The carriage shuddered to a stop with a sound like a rock smashing. Pheropyr opened her eyes to find her sister Pherodero sprawled across the bench, limbs akimbo, her face mashed into a cushion that seemed to mold itself to her cheek. The sleeping surface - if it could be called that - with a gentle warmth that smelled faintly of sun-dried clay and lavender.
Unable to resist, Pheropyr leaned over and dangled a lock of hair above Pherodero's nose. The younger sister snorted, swatted at the air, and finally awoke with an indignant gasp. "I wasn't drooling!" she protested immediately, wiping at her mouth just in case.
The carriage doors hissed open, revealing a sight that stole their breath.
The house - if it could be called a mere house - loomed before them, its proportions all wrong for human habitation. Doorways stretched three times a man's height; windows glowed like distant campfires in the massive stone facade. From their vantage point on the high plateau, the sisters could see the land falling away in terraced steps toward distant cities, their lights twinkling like fallen stars.
Pagides stepped forward, his boots crunching on gravel that sparkled with flecks of embedded quartz. "This was Hestia's first home," he said, running a hand along the doorframe where centuries of hands had polished the stone smooth. "When temples to her spread across the land, she found herself stretched too thin. This place, being so far from the cities..." He shrugged. "She gifted it to those who keep the old ways."
Pherodero's eyes went round as dinner plates. "So we might see Prometheus in the Giant City?"
Pagides smiled, though his eyes lingered on strange, deep grooves in the courtyard stones - marks that looked like they'd been made by claws the size of scythes. "If you master the basics," he said.
Pheropyr frowned. "Where's Xanhipp?"
"He saw us safely to the boundary," Pagides said. "His duties lie elsewhere now."
The massive doors swung open at his touch, revealing a cavernous interior alive with motion. Dozens of automatons moved through the halls - some polishing floors with their many limbs, others carrying objects the sisters couldn't identify. The Pithos Automaton clattered forward and struck a pose that looked suspiciously like a salute.
"Thank you, old friend," Pagides said. Then to the sisters: "Follow it. It will prepare you. I'll wait outside."
The interior was a study in austere grandeur. Hallways stretched into darkness, their obsidian walls unadorned by tapestry or art. Yet there was beauty in the precision - each block fitted without mortar, each corner perfectly square despite the building's obvious age.
The Pithos Automaton dipped its body in offering. Pherodero scrambled aboard without hesitation, squealing when the interior proved toasty warm. Pheropyr chose to walk, her fingers trailing along walls that thrummed with residual heat.
They passed wonders:
An armory where weapons rested on racks, their surfaces crawling with self-repairing filaments that glittered like spider silk in sunlight.
A scriptorium where scrolls floated in midair, their sheepskin pages turning lazily as unseen forces annotated the margins with fiery script that faded almost as soon as it appeared.
And most astonishing - a great tree whose trunk pierced multiple floors, its bark threaded with copper veins that pulsed faintly, as if breathing.
Their room was simple but perfect - low bronze beds, a washbasin that filled itself from some hidden reservoir, and a mirror whose surface showed not their reflections, but flickering images of hearth fires from around the world.
A single automaton stood motionless in the corner. Unlike the others, it bore no markings or ornamentation - just a smooth porcelain face devoid of features save two shallow depressions where eyes might be. Though it didn't move, both sisters felt watched.
Dressed in simple blue chitons (provided by the ever-helpful Pithos Automaton), they joined Pagides outside. A table had been set with golden-crusted pies that released herb-scented steam when broken open, honeyed water served in cups that stayed mysteriously chilled, and fruits whose juice sparkled like liquid topaz in the morning light.
After breakfast, Pagides led them down a path of perfectly fitted stones that radiated gentle warmth beneath their feet. No flowers grew here, no statues broke the lines of the landscape - just clean geometry and the occasional automaton going about its business.
The classroom was a study in contrasts - four plain wooden desks arranged around a central firebowl large enough to roast an ox. The brass basin swirled with coals that never seemed to diminish, their glow pulsing like a heartbeat.
As they took their seats, the Pithos Automaton entered and presented Pagides with a single white stone. It fit neatly in his palm, its surface swirling with captured firelight.
"This," he said, holding it still and show, "is the sacred fire stone."
Pagides placed the white Sacred Flame Stone into Pheropyr's waiting palm. The moment her fingers closed around it, a strange wonder flickered in her eyes. The stone was undeniably solid, its surface smooth as polished glass, yet it carried no weight at all—as if she were holding a fragment of light given physical form.
"It feels… unreal," Pheropyr murmured, turning it over in her hand.
Her sister, Pherodoro, leaned in with eager curiosity. "Let me see."
Pheropyr passed it to her, and Pherodoro's breath caught as the same impossible sensation settled into her grasp. Before either could voice their amazement, the Pithos Automaton—a silent, mechanical guardian of the temple—stepped forward and laid out a series of stones upon the obsidian table.
The stones were arranged in a precise gradient, their hues shifting from the deepest onyx to the purest ivory. Pherodoro reluctantly returned the white stone to Pagides, who placed it at the far end of the sequence.
"These are all sacred fire stone. " he explained, his voice calm but carrying an undercurrent of reverence. "But their effects… differ greatly."
Without further preamble, he took the black stone and placed it into the sacred brazier at the center of the chamber. The sisters watched, transfixed, as the stone shuddered—then split apart, its fragments lifting into the air like embers caught in an unseen wind. The pieces swirled, merging into a spectral white flame that burned with an eerie, subdued glow. Yet despite its appearance, the heat it radiated was faint, barely more than the warmth of a dying candle.
Then, as swiftly as it had ignited, the fire collapsed back into its solid form—now diminished, its edges rounded as though eroded by the very power it had unleashed.
Pagides retrieved the shrunken stone and replaced it with the white one. This time, when he willed it to life, the flame that rose was different—brighter, purer, casting a luminous glow that filled the room with an almost divine radiance. But unlike ordinary fire, it emitted no heat. Instead, a profound stillness settled over the sisters, as if they stood in the heart of a sacred sanctuary, their minds quieted by the deep, meditative calm of prayer.
When the flame faded, the white stone remained unchanged—unmarred by its transformation.
"This," Pagides said, lifting it between his fingers, "is the difference. The darker stones are consumed in their use. The lighter ones… endure."
He set it back upon the table, then pointed to the fourth stone—a muted, ashen gray. "Few mortals ever progress beyond this shade. To master the white flame… that is a grace only Hestia Herself can bestow."
His gaze shifted between the sisters, stern yet not unkind. "For now, your task is to master the black sacred fire stone. Only once you can do so consistently will we move forward."
Then, his tone softening with wisdom earned through years of devotion, he added, "But remember—fire is not the only lesson. We must also learn the ways of other cultures, for respect begets respect. To honor others is to honor the gods themselves."
Pheropyr and Pherodoro exchanged glances, the weight of his words settling upon them. The path ahead was one of discipline, patience, and trials unseen—but in that moment, with the lingering presence of the sacred flames still humming in the air.
The Pithos Automaton retrieved several scrolls from beneath the table, unfurling and suspending them one by one in the air. Illustrated upon them were intricate depictions of various races—alongside detailed annotations.
Pagides gestured toward the displayed parchments. "These are some of the more commonly encountered races: centaurs, giants, harpies, merfolk, and cynocephaly (dog-headed beings)."
"Each civilization has its own way of life," he explained. "To understand them is to ensure safe passage through the lands we must travel." He turned to the sisters. "Ignorance breeds conflict—and we are not here to conquer, but to learn."
Pherodoro raised her hand hesitantly. "You may speak," Pagides permitted.
"Why is this necessary?" she asked, curiosity brimming in her voice. "With your knowledge, you could teach us everything we need. Why study others?"
Pagides laughed warmly at her words. "I'm flattered, but our path requires more. We must witness how *Pyros Agios* has shaped different cultures. And tell me—do you not wish to bring this wisdom back to the Mortal Realm one day?"
"Wait—we can return?" Pheropyr interjected, eyes widening.
"Of course," he affirmed with a nod. "Though you are always welcome to dwell in the Titan Realm if you choose."
The sisters exchanged exhilarated glances. But Pagides expression soon sobered. "This realm holds answers to many of your unspoken questions," he said carefully. "Yet I will not provide them outright. Some truths must be earned through understanding."
His gaze grew solemn. "Some choices were made not out of malice, but necessity. I pray you never mistake the intentions of the gods." A sigh escaped him. "Their love for humanity, however flawed it may seem, has never wavered."
"We would never doubt them," Pherodoro said earnestly. "If anything, we owe them our gratitude."
Pheropyr, however, remained silent—her mind visibly wrestling with his words.
Noticing her turmoil, Pagides added gently, "Before passing judgment, seek the full story. Even history is but a tapestry of perspectives, each thread colored by its weaver's hand."