No matter when I visit the island, it’s always bustling with activity.
Despite the day coming to an end, dockworkers unload luggage from vessels, fishermen haul their day’s catch, craftsmen boast from shop fronts, and merchants prowl the cobblestoned streets as they hawk their wares.
There’s an energy to the isle; a thrill lingering in the air.
I wish I could grasp it. Capture it in one of the many empty jars lining the shelves in my bedroom and never let it go. As if a simplememento sitting on my shelf could make a moment—a feeling—last forever.
My gaze catches on a group waiting beside a ship at a nearby dock. Broad smiles stretch their faces, and eyes sparkle as they talk among themselves. Hands dance with each word, orchestrating a symphony of gestures—no doubt reminiscing on a grand adventure across the seas.
Gentle waves lap against the hull of the boat, the rhythmic beat beckoning me closer.
How would it feel to abandon reason and board a ship? To sail toward the unknown, guided only by the stars and my own restless heart?
Freedom.
The word is a whisper. One echoing on the wind in this stolen moment, stirring memories not quite formed but aching to be. Yet another foolish dream.
I tear my gaze away, and the harbor disappears as I round a corner, replaced with the view of a narrow alley, the tall walls on either side blocking out the lingering sunlight. My feet move along the cobbled path of their own accord, leading me to a door so unobtrusive—if not for the flickering lantern hanging above, illuminating the sign nailed into its aged wood—you might miss it.
Skiepo’s Gravery and Other Curiosities
I push through the creaking door, a cascade of tiny bells tinkling overhead, announcing my arrival to what I am convinced is a hoarder’s den disguised as a shop.
Overflowing shelves climb the walls from floor to ceiling, the thick wood bowing from the weight of their burdens. A weary wooden counter crouches in front of a curtain sagging against the back wall. Its surface is scarred and weathered, like it’s been on a journey across all the four kingdoms and finally found a quiet place to rest. Small tables laden with pots of gravers and etchers for carvinggoiteía,clay bowls piled high with sticks of chalk, and an abundance of quills crowd the rest of the space, leaving just enough room for patrons to inspect them.
With every visit, I swear the shop feels even more congested than the last. One of these days, I’m sure I’ll come in and find the shelves falling from the walls.
“Just a moment!” a muffled voice calls from behind the curtain.
I weave my way around the cluttered tables, taking extra care not to bump into any of the displays. Skiepo knows the precise location of everything amid his organized chaos. Once, I brushed against a giant seashell, shifting it a hairsbreadth out of place, and he huffed and puffed like I had beseeched Notos to set a storm loose in his shop.
When I reach the counter, I ring the dusty bell on its surface, grinning at the disgruntled mumbling from the back room.
“I said amoment,” Skiepo shouts, “impatient bloody—”
The words cut off as the drab curtain swings aside, revealing the man himself. He scowls, dumping a basket of what looks to be hundreds of woven bracelets on the counter.
I arch an expectant brow in return, plucking one to inspect. The coarse yarn scratches against my fingertips, and my brows inch higher at the small mark carved into the bronze disk at its center. An eight-pointed star above a small circular symbol reminiscent of a wheel.
Thegoiteíafor luck.
I drop the bracelet like it’s burned me, my eyes lingering on the countless others.
Strength, bravery, love, protection.
The sight of years wasted on mere luck churns my stomach. Someone selling pieces of their soul for another to wear as a trinket on their wrist.
Magic isn’t uncommon among our kind.
Tycheroi.
The fortunate ones.
When the Anemoi discovered the Empyrieos and created us, they gifted our people with long life, enduring bodies, and the ability to achieve almost anything at the expense of them both.
The four gods used threads of their own power in our creation, weaving it into our souls. I’m uncertain whether it feels the same for everyone else, but I’ve always imagined it like a glowing presence nestled beside my heart.
To tap into this magic, we havegoiteía,symbols that can harness the power and turn it into something tangible. To create somethingpermanent or imbue an object with power, the symbols can be carved or etched into a surface. For something temporary, the marks only need to be drawn.
