The boy couldn't guess how long he lay there in the sand, immobile and in pain, but at some point he felt something latch onto his body. His sword arm weakly lashed out, more an unconscious instinct than any sort of planned resistance. He heard a sharp curse, and a grunt of pain as his blade bit lightly into flesh. Then, weight. On his chest, on his arms, pinning him in place. He tried to thrash, but he was weak, so weak.

He heard voices, an argument, but he couldn't make sense of the words. They were just sounds, to him, his mind too far gone to decipher them. Hands pulled at his sword, but his grip was steel. He wouldn't relinquish his safety.

More voices.

Exasperation, acceptance.

He felt himself being picked up and carried. Placed on a stretcher, his arms and legs dangling. His sword dragged against the desert sand but he wouldn't give it up. The strangers moved him, their gait steady and level. Some part of him felt confusion at that, but the majority of his focus was internal.

The boy realized, in a sort of detached fashion, that his self-identity was cracked. The strong, stubborn foundation of consciousness that defined his Memory had been shattered by the mere shadow of Eurya. He'd let go of his teacher's Memory, but its weight had caused possibly irreparable damage. The boy needed to center himself. To reaffirm himself; who he was, and his purpose in the world.

He couldn't understand why it was so hard.

Hazy Memories flitted through his mind, his own, not Eurya's. He felt little and less upon seeing them, like they were paintings of a stranger's life.

The newest Hero, the replacement, the thief. The Liar. He stared down upon the boy with confusion.

"The traitor's son?" he asked.

There should be anger, the boy reflected mildly. But instead, there was nothing.

The boy was being watched over by a soldier while his father was off to war. The man had introduced himself as Alecto, a servant of the All-King and a subordinate to the Hero of Farathun. A name was something wholly unfamiliar to the boy. Something new, and exciting.

"What is my name?" the boy had asked, then.

The man looked down at him with a grim smile.

"You'll have to earn one, boy," he replied without pity. "Nothing in this life is free."

He remembered Alecto. A good man. A good soldier. He served the All-King without question or mercy.

He had delivered the news of the Hero's execution in the same pitiless monotone.

"A traitor?" the boy asked, his voice weak with disbelief. He stepped forward, clutching his sword tight. "My father would never betray the All-King!"

Alecto's spear cracked across his chest, and sent the boy sprawling across the meadow.

"You forget your place, boy," he intoned. "Your place is to serve, not to question. The All-King has declared your father a traitor, and so he is a traitor. His word is fact. Do you not feel it?"

The boy felt it. He could feel that small bond of Memory tying every subject to their ruler, that whispered the truth to him. His father was a traitor. The All-King had spoken, and He was second only to the gods.

The Memory sparked something in him. Some small flicker of emotion. The ember grew, igniting a connection.

Two strangers stood in his meadow, explaining how they knew his father.

Skepticism.

"He has never spoken of you," the boy said.

"He wouldn't," the Keeper acknowledged. "Your King had forbidden it, and your father was always a devoted servant."

The boy smiled slightly at the compliment, but paused. "The All-King has forbidden your presence?"

Eurya scoffed. The motion had seemed unimportant at the time, but the boy could see it, now. She hadn't even tried to hide her incredulity. The mere thought of another commanding her was ludicrous. Humorous. Absurd. The All-King's name brought nothing but scorn to her eyes.

His teacher was strong.

"Do not worry, little Nicos, I will teach you to fly."

Pride. There it was; pride in himself, in his accomplishments. Confidence in what he had achieved. Happiness that he'd drawn the eye of one so skilled.

He saw himself sparring with Eurya, throwing frenzied blows against her lazy defense. He saw himself walking beside the Keeper, listening to him speak. The man was filled with stories, and the boy could not help but be enraptured.

"I'm an expert at reminiscing," the blind man joked with a jovial grin.

He saw the Gravel Sea, so great and terrible. With its howling winds and shaking earth, and a storm that swallowed the horizon. He watched the Keeper punch a hole in the sky with a word and a gesture; he watched Eurya stand without the slightest hint of tension as gods did battle mere feet away.

He felt doubt creep into his mind, a slow poison. The All-King could not compare to the gods. The man admitted it himself. Farathun worshiped War, acknowledging the god's innate superiority. It was a being above them all.

"Why, my little student, whenever did I say that those gods were beyond us?" His teacher's voice echoed in his mind, alongside the Memory of an arrogant smile.

He felt something shift, outside his body. He couldn't have guessed how much time had passed, but he felt himself being lowered. His hand was still gripped tightly around his sword, but his body would obey none of his commands. He wanted to strike out, to protect himself. He did not know these people, and some primal part of him still felt fear.

It was daylight. He could feel the Twins upon his skin, just as he could tell that something was standing at his side, when its shadow crossed his body. The being leaned over him, casting shade across his eyelids. He felt a hand, calloused and wrinkled and ancient, pressing against his forehead.

"He Wanders," a stranger's voice spoke in the distance. The words were muddy, like the boy was hiding at the bottom of a lake.

A presence pushed into his Memory, something foreign and alive. Distantly, the boy realized that he was being read. Just a brush against his senses, the lightest touch. He struggled to repel it.

There was breath beside his ear. A gentle whisper, spoken with care.

"Remember who you are."

The presence pushed against him, the words carrying fuel, searching for a catalyst. They brushed past the boy's Memory, gently probing.

Who was he? The boy, the son of a Hero? Abandoned by his father, by his King, by his people? Was he the fledgling, adopted by two strangers and dragged into an adventure? A traitor's legacy? The pet project of a demigod? Who was he? Who did he want to be?

"Memory is shaped by perception, Nicos," his teacher said. "Your perception of yourself must be unassailable. Untouched by doubt. You had that foundation, I could feel it."

Whatever foundation he might have had was broken. Shattered, by his own actions. But the cracks had formed long before that, on the turbulent shores of the Gravel Sea. That was when doubt had first crept into his mind, where his place in the world had been so abruptly made clear.

He was no longer a mere boy. Not just the son of a Hero, not anymore. He had grown beyond that, somehow greater and lesser all at once. He could never regain that blind faith in himself, in his family, in his legacy, nor did he want to. A legacy built on a lie was worthless.

What, then, did he want?

"Be exceptional Nicos, and the world will part before you."

He wanted something real. He wanted to be remembered. He wanted his father, his family, to be remembered. To bear a legacy worthy of Memory, not confidence based on ignorance. He wanted to learn at the side of Eurya, to gain strength that could match the gods. He wanted to march back to Farathun and stand before the All-King, and declare, "My father was not a traitor!" He wanted to stand in those high halls, in front of that marble throne, and laugh at their weakness. He wanted strength beyond measure.

He wanted to be more than a boy, a traitor's legacy.

"What is your name?" the stranger's voice prodded once more. Their words caught on something, and sparked.

Connections snapped into place, Memory realigned, and the ember of conviction ignited into a blazing inferno.

The boy gasped, breathing deep of the dry air. Strength flooded his limbs once more. He felt the wind gently blowing against his skin, the heat of the desert, and the coarse sand below. He drew another, rattling breath.

"Nicos," he rasped. "My name is Nicos."