Kosta ran and ran and ran and ran.

In truth, he remembered little of the journey. There was only the black of the storm clouds, the white of the Merakian’s griffin, and the rumbling of thunder as the storm brewed anew. Little thought passed through his mind.

There was only Clymere’s ashen form, her scorched face twisted and unrecognizable, and her last words.

Brother! Go!

And so he did.

Whatever was left of his power fueled his weary muscles.

He breathed in and out.

He ran.

He did not think.

Kosta could not say if anyone pursued him. All he knew was the feel of earth beneath his feet, the burn of his lungs, and the vaguest impression of Oroneiros far beyond.

He ran.

He ran.

He ran.

No lightning bolts struck him. No Whiteflame scoured the flesh from his bones. No terrible claws slashed him to ribbons.

He ran some more.

And when he finally collapsed, he found himself beneath the brass boughs of the dendrac. He fell face first into the soil, his hands grasping deep into it as he heaved. Sweat drenched his form. All of his muscles quivered.

His eyes grew hot and wet as he finally howled at the sky like a beast. The dendrac shimmered above, the brilliance of the Merakian’s new lightning scattered across its bronze trunk. For once, Kosta couldn’t give a damn about its beauty.

Clymere. His art. His dreams.

Clymere.

The light of his life was gone.

Kosta wept.

Footsteps.

“Stay still, Anatolene,” came the accented words of a Hesperian, though he did not recognize the voice. Not one of the veterans. Not the Leukopyr. “You look as though death would be a mercy.”

He rose unsteadily to his feet, hammer and chisel in hand. His blood boiled.

A great presence, slow and lumbering, flickered throughout the clearing.

“You’re the first I’ve seen today. The rest of your disgusting—hurk.”

A crash.

A thump.

Silence.

Death didn’t come. Kosta sighed and turned to his foe, only to blink at the sight of a gnarled brass branch embedded in the reedy Hesperian’s head. The man’s jaw hung agape, his eyes blank and open. The limb had fallen and killed him, Kosta realized,

It was bizarre enough to break him out of the fog, but he soon settled back into his haze.

Kosta wished that he’d gotten to smash the man’s head in himself.

He turned away from the sight and looked up at the great dendrac. The enormous presence he’d sensed briefly beckoned him forward. Its boughs rustled invitingly.

Just a few hours ago, he’d hoped to attune the phaetra core to the dendrac’s protective spirit. Now he couldn’t give a damn.

But he dragged himself up into its many, many limbs regardless. It was safe.

After an eternity of effort, he lounged in a cradle of golden branches and leaves. Kosta stared blankly at the burning remains of Dytifrourá in the valley below . Black smoke rose up in fat clouds, billowing up to meet the dark sheet which blanketed the mountains.

Clymere had done that.

It brought a fresh stab of pain to his heart. Kosta just watched with empty eyes as the fire devoured everything, but hate pounded in his veins as he saw great pillars of white flame choke and snuff Clymere’s inferno out. That was all that was left of her, and that bastard—!

He nurtured that hate and watched.

Much of the town still burned, but as the hours ticked by he realized that the Leukopyr had extinguished her fires in key areas.

The treasury. The warehouses. The armory. The agora.

Hordes of Hesperians milled about. A long, steady stream came out hauling the bodies of their dead and piling them together atop shrouds of white burial cloth. Priests and holy figures blessed the corpses, consecrating them and guiding them to the Dream, though none of the bastards deserved anything other than oblivion.

Others hauled out piles and piles of treasure in a long caravan of wagons enchanted to drive themselves. They were fat and sagged beneath the weight of their bounty.

Some were piled high with heaps of coin, precious gems, jewelry, enchanted materials, and a thousand other treasures looted from Dytifrourá’s merchants, warehouses, and storerooms. The

Hesperians escorting those laughed and shouted at one another, brandishing trinkets and acquisitions at their friends with glee.

His heart leapt at the sight of the Argyropolis commission, the visage of Evanthe petrified in white marble, carried upon the back of one of the carts along with a few other familiar pieces. It was unfinished and imperfect. Some of the pieces were raw and even a little ugly. But they survived! Some of his work had survived!

Other carts were guarded fiercely by grim-faced warriors. These were buried in great ingots of apeironic bronze, countless weapons, alchemical concoctions, well-crafted armor, and whatever other strategic resources had been plundered from the armory and barracks. To the Hesperians, these tools of war were a far greater fortune than simple treasure.

And of course it was! Their lives revolved around war and slaughter and butchery. The Hesperians had no room for anything that truly made life worth living in their black hearts. No doubt they’d simply sell off his work or render it down to fund their marauding.

He stewed for hours as the Hesperians organized their dead, sorted out the spoils of war, and organized themselves on a nearby mountainside. Several hundred Hesperians had scoured Dytifrourá, and it pleased Kosta to no end to see so many of their number wrapped in white shrouds.

If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

They had not claimed his home without a fight.

But they had taken so, so much more than simple land.

Despite the fog which he had sunk deep into, Kosta was alert enough to realize that they were waiting on something. What could that be? The Hesperians had abandoned the burnt remains of the town, plundered everything worth taking…

Then the Merakian floated forward, carried by the winds that he commanded. His great white griffin shrieked once as a smaller one joined them in the black skies, old and pale and battle-scarred just like its rider.

Kosta committed every detail to memory. His hands clenched as if throttling an invisible neck. Every breath came ragged and frenzied as the Leukopyr soared lazily through the skies, unburdened by the evil he’d done today.

Where was the justice?

The Merakian’s enormous companion shrieked again, joined by a chorus of the Hesperians from their mountaintop, and unleashed a peal like a tornado’s howl. Its master joined it and raised both hands high before shoving them forward.

Dytifrourá’s mountains shuddered as a terrible gale exploded forth from the Merakian’s palms. Saplings were outright torn from the ground. Grasses and shrubs were peeled from the soil and sent flying. Greater trees shivered as the winds sought to tear them up by their roots.

And as the wind swept over the ashen city, its true purpose was revealed.

Houses toppled. Buildings crumbled. Stonework fell and cracked. Wood and stone were soon swept up by the hateful shriek of the wind and strewn everywhere, broken and dashed upon the ground. The Ischyrópota’s crystal waters were sullied with mud and debris, choked with ash.

The wind carried the ashes of Dytifrourá to the east, staining the air pale with the remains. His childhood home was likely in that cloud, Kosta realized. Perhaps his workshop. Everything that he’d created.

Clymere was in there, carried east by the Merakian’s gust, and Kosta wanted to howl at the man like a beast, leave the dendrac’s bronze branches and smash his fucking head—

But there was nothing to be done. The Merakian commanded the storm to sweep Dytifrourá away, and it did. Its foundation remained, but the homes and lives painstakingly constructed by thousands of hopeful pioneers were torn away in mere minutes. As the last hours of daytime passed, the Merakian finished his vile work.

The town wasn’t quite destroyed. Foundations remained, as did the stone roads and great walls. Yet everything else was washed away.

Kosta could only lay limp in the cradle of branches he’d found and watch with a hollow stare.

Everything was gone. All that he had left was his pack, the phaetra core, and the coin he’d collected over the years. Much of his savings would have been looted from the town treasury and carried away by the marauding caravan. This was only a fraction of the fruits of his time and love.

His high perch allowed Kosta to spy a few bands of Hesperians spreading out over the valley and picking it clean. Some knelt reverently in front of the black obelisk which Kosta had claimed a piece of to build Clymere’s protective talisman.

Bile rose up in his throat. Fat lot of good that those protections had done. His finest creations were broken by a few swings of the whiteflame sword.

Quite a few took off down the road in pursuit of the Dytifrourán refugees. They would have left the valley by now, Kosta thought. The brunt of the storm had been focused upon the town proper, so all they would have had to deal with would have been mud and wind.

Although the squads fanned out in search of survivors, they did not push far. They didn’t leave the mountain passes to the east that would have taken the refugees to safety toward the satellite cities of Argyropolis.

Who led them? Kosta couldn’t help but wonder what they would do without Headsman Linus. He was the beating heart of the town, the core around which Dytifrourá had been erected, and his absence struck Kosta to the bone.

Headsman Linus had never paid as much attention to Kosta as he had Clymere—and just the thought of her made him want to tear his heart out—but he had always been unfailingly kind.

More than that, Headsman Linus had offered opportunity. He had seen something in Kosta just as he had seen that spark of greatness in Clymere. Linus had placed faith in him, extended his hand.

Look how that had ended up! If only he had been a little faster. Kosta would be a fool to think his amateur attempts at a keystone would have stopped the Merakian in his tracks, but perhaps it might have bought them a little more time from Stelios’ assault. Perhaps the walls of Dytifrourá might have stood a little longer.

The phaetra core felt like lead in his pack. Its warmth bled through the leather of his pack and brushed his skin. Part of him wished to curse the blasted thing and toss it away into the mud, but the cold pragmatism—the stone in his spirit—banished the thought.

He needed it.

Kosta chewed some of the bread offered to him by old Eneas. It was rich and full against his tongue, flavored with the sweet taste of honey and mountain berries. The loaf was denser than Kosta had imagined. His jaws soon ached with the effort of mastication, but the sweet taste and refreshing warmth which flooded him with every bite urged him on.

The food swiftly restored his vigor and the fog which afflicted his thoughts faded slightly. Kosta ate slowly. He had to. If he thought for too long—

No.

He couldn’t.

He just couldn’t.

But he could plan.

And so he did.

Who would lead the Dytifrouráns now? Evanthe, most likely. Isidora commanded respect, but Evanthe was well-loved. She would shepherd them to safety. She would soothe their worried minds and ensure that the townsfolk remained together. She would ease tensions and be the bridge upon which future peace could rely.

Would Papa and Mama remain with them? Kosta couldn’t imagine them straying. Not now. But he was not blind. His parents were opportunistic, and if they thought their fortunes called them elsewhere, elsewhere they would go.

Guilt welled up inside of him. Did they think they—he was dead? Did they hold out hope, or had they written them off already?

Kosta tried to imagine what they would say to him if he saw them now. Aretans above, what was he supposed to say to them? His tongue tied at just the thought.

‘Imperfect’. That was what Papa would think. Perhaps he might rail at Kosta for his failure. Perhaps he would go quiet. But Kosta knew that thought would rule his heart. He clenched his fists.

And Mama…Kosta couldn’t even imagine.

Kosta longed to chase after them. He’d spent so long dreaming of leaving Dytifrourá behind, and now he wanted to hunt after all that remained of the town. But the Hesperians would not leave the valley so easily. Perhaps they’d spend a day sifting through the wreckage of the town for anything precious or useful that had escaped their initial search.

They’d left the walls intact. Perhaps they planned to build their own settlement here. New growth atop the ashes of the old. Kosta spat off the tree. If only he was stronger, he might curse this land. The crops would rot in the fields. Their grapes would wither on the vine. Their food would crumble to dust in their mouths. Water and wine would never slake their thirst.

But alas, he was a simple sculptor.

Kosta watched the Merakian like a wolf. The lone figure hung so easily in the skies, beyond the need for a griffin like his Nephonauts. Stelios snapped his fingers once. Thunder tolled. Lightning flashed in the black clouds. The rain fell and the floods came, fueled by the Dream-steeped champion.

They never had a chance, did they?

Defeat was bitter. Loss was even fouler. It had all been for nothing, Kosta thought. All that pain. All that blood. All that struggle. If the Merakian had commanded it, they would have been swept away in the blink of an eye. They would have been drowned in a storm, snuffed out like an errant candle that had overstayed its welcome.

His eyes squeezed shut.

What had brought a Merakian to humble Dytifrourá? Even Headsman Linus, for all his strength, could only match the Merakian’s lieutenants. They were titans, outmatched only by the truly great and the legendary. A Merakian should have been commanding armies. Ruling provinces. Shaking the world.

Not ravaging a peaceful town.

Kosta watched as the last vestiges of Dytifrourá’s beauty was carried away by the great floods. All that remained was the great walls. Scoured, broken, and ready to be repurposed. Oroneiros dominated above, faded and wispy and endlessly vast. Untouched by Kosta’s tears.

All of that beauty was gone in a single day. Hundreds of lives extinguished.

Clymere extinguished.

A ragged cry escaped his lips as the dam threatened to break inside of him.

Be stone. Be stone for just a little longer.

In the world he would create, none of this would be possible. There could be no destruction, no death, no murder. No ugliness. Only boundless creation.

But that world wasn’t his.

Kosta realized something in that moment. There was infinite beauty in this world of the Demiurge’s creation. The skies, the seas, the rolling hills, the wonders crafted by its inhabitants…yes, this was a beautiful world indeed.

But what did that beauty matter when there was no one strong enough to preserve it?