Two nights were spent in the dendrac’s brass branches. Kosta had fallen into a deep slumber after the exhaustion set in from crafting his staff, but the remaining time passed swiftly. He watched, waited, and strung together plan after plan.

What else was there to do?

The Hesperians had truly settled in. Most hadn’t entered Dytifrourá yet, parked outside in the great rings of covered wagons and strung up tents, but more and more of the westfolk filtered in by the day, guided by various warriors. Kosta knew he would have to leave this sanctuary soon. Scouts would scour the nearby mountains soon enough.

Honestly, he was surprised that none had come searching for the dead sentry down below. Kosta’s half-hearted attempt to hide the corpse wouldn’t put them off for long, particularly not anyone who had been granted a gift for the hunt in their Dòrognosis.

But the Hesperians were busy with their new conquest. Perhaps they simply assumed that the sentry had been killed in the battle and written him off. A tragic fate, but Kosta wasn’t feeling particularly charitable toward them.

He’d drifted down from the dendrac’s cradle the night before when the enchanted lights of the Hesperian camp had finally gone dark. Kosta refused to look at the sentry’s young face as he pilfered all he could from the warrior.

Sadly, he hadn’t been carrying a secret fortune on him. All that Kosta had managed to scrounge was a small leather pouch filled with worthless Hesperian coins (which he took as more of a curiosity than anything), a poorly-maintained xiphos sword which Kosta had happily plucked, scabbard and all, and a few trinkets.

The little curios were Hesperian, but Kosta couldn’t help but admire the craftsmanship that had gone into them. Most were bracelets of beaten brass and copper, molded in the shape of storm clouds and stylized lightning to adorn the man’s wrists. He wore a necklace hammered into a griffin's head, linked by a fine chain worked delicately enough to impress Kosta.

Each little chain link was almost too small to see. The whole of them formed a bright red gossamer strand that was almost invisible, leaving the griffin head amulet resting against one’s chest as though suspended by nonexistent strings. A curious effect. Kosta refused to put it on. He would never wear that symbol.

But he didn’t mind taking it for study.

Shortly after he had robbed the body of anything useful, Kosta had exhaled in relief as the charged pressure which emanated from the Merakian Stelios slowly ebbed, then faded away entirely. From his position high in the dendrac’s branches, Kosta was able to see the slight figure tear off with a mighty gale, carried off back to the west by great winds.

His enormous griffin flew with him for a time, but soon circled back to nest in the caravan camp. Kosta cursed. He’d hoped it would vanish alongside its master, but perhaps it was left here as a deterrent for the Dipoli response. The griffin had never needed to lower itself to battle the Dytifrouráns, but Kosta had no doubt it commanded terrible power.

The Leukopyr remained, soaring alongside the Merakian for a time before trailing the great griffin back like a lost puppy. Kosta’s blood boiled at the sight. His hand tightened around the grip of the Hesperian sword he held. Part of him wished to raise the staff, summon all the power it commanded, and smite the Whiteflame warrior from the sky…

But no, such an effort was doomed to fail.

He committed every detail of the old man and his pale griffin to memory. One day.

Still, with the Merakian gone, Kosta knew his moment had come. He scurried down from the boughs, although that was more and more difficult now that he’d acquired the Hesperian’s weapon alongside his beautiful staff, and knelt before the dendrac one last time before he took his leave.

Kosta pressed his hand to the brass bark and fed a steady stream of his soul’s light into the dendrac as an offering. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you for everything. You saved me.”

The dendrac was slow and sleepy in the dusk, but Kosta felt that vast sapience sip upon his magic and gently press back. He poured one last drip into the cool metal of the bark, then pulled away.

It was time to go.

Kosta was no woodsman, but he’d learned some tricks from Clymere on their expeditions. His heart panged, but there was no time for it. For all he knew, the Hesperians had all sorts of sentries posted to find any disturbances late at night. He had to move quickly.

He’d tracked every Hesperian movement carefully from his perch. Kosta had seen enough to quickly realize that the main road east was not an option. It was the primary artery for resources and warriors to reach Dytifrourá from the great Dipoli, and the Hesperians had taken care to ensure it was well-patrolled and well-defended.

A dozen Hesperians in brown robes had been dispatched the day before alongside a small hoard of warriors from the camp. They sang to the trees and forests to Dytifrourá’s east and urged them to bend and twist and knot into a great wall of branches, trunks, and brambles. It wasn’t quite impassable, but Kosta had sensed the power pressed into their working.

Several smaller trees and some of the brush had uprooted themselves after the fact and patrolled alongside the great barricade. A squirrel that had tried to leap onto one had suffered a very unpleasant end. They’d been granted a facsimile of life by the treesingers and it was clear that they held their purpose dear.

Regardless, that was no option. They watched the east carefully, but had not turned eyes to the western slopes that Kosta had blindly escaped to. What could possibly trouble them from their own homelands?

The roads were guarded, but he was competent enough to sneak out through the thick forest.

Animation…Kosta couldn’t help but dream of it as he carefully wound down the far side of the mountain, staff in hand and sword in sheath. He didn’t expect trouble, but it was better to be prepared. The staff’s sturdy power comforted him, pulsating like a great heartbeat through his core, and it made for a nice walking stick as well.

Sleepy birds eyed him watchfully, trilling to one another to warn of the strange creature lumbering through their domain, and every spout of birdsong sent anxiety trickling down Kosta’s spine.

Would the Hesperians hear them through some arcane working? Would he turn a corner to find a patrol with raised spears and sneering faces? Had they further animated various trees to spy upon the going-ons of the forest?

His thoughts returned again and again to animation. Kosta couldn’t help but envy the tree-singers who held the power to bring their own creations to life. He’d managed some crude approximation of it on his father’s statue - and damn Papa for being so stubborn that it even rubbed off on his work! - but Kosta held no illusions. He’d used his power to wrench its stone limbs into position. It was something that he had never imagined, but it was a crude working.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

It was said that the old Stonegaze had granted legions of stone men life with his dusty breath. Not simple motion, but life. Personalities. They had acted as the administrators and overseers of his vast lands before the Westscour.

Kosta could not compare to the half-divine Aretans, but the concept sung to him. He poured his life and soul into every work, yet it was petrified like summer in phaetra. Still. Unmoving. Frozen.

He could think of nothing more beautiful than inspiring it to an existence of his own.

Kosta’s mind raced—what if he could beget creation that would beget creation? A self-sustaining cycle of crafting wonders. Kosta had dreamed of shaping his own world, to replicate that sacred experience during his Dòrognosis. A world of infinite possibility, infinite creation, where dream and imagination were made reality!

Bringing life to the lifeless was a good first step, Kosta imagined.

Those thoughts carried him far from the dendrac. He stepped over winding roots, fearing that each one would become a snare. Every rustling branch or fallen leaf sent his heart racing. Each animal cry in the distance left him imagining a manticore dashing for his flesh. A fluttering bird inspired images of a white griffin’s talons piercing his flesh.

But Kosta pushed on regardless through the night. It was slow, careful work, but he had the patience for it. Kosta simply lost himself in imagination as he walked. New creations, the desire to recreate and improve upon the old ones lost. The normal fare, really.

Kosta did his best to avoid thoughts of home, or Mama and Papa, or…oh, Clymere would whack him for trying to hide from her, but Kosta just couldn’t right now. Not unless he wished to come undone.

That wasn’t an option in the wilds.

So he pressed onward and dipped deeper into the mountains. Kosta would have killed for a projected map like Clymere’s. Right now he had to navigate his best by the starlight and the moon’s silver glare. It wasn’t ideal given his inexperience, but he tried to retain a vague idea of where he was and where he was heading.

He’d circled around to the southeastern mountains. There was a road here, one that wouldn’t soon be host to legions of soldiers from the Dipoli, wearing the banners of Argyropolis and Khrusopolis. Part of Kosta longed to sweep past the mountains and circumvent the Hesperian fortifications. He could join the legions, guide them to Dytifrourá, and watch them reclaim his home.

But his home was gone now, scattered to the winds by the Merakian’s work. His workshop burned and pillaged. His people scattered. His family shattered. There was nothing for him in the valley.

Kosta hoped to avoid the traffic. There was a road he would stumble upon soon. He’d learned little of the nearby cities beyond those that would guide him to his dream in Argyropolis one day, but Kosta knew that the southeastern road would take him away from the valley and back into the safety of the Dipoli’s territory.

Monsters, bandits, and foul practitioners might make their home in the edges and crannies of the Dipoli’s long shadow, but the Dipoli pacified their lands effectively. The twin cities did not suffer rivals and ensured the security of their people.

If he could make it to a city…

Well, perhaps there was hope for him.

This southeastern road wouldn’t take him to Argyropolis. Not directly. But it would take him to civilization. One of Argyropolis’ satellite cities, Notelos, was a few weeks’ journey, and there were plenty of minor towns and villages not unlike Dytifrourá itself on the way from what he’d heard from talkative merchants in the agora.

Notelos was no Argyropolis. It was impossibly vast in Kosta’s mind, supporting a population of around a million—a million, Kosta could barely imagine the press of humanity—but served more as a watchdog for the southwestern reaches of the Dipoli’s territory. Hoards of raw material gathered in the frontier were sent back for processing in Notelos before being exported to the capitals of Khrusopolis and Argyropolis, and as a result it had attracted a fair number of famed artisans who desired first pick at the flow of resources.

Kosta knew…well, not all, but most of the great names. Silver-tongued merchants were rarely his choice of company, but Kosta could make an exception when they brought news of the giants he hoped to equal. No, surpass. Even if he somehow ended up with far less coin in his pocket for the opportunity.

Aikaterine, who painted the sky. Irene, who sculpted shadows. Isokrates, who carved mountains. Kallias, whose voice was said to be so lovely that the world danced to his tune.

All brilliant, and part of the reason Notelos was an acceptable option.

The citadel was enough for him, at least at this point. Along the road were many potential dangers, but the wilds were also rife with opportunity. Perhaps he’d be lucky and come across a rare material or resource that he might be able to take with him and use for a future project.

Part of Kosta longed to venture west to seek out the phaetra field, but it was an unnecessary risk. Every second that Kosta remained in Dytifrourá’s vicinity was another opportunity for eagle eyes to spot him or a scout to hear the rustling in the woods.

Safety remained his highest priority, though the longing to go back and strike down the invaders simmered beneath the surface. But not, he must live. He must go on. He must endure. There was comfort in the dreams of running far, far away from here, but Kosta couldn’t lose himself in them, not when the forests and mountains were rife with danger.

While the staff comforted him as he climbed yet another mountain, steering clear of the side visible from the valley, Kosta could still only curse his own weakness. If only he’d listened… Clymere had warned him a hundred times, and he’d always dismissed her warnings.

The walls would keep him safe.

The militia would keep him safe.

Clymere would keep him safe.

Foolishness! Fate was cruel, and now Kosta found himself without the protection he’d taken for granted less than a week ago. The walls had failed, the militia was scattered, and Clymere…his jaw tightened and he forced that surge of emotion away for now. He couldn’t grieve. Not here.

But Kosta’s eyes had been opened. There was power in this world. Power beyond his petty imaginings, power that had been reserved for song and legends. But it didn’t care for his preconceptions. It had come for him regardless.

Beauty was a fragile thing. So difficult to construct, yet so easy to shatter into a thousand unrecognizable pieces. A single day and the might of the storm-calling Merakian had broken over two decades of construction and order.

Destruction was easy. Kosta truly detested that simple reality.

It didn’t matter what Kosta made or what wonders he would craft. It didn’t matter how much stone he could peel back to reveal the potential hidden within. If Kosta was weak, it would be taken, destroyed, and ravaged.

Never again.

Kosta looked out on the world beyond and couldn’t help but appreciate the pretty picture rendered by the east as he crested the final mountain.

Verdant forests blanketed the jutting range of hills and peaks, stretching far as the eye could see. Moonlight glittered down upon it, painting the scene a pale silver, and the stars wheeled overhead.

Spectral Oroneiros rose above it all, as always, a mess of brushstrokes and indistinct form.

Somewhere beyond it all lay Notelos, Argyropolis…an entire world that Kosta had only known a tiny corner of. He felt terribly small all of a sudden, but Kosta couldn’t help the bolt of lightning that shot through him as his eyes traced a thin, winding road of beaten silver that cleaved the forest in two. It went on far past the limits of his vision, curving between mountains like a shining river.

It shone brightly, illuminated by the magic of its creation and the helioklept veins laced within the path, and would beckon the lost from deep within the forest. Part of Kosta balked at being so exposed, but the path was his best option. Clever magics protected from the elements, scattered attacks from beyond the path’s edges, and ensured that each step would take you a tiny fraction farther than it should. Such a difference would pile up over days or weeks of travel.

Yes, this was what he was looking for. This was what would take him beyond the valley!

And so he ventured down from the mountain peak, away from his past and into his future.