The play, Diedous, was simple in plot yet heavy in its message. It told the tale of a queen whose kingdom was threatened by an overwhelming force that rose from the sea. Her lands burned, her villages razed, and her people slaughtered—all while she sat upon her throne, blind to the danger creeping ever closer.
Instead of addressing the threat, the queen focused on courtly matters. She solved petty squabbles between rival nobles and spoke grandly of her destiny to guide her people. Her court, filled with sycophants, agreed with her every word, and the queen welcomed only those who reinforced her illusions. All the while, the enemy advanced, unchecked and unstoppable.
The actors' movements were elegant, their songs beautiful. The elaborate dances distracted the audience from the horrors described at the kingdom's edges—the massacres, the flames consuming entire towns. How could they not see it? Mirak's brows furrowed as he observed the actors, their laughter and chatter at odds with the chaos they portrayed. The queen spoke of justice and wisdom while ignoring the growing darkness. And still, the audience was enthralled by the pageantry.
Then came the beggar.
A frail woman in rags appeared, barefoot and bloody, dragging herself up the grand steps to the queen's court. Rain poured as she stumbled into the hall, her raw feet leaving crimson stains on the pristine stone. The actress playing the beggar swayed slightly, her movements deliberate as she addressed the queen.
"I have come from the outskirts of your kingdom, my Grace," the beggar said, her voice trembling. "I bring news that armies march and burn your verdant fields. They harm your subjects and destroy your lands."
"Surely this woman lies, your Grace," an advisor replied dismissively.
The court laughed and mocked the beggar. Their jeers were cruel, their disdain palpable. The queen frowned but dismissed the woman's concerns, choosing instead to speak of noble rivalries and courtly intrigues. The beggar pleaded three times, her voice breaking with desperation. Each time, she was refused.
Finally, the beggar stood, her rags falling away as her form began to glow. The mocking laughter turned to silence as the court realized the truth: the beggar was no ordinary woman. She was a Goddess.
"Fool of a Queen," the Goddess said, her voice echoing with unearthly power. "You speak of knowing, yet you do nothing with that knowledge. You spurn your people and let them suffer. I gifted you sight to guide your kingdom, and so I shall take it back."
As the Goddess strode forward, the ground shifted beneath her feet. The nobles tried to flee, but none could escape her wrath. Their bodies convulsed, twisted, and transformed into grotesque monsters, their forms reflecting the corruption of their hearts.
Only the queen remained untouched, frozen in fear as the Goddess approached. "Since you care only for petty squabbles," the Goddess said, "I shall take what was given." She placed her radiant hands upon the queen's face and tore out her eyes.
The Queen screamed, clutching her empty sockets as the Goddess held up the severed eyes, now transformed into a sapphire amulet. "Only those deserving," the Goddess declared, "shall hold the sight of a queen."
The monsters were unleashed upon the city, and the stage faded to black.
As the lights returned to the theater, the audience erupted into applause. Mirak remained seated, his hands clenched into fists. The play replayed in his mind, each scene leaving him with a sense of unease he couldn't shake.
When the actors returned for their bows, Mirak didn't cheer. He sat in silence, staring at the stage.
Solomon, seated beside him, leaned back with a faint smirk. "Did you enjoy the performance?"
Mirak's voice was low, almost accusatory. "Why did you bring me here?"
"That is for you to decide," Solomon replied, his tone maddeningly cryptic.
Mirak struggled to find the right words, his mind grasping at fragments of understanding. "I…"
Solomon leaned forward, invading Mirak's space, his presence heavy and commanding. "All you do is ponder and think, Mirak. Ever the planner, ever the thinker. But your eyes mislead your mind." His voice softened, though his words cut deep. "You're so caught up in the minute details that you fail to see the bigger picture. The truth no one dares to speak. You and the Queen are similar in that sense."
Mirak froze, his breath catching. "What do you mean?"
Solomon's amethyst eyes held him captive, swirling with intensity. "Open your mind, Mirak. Stop clinging to what you think you see. Stop getting lost in the noise. If you do, you may find yourself on a throne."
They walked the streets of Koona in silence, the weight of Solomon's words pressing on Mirak's chest. He replayed the play in his mind—the queen's blindness, her obsession with control, her refusal to act. Was that truly what Solomon saw in him?
As they passed through the lesser noble district, Solomon finally broke the silence. "Do you know why you struggle so much with Transference and Temperance?"
Mirak hesitated. "Because I haven't trained enough?"
Solomon shook his head. "No. It's because you're too rigid. You think Atta works the same way every time, but it doesn't. It's not a hammer that smashes through problems. It's a stream, flowing and adapting to the conditions you set for it."
Mirak frowned. "I thought systems were supposed to have boundaries. Defined rules. Isn't that the point of Temperance?"
"Boundaries, yes," Solomon agreed. "But boundaries are not walls. They're flexible. They change with the flows of Atta, with the energy you're trying to guide. Temperance is about setting the stage, creating the conditions for balance. But it's Transference that brings the system to life. It's what allows energy to move, to change states, to become something new."
"And what does that have to do with the play?" Mirak asked, frustration creeping into his voice.
Solomon gave him a pointed look. "Everything. The Queen thought she could control her kingdom by setting rigid rules. She built walls, not boundaries. And what happened? The energy of her kingdom—the people, the land, the very essence of her rule—turned against her. She couldn't adapt, and so she lost everything."
Mirak's steps slowed as realization began to dawn on him.
"You see, Mirak," Solomon continued, his tone almost gentle now, "a system isn't about control. It's about harmony. You have to guide the flows, not force them. That's the lesson of Transference. You can heat the air, yes, but only if the conditions allow it. If you force it, you'll fail every time."
Mirak stopped walking, his gaze fixed on the ground. "So, I'm like the Queen," he murmured. "Blind, controlling, unable to adapt."
"You're learning," Solomon said with a grin. "That's what matters."