The Last Artisan

King Minos and his trusted architect, Jato, descended the steep steps to the hidden royal tomb. The horses of the marauding army were dangerously near, their thundering hooves rupturing the stillness of the summer darkness. A full moon shone above but the men carried torches, for the path inside was as black as the deepest night. A strong breeze rustled the folds of their long dark robes. They stood for a brief moment outside the stone entrance that had been cleverly concealed to resemble a wall of rocks. The king sighed, for his heart had never been heavier in all his years of imperial rule.

"It's time to face the gods of destiny," he said sadly, as the two men squeezed inside the narrow opening one at a time. The door cracked back into place. "We can wait no longer, Jato. The Empire is lost."

The older man nodded dutifully, for there was too much at stake to disagree with the king and arouse his suspicions.

"I must reward you before the armored soldiers find my treasure. Come."

Jato followed cautiously behind.

They walked in silence, the torches' wavering light casting grotesque shadows upon the dank walls lining the narrow corridor. They stopped when the flames from a thousand torches came into view. Soon, they too would flicker and die with the kingdom of Moria.

"You have made this great mausoleum, Jato. Your hands and your skill and your brains alone. You should always be proud."