Kosta hung back in the pillared temple, situated just behind the crowd. Sunlight spilled in from the open exterior and a central hole in the ceiling. It left the temple’s interior bright and lovely, casting everything into stark relief. At night it was even more enchanting, however, as the subtle glow of moonlight seeped in and painted it all silver.

Nearly two hundred citizens of Dytifrourá crammed themselves inside. It was packed full of bodies, most scoured clean and unmarred since the day’s work had not yet begun, and Kosta tried to ignore the discomfort of being jostled and pressed in against from all sides.

He was just tall enough to peer over the heads of most of the crowd and catch sight of Old Isidora as she pontificated. The crone stood on a small dias—the only way her hunched, shriveled form would ever be seen by the crowd—and let word after passionate word heralding the Demiurge’s glory roll from her tongue. A hidden figure draped in embroidered white cloth stood next to her.

Isidora may be stubborn, ignorant, and acerbic, but she could give one hell of a sermon. Kosta and the rest listened raptly.

“...the Dreambound invested all that it was into creation! We stand upon its flesh. Yet the Demiurge is alive, and it loves its children. It visits us in our dreams, kindles the spark of our souls, and opens this vast world to us, for it is our right to claim it. The Demiurge grants us many gifts, and it is only right that we return its love.”

With a swift motion, Isidora whipped a pale sheet off of the covered figure and revealed the work Kosta had sold her: a boy sculpted of clay, shaped in remembrance of the young craftsman that so often joined him in his dreams. It had been ugly before. Oh, Kosta supposed it was competently enough done, but didn’t everyone see its flaws?

It was shameful! Skill did not necessarily equate to beauty.

Yet Isidora had treated it. Kosta had only delivered an incomplete piece, a statue in motion with the sloppy, lanky proportions of a youth.

She had… improved upon it. It gnawed at him to admit that, but it was true.

Kosta was displeased to see that she had ignored his suggestion entirely. The shimmer of apeironic bronze molded to the boy’s clay skin was nowhere to be seen, and he thought that alone disrespected this visage of the Demiurge.

Instead, Isidora had layered flesh itself upon the statue. Or so it seemed. The boy’s hair was a rainbow of different hues, all brilliant and fading into a new color with every shift of the light, and his face was so pale and soft and delicate that it seemed he was only sleeping, rather than a soulless husk. Kosta imagined that he may awaken at any moment.

Was it an illusion? Kosta couldn’t imagine that they’d made the boy real. That was the feat of a Kleosian or Aretan, not a town priestess. Old Isidora was strong, no doubt, but she must have used other methods to render the boy in such magnificence.

The townsfolk admired it as well. Kosta could take no pleasure in their cheers and compliments, for it wasn’t him who had made this creation what it was. His heart panged as Isidora waved a hand and allowed the offering to spin in every direction so that every angle could be properly seen by the devoted.

“The Demiurge lives within us all. It is our constant companion, the light within our souls. Each action we take ripples outward, and so we may offer our thanks. Close your eyes. Exhale. Focus upon your devotion. Remember your gratitude when the Dreambound Demiurge opened your eyes to the true beauty of this world!”

Kosta did so, as did all the rest of Dytifrouráns. Each and every one of them remembered the night of their Dòrognosis. Who could forget the first moment that they truly lived?

He didn’t know what the rest imagined, for even the closest siblings rarely shared the happenings of one’s Dòrognosis, but Kosta thought of creation. The feel of wood cut expertly beneath his hand, the sensation of molding the beginnings of a world, the spark of ichor mingling with his blood, his first sight of Oroneiros… it all came together, and Kosta felt an aching nostalgia for that moment.

“We have been given so much. Remember that. Treasure those moments. Now, let us give back.”

With that, Isidora plucked the small statue with one gnarled hand. Her toothless smile widened as she saw the rapt eyes of every single Dytifrourán in the room lock upon her motion, and a wiry strength born of magic exposed itself as she hurled the statue down onto the stone floor of the temple.

His creation was obliterated in a spray of ceramic. The bloodless flesh remained attached to the pieces, but soon faded away like smoke in the wind. So not quite an illusion of the sort Headsman Linus could spin, but not quite physical either.

Whatever curiosity he felt was drowned out by the rage that filled his gut. That was his creation! His vision! Thirty hours of his life lay shattered into a thousand pieces on the temple floor!

And the people cheered for it! They laughed and clapped and treasured this moment of pointless destruction. It made Kosta sick.

“Remember this moment as you slip into the unwaking sea and find yourself guided by the Demiurge to safe harbors. This is our collective offering. May the Demiurge treasure it, as we treasure the beauty of the world that has been gifted to us.”

Agh! And why would a spirit of creation treasure destruction? Kosta wanted to scream at them, unleash the fury of a storm, but he bit his tongue. They wouldn’t listen. Old Isidora’s words had ensnared them. Not a single one of them appreciated the simple pleasure of creation, the joy of making something new. It should have stayed standing as a perpetual offering, a reminder of what had been done for them and an expression of their appreciation.

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Instead, it had been shattered for a brief moment of reflection.

Why was destruction so much easier than the act of creation? Years of effort and careful deliberation could be shattered in the blink of an eye. All that investment, all that love, vanished. Gone. Forgotten.

His world would work differently, Kosta decided.

And with that, he turned and stalked out of the temple.

He couldn’t watch another minute of this desecration. As beautiful as the temple was, as beautiful as the gathering of Dytifrouráns as this collective was, Kosta found it all rather ugly at the moment.

----------------------------------------

As frustrating as Papa could be, it was always an experience to watch him work… at least when Papa wasn’t correcting one of his projects. Every motion was smooth, deliberate, and undergone with exacting precision. Papa began every project with a vision, and he would not rest until that vision was made reality.

His hands worked in a blur as he manipulated wood. It was Papa’s favored material, and he was particularly partial to olive thanks to the depth and diverse colors of the wood. Where Kosta was limited to simple cuts and bevels or spikes to chip away and soften stone and other materials, Papa could do it all.

At times his white magic pulsated and washed over the great blocks of wood, shaping them broadly into the exact form he desired with unerring accuracy. Other occasions saw him drill deep within the core, or the snow-white light would coalesce into a dozen different tools that would work in tandem to shape his vision.

Papa rarely deigned to use physical tools to focus that power. He’d moved past crutches like that long ago. The only tool he needed existed inside him.

Even more shocking than the simple skill with which he worked was the speed. Papa could take a plain block and turn into a masterpiece with only a touch, or so it seemed. His power was swift. His power was precise. His power seemed endless when set to a task.

It made Kosta terribly jealous. One day that would be him, he knew, but the road seemed so long and difficult when he compared his present abilities to those of his father. His limitations ate at him. He must be better!

Meanwhile, Kosta chiseled away a small section of rock to act as a plinth for the future statue. The wood was only a beginning, a fresh model to ease the transition to a larger, more permanent figure. Papa disliked stone, but he would not turn away a commission. Not when he was so close to being recognized as the fourth pillar of Dytifrourá. He could have this little piece made in an hour or so, but Papa sometimes hired Kosta to take care of little annoyances like this for him.

The pay was awful since Papa guarded his coin like a mothering griffin protected her cubs, but Kosta mostly took it as a chance to observe a master at work. That was a priceless experience.

As usual, Papa largely ignored him, but after a time he finally cracked one eye open. “They desecrated your work at the temple today.”

“I—yes, how’d you know?” Kosta immediately soured at the reminder. All he could envision was the thousand clay pieces shattering and the clink of them against the stone floor.

“Isidora mentioned their rite and your contribution. What a waste! I do not work with the temple except when necessary.” Papa scoffed as his cold white power fully engulfed the olive in his hands. At least someone agreed with him. “Your work is imperfect, but it does not deserve to be tossed aside by those who can’t even appreciate it.”

He scowled at his father’s back at yet another reminder of his flawed attempts, but didn’t say anything. At least Papa was being… vaguely supportive. It was better than Kosta would have expected.

“Craftsmen are appreciated in Argyropolis. Our work stands the test of time in the skybound temples as eternal monuments.” A note of longing entered his father’s voice. Wistful nostalgia wasn’t in Kosta’s perception of Papa, and he looked at him strangely.

Kosta dared to pry. “Why did you and Mama leave? Argyropolis sounds…” he trailed off, uncertain how to finish. There was a library’s worth of words he could use, and none of them seemed sufficient to describe his imaginings. “Why would you ever come here?”

Papa grew deathly still. For a moment he worried that Papa would shut him out and throw himself fully back into his work, but after a few seconds it seemed that Papa made his decision.

“A city of millions has many opportunities within its walls. It also has endless competition,” Papa’s voice was tight as he fed more and more power into his working until the neatly ordered workshop blazed as if illuminated by a second sun. “Too many hands all clambering to reach the top, and every single one of them willing to drag down anyone who attempts to rise above.”

Kosta took a glance outside. Dytifrourá was active, humming with activity in the midday now that Isidora’s rite was complete, but he imagined it could not compare to a single district of Argyropolis’ grand enormity. Millions of people… Kosta couldn’t even imagine it! Where did they all live? How did anyone even find their way through such a vast city?

“I saw an opportunity when Strategos Charison purged the Hesperians from these lands. I am young. Dytifrourá will grow vast as a crossroads when the Dipoli fully reclaim the west from the barbarians,” Papa said as he carved away a tiny speck of wood from his statue, “I have been granted citizenship for my work here. I have grown. It has been a worthy investment.”

He hummed to himself as he carefully chiseled away the last scraps of unnecessary stone. A smile broke across his face as that action finally revealed the potential he’d seen in this ugly slab: a beautiful plinth of expertly cut lines and flat planes, perfect for complementing the curves and bends of Papa’s statue.

“Acceptable,” Papa said in a tone that suggested he thought it was anything but. Kosta wouldn’t complain, though. It was better than being asked to redo it half a dozen times and burning through a small fortune’s worth of material. He tossed a tiny pouch of coins behind him. Kosta scrambled to catch it. “Your payment. Dismissed.”

The curt dismissal bothered him more than it should have. Kosta took his payment and stepped away, eager to continue his personal projects. Evanthe wouldn’t return until tomorrow—he always looked forward to his meetings with Dytifrourá’s Myrtle—so he had time to work on Headsman Linus’ keystone and his own visions.

Something stopped him before he exited the suffocatingly organized workshop. “I’ve begun my masterwork, or something close to it. I have the phaetra to—”

“Material does not make a masterwork. Return to me when you have something to show for your efforts.”

Kosta scowled again at his father, who didn’t even turn to regard him. It might have been immature, but he slammed the door particularly hard on his way out to rattle the wooden frame of the workshop.

Still, he couldn’t keep his poor mood for long. The sun was shining, the air was perfectly warm against his skin, and the hum of activity that filled Dytifrourá always left him eager to work and test the limitations of his skill. He relaxed as he heard the trickling of the Ischyrópota beneath the bustle of the town as it flowed steadily through its center.

No, today had started off poorly, but he wouldn’t waste it!

It was time to create.