"I learned a great deal, Mors."
Andos clenched his hand into a fist, his knuckles resting meekly against the door's surface without knocking. Calipha followed behind her brother and heard two people conversing inside.
The door had originally been exceedingly plain, like any simple dwelling in Lokos, made from the most ordinary earth and stone. Yet merely standing before this wooden door, Dameks's children could already see traces of countless designs within it.
It was a canvas, the rough beginning of a carving. Spiraling patterns spread outward from the center of the door, only to be divided by straight, angular lines. Each section had been formed through different precise geometries. Some looked like irregular patches casually cut by a carver during practice, while others resembled harmonious patterns created after a carefully planned overall composition.
Different people, viewing it through the lens of their own lives, would naturally draw different interpretations from the door.
Had these characteristics appeared in the prophecies of the state religion, Calipha would have despised them utterly. Yet what she saw now was a work of art that imposed no limits on interpretation. The open image offered by its creator could therefore be savored slowly and joyfully.
She was relieved for Andos.
When Andos had insisted on visiting Lokos's rising new star, Calipha had worried that the boy of rumor might not be as extraordinarily gifted as everyone claimed.
The patterns showed signs of extending outward from the wooden door, but for now, like an insect's web, they still clung within the area constrained by the door. The surrounding walls held another kind of creation—no longer pure carved designs, but art combining adhesion and molding. Clay, tanned leather, and heat-softened strips of wood had been used to form raised patterns. The door bore hollowed carvings; the walls bore protruding ones.
Calipha was not particularly adept at such things, so she turned her head and curiously studied the expression on her brother's face, since he was skilled in this field.
Strangely, she did not see much approval for the intricate patterns in Andos's expression. Instead, the gentle Prince's brow was furrowed, as though something crucial was missing from the boy's creations.
Calipha sighed inwardly and became alert, preparing the soothing words she would need to bridge the gulf of an argument should conflict arise.
Her eldest brother was always gloomy and placed great importance on power, while her second brother was too gentle, too modest. Little did he know that it was precisely this noble tolerance toward others that often made narrow-minded people resent and envy him.
"Tell me about it," said a male voice, whose tone Calipha noticed was coldly serious.
This must be Mors—a name people often deliberately or unconsciously avoided when recounting Peturabo's legend.
"Yesterday, I went to find the person in charge of the mines. I spoke with him about where the minerals from the mines went. Red copper and bronze are used to make everyday objects for the people of Lokos. Gold and silver are used in delicate instruments such as medical equipment. But some materials required by devices described in ancient texts cannot be found anywhere on Olympia. Iron is used to make weapons and armor, as well as many tools and machine components. Lead appears in pipes. Gold and silver, as symbols of wealth and currency, appear everywhere, whenever the person placing an order wants to display his status."
"Tell me your thoughts."
"Steel. Steel is the foundation of everything, though people may not realize it."
"What qualities does steel possess?"
"Indestructibility."
"It is not hard during forging. You will see molten light and yielding softness."
"But after forging, it will always become unshakable."
Calipha heard Mors laugh. Then he said, "Come in, Dameks's two children."
Andos pushed the wooden door open lightly, embarrassed and uneasy. His morals made him deeply ashamed of listening to others' conversation from outside, even if he was one of Lokos's future rulers.
Calipha saw through this. She stepped inside first and, before taking in anything around her, lowered her head with its neatly braided bun. Neither servile nor arrogant, she apologized on behalf of her brother. "Mors, Peturabo, we apologize for our behavior. The carvings upon these walls are truly exquisite masterpieces. We were greatly delighted by them and could not help but linger in admiration."
She waited for Andos to take over, but after a while, not a single word came from his mouth. She could not help feeling both annoyed and amused. There was probably nothing else in all Olympia capable of fascinating her brother enough to make him forget his manners.
She heard a boy's feet thump against the floor as he jumped down from his seat.
Peturabo hurried to her brother's side and asked bluntly, "What do you think of this military model?"
Mors's gaze fell upon the top of her head, and for an instant, Calipha felt as though ice water had been poured over her. Yet there was no hostility in Mors's words, only an effortless detachment.
"Raise your head, Calipha. Come and sit. You are both welcome here."
Calipha raised her head as instructed and glanced from the corner of her eye at Andos, who was staring at the military model Peturabo had mentioned with an expression of absent, faraway contemplation.
Once she confirmed things were temporarily peaceful over there, she boldly walked toward the black-haired man in strange black clothes seated in a wicker chair before her and sat on a tall stool that had appeared from nowhere.
"Thank you, Mr. Mors," Calipha said as she examined the crowded room, which appeared much larger inside than it had from outside.
For a moment, she did not know whether to describe the place as "chaotic" or "orderly."
Countless tools had been placed in different locations. Drawing boards, set squares, handles, shears, wax molds, pen holders, files, and dye trays lay scattered across several steel tabletops without any apparent order. Yet with only a little imagination, one could tell that if someone sat in the right chair, he could easily reach every tool he needed in the most comfortable manner possible.
The walls bore both hanging half-finished paintings and murals themselves. Some blackboards were pinned with design drawings, vast or minute, covered in complex lines she could not understand. Meanwhile, the shelves displayed dozens of magnificent, delicate, gleaming creations: armored figures, cast plows, winding vines, swimming fish, miniature lyres. Animals, people, crafted objects—there was everything.
Most peculiar among them was a half-finished stone statue. Its peculiarity was not that it was unfinished, but that it was clearly far rougher than the other works. It looked almost as if it had been carved by a small child who had never learned the slightest bit of craftsmanship.
Calipha was not certain whether this was an early work by the prodigy Peturabo of rumor. If it was, she rather wanted to smile.
She pressed her lips together and lowered her voice to greet Mors. Just as she was considering how to preserve Mors's dignity without disturbing the conversation between Peturabo and Andos in this crowded room, a miraculous voice entered her mind directly.
The powerful unknown force made her dizzy, and she panicked as though a block of piercing ice had been embedded in her skull. Calipha secretly clenched her left fist, her nails digging into her palm, enduring the pain that tore through her as she tried not to resist Mors's ability.
After a sharp hiss, she finally heard Mors's voice ring out directly within her heart with absolute clarity. She steadied her breathing and quietly accepted it all.
+Where is Harkon?+ Mors asked. +Dameks's eldest son, Lokos's first Prince, the one who will wear the iron crown. What has kept him too occupied to visit?+
Mors's first question made her feel cold again.
Calipha looked at Mors briefly and saw a pitch-black abyss within his eyes.
In an instant, she composed herself. She sighed inwardly for her eldest brother, unwilling to reveal that he had lately often suspected Peturabo of threatening his position. Instead, she replied to Mors in her mind with polite distance.
+Thank you for asking. The external enemies have shown unusual movements recently, and Father instructed my brother to go to the military camp and organize the defenses. He truly could not come.+
Mors shook his head slightly, and cold laughter echoed through Calipha's mind.
+Stop playing elaborate games with those words, and stop making excuses for him. If you insist on doing this, I will be the one whose opinion of you declines.+
+My apologies, Mr. Mors. You are Father's honored guests. How could I not treat you with respect?+
+Honored guests?+
Mors savored the phrase and no longer sparred verbally with Dameks's eldest daughter.
Though this usurper's daughter was younger than both her brothers, her character and bearing had already reached the standard needed to assist a ruler—if possible, even the word "assist" could be discarded.
He changed the subject, casually discussing Olympia's customs and generously introducing the room's various furnishings. For instance, the silver wine flask with butterfly patterns on the shelf was one of Peturabo's extravagant wastes of raw materials. At the same time, he listened in on the exchange between Andos and Peturabo.
"...This is... astonishing." Andos spoke very slowly. If silence was the sound of a person thinking, everyone present could hear him think.
"Your skill is sufficiently refined. These," Andos spread his hand, guiding Peturabo's gaze with all five fingers, "these silver figures, and these wood carvings, no longer have any flaws in their workmanship. This is something I cannot do. For instance, this joint—it is difficult to imagine how one could refine it into such a seamless fit."
"Mm." Peturabo answered with the simplest syllable. "Then what about my theater design?"
The boy selected the roll he meant from a pile of thick paper scrolls, smoothed it out, and spread it across the table.
This was only one cross-section of the immense theater he wanted to build. He had not yet drawn the additional construction modules, but he clearly felt the results so far were enough to display.
Perhaps the two children of the usurper, having only just arrived, would think the boy never showed joy or anger and never expressed likes or dislikes. But Mors could see that Peturabo gladly accepted every word of praise, like a greedy child secretly swallowing every piece of candy and biscuit offered to him, then pretending before his parents that the crumbs at the corner of his mouth were not biscuit crumbs.
+Peturabo is very happy.+ Thinking this, Mors told Calipha. In return, he received a surprised lift of her brows and soft laughter through the psychic channel.
He added, +A small tip: if you come here next time and place his name before mine when greeting us, he will immediately regard you as a kindred spirit.+
Calipha nodded, a new light gleaming in her eyes.
Andos did not rashly touch the drawing itself. Instead, he held his finger above it, using it to orient his gaze.
He did his best to analyze the exceedingly complex drawing seriously. Then he slowly shook his head and, before Peturabo could misunderstand, apologized sincerely. "I am not a city designer... I cannot imagine from nothing a work in a field I have not spent a long time involved in. But this will certainly be an excellent work."
After thinking for a moment, he continued, "I can begin learning today."
Peturabo immediately became wary. "Can you learn it? Who will you learn from? Mors?"
"What? No... I can learn it, but I will find another teacher." Andos looked somewhat confused. "Lokos's architectural designers. If the Kardisians visit with a designer, I will visit him as well."
"You think they are better than Mors?" Peturabo said darkly.
"I did not say that... He is your teacher."
"Are you implying that my current accomplishments are all because Mors is my teacher?"
Mors curled his lip but did not participate in Peturabo's one-sided verbal confrontation. Calipha remained composed and did not rush over to support her brother. She observed everything unfolding before her. This had always been her place.
+Where do you think Peturabo's talent lies, Calipha?+
+In building things?+
+No. It is in the speed with which he wildly speculates about others in his mind. Every interval between heartbeats gives him tens of thousands of words of excessive analysis regarding other people's thoughts.+
+That sounds truly...+
+I am curious about your adjective.+
+Childish.+
Calipha helplessly chose the most tactful word she could.
Andos was about to concede, and this gentle man did not mind yielding in speech at all.
"I am sorry, Peturabo. I absolutely did not mean that... Anyone can see from your work that you are someone filled with talent and diligence," he said gently.
Peturabo seemed to have punched a pile of soft cloth, leaving his anger with nowhere to go.
He shot Mors a quick glance and lowered his banner.
The boy said unhappily, "Fine. Since you do not understand architecture, what are you good at?"
"Wood carving, stone sculpture, ironwork..." Andos named them one by one. Given his character, if he dared describe an ability as something he was good at, then he had surely devoted himself to it for years and had perhaps even developed his own artistic theory.
"I want to compete with you," Peturabo interrupted Andos. "You choose the subject."
"Hmm?" Andos was rather confused.
"I have never competed with anyone. I do not know how my talent compares to others," Peturabo said confidently.
Calipha pinched the fabric of her skirt on her lap, her brow creasing slightly. She seemed eager to stop Andos from agreeing. Clearly, she saw that whether Peturabo won or lost, he would inventively widen the rift between them and Lokos.
She looked to Mors for help. Mors remained unmoved and gave only a sarcastic response.
+Starting today, I will urge this child to study philosophical theory, in order to save his disastrous way of thinking.+
Calipha had no choice but to leave her seat herself and advise him. "Mr. Peturabo, a person's abilities will eventually reach their limits. My brother is not skilled at everything. Though he possesses many crafts, Lokos always has master artisans who have traveled farther than Andos along their respective paths of craftsmanship. Why not hold a grand competition and defeat Lokos's craftsmen one by one, displaying your talent?"
"What should I call you?"
"Calipha, daughter of the Kingdom of Lokos."
"Calipha." Peturabo nodded. "That is a very good idea. If Dameks is willing to host it, I will defend my arena. But first, I want to begin with Andos."
Calipha was about to say more when Andos raised a hand, drawing everyone's gaze and attention. "I do not mind participating in a competition either... Shall we choose stone sculpture as the subject?"
"Weapons?"
"No, it does not have to be weapons. Calipha said you do not like war," Andos said.
Peturabo studied Calipha with an entirely new gaze, as if he were seeing the usurper's eldest daughter for the first time.
His attitude quickly softened.
"All right, Andos. Will you decide the time?"
Mors suddenly spoke. "I will decide it. One month from now, the workshop where we now stand will welcome you both. Please bring Prince Andos's work."
His gaze lingered on Peturabo's face, and the smile he revealed held as little warmth as ever. "I hope to see the finished version of your earliest work then, Peturabo. It has made me curious for a long time."
I can only write a thousand words an hour. I really cannot go any faster...
Before you continue