The last few hours had taught Kosta a few important facts: Polemus was a brilliant artist, a master of his magic, and a surprisingly good cook. Genius bled from his every motion, even if he seemed perpetually grouchy. .

He was also a shitty teacher.

Papa had taught him most of what he knew. Kosta had his own disagreements with his father, but some of his fondest memories were of those days when Papa had guided a young Kosta and Clymere to his workshop. There he’d reveal wonder after wonder. He’d demonstrate the use of new tools or have them watch as he unveiled new uses of his powerful magic.

Clymere always grew bored and found her fair share of trouble after a few hours, but Kosta could have sat at his father’s feet for hours.

Those treasured memories were stained with recollections of Papa’s disappointed eyes, cutting comments, and general dissatisfaction with Kosta’s own attempts, but he shoved those to the side.

Papa was far from a perfect teacher. His brutal assessments of Kosta’s amateur attempts left Kosta uncertain and fumbling, and too often sent Kosta away when his progress wasn’t to his liking. But at least he made an effort! Papa always explained what he was doing. More importantly, Papa explained why.

He’d be a bit snippy with Kosta if he thought Kosta wasn’t grasping it quickly enough, but the initial effort was always present.

But Polemus? Trying to pry the why from Polemus was like pulling teeth. It was honestly unfair. Everything he did enraptured Kosta! He treasured each and every moment that he spent watching Polemus work. Everything from the measured precision of his brush strokes to the confident flex of his will to the masterful skill which he demonstrated in his subtlest workings.

It might seem mundane or routine to Polemus himself, but Kosta was fascinated as the painter flicked out errant specks of black oil from his brush. It hung suspended in the air of Polemus’ little pavilion and soon settled in a three-dimensional skeleton without any visible effort on Polemus’ part.

Kosta knew that some magic was involved with the feat, but it was hard to realize what. Anyone could create a powerful working full of flashing lights, sharp sounds, and perhaps a few acrid smells. But true skill didn’t shout. It whispered.

Polemus’ work was dead silent. Kosta hadn’t had the chance to watch him in the last few days, but he’d already begun to recognize the painter’s tendency to lose himself in his work. Part of Kosta was frustrated with his teacher’s reticence. Why had he handed over one hundred tokens for this?

But then Polemus performed a little miracle and all doubts fled from Kosta’s mind. He’d lose himself in his teacher’s work as well, tracing every movement and every twist of magic in an effort to construct his own model of Polemus’ talents.

It was unfortunate that most of the time spent basking in Polemus’ genius came at the cost of dealing with a grumpy man who was as interested in teaching as Kosta was in hugging a manticore.

Kosta circled Polemus’ project so that he could spy every angle. Every painter he’d encountered was content to work on Manifested tablets or mundane canvas, but Polemus’ specialty was above such limitations. It provided a unique challenge in Kosta’s view, but the rewards were well worth it.

This one was meant to assist a farmer in various tasks. It wasn’t meant to operate completely autonomously according to Polemus, but it should remove hours of drudging labor and assist its new master in complicated spells. Such a construct would fetch a fine price in Dytifrourá, let alone a humble town like Yoreme.

He suspected that Yoreme’s residents would rather sell their souls than lose a gem like Polemus. The man would’ve stood alongside—perhaps even above—Headsman Linus, Evanthe, and Isidora if he’d gone west to Dytifrourá.

“So the construct relies on this array,” Kosta muttered to himself as he knelt before the construct. It was still rather barebones at the moment, though he suspected that would change quickly. Polemus glared at Kosta as he reached out to touch the array of anchor points. Kosta guiltily yanked his hand back. “How do you manage to generate the connections automatically? It’s like they fill in without an ounce of effort on your part.”

Polemus at least considered his question. “How would you explain breathing to a stone man?” The painter asked. “It’s an instinct built from long, long years of experience. See, some quantify magic. They view their divine spark with a philosopher’s eye and render it down to theories and numbers. They define their gifts by their limits. Such is their right. So says Kyrie of Progi.”

Kosta listened intently, though Polemus’ references to famous philosophers, artists, and theories often left Kosta painfully self-aware of his own lack of a formal education. Mama had seen to his schooling, but she was a practical woman. Anything beyond lessons that he might apply in his day-to-day life were left for Kosta to hunt himself.

One of Kosta’s greatest struggles with Polemus as a teacher was that the painter didn’t seem capable of translating his vast knowledge into a form that a relative layperson like Kosta could understand. He thought everyone understood things through his own lens. Occasionally he deigned to lower himself to Kosta’s level. It seemed like this was one of those rare times.

“But we’re creators, not philosophers,” Kosta said. “And that’s a spark born of the Demiurge! There’s no limit to the divine.”

“And that’s an entire debate in of itself.” Polemus managed a small smile. He used his brush to paint a few more anchor points around the skeleton’s forehead. There was a dense cluster where its brain should be.

“That might be their approach, but it’s not my approach. Why should we define our gift by its limits?” Kosta argued. The very prospect offended him. “We might start as little gods, but some grow large indeed. Look at the Kleosians. Look at the Aretans!”

Polemus snapped his fingers. “So you say. I’m of a mind to agree with you…mostly. But you know what everyone gets wrong? We’re all a bunch of self-absorbed snots who think there’s only one way to do something. You’ve been blessed by the Demiurge, yes?”

Kosta thought back to the boy molding a planet between his palms. “Yes. My gift is—”

“Congratulations!” Polemus said with faux-cheer. “So have I. So has everyone on this rock, in fact. You’re not special. Forget any delusions you have that insist otherwise.”

That wasn’t what he’d expected to hear today.

Kosta could only gape at his teacher’s blunt words. At least he managed to recover after a few seconds. “Wow, thank you. You sure do have a way with words, teacher. I’ll always remember your positive reinforcement.”

“You’ll remember a brush upside the head if you keep mouthing off.”

Kosta rolled his eyes. Was Polemus joking? He could never be sure. Kosta thought it was more likely for Polemus to paint up a construct to come smack Kosta for him. The painter seemed utterly aghast at the notion of manual labor. ‘That’s what the constructs are for’ he’d told Kosta when they'd negotiated the costs of the lessons.

“Everyone thinks that their way is the way,” Polemus said. He connected some of the anchor points with lines of paint. It was enchanting to watch as the network spread at a rapid pace. The anchor points soon converged to form the impression of a squat quadruped that reminded Kosta of a stout and spectacularly well-fed donkey. “A scholar will tell you to seek wisdom in tablets. A sage will tell you to climb a frigid mountain and meditate until your balls freeze off. A warrior will tell you to go kill your enemies and listen to the pounding of your heart. All single facets of a vast gem.”

Polemus made a few adjustments to his construct. The lines between each anchor point solidified. Some began to resemble bones, although the vast network of polygons was so intricate that Kosta’s unpracticed eye struggled to discern any real detail.

“We just can’t seem to imagine that other roads might lead to the same destination, or perhaps even beyond,” Polemus said after a moment’s thought. “You seem the ambitious sort, sculptor. You want to perfect your art. You want to grow strong. You want the power to shape the world as you would clay.”

More than that, Kosta wanted to say, but instead he only said, “Yes.”

“Then if there’s one lesson you etch into your bones, let it be this one: know thyself,” Polemus said with the airs of someone recalling words spoken long ago. “Reflect upon your desires. Your loves. Anything that speaks to you in this cruel word of ours. Learn who you truly are and you will delve deeper and deeper into the Dream. That’s where power lies.”

A few moments passed as Kosta digested his words.

“...So how do you generate those connections again?”

Polemus’ eye twitched. He flicked a few drops of rainbow paint at Kosta in annoyance. They dripped down his forehead and tingled almost painfully against his skin. Each drop was suffused with more power than Kosta could imagine bringing to bear.

“Did you not listen to—ugh, you have a protection talisman in your pocket,” Polemus said irritably. “It’s a crude thing, though well-carved. It projects barriers when you channel your magic through it.”

The painter turned back to the quadruped’s skeleton and began to fill in a few imperfections.

“How—?”

“I’m not blind,” Polemus groused. “And I’m better than you are. That’s all you need to know. But how did you make it? And I don’t give a damn about whatever carving technique you used. I want to know how imbued it with magic.”

Kosta withdrew the talisman from his pocket. It was a makeshift replacement for the Teris he’d lost in the invasion. ‘Crude’ was an apt way of describing it. The talisman’ aesthetics were nice, of course. He’d spent an hour or two carving it from a block of limestone he’d purchased in Yoreme until it met his standards.

It resembled the marble version of Teris that Kosta had kept so fondly, but there was no denying that the talisman lacked the time and effort invested into making it perfect. But this poor excuse of a Teris would keep Kosta alive.

That was enough.

“I carved it from ordinary limestone with my chisel,” Kosta tapped the apeironic bronze tool tied to his belt. He never let it stray from him. Polemus nodded appreciatively at it after a cursory inspection. Any experienced craftsman could recognize its quality. “I worked my magic into it with every cut. I channeled my desires. My needs. My memories. And when I was done, it wasn’t a chunk of stone any longer. It was mine.”

Polemus’ construct twitched its bristled tail as more and more of its polygons filled with various hues. This one wasn’t pure black like the sample one he’d created for Kosta during their first meeting. His current project was largely a muddy brown, though the impressions of its hooves were black as ink.

Kosta didn’t think it was the most pleasing of choices, but he suspected that there was a purpose behind it.

“Every work is a product of three reagents: the artist, the tool, and the material. If you’re talented, you might end up with more than the sum of your parts. The resonance between these three pieces is at the core of every creation’s identity. It defines the nature of a work.”

This was an unconscious realization that Kosta had stumbled upon years ago, but it was nice to have such lessons outlined by someone more experienced. Confirmation was everything.

“Look at that staff of yours,” Polemus continued. The instrument rested against the wall of Polemus’ pavilion, just out of the way. Kosta never let it out of his sight. “It’s a beauty, sure. But why is it more potent than that little talisman of yours?”

“The materials,” Kosta said immediately. He hadn’t changed much as a creator since he’d carved the staff in the dendrac’s boughs. “I shaped the staff from the limb of a willing dendrac tree and a phaetra core that I carved myself.”

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

Polemus nodded along, though he blinked when Kosta mentioned the dendrac willingly offering him the branch. But he didn’t press further. Kosta was grateful for that. “Yes, they play the largest part. May I see it?”

It was rare that Polemus asked for anything. Kosta was loath to let anyone else hold his staff, but after moment he acquiesced. He grasped it and relished the comforting warmth that surged through him as the staff’s power flowed upward through his arm.

Kosta felt terribly cold as Polemus took it from him. The painter glanced over it with a master’s eye, nodded, and offered it back. He treated the staff with genuine respect. That alone confirmed the value that Kosta had already placed in it.

“You underestimate yourself,” Polemus said. “The materials are the core of your creation, but there’s more than that. You invested yourself into that working. I sense wrath. Loss. Love. A desire to protect. Your phaetra core and dendrac staff provide a powerful skeleton, but your offerings are its flesh and bone. Guard it well.”

“I—I will,” Kosta said quietly, measuring the staff with new eyes. It truly was beautiful. “It’s mine and mine alone.”

“We assign significance to our creations. Sometimes it’s a conscious act. Other times it bleeds into it through no intent on our part. But it’s there. Every creation bears our signature, and that plays a part in its nature. You can steer it in the direction you desire, but some works take on a mind of their own.”

“And there’s nothing more satisfying than seeing where it takes you.”

Polemus cracked another smile at Kosta's words as he set back to work. Kosta mulled over their conversation as power brewed within Polemus’ brush. He felt it drip forth and stain reality the exact shade its wielder intended. The universe twisted beneath its power as a dream was made manifest.

Kosta could only hope to work such wonders himself one day.

Nearly an hour passed in relative silence. Polemus solidified lines and worked diligently to ensure his construct’s core was stable and that none of the polygons were inclined to warp and fracture when it became mobile. Polemus assured him that a sturdy foundation was the most important quality.

Kosta asked the occasional question and scribbled notes constantly. Most were stream of consciousness ramblings, but he wanted the reminder to reflect on in the comfort of his room at the inn. He was emptying his wallet for these lessons. It was only right to squeeze out every scrap of value he could.

But Pavlos’ words echoed in his mind as he watched Polemus at work. A burning curiosity built. “Why Yoreme?”

Silence. Polemus made a few twisting motions with his brush to apply a mimicry of fur to the creature’s three-dimensional frame. The construct made a low crooning sound as it became a little more real. Every passing second brought it closer and closer to life.

Every addition was managed with painstaking detail. It was easy to note the differences between a proper construct and the rush job that Polemus had made for Kosta the other day, although even his lesser creations were awe-inspiring.

Kosta was hungriest of all to see how Polemus brought it to life. The painter had told him that would come another day. He lacked the basic knowledge to comprehend any of Polemus’ lessons on that front. It would surely be a boon to his ongoing Animation project.

Polemus finally answered. Kosta eagerly leaned forward. “The charming citizenry.”

“Seriously?”

“Its rustic appeal.”

“Ugh.”

“The stunning architecture.”

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. I was just curious.”

Polemus flicked out a spray of rainbow ink from his paintbrush to form a sheen of multicolored paint. It hung suspended in the air like an artist’s palette. He tinkered with it until it was arranged just so.

“Very well,” Polemus sighed. “Yoreme is a backwater full of yokels who think a helioklept lamp is high magic, but it has its perks. The leaves are lovely in fall. Life is cheap. It’s also quite far from the man who’d like to see my head on a spike.”

“Someone wants to kill you?” Kosta stared at Polemus. He could be a bit of a blunt ass at times, but nothing so drastic as to invite murder. “Whose wife did you sleep with?”

“None,” Polemus scoffed. He seemed to find that line of thought especially amusing. “Believe me, I have no interest in a blushing bride.”

Kosta squinted at him. “Did you accidentally shove someone out of a window?”

“No. Most of the windows are enchanted to prevent such measures. Now, I might have intentionally shoved a few, but no one died.”

“Did you flub a painting?” Kosta was just running down the possibilities at this point. He still had ‘pissed off a lord, ‘acted snobbishly’, and ‘said gold wasn’t his favorite color’ to go. Khrusopolis’ people weren’t known for their patience or diplomacy.

Polemus turned to face him with a dark glare etched upon his chiseled features. “I’ve never flubbed a painting!” He wrinkled his nose at the idea. “Quite the opposite, in fact. I painted too well.”

“And someone wants to kill you over it.”

“He’s quite the bastard,” Polemus said conversationally as he made a few adjustments to his construct. He sighed. “I suppose you’ve paid enough to merit a story. Perhaps it will teach you a valuable lesson.”

Polemus’ eyes grew distant. “Close your eyes.”

Kosta did as he was bid.

“Imagine a city of golden light. The streets are paved with gold. Golden spires rise over markets vaster than anything you can imagine—”

“Are they also gold?”

“Yes, but that’s beside the point. Just assume everything is golden. Now shut up and listen. There are songs drifting from every corner. The scent of honey and cinnamon drifts through the streets. The city is alive. And above it all rises a second sun that’s black as pitch and crowned with golden fire. Even the paupers live like kings! Wonderful, no?”

Kosta nodded, even if there was a little bit too much gold for his liking. It was a fine color, sure, but contrast was such a powerful component of composition! Too much of a good thing just left whatever pleasure it once inspired ashen and hollow.

He felt a pang as he recalled a time when he and Clymere had stuffed themselves so full of Eneas’ treats that they’d been sick for days. Oh, how miserable they’d been…

Polemus’ brush strokes grew jerky. Wrathful. Sharp edges and hard angles poked out from the construct, although Polemus was quick to exhale. A few neat touches restored the construct to its previous condition.

“This is Khrusopolis, the finest city in the world. What I’ve described is nothing compared to seeing it with your own eyes. I pray that you’ll be so lucky.”

“I hope so too,” Kosta said. While he’d been raised upon his parents’ stories of Argyropolis’ wonders, Khrusopolis was of equal standing. It was the golden sun to Argyropolis’ silver moon. He hesitated. “I actually aim to live in Argyropolis one day. My father was a citizen there before he moved to Dytifrourá.”

“Argyropolis?” Polemus wrinkled his nose as if Kosta had said something particularly foul. “It’s a decent place, I suppose. Too many snakes. The Silver Masters have awful taste, too. To think they’d choose that dundering—ugh! Well, you shouldn’t have any issues seeking citizenship there. They’d hand that 'honor' to a minotaur if it showed up with a sack of grain and offered a Silver Master a firm handshake.”

Kosta bristled at that, but held his tongue. He was curious enough that he didn’t want this to descend into an argument about the Dipoli’s merits. “So you truly lived in Khrusopolis?”

The Golden City was far, far away from Dytifrourá. Even Argyropolis was a month’s journey or more, but Khrusopolis rested in the northeasternmost reaches of the Dipoli’s territory. It was close to the border of Kalogi, the northern country ruled by the Entwined Aretans.

While the Dipoli had maintained their independence since the days of the Westscour War four centuries ago, Khrusopolis was near enough that it appeared a particularly juicy morsel to the ravenous eyes of the Entwined Aretans. They had a fine martial tradition as a result. Khrusopolis’ warriors had guarded both their home and Argyropolis from conquerors for generations.

Their independence was paid for with rivers of Kalogian blood.

“Lived?” Polemus scoffed. “I was celebrated! Most of my first two centuries were spent walking its gilded streets. Nobility fought amongst themselves to offer me patronage. My living paintings brought estates to life and crowned the great plazas. Warriors crossed blades for the honor of earning one of my portraits!”

“And now you’re here,” Kosta said. It felt good to match Polemus’ bluntness with his own. Clymere wouldn’t have put up with it without spitting a bit of fire back. He wouldn’t either. Speaking freely felt good.

Polemus smoothed out a few more of his tilling construct’s sharp edges. It leaned into his touch now that it was sufficiently developed, although its creator had no more interest in it than he would a piece of furniture.

“Andreas Ado,” Polemus spat. His voice echoed with traces of old fury. “A Golden Lord on the rise. He was dabbling in all of a leech’s favorite games—peddling influence, hoarding friends, and probably incinerating puppies for his own amusement. The only thing worse than a conqueror is a politician.”

A cruel smile crossed the painter’s lips. “He was a drakon manifest. He was a young prodigy climbing the city’s ranks with startling speed, but it was never enough. More was his mantra. As bottomless as our city's black sun. So he came to me and demanded a commission to increase his standing. The fool asked for a reflection of his soul to display his glory to all his peers.”

“And you delivered.” There were tales of Aretans wandering the lands in the guise of common folk to grant wishes and deliver boons. Kosta doubted their veracity, but the lessons they imparted were useful. One should know to be very, very careful of what they asked for.

“And I delivered!” Polemus said with the utmost satisfaction. “Oh, you should have seen Andreas’ face when I unveiled it at some silly gala. He didn’t appreciate what he was beneath the armor and glory. Khrusopolis’ rising star was ugly without the trappings of his station. I don’t paint lies.”

“There’s no beauty in lies. Nothing of substance, anyways.”

“On that we can agree,” Polemus said as he put the finishing touches on his construct. “So that’s my sordid tale. I hope you got your money’s worth.”

“It gave me a few things to think about,” Kosta said readily. “Like don’t piss off a Kleosian.”

“A good lesson,” Polemus agreed. “If only I’d had such a wise teacher.”

The painter made a few adjustments to the creature’s joints as he spoke. His construct was fully realized now; it was vaguely porcine in appearance with a gaping hole in its skull. Polemus swept his inky brush over a few rough spots, then plucked the torn remnants of gemlike heart from his pocket.

Kosta recognized it immediately. “The elemental core!” His fingers clenched into a claw as he remembered tearing it from his prey’s chest. Realization struck him. “You’re binding the construct to an aspect?”

“My skills are unmatched for a hundred miles. My brush is without peer. There’s only piece of the equation that poses me trouble out here,” Polemus explained

He pressed the glittering core into the painted beast’s forehead. The porcine creature shuddered as the broken heart settled into a network of three-dimensional anchor points. A faint silver haze fed into the rest of the construct from those connections and lent it an argent sheen.

Kosta did his best to sense the powers resting within the twitching construct. It was blindingly bright with Polemus’ rainbow paint and stained with its creator’s will, but he could also sense the echo of the earth elemental he’d slain infusing it.

The newborn elemental wasn’t reborn within the construct. It was dead and gone. But a vestige of its nature remained within its core. Its essence had once rested there. Imbuing the remnants of that core into the construct would bind the creature to earth and grant it an affinity to that same element.

It was just like what Kosta did with phaetra, although the fist-sized phaetra core nestled within his staff far exceeded the power of a fledgling nature spirit. Even the creature’s untapped heart would have been a pale shadow of the magic in his staff.

“The whole process would go along much more smoothly if the blood was still in it. But it seems someone saw fit to drink it down like a savage.I’m working with just a fragment of what I’d hoped,” Polemus mused. He rapped the twitching construct on its painted head as he fixed Kosta with an unamused stare. “Can you even imagine such barbarism?”

Kosta coughed nervously. “Uh, nope. Not in a million years.”

“But there’s no use in crying over spilt milk. Or blood, I suppose. I’ll just have to make do with inadequate materials,” Polemus sighed as he tossed his brush into nonexistence. Kosta couldn’t wait to learn that trick. “Such is the price of exile. Painting laborers for peasants! How the mighty have fallen. My rivals would pay a fortune to see me now.”

“Maybe you’ll find your way home one day,” Kosta said. “How long can the Golden Lord’s memory be?”

Polemus chuckled at that. It wasn’t a nice sound. “You really are innocent! A Golden Lord doesn’t forget. He’s even less likely to forgive. No, Yoreme and these wild lands will be my prison. I’d rather not test a Kleosian’s ire.”

The painter shook his head ruefully. “Artists are always the first victims of tyrants, you know. We’re right up there with those who possess such admirable qualities of common sense and an ounce of critical thinking. We artists speak a universal language. The powerful would rather rip out our tongues than let it spread.”

Kosta’s hand strayed down to his chisel. “Then I’ll simply have to become powerful enough to still their hands.”

Polemus laughed. “You do that!” He slapped the beast on its haunches to send it out to the fields. There was no need to bother with negotiations when everyone in the village was poor as dirt. Settling an issue with payment would be as easy as sending a construct down a few houses. “You know what? Come find me if you ever climb out of this pond and grow fat in the next. I’ll owe you a whole heap of favors if you scare away the sharks.”

He grinned back. Polemus didn’t believe him, but Kosta found a new determination settling within him. Kosta’s goal was to become a guardian of all that was beautiful. He would stop the hands that would stifle creation and finally set about making his own. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Kosta watched the construct as it strayed from the pavilion. Its steps were awkward, but he was just impressed that it could move at all. Polemus’ constructs certainly had an easier time of it than Kosta’s Animated statues did.

“So how did you prime it to receive the elemental core? I saw the cluster of anchor points near its brain…”

Polemus sighed forlornly as he found himself earning his paycheck yet again.