The day began as it always did: dull rays of sunlight peeked through the windows to paint his array of projects a glorious gold, the citizenry went about their day with a well-oiled routine, and Kosta buzzed about like a Progian bee as he attended to various projects.
Wood and stone molded to his desire.
Chips of marble fell away to reveal the perfect details which Kosta had envisioned.
His hands worked in a blur, feeding magic into whatever he willed. Kosta’s chisel and hammer tapped again and again and again, belying his growing frustration. It was all he could do to tear his eyes away from the tray of expertly spun clay figures covered in a thick sheen of many-hued glaze. They sat next to his kiln.
The kiln which was still cold and lifeless as the grey clouds which had begun to pour in from the west.
“Where is she?” Kosta murmured, a touch of anger bleeding into his words. Clymere was many things, but unreliable wasn’t one of them. She’d given her word that she would arrange for an escort to the dendrac, and he would wait here until one arrived.
Didn’t she realize how much there was to do? Kosta would ordinarily enjoy the prospect of spending the morning in his workshop free of distractions, but today every second spent waiting was another second of wasted daylight. Another second closer to noon. He had no desire to put this project off for yet another day.
The hardest part of this whole commission had been acquiring the phaetra! Kosta’s blood boiled in anticipation of capturing the dendrac’s blessing in the sunlit vessel now that he’d claimed a sufficient core.
He’d busied his hands to keep his mind off of it, but Kosta grew more irritable by the minute. Kosta had even taken care to be ready by the break of dawn thanks to all of Clymere’s talk! Sure, he’d woken early with a fuzzy tongue, a bitter taste in the back of his throat, and a faint headache, but Kosta had ensured that his hair was properly oiled and prepared, that his skin had been treated, and that he’d chosen proper attire for the short journey outside the walls.
And Clymere was nowhere to be seen.
Kosta frowned to himself and headed over to the kiln. Well, it would be a pain, but he might as well get this started. It wasn’t as if he needed Clymere for this, after all. Her skills were convenient and precise, but his own meager control over fire would serve him well enough. It would just require a bit of a delicate touch.
He crouched before the kiln. Various transpoietic arrays etched into its surface channeled power to ensure that the kiln would be safe to use within his workshop, acting to vent toxic fumes and prevent buildup of anything dangerous. They could be inconvenient to use, always greedy for more power since they lacked any helioklepts to suck magic from the natural world.
Rain pattered down against the roof as he prepared the kiln. The townsfolk shrieked outside at the sudden downpour, but Kosta paid them no mind. He piled in small logs as fuel into the stoking chamber, then prepared to ignite them with his own power.
It was always an odd experience. Kosta’s magic preferred to shape, to cut, to form. To release it in this unstructured form, the raw power of his soul expressed as energy and heat and light rather than a firm blade or guiding hand, never failed to leave him ill at ease.
Nevertheless, he forced his power out in this foreign form. His hand shone red as a roaring fire crackled and burst forth from his open palm. It leapt greedily into the dry tinder and coated it, circulating within the empty space between the sticks, and Kosta watched curiously as the flame’s greedy incandescent tongues licked hungrily at every bit of combustible material they could.
His flames were weak and unpracticed next to Clymere’s, yet this was a simple task. He stoked the fires, fed more of himself to their endless appetite, and finally felt them catch and hold. The logs smoldered as they burned merrily away, and Kosta felt a surge of relief as he ceased fueling the spray of flames from his hand.
He exhaled as he watched them burn for a moment, spared a moment to pray that Clymere arrived sooner rather than later, and fell to the familiar task of loading his glazed clay into the firing chamber. It was delicate work, but simple. The work demanded little thought, so Kosta let his mind wander as he set the stage for his new creations.
They were simple little talismans, designed to channel rudimentary enchantments with a variety of effects, but it was good practice if nothing else. Kosta had a poor grasp of more complex transpoietic arrays, but a large portion of effects could be spawned by only a basic comprehension. In the end, it was only geometry: the art of the natural world.
Creations shaped by Kosta’s hands were innately easier to enchant. He fed his vision into his work with each cut, each second that they were shaped by his hands and his tools. Kosta’s magic suffused them, reforming them, and in doing so he invested a little piece of his soul within them.
Yet they lacked subtlety. He could etch broad effects into the nature of his creation, but precision required more detail. It was said that there were entire languages of symbols and the relationships between them that could be found in the lexicons of the great cities, but Kosta only knew the simplest identities of those symbols.
Circles provided completeness, confinement, and perpetuity. Rectangles and squares provided stability and order. Triangles gifted direction and purpose. Spirals imbued the array with life and motion.
A simple alphabet, but one with ten thousand variations and an infinite number of potential combinations that could lead to just as many different effects. It was only the beginning, but Kosta hoped to learn more of the subtleties when he made his way to Argyropolis and discovered its wonders. The simple designs that he’d managed to decode and replicate were crude and mean things, nothing to the fine-tuned interweaving geometric arrays which composed a truly magical artifact.
His hands were wet with damp clay and glaze as he finished his task, but it bothered Kosta little. The rain pounded down in heavy sheets now, hammering against the tile roof of his workshop, and the faint mist that filled the empty streets carried a subtle chill which left him restless.
The kiln’s heat banished the majority from his workshop, but he still felt antsy as he tried to decide what project was most deserving of his time. Kosta took one glance out of the windows and felt a surge of disappointment as he realized that it was unlikely that he would capture the dendrac’s blessing today.
Frustration mounted, but it would do nothing. Instead, he used it as fuel. Motivation. Kosta turned his eyes to Evanthe’s statue. It was almost done, and that would earn him a pretty payday…
Boom!
Kosta swore as a great flash of lightning lit Dytifrourá for a single instant, casting it in a stark contrast of shadow and light, soon followed by a bone-rumbling drum of thunder that pounded down so violently that his teeth rattled. He dimly realized that his tools had fallen to the floor.
“Damn it all!” There was no way he’d make it to the dendrac now. It wasn’t a terribly long journey from the walls, but no one would want to escort him in this tempest. Kosta sighed. Well, at least it would be a fine day to make some progress on his other projects.
He turned to Evanthe’s statue. It was largely complete, pristine and gorgeous even in the dim light which seeped in from outside, but there was still plenty of work to be done. Kosta found several details wanting, and he needed to perfect the face to match Evanthe’s. That could wait until she came in for another session, however. Perhaps he could—
Boom!
He leapt yet again.
Boom!
Kosta’s hands clenched tight around his tools. He didn’t particularly mind storms: they were beautiful in their own way, an unrelenting torrent of wind and rain and the primal forces of nature, but he was trying to work, damn it! It was impossible to focus when the thunder was—
Boom! Boom! Boom!
A vicious gale howled beyond the confines of his workshop. It raged so furiously that for a moment Kosta feared that it may strip tiles and loose fixtures from his workshop’s exterior.
It picked up. Shutters rattled. Debris flew down the street. The rain fell sideways.
Boom!
Shouting. Screaming. A baby cried in a nearby home.
Something twisted in Kosta’s stomach. Thunder rolled across the valley so frequently it seemed like the booming heartbeast of some terrible, enormous beast. His ears ached. The sky was nearly black now, blanketed by ominous clouds.
It was nearly noon, yet the sun had vanished in the matter of a few minutes.
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This wasn’t natural.
BOOM!
Kosta groaned as his bones rattled within his flesh yet again. He grit his teeth as a bitter cold infiltrated his workshop, seeping in through the window and whatever cracks it could find. The kiln’s heat could barely warm him in the face of this sudden freeze. He feared that the rain would come down as sleet given enough time and shock the entire valley with its cold.
No, definitely not natural.
Other Dytifrouráns seemed to have come to the same conclusion as Kosta. Cautious heads peeked out of previously secured windows and looked this way and that in search of whatever had carried this piercing wind into their streets. He waited within his workshop warily. Kosta barely realized that he had pulled an aspen block from his pocket for his nervous hands to fiddle with.
Lightning flashed second after second. More thunder pounded down upon the valley. The wind and rain grew fiercer, stirred into a frenzy by some greater will. Kosta heard the trample of heavy feet pounding upon the road outside and grew nervous.
He caught sight of a few militiamen charging past, fully armored and their silver plumes blazing bright amidst the fog. They shone brilliantly in the mist, the light reflecting off the magical plumes so much that it almost seemed as if the street was filled with pale moonlight.
Every head peered out into the street now. Kosta joined them as one of Dytifrourá’s alarms wailed from the agora. He grit his teeth, more worried for Clymere than ever before, as he recognized the piercing notes.
He’d heard it only a handful of times before: the Blueclaw bandit raid, the stubborn passing of a green-scaled hydra, and the figure of a woman wreathed in lightning who shot past Dytifrourá into the west several years ago.
Peril!
He peered down the street towards the agora, which was perhaps a ten minute walk away. Nothing could be seen there other than the steady march of militiamen as they rushed to the walls. It seemed a disciplined, ordered affair, but each soldier of Dytifrourá marched as swiftly as the wind thanks to their fortified bodies.
Kosta desperately tried to catch sight of Clymere, but she was nowhere to be seen in the ranks. The militiamen marched with urgency, but none of them seemed too surprised by the sudden tempest. Their faces were grim masks of hard lines and eyes like flint beneath their bronze helms and flickering silver plumes.
A hundred voices greeted them with countless questions, pleas, and demands, but the militia marched firmly on. The butts of their spears clattered rhythmically against the stone with every step, almost as loud as the thunder itself thanks to their coordination.
He turned his head toward the town’s walls and paled.
The tall walls of Dytifrourá shimmered a pale blue. A great sheet of magic rose high above Dytifrourá like a cloud of smoke from a smoldering fire, an expression of the wards and protections embedded into the stonework of the city. It was mighty, designed to defend against whatever attacks may come, but it did nothing to shield against the sudden storm that had swept through the entire valley
Lightning flashed in the distance and banished the storm’s darkness. The militia pressed forward. Kosta turned his eyes toward the guard towers, which were mounted with various weaponry to repel invaders, and saw them already manned and active. Shouts from the walls just barely reached his ears. Great flashes of silver light burst from the turrets, bright enough to be glimpsed from across the town.
Boom!
Thunder rolled yet again. The militia did not break stride, although the civilians and children covered their ears and quaked beneath the vicious force. Kosta simply stood and stared, frozen, as he saw the source of the lightning hidden amongst the clouds.
It had been evident that the storm was brewed by some outside force. No natural storm would form so rapidly or furiously. But his heart sank as he spotted a lone, solitary figure soaring high in the sky, adrift on the great winds. They were little more than a distant speck, too far away to make out any details beyond pale armor and a mantle of thunder clouds, but it was simple to spot them suspended in the air, hanging like a spider descending from its web.
A great griffin with feathers and fur the color of snow circled around the figure, its enormous wings spread wide as it soared amidst the black clouds; the terrible attacker lazily hurled bolt after bolt of lightning into the shimmering blue barrier which protected Dytifrourá. Silver streaks spewed from the turrets toward the invaders. Such defensive weapons were designed specifically to fight off flying foes, but the griffin surged forward to deflect the powerful attacks off its heavy bronze armor.
Kosta felt ill as the attacker soared closer, held their hand outstretched to the heavens, and caught a brilliant lightning bolt as it fell from the clouds which had birthed it. The griffin shrieked, adding its call to the storm’s rage.
Boom!
Thunder shook the town. Kosta could only stare as the flying figure shone bright as the sun for a brief moment, the whole world dark and empty in comparison, and flung their hand at Dytifrourá’s walls.
A great lance of electricity surged from the figure’s palm. It arced across the sky in a single moment, unleashing yet another crack as it split the air, and hammered against Dytifrourá’s protections.
The shimmering barrier surged with intensity, every brick of the wall devoting its decades-old magic into warding against the lightning bolt, and a keen whistling noise filled the air as it blazed blue.
This barrier and the walls which generated it had protected the town against bandit raids, vicious bands of cyclops, the occasional wyrm, and a hundred other threats in the short decades since Dytifrourá had been erected upon the westernmost reaches of the Dipoli’s territory.
Kosta thought it seemed woefully inadequate in the face of this lone titan. What terrible entity had turned its gaze to little Dytifrourá?
Others saw it as well. His fellow townsfolk wailed as the blue barrier strained beneath the figure’s might.
“Citizens!” One of Headsman Linus’ lieutenants, a sharp-faced woman with a nose like a curved beak, barked as she led another contingent of militiamen to the walls. Her plume was a brilliant gold and lit up like a flame in the darkness. Kosta could see her hands tremble around her spear as she pounded it into the stone of the road. “Prepare for evacuation. Take only necessities. Headsman Linus and the Myrtle Evanthe have organized an escape at the eastern gates. Hurry!”
She was flanked by Agathon. His eyes did not look so dull anymore. Lightning arced up and down his spear, flickering out to strike his armor, but the redheaded man didn’t so much as wince. He stared relentlessly at the lone figure assaulting Dytifrourá with true lightning.
Kosta thought that he must feel woefully inadequate in that moment, even if he was one of the militiamen capable of putting up a good fight against Clymere. Perhaps he had received his own Challenge, or would in the future. Yet that seemed like nothing in the face of this lightning-hurling titan.
Aretans above, what was this storm-spinning nightmare? Headsman Linus was mighty, worth half the militia on his own. Evanthe could enchant the entire town into dance and merriment with a few notes of song. Isidora’s long-nurtured power could send him to his knees with but a glance.
None of them could command a storm!
For a moment the spellbound townsfolk could do nothing but watch but a sharp word from the commander sent them into a frenzy. Kosta’s ears ached as chaos erupted all around him. Mothers gathered up their children and precious heirlooms. Fathers grabbed whatever weaponry they could, or hurled tools and coins into great sacks. Children cried.
Doors slammed. Wood broke. A great cacophony rose above even the storm’s howling.
The world had gone mad and all Kosta could do was stare. His mind worked in a blur as he weighed a hundred priorities, and then—
Boom!
The barrier strained. It surged azure as more and more magic fed the protections.
Shouts from the walls!
Militiamen fired blazing arrows and added their power to the turrets hurling vibrant argent beams at the invader, although the great white griffin continued to intercept most of them. Each beam glanced off the shimmering bronze armor which clad its enormous form, no doubt inlaid with countless protective enchantments. A few of the blasts made it past to strike the storm-spinner, although the figure would simply bat them away or lock in place for a moment when struck.
Kosta’s eyes settled on the griffin again. For him to see it so clearly from such a great distance…that terrible beast would bat the manticore he and Clymere had slain around like a kitten. That was a true monster!
But the sight of it stirred a memory: tattered armor clinging to the gnawed corpses of the scouts with a white griffin emblazoned upon it.
They were more than cautious rangers.
The Hesperians had come!
Based on the clamor from the walls, other turrets fired great fracture-spears and bolts of destructive magic down below. They were angled near the base of the walls. So there were other invaders as well…
This wasn’t just a random assault. This was an organized invasion!
Kosta’s breath froze in his chest. Was Clymere on the walls? What of Mama and Papa? They lived near the eastern wall, so perhaps they’d already rallied at the evacuation point. Both of them were pragmatic. He had no doubt that they’d head there as soon as they heard the command. He didn’t expect to hear them banging on his door anytime soon.
Boom!
His ears ached from the constant barrage of thunder, but Kosta could only concern himself with the trembling of the blue barrier. How long would it last beneath this focused assault? Perhaps it was just a trick of his eyes, but Kosta swore that the barrier seemed a little brighter and took a little longer to recover after each lightning bolt.
Should the barrier fall…
No! Kosta wouldn’t allow it. He immediately turned to the phaetra core resting upon its cloth. A merry glow filled it, and he thought it might be the only thing that could keep him warm out in the summoned storm.
Part of him was determined to flee.
Perhaps the barrier would hold. At the very least, it should last long enough for him to join the stream of Dytifrouráns pouring out of their homes and rushing east like a line of ants. He could escape.
But Kosta knew in his bones that he would not abandon Clymere to these invaders.
The phaetra core was untuned. It was raw. It was Imperfect.
But it was powerful.
Before he knew it, Kosta held the phaetra between his trembling hands. A flush of heat burst through his body and banished the cold and dread that had drifted deep within. He felt calm. Certain.
Let the others run. That monster above was beyond his reach, but perhaps they didn’t need to fight it. They just needed to slam the door in its face.
Determination filled Kosta. His hands stopped shaking.
“I’m coming, Clymere.”