The Tyrant's Eldest Son

When Harkon entered the workshop, Calipha subtly frowned.

She lowered the hand supporting her cheek, rose from the little wooden chair Andos had made for her, casually smoothed her skirt, and greeted her eldest brother.

Harkon narrowed his eyes and returned the princess's greeting with an overly affected smile of friendliness. It formed discordant creases on his face, as though his skin was smiling while the muscles beneath it contracted in disdain.

The eldest prince's hypocrisy was like a brightly colored snake. Calipha did not like it. She never had.

"Andos is working," she said softly. "The competition is almost here."

Harkon stared at his sister for several seconds, trying his utmost to force even a trace of fear from her frozen, mask-like smile.

When he had no choice but to accept his failure, Harkon turned away as if nothing had happened, waved at Andos, and strode toward a standing stone statue in the workshop.

"I came to see you, Andos," Harkon said with a smile. "It is one thing for that boy to live among the common folk, but why are you living out in the wilderness too? Is Father's palace no longer enough to satisfy you?"

The hem of his silk robe swept proudly across the workshop table, catching on a porcelain War God figurine. The ornament then plunged toward the floor.

Calipha swiftly caught the falling piece. As she set it back on the table, she deliberately controlled her strength and knocked its hard base against the tabletop.

The sudden thud startled Harkon into stumbling forward.

Calipha smiled, stroked the little figurine's helmet with her finger, and said to it as if comforting a child, "Our War God is angry."

Harkon pretended not to hear. He walked near the nearly completed statue and clapped his hands. "Andos, how are your preparations going? Have you finished carving?"

A leisurely figure emerged from behind the statue's flowing robes, which trailed to the ground.

The statue's form still lingered in Andos's eyes and in the sweat upon his brow. Part of his mind and soul remained immersed in the long process of sculpting, while another part reluctantly pulled free from the whirlpool of art, driving his physical body in reality to fulfill the additional duties that ethics and etiquette imposed upon an independent person.

"A sculpture is never truly finished," Andos said. "Every adjustment brings more flaws... but I am nearly ready."

He could not help correcting Harkon's words. Then his natural respect for his brother welled up within him, and guilt quickly made him retract his unfinished objection and answer Harkon's question.

"Very good." Harkon clapped his hands. "You have always brought glory to Father. Having you as my brother is a true honor."

Andos thanked him quietly, opened his mouth, and did not know what else to say.

"Thank you..."

"You will win, my brother." Harkon eagerly grasped Andos's free hand. The expectation in him, and the anxiety concealed beneath it, made even Andos, long accustomed to standing beside a furnace, feel unbearably scorched.

Calipha held the War God figurine in her palm, concealing her thoughts by studying the delicate variations in its colors.

She was far too used to Harkon's baseless anxiety.

Whether driven by the pressure of being the eldest son or by inborn ambition, what she saw was the tyrant's eldest son, who had spent decades using smooth silk, magnificent crowns, and enforced majesty to cover the shortcomings of his natural gifts.

The first time she witnessed how power and honor could destroy someone who was not bad by nature had been through her eldest brother.

Calipha's thumb brushed over the War God's spear-holding hand.

She did not mind assisting Harkon someday in the future, but that would only be out of her attachment to Lokos.

Andos's nose wrinkled with nervousness as his gaze traveled from his captured hand up to Harkon's face.

He stated honestly, "I do not know, Harkon... Before seeing Peturabo's work, I do not know."

"That sacred boy has made the entire city aware of your contest."

The faint twitching of Harkon's muscles silently revealed his particular unease.

"This month, he sought out every stonemason in the capital. Those craftsmen had been eagerly awaiting his visit before he arrived. The boy entered their workshops empty-handed, then left with tools freely gifted by the craftsmen and praise that would spread throughout the city. It is already known across the entire country that the divine child from the mountains and the tyrant's prince will have a contest of skill."

"So... I cannot lose?" Andos asked, quietly pulling his hand from his eldest brother's grasp.

His hands had been born to hold creations.

"That is not what I mean," Harkon said at once. He moved to the side of the stone sculpture, standing very close to it.

Andos hesitated, but he still did not follow the first thought that sprang into his mind and ask his brother to move away from the thing he cherished.

Harkon spoke earnestly, sounding as though he were several generations older than his brother and sister. "When people come into this world, they must face failure, just as stones always fall to the ground and springs always flow into rivers and lakes. You must learn to accept loss and victory, just as you accept every truth that already exists in this world. Besides, the one you will face is a divine descendant who descended from the snowy mountains to the earth. We are guided beneath the radiance of the gods. Even if we lose to one favored by the gods' gifts, that too is a truth permitted by heaven and earth."

"But," he shifted his tone, lowering his head with affected patience to look at Calipha, "aside from being Olympians who serve the gods, we are also children of Lokos. We are those responsible for serving the people of Lokos and leading them toward greater prosperity amid this unending whirlpool of war. If we repeatedly display defeat before gaining our people's trust, what face would we have left to become the rulers of a nation?"

Calipha set down the War God figurine and carelessly played her part. "Then let us hope Andos can win. I sincerely wish for it."

Yet in her mind arose the countless astonishing artistic masterpieces in Mors and Peturabo's workshop, along with Mors's joking advice.

In recent days, she had in fact exchanged a few letters with Mors.

She had boldly sent greetings first, and receiving a reply had been an unexpected delight.

She could not discern the true character of the man in black from a few sheets of paper, but that did not stop her from being drawn to his sparse words.

She knew that if she had another chance to meet the two of them alone, she would certainly try addressing Peturabo as Lord Peturabo first, and then Mors as Lord Mors.

Having received a satisfactory answer, Harkon impatiently turned an earnest expression on Andos. "My words did not offend you, did they, my brother?"

Andos's gaze no longer lingered on his work. His sculpture wore a compassionate, joyous smile, while Andos had returned entirely to reality. The sorrow in his heart no longer allowed him to lose himself in creation.

"You are the one who will become the ruler of a nation, Brother," Andos said. "How could my victory or defeat harm your dignity? Besides, as you said... when people come into this world, they must face failure."

Harkon shook his head.

"Three days from now, whether they are Lokos's skilled craftsmen, honored guests visiting from foreign lands, or even some of Lokos's own citizens, they will all watch your contest with Peturabo. Andos, you are my cherished brother. Our honor is bound deeply together by our blood."

"Did they come uninvited?" Calipha suddenly asked.

Harkon's pride shattered beneath the question. His smile became twisted with gloom, and an angry shadow enveloped him, making the man appear sharp and cold.

"I invited them," he declared stiffly. "I bless you, my brother, and my sister."

After Harkon left, Andos did not return to work. He sat down on the ground and silently gazed at his statue.

Calipha asked softly, "Is this Goddess Hefoni?"

Andos nodded.

Goddess Hefoni, who governed life, was the chief deity of the Olympian coming-of-age renaming ceremony.

She bestowed names upon Olympia's children, embraced souls newly arrived in this world, and blessed the children in their welcomed new lives in this vast world.

"I actually hope Peturabo wins," Andos said.

Calipha gazed at the statue's mask. Simply being watched by the stone statue filled her heart with emotion from an unknown source.

"Can he win?"

"If he has not improved compared to a month ago... he cannot."

Calipha knew her brother was never arrogant. He was humble, gentle, quiet, and always honest.

So she smiled and sat down again.

"I bless both of you," she said.