The Tyrant's Eldest Son

As Harkon entered the workshop, Calipha subtly frowned.

She lowered the hand supporting her cheek, stood up from the small wooden chair Andos had made for her, casually smoothed her skirt, and greeted her elder brother.

Harkon narrowed his eyes, returning the princess's smile with a heavily feigned friendliness. It creased his face unnaturally, as if his skin were smiling while the muscles beneath contorted in disdain.

The eldest prince's hypocrisy was like a brightly colored snake. Calipha disliked it, always had.

"Andos is working," she said softly. "The competition is soon."

Harkon stared at his sister for a few seconds, trying desperately to wring a flicker of fear from her frozen, mask-like smile.

When he had to accept his failure, Harkon turned away as if nothing had happened, waved to Andos, and strode towards a standing statue in the workshop.

"I've come to see you, Andos," Harkon said with a smile. "It's one thing for that boy to live among the common folk, but why do you live out in the wilderness? Does Father's palace no longer suffice for you?"

The corner of his silk robe proudly brushed against the workshop counter, snagging a porcelain statuette of the God of War; the statuette then tumbled to the ground.

Calipha, quick as lightning, caught the falling artifact. As she placed it back on the table, she deliberately controlled the force, its hard base striking the tabletop with a sharp thud.

Harkon stumbled forward, startled by the sudden sound.

Calipha smiled, her fingers stroking the little statuette's helmet, speaking to it like she would comfort a child, "Our God of War is angry."

Harkon pretended not to hear. He walked over to the nearly completed statue, clapped his hands, and said, "Andos, how are you preparing? Is the carving finished?"

From behind the statue's flowing silk robes that draped to the floor, a person emerged at an unhurried pace.

The statue's form was still reflected in Andos's eyes and the sweat on his brow. Part of his spirit and soul remained immersed in the long carving process, while another part, hovering between the vortex of art and reality, drove his physical form to fulfill the additional obligations that ethics and etiquette imposed on an individual.

"The sculpture is never truly finished," Andos said. "Every touch-up brings more flaws… but I'm almost ready."

He couldn't help but correct Harkon's words, and then a natural respect for his brother surged, causing him to quickly retract his unfinished sentence with guilt and answer Harkon's question.

"Excellent," Harkon clapped his hands. "You always bring glory to Father. Having you as my brother is a true honor."

Andos silently thanked him, opening his mouth, unsure of what else to say.

"Thank you…"

"You will win, my brother," Harkon said, earnestly grasping Andos's free hand. His anticipation, and the anxiety hidden beneath it, made even Andos, who was accustomed to the heat of the forge, feel uncomfortably scorched.

Calipha held the God of War statuette in her palm, using her observation of the fine color differentiation on the artwork to mask her thoughts.

She was too accustomed to Harkon's baseless anxiety.

Whether driven by the pressure of being the eldest son or by innate ambition, she saw a usurper eldest son who, after decades, used all his smooth silks, ornate crowns, and enhanced majesty to cover his innate lack of talent.

The first time she witnessed firsthand how power and honor could destroy a person who was not inherently bad, it was in her elder brother.

Calipha's thumb grazed the hand of the God of War statuette holding a spear.

She didn't mind assisting Harkon one day in the future, but that would only be out of her affection for Lokos.

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

He stated honestly, "I don't know, Harkon… I don't know until I see Peturabo's work."

"That divine boy has made the entire city aware of your competition."

The subtle tremor in Harkon's muscles silently revealed his peculiar unease.

"This month, he sought out every stonemason in the capital, and those artisans eagerly awaited his visit. The child entered the workshop empty-handed and left with tools gifted by the craftsmen and praise that would spread throughout the city. The divine son from the mountains and the prince of the usurper are about to engage in a duel of skill, a fact now known throughout the entire kingdom."

"So… I can't lose?" Andos asked, quietly withdrawing his hand from his elder brother's.

His hands were made to hold the tools of creation.

"I didn't mean that," Harkon said immediately. He moved to the side of the stone carving, very close to the statue.

Andos hesitated, but did not follow the first impulse in his heart to persuade his brother to move away from his beloved creation.

Harkon spoke with great earnestness, sounding as if he were several generations older than his siblings. "When people come into this world, they will inevitably face failure, just as stones always fall to the ground, and streams always gather into rivers and lakes. You must learn to accept both winning and losing, just as you accept any other inherent truth in this world. Moreover, you are about to compete with a divine descendant who descends from the snowy mountains to the ground. We are guided by the glory of the gods, and it is only natural and permissible by heaven and earth to be defeated by those favored by the gods' blessings."

"But," he changed his tone, lowering his head with feigned patience to look at Calipha, "besides our identity as Olympians who serve the gods, we are also children of Lokos, destined to serve the Lokos people and lead our people to greater prosperity in this ceaseless vortex of war. If we frequently display our defeats before gaining the trust of our people, what face will we have to be masters of a nation?"

Calipha put down the God of War statuette, carelessly playing her role. "Then I wish Andos victory. I truly hope so."

However, in her mind, she recalled the countless astonishing works of art in Mors and Peturabo's workshop, and Mors's joking advice.

Recently, she had actually exchanged a few letters with Mors.

She had boldly sent her greetings first, and receiving a reply was a pleasant surprise.

She couldn't fully grasp the true nature of the man in black through a few pieces of paper, but that didn't stop her from being attracted by his few words.

She knew that the next time she had the opportunity to meet the two of them alone, she would definitely try calling out to Lord Peturabo first, and then Lord Mors.

Harkon received a satisfactory answer and eagerly showed his earnestness to Andos again. "Did my words offend you, my brother?"

Andos's gaze no longer lingered on his work. His sculpture was smiling with compassion and joy, while Andos had fully returned to reality. His sorrowful heart no longer allowed him to indulge in creation.

"You are the one who will become the master of a nation, brother," Andos said. "How does my losing or winning affect your reputation? Besides, as you said… when people come into this world, they will inevitably face failure."

Harkon shook his head.

"In three days, whether it be the skilled craftsmen of Lokos, visiting noble guests from foreign lands, or even some of our Lokos citizens, they will all witness your competition with Peturabo. Andos, you are my cherished brother, and our glory is deeply connected through our bloodline."

"Did they come uninvited?" Calipha suddenly asked.

Harkon's pride shattered under the questioning, his smile twisting into pain with a gloomy expression, an angry shadow enveloping 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 his work. He sat on the ground, silently gazing at his sculpture.

Calipha softly asked, "Is this Goddess Hefoni?"

Andos nodded.

Goddess Hefoni, who presides over life, the Sovereign of the Olympians' coming-of-age renaming ceremony.

She bestows names upon the children of Olympia, embracing souls newly arrived in this world, blessing their new birth and welcome into this vast world.

"I actually really hoped Peturabo would win," Andos said.

Calipha gazed at the mask of the statue, and simply being looked at by the stone figure stirred an unexplainable emotion within her heart.

"Can he win?"

"If he hasn't improved since a month ago... he can't."

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

So she smiled and sat down again.

"I bless you both," she said.