The Anemoi argued among themselves, each blaming the other for their situation, but an echoing voice silenced them. “That will not do.”
The Anemoi jumped apart, looking around but seeing no one at all. Until out of the shadows, a creature emerged, with the face and upper body of a beautiful woman, the body of a feline, and wings not unlike their own.
“Who are you?” Eurus, the East Wind, demanded.
“I am many things,” the creature replied, her catlike eyes tracking their every move. “A keeper of secrets, and answers, and doors. But you may call me Sphinx.”
“And will you open this door for us?” Boreas asked. He was the North Wind, the oldest and wisest of the four.
“Not yet.”
“Why not?” Notos growled, the heat of the South Wind simmering in his voice.
“You must answer my riddle first.”
“If we must,” said Zephyrus, the West Wind and calmest of the brothers, “then ask it.”
Sphinx emitted an echoing growl, almost like it was clearing its throat. “What goes through but never goes in and never comes out?”
The Anemoi all paused, then their argument resumed, all proclaiming they knew the answer. Only Boreas, the oldest and wisest of the brothers, watched on in silence.
“Quickly now, but remember, you can answer only once,” Sphinx taunted, pacing back and forth before them.
“I know it,” Boreas stated, locking eyes with each of his brothers. They watched him back before nodding acceptance.
“Let us hear it, then.”
“A keyhole.”
Sphinx went silent, and the Anemoi held their collective breath as they awaited its judgment. From the air itself, a key appeared in the keyhole. A sharp click broke the silence as it turned, and the door swung open. They wasted no time running through, but Sphinx’s voice stopped them.
“This door has not opened for centuries, and I have been stuck here until my riddle was answered. I would escape with you if you would allow it.”
The Anemoi took pity on the creature, and all agreed.
“Better run as swift as yourselves, young winds. He will know the door has been opened.”
Heeding the warning, they ran as fast as they could, but soon realized that the tower was concealed within a labyrinth. A maze of madness, which could easily lead them astray if they were not quick-witted and clever.
As they raced through the labyrinth, the Anemoi used an age-old trick, keeping their palms on the left wall to ensure they didn’t get lost.
They used their wings to propel them forward as they weaved and turned through the winding paths, but as another doorcame into view, music stopped them in their tracks. The song of a harp wrapped around them, tempting and seducing them to turn around, to head back. But they knew this was yet another trap, and they summoned all their strength to move forward.
Each step was a struggle, each note of the harp begging them to turn. To look.
Eurus was the first to fall, the temptation taking him to the ground. Even so, he did not turn. Zephyrus fell next, and the creature growled, urging them to keep moving.
Another sound joined the music: the heavy pounding of footfalls drawing closer. With fear in their minds but determination in their hearts, the Anemoi continued toward the door. They fought tooth and nail, clawing their way forward, and finally they made it.
The moment they passed the threshold, the music fell away, and the open air greeted them. It rejoiced, welcoming its old friends. They wasted no time celebrating, the five of them spreading their wings and flying off into the distance.
The Anemoi all agreed that they could never return to their homeland. So, they continued to fly north. Hours turned into days, days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months. Until finally they came across a land untouched by their kind. Here, they paused; years passed undiscovered, and here they created the Empyrieos.
The image of the Anemoi dissipates, their shadowy forms unraveling into wisps of darkness and fading into the still air. The brazier’s flame flickers, casting restless light across the tent, but no one stirs. Silence holds the group captive, the weight of the story lingering like an invisible tether pulling every gaze back toward the stage.
“Enthralling, isn’t it?” The voice that breaks the silence is light, almost melodic, yet carrying a teasing undercurrent that draws my attention.
I turn to find another nymphai standing beside me. With the confident expectation of being noticed, he watches me; his dark, wavy haircatches faint threads of firelight. Though it is cut shorter than the storyteller’s, the resemblance between the two is unmistakable. There’s the same fine-cut sharpness to his features, the same flicker of shadow clinging to his skin just at the edges, like it’s waiting to reveal itself.
