The statues stood, tall, like gallaioths—stone titans that dwarfed the columns and gates they guarded. Their arms were crossed over chests carved to look as if armored in eternal warplate.
Heads were held high and straight, chins angled as if they were forever about to speak an order that could send legions to die. Eyes stared outward with a gaze that seemed to tell you to go to war and never return until victory was carved into the bones of your enemies.
And yet… they looked older than that command.
The age was in the hairline cracks running from crown to chin, in the way the pupils—chiselled black stone—were ever so slightly clouded. It was the same feeling as the times during the war in the Dreaming, when the spirit of the GUIDE took Atlas whole and let him see with the weight of centuries. These statues felt like they had once burned with purpose… and now endured only because they didn't know how to fall.
