Kosta’s grey-edged fingertip carved marble. He moved with unerring precision, careful to analyze every cut and shave. His chisel hung in his belt, unused but not abandoned. Acantha had been quite firm about the necessity of honing his skill with his magic, and Kosta wasn’t about to disregard her advice.
He continued to use his chisel for projects which needed that extra oomph, but most of his day-to-day carving over the past few weeks had been done purely with the light of his soul. Kosta had tackled all sorts of projects: jointed statues designed for his frustratingly slow Animation practice, crude three-dimensional constructs patterned after Polemus’ work, and dozens of ordinary statues with which to hone his talents.
Some possessed transpoietic arrays to imbue specific effects into his carvings, but most were plain stone and wood.
At first his efforts had been refined but clumsy. Kosta already possessed the necessary skill, but he likened carving purely with his magic to be like working with unsteady hands: you might know what to do, but it was all too easy for cuts to be angled incorrectly or for the little details to lack the precision that Kosta’s pride demanded.
Not all of Kosta’s efforts were purely for his own advancement, of course. He spent some time investing in the practical as well. Three Teris statues hung on his belt now, each far stronger than the crude constructs which he made back in Dytifrourá.
Would they hold up to Whiteflame? Kosta doubted it. But they would’ve lasted far longer beneath the Leukopyr’s fiery blade.
What surprised Kosta the most was the ease with which he crafted the protective constructs. While Kosta still invested tons of time, attention, and magic into the Teris statues, it wasn’t enough to dwarf his previous efforts like they did now. Acantha had been generous enough to offer him guidance on his arrays to enhance them and weave the etchings together more efficiently, but even that only accounted for a small increase.
No, Kosta found that there was a certain depth to his magic that hadn’t been present before. While Kosta’s chisel scraped away marble, his thoughts spiraled to the things that he had lost. All the beautiful things that might have been kept if he were just a little bit stronger.
Dytifrourá stood tall and proud in his mind, protected by the keystone which he managed to slot into the wards in time—the town was burnt to the ground, its citizens murdered, and cast to the winds.
Mama and Papa continued their calculated work in the city—they fled in a great column of Dytifrourán refugees beneath a stormy sky.
Evanthe spread song and cheer—she led a dour group of people along the winding mountain roads, her song the only light they had.
Clymere grinned as her bronze spearhead impaled the Leukopyr’s chest and exploded in a rush of flame—she drifted away, ashes in the wind.
Those memories fueled his power, beckoned it to greater heights, and pulled upon more and more of the divine spark kindled within his soul. The depth of experience and emotion solidified his power and made it more real than ever before.
Now Kosta knew just how important it was to protect what you loved. He knew the pain of loss that failure would bring. And that resonated with his creation of the Teris statues, ensuring that they would stand strong against whatever they faced…within reason, of course.
A practitioner could increase their power through regular use and enhancing their own skill with magic. It was often a nice, steady growth that ensured that one would become more and more powerful over the course of their lifetime. Experience and work produced tangible results.
But this unveiled a new side of magic to Kosta. It was a realization he’d come to subconsciously already, but coming to truly recognize it opened an entirely new world to him. Magic was an expression of will, and it grew with one’s dreams. Work might grant it extra strength, but depth of feeling and experiences offered it greatness.
The realization frightened Kosta. It was too easy to imagine warriors and practitioners throwing themselves into new and dangerous situations for the simple desire of deepening their magic and gaining that anchor to enhance their power. Would a warrior seek out atrocities to fuel their bloodlust? Would they torture and inspire agony just to turn that same memory against their foes?
It was a cruel thought. Kosta wished to consider it no more, so he’d decided to do what he did best: create.
Kosta’s current project was a marble statuette of similar size to Teris’ bulky form, although far more slender. His piece was sleek and feminine. Her arms were strong and led into fingers curled around the carved shaft of a great spear. The familiar militia armor was carved in painstaking detail and Dytifrourá’s sigil was proudly emblazoned upon the linothorax armor’s breast.
Yet there was more to her than that. Kosta was grateful for Polemus’ techniques. His usage of them were still crude and awkward, but they added a certain vibrancy to his work that mere paint and marble couldn’t quite manage.
Kosta delicately used his finger as a brush to paint a flickering three-dimensional flame around Clymere’s spear tip. The bronze-colored blade glowed a cherry red within the flickering flame, though the fire exuded no heat. Only light.
When that was done to his satisfaction, Kosta used the same finger to paint a blazing silver plume above her helmet. It remained put, thankfully. That was a tricky piece of work, but it was all the more satisfying to make properly.
Kosta always saw flaws in his own work, but Clymere would always be perfect in his eyes.
“Who is she?” A haughty voice broke the silence. Kosta flinched. He hadn’t even heard Acantha slip into the little corner of her menagerie that he’d claimed for himself. Dozens of completed and half-finished works littered the great marble roots all around them. “She’s no random vision. I can see that much.”
“She’s not,” Kosta agreed. “Far from it.”
Leander glowered at Kosta as the construct made some hare soup—it sprinkled in a few herbs and spices, then added a dash of sparkling quartz dust as well. Kosta made a face at the actual rocks tossed into his meal, but Acantha lightly slapped his shoulder.
“Stop whining! Quartz is good for you! It’ll keep your skin from being all soft and pink,” Acantha insisted, then turned her stormy grey eyes to Clymere. “She’s beautiful. A lover, perhaps?” Her black eyebrows waggled. “A relic of your sordid past?”
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Kosta gagged. “Eww! No! That’s my sister. Gross.”
His fingertip was consumed in grey light as he sculpted a few details onto her armor. The silver plume continued to flicker like a winter flame above her helm. Clymere’s marble lips curled up into a mad grin that he’d seen far too many times…usually when she was about to get them into trouble.
At least Acantha had the grace to look embarrassed. Even her nest of vipers wriggled uncomfortably. Some tried to bury themselves beneath their kin. “Oh.”
“Her name was Clymere,” Kosta said softly. He’d made no secret of the events that led him away from Dytifrourá, even if Acantha hadn’t pressed for the entire tale. “Her ashes are scattered to the winds now.”
Acantha softened. “I’m sorry, Kosta.”
He fixed his stare upon Clymere. It felt good to dive deep into his memory and try to recall every little detail. The curls of her black hair, the set of her jaw, the strength of her convictions… “She was my other half. The sun to my moon. The sword to my shield,” Kosta said. His face twisted with grief. “She burned brighter than any of us.”
Silence.
“May I?” Acantha asked. Kosta hesitated, unwilling to give up even a memory of Clymere, but eventually acquiesced. She turned the statuette in her pale hands and studied Clymere closely, especially her blazing spear. One of her fingers reached out to poke the heatless flame. “Was she as formidable as she appears?”
“More than you can imagine!” Kosta laughed, lightening a tad. “She taught me to throw a punch and swing a sword. I taught her to carve and to use her fires for more than simple destruction.”
Acantha hummed as she continued to inspect the statuette.
A fire flickered in Kosta’s heart. After a few moments he dared to ask a question that had been gnawing at him for some time. “You mentioned your own sisters…”
For a time Acantha and her serpents went still as stone. Kosta feared that she wouldn’t answer, but the moment passed. She exhaled and finally spoke. “We gorgons have never been common, but we weren’t so mythical in the elder days. There were hundreds of us, each handcrafted by our father.”
“And then the Westscour happened.”
“The Aretans went to war, yes,” Acantha said with a faraway look in her eyes. “Some of my sisters died in battles with their Petranth armies. Most lie beneath the Glass Sea with our father. Others were hunted and slain by men and monsters. My father had many enemies, and without his protection we were vulnerable.”
Acantha’s beautiful features grew bitter and wrathful with those words. It was Kosta’s turn to wince sympathetically. The Dytifrouráns’ past might be shattered, but they still had a future ahead of them. There were still so many new places for their seed to grow strong.
But Acantha may well be the last of her kind. Four hundred years was a long, long time. The world had grown beyond the old legends of the gorgons. Monsters filled the world, but gorgons were the realms of myth and legend nowadays, nigh-forgotten just like the Stonegaze himself.
“You made it through.”
“I did,” Acantha said. Weariness accumulated over the centuries lent her words the weight of a mountain. “For better or worse, I’ve eked out my existence at the edges of civilization for ages. My father entrusted these lands to me. I can’t see them fall into ruin.”
Kosta’s eyebrows rose as Acantha wordlessly passed Clymere’s statue back to him. Privately, he considered allowing the lands to become infested with tribes of blood-drinking cannibal tribes to be something of ‘falling into ruin’ but he didn’t dare speak those thoughts. He had the sneaking suspicion that Leander would pulverize his skull if he did.
At least Kosta partially had Acantha’s lack of governing skill to thank for earning Pavlos as a companion. His ancestors might have joined the rest of the gorgon’s collection otherwise.
“Not everyone considers these to be your lands, you know. The west had been scattered for a long time, but the Dipoli are extending,” Kosta said. “They seek to reclaim what’s left of the Stonegaze’s old lands. Just look at my old home! What will you do when they stumble upon you?”
Acantha sniffed. “Yoreme and I have an understanding, stupid boy.” A particularly large viper sent Kosta a yellow-eyed death stare. “The Pugnics are wild, but I ensure that their inhabitants don’t spill into the surrounding lands. They would have whet their axes with ‘civilized’ blood long ago if not for me.”
If Acantha alone was sufficient to hold the Pugnic tribes back, then the great champions of the Dipoli would break them upon their knee. Kosta couldn’t be certain of Acantha’s true power, but what little glimpses she’d offered reminded him of the weight exuded by the Merakian Stelios.
She was terrifyingly powerful to one such as him, but there were far greater fish in the pond. Polemus’ enemy, the Golden Lord, would likely lay the entire mountain range to waste if he went to war.
Perhaps that was what she meant by preserving the Stonegaze’s territory. It still stood, at least, even if it had some disreputable tenants at the moment. Kostsa wondered what it would take for her to leave her mountain pass and purge these lands of the violent clans.
Kosta was still a little miffed at Polemus for sending him into a monster-infested wasteland, but was eased somewhat by the thought that Acantha had seemed to recognize Polemus’ brand of magic on several occasions. Perhaps he hadn’t sent Kosta here blindly.
“It won’t be Yoreme for long,” Kosta said quietly. Acantha frowned at him. “The Dipoli have sent an army to reclaim Dytifrourá. They’re led by a Merakian and her retinue. They might already be building their strength in the village.”
“Let them come!” Acantha’s haughty voice cracked throughout the mountain pass like a landslide. Her stone statues shifted in their long rest. The mountains themselves seemed to come alive, shuddering at her words. “I do not fear children.”
“Aretans above,” Kosta breathed as her power rattled his bones. Oroneiros loomed higher than ever, suddenly grey and real, and he nearly dropped to his knees. The ghostly mountain eluded his direct gaze, but appeared more solid than ever out of the corner of his eyes, though it soon faded into its spectral form.
Acantha offered him a hand, though Leander looked quite displeased as she hauled Kosta to his feet. Her skin was cold and hard as marble.
“They might come regardless,” Kosta said warningly. “What if the Merakian decides to bloody her forces against the valley tribes? Yoreme would be happy to see their numbers culled. They’ll find you sooner or later.”
Just speaking of Yoreme left Kosta missing Pavlos terribly. Kosta prayed that the red hunter had found his path away from Yoreme. Pavlos’ old stomping grounds must have been home to hundreds of proud soldiers bearing standards of gold and silver by now.
It really was no place for a half-feral hunter. The mercenaries and camp followers alone had tested Pavlos’ patience in the week before Kosta left on his quest.
“You shouldn’t worry so much, dumb human. I’m not entirely unknown to the wider world,” Acantha said. She seemed amused by his concern. He had no desire to find himself between Acantha and any foes willing to test her. “You’re still so small. Focus on what’s ahead of you. Let me worry about the interlopers.”
Kosta just nodded helplessly, unwilling to test Acantha further. He returned to his work while she watched him curiously. Silence filled the air.
Clymere grew more and more real beneath his touch. Magic guided his hand, fueled by his memories and grief and love, and after a time she almost appeared alive. Kosta’s heart ached.
He missed her.
Acantha leaned over him, close enough for a few of her vipers to snap at him if they wished. They just glared at him instead. Kosta held his breath, intent on continuing his work. She followed each motion raptly.
“Tell me more about your sister,” Acantha said—demanded, really. Her grey eyes were hungry. “Clymere, yes? The way you talked about her reminds me of one of my own sisters, Melina. She was a terror, but somehow had a way of making us love her regardless…”
Kosta smiled softly. This was one request that he was happy to fulfill.