In the quiet of his apartment at the Imperial School of Mor, Mero decides to send a letter to Mandarine. He sits at the massive wooden table as the pale light of day filters through a tall mullioned window, its fogged panes revealing an inner courtyard where the paving stones glisten under a fine rain. The walls, paneled in dark oak, exude a scent of wax and old leather that lingers in the cool winter air. Shelves laden with bound volumes with cracked spines and rolled maps yellowed by time line the walls. A black stone fireplace, where glowing embers crackle softly, casts a gentle warmth over the room, contrasting with the cold seeping through the gaps in the poorly fitted windows.
He takes a quill pen, its worn handle gliding between his fingers, and pens a message filled with concern and affection on a thick, slightly yellowed parchment. His words, carefully traced in black ink, express sincere worry for Mandarine's health, asking for news of her recovery and assuring her that if she needs anything, he is there for her. With the letter, he includes a small glass vial, sealed with a cork stopper, containing a sample of the luminescent sand he brought back from the volcanic island—a silver sand that sparkles under the moonlight, glittering like fallen stars on a tropical beach bordered by palm trees with slanted trunks. He hopes that this gift, nestled in a carved wooden box adorned with marine motifs—rippling waves and fish engraved in the dark grain—will bring a glimmer of beauty to Mandarine during her convalescence, a spark of joy to brighten her dark days.
Once the letter is sealed with a wax seal marked with the trident of Sel, he entrusts it to a messenger, a broad-shouldered man dressed in a gray woolen cloak with frayed edges, his boots clicking on the polished floor as he leaves the room. Mero approaches the window, his gaze scanning the horizon where the verdant plains stretch out to the shimmering river of Mor, its waters reflecting a sky veiled by gray clouds. The cobblestone streets of the lower town, lined with houses with light-colored stone facades still under reconstruction, their red-tiled roofs glistening under the fine rain, fade from his mind, replaced by an image of Mandarine—perhaps lying in a tavern with salt-weathered wooden walls, somewhere on a lost island of the Green Ocean, surrounded by quays bordered by ships with patched-up hulls. The wait for a response will be long, an uncertain journey across stormy seas, but he hopes she will recover quickly, his thoughts drifting towards her like a wave carried by the wind.
During the winter season, the first paintings of the Empire of Mor's territories, commissioned by Mero, began to arrive at the school. They are delivered in carefully packed wooden crates, accompanied by handwritten letters from the artists, their quills scratching the paper to describe their journey and emotions in the face of the landscapes they have immortalized. Servants, their gray and silver liveries marked by the fine rain, carry the crates through gray stone corridors where tapestries with silver threads depict naval battles, their stylized waves shimmering under the flickering light of wrought iron sconces. The crates are unpacked in an improvised exhibition room, a space with walls paneled in dark oak and tall windows overlooking an inner courtyard where weeping willows bend under a cold breeze, their carved wooden frames aligned with care under massive chandeliers suspended from chains.
The artists began with three territories: the Autonomous Region of Morathis, the capital land, as well as the Principality of Teralis and the Duchy of Caelan, located in the northwest of the Empire. Each region is represented by twenty paintings, but the first deliveries already offer a striking glimpse of their diversity.
For Morathis, the capital emerges with its buildings of ochre stone and red brick rising along cobblestone streets bordered by wrought iron streetlights with frosted glass globes. A sinuous river, its waters shimmering under a sky veiled by the smoke of forges, cuts through the city, its banks lined with quays where ships with patched-up hulls unload goods under wooden cranes standing like sentinels. A painting titled "The Summer Blaze" captures the tragedy that ravaged a third of the city: orange and red flames leap from houses with collapsed tile roofs, their charred beams rising like specters in a sky darkened by soot, while indistinct silhouettes run through narrow alleys bordered by smoldering debris. Another painting, "Sun over Tempelune," depicts a golden sun reflecting on the snowy peaks of Tempelune, its icy summits dominating the city like a crown of ice, the capital nestled at their feet with its buildings with light-colored stone facades and arched bridges spanning the river. A third painting shows daily life—merchants in worn tunics shouting their prices on a square bordered by faded awnings, children playing near a market with wooden stalls, their laughter echoing under a sky traversed by cottony clouds.
The Principality of Teralis, in the northwest, offers more rugged landscapes, painted with a palette of whites and cold grays. A painting, "The Frozen Plain," depicts a vast snowy expanse traversed by a river frozen under a translucent layer of ice, its banks bordered by dry reeds bent by the wind. A fortified village nestles at the foot of the mountains, its houses with gray stone walls and roofs covered in snow rising around a watchtower with worn battlements, smoke escaping from the chimneys in gray volutes against a sky of an almost unreal pale blue. Horsemen with thick cloaks, their hoods lined with white fur, traverse the plain, their mounts leaving deep tracks in the untouched snow. Another painting, "Varant in Spring," shows the main town surrounded by fields in bloom under a spring sky, its buildings with blond stone walls and thatched roofs glowing under a timid sun, the wildflowers—white, yellow, mauve—stretching to the horizon. A third painting, "Forests of Teralis," captures an expanse of dark conifers, their branches bending under the snow, a soft light filtering through the needles to illuminate a winding path bordered by pine trees with knotted trunks, a silent scene where the whisper of the wind seems almost audible.
The Duchy of Caelan, further north, is illustrated by wild and glacial landscapes. A work, "Aurora Borealis," features a boreal forest with towering pines, their dark trunks rising in a night sky illuminated by an aurora borealis—waves of green, violet, and blue dancing above the snowy treetops. The dark waters of a fjord, bordered by abrupt cliffs with icy ridges, reflect these celestial colors, their waves lapping against a small port where a merchant ship with patched-up sails is moored near worn wooden quays, its frozen rigging shimmering under the ethereal light. Another painting, "Conquest by the Sea," retraces the duchy's history under the Empire: ships with reinforced hulls emerge from the foaming waves of the Summer Ocean, their white sails clacking under a gray sky streaked with lightning, while the fjord's cliffs, striated with ice, stand like a natural fortress conquered by the maritime assault. A third painting, "Fishermen of Caelan," shows men with thick woolen cloaks casting their nets in a frozen fjord, their small boats with dark red-painted hulls gliding on black water bordered by cliffs with jagged ridges, a light mist floating above the waves like a spectral veil.
The paintings, magnificent in their diversity, testify to the talent of the artists, each work bearing a unique style that captures the soul of its territory. Mero observes them in the improvised exhibition room, his boots clicking on the polished floor as he pauses before each canvas, his eyes scrutinizing the details—the dancing flames of Morathis's blaze, the untouched snow of Teralis, the ethereal reflections of Caelan's auroras. He decides to exhibit the sixty received paintings in the largest art gallery in Mor, an imposing building with ochre stone walls and tall windows overlooking a cobblestone square bordered by weeping willows, their branches rustling under a fine rain. The entrance is free, open to the public for three months, and he invites visitors to vote for the best painting from each territory. The three winning works—one per region—will be offered to the capital's museum, housed in an edifice with white marble columns veined with gray in the heart of Morathis, while the others will join his private collection, exhibited in a room with paneled walls in his palace at Sel, where the turquoise waves of the Green Ocean shimmer in the distance.
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For the opening evening, Mero showcases nine of the sixty paintings—three per territory—in a ceremony reserved for the most influential and prestigious nobles of the Empire. Invitations, carefully calligraphed on thick parchment, sealed with red wax, and marked with the trident of Sel, are sent to members of the imperial family, grand dukes in velvet tunics embroidered with gold, governors of vassal kingdoms with cloaks bordered with fur, and mayors with fingers adorned with sparkling rings. The grand art gallery of Mor, with its ochre stone walls adorned with frescoes in shades of azure and gold, is illuminated by majestic chandeliers suspended from massive chains, their candles casting a soft light on the paintings aligned with care. Red woolen tapestries, woven with marine motifs, cover the polished floor, while green velvet armchairs line up near the tall windows overlooking a cobblestone square where weeping willows bend under a fine rain.
An orchestra, installed on a carved wooden stage in a corner of the room, plays elegant music—strings gliding on violins with worn bows, flutes murmuring light melodies—while the guests, in silk tunics with delicate embroidery and dresses with voluminous skirts, discover the paintings, their murmurs filling the air charged with the scent of melted wax and floral perfumes. Mero takes the floor under the vaulted ceilings adorned with faded frescoes, his voice resonating with calm assurance in the room where the chandeliers sparkle. "These works reflect the beauty and soul of our lands," he says, his eyes scanning the faces of the guests—nobles in velvet tunics, governors with discerning gazes, mayors with fingers grazing their wine glasses. "They testify to the talent of our artists and the greatness of our peoples. Through this exhibition, I hope to strengthen our mutual understanding and celebrate unity in the diversity of the Empire." A toast is raised in his honor, the glasses lifting in a light tinkling as the guests, their fingers clutching feathered fans, approach the paintings to vote in a register with yellowed pages placed on a carved wooden table near the tall windows.
Whether Mero wishes it or not, everyone seeks to speak with him, their voices resonating in the room where the paintings align on the ochre stone walls. The most influential nobles—a grand duke with graying hair dressed in a velvet tunic embroidered with gold, a governor with broad shoulders under a cloak bordered with white fur—approach to share their thoughts, their eyes scrutinizing the canvases with a mix of curiosity and calculation. "The Blaze of Morathis captures the tragedy with rare power," says one, his gaze lingering on the orange flames painted on the canvas, while another, a mayor with fingers adorned with sparkling rings, comments: "The fjords of Caelan under the aurora borealis... a marvel that could inspire maritime alliances." Their discussions oscillate between artistic appreciation and political undertones, each seeking to know his opinion on the works and what they reveal about the vassal kingdoms.
Some younger nobles, in silk tunics with sleeves embroidered with silver, show interest in his collection project, their voices resonating in the room where the red woolen tapestries absorb their steps. "Your Highness," says one, a governor's son with black hair slicked back, "these paintings are a window onto the Empire. If I could contribute to enriching this collection, it would be an honor." Mero listens attentively, a slight smile playing on his lips, but he remains cautious, aware that behind their compliments may hide strategic intentions—alliances to weave, favors to gain in the cobblestone streets of the capital or the quays bordered by ships with patched-up hulls.
Sven and Dorian, invited to the ceremony, stand near a carved wooden table where glasses of sweet wine sparkle under the chandeliers, their woolen tunics marked by the fine rain still clinging to their shoulders. They exchange complicit smiles with Mero, their gazes sparkling with a silent camaraderie that contrasts with the calculated murmurs of the nobles. "They won't leave you alone tonight," murmured Sven, his voice resonating softly in the room where the paintings aligned on the ochre stone walls, a smirk playing on his lips as he sipped his wine. Dorian nods, crossing his arms with feigned nonchalance. "At least they're talking about art," he says, his eyes scanning a painting of Teralis where horsemen traverse a snowy plain under an almost unreal pale blue sky.
Mero takes the time to listen to each guest, his measured responses resonating in the room where the red woolen tapestries absorb the nobles' steps, but he keeps a certain distance, his thoughts floating between the paintings and Mandarine's absence, a void that no conversation can fill. When the time comes to close the evening, he prepares to give a speech, standing on a carved wooden stage near the tall windows overlooking a cobblestone square bordered by weeping willows. "I thank each one of you for your presence and support for this event," he says, his voice resonating with humility tinged with authority in the room where the chandeliers sparkle under the vaulted ceilings. "These works are a tribute to our lands, our artists, and the unity that binds us. May this exhibition be a step towards a deeper understanding of our Empire." The guests raise their glasses in a light tinkling, their fingers clutching feathered fans as the discussions quietly fade away.
The exhibition then opens to the public, and in the following days, a vibrant crowd fills the grand art gallery of Mor, its ochre stone walls resonating with the voices of citizens from all horizons—merchants in worn tunics, women in patched skirts carrying baskets of oysters, children with bare feet running between the paintings. The cobblestone streets around the gallery, lined with houses with light-colored stone facades and weeping willows with drooping branches, come alive with lines of people waiting under a fine rain, their cobblestones glistening in the pale winter light. The atmosphere is almost electric, a mix of wonder and curiosity as the inhabitants discover the paintings—the flames of Morathis' blaze, the snowy plains of Teralis, the glacial fjords of Caelan—like windows onto kingdoms they have never seen.
The paintings, aligned on the ochre stone walls under chandeliers suspended from massive chains, attract fascinated gazes, their colors shimmering under the soft light of the candles. Before "The Summer Blaze," merchants in worn tunics discuss the painted flames with brute intensity, their voices resonating in the room where the red woolen tapestries absorb their steps. Near "The Frozen Plain of Teralis," a woman in a patched skirt murmurs to her child the tales of horsemen with thick cloaks, their silhouettes traversing the untouched snow under an almost unreal pale blue sky. Around the "Aurora Borealis of Caelan," fishermen with calloused hands admire the green and violet reflections dancing on the fjord, their fingers brushing the air as if to touch the ethereal colors painted on the canvas.
The artists, proud to see their work exhibited, await the public's votes with contained impatience, consigned in registers with yellowed pages placed on carved wooden tables near the tall windows. Discussions animate each table—some praise the brute power of Morathis's blaze, others the serenity of Caelan's glacial fjords—and voices swell, each painting becoming a mirror of the cultures and tensions of the Empire. Art critics, in velvet tunics with sleeves embroidered with silver, linger in the room, their quills scratching parchment to note their impressions, seeing in these works reflections of the political dynamics between vassal kingdoms—the blaze as a metaphor for Morathis' fragilities, the horsemen of Teralis as a symbol of resilience, the fjords of Caelan as an ode to a contested maritime freedom.
Mero closely follows the evolution of the votes, his boots clicking on the polished floor as he traverses the gallery, his eyes scanning the registers where the names of the paintings align in columns of black ink. The exhibition, planned to last three months, comes alive each day under the vaulted ceilings where the faded frescoes in shades of azure and gold absorb the murmurs of the visitors. The cobblestone streets around the gallery, lined with houses with red-tiled roofs glistening under the fine rain, resonate with the steps of the inhabitants—merchants in worn tunics, women in patched skirts, children with bare feet—who flock to admire the paintings, their voices filling the air charged with the scent of melted wax and damp wood. In the end, the three paintings that receive the most votes—one per territory—will be offered to the capital's museum, an edifice with white marble columns veined with gray nestled in the heart of Morathis, their carved wooden frames giving way to vaulted ceilings where imperial frescoes tell centuries of history. The others will join his private collection, exhibited in a room with paneled walls in his palace at Sel, where the turquoise waves of the Green Ocean shimmer in the distance through the tall windows.
