At the heart of Tyrosh stands a magnificent palace of dazzling colors.
The entire structure rises like a colossal reef fortress from the deep sea, built from countless massive slabs of sturdy gray-white marble.
Each stone, meticulously polished, gleams with a bright, radiant luster.
The people of Tyrosh are obsessed with color.
At the palace's corners, lintels, and bases, master craftsmen have set mother-of-pearl, deep lapis lazuli, and shimmering stained glass, like treasures left behind by frozen waves.
It is not only the Archon's bedchamber and seat of power, but also the crystallization of Tyrosh's oceanic soul.
Within the vast main hall, the ruler of Tyrosh was now consumed by the storm of the Stepstones.
The Archon, past fifty, was short and stout, his bloated body nearly swallowing the great chair beneath him, a throne in all but name.
Its frame was dark hardwood, sheathed in priceless silk and velvet, soft as a cloud.
But he did not enjoy its luxury alone.
Several young, alluring mistresses lounged against him like languid cats, pearl-bright nails grazing his lavish robes, their warm breath laced with cloying sweetness brushing his ears.
Yet the Archon's thoughts were far from these pleasures.
His astonishingly thick hair and beard, dyed a striking azure blue, quivered beneath his furrowed brow.
His eyes, hard as sapphires iced over, swept across the officials bickering below.
Beneath soaring domes and columns inlaid with mother-of-pearl and colored glass, the advisers in their brocade robes quarreled fiercely, flushed and red-faced, over whether Tyrosh should now intervene in the turmoil of the Stepstones.
The clamor echoed across the polished serpentine floor, its surface carved with krakens and ships and softened with thick Myrish carpets.
"Enough!"
The Archon's roar cracked like thunder, silencing the chamber at once.
He seized a heavy silver goblet at his side and hurled it down.
It struck the rich Myrish carpet with a dull thud, bouncing and rolling until it lay still, its carved seahorse glinting in the wavering candlelight.
A maid in a sheer silk gown glided forward, gracefully lifting the cup and swiftly replacing it upon the ebony table inlaid with ivory and mother-of-pearl with a fresh, equally lavish goblet for her enraged lord.
The hall fell deathly still, broken only by the slow curl of costly incense smoke rising from the censer.
Gazing at his silenced advisers, the Archon's fury threatened to spill over.
At that moment, the palace's great bronze doors—gilded and carved with the sigil of the Three-Headed God—swung open. A figure strode inside.
He was stocky, but most striking was his wild, seaweed-like mane of green hair and beard.
"My dear brother, where have you been?"
The Archon's scowl gave way at once to joy. His bulky frame even leaned forward. "The gods bless your timely arrival! Quickly, give me counsel! That Eastern upstart who appeared from nowhere in the Stepstones has nearly devoured all the pirate dens, and now his blades are pointed at Tyrosh's very gates. How should we respond?"
His voice brimmed with reliance.
Though the Archon ruled Tyrosh, since his rise to power he had drowned himself in wine and women, leaving governance to a sprawling bureaucracy of officials.
But his green-bearded brother remained his most trusted adviser, always by his side with counsel.
A maid swiftly brought over a chair draped in bright green velvet, no less sumptuous than the Archon's own.
Greenbeard sat with unruffled composure, taking a silver goblet from another maid. It brimmed with crystal-clear pear brandy, its crisp, fruity fragrance rising into the air.
He drank leisurely, savoring the mellow taste on his tongue before speaking. "I've just escaped another tedious farce. That Beggar King held yet another of his ridiculous 'court banquets.' By the gods, the place was worse than the cheapest brothel in our port. A few merchants—who knows where they crawled from—hawked their wares, and they dare call it a 'Restoration Council'? The so-called banquet offered sour wine, bread hard as stone, and the dancing 'ladies of the court' reeked of dockside perfume."
His contempt rang out unmasked, echoing through the vast hall.
On any other day, the Archon of Tyrosh might have joined his green-bearded brother in mocking that beggar king.
But now, all his thoughts were burdened with the Stepstones.
Greenbeard noticed the Archon's troubled expression and shifted the subject, his voice low and steady.
"My lord need not worry. Though that Easterner has seized many islands, he's made no move against Spearhandle Village, which remains under Tyrosh's control. I was just there a few days ago. His men placed several large orders, and thanks to him, our coffers are overflowing."
The Archon rubbed his plump fingers in unease, making Bluebeard's beard twitch.
"I fear this Easterner may one day set his sights on Tyrosh."
"Set his sights?" Greenbeard let out a short laugh, a sly smile curling his lips. "By the Three-Headed God, he'll never have the time or the nerve. Don't forget, his biggest problem right now is Salladhor Saan. That old fox has rallied the remaining pirates of the Narrow Sea to face him head-on. Nearly a hundred ships armed with heavy crossbows alone—enough to give the Easterner hell."
The Archon sucked in a sharp breath, then frowned in realization.
"By the gods, how could Salladhor muster such strength... You mean the Lysene have stepped in personally?"
"Exactly."
Greenbeard chuckled darkly, his eyes glittering with calculation. "That foreigner knows nothing of the Stepstones. We Tyroshi rule the northern chain, while Lys props up that old octopus Salladhor to hold the western reefs. This golden waterway is the lifeblood of the Free Cities. If he wages war on Salladhor, he makes an enemy of Lys itself. It's suicide."
The Archon still looked uneasy.
"But... what if Salladhor loses?"
Greenbeard's smile hardened, cold and cruel. "Then we'll let those arrogant Easterners taste the might of the Tyroshi fleet. If war truly comes, aside from our unmatched paddle-sail warships, we can throw gold at it—hire every sellsail fleet plying the Narrow Sea. Gold, after all, is something we have in abundance."
He added the words with weight.
At last, the Archon's taut nerves eased. His heavy body sank into the soft cushions, his mistress curling into his embrace.
"Very well, very well... Let the Easterners and the Lysene fight to the death. We'll reap the spoils."
Greenbeard's gaze lingered on the Archon and his mistress, a flicker of contempt crossing his eyes.
"Best if they both bleed themselves dry, leaving corpses piled high. Then..."
His voice dropped to a whisper, like the hiss of a sea serpent.
"The entire sea will bow beneath the banner of Tyrosh."
His eyes passed over the Archon's vacant gaze, already fixed on his mistress's full bosom, leaving only cold disdain in his heart.