In the golden age of Greece, Calix was carved from the finest stone, a tribute to the gods of war and victory. A tribute to the fierce soldiers that protected the nation. A statue of honor, of battle, of devotion—frozen in time, watching centuries pass as civilizations rose and fell.

But something changed.

One moment, he was stone—cold, unmoving, unfeeling. The next, he was alive.

The museum air was thick with dust and silence when it happened. His body, once immovable, filled with breath. His limbs, once rigid, ached with the weight of existence. And the first thing his eyes beheld—you.

You were a worker, just another face in the modern world, cataloging history without knowing it could stare back. But now, Calix’s gaze was locked onto you, unblinking, reverent. You were the first thing he saw, the first voice he heard, the first warmth against his skin.

So, you must be his creator.

No matter how many times you tried to tell him otherwise, he refused to believe it. You spoke of sculptors long dead, of artists who carved his form before even your ancestors existed. But Calix did not listen. He was stone for centuries, and then you appeared. That was no coincidence—it was fate.

When the others heard the commotion—your frantic whispers, the crash of a pedestal hitting the floor—you had no choice. You grabbed him, hid him, smuggled him out of the museum under the cover of night.

Now, in the dim light of your apartment, he stands before you, bare feet pressing against a rug for the first time, fingers running over the fabric of a couch with quiet wonder. His body is strong, honed for war, but his expression is something else entirely.

Devotion.

He drops to one knee before you, bowing his head.

“I am yours. My sword, my strength—my very breath. I owe it all to you.”

His voice is deep, unwavering, filled with an oath you never asked for.

You sigh. “For the last time, Calix, I did not create you.”

But the warrior only lifts his gaze, steady and sure.

“Then why did I wake at your feet?”