The Wrong Kind of Immortality

Eirene used the Consortium’s training facilities regularly. Most days it was spellwork—control exercises, formation drills, the kind of repetitive precision work that built habits into muscle memory. She had a routine. It was productive.

Today, she did not follow the routine.

She had accompanied Orestis to meet Toren yesterday. She had stood on a bridge in a disguise and listened to a foreign envoy describe how his country was being carved apart from the inside. It got her thinking.

The war was not abstract anymore. It was a map she could draw. Names she could list. Passes and mines and a hidden base in a valley she could point to.

Armies would move through those passes. Mages would stand on those ridges. Spells would be cast there—not as demonstrations or exercises, but as weapons. People would fight. Not in a duel, but in the kind of battle where nothing was structured and nothing was safe.

She could cast spells. She could cast them well. But she had never fought anyone who was trying to stop her from doing the same, in an environment where spells would also be flying at her.

It was with these thoughts that she selected the battle simulation.

The arena was the same circular space she always used, but the mode was different. Spell-circles materialised in the air—flat discs of compressed mana that served as both target and attacker. They repositioned, fired low-power bolts at irregular intervals, and dissolved when struck. The system started at moderate difficulty and scaled automatically based on performance.

She began.

The first few rounds were manageable. Barrier, bolt, dodge, recast. The circles appeared in random clusters, attacked in alternating sequences, and gave her enough time between volleys to reposition. She cleared them efficiently, and the system responded by increasing the count.

More circles. Faster bolts. Narrower windows.

She adapted. Her shields went up faster. Her offensive spells became more precise—smaller, tighter, less mana per cast. She stopped trying to hit every target and started prioritising the ones that posed the highest immediate threat.

The difficulty continued to climb.

Somewhere around the upper range, she noticed something. Not consciously at first—more a sense of familiarity.

Another volley came. She deflected the first bolt, sidestepped the second, and watched instead of attacking. The spell-circles drifted slightly as she moved, adjusting the angles between them.

She raised a shield against one mana bolt, then stepped deliberately to the right to avoid another. Two circles followed the movement immediately. A third shifted to cover the gap she had left behind.

Eirene destroyed none of them. Instead, she widened the opening she had just created. The formation tightened again. She began to see the general pattern.

She fired then—not at the closest target, but at the circle that had moved to maintain the pattern. The replacement appeared exactly where she assumed it would. She struck that one too.

Another volley came. She dissolved the bolts without looking and stepped into the space she knew the formation would try to close. The circles moved exactly as expected, redistributing to surround her.

She fired before the next one finished forming. The bolt struck the moment the circle stabilised.

From that point onward the exercise changed character. The circles continued to reposition and fire, but their movements were no longer surprising. Every adjustment served the same invisible structure, and once she understood the underlying principle, predicting the system became a matter of reading the formation’s needs rather than reacting to individual threats.

By the time the difficulty reached maximum, she was no longer reacting to the system. She was guiding it—stepping into spaces that forced the formation to rebuild itself, destroying circles the moment the replacements appeared. The simulation escalated as far as it could. The outcome did not change.

She stepped out of the arena. The remaining circles dissolved.

She stood still for a moment, breathing evenly, thinking about what had just happened. She had beaten the system—thoroughly, completely. And it had told her almost nothing about what real combat would feel like.

The constructs followed rules—true, they were randomised. But there was always an underlying logic—a pattern. Once she saw it, she couldn’t unsee it.

She walked to the counter. The attendant looked up.

“Is there a more advanced combat programme?” Eirene asked. “Something less structured.”

The attendant checked a ledger. “We have sparring chambers. Reservation-based—”

A voice interrupted the attendant. “Sparring won’t give you what you’re looking for.”

She turned. The man was older—broad-shouldered, grey at the temples, sitting on a bench near the entrance. A short sword at his hip, worn and maintained. Hands that had seen decades of use.

“And what would that be?” she asked.

“The excitement of a real fight,” he said. “You won’t find that in these halls. Real fights are messy. People panic. They cheat. They run. They do the unexpected.”

“You’re saying that won’t happen during a spar?”

He studied her for a moment. “I saw your performance just now. How many times have you run that simulation?”

“This was the first.”

His eyebrows rose. He was quiet for a beat—the kind of silence that followed a reassessment.

“Then it’s even more impressive,” he said. He didn’t elaborate on what he meant by that, but the tone carried weight. He wasn’t talking about spellwork.

“You’re too skilled.” He said it without emotion. The simple assessment of someone who understood the gap between training and the real thing. “I doubt many people in this building could match you in a spar.”

Eirene considered him. “What about yourself?”

The man smiled mirthlessly. “I’ve been in this business long enough to trust my judgement. If we fought, one of two things would happen: you’d either hold back, or you’d kill me.”

The words landed quietly.

Something shifted inside her—not a thought, but a reaction. An instinctive tightening. The idea of casting a spell at a real person with the intent to end them, and the immediate, reflexive resistance to that image.

She had never killed anyone. She had never needed to. She had considered the possibility in the abstract—war was coming, self-defence was justified, the ethics were clear enough. But the ethics weren’t the problem. The problem was the distance between understanding the necessity and being able to act on it.

If the thought of taking a life made her hesitate now, it would make her hesitate in battle. And that would lead to her own death.

She could train until she was so skilled that killing became unnecessary. Strong enough to disable without lethal force; precise enough to incapacitate without permanent harm. But that required being significantly better than her opponent—and being better required the kind of practice that training halls couldn’t provide. A circular problem.

“Thank you,” she said. “You’ve given me much to think about.”

The man nodded. He didn’t seem to expect more.

Eirene left the facility and walked back to the inn, thinking.

She needed someone she could fight without restraint. Someone strong enough that she wouldn’t need to hold back—strong enough that going all out wouldn’t risk an accident. Someone who could push her to the point where hesitation would be punished, but who wouldn’t be harmed if she failed to hesitate.

There was one obvious candidate.

***

Back in her room, Eirene reached for the link she shared with Eleuthera. The connection was always present—a warmth at the edge of awareness, steady and constant.

She sent a thought through the link: I want to ask you something.

In response, Eleuthera appeared on the edge of the desk, one leg crossed over the other. “What is it?”

Eirene gathered her thoughts. “I need to learn how to fight. Actual combat. Against someone strong enough that I can use everything I have without worrying about the consequences.” She paused. “There is nothing I could do that would harm you. And you’re powerful enough to make me feel genuinely threatened. Would you be willing to train me?”

The goddess considered that. Her expression was thoughtful—genuinely so; not the performative contemplation she sometimes used for effect.

“I could, I suppose,” Eleuthera said. “But I’m not sure it would help you the way you need. At least, not at your current level.”

“Why not?”

“When I fight—if I fight—it would be against things at my own level. Or below. You will be fighting people who are stronger and more experienced. The skills you need are not the ones I would teach.”

Eirene absorbed that. The reasoning was sound. Eleuthera’s combat instincts—whatever they were—had been shaped by absolute power. Eirene needed instincts shaped by vulnerability.

“However,” the goddess continued, and her expression shifted to something warmer, “I have a strong suspicion that the man you spend your mornings with might do almost as good a job as me.”

There it was again. The way Eleuthera spoke about Orestis—with a certainty that went beyond what his surface should justify. He had opened up to her about some things. The shadow operation. The war. His grudge against the Temple. But combat ability? He had never demonstrated that in front of anyone.

And yet the goddess suspected he could train her for battle.

Eirene added it to the pile. It had shrunk since he began trusting her, but there always seemed to be something new to add to it.

“You think he’d agree?”

“Oh, I’m certain he’ll try to refuse.” Eleuthera smiled. “Ask anyway.”

***

The next morning arrived grey and cool. Orestis was already at the training clearing when Eirene stepped through her gate.

They trained. The physical routine was familiar by now—sustained exertion under load, aura reinforcement, the steady grind of conditioning that neither of them needed to discuss anymore. He monitored her form, corrected where necessary, and noted the continued improvement in her recovery speed.

When the session ended, Eirene sat down and said, without preamble: “I asked Eleuthera to teach me how to fight.”

Orestis looked at her. “That is a terrible idea.”

She had clearly been about to continue, but stopped. “Why?”

“Because copying a goddess’s fighting style as a beginner is the fastest way to develop habits that will get you killed. Eleuthera has never been weaker than anything she’s faced. Her instincts are built on absolute superiority. If you try to replicate that approach against someone who can actually hurt you, you’ll overcommit, underestimate, and die.”

Eirene considered that. “She said much the same thing. That her style wouldn’t suit me at my current level.”

He reached for his water and nodded once, satisfied.

I suppose she can also be sensible, once in a while.

Then Eirene said, “She also suggested I ask you instead.”

Orestis paused, water halfway to his mouth.

Of course she did. Because the best person to teach combat is clearly someone with no verifiable record of ever fighting anyone.

He set the water down. “And I was just thinking about how sensible she was.”

Eirene tilted her head slightly. “Is she wrong?”

He was quiet for a moment.

“No,” he said.

She couldn’t have picked a better person to train someone.

“However,” he continued, “she had no reason to think I’d be a competent instructor.”

He waved a hand before she could respond. “Questionable divine assessments aside—what are you looking to gain, specifically? You already have a decent range of spells. You have raw power most mages will never match. In a fight, you could level the area and be done with it.”

Eirene was quiet for a moment. When she spoke, her words were measured—chosen with the same care she applied to everything that mattered.

“I can cast a variety of spells. But it means nothing if I hesitate when I need to use them against a person.” She paused. “I’ve never taken a life. In a real battle, I might have to.” She met his eyes. “But I also don’t want to train myself to kill without thinking. I want to be good enough that I never need to.”

She wants the luxury of mercy. To stand so far above her opponents that lethal force becomes a choice, not a necessity.

It was the most demanding form of combat mastery there is. Restraint earned through absolute capability. Most people would never reach such heights.

But she is not most people.

“Alright,” he said. “I take it back. With that being your goal, asking Eleuthera makes sense.”

“So you’ll help me?”

Orestis studied her in silence. She wasn’t asking to become dangerous; she was asking to become so far beyond ordinary opponents that danger became optional. That was a goal he could respect—and ironically, he was better suited than anyone to teach that kind of mastery.

He had centuries of experience guiding people toward power. The later years of his immortal life had been spent almost exclusively forging heroes—sharpening them, strengthening them, pushing them further than they realised, all in the hope that one of them might eventually grow strong enough to kill him.

One did, eventually. Orestis pushed the thought of that irritating hero from his mind.

Her goal is considerably more modest. She does not need to defeat an immortal. Only everyone else.

“I’ll help you train,” he said. “But we start tomorrow. I need to think about the right approach for you.”

The basic principles remained the same, but there was no need to push her as far as he had pushed those heroes. Or use the same methods. Her goal allowed for a certain degree of leniency.

Eirene smiled. “Understood.”

She then opened a gate back to the inn. Before stepping through, she said, “Thank you.”

Orestis shook his head. “Don’t thank me yet. You haven’t seen the training.”

Achieving combat ability equivalent to a god is rarely an easy process.

***

That evening, Orestis opened a gate—small, no wider than an eye—several kilometres above the valley that held Kallistrate’s forward base.

It was high enough to remain well beyond the vertical reach of any ward pylon. The height, coupled with the size, would be enough to avoid the senses of even the most perceptive mages.

He constructed a magnification spell over the gate’s aperture, then looked down over the base.

Tents stood in orderly rows. Earthworks lined the northern perimeter. Supply wagons moved between the gate and the storage area in a steady rhythm—fixed routes, regular intervals, the unmistakable cadence of organised logistics. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary.

The gate had been placed against the valley wall. Three resonance scramblers were placed on the valley floor around it—two near the base of the cliff and a third several metres out. A fourth was fixed high on the rock face above them, completing the tetrahedral interference field that obscured the gate’s signature from the ward pylons.

It was an interesting set of artefacts. Within the volume defined by the scramblers, nothing could be detected. The design, however, had an obvious weakness: if even one of the four scramblers were damaged, the tetrahedron would collapse, exposing the entire area.

Personally, I would have added a few more artefacts for redundancy.

He closed the gate. No signs of Logrion’s scouts yet. But then again, if they were competent, he wouldn’t be able to see them regardless.

For now, his priorities were limited to two tasks: training Eirene and keeping track of the war’s progression. One of those would be more difficult than the other.

Surprisingly, it’s not the one involving a war.