Chapter 480: DASHA: The Weeks of Myth

The second floor of Ares Symposium.

The floor of the elites.

After weeks of work and talk, he made it there. Dasha Pang—nay, Myth, was announcing his music to these people. To these elites.

Everybody else was quiet. The whole of the second floor listened.

The music swelled and wove itself into the elite hearts. Myth sat poised, his fingers gliding over the strings of his lyre and the black opera mask concealing his features.

So many masks. So many weeks. Now…he was here. Heroics and villainy were not the sole methods of worming into the hearts of the powerful.

Alcibiades was enraptured. Seated at the head of the gathering, the legendary statesman watched Myth with an intensity that bordered on reverence. The others in the symposium followed suit—if Alcibiades was pleased, then so too were they. But for some, the admiration ran deeper than mere mimicry.

Alcibiades—the philosopher king. The beauty in his smile was matched only by his power. Any historian worth their salt knew of him: Alcibiades, the lover of the people, a title that meant both the good and bad.

There was no way to sugarcoat it: Alcibiades fucked the King of Sparta’s wife while he wasn’t there. Once an Athenian, he conspired with the Spartan King to overtake Sparta. After his lust took over and he stole the king’s wife, he fled to Persia—only to return to Athens some years later to serve as a general.

There was an aura of pheromones around Alcibiades. Everybody wished to please him.

However, like in Athens, like in Sparta, like in Persia, he always made enemies. The philosopher-king always made enemies without trying.

Myth was a musician whose name was spread from the influence of Xander. Xander sat at the side of the room, his fingers drumming idly against his goblet. Unlike Alcibiades, whose affections burned fast and bright, Xander had a deeper appreciation for the man beneath the mask. He had discovered Myth first, after all, and now, watching Alcibiades claim the musician’s attention so effortlessly, he felt a rare twinge of jealousy.

As the final note of the song lingered in the air, a hush fell over the room before Alcibiades rose to his feet and began to applaud. “Incredible! Incredible! Truly incredible, my boy!”

One by one, the rest of the elites on the second floor followed, a standing ovation for the masked enigma. Myth inclined his head slightly, neither humble nor boastful, merely accepting their adulation as though it were expected.

Alcibiades grinned and walked right up to him. If Dasha did not know any better, he would thought him a Greek god. He was somewhere between a pretty boy and a chiseled solider. He was almost as tall as Dasha himself and might have been intimidating if not for his crazed smile and eyes. The type that told anyone and everyone that he was flirting.

“Myth, Myth, Myyyth,” Alcibiades drawled. “I love it. I simply love it. You, my friend, are one of a kind. Why has no one introduced me to you yet?”

Alcibiades laughed and turned to gesture at everyone else. They cackled.

“Sorry, Alcibiades—we thought you preferred your ears with women and wine,” remarked a Roman General.

“Please, women, men, wine musicians, I have time for it all.

How else would a king live?” He earned some laughs. Smiling, Alcibiades turned back to the seated musician. “And as king, I love this. I love you. Do you hear me? Hm?”

He dropped to his knees and grabbed Myth’s. He stared into the eyes of his mask, his tone soft and sultry. “I hold a musical event here every six months, and I must insist you grace us with your presence again.”

“Perhaps,” he replied, unfazed, “if fate allows.”

The vagueness only added to his allure, and Alcibiades laughed, delighted by the evasiveness. “Fate, is it? Then let us pray to the gods that she is generous.”

But even as Alcibiades lingered, something else had already caught his attention—a new musician, golden-haired and charming, walking up the stairs and instantly catching the king’s attention. Alcibiades’ focus shifted effortlessly, his interest flitting like a butterfly to the next source of amusement.

“Mm, madame, that is quite the look!” Alcibiades exclaimed. “Come, sit, sit!”

Myth was already up and away. He understood his role here. He went elsewhere and allowed the blonde woman to take his place. Her garbs were flattering on her figure. Alcibiades enjoyed holding her waist.

Xander, watching, took the moment to move. He caught Myth’s eye and gestured subtly towards the balcony. Without hesitation, Myth followed him outside. The cool night air was a welcome reprieve from the warm, perfumed haze of the symposium.

’Although, like always, it’s dark. The Underground is always dark.’

Myth strummed on his harp.

Xander wasted no time. “Come under me,” he said. It was not a request but a statement.

Myth tilted his head slightly, as though considering. In truth, he had expected this. Xander was not a man who sought frivolous entertainment, and that was precisely what made him useful. Myth did not serve men who admired only his talent. That was his character. That was what he wanted to subtly show.

A pause. Then, to Xander’s surprise, Myth nodded. “You understand,” he said quietly, “that this is more than mere performance. You see the depth in it.”

Xander’s lips twitched—almost a smile. “You’re not just an artist,” he said. “You’re a craftsman. Like the pottery I send to the Nebulous Bazaar. It is not simply art—it is a foundation, a force.”

Myth inclined his head again, this time with a flicker of satisfaction.

Good.

’All according to plan.’

What was the soul? What was the heart? Xander claims to be able to feel it in his music. Dasha put nothing in his music. He did not know that Myth, or rather Dasha, had no real attachment to the music he played nor to the craft Xander so revered. He did not know that every note was a carefully placed deception, every performance just an imitation.

But that was the beauty of it.

The soul, the heart that people revered oh-so much, it could be faked.

And so, Myth extended his hand. Xander clasped it, sealing the unspoken agreement.

***

The mansion was as vast as Myth expected. Towers of pottery lined the halls, intricate designs painted onto vases and amphorae, each piece telling a different story of war, love, or gods who walked the earth. This was a place of artistry and wealth, a fortress of influence crafted through trade and patronage. And soon, it would be his.

Guards lined the corridors, their gazes sharp beneath their bronze helms. Xander knew the value of protection, surrounding himself with capable men who could break bones just as easily as they could carry out their master’s will. Myth, if he could be a threat, would be a threat easily dispatched if it came down to it.

’Especially with him.’

Behind him, he sensed the Red Sorcerer.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here, Myth.”

Myth turned and met the gaze of an arrogant Scotman.

Alastair MacGowan, the Red Sorcerer, all fire and fury in a frame of muscle and wiry tension. His wild red hair was untamed, a halo of embers beneath the golden torchlight. His eyes—glowing, eerie, and full of mischief—bore into Myth with familiarity.

“Nice to see you once again,” Myth greeted.

“Alastair,” Xander said. “Did I not say to stay at the library?”

“The library is well-protected by the real me. This is but a clone,” Alastair explained.

“I see.” Xander lowered his head. “Apologies. I should not have doubted your abilities.”

This mansion possessed three floors. One with seven rooms, a living room, and a hall. The second floor where they walked was where he saw pottery after pottery. Room after room that stored his wealth. The third floor was a single room that, according to rumours, was among the finest collection of books on Transmutation and alchemy in the Underground.

The Scotsman chuckled and went back to addressing Myth. “As always hiding your face. Feels a bit cowardly, does it it? A man should show his expressions when he sings.”

“A man should learn to listen before making judgments. I let my music speak for me.”

Alastair’s grin widened, revealing a sharpness that made Myth recall the old tales of the fae who lured men into deadly wagers. “Music and words are kin and I fancy myself a man who knows both. How about we test that once more? A rematch of wits, a flyt battle. Unless, of course, you fear losing.”

A challenge.

Myth tilted his head. ’He is mounting more and more respect for me.’

The other guards, intrigued, paused their patrols to listen. The Red Sorcerer had a reputation for cutting down men with words just as he did with spells. But Myth? Myth was no ordinary man. They heard he defeated teh Scott.

With the flick of his fingers, MYth strummed a few notes on the small lyre hanging from his hip. “I accept.”

Xander crossed his arms and allowed this. The tension sparked as Alastair began, his accent thick and rolling like stormy waves:

“A masked minstrel walks in bold, yet his voice is meek and thin.

He sings with skill, yet hides his face—ashamed of what’s within?”

Laughter rippled through the watching guards. Myth’s voice was smooth, unshaken as he countered:

“A sorcerer of flame and boasts, yet trapped in halls of clay.

If your tongue’s as sharp as swords, why bend to Xander’s pay?”

The guards murmured. Alastair’s eyes glowed brighter, the heat in them burning with both anger and admiration. He suddenly laughed, throwing back his head. “Ah! I cannot come up with anything! You are skilled as ever!”

Myth gave a graceful nod. “A pleasure to entertain.”

Alastair’s gaze lingered and Myth knew he had just won something far more valuable than amusement—he had earned more respect. Something that instantly made his time here worth it.

The Red Sorcerer was the primary reason he had set his sights on Ares’ Symposium. A powerful mage with rare knowledge of fire magic and ancient rituals, Alastair was a prize worth seizing. Originally, Myth had two plans: either purchase his loyalty through wealth or break him by finding a weakness. But now, working under Xander had presented him with a third option—one that allowed him to pull strings from the inside.

He had time now. Time to observe, to weave his web, and when the moment came, to strike.

“Come, come,” said Xander. “Allow me to show the full of my home. I have even prepared a room for you should you need it.”

“A room?”

“Instruments, a butler—anything you need. Whenever I have guests, I would like you to come and play for them at your absolute best. They will love it.”

“I shall accept this offer.”

The hall of the mansion sprawled before him, corridors of wealth and power stretching into the distance. The towering amphorae, the intricate mosaics, the high vaulted ceilings—it was all ripe for the taking.

He had played the game well so far, and now, with the Red Sorcerer in his orbit and Xander’s trust growing, he was in the perfect position.

’This place will be mine soon enough.’

Xander opened the door to his new room.

Everything was going according to plan.

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