Mithras, as he was known before he Exalted into the Zenith caste, grew up as the last child of many in his now forgotten tribe, son of it's chieftain. The tribe once told of how it ruled the burning sands, how none could stand before them, how their horses trampled their enemies, before being brought them low to their mighty weapons, which burned the ferocity of the desert sun.

But now, dwindling in numbers, brought to it's knees in the face of Paragon's wrath one too many times. Now too late to act, but still so prideful, indulging in the stories of old, Mithras' family set out to gather one last charge against Paragon. Many were discontent, slavers, nomadic tribes, slowly they gathered together, although not enough in number to challenge Paragon yet. But in fear, or perhaps greed, one of them, even now it us known who among them, reported this gathering to Paragon.

Such saying as "A stitch in time saves nine", unlike the tribe, was not lost to the Prefect. Swiftly organizing his forces, he nipped the threat before it budded.

Mithras himself, being the youngest at this point, a boy at the tender age of thirteen, was not part of the council, declined a position of leadership,  blind from birth and therefore talentless with the bow, short and weak, therefore useless with a sword, he would neither become a warrior of the tribe., he was a burden. Ultimately devoted to the tribe, but useless none the less. As such, unlike the rest of his family, including his female siblings, he would not partake in the council, or the coming battles. Denied a purpose, his devotion, his pride, trampled upon.

His father's decision to dis-include him, saved the now last member of his tribe. The feast layed out before them at the council was poisoned to the last drop, the few chieftain families attending this meeting were destroyed to the last. The resulting confusion forced those there into in-fighting, those once gathered to fight against Paragon, now did the prefect's job himself.

But even then, the Prefect would leave no room for doubt. His forces tided on the horizon, on horseback, on foot, with sword, with bow. Outnumbered and outgunned, even from before the infighting, the gathered men and women truly knew despair. None among them now spoke, many cried, others less noble fell to their knees, sword at their necks.

In this time of despair, Mithras stood. At first alone, but his voice cried out to those of his tribe. Re-telling the stories of old, re-telling that of which had been lost, but could be regained again. Slowly, people began to listen, a trickle at first, but soon all of those attending stood with him. The stories of old sang, not only by him, but by all of those around him.

The last tale was sung, their great ancestor who saved the tribe from utter destruction against innumerable enemies, a hero who set off never to return upon his horse. "Hot the sun scorches, by the heated Inland sea, The hero sets off, never to return again."

It was at this time, a disc of gold slowly made itself apparent upon his forehead. The caste mark of the Solar Zenith. Blind as he was, his hand grasped for his father's blade, shouting with fervor for a horse. Those around him inquired why, despair still clouding their minds. He turned, replying simply with "The hero sets off, never to return again."

A horse coming to his side, with much trouble he mounted. Pointing his blade at the coming forces, he shouted once again. Tears coming from his blind eyes. Sturring the horse into a gallop, Mithras set off alone. With cries of death before surrender, the men and women rallied behind him. Some charging on foot, easily his equal in speed for his horse. Some went on horses, charging ahead of their new leader.

With great hope in their hearts, stories of old guiding their blade, eyes opened by bravery, they charged towards enemy. Only one banner hearkened their arrival, Mithras' anima, shining like the sun for miles to see. With cries of surprise and fear, the tribal people crashed into their ranks. The battle long and hard.

The charge did not end, rallying thrice against the wall of enemies, Mithras led the charge, guided by his loyal steed and allies. Upon the final charge, the wall was pierced, free, with an escape route. Mithras, with a great shout, ordered a charge for freedom,

The summer heat glaring down upon him as he rode, his wounds ailing him, blood beating in his ears, his entire body aching from the prolonged fight. He could no longer hear the beat of his allies' hooves against the sand, The heavy breathing of their horses, their war cries were no longer heard. Truly he thought, the heroes had set off, never to return again. All that was left was him, to bear their memories and legacy.