Little Pink Starfish

“Would you try playing that piece from earlier?”

Me? Nyne nearly asked but remembered it wouldn’t be proper, so he sat up instead. He accepted the lyre from Amon and held it to his chest. Having learned from the ritual priests, he knew how to play at least simple pieces. He plucked the strings slowly. While the sheet music of Amon’s song came to mind clearly, his fingers hesitated and couldn’t follow properly. After fumbling through it, Nyne let out an awkward laugh.

“I can’t play it properly since it’s my first time hearing it.”

“…Is that so.”

The subtly disappointed tone made Nyne’s heart sink. He bit the inside of his cheek and asked carefully,

“May I play a different song instead?”

“Go ahead.”

Nyne began to play, imagining the person Amon had once met by the riverside where the plovers cried five hundred years ago. It was a beautiful, lyrical piece he had once learned from a ritual priest. What kind of person had they been? A man or a woman? Were they tall? What had left such a lasting impression on Amon?

As he finished the song, Amon turned around. Because of Nyne’s playing, the priests who had been about to bring in the food had knelt down, staying respectfully prostrated. One of them asked in a polite voice:

“May we present the meal to Sha?”

“Do so.”

Only after Amon gave permission did the priests rise and resume moving. Surprisingly, what they brought in was a long-necked deer and a brazier. Nyne stared in shock, wondering why on earth they had brought a live deer indoors.

Perhaps drugged, the deer staggered in with slow steps. It was not very large—likely newly grown—and had been thoroughly washed, as the usual smell of a herbivore was barely present. One priest held out green leaves for it to chew, and while the deer blinked calmly and munched, another priest standing behind drew a dagger.

As if stroking the deer’s neck, he suddenly sliced it in one motion. The deer staggered, but the priests supported and held it upright. Blood flowed in a stream from its neck, and another priest collected it into a large golden goblet.

Nyne watched the butchering in a daze, as if one of his senses had gone numb. Something was on the verge of surfacing in his mind, only to be swept away by a strange drowsiness. Normally, he would have been repulsed—but perhaps he’d grown used to this sort of cruelty, not being fully human anymore.

He gazed at the meat being roasted over the brazier and felt himself grow drowsy.

Soon, other priests entered in a line, each holding a plate. One by one, they laid them out neatly on the table. A lavish feast was prepared. Every dish gave off a delicious aroma. As it was evening, the selection was far greater than what was served at breakfast.

Roasted fresh venison and raw seasoned meat were among the offerings. Amon tasted the venison tartare a few times but showed little interest in the rest. Nyne, with no real appetite, only took a few bites of his favorite dish before stopping. He didn’t feel wasteful, knowing the leftovers would be divided among the priests.

Lounging lazily on a bench, sipping sweet wine and watching the last of the sunset, Nyne was soon met by Osen Iyad, who appeared leading a procession of priests. Bowing respectfully, he greeted:

“I offer my reverence to the great Sha Amon and Sha Nyne.”

Amon didn’t even glance at him, but Osen Iyad continued speaking naturally, as though such indifference was expected.

“Several artisans have sent their works for the Sha. Would you care to take a look?”

In the 6-Tower Gate section of the High Temple lived most of the artisans, who devoted themselves solely to creating offerings for the Sha and the Temple. Nyne had occasionally received works from them, and so had Amon. Instead of replying to Osen Iyad, Amon turned to Nyne and asked:

“Would you like to see them?”

“Yes, Lord Amon. I am curious what kinds of works they’ve created.”

Nyne quickly answered, thinking that works dedicated to Amon must be even more beautiful and extravagant. Osen Iyad, delighted, asked politely again:

“Shall I have them brought in here, Sha?”

“No. We’ll go see them ourselves.”

As Nyne rose from the bench, the usual post-ritual fatigue weighed his limbs down like a swamp. Still, it wasn’t so bad that he couldn’t walk, so he followed behind Amon at a slow pace without complaint.

The artisans’ works were displayed one by one between the columns lining the grand corridor. Each piece honored and worshipped the great Sha—paintings, sculptures, and finely crafted items adorned with large, glimmering gems.

Seeing the emeralds, opals, rubies, sapphires, and diamonds sparkling in the gold and silver ornaments lifted Nyne’s spirits.

“These are works praising the greatness of the Sha. What do you think?”

Osen Iyad spoke, bowing deeply. Nyne looked first at the busts of Amon and himself. The two busts stood side by side, but Amon’s was about 1.5 times larger than Nyne’s.

This pattern continued throughout the rest of the works. In all of them, Amon was consistently portrayed 1.5 times larger than Nyne. It often gave Nyne the sense that he was simply an accessory to Amon. In the artworks, he always only reached Amon’s shoulder.

As he quietly examined the displays, Nyne glanced at Amon.

‘…Is this actually an accurate portrayal?’

He really did come up to about Amon’s shoulder…

Looking closer, it became clear that being a Sha was the only reason Nyne was even depicted that tall. In one image, a priest—presumably Osen Iyad—barely reached Amon’s ankle. The rest of the priests were shown at half that height. The ordinary people depicted bowing in worship were tiny as ants in comparison—yet the expressions carved or painted into their faces were so delicate and clear, full of awe and reverence.

Feeling uncomfortable with those gazes, Nyne moved on to the next piece. He had been enjoying the artistic works like a proper connoisseur, but suddenly he stopped walking. A wrinkle formed between his brows.

“What is this supposed to be?”

When Nyne asked, Osen Iyad seemed to hesitate slightly. He bowed deeply again and answered with utmost formality:

“It is a piece offered by Artisan Kenner Seakka. It is challenging to interpret, but it embodies the Sha’s bold and valiant spirit… as well as the grand force of nature…”

Nyne cut him off and scolded him.

“Challenging or not, how could an artisan dare to present such a disgraceful work to the Sha? If you have eyes, surely you can see it.”

Osen Iyad bowed repeatedly, flustered. “Yes, Sha.”

Nyne looked again at the painting. Having grown accustomed to all things beautiful and luxurious, he couldn’t sense even a hint of boldness, valor, or grandeur. The proportions were off, the details unrecognizable—it looked like a child trying their best.

“Look at these thorny lines. Compared to the other painters’ strokes, this is absurdly crude. And the facial features are so close together—how could Lord Amon possibly have such a harsh face? That artist must have been born with faulty eyes and hands.”

Busts of Amon were displayed not just in the High Temple but all throughout Trastasa. They were so realistic that even those who had never met Amon could easily recognize his face. To see it so distorted here—it was unbelievable. Even Osen Iyad, who clearly had a good eye judging from his usual attire, had allowed this through?

“Who permitted something like this to be displayed?”

When Nyne asked sharply, the priests’ gazes scattered like an earthquake. Yet none dared to speak, all too tense even to breathe properly, eyes glued to the floor.

Nyne, sensing something, slowly turned toward Amon. Amon was quietly gazing at the painting Nyne had just harshly criticized. Then he spoke:

“Nyne, it seems you don’t like this one.”

Nyne glanced toward Osen Iyad, who gave the tiniest nod. Nyne’s lips parted in dismay.
Surely… this wasn’t the one Amon liked?

Swallowing hard, Nyne asked carefully:

“…Lord Amon, do you… like this piece?”

“Who’s to say.”

With a vague answer, Amon swept his gaze over the other works and added indifferently:

“This one or that one—they all look the same to me.”

Nyne couldn’t agree. How could he say this and that looked the same? He dared not say it aloud, but he thought, Lord Amon has no sense of aesthetics at all.

Then a thought suddenly flashed through his mind.

“Is it that… you particularly like the artist?”

“I’ve never even seen the one who made it.”

Nyne knew he should keep quiet. But surrounded by so many radiant works, that one grotesque piece was such an eyesore that he couldn’t hold back and asked hesitantly,

“Then… why that one…?”

He barely managed to stop himself from saying that awful thing.
As Nyne asked again, Amon once more looked at the crude painting.
From his gaze, there was not a hint of emotion.