The scene opens in a moonlit garden, where the silver light filters through ancient olive trees, casting intricate shadows upon the weathered stone benches. The air is cool, carrying the faint scent of thyme and myrtle. The teacher, an elderly man with deep-set eyes and a face lined by years of wisdom and sorrow, rises from his seat. His gaze falls upon the black stone held by the young woman before him, and for a fleeting moment, his expression crumples with grief.
The teacher stood, his aged frame trembling slightly as he looked at the black stone in her hand—and then at her. The sight struck him with a sudden, profound sadness, and for the first time in years, he allowed the weight of his emotions to show. His lips pressed into a thin line, his brow furrowing as if resisting an old, familiar pain.
He turned his face upward, toward the full moon hanging heavy in the night sky. Its pale glow reminded him of another night, decades ago, when he had been a young man full of fire and conviction. He had stood beneath this same moon, swearing an oath to uncover the secrets of the gods. Now, as an old man, he saw only the passage of time—the boy he had been, the man he had become, and the years that had slipped through his fingers like sand. A quiet sigh escaped him, weary and resigned.
Slowly, he stepped forward, his sandals whispering against the gravel path. He reached out, his gnarled fingers closing around the black stone. It was smooth yet unnaturally cold, its surface etched with faint, swirling patterns that seemed to shift under the moonlight. He studied it in silence, his thumb tracing the grooves as if deciphering an ancient script.
After a long moment, he spoke, his voice low and measured.
"I imagine you've consulted the old scrolls."
He did not wait for an answer. Instead, he turned and walked toward the crumbling garden pavilion, his robes brushing against the overgrown herbs.
"This object…" he murmured, more to himself than to them, "…does not appear in any Greek record. No scholar alive knows its true nature."
He sank onto a stone bench, the years settling heavily upon his shoulders. "Come. Sit with me."
Sister Pheropyr and younger sister Pherodaro exchanged a glance before lifting the pithos between them—an ancient clay vessel filled with wine—and moved to his side. They settled beside him, their movements graceful, their expressions attentive. The elder sister, Pheropyr, placed the pithos carefully on the ground, while Pherodaro adjusted her chiton, the fabric whispering against her skin.
The teacher exhaled, his fingers still curled around the black stone. Then, with a faint smile, he began.
"I was thirty-eight when I first held a stone like this." His voice softened with memory. "I was… exhilarated. Even the Hestia hiereia and hiereus celebrated with me."
For a moment, the years seemed to fall away from him. His back straightened, his eyes brightened, and the weariness in his face lifted. He looked almost youthful again, as if the mere recollection of that time had reignited a long-dormant spark.
"Back then," he continued, his tone animated, "we were determined to understand this little stone. We searched everywhere—quietly, discreetly."
His grip on the stone tightened slightly, and for the briefest second, a faint, eerie glow pulsed within its depths.
"Zeus's priests, Athena's oracles, even Poseidon's tide-readers…" He chuckled. "They all aided us in secret."
His gaze drifted upward again, toward the stars. The night breeze was cool against his skin, just as it had been all those years ago.
"They, like you, had their doubts about the gods—especially Hestia, Prometheus, Epimetheus… Pandora."
He nodded to himself, as if confirming something unspoken.
"Doubt is not the same as defiance," he murmured. "Even I, their teacher, still find myself… perplexed by Hestia's choices."
A dry laugh escaped him, tinged with both amusement and resignation.
"Of course, we mortals will never truly comprehend the gods. But I wanted to help her." His smile faded. "Yet, in the end, even the most learned among us found nothing."
He lowered his head, his fingers absently tracing the stone's surface.
"That was when the High Sanctum took notice. They began asking questions."
A sly grin curled his lips.
"Fortunately, we had prepared for that. No trails led back to us. No one was harmed." His expression darkened. "But the elders forbade any further research."
His eyes flicked to the sisters, assessing them.
"You two received your stones at sixteen. That alone speaks to your potential."
A shadow passed over his face.
"I questioned every elder, every scholar on their deathbeds. Their final words were always the same: 'We concealed the truth to prevent chaos. To keep faith from crumbling.'"
With effort, he pushed himself to his feet, his staff striking the ground with a decisive *thud*. He pointed toward the distant estate, its white walls gleaming under the moonlight.
"Even the High Sanctum's archives hold no answers."
The wind tugged at his robes, revealing a jagged scar along his calf—old, poorly healed. He paid it no mind. Instead, he turned back to Pheropyr and pressed the black stone into her palm. As their hands touched, a faint spark flickered between them.
"But I never stopped searching," he said, his voice firm. "I petitioned Zeus's thunder-scribes, Hades's bone-readers, Poseidon's brine-seers…"
He shook his head.
"Only Hestia's temples could refine these stones. I gave them the recipe, the materials—" His mouth twisted wryly. "And yet, none could replicate it."
A pause. Then, softer:
"But then I heard a rumor."
Pherodaro leaned forward, her wine forgotten.
"Near Ophiomer's port," the teacher continued, "there stands a ruined Hestia temple. Within it dwells a certain hiereia—some say she is a demigod, given her knowledge."
"She appears only on fog-laden nights, when the ruins glow with an eerie light." His voice dropped to a whisper.
"Men have sought her. A few have even returned." A beat of silence.
"None have passed her trial. Not the scholars. Not the prodigies."
The moon slipped behind a cloud, plunging his face into shadow.
"They left changed. And silent."
Pheropyr's fingers closed around his wrist—warm, steadying. He met their eyes.
"This task now falls to you."
Dawn's first light tinged the horizon. From his robes, he withdrew a bronze pendant, its surface worn smooth by time, and pressed it into Pheropyr's hand.
"Show this at the manor," he said, nodding toward the distant buildings. "They will arrange your passage to Ophiomer."
The wind carried the scent of salt and blooming herbs. His familiar, gentle smile returned, warming them like the rising sun.
"Thank you, Teacher," they murmured.
He clasped their shoulders, his grip firm despite his age.
"I believe," he said, his voice thick with conviction, "you all will succeed."