Magic was in the air tonight. It fell from the stars, permeated the inky blackness between worlds, and burst forth from the long-empowered citizenry of Dytifrourá. The same power pooled within Kosta’s blood like thick honey. It was slow and weak and fragile, but it was there.

Not a single cloud had been allowed to drift over Dytifrourá once the sun fell. Theirs was a humble town of little power, but they could manage that small feat. Old Isidora and bright-eyed Evanthe had sung the clouds away in the twilight hours.

Thanks to their efforts, the first quarter moon shone above unobscured and bathed the town plaza in its silver light, circled by countless glittering stars wheeling about it like a crown. Some were distant, separated from Dytifrourá by vast tracts of space and time. Others had been hung in the heavens by Yiorgos the Weaver to brighten the dark nights.

His eyes were drawn to beauty of all sorts, and the argent moon called to him, although the plaza’s agonizing silence gnawed at Kosta’s thoughts.

On a normal eve, the agora might be full of chattering neighbors and giggling lovers entwined after a hard day’s work.

On a normal eve, the plaza would be lit by glowing glass goblets blazing with stolen sunlight, each laced with glassy black helioklept veins that kept them fed.

On a normal eve, the braying of beasts and buzzing of insects from the farmland beyond Dytifrourá’s high walls would cast a constant backdrop to the hum of civilization.

This eve was anything but normal.

Kosta licked his lips, tasting the magical charge in the air. It pressed down on them, permeating the atmosphere like the bitter scent after a lightning strike. Helioklept goblets spun through the air, dull and dead, while Dytifrourá’s citizenry were silent as ghosts. Even the livestock had quieted, as if aware of what was to come.

He shifted restlessly, nerves dancing within his skin. His stomach was in knots.

It was almost time!

The whole town had lined up in even rows all around the plaza, guided to their places by golden Evanthe and withered Isidora. Not a spot was left open. Dytifrourá was a small town, but no one would dare miss the sacred Dòrognosis. Tradition demanded they be present for the first steps of the thirty seven unenlightened Myokipos from the waking world into the fold.

He was eager, a little nervous, and desperately wished he’d pestered that braggart Medios for details like the rest of his fellow Myokipos had. The unknown held little appeal for Kosta, and he knew the puffed up boy was always happy to show off the arcs of golden lightning and thunderclaps he’d been granted during his own Dòrognosis.

People were more Clymere’s thing, though. Kosta was more at home in Papa’s workshop with a hammer and chisel in hand. His time was better spent crafting something beautiful than listening to Medios’ obnoxious thundering.

Still…

Little children, future citizens that they were, remained dreaming in their beds. Perhaps he should have helped Clymere slip out last year so that they could spy upon the ceremony. Mystery was all well and good, but the weight of thousands of eyes pressing down on them left Kosta craving answers.

Speaking of his sister…

Click.

Azure flame burst from a phosogen. The fire-starter shimmered.

Click.

It snuffed out.

Click.

The guiding will spawned a flickering tongue of hot gold flame.

Click.

It vanished, then—

“Stop that, Clymere. You’re going to get us in trouble!” Lyra snarled. She was a fair girl with pale hair bound up in pigtails, unassuming amongst the thirty seven Myokipos. Typically, she was nice, quiet, and never bothered Kosta.

Unfortunately, the modest girl became a lion the moment a broken rule or bit of fun could be sniffed out.

Why did she care so much? Kosta would never understand. But as long as she kept to herself and didn’t interrupt his projects, he couldn’t really be bothered to worry about it.

Clymere met Lyra’s narrowed eyes with a grin, clutching the little crystal phosogen tight in her right hand. “But I’m bored!”

Click.

Power flickered beneath Clymere’s skin, radiating outward like the warmth of a campfire on a cold winter night, and an emerald flame spouted from the crystal. Unfortunately, the little show was bright enough to attract attention from the onlooking adults.

Old Isidora, a white-haired elder, paused her efforts in organizing the ceremony to stalk over with a glare that left the rest of the Myokipos quaking. Clymere didn’t kill the flame, instead grinning back at the crone. The Myokipos were all in their twelfth year and easily cowed, but Clymere had never feared sharp words or evil looks.

Then Papa frowned lightly at them from the outskirts.

Clymere shut her trap and straightened right up. Old Isidora sent her a withering look, which Lyra complemented with a disdainful sniff before turning back to wringing her hands. The girl had nothing to distract her from her own roiling anxiety with Clymere’s little game gone. The others shifted uneasily as well in their huddle.

He noted the information, then filtered it out.

That wasn’t his problem. Not when he had a swarm of butterflies fluttering around in his own stomach. His foot tapped against the plaza’s cobbled stone. Kosta’s hands itched incessantly, begging for something, anything, to do. Sitting still suited him about as well as it did Clymere.

There was no point letting this energy go to waste!

He plucked a small block of soft aspen from the tan leather pouch tucked beneath his chiton and favored the light wood’s fine grains with a critical eye. It was sufficient. Aspen was a yielding wood, soft and easily shaped, and thus his favored material for casual projects and testing new techniques.

Kosta’s small knife followed suit. It was a beautiful tool, the knife’s long handle shaped masterfully by Papa from rippling oak, with a short, curved bronze blade accentuated with a hint of blessed apeironic bronze. The faint motes of gold gleamed beneath the starlight and he became lost in their brilliance for a moment.

Several of his neighbors looked at him oddly but rolled their eyes when they realized it was just Kosta. Thankfully Lyra wasn’t one of them.

Their eyes were easy to ignore as Kosta rolled the aspen block in his palm and set to work. He paid them no mind. Little curls of wood shavings fell down to land on the pale stone beneath his feet, but he tried to save what he could. Clymere would take them off his hands after the ceremony.

As if she could hear his thoughts, Clymere stirred at his side.

Her tanned face poked closer, barely visible in the darkness. “Whatcha making this time?” Clymere peered at his smooth, practiced movements with blatant curiosity. “I really liked that last one—what was it you called her… Aileen the Raven, right? She had cool knives.”

Kosta’s fingers wrapped tighter around the knife as he made a careful cut, but he exhaled. Anyone else’s prying would have left him on edge, but Clymere was safe. She wouldn’t make fun of him or the world he’d constructed. She was part of it, even if she didn’t know it.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice dry. Kosta shook off a few wood shavings into the pouch he saved for her, much to Clymere’s delight. Lyra watched suspiciously, but they both ignored her. “This is a different one. Teris.”

“The Iron Wall,” Clymere said, which sparked a little surge of pleasure in Kosta’s chest. She remembered. “Is that his shield?”

Kosta nodded as he twisted his blade just so to etch in that little divot he always struggled with. How did Papa make it look so easy? The wood finally began to adopt a masculine shape, albeit one that was crude and inelegant.

Imperfect echoed in his ears. It always did.

This attempt had a long way to go. Even so, he knew that it wouldn’t hold a candle to father’s work.

“I wish I could do that!” Clymere sighed as she shifted restlessly from one foot to another. Stillness always drove her mad. Kosta had no doubt that something would end up on fire if she had to stand around like this for much longer. Any distraction would help, so Kosta tossed her the pouch of kindling. Her green eyes brightened immediately and Clymere clutched it like a drake guarding its golden hoard.

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Clymere parsed through the shavings greedily, no doubt imagining what she’d set alight with them. “Remember that time you tried to teach me?”

“And you cut your thumb off?”

“It was just a little bit of blood.”

“You cut your thumb off. We could see the bone. Mama fainted.”

“Just a little bit of blood!”

Kosta scraped off a few more shavings into the pouch Clymere outstretched towards him. She wouldn’t let a single scrap of kindling go to waste. “You’re lucky Ademia was around to reattach it. It’s tough to be a pyromaniac if you can’t even -”

“Shut up!” Lyra’s shrill hiss split the air. Ugh, she’d finally caught on. “And what are you doing? Put that knife away! Are you crazy?”

He absentmindedly flicked a few scraps of shorn wood at Lyra’s feet. They landed on her karbatines and the girl seethed, kicking the shavings off her sandals with a glare.

Maybe this wasn’t the best night to piss her off. Lyra might pray to receive the gift of bloody murder instead of something more suited to a busybody like her.

Oh well. That could be future Kosta’s problem. All that mattered now was perfecting his work. It was still ugly. Misshapen. An affront to his skill.

It needed to be beautiful!

Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.

“Papa’s looking this way!” Clymere warned. Kosta didn’t dare raise his head to check. He quickly stowed his bronze carving knife into the folds of his chiton. Papa may be pleased with his efforts, but he’d tan their hides if they embarrassed the family in front of the entire town. Mama would do worse.

If she caught them, Kosta could kiss his tools goodbye. Clymere’s phosogen had caused enough trouble that it might vanish forever.

The silence and stillness of the charged air had gotten to the other Myokipos. Several buzzed with their own whispered conversations and shifted uneasily. Lyra squawked and poked at them to keep them in line, but they paid about as much heed to her as Kosta and Clymere did. She was far more bark than bite.

One of the boys, a gangly redhead with a too-big smile and dull, bovine eyes, tried to lure Clymere into their conversation, but she ignored her many friends in favor of Kosta. He tried to focus on his newest creation, but he couldn’t help the little smile that cracked his face.

“You’re not going to let Papa stop you, right? You have more than your knife!” Clymere chimed in. “C’mon, this is the last thing you’ll get to make before the ceremony! Make it special.”

Click.

Her eyes glimmered in the firelight as she flicked her phosogen and guided her power into the construct. An incandescent violet flared from the crystal, its heat a comfort in the chill of night. Most of the other Myokipos cheered her little show of defiance on, desperate for any outlet, although a vein on Lyra’s forehead bulged. No doubt Isidora or another elder would come to stamp out their little rebellion soon enough.

Kosta wanted to join in on their laughter but found himself watching instead. He tracked the way they threw their heads back in glee, the heave of their shoulders, and the sparkle of their eyes as they became one in their happiness.

Their joy was beautiful. He made a mental note to preserve it with a carving or sculpture when the ceremony was complete.

It distracted him from the sinking feeling in his gut. Part of Kosta wished that Headsman Linus would just hurry up and begin the ceremony already. Still, the Headsman liked to take his time. Kosta looked away from his fellow children as they oohed and ahhed over Clymere’s rainbow flames, then made the decision that Clymere’s suggestion couldn’t hurt… so long as Papa didn’t catch him, at any rate.

His grip tightened and he brushed a bare fingertip over the soft grain of the wood. Kosta’s carving knife was worked from good bronze and laden with subtle arrays of razor, strength, and durability. It was a gift given in advance of his Dòrognosis, meant to be a fitting tool to carry him to new heights as a man.

Clymere was right, though. His knife wasn’t his only option. To make his visions a reality, to live out his dreams, he’d have to hone his true tool. Even his finely crafted knife would only chip away stone with long effort and careful deliberation. Limestone was soft enough for the enchanted blade to carve, but anything tougher might damage it. Mundane stone was beyond his little crutch, let alone the arcane materials he longed to shape into wonders.

Kosta’s own little trickle of magic oozed through his veins, crawling through his body like a river of honey. The light of his soul was smothered and dim.

That would change tonight.

His anxiety bloomed into giddiness at the thought! He would have true magic after this, not just the nascent form shared by all the Myokipos. This might be the last time he ever used it in this half-formed state. None of them knew what would transpire tonight, but no one emerged from their Dòrognosis unchanged.

Kosta exhaled.

Concentrate! Papa’s firm instructions dashed through his mind.

His magic was as much a part of him as his hair, blood, and bone. All Kosta had to do was draw it out. The sluggish honey permeated his flesh. With a firm will and vivid imagination, Kosta could mold it into the image he desired, just as he would damp clay.

That’s what Papa had told him, anyways.

What he didn’t mention was that this was like wrangling smoke with the stubbornness of an ox and the laziness of Theíos Cyril. Or so Mama liked to claim. His uncle had strayed from Dytifrourá to embark on the Challenge long before Kosta could remember.

The magic was slow to respond. It twitched, then stirred laboriously as he urged it to his fingers. A faint glow, white and pure as starlight, oozed from his palms and slowly crawled further down his hands—“Brighter! Brighter!” Clymere urged with a laugh, delighted at the show.

Kosta first tried to wrench it into the approximate shape of his knife, but that strained him to his limits. The starlit blade wavered, then began to fade into specks of white.

Imperfect.

No! Kosta desperately reigned it in. He lacked the skill and control to retain the white blade, so he allowed it to retreat. His magic yearned to fade back home into his body, but Kosta refused.

Yet it wasn’t enough.

In mere moments the power abruptly vanished and Kosta was left feeling as though he’d just carried a boulder up a mountain. He shook out his hand as it prickled with the remnants of his failed working.

Kosta glared at his dusty hand as the light abruptly vanished. “Stupid.”

“Too bad.” Clymere yawned as she cradled her precious wood shavings in her hands. She flicked one into the candlewick of the phosogen, which greedily devoured the fuel in a flare of turquoise. “You’ll just have to wait until your Dòrognosis. You’ll get something cool, I just know it!”

He smiled nervously at his sister. Sure, everyone emerged with something. The adults hid the ceremony’s events from the Myokipos, but there was no hiding that. Everyone received a nudge down their path. A gift. It was true that it always suited them.

Kosta could only pray to receive something like the fluid power Papa commanded. He could mold his magic however he liked, twisting it into shape and forming whatever tool he desired. It was the craftsman’s dream, and Kosta had seen firsthand the wondrous things that Papa created with it.

Not just wondrous. Beautiful things. Even better.

He glanced at the flickering flame clasped in Clymere’s hands. “Well, I know what you want,” Kosta said, then laughed as Clymere snapped her fingers and conjured a few unimpressive cherry-red sparks. Perhaps their Dòrognosis would change that. “You’ll drive Mama to an early grave.”

“No way!” Clymere gasped, affronted. “She’ll be so happy—”

Night encroached.

A wall of black smothered them.

The stars blinked out.

The crescent moon vanished.

Clymere’s mouth snapped shut. Her phosogen and Kosta’s knife were quickly stowed away. All the Myokipos stiffened and stood straight as an enormous power pressed down against them, unlike anything they’d ever felt.

Kosta caught one last glimpse of his parents’ flat gazes before reality shifted to accommodate a new puppeteer.

His hands trembled. Blood pounded in his ears.

“Proud citizens of Dytifrourá! Stand and listen. We gather at the dawn of a new year, a good year! Let us greet the Myokipos, our soon-to-be fellows.”

Headsman Linus’ voice thundered from all around as the onlookers roared their applause and buffeted Kosta, Clymere, and their fellow Myokipos with a cacophony of sound. He shrank in on himself, while Clymere and several others waxed and soaked up the praise and adulation.

Too loud!

He wanted to grasp for the carving tools hidden away in the many folds and pockets of his chiton. If he could just make something… nothing else would soothe his nerves.

Too bad Mama would literally kill him if he embarrassed her like that.

Kosta’s throat clammed up. What if Headsman Linus made them speak?! Even walking would be a chore on his shaking legs.

There was some comfort to be found in the thick veil of darkness that hung around them like a black shroud. Headsman Linus normally cast his illusions to organize townsfolk or entertain the children, but tonight he spun solid void walls absent of starlight or flaw.

Despite his pounding heart, Kosta paused to admire the woven night. There was something beautiful about its uniformity, as Headsman Linus had plucked the nothingness between the stars and brought it to their little polis tonight.

But he was too nervous to let his eyes stray from the Headsman for long. Headsman Linus was Dytifrourá. He was an enormous man with a broad frame and a wide square jaw veiled by a thick black beard that matched his close-cropped hair. The warden’s dark eyes were always alight with mischief, dancing with mirth as he planned the next trick or illusion for Dytifrourá’s children. Yet now they were deep and serious.

It reminded him of Papa’s eyes when he emerged from his workshop.

Kosta didn’t like it.

“Myokipos! Unseeing children! Listen well.”

They could barely breathe as the void pressed down against them, suffused with Headsman Linus’ raw power. His huge frame seemed their entire world now that the rest was cut off by the encroaching darkness.

Not even the silver moon or bright stars twinkled overhead to threaten the illusion. They too had been consumed.

“You stand on the eve of metamorphosis: your Dòrognosis,” Headsman Linus’ resonant voice echoed all around. “You are blind. Unseeing. Ignorant to the true wonders of the world. Your souls strain in the cocoon of your flesh. They yearn for freedom, and tonight it will be granted! Awaken, sleepers!”

Headsman Linus did not need ornate symbols or grand gestures. He snapped his fingers.

Kosta felt dizzy as wisps of neon green smoke and thick lavender fog trailed from the darkness, standing out brilliantly against the void they spawned from, and dissipated into the air. Great clouds spilled forward to fill their lungs. He squirmed restlessly, yet soon teetered on his heels like the rest of the Myokipos as their eyelids grew heavy as lead.

Phantasmal arms appeared from nowhere to catch them as they fell, composed of thick lavender. Kosta’s mind slowed and grew bleary, but he was just cognizant enough to feel his head recline against a soft pillow.

The darkness was gone, Kosta realized.

The argent moon shone overhead. The stars twinkled above.

They were beautiful.

Kosta sluggishly tried to grasp them in his palm, but the strength was stolen from his limbs. He was so tired…

“In the west, they beat their children to ensure a powerful gift. Some slaughter beasts or bathe in blood to fill their dreams with carnage. In some lands, they offer their children fleeting death, or trap them in a tomb, or leave them stranded atop a mountain’s peak until they collapse beneath thunder and sleet.”

Headsman Linus’ heavy footsteps pounded through the earth as the giant man stepped easily between the dozing children. Soft snores filled Kosta’s ears.

“And you…” Headsman Linus’ voice was laced with mischief. It echoed now, distant to Kosta’s ears. “Must take a nap! Sweet dreams, Myokipos. Return to us as little gods.”