Kosta toyed with a lump of pale clay as he walked the streets of Yoreme. He was garbed in a new chiton, though it was too plain for his liking. Grey and earthen brown weren’t really his colors. But the chiton was in one piece, which was quite the advantage over his tattered Dytifrourá clothing. Headsman Phillip had been kind enough to supply him with the outfit when he woke up after that first night in Yoreme, though Kosta suspected it was because his previous outfit had been one bad rip away from becoming indecent.

He wasn’t such a stranger anymore. Kosta had ventured all around to see if he could find a good spot for the dendrac to grow, though nothing quite sang to him. A few passersby offered him a brief nod of recognition, though none tried to entice him into conversation. That was just fine by Kosta. Yoreme was a pleasant enough place to stay and recoup, but he had no intentions of settling down here.

There was no future for Kosta in a backwater like this. He dreamed of high spires, floating islands, and cities paved with gold and silver.

Kosta wandered for a time constantly adrift in his own thoughts. His magic flooded through the clay, sharper and faster after his time on the road, and the soft material bent and twisted, shaping into creation after creation: a snarling kynokephalon, the scorpion tail of a manticore, a sparrow with flaming wings, and a dozen others.

Endless potential. Kosta imagined shaping the clay into a new world that he could hide away in. One that he could spend a thousand years sculpting and carving into the type of place he wished to spend his life in.

He crushed the ball in his fist.

How would he even begin? No world-sculptors lived in Yoreme. That was for certain. It was said that Kleosians, the titans who made their Dream a reality, could craft secret spaces for themselves and those they trusted.

They were impossibly rare, only outmatched by the demigod Aretans, but eight made their homes in Argyropolis and its sister Khrusopolis as the Lords and Ladies of Gold and Silver. Legends each and all. But if he could press them for even a scrap…

Bah! Why would they speak with one such as him? Kosta was nothing to them, less than dust. He had a long way to go before they would spare him a glance. And even that would only be the beginning of his journey to sculpt his own world.

But he would. Kosta promised himself that.

“Why the long face?” Pavlos’ guttural voice snarled in his ear. Kosta flinched, a spectral hammer Manifested in his hand, but the red hunter laughed and caught his wrist with impossible strength. “You look like someone pissed in your beer.”

Kosta’s nose wrinkled even as he wrenched his hand away from Pavlos. The grey hammer faded into motes of fog. “Just thinking,” he said. “Are you off on another hunt?”

“Aye,” Pavlos said. Delight sparkled in his savage eyes. The red lion’s head snarled at Kosta, just as eager as its master to taste the thrill of the hunt again. “Just a wolf who’s grown too clever for his own good and taken what he shouldn’t. I won’t need your shields today.”

He’d accompanied Pavlos on two hunts the past three days, though the long days of trekking through the woods had been taxing to say the least. It kept him busy, though, and sharpened him. Pavlos’ skills were fascinating to Kosta and he enjoyed the opportunity to study the hunter’s magic.

Something about the transformations spoke to him, the conversion of one thing to another. The transition from man to beast. He could use that in his own crafts, though that just left him sour at the thought of what little supplies he’d managed to preserve.

Yoreme had a few basics for him to renew his stock, but that was really just enough to play around with.

“Let me know if that changes,” Kosta said, trying his best not to sound too eager. The hunt itself had little appeal for him, but a dark part of him did enjoy the opportunity to lend his aid to Pavlos and test himself against monsters, though none had been half as dangerous as the kynokephalon. “The money’s good, even if Antigonus is trying to suck me dry.”

Pavlos barked out a laugh. “The man’s a born leech. I could learn a thing or two from him.”

“Try not to,” Kosta grumbled. Antigonus kept the rooms clean, ensured that the tavern was orderly, and could magic up some passable stew with a snap of his fingers. And that was about it. Courtesy, human decency, and kind words cost extra, apparently. “Has Headsman Phillip received any news?”

“Not yet,” Pavlos’ too-wide smile dimmed. “Only missives warning us to prepare for the Argyropolan armies that are heading this way. Yoreme’s to be the site of a fortress. The Dipoli have spared a Merakian of their own to reclaim Dytifrourá—Eliora the Unbroken.”

Kosta winced in sympathy, though his heart sang at the thought of Stelios facing an equal opponent rather than a city of his lessers. The Merakian Eliora was a legendary champion of Argyropolis who had served for more than a century.

Perhaps Stelios’ storms wouldn’t swallow up the sun so easily anymore. Yet he couldn’t help but fear what might happen to Yoreme if the two clashed nearby. It might be swallowed up by their errant blows, blasted bare by wind or scoured by Eliora’s piercing light.

“You’ll endure,” Kosta said confidently. “Yoreme is small, but it’s strong.”

“But things will be different,” Pavlos scowled. “They’ll scare off my quarry. Fill these woods up with people.”

Kosta nodded along. He understood what it meant to lose one’s home. Even if Dytifrourá was reclaimed by the Merakian Eliora, it had lost what it once was. Sometimes change was just too much.

Who would’ve thought that he yearned for Dytifrourá? One week had changed so much, though sometimes it felt like so much longer than that.

A thought came to him, one that he’d been too busy to pursue as he lost himself in Pavlos’ hunts. Kosta pulled the void mug from his chiton’s pocket, shifting around a few blocks of aspen in the process.

He paused just a moment to admire it, testing its ethereal weight in his hand. The sun’s light was devoured by the black magic which made up the mug, though it seemed to fuel the tiny little constellations that twinkled in the midst of the night sky.

It really was a beautiful creation.

“Antigonus has been less than helpful in finding Polemus. I don’t suppose you—”

Pavlos snorted and pointed down a long stretch of tiny homes. “Ninth house on the left. He’s not a fan of visitors, so good luck,” he barked out another one of his laughs, then sobered. “I have to scare off a groundwyrm that’s been sniffing around the fields tomorrow. Are you in?”

A slight smile flickered on Kosta’s face. “I’m in. Not like there’s much else for me to do at the moment.”

“I suspect that’ll change soon enough. But I’d best be off.”

Pavlos waved Kosta off then. He stood for a moment, inspected the void mug again, and traced his finger down the impossibly dark material. It felt like passing through a thick fog, though it was jarring to feel resistance as he brushed against the bound edges. Kosta thought it might feel like plunging through an eggshell, though logically he knew it must be far stronger in order to survive Antigonus’ rowdy patrons.

The money grubbing innkeeper would never consider dealing with anything so delicate.

Kosta set off to find Polemus’ home with a mind full of curiosity. There were so many questions he could ask! The most pressing was how to maintain the stability in such an item—Kosta could Overlay and Project to make phantasmal structures, but even Headsman Linus couldn’t maintain them permanently.

There was a method to the madness. Kosta couldn’t wait to discover it.

He’d learned all too well that what he possessed now wouldn’t be enough if he wanted to become a defender of all that was beautiful. Kosta’s power lay in creation, but there were ways to turn that to his advantage. Perhaps he wouldn’t be pulverizing city walls with a brilliant beam of light, but there were subtler ways.

Animation offered potential. He’d managed to grasp the barest reaches of that power during the battle (for all the good that did him). Yet Kosta couldn’t help but imagine breathing life into a legion of stone soldiers and setting them against the Leukopyr…let’s see his Whiteflame burn that.

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Kosta shook it off as he approached the home. While all the brick-and-wood homes were more or less identical, just humble boxes built around a tiny courtyard with basic amenities like transpoietic arrays to bring in necessities like water and remove waste, this one stood out against its plain surroundings.

It was alive.

Well, not literally. But the wood was painted with living skies, portals to the deep sea with drifting fish and terrible glimpses of tentacles and teeth, a black void rimmed with stars and a nimbus of light, and a dozen other landscapes. Forests, pale mountains, craggy badlands, and countless others flickered across the wall, shifting seamlessly into the next.

Kosta devoured it.

Were they Polemus’ memories? Had he ventured to all of these distant lands and transplanted his impressions into the walls? There was no way to know for certain without questioning him, but Kosta found himself fascinated by the application of magic nonetheless. He’d never seen anything like it in Dytifrourá.

But there was more than that! He stepped closer, peering into a vast orange mesa that dominated the landscape for miles around, but soon found himself drawn to a lazy cat slumbering beneath a poorly carved table. Seriously, who had done the sanding? It was plain and rough and ugly, utterly different to the magical paint.

“Hello,” Kosta said softly as he crouched, only to blink.

The cat appeared painted into reality, just inky smears of black which somehow coalesced into a three-dimensional shape. It stretched in a slow, clunky motion, eyed Kosta with red eyes of the same bizarre consistency, and shrieked.

Kosta scrambled back. “Gah!”

“Shut up out there! I hear you, you damn thing. Knew I should’ve made it softer…” grumbled a hard voice. Kosta straightened as a tall man with a head of touseled blonde-grey hair and a bushy mustache swept the door open. His eyes weren’t cruel, but they weren’t exactly kind either. “The name’s Polemus. Who the hell are you?”

“My name is Kosta. I’m the—”

“Dytifrourán,” Polemus cut him off, looking at him in a new light. He stroked a brilliant turquoise serpent painted into reality just as the cat was. It hissed at him, and Kosta found himself fascinated by how lifelike it was. The painted cat came to brush Polemus’ ankles, shrieked its alarm again, and scurried away as its master glared down at it. “I’ve heard about you. It’s a shame what happened out west, I tell you. But what do you want with an old man like me?”

Polemus was hardly old. He appeared perhaps a decade or two older than Papa, although appearances could certainly be deceiving. While Polemus didn’t radiate the same aura of power as Headsman Linus, the light of his soul still blazed bright and strong. It reminded Kosta of Evanthe more than anything.

What was a practitioner like this doing in a village like Yoreme? It hardly seemed like the most comfortable retirement.

Kosta cleared his throat and raised the void mug. Even now he found himself entranced by the constellations swirling in the black shell. “You made this, yes?”

Polemus snorted. “And a thousand others.” His eyes narrowed. “Did Antigonus sell you that piece of junk? I hope you didn’t pay more than a token for it.”

“Piece of junk?” Kosta gaped and shoved the mug forward. He clutched it tighter, offended on its behalf. “It’s beautiful!”

The painter rolled his eyes. “That’s just a flawed piece. Why else do you think I’d give it away to that lug?”

Kosta did his best to ignore the fact that Antigonus had apparently received the gorgeous mug for free. And the innkeeper still had the audacity to squeeze him for a few extra tokens? Bastard. Mama would’ve loved him.

“I—” Kosta found himself tongue tied, then shook his head. “I’d like to learn, if you’re willing. This is incredible!” He waved his hands uselessly at the living walls, the painted cat and serpent, and all the other strange brushstrokes which made up a dozen other little pieces on the porch. “I’ve spent my life learning to carve and sculpt. I paint. I do everything! But never in my life did I imagine something like this!”

“You must not be very creative then,” Polemus grunted. Kosta’s face crumpled. The painter sighed. His next words came softer. “We live in a magical world, boy. The only limits are those you set for yourself. Realize the possibilities.”

Polemus searched Kosta, nodded to himself, and raised his left hand. One moment it was empty (save the painted snake seeking his touch) and the next it was full of a gorgeous pointed brush that also seemed painted onto reality. The brush seemed false and otherworldly, as if Polemus had reached into a painting and plucked it out.

The brush’s handle was a brilliant, stark white like that of fresh bone. It was impossibly smooth, though, and bereft of subtle details. Kosta’s brain told him what it should look like, but that just didn’t match with the reality that his eyes took in. He found it uniquely uncomfortable to look directly at the brush. It was just too alien, too divorced from reality for mundane eyes.

Its master seemed unbothered. Polemus brushed one finger against the thick strands of idealized animal hairs (which appeared similar to mundane red sable brushes he’d seen in Dytifrourá) and all the colors of the rainbow manifested at the tips, dripping steadily to leave the cobblestone beneath their feet twisting and quivering.

A spectral grey chisel manifested in Kosta’s hand. “Every artist needs their tools,” he said in explanation. Kosta marveled at the painted brush, though he was careful not to look at it for too long lest he begin to feel nauseous. “Your brush is incredible! Did you make it?”

Polemus brushed his finger against the tips again, this time converting the entire rainbow to a midnight black. It was the same impossibly dark color which had painted the mug. “Every creator worth their salt should make their own instruments,” he said errantly. “Imbues a bit of extra oomph, you know? Seems like you’ve figured that out already.”

Kosta waved his hand. “I use a proper chisel to conduct, but it’s not of my own creation,” he explained, then brightened the chisel with a thought until it appeared more silver than grey. “This is for experimenting.”

“Do what you will,” Polemus said as he took his ink-tipped brush and worked expertly. Kosta watched raptly, entranced by the effortless motions the painter made. He made it look so easy, though Kosta had hunched over a statue with his paintbrush often enough to know just how easily disaster could strike.

“What are you doing?” Kosta asked as Polemus poked seemingly at random, leaving inky blots hovering midair. Gravity had no hold on them, though the painter smacked his turquoise serpent away as the curious creature leaned forward to lick at them. A pattern slowly began to emerge. “A frame? No…a skeleton.”

Polemus blinked, a bit of interest sparking to life in his gaze, though it soon petered out as he lost himself again in his task. Each brush stroke was that of a master, perfectly precise. “Yes, a skeleton. Every creation needs a foundation, don’t you think?”

Of course they did. Every statue began rough and unhewn, only smoothed out and perfected through endless hours of love. With that in mind, Kosta leaned closer. The painted black cat hissed at him, swiped clumsily at him with clawless paws, and scurried away with another shriek.

“Might’ve made a mistake with that one,” Polemus grumbled to himself, but his focus never slipped. The skeleton—or the anchor points, rather, as it was just a three-dimensional matrix of inky dots with no connections yet—slowly grew more and more detailed.

A collection of anchor points formed the core, with some projecting out to become limbs. One particularly dense cluster seemed to be the head. Two cones projected out from the head as a pair of pointed ears.

Every brush stroke brought it closer and closer to reality. Kosta felt a hunger grow in him as Polemus filled in the gaps, added additional anchor points, and drew thin ink connections between the matrixes until it was a collection of black lines so thick as to become a spiderweb.

Yet there was a logic to it that Kosta found fascinating. He idly toyed with his ball of clay as Polemus worked, shaping into endless configurations.

Polemus’ brush quivered with power. It seemed like something out of a fantasy, yet all the same seemed so real. More than it should be. The painter bit his lip as he tapped it between some of the connections—almost all the connections formed triangles, Kosta realized, though so small and densely packed that it was difficult to tell at a simple glance—and the entire polygon seemed to solidify as if painted black in one great stroke.

And as Polemus continued, his vision became a reality. A few passersby watched on curiously, but most seemed used to the sight of Polemus working his magic. Kosta wasn’t sure how much time had passed by, though it wasn’t nearly as much as he would’ve expected for a work like this.

Polemus was a master.

“And there,” Polemus said with a yawn. He put on one last finishing touch to smooth out a lock of painted skin and then tossed the paintbrush aside. Kosta nearly yelped at such a wondrous tool being disregarded so easily, but it seemed to fade out of existence the moment it left Polemus’ hands. “Not so hard, is it?”

Kosta stared down at an inky hog. It snuffled at him, curious, but all its movements were awkward and shuffling. Strained.

“Hey, you. Look at me,” Polemus said to the pig as he scratched at his yellow-grey beard. “Behind you.”

The hog oinked (even though it sounded distinctly wet, like blowing a bubble of ink) and twisted its neck to peer back at its creator—

“Ah! What did you do that for?!” Kosta hissed as the hog’s neck strained and broke, hanging awkwardly off the neck. Its whole form quivered for a moment, then unraveled in a dizzying blur of flattening polygons before most simply vanished. “You killed it!”

“Technically it killed itself,” Polemus said lazily. The turquoise serpent looped around his “And if you really want to argue semantics, it was never alive in the first place. It’s just a construct. One that I didn’t spend much time on, at that. Sapience is beyond me on my best days. I can make a passable attempt, though.”

“How?”

Kosta stared at the last blots of the hog as they faded away into nonexistence. Part of him was unnerved to have seen what seemed to be a living, thinking creature just…gone. One second it had been there, the next it hadn’t.

Even more of him was offended at just how casually Polemus had destroyed it. All that labor, all that creation wasted.

But overpowering everything else was desire.

A wry smile crossed the painter’s face. “The first taste was free. Anything else…well, that’s going to cost you. I have to make a living.”

Kosta’s eyes lit up. Long hours of faux-negotiations with Mama whispered in his ear.

“Let’s talk.”