Vangelis took a sip of wine - a substance he rarely drank unless at war, where fresh water was scarce - and tapped his index finger against the belly of the goblet, his thoughts considering.

He and his men had been serving their king and kingdom for the last eight months in the Northern Lands. Across the sea from the northern most Kirakles island, the crust and crest of the mainland had been, over the last half a dozen years, regularly overrun with warriors from the barbarian tribes encamped further north. It was clear that, after decimating and securing their boundaries as far as they could stretch to the east and west, the savages were intent on heading south. Across the only strip of sea wide and sailable enough for a fleet to make their way towards an enemy nation. Across the waters to Colchis.

While a difficult target to attack due to its position on mountainous islands amongst rocky shores, the Kirakles islands were a prize many political or military commanders wanted to be able to say they had laid claim to. Not only were it's cities fortresses to be used for one's own power plays but the tunnels and mines beneath them were literal goldmines. Iron, silver, gold... it all came from beneath Midas and the mountains of Dolomesa. To claim Colchis was to claim the most wealth-potential kingdom in Greece.

And so, masses had started to congregate on the Northern Lands shoreline and, as he had been for many years now, Vangelis had been sent to disperse them. With force.

This time, however, as he had been encouraging his father to do for the last four years, the king had ordered the establishment of a fortified settlement. A small town and outpost with a military force of its own, in order to remain in the Northern Lands, claim the shoreline strip in the name of Colchis, and protect the only open stretch of sea that their barbarian enemies could use for a clear shot at their kingdom.

The question was, where on this barren and hilly land, was the best place to orchestrate and construct just such a place?

After settling the fighting, winning several battles over the last four months and finally pushing the savage tribesmen back towards their own realm, it was now a simply battle of attrition, when any ventured too far south. It was now that construction would need to begin, in order for the town to be settled and secured before their enemies could reassemble and regroup their forces. But, with limited forests in the area and a hilly terrain blocking the views of scouts, it was difficult to know when and how he should be pursuing such building goals.

Vangelis took another mouthful from his goblet and felt the tang over his tongue as he braced his free hand on the wooden table he had in his tent and shifted his weight to one hip.

The map was a full detail of the surrounding areas, pieced together by information collected by separate scouting parties he had sent out over the last week. It was drawn with grace and care and Vangelis had used wine soaked parchment strips to map out where their enemies were encamped. A small stack of books - the few adventure stories he liked to bring with him on his military campaigns - a sextant, a belt buckle and his heavy leather riding gloves pinned down each of its four corners.

The crown prince chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment and then, blinking, rubbing his eyes and moving away from the map for the first time in an hour, he surveyed his surroundings, simply for the sake of finding something else to look at.

His tent was exactly the same as the ones used for his men (the only difference being that he didn't share it with anyone) and his bed - a slim and de-constructable cot - was the same product that his men slept on (aside from the expensive fur blanket). Vangelis saw no reason to give himself luxuries and leisures while he was out at war. He could die tomorrow the same as any of his soldiers - why did he deserve a happier send off than others in his final days? Especially considering that more luxuries and home comforts for him would take up space that more food or weapon supplies could occupy in the holds of the ships they had taken across the northern Aegean.

The only reason Vangelis even had his own tent, instead of bunking with his unit, was for a sense of propriety (they had to see him as above them, a prince, if he was going to be able to successfully lead them) and practicality (he required things such as tables and seating room for him and his high ranking officers to discuss tactics and land assessment, outside of the general earshot of his troops.

Aah, his troops... This led him to another issue swimming in the back of his mind. One he had been pondering upon the best way to deal with.

Three weeks ago, one of his Commanders had approached Vangelis with a nomination for promotion. He had wanted to increase the rank of a lieutenant in his unit - a Nike of Acaris - to the role of Captain. But all military ranks within the Red Knights were of Vangelis' control and discretion. So, he had agreed to look into the soldier.

The background records on the man had been short but effective.

Taken into the army - like so many - at a young, nubile age, the kid had been for all intents and purposes homeless and directionless. It was probably the most common reason for soldiers to be indoctrinated into the lowest rank in the army. The kid had seen several battles - this was his second time in the Northern Lands with Vangelis in command personally - and he had come out of all of them unscathed. In fact, the kid was now a career soldier, having been with the military for over eight years. That long in active service was not a rarity but it was a sign that the man knew how to stay alive. Whether that was through cowardice and keeping to the back in fights, or due to skill remained to be seen.

So, Vangelis had looked into the boy.

Two weeks ago, had been the latest major disturbance when insurgents had attacked one of their island encampments half a mile north. Vangelis had led his men in back up to the soldiers at the northern outpost and made a note to keep an eye out for the one called Nike.

When he had spotted the boy, he had almost snorted with disbelief. The kid - for he still looked like a kid, no matter how old he was (his records said 20) - was about half a foot shorter than all his other men, thin and... kind of dainty in his structure. His shoulders hadn't yet filled out, despite his age and he was clearly built on very thin lines. While he held himself with power and confidence in his stride, were the man still it would simply look as if a stiff breeze would knock him flat.

Reserving judgement and trusting in the recommendation of his Commander, however, Vangelis had ordered the attack against the insurgents and sent his men into the thick of it, allowing the tired and battle-weary who had been holding off the raid to take a step back and draw breath.

The barbarians were furious, led without order or predictable pattern. As if their chief instruction had been simply to destroy. Vangelis' tactical skills were next to useless in reading his enemy but his calls and instructions were used to keep his men together, fighting as a unit, protecting the men next to each other and allowing the savages to burn and destroy their camp - even pillage some of their weaponry - before risking the lives of those who fought.

Vangelis had learned time and again, from his very first campaign, that everything - everything in this world - could be replaced. Except for the lives of those loyal to you.

Astride his horse, Vangelis had watched and waited for a moment in the battle where he could be most of use and, when a nearby tent caught fire, he took the opportunity he had.

Dismounting from his horse at speed, Vangelis tore through the boxes and crates stacked beside one of the supply tents to his left. Finding what he needed and drawing out the container of wine bottles - each bottle fastened into a wooden grid inside the box, Vangelis tore the sides off of the container so he was left with only the grid, the dozen bottles of wine pinned into place within it. Running the two steps back to his horse, he fastened the wooden grid with a little creativity in using the saddle straps and didn't pause as he heard his men shout and attack again. His Commanders had the battle in hand but they were gaining no ground. The barbarians were playing some kind of relay game, running back out of the encampment to be replaced with fresh fighters, and his soldiers would eventually be worn down.

"Let's see if this works..." Vangelis had muttered to himself, before hauling himself back onto the back of his horse. The stallion had side stepped, secured itself and snorted in eagerness to run, to charge. The sounds and smells had him spooked and ready to leap into action. Riding over to the nearest Colchian flag, Vangelis snapped the wooden stem and then - with a mutter to his father to forgive him, wrapped the flag around the end of its pole and set the material alight in the tent's burning flames.

Once certain his beacon was burning independently, Vangelis withdrew one of his swords and, with a kick and "Yah!" to his steed, was suddenly charging at full gallop, his reins hanging lose and his legs controlling the horse, towards the back of his men's unit.

The pounding of his horse's hooves had several of his men, at the back of their formation look over their shoulder and raise eyebrows at the sight of their prince, rampaging towards them. But Vangelis steering his horse around his troops and continued his gallops down their outward flank.

As he was approaching the frontlines of his men, he could see the disassembled hoards they were trying to gain control over in order to fight efficiently and Vangelis smiled.

Raising his sword, his swung the blade hard behind him, snapping off the glass necks of all ten of the bottles secured at a downward angle on the hind quarters of his ride. The snap and crash of glass was lost in the noises of battle but Vangelis knew he'd hit true when he glanced over his shoulder and noted the thick and wide trail of black crimson against the ground, that he now left in his wake.

In and around his enemy he rode.

The barbarian fighters, so confused and perplexed as to why the chief commander of their enemy had decided to ride solo down his own men's flank and then down the side of his enemy's forces too; into the very enemy lines, gave a few of them pause, but it wasn't long before they recovered and, their attentions divided, they started to shoot arrows from crossbows and launch knives in his direction.

Too fast he rode for any personal attack and too low he leaned for any of the projectiles to hit their mark, Vangelis gritted his teeth, and laid low over his stallion's neck, kicking the warhorse to still faster speeds.

Around the horde he went, skirting the thick end of their back line, leaping an axe that one tried to swing at his steed's front legs, and swinging back around to gallop full pelt down the opposing side.

His flaming flag was a strange and eerie message against the black, smoke filled sky and Vangelis was grinning an evil grin as he safely returned to the front lines of his own troops. Many of them stared up at him in amazement.

"I think I'm ready to win this war now Talios!" He called to one of his Commanders and with an effortless and almost amusing toss of his arm, he threw the flag directly onto the trail of wine he had just poured around their enemies.

In a whoosh and flames of terrifying speed, the alcohol in the wine ignited and the blaze sped around the enemy forces faster than he had ridden the path in the other direction.

Entrapped in fire and unable to replace their men, the barbarians panicked, attempting to protect themselves on all sides, as the fire encroached towards them over the dry land.

"Attack!" Vangelis bellowed, his horse startled onto its rear legs and his men surged forwards.

Now pinned by flame on three of their four sides, the savages were helpless and at a disadvantage against the order and organisation of Vangelis' marching troops, encasing them in from the fourth.

Within another fifteen minutes that battle that had been going on for most of the night was suddenly brought to an end, and the savages who had not been caught up in flame had run in cowardice from the screams and scent of burning flesh.

In those fifteen minutes, however, Vangelis had watched the one called Nike. And, whether it was his adrenaline forcing his mind to work faster, or his eyes being sharpened by the glare of the flames he had lit... he had noticed things.

What he hadn't noticed, until the battle was over, however, was the arrow embedded in the back of his left shoulder. Until one of his Commanders had pointed it out and suggested he saw the medic. Adrenaline, Vangelis remembered thinking, was a wonderful thing.

Now, two weeks later, and Vangelis had only a sore-looking puncture wound in the back of his shoulder. The arrow had only hit shoulder blade and had caused no damage beyond a torn muscle and lacerated skin, so he had had the thing wrapped up for a few days and now just let it rest in the cool air.

Shirtless, standing in the middle of his tent, with his leather riding pants hanging low on his hips thanks to his belts and scabbards being draped over the posts of his cot, Vangelis tapped the rim of his goblet again, finally coming to a conclusion on how to deal with the soldier named Nike.

After calling a guard to summon the soldier, Vangelis had turned back to his map and, settling his cup down on the table, had braced his hands on the edge of its wooden surface. Placing his weight on one leg and leaning low to look over the drawings, yet not really seeing them, Vangelis' tan back was lit by the lantern hanging from the center of the tent. And it was how he stayed positioned until he heard a voice on the other side of the tent flap.

"Come in." He called, his tone flat and dark - as per usual for the Blood General - and he didn't turn around as he heard the tent flap shift, a person enter and the flap fall back into place.

Tapping the tip of his index finger on the panelling of his wooden table and considering his next move - his next words - Vangelis pushed himself straight and turned to face the young Nike.

Scooping his cup back up off of the table and taking a sip, his gaze drilled into hers with all the subtlety and softness of the mountainous rocks he had grown up around.

"Lord Garith has brought your existence to my attention regarding a promotion Lieutenant." He told the boy, his tone giving nothing away of his own opinions on the matter. "You must have worked hard to gain his attention..."

Vangelis had been blessed. That is what so many people had told him from the age of twelve upwards. He had been blessed by Ares, God of War, with an uncanny ability to read a battlefield, to know what was happening, to sense how his enemies were moving or preparing to attack. And it worked on a personal level too, reading an individual fighter - their tactics, their movement and their abilities - seeking out their weaknesses and assessing their strength.

That was what Vangelis had done with Nike in his sights on that night - on the last battle they had had against the barbarian insurgents.

As soon as he had given the order to attack, his men had charged forward, eager to comply. Nike had been one of the ones the most bold, without fear. And yet, he would hang back a few steps upon reaching his enemy. Never the one to strike the first blow and offer his side or abdomen in weakness. He would instead hold back, allow his opponent to come at him, adjust his attack, find the hole in his foe's defence and utilise it. His one-on-one skirmishes within the battle had been over faster than any of the others where brute force had been pitted against equal strength.

Nike had fought clever, over fighting strong.

It was the advice he remembered, clear as day, giving to his sister when they were young.

"You have to be clever." He had told her, back when she had been possibly ten years of age and trembling with the weight of the short sword he had given her. "Never attack first. You'll be weaker than your enemy and open attack is your most vulnerable moment in battle. Let them come to you..."

Nike was fast on his feet. Nimble and quick - not only good at dodging but at feinting too; tricking his opponent into major swings or attacks that would cause him to tire or off set their balance.

"You're a girl so you're more flexible..." He remembered teaching Asia. "You need to use that to your advantage. You dart one way, and then the other. When your opponent goes to strike, you use his weight against him."

He remembered instructing the Kotas princess to tie her hair back - that the sway of the locks gave away how she was planning to move, before her muscles could enact it.

Nike wore his hair short.

"Men are bigger and heavier..." he had advised his sister all those years ago. "They put great strength into their attacks, which means you can not be hit by them. You get struck by a male's attack and you'll be thrown to the ground. You hit the ground and you die."

He had never once seen Nike parry one of the major swings or attacks of his enemies. He always took the smarter route, dodging the assault and then taking the chance to push, hit or stab at his opponent, in the direction of their strike, sending them off balance and giving him the opportunity for the killing blow.

"Never aim for the heart." Had been his final advice to his sister. "You'll never have the strength to stab through a male's rib cage and then withdraw the blade in time, before he can strike you. Same with the head. You'll expose yourself by raising your arms too high to strike from above." He had tapped at certain points of his own body to indicate where she needed to aim. "Never go for the easy kill - you want the sneaky kill."

Beneath the armpit, the backs of the knees or ankles, the inner thigh, the inside of the elbow or wrist. These were the best places to slice in order to cause maximum bleeding and eventual death. And Nike appeared to know all of them.

His noticing of these details had caused him to look harder at Nike. In the same way he was looking at him now. The finer features, the thinner neck - how his tunic always rose up the column of his throat... as if to hide something he didn't have... How his clothes were always ill-fitting - something others had attributed to his small size, but maybe the choice was deliberate, to mask certain shapes.

"I watched you fight at the last battle at the northern outpost." He told the soldier, as he looked into his wine cup and then back at him, his eyes sharp. "You're very skilled."

Vangelis meandered toward the chair he had planted beside his cot and hunkered down in it, his arms lounging on its arms and his knees spread wide. His finger started to tap the top of his cup again.

"But..." He began, narrowing his eyes at the soldier in assessment. "Skill isn't all it takes to move up the ranks." He said, his lips twisting. "It also requires loyalty. Dedication." His eyes narrowed. "True fealty."

Vangelis gestured towards is soldier with his wine cup.

"Do you consider these to be qualities you possess, Nike of Acaris?"

The side of Vangelis' mouth quirked upwards at the "boy"'s assertion that he was loyal and true to his regiment and his role within it. But the facial gesture could hardly be called a smile. He waited, allowing the quiet to simmer between them for a moment, and then tilted his head, considering.

As the silence began to grow thick and uncomfortable, Vangelis finally spoke...

"I believe what you say." He told the soldier, in response to Nike's fervent claims of loyalty. "Yet I am also a man of action over words. And as far as I have always believed..." Vangelis prised himself up out of the chair, his hands braced on its arms and his frame stretching itself to it's full and towering height. "Loyalty can only be determined by a persons actions - not promises."

Vangelis set his wine cup back on the table and then turned to face his solider, his eyes sharp and his features hard.

"Which means, I expect my soldiers to fulfil every command I give. Instantly and without question." He stated, his voice as hard as nails and sharp as glass.

He stalked towards Nike, his steps large and his height and shoulder breadth imposing in the tent space around them. He had not given the solider permission to stand at ease, so Nike's boots remained rooted to the ground, exactly where they should have... Vangelis stopped only once he had breached Nike's personal space and was standing just a little too close for comfort.

"You claim to be loyal to me, and that you will fulfil all orders, Nike of Acaris..." He said, his voice with a slight curious tone - as if he were wondering what she might do next. Then his features lost any and all, slight signs of friendliness or calm. His features darkened and his eyes boar into Nike's.

"So... Take off your clothes."

And there it was...

Vangelis had only needed a small shred - a speck of evidence to lean in the right way for him to have been a hundred percent convinced that the soldier standing before him was a woman.

He had seen her fight, he had watched her technique, her moves, her decisions. The way she protected certain areas of her body and left others exposed in a way that a man wouldn't. He had then noted her features, her stature, her strange garment choices.

With all that combined, Vangelis had been fairly convinced of his/her secrets before the soldier had entered his tent. But he had had the weight of assumption arguing against his reasoning...

When one wasn't looking for something to be out of place, the differences between Nike and the other soldiers were insignificant. In fact, there were young lads in the lower legions that were far scrawnier and even shorter than Nike was. So, when one of his troops or men were presented with the soldier in front of him, shared a tent with him, bathed with him (of course, he imagined that Nike found a way around that) - you would always come back to the assumption that Nike of Acaris was a man.

After all, women weren't allowed in the army, aside from in the roles of archers. And they were certainly never allowed on the front lines. So Nike's sheer presence in the military proved her masculine gender... At least in the eyes of everyone else. Which then convinced all newcomers to believe the same information - because everyone who came before them had believed...

For a moment, Vangelis was curious as to how the girl had gotten through the physical upon her enlistment but then he already knew how clever she was... given how long she had managed to hide her true biology.

Because the second Nike had hesitated to take off her clothes, Vangelis had been entirely convinced. No soldier would defy such a simple task. It might have been embarrassing, it might have been humiliating or awkward. But it wasn't difficult. He had not asked her to drown children or burn villages (tasks that he would expect his men to balk at). Any man in his army would have removed their armour quickly and efficiently, even while they were utterly confused.

And yet Nike was pushing back against so simple an instruction.

Which was the wax seal on Vangelis' theorem.

Nike of Acaris was no man.

"In which case..." Vangelis said, turning away from the soldier and heading to his table again for parchment and ink. He scooped both, plus a stylus, up from its surface and then settled himself back into his chair. "I shall write you a letter of honorary discharge from my unit and from the Colchian military." He told her, without looking up and dipping the stylus into the ink pot. As he started to write exactly what he had promised he then clarified... "I have no use for a woman in my army."

Vangelis was not known for being wordy or overtly chatty. This was due to his very Colchian belief that if you had something to say, it had better be worth saying. And very little often was. Such an attitude, however, was very good for ensuring that he was polite and quiet when other people were speaking - as his natural and basic belief (just as it was for all people) was that everyone shared his own. And so, he said nothing through Nike's speech, only looking up occasionally and noting that her gaze never broke from his unless he broke it himself to keep writing out the discharge notice in his lap.

When she finished, his stylus paused and he looked up at her. Lifting a boot and bracing his ankle on the opposite knee, a posture of total comfort and relaxation, his body looked anything but. His shoulders, the muscles in his abdomen and his facial features all seemed hard and unyielding. The muscle in his forearm flexed and twisted as he fiddled and flipped the stylus between his fingers.

"So what would you have me say, or powerful warrior..." He began, his tone only hinting at insult. "...When our enemies or - worse still - our own generals and commanders, question the strength of the Colchian men? When a woman can compete on their level - as you so eloquently stated - and can rise through the ranks as Lord Garith suggests? What answer would you have me give when the strength of Colchis becomes a joke at our expense?"

Vangelis' eyes sparked and his lips pursed thoughtfully. His stylus had paused for a moment as he had listened to her speak but, as she finished her plea of having nowhere else to go (which was often to case for soldiers who joined in the lower ranks, as opposed to the lords who were there for family honour) he turned back to his writing and, with a few quick slices of his stylus, signed the paper.

Without looking at her, or giving any indication that he had heard or approved of her answer to his question, Vangelis picked up the candle that sat in its holder on the table. The wax staff had been dyed with ink and was a pitch black, creating a gooey oily residue in the dip of its melted top. Dripping the excess onto the corner of the parchment, then creating a fist and marking the wax with the imprint of his signet ring - the piece that marked him and him alone as heir to the throne of Colchis, Vangelis peeled away his knuckles and assessed his work.

A full letter of honorary discharge, with his signature and seal.

The woman should have been kicked out unceremoniously if Vangelis was following the law. Depending on the General or Commander in question, Nike could be court marshalled, executed, exiled from Colchis... given to the troops as entertainment. Or all of the above. An honorary discharge was an exceptional leniency that he was offering, simply based on her skills and her aid in her military efforts until now.

"This is now valid." He told Nike without looking over his shoulder as he blew gently on the wax to cool the shape of the seal.

Turning back to face her, he narrowed his eyes and looked her up and down. From the top of her shortly cropped hair, down her body all hidden in thick or bagging layers or pieces of protective armour, down to her slim legs and boots that looked like they fit (no soldier could operate in boots that were too large) and were hiding dainty feet.

The Blood General walked back towards his soldier, the discharge paper in hand.

Nike was standing almost directly under the lantern that hung in the centre of the tent. A shallow bronze dish with burning oil, creating a flickering flame across the surface, was positions on three different chains and their presence hadn't even made it swing.

Vangelis held the discharge paperwork up near the lantern.

"I could dispose of this..." He told the woman, his gaze skimming over her again... His eyes then turned dark. Punishing. "If you're able to convince me that a woman could be of use to me, that is." His frame leaned down and forward, encroaching far too close on her personal space, his arm still reaching up, keeping the paper from her reach and offering it, poised on the edge of being burnt and destroyed. His face came in... so very close, and his voice was low and quiet but no less commanding. The combination was terrifying. "Get on the bed."

Surprised by her answer, but tilting his head in acceptance, Vangelis gave no outward sign of encouragement or satisfaction on his face and, instead, twisted his body and held out a hand, indicating the cot to his left.

Vangelis watched as, like a corpse not fully aware of its on function, Nike moved towards the bed and, upon reaching its edge, hesitated.

Vangelis was merciless and simply grabbed ahold of her shoulder from behind, wrenched her around and then pushed, so that she fell onto her back. She bounced for a moment on the fur blankets, but Vangelis didn't give her time to blink or adjust at the sudden turn about. Bracing his knees on the edge of the cot and leaning down over her, his naked torso hovering above her, caging her in against his bed, he settled his hands either side of her head and leaned in with the bending of his elbows.

With the lantern behind him Vangelis was cast into shadow, a monstrous form of a man with the broadest shoulders and the darkest eyes.

"Lie still." He commanded.

His hands now free, as the paperwork had fallen somewhere to the floor, Vangelis lifted one of them - large, and powerful with long, strong fingers and, with a darting movement, suddenly started pulling at Nike's clothes.

Before a reaction could be made, Vangelis had her breastplate undone, her under shirt hiked up to reveal a smooth and flat belly and had torn at the top of her tunic where he could see that she was most definitely missing an Adam's apple (as if he hadn't already known).

His touch was unromantic and callous, executed with speed and efficiency at clearly trying to take off as much of her clothing as he could reach, as fast as he could manage it, as he supported his weight solely on his thighs now and sought to get her naked with both hands in play. He clearly gave no consideration for whether the garments tore, or whether they scratched or jostled their owner as he pulled them and her about, determined to reach skin.