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