Overview:

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Ser Cerulean Arlentis and his mount, Cielo, a white winged pony, journey to the waters where Atlantis is said to have sunk, following the map’s directions. Protected by a divine force field, the pair dive to the bottom of the sea and discover Atlantis, miraculously restored to its former glory by a mystical force. Cerulean and Cielo marvel at the city’s breathtaking blend of classical elegance and advanced architecture. They encounter a living statue of Plato before following a magical bubble deeper into the ancient metropolis. In an upper chamber, they witness animated statues depicting three Egyptian priests revealing the original location of Atlantis to Solon. The two then enter a vast hall containing a room-sized panoramic model of Atlantis, showcasing its concentric islands and intricate canal system. They are startled when water suddenly floods the chamber, rising to waist height around the capital’s miniature landscape. Continuing onward, Cerulean and Cielo arrive at a magnificent three-part tableau of living statues portraying the history and culture of Atlantis. The scenes depict the kingdom’s abundant precious stones and metals, its extraordinary wildlife, and the Atlanteans’ devotion to the gods alongside their compassion and charity toward the poor.

Cielo_finds_sunken_city.sav

My cube warps mid-yawn, and I’m suddenly staring at ocean instead of ceiling. Seven mountains, seven rivers, apparently crossed off-screen while I wasn’t looking, because that’s just how sim continuity works when the writer’s in a hurry. I don’t complain. I’ve learned to roll with these jump cuts.

Cerulean rides low over the water on Cielo’s back, silver-and-gold armor catching the last orange light of the day, that ridiculous flowing white cape snapping behind him like he’s auditioning for a shampoo commercial. Cielo’s wings beat slow, controlled, each stroke throwing a fine mist that beads on Topher’s pauldrons. Nobody told him he’d need floaties for this quest. Good thing his ride comes with built-in ones.

They drop altitude fast. Cielo’s hooves skim the shoreline once, twice, then plant in wet sand, and Topher swings off in one clean motion, cape settling around his boots like it rehearsed the landing. He crouches, unrolling the map Hades slipped him back in the Underworld, weighting the curling edges with two fists.

I lean forward in my seat, even though nobody’s ever going to see me do it.

The parchment’s practically fossilized, ink faded to rust, but the coastline sketched across it matches the one stretching behind Topher almost line for line. His eyes track from paper to horizon and back, jaw tightening.

“This has to be it,” he mutters, more to the wind than to anyone. “The sea where Atlantis sank.”

Cielo noses his shoulder, patient, the way a dog waits for its human to catch up on something obvious.

“But how are we supposed to dive in?” Topher says, and okay, fair question. Paladins aren’t exactly built for deep-sea work. No gills last time I checked his character sheet.

Cielo answers by turning, stamping once, and angling his body low, wing outstretched like a knight offering a bow. It’s not subtle. Even I catch the hint, and I’ve got zero stakes in this.

Topher huffs a laugh, quiet, the kind that escapes before he decides whether the situation deserves it. “I trust you, buddy.”

He climbs up, boots finding the same worn grooves in Cielo’s flank they’ve used a hundred times now. There’s something steady in that motion. Not flashy. Just familiar, the kind of routine you only build with someone who’s already saved your life more than once.

Cielo bolts.

Sand kicks up behind them in a spray, hooves hammering the shoreline before the ground runs out and the sea takes over. Right as the first wave should’ve swallowed them whole, wings snap open, wide and blazing white, and a shell of light closes around both rider and horse. Water slaps the barrier and just slides off, hissing, useless. Topher grins at it like he’s watching fireworks from the good seats.

They punch through the surface. I watch the world outside the shield twist from orange sky to blue-black murk in about two seconds flat, sound muffling into that thick underwater hush. Inside the bubble, everything stays warm, dry, tinted faintly gold, like they’re riding through a lava lamp instead of the Mediterranean.

Cielo dives. Down, down, past schools of startled fish that scatter like they’ve never seen a horse do this before, which, fair, they probably haven’t.

Then the seabed opens up beneath them, and there it is.

Towers. Rooftops. Whole streets, coated in centuries of silt and coral, arranged in a spiral that still, somehow, looks intentional. Dead, but not forgotten. Not yet, anyway.

I don’t say anything for a second. Neither does Topher.

Some places don’t need commentary.

Palace_beneath_the_waves.sav

Cielo eases down through the water like he’s landing on a pillow instead of centuries-old rubble, wings folding tight, hooves settling soundless on cracked marble. I’ve watched a lot of dramatic entrances in my time. This one’s got range.

Cerulean slides off, boots touching down in a small puff of disturbed silt, and does the smart thing before doing anything else, conjuring his own personal bubble, smaller than the one that got them here, hugging close to his armor like a second skin. Cielo trots a few steps behind him, staying near, ears swiveling like satellite dishes picking up a signal only he can hear.

Topher walks deeper into the ruin. Columns lie broken around him, some snapped clean at the base, others still standing at odd, stubborn angles, refusing to fall even after all this time. Barnacles crust the stone. A school of pale fish threads through what used to be a doorway. It’s beautiful in the way abandoned places always are, quiet, a little sad, the kind of quiet that makes you talk in a whisper even when nobody’s around to hear you.

Then the floor lights up.

Color blooms from the marble itself, sky blue bleeding into gold, spinning outward in slow, deliberate rings like someone dropped a coin into still water and the ripples decided to glow. Topher freezes mid-step. Cielo’s head snaps up, nostrils flaring, wings twitching halfway open in that reflexive way animals get when their gut says move, but curiosity wins out and he stays put.

The light climbs. Wraps around them both. And the ruin doesn’t just brighten, it rebuilds itself, stone knitting back together, cracks sealing, dust and coral peeling away like a rewind button got smashed somewhere behind the scenes.

I sit forward. Whatever’s running this simulation just showed off, and I respect the flex.

When the glow settles, they’re not standing in ruins anymore.

They’re standing inside a palace. Whole. Untouched. Ceilings arch overhead in white stone, water gone, replaced by air that Topher’s chest plate registers before his brain does, a small telltale shift in his shoulders as the pressure changes. He glances down at the shimmer coating his gauntlets and taps two fingers against the barrier.

“It’s okay, buddy,” he says, voice steady but soft, the kind of tone you use on a spooked animal or a little sibling after a nightmare. “We can breathe here.”

Cielo lets his own shield drop first. Cerulean follows half a second later, and the light dissolves around them both, leaving nothing but ordinary, breathable air and the faint echo of their footsteps against marble that’s been dry, apparently, for exactly zero seconds.

I’d pinch myself if I had anything to pinch.

The room stretches out in every direction, white walls carved with patterns so precise they look drawn by a compass rather than a hand, spirals interlocking with straight lines in a rhythm that never quite repeats but never breaks either. Whoever built this place had opinions about symmetry and enough time to enforce them. Columns rise on either side of the hall, taller than anything Topher’s cathedral back home could brag about, gold veins running through white stone like the whole building got dipped in something expensive before it hardened.

Statues line the walls. Busts with faces worn smooth by time but still holding expressions, some proud, some solemn, one weirdly smug in a way that makes me wonder what he did to earn that look carved into him forever. Murals stretch across the upper walls, faded but legible, showing figures riding waves, holding tridents, bowing before something too large to fully fit in the frame.

Cielo’s hooves click against the floor as he walks, head tilted up at the ceiling like a tourist who forgot his neck gets tired. Topher moves slower, hand trailing along one column, fingers catching on grooves worn into the stone by hands that turned to dust a long, long time ago.

Nobody talks for a while. Honestly, good. Some places earn the silence.

They keep walking, past columns, past statues with their permanent judgmental stares, deeper into a palace built for something Topher probably hasn’t puzzled out yet, though I’d bet my entire save file he’s already got a guess brewing.

Up ahead, past an archway thick with carved waves and coiling fish, a room waits. Different from the rest, somehow, and I can tell just from the way Topher’s pace slows that he’s noticed it too. Curiosity does that. Pulls you forward even when every horror movie you’ve ever seen is screaming that you probably shouldn’t.

He steps toward it anyway.

Talking_statue_cuts_off.sav 

The room past the archway is smaller than the foyer, but somehow feels bigger, the kind of space that makes you lower your voice on instinct. A single statue stands at the center, lit from somewhere I can’t place, an old man carved in white stone, robe draped in careful folds, beard flowing like he’s mid-sneeze in a wind tunnel. He’s got a scroll in one hand, a quill in the other, frozen in that pose people strike when they’re thinking really hard about something and want everyone to know it.

Topher tilts his head, studying the guy’s face. “Could that be Plato or Aristotle?”

Solid guess, honestly. History nerd points for Topher.

“It’s like a scene frozen in time,” he adds, glancing at the podium, the scroll, the whole setup. “A moment from history. Like a tableau vivant.”

Cielo neighs, ears pricked, and if a horse could look intrigued, he’s nailing it.

I lean in without actually leaning in, because I don’t have shoulders to lean with, technically. Old habits.

Then the statue blinks.

Not a metaphor. An actual blink, stone eyelids grinding open like a door that hasn’t moved in centuries, and Topher jumps back a full step, hand twitching toward a sword he probably wishes he’d summoned five seconds earlier.

“I’m not Aristotle,” the statue says, voice dry and papery, like it’s been saving up words for a very long time. “I’m Plato. I was a teacher. Aristotle was my student. And, eventually, my colleague.”

Correcting people from beyond the grave. Absolute legend behavior.

“Come, young one,” Plato says, stone hand extending, fingers unfurling one joint at a time like he’s testing whether they still work. “And bring the small horse, too.”

Cielo doesn’t need to be told twice. He clops forward, tail flicking, entirely delighted, while Topher edges closer with a lot more caution and a lot less delight.

“I shall tell you a story,” Plato begins, chest rising like he’s about to launch into something epic.

Then he stops. Freezes mid-breath, quill hovering, expression locked back into blank stone.

Topher’s arms fly up. “Oh, sir, don’t leave! You started and then stopped!”

Cielo lets out a low, mournful neigh, nudging the statue’s base like that’ll reboot him. It doesn’t. Some systems just crash and stay crashed, buddy. I feel that on a personal level.

I’m half expecting a loading screen to pop up. Instead, something better does.

A bubble drifts down from the ceiling, small, glowing, the same sky-blue-and-gold swirl that rebuilt this whole palace out of rubble ten minutes ago. It hovers at eye level, spinning lazy circles, patient in a way that feels intentional.

Topher points, eyebrows up. “Wait, what’s that?”

“It seems to be leading us somewhere,” he says, already tracking its slow drift toward the exit.

Smart read. Whatever built this place clearly isn’t done showing off, and honestly, neither am I, because I’ve got zero clue what’s next and I’m loving it.

Cielo doesn’t hesitate. He turns and follows the bubble immediately, hooves clicking a quick rhythm against the marble, leaving Plato exactly where he found him, mid-thought and going nowhere fast. Topher hangs back for one second, glancing over his shoulder at the statue like he owes him a proper goodbye.

He doesn’t get one. The bubble picks up speed.

“Guess story time’s later,” he mutters, jogging to catch up with Cielo, cape snapping behind him as they clear the archway and leave the frozen philosopher to his silence.

I settle back into nothing, watching the corridor swallow them both.

Whatever’s waiting past that door better be worth the interruption.

Doors_open_on_their_own.sav

The bubble leads us down a corridor lined with more archways, and I say “us” loosely, since Cerulean’s the one with legs and I’m just the guy riding shotgun in a simulation cube several thousand miles from actual danger. Story of my life, really. Front row seat, zero stakes, infinite popcorn. 

The next room hits different the second they walk in. More statues. Three lined up on the left wall, one standing solo on the right, all robed, all frozen mid-gesture like someone hit pause on a documentary reenactment.

Cerulean slows down, scanning left to right. “More statues,” he mutters. Then, glancing at Cielo, “Do these ones also move and talk? What do you think, buddy?”

Cielo tilts his head, ears swiveling, and lets out a low, uncertain neigh. Relatable. Neither of us knows either.

Then the voice kicks in, smooth and unhurried, echoing off marble I’m starting to suspect is basically load-bearing for this entire haunted museum. “Egyptian priests, in robes, meeting with the lawmaker Solon from Athens.”

Cerulean’s head snaps toward the ceiling, then the wall trim, searching. “Is that a voiceover?” He squints. “It sounds like Plato.” 

Called it. Ghost narrator recognizes ghost narrator energy. We should form a support group. Weekly meetings, mandatory snacks, zero physical interaction with the plot allowed.

The statues shift. Robes ripple like fabric catching a breeze that shouldn’t exist indoors, stone hands loosen from their poses, and four ancient men blink into motion at once, way more unsettling in stereo than Plato solo ever was.

One of the priests, older-looking, deep grooves carved into his stone face like actual wrinkles someone bothered to sculpt, turns toward the lone figure on the right. “Son, nine thousand years ago, before you were born, there was an island called Atlantis. It was larger than Asia Minor and Libya combined, lying just beyond the Pillars of Hercules.”

The man on the right, Solon, judging by the toga and the very Athenian posture, straightens up like he just got hit with information his brain refuses to file properly. “Really?” His stone eyebrows practically climb his forehead. “I find it hard to believe that such an island, Atlantis, truly existed.”

Big mood, Solon. I’ve been staring at magic ghost hologram tech for weeks and I still side-eye half of it.

Cielo neighs, sharp and insistent, nudging Cerulean’s arm with his nose, then pointing his whole head toward the left wall like a dog that spotted a squirrel. Cerulean follows his gaze, and the mural there ripples, colors bleeding and reshaping themselves in real time, ink crawling across stone like it’s alive.

It resolves into a coastline. Massive. Sprawling far wider than anything I’d expect from a single island, hugging a strip of blue water labeled, in looping ancient script, the Pillars of Hercules.

Cerulean steps closer, studying it, jaw tight in concentration. “That’s different from the map we have,” he says slowly, working it out loud. “Ours shows the location of Atlantis’ ruins. Across seven mountains and seven rivers.” He glances between the mural and the memory of the map tucked at his hip. “This mural shows its position on land. Back when it was still above the surface.” 

Good catch. Before and after shots. Real estate listing from nine thousand years ago versus the current, significantly soggier situation.

Neither priest nor Solon reacts to Cerulean pointing this out, still locked in their own conversation loop, gesturing at each other with the kind of stiff, formal energy you’d expect from guys who’ve been rehearsing the same historical beat for literal millennia. It’s honestly a little sad, watching them stuck mid-sentence forever, same words, same gestures, no ending in sight. 

I don’t say that part out loud. Nobody would hear me anyway.

The bubble reappears, drifting past the priests without so much as acknowledging their existence, and floats toward a staircase at the far end of the hall, wide, marble, flanked by more of those gold-veined columns that this entire palace apparently can’t get enough of. It hovers at the base, spinning once like it’s waiting for permission.

Cerulean takes the hint. “Come on,” he tells Cielo, already moving.

Cielo follows without hesitation, hooves clicking against each step in a rhythm that somehow stays perfectly even despite him having, you know, hooves and not feet built for stairs. Maybe that’s a magic horse perk. Add it to the list.

They climb together, the priests’ murmured conversation fading behind them, swallowed by distance and marble and whatever acoustic trickery this place runs on. At the top, the corridor opens onto a landing, and there, waiting dead center, stand a pair of doors taller than anything reasonable, gold trim etched into deep, swirling patterns that catch light from nowhere in particular.

The bubble drifts up to meet them; and pauses, hovering right at the seam between the two doors like it’s knocking on Cerulean’s behalf.

Cerulean stops a few feet back. Cielo presses close against his side, wings tucked but tense, both of them staring up at doors that are clearly built for something bigger than a teenage paladin and his horse. 

Nobody says anything for a second.

Then the doors move.

No creak, no groan, nothing dramatic, just a smooth, silent swing inward, like they’ve been oiled every day for nine thousand years and someone actually kept up the maintenance schedule. Light spills out from whatever’s on the other side, warm and gold, catching the edge of Cerulean’s armor first. 

He glances at Cielo. Cielo glances back.

And they step inside together.

I don’t know what’s waiting in there. For once, that’s not me being dramatic. I genuinely don’t. This sim doesn’t hand out spoilers, and honestly, I wouldn’t want them anyway.

Some rooms you just have to watch unfold.

Central_island_floods_gently.sav

The room past the doors makes the last one look like a broom closet. It stretches out huge, easily two or three rooms mashed into one, ceiling arching so high I half expect a chandelier the size of a small moon. Every wall wraps in a single panorama, floor to ceiling, showing something I recognize immediately from way too many late nights reading about lost civilizations instead of sleeping like a normal person.

Rings. Circle within circle, blue water separating each one, like someone dropped a stone into a pond and decided to freeze the ripples forever.

“Atlantis was vast,” Plato’s voice says, drifting from everywhere and nowhere, same dry, patient tone as before, “made up of concentric islands separated by wide moats.”

Cerulean steps forward onto a walkway that splits straight down the middle of the panorama, an aisle cutting clean through painted rings and painted water like the room itself decided to hand him a shortcut. Cielo follows close, hooves tapping soft against stone that, from this angle, makes it look like he’s trotting straight across open ocean.

“At the center stood the capital city of Atlantis,” Plato continues, voice swelling slightly, the way narrators do when they know the good part’s coming.

A beat. Then, quieter, almost an afterthought: “A canal connected directly to the heart of the city.”

Cerulean’s steps slow. I can practically see the gears turning behind his visor, connecting dots he’s clearly proud of connecting.

“So we just walked across the grand canal to reach the capital,” he says, glancing down at the aisle beneath his boots. “Like the primary canal in Venice.”

Nice callback. Points for remembering his own field trip.

He keeps moving, head tilting up at the sweeping rings surrounding them on every wall, awe creeping into his voice in a way he doesn’t bother hiding. “I feel like a giant,” he murmurs, “overlooking Atlantis. Moving down its levels toward the capital.”

Then, immediately, the wonder deflates a notch. “But it’s a shame this is just a room-sized panorama.” He frowns, glancing side to side. “I miss the moving statues. And the warping mural.”

Same, honestly. Once you’ve seen ghost philosophers blink awake mid-lecture, regular wallpaper feels like a downgrade. Even fancy, historically accurate wallpaper.

Cielo’s ears flick, unimpressed by philosophical critique, more interested in whatever’s up ahead.

That’s when the water hits.

No warning, no dramatic buildup, just a sudden rush pouring straight out of the painted moats on the walls, spilling across the floor and climbing fast, past Cerulean’s boots, past his knees, settling somewhere around his waist before it levels off. Cielo shifts his stance, adjusting to the new depth without much concern, apparently unbothered by physics deciding to misbehave inside a museum.

Cerulean lets out a startled laugh, arms lifting slightly out of the water like he’s bracing for it to keep rising and it just… doesn’t. “Whoa,” he says, grinning now, all traces of complaint gone. He splashes one hand across the surface, sending ripples chasing outward. “Okay, that’s actually kind of awesome.”

I lean forward without meaning to. Sue me, I’ve been stuck watching sim footage of monster fights and grieving teenagers for weeks. A twelve-year-old accidentally discovering an indoor swimming pool built by a lost civilization is basically a vacation for my eyeballs.

“That was fun,” Cerulean announces, turning to Cielo, water lapping gently around them both. “Literally cool and refreshing.” He wipes a damp hand across his forehead, grin widening. “Now I feel like going for a swim in a pool.”

Cielo neighs, tossing his head, wings giving one small flutter like he’s seconding the motion. Vote’s unanimous, apparently.

They stand together at the edge of the central island, water settled calm around them, watching the painted rings stretch outward on every wall, level after level curving away into a horizon that isn’t really there but somehow still convinces your brain it is. The canal, the one they just technically walked, floods clean through the middle of the display, ending right where they’re standing, delivering exactly the surprise irrigation system nobody asked for and everybody, apparently, secretly wanted.

I sit with that for a second. Somewhere out there, actual Atlantis probably looked a lot like this, if you trust old Plato’s word for it, which, given current circumstances, I kind of have to. Concentric rings, water threading through every level, a capital tucked dead center like the whole island got built around one very important secret.

Made me wonder what that secret actually was. Made me wonder, too, if figuring it out is part of why this map led here in the first place.

Cerulean doesn’t seem in a rush to find out yet. He’s still grinning, splashing lightly at the water like any regular kid would, momentarily forgetting the whole ancient-lost-civilization backdrop in favor of just enjoying being cool and wet on a day that started off soaked in mystery and armor.

Cielo nudges his shoulder, patient, waiting for the next move.

Somewhere past the flooded panorama, past the rings and the moat and the quiet, echoing hum of Plato’s voice fading into silence, something’s still waiting. I can feel it, the way you feel a boss fight looming two rooms ahead in a game you’ve played a hundred times.

For now, though, they’ve earned the splash.

Three_act_marble_tableau.sav

The water drains out as fast as it came, sinking back into the painted moats like someone hit rewind on the whole flood, and Cerulean’s boots hit dry stone again with a wet slap that echoes way louder than it should. He wrings out one gauntlet, mutters something about his cape needing a spin cycle, and keeps walking toward the next archway with Cielo trailing a half-step behind, mane still dripping.

The room beyond opens up wide, statues clustered in loose groups across the floor instead of lined up neat against the walls like the last set. Different vibe entirely. Less museum, more diorama, the kind you’d build for a school project if your school had an unlimited marble budget and a grudge against modern building codes.

“The lush islands contained gold, silver, and other precious metals,” Plato says, voice settling into the room like background music nobody asked for but everybody appreciates anyway.

Cue the left corner. A cluster of miners snaps to life, mid-motion, hauling carts stacked with glinting ore, chatting over each other in overlapping bursts I can’t fully untangle, laughter threading through half the sentences. They look genuinely happy about it too, no grim underground misery, just guys who found the ancient equivalent of winning the lottery and can’t stop talking about it.

Cerulean watches, arms crossed, a small grin tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Guess digging for gold used to come with better morale,” he says, mostly to himself.

Then the right corner picks up the baton.

“There was also an abundance of rare, exotic wildlife,” Plato continues.

Trees that had been standing stiff as, well, statues, start swaying, branches dipping like a breeze rolled through despite there being zero actual wind source anywhere in this sealed underwater palace. Physics has officially left the chat. Shrubs rustle at the base. And then the animals kick in, four-legged, oddly proportioned things that don’t map cleanly onto anything I’d expect from an ancient Greek zoo brochure.

One barks, sharp and clear, like a dog that skipped leg day and got extra everywhere else. Another lets out a low, rumbling purr, stretched long across its whole body. A third throws its head back and howls, drawn out and mournful, cutting through the room in a way that raises the hair on my nonexistent arms. Up in the branches, a small bird chirps away, cheerful and completely unbothered by the fact that its neighbors sound like a stitched-together nature documentary.

“The animal sounds are a great touch to this living tableau,” Cerulean says, tilting his head, genuinely impressed.

Cielo neighs, loud and proud, throwing his own voice into the mix like he’s been waiting all day for an excuse to join a chorus. The bird’s chirping stutters for half a second, like even it wasn’t expecting a horse to audition.

I’d laugh if laughing did anything for me besides pass the time. It does pass the time, though, so, credit where it’s due.

They drift past both corners toward the center of the room, where the third set waits, quiet, patient, arranged different from the other two. Not a single crowded scene this time. Two halves, split clean down an invisible line, facing each other like a coin about to decide which side gets to talk first.

“Most importantly,” Plato says, and something in his tone shifts, slower now, weightier, “the Atlanteans were a spiritual and moral people.”

The left half moves first. Figures kneel in rows, heads bowed, hands folded, robes pooling around them on the marble. At the front, a priest lifts both arms, mouth moving in a hymn I can’t quite make out the words to, though the melody carries a low, steady hum that fills the space anyway. Nobody rushes it. The whole scene holds a kind of stillness even while it’s technically moving, if that makes sense. It kind of doesn’t, but it’s the best way I’ve got to describe it.

Then it freezes. Mid-note, mid-bow, exactly like Plato did back in the first room.

The right half wakes up to take its turn.

Different scene entirely. Atlanteans move through what looks like a street, alms passed hand to hand, coins and bread and folded cloth pressed into the palms of figures kneeling at the roadside, worn robes hanging loose off thin shoulders. Nobody in the scene looks rushed or performative about it either, no dramatic spotlight moment, just people doing the thing quietly, over and over, like it’s routine instead of an event.

Cerulean watches both halves in silence for a moment, something unreadable crossing his face, and I don’t push a guess on what he’s thinking. Not my business, honestly, even if I’ve got a front-row seat to it.

Topher finally exhales, glancing around the room now that everything’s gone still again, statues locked back into their poses, mid-gesture, mid-hymn, mid-kindness, waiting for someone to hit play a second time.

“This three-act tableau is quite impressive,” he says, voice quieter than before, almost thoughtful.

Cielo shuffles closer, pressing his shoulder lightly against Cerulean’s side, no comment necessary, just there.

I sit with the quiet for a beat longer than I probably need to. Gold. Wildlife. Kindness. Guess that’s the highlight reel some ancient civilization wanted remembered about itself, assuming Plato’s not just curating the good parts and skipping the messier stuff nobody bothered carving into marble.

Wouldn’t be the first time history got the edited version.

Either way, three rooms down. I’ve got a feeling this palace isn’t done showing off yet.