Around the fifth day of the waxing moon of Thargelion,
41st Year of King Theodor Landon,
Year of Accord 3785
Dearest Androkles,
I write to you not as a fellow scholar, but as a man trembling beneath the weight of history. This morning, I was summoned to attend a closed council with His Majesty, Theodor of House Landon. You know my station is modest—I was there to record minutes, nothing more. Yet what I witnessed compels me to write, for I fear the ink of our age is drying fast.
The meeting began with Tisarchus pressing the matter of expenditures. He spoke plainly: the treasury bleeds, and the crown’s patronage of the Lyceum of Harmonies—that beloved school of music and verse—must be reconsidered. “We cannot afford to fund sonnets while our walls crumble,” he said. The king, seated beneath the painted dome of the council chamber, did not rise. He merely waved a hand and replied, “Then let the walls crumble beautifully.”
I watched Tisarchus’ jaw tighten. He did not press further.
Then came Konia, ever the voice of caution. She laid out reports—Hesan troop movements near the northern border, intercepted communiqués, subtle shifts in trade routes. “They are not posturing, Your Majesty,” she said. “They are preparing.”
Theodor smiled, as if she had recited a line from a play he admired. “I know the character of a Hesan,” he said. “If they mean to engage you, they will tell you to your face. No trickery. No, if anything, they mean to test my resolve. I tell you, by doing nothing, I earn the Hesan’s respect.”
There was silence. Not agreement—just silence.
I glanced at the king’s hands. One held a scroll of Eremos’ verses, the other a sprig of lavender from the palace garden. He looked past us, toward the open archway where the sun poured in. I believe he was already gone.
Androkles, I do not know what will become of us. But I know this: the dreamer dreams still, while the world sharpens its blade. Preserve this letter. Hide it in the the higher shelves if you must. Let it be known that we saw the tide coming, and that our king chose poetry over politics.
Yours in dread and devotion,
Maren Thalos
Clerk of the Fifth Circle, Court of Sphaira