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Mors chose to walk to the Grand Theater himself.

It was not because he was diligent and energetic, eager to burn off the calories he had consumed by walking, but because he had nothing good to say about any of Lokos's current means of transport—the ones that thundered and jolted excessively as they darted through the streets.

He avoided the crowds, keeping the loud music away from his peace-loving ears and steering clear of the overly fierce sunlight. He moved from one patch of dim shade to another until the full outline of the Grand Theater came into view.

The union of gold, jade, and white stone made the circular structure dazzlingly magnificent. The theater's main entrance was carved from pure transparent crystal, refracting light and shadow, while several side entrances were concealed in discreet blind spots. This made the theater seem more whole and complete while easing the visitors' sense of pressure, leaving just the right amount of empty space.

In earlier years, when Mors strolled through the streets, he could hear people anywhere boasting of the Grand Theater's splendid brilliance. Later, Peturabo had the theater renovated every year with ever more distinctive style. And in recent years, whether Lokos held council meetings, trials, assemblies, performances, artistic events, or celebrations, all of them took place within this vast civic facility. The citizens had gradually grown accustomed to the existence of this astonishing thing, making it an indispensable ornament of their lives as they passed through its front gates each day with fruit and vegetables in hand.

Now, only foreigners from distant lands showed profound, shaken surprise at the first sight of the theater.

What the people of Lokos truly loved to talk about now was Peturabo's newly constructed public bathhouse with its innovative automatic water-circulation system.

Mors entered the theater and found his seat—obviously, once the tyrant's family had taken their places, the empty seat beside Peturabo, woven from vines and gold thread, could belong to no one else.

He had originally entertained the childish notion of sitting down quietly and giving Peturabo a fright, but Peturabo spotted him at once. The young man pushed through the dancers between the columns, set his wine cup on a table he passed, and walked straight toward him.

Peturabo wore light armor and ate and drank little, utterly out of place amid the festival-like revelry. His melancholy, contemplative nature made his severity stand out like steel. Even if nymphs of mountain, forest, and water offered him fine wine, he would probably only overturn the gods' banquet with one sweep of his hand.

Even after all these years, Peturabo had never become a true Lokosian, much less an Olympian.

But Mors had never thought there was anything wrong with that. He waved the young man over and had him sit down, unable to stop himself from wondering how tall Peturabo would be now if he had not stripped away his extraordinary powers all those years ago.

In another field of vision, the indescribable energy composing Peturabo's form constantly erupted in blinding radiance. It was visible proof of his boundless potential and immense essence, as well as an outward sign that the chains Mors had designed for him were about to naturally come undone.

"How is it?" Mors asked. "Have you prepared your speech?"

Peturabo nodded and sat in his chair—another implement of steel, cold and massive, its intricate design fused with the harshness of iron and stone. It also made Peturabo's difference from the joyous scene around him all the more apparent.

Once he sat down, aided by the height of the steel chair itself, he finally stood half a head taller than Mors.

"I do not need a speech," Peturabo said, staring at Mors. "This will be a declaration."

"Is that part of your performance?" Mors grinned, picking up an unnamed fruit from the table before him and admiring its rosy skin.

"It is not," Peturabo said. Then the young man looked away and devoted more of his attention to observing the people in the theater. During this time, a soldier brought Peturabo a short note. Brief anger crossed the young man's face before it was replaced by the calm that followed disappointment.

Mors did not ask.

As Peturabo had grown, he had become less and less interested in taking part in Olympia's affairs. After all, they were nothing more than conflicts between humans.

He had already decided that once Peturabo's gifted powers returned in the future, he would go back to his mountains and trees, occasionally listening to news of Olympia's changing situation so that he could write the sequel to his play.

From some distance away, across the theater's circular stage, Calipha raised her cup to them with dignified grace. Then the tyrant did the same, followed by the tyrant's two sons. It was almost like the opening moment of a conductor raising both hands toward an orchestra.

The tyrant gripped his scepter, rose with its tip braced against the ground, and an attendant immediately placed the miniature amplifier invented by Peturabo into his hand.

The ruler's breathing soon spread throughout the entire theater, carried by the theater's efficient and exquisite sound-conveying structure and ringing clearly in the ears of everyone who had come to attend the ceremony.

"Our honored Lord of the Legion, Lokos's Iron Blade and Steel Sickle, will receive his name today." Dameks paused forcefully, bringing greater attention and a ritual silence into the circular theater.

He continued, "Ten years ago, he came to Lokos, and his choice brought honor to Lokos. Today, he will make his name shine even brighter."

"For thousands of years, the people of Lokos have basked in the reflected glory of great names. We inherit the names of our forefathers and heroes as though we inherit their splendor. Some of you may still remember that my own name came from a distant ancestor, while my eldest son chose his illustrious name from one of Lokos's founders."

"This custom meant that, before the arrival of our legion leader, I had never imagined that a man—a glorious, noble man who would change Lokos—would reject a mark already carved into monuments, statues, and history."

Peturabo sat even straighter.

The tyrant drew a breath, laying ample groundwork for the words he was about to speak. "And now, I must shamefully admit the limits of my own understanding."

"When I went to his workshop," Dameks deliberately avoided mentioning the name for the moment, "I respectfully asked which hero of Lokos he would inherit a name from. I told him of the great deeds our ancestors had accomplished, and how our splendor had been passed down from generation to generation."

"But the Lord of the Legion gave me an answer I shall never forget. He said: his achievements would surpass those of any hero, and his greatness would exceed that of any who came before him."

"Who was qualified to make him change his birth name? And why could his birth name not become the brightest among all heroic names, inherited by generation after generation to come? He was extraordinary from birth, not because of noble origins, but because of the blessings he had brought to Lokos and the peace he would bring to Olympia."

"Now, it is time to choose your name, our master of arms, bearer of banners, maker of all things."

The tyrant raised his cup high to Peturabo and drained it in one gulp. The tyrant's children applauded in turn, while Calipha's smile was especially radiant.