The summons arrived the following morning, delivered by a stern-faced City Guard whose nervousness was almost palpable beneath his polished helmet. It was a formal scroll, sealed with the dual sigil of the Aethelburg City Lords and the Magisterium High Council – a griffin clutching a lightning bolt, side-by-side with an open eye surrounded by arcane runes. Impressive, for mortals. The parchment itself felt… pretentious, thick and embossed, trying too hard to convey importance.
The summons requested – or rather, demanded – my presence at the Citadel Spire, the administrative and magical heart of Aethelburg, at the hour of high sun. "For a matter of civic security and arcane inquiry," it stated loftily. I had to suppress a smile. "Arcane inquiry" indeed. They were about to inquire into something so far beyond their "arcane" that their entire understanding of the word would need to be rewritten.
My rented room felt particularly small and mundane that morning. The lingering scent of the bakery downstairs – cinnamon and yeast – was a stark contrast to the weight of cosmic import I carried within my unassuming form. I dressed in my usual simple, dark clothing. No point in trying to impress them with finery. My very existence was statement enough, whether they understood it or not.
The Citadel Spire dominated Aethelburg's skyline, a needle of black obsidian and grey granite that seemed to pierce the heavens. Its architecture was a blend of imposing martial strength and intricate magical design, glowing runes pulsing faintly along its buttresses. As I approached, the ambient magical field grew noticeably denser, a web of wards and protective enchantments woven over centuries. They were powerful, by mortal standards. To me, they felt like cobwebs, easily brushed aside, but I respected their intent, their diligent effort to protect their small domain.
Two heavily armored Citadel Sentinels, their halberds gleaming, flanked the massive bronze doors. Their gazes, hidden behind visored helms, were fixed on me with unnerving intensity. They didn't speak, merely stepped aside with a synchronized, metallic clang, allowing me entry. The air inside was cool, echoing with the hushed sounds of officialdom.
Captain Elara Vayne was waiting for me in the antechamber, looking even more strained than she had in the Archives. She wore her dress uniform, the griffin sigil gleaming on her breastplate, but the circles under her eyes were darker.
"Zero," she said, her voice low and tight. "They're waiting. The full Council and the triumvirate of City Lords." She gestured down a long, imposing corridor lined with stern-faced portraits of past leaders (many of whom I vaguely recalled as minor nuisances in their time). "Try not to… antagonize them. They're already on edge."
"Antagonism is rarely my primary objective, Captain," I replied, my tone mild. "I merely respond to the stimuli provided."
She sighed, a sound of profound weariness. "Just… be careful. Magister Thorne has been… vocal. His theories about you are… unsettling to the more conservative members."
"Theories often are, especially when they challenge comfortable illusions," I mused.
We walked in silence, the click of her armored boots echoing beside my softer footfalls. The corridor opened into a vast, circular chamber, the Obsidian Conclave. High above, a domed ceiling of enchanted glass showed the clear blue sky, bathing the room in natural light. Around a massive, circular table of polished black obsidian sat the leaders of Aethelburg.
There were three City Lords: Lord Marius Vancroft, an older, stout man with a florid face, shrewd eyes, and an air of pragmatic authority, his fingers drumming impatiently on the table; Lady Aris Thorne (Valerius's elder sister, I noted with interest, the family resemblance clear in her sharp features and piercing gaze, though her aura was one of cold, calculating political power rather than arcane obsession), her silver hair immaculately coiffed, her expression unreadable; and Duke Regulus Stonehand, a powerfully built man with a weathered face and a blunt, no-nonsense demeanor, his arms crossed over his broad chest.
Opposite them sat the High Council of the Magisterium: Arch-Magus Estrilda, an ancient woman whose eyes, though clouded with age, still held a formidable spark of intellect and arcane power, her gnarled hands resting on a staff of living wood; High Enchanter Boromir, a younger, more flamboyant mage with meticulously styled hair and robes that shimmered with embedded enchantments, looking rather nervous; and, of course, Magister Valerius Thorne, his dark robes stark against the obsidian, his gaze fixed on me with that familiar, unnerving intensity. He looked like he hadn't slept, his eyes burning with a feverish light.
Elara announced my presence, "Lord Vancroft, Lady Thorne, Duke Stonehand. Arch-Magus Estrilda, High Councilors. This is Zero."
A heavy silence descended as all eyes focused on me. It was a palpable pressure, a combination of fear, suspicion, curiosity, and the sheer weight of their combined authority. They were accustomed to being the most powerful individuals in any room. My presence clearly disrupted that comfortable dynamic.
Lord Vancroft spoke first, his voice a gravelly baritone. "So. This is the… individual… who has caused such a stir in our city." He didn't rise. His gaze was appraising, like a merchant inspecting an unusual, potentially dangerous piece of livestock. "You have no surname, Zero? No place of origin?"
"Names are labels, Lord Vancroft," I replied, my voice calm and even, easily filling the large chamber without being raised. "And origins can be… complex. Suffice to say, I am here." I remained standing, making no move to approach the table. I preferred to observe them from a slight distance.
Lady Aris Thorne's voice, cool and precise, cut in. "Indeed you are. And in your short time here, you have been present at two… highly anomalous events. The disappearance of a known necromancer and the incapacitation of three advanced Magisterium automatons. Events that, by all accounts, defy conventional explanation."
"Conventional explanations often fall short when faced with unconventional circumstances, Lady Thorne," I said.
It was Arch-Magus Estrilda who spoke next, her voice surprisingly strong despite her age, raspy like dry leaves. "Young man, or whatever you may be. My colleague, Magister Thorne, has presented us with… theories. Theories that suggest you wield a power that is not of this world, perhaps not even of this plane of existence. He speaks of localized reality distortions, of an understanding of arcane and mechanical principles that surpasses our most advanced knowledge. Are these claims accurate?"
All eyes were on me. Thorne, I noted, was leaning forward, almost vibrating with anticipation. He wanted validation. He wanted to see me confirm his wild, terrifying hypotheses.
I met the Arch-Magus's gaze. Her ancient eyes held a wisdom that transcended mere arcane knowledge, a weariness born of seeing too much folly, too much ambition. "Magister Thorne is… an astute observer, Arch-Magus. He sees patterns where others see only chaos. As for the nature of my… abilities… let us say that I have a broad understanding of how things work. And sometimes, a gentle nudge in the right place can achieve significant results."
"A gentle nudge?" Duke Stonehand snorted, his voice a deep rumble. "Making a sorcerer vanish into thin air and disabling armored constructs with what appears to be little more than a wave of your hand? That's more than a 'gentle nudge,' boy. That's power. Power we don't understand. And power we don't understand is a threat." His hand rested on the pommel of a massive, unadorned sword at his belt.
"Threat is a matter of intent, Duke Stonehand," I replied, my gaze unwavering. "Has my intent, thus far, been threatening? I recall saving lives in the marketplace. I recall preventing further destruction in the Archives. My actions, if judged objectively, have been beneficial to Aethelburg."
"Beneficial so far," Lord Vancroft interjected, his fingers drumming faster. "But what are your motives, Zero? Why are you here? What do you want? Everyone wants something."
"Perhaps I want nothing more than to observe," I said. "To experience. This world, this city, its people… they are… interesting."
High Enchanter Boromir, who had been fidgeting nervously, finally spoke, his voice a little too high-pitched. "Observe? Like a scholar? But the power… Magister Thorne suggests… suggests you could unmake us all with a whim! That you are… a Creator-level entity! That's… that's blasphemy! Madness!" He looked around for support, but the others were too focused on me.
Ah, Thorne had been very vocal indeed. He was dangerously close to the truth, though his mortal mind could only frame it in terms of "Creator-level entity" – a pale shadow of the actuality.
Valerius Thorne himself finally spoke, his voice low, intense, almost reverent despite the undercurrent of terror. "It is not madness, Councilor Boromir, if the evidence supports it. The complete erasure of Vorlag, leaving no psychic residue, no ethereal echo… the precise, almost surgical disabling of the constructs, exploiting vulnerabilities known only to their creator… the subtle but undeniable warping of localized probability… These are not the actions of a mere mage, however powerful. These are hallmarks of something… primal. Something that defines the rules, rather than merely follows them." His dark eyes bored into me. "Tell them, Zero. Tell them what you are. Or at least, give them a glimpse, so they understand the folly of treating you as just another arcane anomaly to be cataloged and controlled."
He was pushing me, trying to force my hand. Perhaps he believed that a demonstration of my true nature would cow them into leaving me alone. Or perhaps, his scientific curiosity outweighed his self-preservation, and he simply needed to see more.
The chamber was silent, the tension thick enough to cut with one of my mundane knives. The City Lords and Magisters looked from Thorne to me, their expressions a mixture of skepticism, fear, and dawning horror at the implications of Thorne's words.
I let the silence stretch for a moment, observing them. Their fear, their ambition, their petty power struggles, all laid bare before me. They were like ants scurrying in a jar, convinced their tiny world was the entirety of existence.
Then, I spoke. My voice didn't change in volume, but it seemed to resonate deeper, to fill the chamber not with sound, but with an undeniable, ancient presence. The subtle pressure I sometimes allowed to leak from my being intensified, just a fraction. The light from the domed ceiling seemed to dim almost imperceptibly, the shadows in the corners of the room deepening. The glowing runes on the Citadel walls flickered, their light momentarily wavering as if in the face of a far greater, older magic.
"Magister Thorne possesses a keen intellect," I began, my gaze sweeping over each of them, "but he, like all of you, operates within a… limited framework of understanding."
I raised my hand, palm open. Not in a threatening gesture, but as if displaying something. The air above my palm shimmered. For an infinitesimal moment, a miniature galaxy, swirling with nascent stars and nebulae of impossible colors, coalesced into being, no larger than a child's marble. It pulsed with an inner light, radiating a power so immense, so ancient, that it dwarfed every ward, every enchantment, every iota of magical energy within the Citadel, within the entire city. The Arch-Magus gasped, her ancient eyes widening in disbelief. High Enchanter Boromir made a choking sound and slumped back in his chair, his face ashen. Lord Vancroft's drumming fingers stilled, his jaw slack. Lady Aris's cool composure finally cracked, a flicker of genuine terror in her eyes. Duke Stonehand's hand, which had been on his sword, slowly, almost unconsciously, moved away from it. Elara, standing by the entrance, looked like she might faint.
Even Valerius Thorne, who had perhaps expected something grand, seemed utterly overwhelmed, his face pale, his breath catching in his throat. The reality of what he was witnessing was clearly far beyond even his most outlandish theories.
The miniature galaxy hovered for a beat, a silent testament to a power that could create and unmake universes with equal ease. Then, with another thought from me, it dissolved back into nothingness, leaving no trace, no lingering energy, only the stunned, horrified silence of the occupants of the Obsidian Conclave.
"You speak of Creator-level entities," I continued, my voice now imbued with that subtle, chilling resonance that hinted at the vastness behind the mortal guise. "You seek to categorize me, to understand me through the lens of your myths and legends." I gave a small, almost sad smile. "Imagine, if you will, an artist who has painted a masterpiece so vast, so intricate, that it encompasses all you know and all you could ever conceive. And then, imagine that artist choosing to step into his own painting, to walk amongst his creations, not as a god to be worshipped or a demon to be feared, but simply as an observer, a participant, seeking perhaps a new perspective, or merely a moment of… respite."
I let my gaze rest on each of them in turn. "I am that artist. This universe, this world, you yourselves… you are all part of that masterpiece."
The silence that followed was absolute. It was the silence of minds utterly shattered, of realities irrevocably broken. The concept was too vast, too terrifying for them to truly grasp, yet the demonstration with the miniature galaxy had lent it a horrifying, undeniable veracity.
Arch-Magus Estrilda was the first to find her voice, though it was a mere whisper, frail and trembling. "So… it is true. The First Cause… incarnate." Her ancient eyes, filled with a mixture of ultimate terror and ultimate awe, looked upon me as if seeing the face of creation itself. "What… what do you want from us, then, Oh Architect?" The term "Architect" was new. It fit.
"Want?" I echoed, the cosmic resonance in my voice fading slightly, returning to a more human cadence. "I have already told you. I seek nothing more than to experience. To observe. My presence here is not a prelude to judgment, nor an omen of destruction, unless you, in your fear and misunderstanding, choose to provoke such an outcome." I paused, letting that sink in. "I desire only to be left in peace, to pursue my… quiet life. The incidents that have brought me to your attention were not of my seeking. I merely reacted to disruptions."
Lord Vancroft, his face pale and sweaty, finally spoke, his voice hoarse. "Peace? How can there be peace when… when this walks among us?" He gestured vaguely at me, at the empty air where the galaxy had been. "The power you wield… it's a sword of Damocles over all our heads!"
"Every power, Lord Vancroft, is a sword of Damocles if wielded unwisely or with malicious intent," I replied. "I have demonstrated no such intent. Indeed, my interventions have been, as your Captain Vayne attested, beneficial."
Lady Aris Thorne, her composure slowly returning, though her eyes still held a shadow of that profound shock, spoke with a new, cautious respect. "If what you say is true, 'Architect'… then your continued anonymity is paramount. If your true nature were widely known… it would shatter society. Religions would crumble. Chaos would ensue."
"Precisely, Lady Thorne," I agreed. "Which is why this conversation, and the knowledge of what you have witnessed here, must remain within these walls. My desire for a 'quiet life' is not merely a personal preference; it is a matter of… cosmic stability, on a local scale."
Duke Stonehand, ever the pragmatist, grunted. "So, you want us to just… ignore you? Pretend you're just another commoner, while knowing you could unmake the sun with a sneeze?"
"Not ignore, Duke," I corrected gently. "Simply… allow. Allow me my anonymity. Allow me my observations. In return, I shall continue to be… a discreet resident of your city. And should genuine threats arise that are beyond your capacity to handle…" I let the implication hang in the air.
A long silence followed as they absorbed this. The obsidian gaze of authority, which had been so fiercely directed at me, was now turned inward, grappling with an impossible truth and an equally impossible proposition.
Finally, Arch-Magus Estrilda nodded slowly, her ancient eyes holding a new, profound understanding. "A pact, then. Of silence, and… non-interference. We will not seek to understand what is beyond our grasp. We will not seek to control what is uncontrollable." She looked at the City Lords. "This is the only sane course. To provoke… this… would be the end of Aethelburg, perhaps the end of all things."
Lord Vancroft, looking considerably older and more beaten than when I had entered, nodded heavily. "Agreed. For the sake of the city… silence." Lady Aris inclined her head in assent, her expression thoughtful, calculating the new political realities this revelation entailed. Duke Stonehand, after a moment, gave a curt, reluctant nod.
Even Valerius Thorne, who had instigated this, seemed to understand the gravity of the situation. The feverish curiosity in his eyes was now tempered with a deep, soul-shaking awe and a dawning comprehension of the precipice he had almost pushed them all over. He nodded slowly, his gaze on the floor. He had his "new data," and it was infinitely more terrifying and magnificent than he could have ever imagined.
"Then we have an understanding," I said, my voice now completely devoid of any otherworldly resonance, back to the calm, unassuming tone of Zero. "I shall take my leave. I trust Captain Vayne can show me out."
I turned and walked towards the exit, Elara Vayne falling into step beside me, her face pale but her expression unreadable. As we left the Obsidian Conclave, I could feel the collective weight of their shattered worldviews, their dawning terror, and their reluctant acceptance of a reality that had just been fundamentally, irrevocably altered.
The obsidian gaze of authority had met something far older, far more absolute. And for now, at least, it had blinked. My "quiet life" was still a distant dream, but perhaps, just perhaps, I had bought myself a reprieve from overt scrutiny. The question now was, how long would such a fragile understanding last in a world so prone to chaos and the folly of mortals? And what new "interesting" events would my continued presence inevitably attract? The universe, it seemed, was determined to keep its Creator entertained.