The King's Children

"I've learned a lot, Mors."

Andos clenched his fist, his knuckles resting gently on the surface of the door, hesitating to knock. Calipha followed her brother, hearing the conversation of two people from inside the room.

This door was originally extremely plain, like any simple dwelling of Lokos, made of the most common earth and stone. Yet, just by facing a wooden door, the children of Dameks could already see traces of various designs within it.

It was a canvas, a nascent form for carving. Spiral patterns spread from the center of the door, only to be cut by square, straight lines. Each block was divided by different precise geometric segments. Some resembled irregular areas casually cut by a sculptor practicing, while others looked like harmonious patterns formed after carefully designing the overall layout.

Different people, observing through the lens of their own life experiences, would undoubtedly draw different interpretations from the door.

If such a characteristic were to appear in the prophecies of the Divine Cult, Calipha would have absolutely detested it. However, what she saw now was a work of art that did not restrict interpretive methods. Thus, the open-ended imagery provided by the creator could be savored with delight.

She felt relieved for Andos.

When Andos insisted on visiting Lokos' rising new star, Calipha had worried that the boy rumored to be exceptional was not as talented as everyone claimed.

These patterns seemed to extend and expand from the wooden door outwards. However, for now, they remained like a web, clinging within the confines of the wooden door. This was because the surrounding walls presented a different kind of creation—no longer purely carved patterns, but an art form combining pasting and shaping. Using clay, tanned leather, and softened wood strips, raised patterns were depicted. The door featured recessed hollows, while the walls displayed raised designs.

Calipha was not very skilled in this area, so she turned her head, curiously observing the expression on her brother's face, who was an expert in this field.

Strangely, she did not see Andos showing much admiration for these intricate patterns. On the contrary, the gentle prince's brow was furrowed, as if a crucial element was missing from the boy's creations.

Calipha sighed inwardly, raising her guard, preparing her gentle words to fill any potential void in an argument should conflict arise.

Her eldest brother was always somber, placing great importance on power, while her second brother was too gentle, too humble. He didn't realize that his nobility in treating others with kindness was precisely what often drew the hatred and jealousy of narrow-minded individuals.

"Tell me about it," a male voice said. Calipha noticed the icy seriousness in his tone.

This must be Mors. It was a name people often, intentionally or unintentionally, avoided when discussing Peturabo's legend.

"Yesterday, I went to find the person in charge of the mining site. I discussed with him where the minerals from the mine go. Red copper and bronze are used to craft the daily utensils used by the Lokos people, such as fine instruments like medical tools, gold and silver are used in them. However, some materials required by ancient texts cannot be found anywhere in Olympia. Iron is used to forge weapons and armor, as well as many components for tools and machinery. Lead appears in pipes. Gold and silver, as symbols of wealth and currency, appear everywhere, as long as the person placing the order wishes to display their status."

"Tell me your thoughts."

"Steel. Steel is the foundation of everything, though it may not be widely known."

"What are the properties of steel?"

"Indestructible."

"It is not hard during the forging process. You will witness molten light and yielding weakness."

"But through forging, it will always become unshakeable."

Calipha heard Mors' laughter, and then he said, "Come in, two children of Dameks."

Andos, embarrassed and uneasy, gently pushed the wooden door. His morals made him deeply ashamed of eavesdropping on others' conversations outside, even though he was one of the future masters of Lokos.

Calipha perceived this. She stepped into the room first, and before taking anything into her sight, she lowered her head, her hair neatly braided. She humbly and respectfully apologized on behalf of her brother: "Mors, Peturabo, we apologize for our actions. The carvings on the walls are truly exquisite masterpieces, and we admire them greatly, sighing in deep appreciation."

She waited for Andos to speak, but after a while, not a single word came from his mouth. She couldn't help but feel both annoyed and amused: there was probably nothing else in all of Olympia that could captivate her brother to the point of forgetting his manners.

She heard the sound of a boy's feet hitting the floor as he jumped down from his seat.

Peturabo went to her brother's side and said directly, "How about this miniature figure?"

Mors' gaze fell upon her head. For a moment, she felt as if she had been doused with ice water. Although Mors' words carried no hostility, they possessed a kind of detached transcendence.

"Look up, Calipha. Come sit. We welcome both of you."

Calipha looked up as instructed, glancing sideways at Andos, who was lost in thought, staring at the miniature figure Peturabo had mentioned as if his spirit had wandered to the ends of the earth.

Confirming that things were peaceful over there for the moment, she boldly walked towards the black-haired man in strange black clothes sitting on a rattan chair, settling onto a high-backed chair that had appeared out of nowhere.

"Thank you, Mr. Mors," Calipha said, while surveying the crowded room, which looked much larger on the inside than on the outside.

For a moment, she didn't know whether to describe it as "chaotic" or "orderly."

Countless tools were placed in different locations, whether it was drawing pads, rulers, handles, cutters, wax molds, pen holders, files, or paint palettes. They were scattered across several different steel tabletops without any clear rules. However, with a little imagination, one could understand that when a person sat in the correct chair, they could easily retrieve every tool they needed in the most comfortable way.

The walls simultaneously displayed unfinished paintings and murals. Some blackboards were pinned with design drawings, either large or intricate, covered in complex lines she couldn't understand. On shelves were dozens of beautiful and exquisite shining creations: armored figures, cast plows, winding vines, swimming fish, miniature zithers—from animals and people to manufactured goods, there was everything.

Particularly strange among them was a half-finished stone statue. Its strangeness was not due to its incompleteness, but because it was significantly rougher than other works, almost as if carved by a young child who had not yet learned any craft.

Calipha was unsure if this was an early work by the rumored child prodigy Peturabo. If it was, she felt a slight urge to smile.

She pursed her lips and lowered her voice to greet Mors. Just as she was thinking about how to navigate the crowded room, showing respect for Mors without disturbing Peturabo's conversation with Andos, a magical voice directly entered her mind.

The powerful, unknown force made her dizzy, giving her the disorienting sensation of sharp ice being embedded in her skull. Calipha secretly clenched her left fist, her fingernails digging into the skin of her palm, enduring the rushing pain and trying not to resist Mors' ability.

As a sharp hissing sound echoed, she finally heard Mors' voice resonating clearly directly in her mind. She calmed her heartbeat and quietly accepted it.

+Where is Harkon?+ Mors asked. +Dameks' eldest son, the great prince of Lokos, he who will wear the iron crown? What has made him unable to visit?+

Mors' first question made her start to feel cold again.

Calipha glanced briefly at Mors, seeing a dark abyss in his eyes.

In an instant, she composed herself, secretly sighing for her eldest brother. Unwilling to reveal his recent suspicions that Peturabo might shake his position, she instead replied to Mors indirectly and unskillfully in her mind.

+Thank you for your inquiry. Recently, there have been movements from external enemies. Father has instructed my brother to go to the military camp to organize the defenses, so he is truly unable to come.+

Mors shook his head slightly, his cold laughter echoing in Calipha's mind.

+Stop playing complex games with those words, and don't make excuses for him. If you insist on doing so, I will lower my impression of you.+

+I apologize, Mr. Mors. You are honored guests of Father, how can I not show respect?+

+Honored guests?+

Mors savored the word, no longer engaging in verbal sparring with the eldest daughter of Dameks.

Although this tyrant's daughter was younger than her elder brothers, her character and demeanor were already at a level suitable for assisting a ruler—if possible, the word "assisting" could be removed entirely.

He changed the subject, casually discussing the customs and culture of Olympia, and generously introduced the various furnishings in the room. For instance, the silver butterfly-patterned wine pot on the shelf was a product of Peturabo's lavish waste of raw materials. Simultaneously, he multitasked, listening to the situation with Andos and Peturabo.

"...This is... astonishing." Andos spoke slowly. If silence were the sound of a person thinking, then everyone present could hear his thoughts.

"Your skills are sufficiently proficient. These," Andos spread his hands, pointing with all five fingers to guide Peturabo's gaze, "these silver statues, and these wood carvings, have no processing flaws. This is something I cannot achieve, like this joint here. It's hard to imagine how to finish such a seamless connection."

"Mm," Peturabo replied with the simplest syllable. "Then what about my theater design drafts?"

The boy picked out the scroll he mentioned from a pile of thick paper rolls, smoothed it out, and unfolded it on the table.

This was merely a cross-section of the massive theater he wanted to build. He hadn't finished drawing more construction modules, but he clearly felt that the current results were enough to be displayed.

Perhaps the two tyrant children who had just arrived would find the boy's emotions unreadable and his preferences unspoken, but Mors could see that Peturabo accepted every compliment with delight, like a gluttonous child secretly accepting every piece of candy and cookie given to him, and then pretending in front of his parents that the powder on his lips wasn't cookie crumbs.

+Peturabo is very happy.+ Thinking this, Mors told Calipha. He received a surprised raised eyebrow and a soft laugh through the psychic channel.

He added: +A little tip for you, if you come here next time, when you greet him, put his name before mine, and he will immediately consider you a confidant.+

Calipha nodded, her eyes shining with a new light.

Andos did not rashly touch the drawings themselves, but held his finger suspended above them, helping to guide his line of sight.

He analyzed the extremely complex drawing with all his might, then slowly shook his head, apologizing sincerely before Peturabo could misunderstand: "I am not a city designer... I cannot imagine works in fields I haven't frequented for a long time out of thin air, but this will undoubtedly be a masterpiece."

He thought for a moment and continued, "I can start learning from today."

Peturabo immediately became alert to this: "Can you learn? Who will you learn from, Mors?"

"What? No... I can learn, but I will find other teachers." Andos looked a bit confused. "The architectural designers of Lokos, or if a designer accompanies the Kardis people when they visit, I will also pay them a visit."

"Do you think they are better than Mors?" Peturabo said gloomily.

"I didn't say that... He is your teacher."

"Are you implying that my current achievements are all because Mors is my teacher?"

Mors curled his lips, not joining Peturabo's one-sided verbal battle. Calipha remained calm and composed, not rushing to cheer on her elder brother. She observed everything that was happening before her; this had always been her position.

+What do you think Peturabo's talent is, Calipha?+

+Is it building things?+

+No, it's the speed at which he wildly speculates about others in his mind. Every heartbeat interval brings him tens of thousands of words of over-analysis of others' psychological activities.+

+That sounds truly...+

+I'm curious about your adjective.+

+Childish.+

Calipha reluctantly chose the most tactful wording.

Andos was about to be defeated, and this gentle person by nature didn't mind yielding in conversation.

"I apologize, Peturabo. I absolutely had no such implication... Anyone can see a person full of talent and effort in your work," he said in a gentle tone.

Peturabo felt as if he had punched into a pile of soft fabric, his aggression having nowhere to be released.

He glanced quickly at Mors and subsided.

The boy said sullenly, "Fine. Since you don't understand architecture, what are you good at?"

"Wood carving, stone carving, metalwork..." Andos listed them one by one. Given his personality, if he dared to describe an ability as his specialty, he had undoubtedly immersed himself in it for many years, even developing his own artistic theories.

"I want to compete with you," Peturabo interrupted Andos. "You choose the topic."

"Hmm?" Andos was quite confused.

"I haven't competed with anyone yet. I don't know how my talent compares to others," Peturabo said confidently.

Calipha pinched the fabric of her skirt on her knees, her brow furrowed slightly. She looked like she really wanted to stop Andos from agreeing. It was clear she saw that no matter who won or lost the competition, Peturabo would arbitrarily widen the rift in their relationship with Lokos.

She looked to Mors for help, but Mors remained indifferent, offering only a sarcastic response.

+I will urge this child to study philosophical theory from today onwards to save his disastrous thought patterns.+

Calipha had no choice but to personally leave her seat and advise, "Mr. Peturabo, an individual's abilities have their limits. My brother is not omniscient. Although he possesses many skills, Lokos also has skilled craftsmen who have gone further than Andos on their respective paths of craftsmanship. Why not hold a grand competition, defeat the craftsmen of Lokos one by one, to showcase your talent?"

"What should I call you?"

"Calipha, daughter of the Kingdom of Lokos."

"Calipha," Peturabo nodded, "That's a good idea. If Dameks is willing to host, I will defend my arena. But first, I want to start with Andos."

Just as Calipha was about to say something else, Andos raised a hand, drawing the attention and gaze of several people: "I don't mind participating in a competition either... Shall we set the topic as stone carving?"

"Weapons?"

"No, not necessarily weapons. Calipha said you don't like war," Andos said.

Peturabo looked at Calipha with entirely new eyes, as if seeing the eldest daughter of the tyrant anew.

His attitude quickly softened.

"Alright, Andos. Will you set the time?"

Mors suddenly spoke up: "I will set it. In one month, in the workshop where we are now, you are both welcome to attend. Please bring Prince Andos's work."

His gaze lingered on Peturabo's face, his smile as cold as ever: "I hope to see the finished product of your initial work then, Peturabo. It has made me curious for a long time."

I only write a thousand words per hour, so I can't go any faster