Kosta’s breath turned to stone in his chest. His eyes squeezed shut with the image of blazing grey irises carved into his mind.

Any child could tell you that only death came from a gorgon’s gaze.

And yet the air still brushed against flesh and blood. His heart still pounded in his chest.

Kosta still lived.

“Open your eyes, fool!” A woman’s voice commanded him with the weight of great authority. One hundred serpents hissed in amusement. “You aren’t stone yet.”

“Yet,” Kosta echoed. His eyes cracked open to stare at the tall shape of the Petranth. It pulled its stone spear away and glowered down at him as if displeased with its failure to plunge that heavy spear through his chest. “And what of your warrior? Should I worry about his weapon tearing through my chest?”

“A test,” the gorgon said easily. Kosta dared to look at her now, though he half-expected those fierce grey eyes to freeze him with a glance. “He will do you no further harm. Not unless I wish for it.”

To be honest, the gorgon wasn't what Kosta had expected. Myths and legends painted the gorgons as terrible monsters, mighty commanders of the Stonegaze’s legions. They were said to be brutish and terrible in stature and form, bearing no hint of humanity despite their similar bodies. Kosta heard a dozen different interpretations—gorgons were said to have the faces of withered crones, the fearsome power of a cyclops, and a scalp covered in thrashing vipers eager to sink their venomous fangs into the unwary.

Some of the legends held true. Even the wildest legends tended to cling to some grain of truth.

The gorgon’s head was covered with countless thin serpents rather than proper hair. They formed a dizzying, hissing mass that left Kosta’s nerves screaming at him when he set his eyes upon the snakes. While some were thick as his wrist, others appeared like the common snakes he would stumble across out in the woods. He spotted at least a dozen different varieties, although it was difficult to pick out much detail while they were all moving.

The gorgon herself lacked monstrous features or a bestial air. While there were some elements of her appearance that spoke to her inhuman nature, overall she appeared similar to any other woman (minus the nest of snakes, of course). Her skin was pale as marble, complete with dark lines crisscrossing her flesh like veins. Kosta suspected that a mundane weapon would break upon her skin if tested against it.

Her deadly eyes were a flinty grey that blazed with magic. Kosta marveled at the fact that she hadn’t frozen him with a glare—at least she seemed to be able to control it, though he wouldn’t test his luck yet. A creature whose petrifying gaze was indiscriminate would be a monster in truth.

Power didn’t flicker about her like it had Clymere. It didn’t shift and sing with her every motion as it had Evanthe. It wasn’t bound in some spectacular item like Polemus’ brush.

No, it pressed down upon the valley like a mountain descending from heaven to earth.

Frustration reared up inside him like one of the snakes upon the gorgon’s head. Polemus’ map had led him into this? Kosta must have truly offended the man.

Gorgons were fabled creatures. Monsters of all sorts could be found beyond the safety of civilization’s walls, but gorgons were said to be the daughters of the Stonegaze just as the Petranth were his sons. They were beloved by their master in ways that the plain stone legions were not, granted will and intelligence beyond the unthinking automatons.

The Stonegaze was lost four hundred years ago, but his children lived on.

“You are too weak for the dangers which lie beyond my pass,” the gorgon sniffed. She was shorter than Kosta by half a foot, yet she somehow managed to look down upon him with a haughty gaze. Her jaw was set in challenge even as a hundred serpents hissed at him from her scalp. “Why are you here?”

“I seek a treasure for my teacher,” Kosta said honestly. He stared at this creature from a bygone age with open fascination. “Who are you?”

“Acantha of the Stone Legion,” the gorgon declared. The weight of her power pressed upon him so greatly that it threatened to send him toppling to his knees. “I am the mistress of these lands. They have been in my stewardship for four centuries. What is your name, human?”

“Kosta of Dytifrourá,” he said stiffly. “But I came from Yoreme on my quest.”

“Dytifrourá,” Acantha mused to herself, though Yoreme seemed familiar to her. Her snakes turn on each other in frustration. “I’ve never heard of it.”

He couldn't be too surprised. Dytifrourá was a newborn town, after all. For all that it should have had centuries ahead of it, it had only been planted recently.

“You won’t any longer,” Kosta says bitterly. “It was razed to the ground but a month ago. But it was a beautiful town full of life. We lived to the west, right on the border of Hesperia.”

At least Acantha recognized that name, though an indecipherable expression flickered across her haughty features. “And why do you intrude upon my domain?”

“I was dispatched to seek the Oroneiric Opal that slipped through the veil beyond this pass,” Kosta explained. Part of him recoiled at the thought of treating with such a powerful entity, yet she could petrify him with a glance. Honestly would be the best approach here. The map had led him here, not to the central valleys as it had originally. He suspected that he’d discovered the one who had claimed the Opal.

“You seek the Opal, do you?” Acantha murmured to herself. She drew closer, her grey chiton drifting in the wind. The garment clinked as if carved from gossamer stone. Perhaps it was.

Fear flickered through him as Acantha stared deeply into his eyes. All it would take was an errant thought for her to freeze him in stone. Panic filled his gut, but Kosta did his best to remain calm and steady as a rock. Fear wouldn’t help him here.

“What would you do to obtain it, I wonder? Would you bloody your hands with the blood of monsters like me? Would you test your courage against the fearsome men who make their homes in these harsh valleys?” Acantha mused. “You’ve no idea the depths humanity will sink to in search of power.”

Kosta hesitated. He glimpsed the flash-frozen monsters, the masterful display of stone, and inspiration struck him. And best of all? It was born of honest wonder.

“I came prepared to do it all,” Kosta admitted. “I planned to scour these mountains in search of the Opal. I would have faced any danger if it meant securing that treasure.” He met her glowing gaze, though it sent shivers down his spine. “But now? I’d trade it for a week of your tutelage.”

She was a gorgon, a daughter of the Stonegaze. And the Stonegaze Aretan had been drowned in the Glass Sea centuries ago. Surely she could enlighten him more than Polemus could ever imagine. If he could glean only a few secrets of the Aretans…

“A shame that you don’t have it!” Acantha laughed, her voice high and clear. Her serpent-hair hissed in amusement. The Petranth wheezed alongside her, though it sounded like a dusty rockslide rather than any true amusement. “The Opal is mine, I’m afraid. Would you slay me for it?”

“I doubt that I could,” Kosta said. “Even if I wished to.”

Acantha’s grey eyes flared brilliantly, a shade darker than Kosta’s own magic. The vegetation all around him froze to stone in an instant, though he was untouched. Stalks of grass, little shrubs, even the little insects which buzzed about…all gone. Preserved forever in a rocky prison.

Kosta’s heart skipped a beat.

“A wise answer,” Acantha said. “I’ve watched you since you entered my domain, human. I know your mettle. There’s nothing but death for you in the Pugnics. Begone. Don’t test your luck.”

“I’ll be bled dry beyond these mountains,” Kosta said easily. “But there’s no need for me to venture further.”

A beat. The gorgon said nothing. Kosta glanced around at all the perfectly preserved monsters. The warriors. The brigands. Even the trees. Everything had been trapped in time by the gorgon’s gaze, frozen forever in the form it had last retained.

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It spoke to something in Kosta. Desperation bloomed.

“Please train me! Your work is beautiful. The accuracy and precision you’ve maintained is nothing less than divine!” Kosta rambled. He reached down to clutch the stone grass by his feet. It had been converted to limestone, but a simple touch revealed the perfect preservation of texture and detail. It was truly beautiful. “I’d kill for a fraction of your skill. Please, Acantha of the Stone Legion, teach me.”

She’s perplexed. “I—you’re a fool, human!” Acantha started. Her marble flesh took on a tinge of color, as if she couldn’t fathom the idea of someone desiring her talents. When was the last time she’d treated with anyone? Kosta doubted too many crossed the Pugnic pass. “Idiot! You would learn from a gorgon?”

“Who better? I’m a sculptor,” Kosta said swiftly. He didn’t wish to give her time to think. It was yet another of Mama’s little tricks. “I’m familiar with stone, but you know it better than any other. You’ve lived it.”

Acantha blinked, as did her hundred serpents. The Petranth stood still as…well, stone.

“Begone!” Her cheeks were red, though her viper hair hissed furiously at him. “I have no need for an apprentice. I’ve enjoyed my centuries of solitude. It won’t be disturbed by the likes of you!”

A blinding grey flash forced him to glance away. Fear struck Kosta like one of the Merakian Stelios’ lightning bolts for a moment, but it didn’t take long to realize that he was still himself. Part of him couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to be petrified.

Would he still think? Would he still feel?

He glanced at the stone vegetation beneath his feet and shuddered.

“Acantha?” Kosta called out, but there was no answer. The Petranth glared at him, but didn’t sweep its great stone spear down upon him. It looked as if it would enjoy nothing more than clobbering him into the dirt, but it (or perhaps Acantha herself) was considerate enough to leave him be. Instead, the stone man shifted into the same position that Kosta saw earlier. After a few seconds it hardened into the same frozen frame in which he’d first encountered it.

He’d been refused.

That was fair. Kosta hadn’t expected it to work, honestly. And yet what choice did he have? He was enraptured by the beauty of her work. It may be magic, but it was extraordinary. Acantha’s petrification captured her targets in exquisite detail. Everything from the monsters which stalked these mountains to the hunters who would whet their swords against her marble flesh were preserved forever.

It was stunning. Kosta could never discount the skill it took to carve such detail with his own hands, but there was something appealing about just capturing it with a glance. He’d kill for such power.

Kosta didn’t dare pursue her. Acantha had been remarkably diplomatic for a ‘monster’, but she had seemed overwhelmed by his offer. She might be willing to converse, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t add him to her collection of petrified individuals if he pushed her too far.

She was still a gorgon, after all.

While he wasn’t confident enough to wander past the Petranth’s sleeping form, Kosta did end up making himself a campsite near it. He felt that he could slay the Petranth if it attacked again. While it was a formidable warrior, it was painfully predictable. Its inability to adapt would seal its fate.

But camping here demanded a steep price. Kosta had enough food to last him weeks, but his battle with the stone man had been costly.

He had to eat the last of Eneas’ bread to replenish his strength.

Kosta’s heart ached as he nibbled the last crumbs of Eneas’ honey-flavored bread. One of his last tangible connections to Dytifrourá vanished away inside of him. The bread was sinfully good despite the weeks of travel it had endured. That was a testament to Eneas’ skill if nothing else.

Forgive me, Kosta thought as he finished his most precious food. Had Eneas even survived the Hesperian invasion? It was a terrifying prospect. For so long he’d avoided even thinking of it, but Kosta couldn’t imagine Eneas retaining the strength to flee. He hadn’t been amongst the civilians who had fled Dytifrourá under the militia’s watch.

Yet he doubted the elderly baker had been slaughtered. Kosta despised himself for even considering it, but his wild memories of the Hesperians convinced him that they wouldn’t have run Eneas down without cause. He’d begrudgingly admit that the barbarians had offered mercy at several turns.

Perhaps if they’d taken it…perhaps if Headsman Linus had come just a minute later…

No, it didn’t matter. Perhaps Eneas had survived. Perhaps he had not. It would do no good for Kosta to drift into wild imaginings. So he ate. He replenished his power.

And he waited.

The Petranth awoke several times to challenge him, although he always defeated it with ease. It retained the same formidable strength it had when it first attacked Kosta, but it never learned. He could dance around its attacks now. Every now and then its aggression would pressure him, but Kosta could carve deep fissures into its hard flesh with ease.

It never quite died—and perhaps it couldn’t—but the Petranth would return to its dormant state. Every time it awoke it was a little weaker and Kosta a little stronger.

There was satisfaction in that.

An ordinary warrior would’ve balked at the Petranth’s impenetrable stone flesh, but to a sculptor it was a fresh canvas. He carved his name in the creature. He smoothed its proportions. He made it more beautiful with every fight.

And he laughed and laughed and laughed while doing it. A little of Clymere’s fire burned in his breast in those moments, and Kosta chased them all the more desperately because of that.

Kosta’s strength was sapped with every battle, but the Petranth never awoke before he was ready to fight again. He was tested, but never overwhelmed. While he waited, Kosta worked with all the stone that Acantha had left him.

He didn’t dare fell one of the great stone trees, but he crafted wonders with the petrified grass and shrubs. Kosta carved gnarled roots into intricate displays and wove the rocky shrubs into beautiful wreaths which he hung around the neck of the manticore for his own amusement.

And all the while he dreamed of Petrification. There was something truly magical (quite literally) about the idea of creating whatever rock he desired for carving…aside from the obvious practical benefits, Kosta just couldn’t help but wonder what incredible works he might create if he could manifest magical stone at command.

What if he could freeze an entire field of phaetra with a thought? What if he could summon a field of living stone at a glance?

It boggled Kosta’s mind and ensnared his imagination.

No doubt there were limitations to the art, but who could fault him for trying?

So Kosta made good use of his time. When he wasn’t carving or testing the strength of the petrified stone, Kosta attempted the art of Petrification himself. It was one thing to hear about it in tales and legends. It was quite another to witness it for himself.

Acantha had petrified the nearby vegetation faster than Kosta could blink. He only remembered a flash of grey magic a shade darker than his own. But even that single glimpse offered a window into the technique.

While the powers of the Aretans were vast and indescribable, they were not unique. Many of the Aretans had been the first to conceptualize a technique—the Stonegaze had innovated Petrification, Calix the Lesser had introduced the Living Steel, and a dozen others had arts still practiced to this day—but they had only mastered it farther than any other.

Their magic was available for anyone to learn, should they strive for it. And Kosta had just witnessed an Aretan’s magic for himself.

He wouldn’t waste such an opportunity.

So as the days passed he felt a hunger devour him. Kosta attempted to Petrify the grass, yet it stood green. He tried to reach out and ensare it with his magic, but it stood resilient. He found a tree and it stood as a bastion against his power.

What was frustrating is that Kosta almost had it. Kosta felt his power and will wrap around his target. The magic would suffuse it as it would stone.

But it remained stubbornly alive. The form was convinced that it was itself. Grass was grass. Wood was wood. Perhaps Kosta could attempt a persuasion of reality—the stalks were stone, he argued, only to be steadily rebuffed—but a tint of grey or white would always become blooming green.

He just wasn’t persuasive enough.

And after a few days there was a great storm. Kosta’s power was all for naught. He constructed a shelter, but frigid winds and biting gales slipped in through the cracks to gnaw it his vulnerabilities. Kosta’s magic protected him from the worst of it, but the storm’s ferocity took its toll.

His breaths grew quick. He shivered. His heart slowed as heat was stolen from his body.

Kosta weathered it for a day. All the while he attempted to master the magic that had been shown to him, though he met with no success. Something about Petrification’s secrets eluded him. He would force his will upon reality, succeed, and then it would slip away like an eel.

He just wasn’t good enough.

That stirred his fury and he renewed his efforts even as the storm came beating down upon his shelter.

Even as he tried (and failed) to master Petrification, the storm grew harsher. The air grew colder. The tempest’s fury stirred to greater and greater heights as if embolden by his attempts.

And then the shower of rain became a shower of pebbles that clattered down upon his shelter.

It lasted an entire day. Cracks formed in Kosta’s shelter. His magic strained itself to its limits to repair the damage and endure the rocky storm. Kosta’s limbs grew weary. His spirit grew strained. His will was tested.

As it finally began to fracture, Kosta heard a voice brimming with frustration outside his shelter.

He poked his head out from the shelter’s entrance and fought back a smile as he spotted a pale figure amidst the storm of pebbles.

“Very well, then. I won’t see you die beneath a stone shower. But keep me dry!” Acantha demanded from beneath an umbrella of dark grey power as she appeared in all her glory. Kosta wheezed as a prodding touch brushed against him and transferred the burden of maintaining the barrier to his shoulders, but he managed nonetheless.

Kosta didn’t miss that the shower of pebbles immediately shifted to normal drops of water once Acantha spoke. He suspected that she just grew tired of testing him. Hope flared in his chest nonetheless. “Will you teach me?”

“For a time,” Acantha said with an upturned nose. “I won’t have you killing yourself out of foolishness, stupid boy. Someone needs to preserve you, foolish as you are.”

Despite it all, Kosta smiled.