By midday, the scent of the harvest—sweet, earthy, with a faint metallic tang—hung thick in the air, clinging to skin and clothes like a second layer. Greta moved beside Germaine, bending with practiced ease as she plucked a stalk and inspected it herself, half mocking Germaine for his overly compulsive nature. Her deep blue hair, tied back in a loose braid.

  Their visit to the Crystal Falls had been refreshing. It was after all meant as respite from work despite how brief it was. The Falls’ waters, shimmering with suspended minerals, always soothed even the most restless of minds. Greta had watched as Germaine submerged himself in the cerulean pools, his rigid posture easing for the first time since the harvest had begun.

  But now back in the fields, the tension had returned. His fingers flexed around the handle of a harvesting scythe, his gaze sweeping over the workers with the precision of a strategist assessing an army. She knew she was the only thing keeping him from being high-strung at the moment.

  “You’re being too intense,” Greta said, grinning from ear to ear. “You are making them nervous.”

  “I am just being thorough,” Germaine replied, sounding a bit more serious, “The High Steward has to care about the quality”

  “I fear you do not know the difference between thorough and fearsome,” Greta replied

  “Both command authority,” Germaine answered in kind. “I don’t see the difference. “

  “I don’t know how anyone follows your lead,” Greta asked, half laughing

  “Please, with how long I have been in charge, they should have gotten used to it by now,” Germaine answered

  “What about those who haven’t?” Greta asked

  “They’ll adapt or quit” Germaine answered, “I don’t believe many can afford the second option”

  Greta simply sighed with false exasperation as the two continued to walk about the field side by side, but their peace was not to be eternal.

  “KING PERMEUS HAS ARRIVED!” shouted a herald dressed in red and gold.

  The name hung between them, unspoken but heavy. Greta swore she could hear Germaine’s entire frame pulse with irritation the moment he heard it. Their Origin and creator, for whom Germaine held a twinge of resentment for had arrived. A shock to both of them and, by the looks on everybody’s faces, a shock to them as well.

  Permeus never attended the harvest. Every year, Germaine would request him to come, and Permeus would tell him he would give it his consideration, but the Origin never came through with it once.

  Why had he come this year?

  Especially now that she was finally getting a pleasant smile on Germaine’s face.

  Don’t get it wrong.

  Greta loved their king as much as anybody else, which, accounting for the titans, really wasn’t that much. But he was their Origin after all, but he could really be an enormous pain sometimes.

  Reluctantly, they both turned, waiting for the royal carriage to arrive.

  Greta swore she could see Germaine’s eyes narrow as soon as they were staring at the pavement over which Permeus would come riding. The other titans had stopped as well, their tools frozen mid-motion. A ripple passed through the crowd, a murmur swelling into a wave of anticipation.

  Germaine’s grip on the scythe tightened, or at-least that is what Greta could tell from the whitening of his knuckles. The royal chariot cut through the fields like it was cutting through silk, its gilded edges catching the sunlight in blinding flashes. The Pegasi that pulled it, gifts from Naian, were massive and beautifully winged, their coats so white they seemed to glow. Their hooves barely touched the ground, as if they floated on an unseen current of air, their folded wings twitching with restrained power.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  King Permeus sat atop the chariot, his posture regal, effortless. His light-brown curls bounced with each movement. His blue eyes swept over the crowd.

  Beside him, Queen Imara was a study in contrasts—her pale skin like polished marble against Permeus’s sun-kissed warmth. Between them sat their twin daughters, five years old and already draped in miniature versions of royal regalia. The girls waved with rehearsed enthusiasm, their small hands fluttering like captured birds.

  The crowd erupted somewhat in joy but were most likely more surprised to see him than they were grateful for his arrival. The titans dropped to their knees, bowing before their lord. Greta remembered a time when Permeus would have caused the entire ground to shake with cries of adoration and love.

  Nowadays, everyone took to him so formally. It hardly even felt like he was their Origin at all. At least that is what Great could fathom. Hearing Germaine’s stories of other realms he was in contact with, an Origin’s arrival was still something divine. There was nothing divine about Permeus’ visits, though. Everyone bowed to him out of gratitude for his creating them and the land they lived on, but he was so absent from his own people that they had believed he had stopped caring, and well so had they.

  Gone were Greta, shrieks of love and adoration, replaced by simple bows and of respect, which in all truth very few of the titans had either. All the titans knelt, nonetheless. Germaine, like Greta, knelt as well, but she noted his expression and did not like it that much. He crossed his arms. His face shifted to a mask of stoic neutrality. But Greta saw the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers dug into his biceps. He was angry and rightfully so. Sadly, he had no right to complain and, as of now, no route.

  Permeus descended from the chariot with the grace of a performer as he always did, his every movement calculated for maximum effect. The wooden platform—built by Germaine’s own hands, just in case the king actually deigned to visit—awaited him. The stage was supposed to act as a place from which Permeus could watch the harvest, but seeing the speed he was walking for it and in the style he was doing it as well, it seemed Permeus was more ready to hand a speech than supervise

  Nothings changed there

  Though she could not help but feel bad for Germaine, whose doubts of their king arriving to do any serious work were only being confirmed before his eyes.

  Permeus stepped onto the stage, raising his hands, motioning for the crowd to fall silent.

  “My beloved people!” he began. “One hundred years ago, my siblings and I shaped this world from the void. We forged realms, imposed order, breathed life into where it did not exist!”

  The titans roared at hearing that, though not all that loudly. All the while Germaine’s jaw clenched.

  “As you know, today is the first day of our famous Mystia harvest,” Permeus began.

  Greta would have liked to point out that it was in fact the third day of the harvest but would not disrespect her king in front of a crowd that already hardly respected him.

  “Now in truth, I did not have any plans to come attend this today since you, my honored subjects, accomplished the task swimmingly without me. But this year my little ones desired to watch,” Permeus said, pointing to his two five-year-olds.

  “We will thus stay a while and supervise, but I really do not mean to intrude on anything you have already going in here such that you can preserve the already set harmony,” He added

  “But I must simply remind all of you that since it is harvest season, that means that the meeting of the Origins council is soon and we must prepare duly to meet and welcome other Origins as we are the hosts this year...just like every year” Permeus elaborated but said the last part with more sadness than enthusiasm.

  “I simply expect you to ply in the harvest and in preparations,” he said. “Now return to your work as you were and remember that I and my family appreciate your service.”

  Applause after a Permeus speech were once deafening but now almost inaudible as the titans rose to their feet and walked away.

  Germaine rose as well, but he remained still. Greta’s Hand found his arm, her fingers pressing gently.

  He didn’t even notice.

  He wasn’t even looking at her or anywhere else for that matter. Permeus held his complete attention. It hurt him. He had been here the entire morning, hopefully waiting for Permeus to arrive and help their harvest, only for him to treat it as a payday for his daughters.

  As Permeus descended, he, and the rest of the royal family melted into the crowd. Germaine’s gaze followed, though not appreciatively. The king moved through the titans like a sun among stars, bestowing smiles, clasping hands. His daughters mimicked him, their small faces alight with practiced charm.

  “He doesn’t know the weight of a harvest.” Germaine said to himself.

  “He does,” Greta answered painfully. “He just does not care”

  “He is not even trying,” Germaine continued to complain to himself

  “Look at him,” the titan added. “He is not even trying”

  She didn’t answer.

  The workers had returned to their labor, letting Permeus and the rest of the royal family return to the stage, where Permeus manifested them seats from white flame, from which Permeus and his wife sat upon while the girls went to adventure through the fields.

  Germaine watched it all, his mind already leagues away—past the speeches, past the spectacle. Greta understood as much as anyone else; true leadership wasn’t about grand gestures you perform before everyone you lead when they are assembled in front of you. It was about showing up when the crowds were gone and being someone they aspired to follow.

  Greta could respect Permeus as her Origin but could never imagine respecting him as a leader. She wasn’t even sure he ever could be.