The Monastery · The Observatory
Mikhail arrived at the door of the monastery's observatory with a look of concern. This observatory was one of the legacies inherited from the ancient era of the monastery; in olden times, monks would observe the stars and use the changes in the constellations to predict the weather.
After decades of decline and the loss of talent, the observatory had been slowly abandoned. The astronomical telescope, crafted with the sweat and wisdom of many artisans, had gathered dust until Perturabo took charge of the facility.
Perturabo seemed to possess boundless energy. While forging weapons for various factions, he developed a keen interest in the Kislevite night sky. Upon learning from Mikhail that the monastery housed a nearly derelict observatory, he personally cleaned the tower and repaired the long-neglected telescope.
He eventually moved out of his dormitory in the main monastery and into the observatory, where he continued his inventions and creations.
What worried Mikhail was his foster son's apparent obsession with the stars. There were periods of several days where Perturabo remained shut inside his quarters in the tower, and Mikhail did not see him at all.
This strange behavior troubled Mikhail. Today, the old priest carried a lantern to meet his apprentice. As a man of the cloth, he felt it was his duty to check for any abnormalities, lest the boy was delving into some anti-divine heresy. This was his responsibility as a clergyman.
At the same time, driven by a father's concern for his son, Mikhail wanted to know what was happening to Perturabo and why he had refused to see him for days. With these thoughts, he knocked gently on Perturabo's door.
"Abo, it is Mikhail. You haven't appeared for days, and I am worried about you."
"May I come in to see you, Abo?"
Mikhail asked tentatively, hoping for a response. There was no reply, but he noticed that the door was not locked.
The old priest realized then that Perturabo surely heard him the moment he arrived at the door. Like his mind, his senses were far more acute than those of a mortal. Mikhail should have known this after years of living together, yet he had forgotten it in his haste.
Realizing that Perturabo had not locked the door against his foster father, Mikhail emboldened himself and walked in. He was certain that his superhuman son did not object to his presence.
Mikhail passed through the gaps in the roof trusses and entered the open space in the middle of the observatory, marveled by what he saw.
Perturabo had laid sturdy wooden flooring over the exposed beams of the tower and installed bookshelves, desks, and a large bed that matched his superhuman stature. For such a meticulous being, his study was a wonder of organized chaos.
Meticulously drawn design scrolls were piled in messy heaps, stained with rings from wine glasses and ink splashes from recent projects. Astonishingly complex models sat on the floor alongside abandoned plates and forgotten jars of food. Language books shared space with long treatises on architecture, mathematics, astronomy, and history—all written in Perturabo's elegant handwriting. Drawings of fantastical machines and cityscapes lay scattered on the ground.
Stunned by the chaotic state of the room and the sheer volume of knowledge contained within the books and drawings, Mikhail held his breath, fearing his voice might disturb Perturabo.
He stepped carefully through the clutter to reach Perturabo's side. Then, the old priest spoke softly, his voice full of concern for his massive foster son.
"Abo, what are you doing? Haven't you been busy providing weapons for the Kislevite lords?"
"Mind you, it is thanks to you. If not for the weapons you sell, we wouldn't have so much money to hire so many people to work. This ancient monastery has seen a revival because of you."
Mikhail's words were not mere empty flattery; they were a sincere description of the facts. The monastery had indeed amassed great wealth through the arms trade Perturabo had initiated, and the demands Perturabo placed on the lords had brought a hard-won peace to the surrounding area.
Faced with Mikhail's concern, Perturabo did not reply directly. He continued to write and draw on the parchment before him, seemingly immersed in his own world.
Mikhail noticed a drawing on the floor and picked it up. It depicted some kind of armored war vehicle. The design looked impressive, though its practicality was questionable to a layman; however, Mikhail did not doubt for a second that Perturabo could make it a reality. The variety of Perturabo's work was vast. The breadth of his knowledge was both shocking and frightening.
This was one of the reasons Mikhail firmly believed his foster son was a messenger of God; such depth and range of knowledge were not things a mortal could easily achieve.
"My goodness... if those lords saw this drawing, they would unhesitatingly offer the wealth and lands of an entire province just to have you build this creation," Mikhail said, holding the drawing with both hands, hoping to catch his apprentice's attention.
Finally, Perturabo turned his head, his expression grim as he looked at his foster father.
"Yes. I have no doubt they would pay a great price for this design and the machine it records. But I am unwilling to give it to them," Perturabo muttered with dissatisfaction, leaning back over his scrolls. His steel-tipped pen moved across the thick paper without making a single error. Mikhail moved to stand behind him; the boy's broad shoulders tensed as if hoping the priest would leave, but he said nothing and continued his drafting.
The old priest watched in amazement as a magnificent building took shape under the boy's nimble fingers. Despite having seen countless displays of wisdom from the child he raised, Perturabo's ability to draw a complete theater sketch in one go still exceeded his imagination.
"Is this a theater? I have seen such buildings... it is truly... magnificent..."
Even as a well-traveled clergyman, Mikhail could not help but marvel at the sketch.
"This is what I truly wish to do. I want to design and build facilities for the people of Kislev to improve their lives."
"But those lords... they prefer I design war machines like that one, not theaters. If they knew I had this capability, they would demand it of me." Perturabo's face was filled with sorrow.
"Abo, didn't you say you wished to change all of Kislev? Perhaps the land of Kislev calls for you—the chosen one, the messenger of God—to spread justice as Jesus Christ spread the gospel."
Sensing Perturabo's anxiety and pain, Mikhail did not know what else to say. He reached out and patted his apprentice's shoulder in a supportive gesture, using the tone characteristic of a clergyman.
"Mikhail, do you believe it? My father... he will come for me one day." Perturabo looked at his foster father and sighed softly.
"How do you know?"
Mikhail was surprised by such a startling statement.
"I just know. He is coming, and it won't be long now. I must begin my work; I cannot let him down."
Faced with his mentor's inquiry, Perturabo offered only this reply.