Built in the wake of the Ambrosial War, the city had already begun to flourish. Great walls encircled all save the harbor, and that bustled with biremes and, beyond them, a veritable fleet of fishing vessels. Even a Nusantaran dhow graced the edge of one pier, its crewmen unloading wicker baskets of exotic goods. Most Nusantarans didn’t venture beyond Phoenikia, but perhaps these men thought to try their luck at greater profit by avoiding any intermediator in trade.
Leaving the harbor behind, Prometheus made his way into the city proper and toward the acropolis, finding, despite his desire to see his daughter, that his feet kept bringing him to pause at local merchants. Even after his long life, he was not immune to trepidation at a potentially painful reunion. Not even he.
It had been three years since he had seen Pyrrha. Sometimes, it felt longer. Sometimes, it felt he had seen her mere days ago.
Or perhaps that was because he so oft sought after her in the flames, staring for hour upon hour into the flickering patterns, hoping for a glimpse of his daughter. Or her mother.
His pyromancy told him she delved into arcana that ought to have been left alone. There were things she could not understand about the cosmos, about the Elder Gods, and about the Art. Things he could not bring himself to tell her. What parent could burden their children with truths that would shatter their innocence and steal their peace from them?
So he wandered colonnades, searching for new sandals he did not really need. He paused to buy a handful of succulent dates and watched the afternoon drag on. Watched the people mill and bustle, caught in the currents of their lives.
But there was no averting his purpose here.
So, at last, he climbed the path to the acropolis and entered the court of Phoebe. Her marmoreal halls were rimmed by a wide peristyle, with smooth columns crested by a circular capital. While he had glimpsed this place in visions, it was the first time Prometheus had come here since the city replaced Sardeis, and seeing it in person was different.
A servant—an aging man with the air of one who thought himself above most who came here—met him at the threshold with a curt bow. “Whom may I announce?”
“Prometheus.”
The servant’s manner shifted into effortless obeisance on hearing a Titan had arrived. “My lord, of course. Please come this way.” The man beckoned, then guided him into Phoebe’s throne room.
The space existed behind her main hall, separated by more unadorned columns and set upon a slightly raised dais rimmed by benches. The Titan and her husband Koios—recently returned from exile, as Prometheus had foreseen—both sat upon golden thrones. The armrests of Phoebe’s throne were engraved to look like leopard heads, while Koios sat upon a more plain chair, having apparently acknowledged his mate’s preeminence.
“Prometheus,” Phoebe said, her eyes twinkling with amusement.
He drew into a deep bow. After countless lifetimes wandering the World, one learned to cater to the vanity of monarchs, even if their reigns proved as transitory as everything else. Such courtesies cost him naught and oft earned him goodwill. “Lady Phoebe.”
“What brings you to this court?” she asked, though she knew full well his purpose in coming. Like his feigned obsequiousness, it was all a game, true, but refusing to play along with the mummery would avail him little.
“Word has come my daughter remains a guest in your hall. I should like to look upon her, as it has been too many years.”
“Indeed,” Phoebe said, eyes still smiling. “She has become a boon companion to my own granddaughter and the two of them oft vanish into the woods for days at a time.” A pause, as if she thought to test him.
Very well. He could play. “But she is not away at present.”
Phoebe broke into a true grin, leaning forward. Like Prometheus, her paramour was an Oracle. Perhaps she played with him thus, striving to know just how much he could see. Koios was adept at divining the future, true, but Prometheus suspected he himself was by far the stronger Oracle.
“No, I believe she is here somewhere,” Phoebe said, then looked to Koios. “Why don’t you check on our granddaughter?”
Koios’s gaze had not left Prometheus’s face the whole time, and even now, he rose without so much as a glance at his queen. Perhaps he had known all along how this would play out. The Titan drew up beside Prometheus and beckoned him to follow, making obvious attempts to conceal any expression.
Wending around the columns, Koios guided him out into the courtyard. Perhaps Koios had foreseen Prometheus’s coming, but he could not have seen overmuch. Oracular Sight tended to interfere with the Sight of other Oracles, and Prometheus had seen this moment, reaffirming his belief he was the stronger Oracle.
Tired of the games, Prometheus grabbed the Titan’s elbow and spun him around to face him. “You know the path Pyrrha has begun to follow.”
Koios pulled free from Prometheus’s grip, his feigned smile slipping into an arrogant smirk. “You mean delving into the Art? I may have noticed such things.” A nonchalant shrug. “Hardly a surprise, and even Phoebe has dabbled, of course.”
Oh, but Pyrrha already pushed it farther than Phoebe had ever dared. “The queen may do as she wishes. You knew Pyrrha was my daughter and I would not have approved, and you could have taken steps to discourage her and Artemis from walking these precarious roads. But you stood by and did naught.”
Koios snorted. “As if I am responsible for your issue, Prometheus.”
“You attempt to abrogate responsibility for those you could have helped with the claim, ‘it is not my problem.’ But we all bear the burden of the future we create, through action or inaction. Choosing to ignore
