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1.136 [The Tyrant Riot]
🕑 Added 2023-04-06 09:00:57 +0000 UTCThe time has come and so have I.
Book 2 of Virtuous Sons, The Tyrant Riot, is now available on Kindle and Kindle Unlimited.
Same drill as before - paperback and hardcover editions (with unique hardcover art) will be available as soon as Amazon clears them for print, hopefully within the week. Book 2 will be receiving an audio book adaptation in the same style as the first, but it'll take a bit longer this time around. I'll keep you all posted as that one develops.
As always, a review is worth its weight in gold. A few words to let the Kindle masses know what you think goes a long way, and I appreciate all of you that have already pre-ordered and drummed up some thoughts in advance. You're more than I deserve.
Here's to two, and soon to three. Thank you all for sticking with my story. I hope you keep enjoying it.
But enough about that. It's time to riot.
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The Tyrant Riot
Their feud was ancient.
With their finest days so many years behind them, it was easy for an outsider to forget that the elders of the Raging Heaven Cult had once been the hands that shaped the free world. The fact that they could be called elders at all, each one marked by the same indigo brush, was itself a damning sign of their decline. They had been unique existences once. They had been triumphant, and terrible.
Even before the high bastard of the Raging Heaven Cult had stolen them from their thrones, they had despised one another. It was often said that a monarch inherited their nation’s riches alongside its scars, and that every son bore the burden of his father’s sins. For existences like theirs, inheriting nations from fathers and mothers that had ruled for countless mortal generations, the weight of ancestral enmity was overwhelming.
Tearing each of them down from the seat of their power, breaking their crowns and discarding their fragments - that has been insult enough. The kyrios could have killed them then and there and they would have spent an eternity cursing his existence in the underworld. But, of course, that hadn’t been enough for the Free Mediterranean's least satiable hedonist. No. He’d wanted more from them.
The elder Tyrants of the cult hated the mad kyrios for usurping them. But they reviled him for forcing them to band together.
Time together had done nothing to mend the wounds inflicted by their predecessors. There were not enough centuries, could never be enough thread on the loom, for their enmity to be put to rest. Shared company only made it worse. Naturally, though he waxed poetic whenever challenged on the subject, the kyrios had known this would be the result.
He’d thought it was funny at the time
Now, their joining brought ruin to his city. They destroyed it all - the monuments built in his name, the monuments that he had built himself, and all the bright-eyed examples of the young generation’s budding virtue. All of it crumbled in the face of eight Tyrants’ ancient malediction.
Cosmic laws were overwritten, repealed, and overwritten again at a rate that mortal man could hardly even conceptualize, let alone perceive. Their clashing destroyed the world around them in a thousand different ways, sparing nothing but the enduring amethyst that wound through and bolstered Kaukoso Mons. Free at last to vent their anger, they unmade everything the Tyrant Riot had built.
They found no catharsis in the act. In fact, it only stoked their fury. No matter how much of his life’s work they unmade, they couldn’t destroy the portion of him that still lingered in the marrow of their bones.
No matter what they took from the kyrios’ accursed legacy, they couldn’t shake the feeling he was laughing at them still.
They fought alone against seven, each of the kyrios’ would-be usurpers, but the word brawl could not have done it justice. Even the concept of a battle was not enough. Regardless of their current circumstances and no matter how disgraced - when a Tyrant fought, they went to war.
The war for the indigo throne had begun the day the Tyrant Riot died. They had waged it cold, searching through shadows and cats’ paws for the moment where the stars aligned to strike. Each of them had desired a different version of this day, but the fact that it would come had never once been a doubt in their minds. The kyrios had throttled eight lions, chained them each to one other, and left them all to starve while vultures circled overhead. How else could it have ended?
In circumstances like these, they had no choice but to eat each other. Four of them had been deceived into a vagabond’s alliance, but their careful vows hardly mattered here - the Tyrants of Howling Wind, Scattered Foam, Broken Tide, and Waning Wax had sworn to stand against the First Son to Burn, that much was firm. But they hadn’t sworn to stand together. Nor had they sworn to spare the rest of their rivals in the joining. The raven had changed things, but only just.
Without his ethos, the Tyrant Polyzalus was not an insurmountable threat. By all accounts, the fracturing of his foundations should have rendered him a complete non-entity when the war began in earnest. Yet somehow, his wrath was more than enough to match their dominions. That wrath, and the Gadfly’s incessant fucking buzzing. They dealt horrific blows to one another, violence on a scale that made Polyzalus’ earlier clash with his Butcher look like a child’s squabble, but soon found themselves trapped in a terrible equilibrium.
If the raven’s alliance had been made of horn rather than ivory, the war might have been won in an instant. If any of them had been capable of tolerating even one more rival to the indigo throne, even just until the day was done, they might have been able to turn that tide as two. But it had been centuries since any of them were capable of such compromise - these days, they would only act together if they had no other choice. So instead they waged eight wars alone, and not a single one was winnable.
Until suddenly, one of them was.
When a pillar of stark light rose up from the earth to drill through starry heaven, their disbelief warped the air around the mountain. Some of the elders were far older than others, but none of them were young enough to have been spared the scars of this particular purpose. They couldn’t have forgotten it if they’d tried.
This far from its origin point, the touch of its hunger was a faint and distant thing. Uncaring of their efforts to keep it that way, the King’s Curse gnawed away at them. Sliver by sliver, undeterred, it devoured their dominions. The Conqueror’s blade cast its hungry shadow over the entire city, enshrouding all their souls but one. Not even the bastard spawn of Rosy Dawn that had drawn it was spared.
The only man the King’s Curse spared was Ptolemy, and only then because it had claimed his soul long ago. Had that been the extent of it, though their immediate priorities would have surely shifted, the war would not have changed. But it wasn’t, and so it did.
Like the rebirth of a star, the Hollow Satrap drew strength from the coronating light that had shrouded them in shadows. He lit up from within, the yawning hollow of his eerie domain giving way to stark light and overwhelming purpose. His body swiftly followed suit.
The Tyrant once known as the Savior had been emaciated for centuries, starving worse than any of his peers. It was unheard of for a Tyrant’s body to disobey their idea of themselves, yet Ptolemy looked closer to a corpse than he ever could a king. It could be seen in his hair, white with age and thinning out. It could be seen in his sunken cheeks, ever without color. It could be inferred from his dim eyes, their spark long dead. He still possessed a Tyrant's stature, but it was difficult to tell when he could no longer stand up at his fullest height. He’d been hunched and hollowed out by his crimes. It had been that way since before the kyrios came to collect him, and his condition had only grown worse with time. It was the only reason why the Tyrants of the true Greek city-states tolerated his existence.
Of all the Tyrants left in Olympia after the kyrios’ passing, the First Son to Burn had emerged as the clearest present threat. However, that was as they were. Had each of them stood at their fullest prime, it would have been a different one that threatened seven. And it wouldn’t have been close.
Ptolemy’s skeletal frame abruptly expanded and filled out, like some unseen colossus had been inhaling his every essence for centuries and was just now finally exhaling. Iron cords of muscle surged beneath his skin, bringing color and healthy definition to his frame. He straightened his back and rose to his full height, his spine cracking and popping grotesquely with the motion, and when he was done he stood taller than even the towering Queen of the Amazons. His cheeks filled out, accentuating a strong jaw that before had made him look like half a corpse. His thinning hair fell out entirely, was forced out, as dark curls of hair burst forth from his skin. A full head of dark and wavy hair sprung up from his head as if it had always been there, stripping away his oldest years in an instant.
Ptolemy inhaled his first full breath in centuries, the decrepit robes that had hung limp off his body for so long now straining to the limits of their threads as his barrel chest expanded. Though each of his rivals had stopped dead in their tracks at the appearance of the coronating pillar, they were forced to turn away from it as a second beacon of stark suffering lit up the plateau of the indigo cult.
The source of the horrible resonance, the linking hand in the shape of a man, took all the wind from his first full breath in centuries and used it to roar.
“DEFILER!”
The Macedonian’s pneuma exploded from him in a torrent, no longer consuming mindlessly as his hollow domain had for so many years. The rest of the seven matched themselves against it, at first only with a portion of their efforts - Aleuas tried to divert it with his hurricane’s current, Solon attempted to remake it, and Midas tried to turn it all to gold. They attempted to block, to steal, to make their own, or even to ignore. Very quickly, they realized not one of those methods would be enough.
Ptolemy thrashed them all, more than twice the man he’d been a moment ago, and less than half the man he’d be a moment later. The light of shining stars poured out from his soul, glowing brighter by the second and gathering around his head in a coalescing crown. He overwhelmed their sickly domains. He broke the weapons in their hands. Hit them with clenched fists that struck like falling stars. All the while, he raged at the presumption of the newest scarlet son, whose hands had dared to grasp above his station.
Every second he grew stronger, and every moment more enraged. In the latter sense, he was far from alone. The instant that that coronating pillar had drilled up through the heavens, every Tyrant on the mountain knew the golden raven had to die.
Unfortunately, that shared resolve would do them little good if Ptolemy tore them all to shreds before he went and killed the boy.
They fought to flee, but he would not let them regroup. They fought to distract, but he would not be swayed from his new purpose. They fought to survive, but the Conqueror’s mad dog had gone centuries without a meal and it was time for him to eat. He took them all in hand, and the world around them warped as the distant roar of marching feet and the screaming of war horses loomed loudly in his soul. A long-repressed nightmare brought terror to their empty chests. Their intent faltered and slipped from their fingers, leaving just the empty dread.
By the time the Macedonian froze up again, the plateau was all but won. His right hand had Leonidas by the neck, strangling the Spartan king and all 300 of his infernal Heroes. His left hand had palmed Thalestris’ skull like a discus and wrenched her head back so that she formed an arch worthy of a bowstring, a finger buried into each of her eye sockets. His heel ground Midas deeper into the mountain than any of their attacks had cut thus far, breaking the Tyrant’s golden spine like so much brittle clay. The remaining four of seven were hardly any better off.
In no time at all, the balance of the indigo war had shifted entirely out of their hands. The Savior’s abrupt hesitation was the last chance they’d ever get, each of them knew. Yet not a single one of seven Tyrants moved to take advantage of it.
When the voice of an era returned from the East, heaven and earth and all those in between stood still to hear him speak.
“NO.”
Their horror would have stopped their hearts if they still had one between them.
“NEVER NOTHING. NEVER NO ONE.”
It echoed through the city and far, far beyond it. Further than even their perceptions stretched. It carried over the mountain ranges. It carried across the seas.
Leonidas fell wheezing to the ground. Thalestris crumpled in a bloody, blinded heap.
Ptolemy the Great looked towards the stark pillar of the north with shock and silent hope.
“THIS MAN TOO IS ALEXANDER.”
The Conqueror named his heir with pride, daring all that heard it to deny him, and the chorus of heaven raged impotently in response.
“Alex,” Ptolemy breathed. His outrage vanished, gone like it had never been. They heard a skipping beat inside his chest. They heard - his heart. He had a heart. “My brother!”
Ptolemy the Great discarded all his rivals like forgotten trash, the star crown on his brow blazing with salvation’s light. He left the seven of them there on the brink of bitter oblivion, like the bounty of their souls wasn’t worth the harvest. Like they meant nothing to him at all.
“My king!”
He shouted out, and rushed away with soaring hope.
“I’m with you! I’m here! I swear to you upon the Styx, I’ll never stray again!”
Their feud was ancient, their egos unsurpassed. Even when opportunity had come and hammered down their doors, offering up the crippled king of Burning Dusk, their hatred of each other hadn’t allowed for a single moment of true cooperation. It was simply what they were. Even the death of Polyzalus wasn’t worth the insult to their ethos. Since the day the Tyrant Riot died, they’d each resolved to never share their strength again.
The moment Ptolemy the Great turned his back on his rivals to join the king of kings, they ran him through with seven swords of all their strongest powers. They struck him down together.
The Savior died with kingdoms in his eyes.
His final breath scattered Olympia to the wind.
Comments
Huzaifa Haq
Damn you and damn your cliffhangers (╯°□°）╯︵ ┻━┻
Red Kite
It seems to be two parts: Griffon doesn't like the fact that a higher power can potentially make your own efforts worthless or unimportant - An example being with Prometheus balancing their humours, and griffon feeling conflicted because it makes it feel like his own efforts don't matter. However, he does seem to respect higher powers that actually provide assistance to people in need. Prometheus again being someone who Griffon respects due to stealing the Flame from the Gods. And I suspect he'd respect Storm-Urania for giving Scythas the tools to complete his goals - which ended up being helping the other Heroes. It seems to be that Griffon wants Higher Power to be showing the way for others. Not invalidating their efforts, but still ensuring that those beneath them can rise to their level. With the story from Damon however, I think Griffon was still trying to figure out why it annoyed him. This was before the Orphic house, where he had it confirmed that yes, there was something wrong with the world. Before that, he was still trying to put his finger on why he was so frustrated.
John Spooner
Damn Alexander and Caesar boutta run a train on Asia and the Mediterranean.
tehlu
It would be great, if they clarify what is meant by *help*.Lio says ‘higher power is a curse, muses are not worth burden of their favor’. Previously he almost had breakdown when he saw that even his father called into a higher power when personal power & experience where not enough to bridge the gap. Anagyros claims all the striving of cultivators in the end is appealing to a higher power. In the case of Muses, they provide direction and nothing else, a cultivator still has to achieve everything themselves. What is the cost to that that so grates at Lio. It’s not been made clear but the benefits are clear. Seems to me that Lio would rather there was no help atall??
Red Kite
The problem with the Muses is they offer nothing at all: Scythas told the Urania in the storm that when he met 'His' Urania, she said she could only show him the path and never help him walk it, whilst the Urania in the storm told him that would have been a Lie. This is repeated in the chapter before: Griffons main frustration is that for all they advise and direct, the Muses as they are never *help* people.
Chad Champion
I'm thinking the Muses offer power and guidance to heroes in exchange for taking their hearts upon ascension, thus the 'curse' of higher power coming in. Alex and the Macedonians could've had a cultivation system not based upon Muses and Greek Mysteries that placed a greater bias on ascending through your own power, which would explain how they kept their hearts and got so strong.
Caoimhín
Cultivation is tied to mindset and one's personal philosophy of life, when Alexander casted Ptolemy off after Ptolemy 'strayed' (he probably was disloyal in some way, or decided to stay in Alexandria as ruler rather than following him East, maybe), Ptolemy became a hollowed husk of himself. Betraying his purpose crippled his cultivation. Now we saw how merely being in the presence of Alexander's sword restored Ptolemy's cultivation to what it was in the past, the outrage at someone defiling Alexander's legacy drove him out of the depression that had been crippling him for centuries. So Ptolemy wasn't ascending or having a breakthrough in his cultivation, he was being restored to his former glory. Also, yeah the Macedonian cultivation style is related to stars. Macedonians call cultivation 'The Hitching of Stars'
Red Kite
One of the lines used to refer to the world being iron is 'Every King is a Tyrant. There are no exceptions'. Being literally heartless is one aspect of this. However, That does not mean things have to be this way. I doubt that Ptolemy was ascending to some 'Pure' version of the tyrant realm, if only because it seems to go against some of the current themes of Higher Power being a shackle no matter how good it's intentions (Even Solus agreed, and Griffon was expecting him not to because of how much he respects Gaius). But there are ways to stand on or above a Tyrants level without giving up your heart. Griffon will probably find one. After all, his Virtuous Heart is His. Edit: The Star Crown is probably just a Macedonian thing btw. Alex the Kinda-sorta-Okay is noted to wear a Cape of Stars.
Caoimhín
Exactly. And this sword comes from Anargyros. So what I mean is that probably at some point Anargyros became recognized by the sword and Alexander, with the Conqueror saying 'THIS MAN TOO IS ALEXANDER' for Anargyros, I guess he took on the name Iskander after that, which is why Griffon's uncle referred to him by that name. The story of how Anargyros came to have that sword must be an interesting one, as it seems like it belonged to Alexander, but Griffon said that the hilt is the same as Gyro's sword back from the days when they killed the Drakaina. So maybe Gyro took the blade from Alexander's sword and fused it with the hilt of his own, or he forged that sword out of some metal or treasure related to Alexander and that's why the sword carries Alexander's curse?
Alex M
Iskandar is the Persian variant of Alexander's name.
Caoimhín
I guess Anargyros was that too. Back when Griffon stole the sword and escaped with Sol, one of Griffon's uncle's said 'He stole Iskander's sword' so it seems Anargyros had taken that name in his later years.
Alex M
Ptolemy is Macedonian rather than Greek, so their tyrannic realm equivalent might allow for stranger outcomes.
Thewizzardpineapple
Personally I think that seeing Alexander restored Ptolemy’s heart, and with that plus the mentions of a crown of stars I think he was becoming a King instead of a Tyrant. Maybe.
Ianaeyore
The strongest of the caged tyrants has a heart. That concept seems to go against what we’ve been told about the tyrant’s realm. As always, I find myself with a dozen questions for every answer given.
Red Kite
Oh so Alex just straight up named Griffon his heir with that little light show. Damn.
Guilty343
Time to start reading about Ptolemy until the next chapter drops. Anything to fill the Hollow Domain left by finishing a chapter
Glamb.
Really interested in Alexanders characterization and how his legacy affects the cast so far. Also excited to hopefully see more of persia or egypt later, the story has played fast and loose with any sense of timeline so im interested to see who is where, and what peoples/empires he decides to place in the story. TLDR: Griffin, Parthian horseman, and Gaulic tribesman love triangle when?
Sam Baker
Bro - hells yeah
Daniel Fuller
Damn, Over the course of this chapter I actually grew to like Ptolemy. All the Chad characters like the butcher and Ptolemy die too soon. Hope we see them again when Griffon and Sol go to the underworld.
