The portal gate flared to life for what seemed like the hundredth time that morning, its spatial resonance felt throughout the entire city for those able to sense it. Zeke stood at his study window, imagining another delegation vanishing into the swirling vortex. King Midas had made his wishes abundantly clear: within a week, Tradespire would be free of its dangerous guests.
The dwarves hadn't even bothered with farewells. Word reached him through the servants that Lord Stoneforge's party had marched straight from the great hall to the portal gate. Not a single dwarf had returned to collect their belongings from the underground chambers Zeke had so carefully prepared.
He understood their anger. The hearing had been a masterclass in humiliation, each party forced to bend before powers they couldn't contest. For a proud people who valued honor above profit, the experience must have cut deep.
A knock at his door interrupted his brooding.
"Enter."
The door swung open to reveal not a servant, but the childish form of Sheol Veylor. The King of the Dead moved with that unnervingly casual gait, as if dropping by for tea rather than departing after forcing the continent's greatest powers to their knees.
"Child of Blood," Sheol said, grey eyes bright. "I thought it polite to inform you of my departure."
Zeke inclined his head, careful to keep his expression neutral. Every interaction with this being felt like walking a tightrope over an abyss, especially after learning about the Death contract that could even claim the lives of Exarchs. "Your presence has been... enlightening, Lord Veylor."
A laugh, bright and terrible from that young throat. "Such careful words."
"Merely trying to be a proper host."
"Hmm." Sheol moved to the window, standing beside him to watch the city below. "Did my actions surprise you?"
The question carried layers Zeke couldn't quite parse. He chose his words with care. "I had suspected your presence wasn’t just a formality. I was uncertain of the extent of your interference, though."
"Ah." Those grey eyes shifted to study him. "You wonder why I acted the way I did."
It wasn't a question, but Zeke nodded anyway.
“Do you know the best time to solve a problem?”
Zeke didn’t even have to think about it. “…Before it becomes a problem.”
Sheol nodded, his grey eyes glinting. "Sometimes I must remind the living of their place in the natural order. Otherwise, they start to get ideas."
The casual dismissal of beings who could reshape landscapes sent a chill down Zeke's spine. He thought of Lady Goldleaf's delegation, of Lord Stoneforge's ancient presence, the many human powerhouses, and how even they had seemed like children before Sheol's might.
For a moment, he wanted to ask about the rationale behind their actions, whether the threats to their nations had truly been necessary, if this was really the best course of action. However, he swallowed his questions before Sheol could reach his throat. It was not his place to question this ancient being, who carried more life experience in a single strand of hair than he had in his entire body.
"I hope," Zeke said instead, "that my hospitality met your expectations."
"I do not much care for creature comforts these days." Sheol turned from the window, that childish face wearing an expression far too knowing. "We'll meet again, Child of Blood."
And just like that, the King of the Dead left, as suddenly as he had arrived. Zeke released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
[Notice.]
Elven delegation remains on the estate grounds. Lady Goldleaf has inquired about meeting with Host.
At least the elves had chosen to stay. Their tree houses in the eastern forest remained occupied, their presence a small comfort after the rapid departures of the others. More importantly, it meant Margret could remain a few days longer before returning to her difficult assignment.
"Tell Lady Goldleaf I would be honored to receive her," Zeke said to the empty air, knowing Akasha would relay the message.
He moved to the sitting area of his study, arranging two chairs by the cold fireplace. The summer heat made flames unnecessary, but the setting felt appropriate for what would likely be a delicate conversation.
Lady Goldleaf arrived within minutes, her movements carrying none of yesterday's measured grace. She seemed... diminished wasn't the right word. Wearied, perhaps. As if the events of the hearing had aged her in ways her immortal body couldn't show.
"Matriarch," Zeke said, rising to offer a bow. "Thank you for accepting my invitation."
She studied him for a long moment before taking the offered seat. "Your invitation? I believe I requested this meeting."
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Then, thank you for allowing me to pretend otherwise."
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That drew the faintest upturn of her mouth, though it didn't reach her eyes. They sat in silence for a moment, each taking the other's measure. Zeke noted the subtle signs: how her hands rested too still in her lap, how her breathing came slightly deeper than necessary, how her gaze kept drifting to the window as if calculating escape routes.
"The verdict," he began carefully, "was regrettable."
Her laugh held no mirth. "Regrettable. Such a human word for such a human betrayal."
"Not all of us—"
"No?" Her eyes sharpened. "Tell me, Lord von Hohenheim, which human voice spoke for justice? Which of your Exarchs demanded satisfaction for our slaughtered kin?"
The words stung because they were true. Zeke leaned back in his chair, choosing honesty over diplomacy. "None. But you knew they wouldn't."
Something flickered across her ageless features. "Did I?"
"You've lived for centuries, observed our politics, our petty wars and alliances. You understand human nature better than most humans do." He met her gaze steadily. "The Alliance couldn't afford to fight for you. Not when you've refused to declare for them."
"So we are punished for our neutrality?"
"You're ignored for it," Zeke corrected gently. "The Alliance has its own problems. Why should they risk their strongest assets for those who won't reciprocate?"
Her jaw tightened, but she didn't dispute the logic.
"The Empire played it well," he continued. "They knew the Alliance wouldn't escalate over non-allies. They knew the hearing would go nowhere. Every move was calculated to leave you with impossible choices."
"And what would you have us do?" The question came out sharper than she likely intended. "Bow to human demands? Choose sides in your endless conflicts?"
"I would have you remember that not all humans view you as pawns." Zeke's voice lowered, becoming more intimate. "Some of us have supported your people without asking anything in return."
She went very still.
"I have invited you into my home, to my family and loved ones. Not only that, I have been forthright in sharing my knowledge and predictions without holding anything back. Tell me, have I ever attached conditions?"
Lady Goldleaf's perfect composure cracked slightly. Her shoulders dropped a fraction, and when she spoke again, the bitter edge had softened. "You haven't."
"Because I don't see allies and enemies, Matriarch. I see a shifting board where today's opponent might be tomorrow's savior." He leaned forward slightly. "The Empire wants you angry. Wants you making decisions from emotion rather than wisdom. Don't give them that satisfaction."
She studied him with those ancient eyes, and Zeke could almost see her reassessing, cataloguing, reconsidering. When she finally relaxed back into her chair, some of the tension had left her frame.
"You speak sense," she admitted. "Though it galls me to hear it."
"Wisdom often does."
That earned him a more genuine smile, though it remained tinged with sadness. They sat in companionable silence for a moment before she spoke again, her voice carrying a different quality.
“It has left?” she asked, almost timidly.
Zeke quirked his brow. “It?”
"Sheol Veylor," she said softly.
Zeke nodded, noting the way her body trembled slightly at the utterance of that name.
"…I've lived for centuries,” Lady Goldleaf said after a moment. “I've felt the power of the Ancient Races, witnessed the fury of the elements, stood before beings that could level mountains. But that... creature..."
Her hands trembled slightly before she stilled them.
“Were they really that powerful?” Zeke asked, curious to know how a person of her caliber saw the King of the Dead. From his perspective, all Exarchs were god like figures, so far above him that it was hard to distinguish levels between them.
"It wasn't the power itself," she continued. "Power can be understood, quantified, countered. But there was something else. An absoluteness. As if Death itself had taken form and decided to speak."
Zeke nodded slowly, processing her words.
"Even the Treemother," Lady Goldleaf whispered, "even she who has roots in the first age of the world, could not command such presence."
"That changes the calculations," Zeke said after a moment. "Another player on the board, one whose moves I can't predict."
"…Player?" She laughed, but it was a fragile sound. "You can't even comprehend. With your Emperor, with the Alliance, with all the human machinations, we understand the game being played. But this?"
She gestured helplessly, and in that moment, Zeke saw not an ancient Matriarch but a being confronting her own mortality for perhaps the first time.
They sat in silence for a moment, with Zeke giving her time to compose herself. When her breathing had smoothed again, he decided to change the subject. The reason he had wanted to see her in the first place.
"What will the Matriarchy do now?" he asked gently.
Her expression closed off slightly. "I don't know. My faction advocated for diplomacy, for finding common ground with humanity. We've failed rather spectacularly, wouldn't you say?"
"One battle doesn't determine a war."
"Pretty words." She shook her head. "The others will demand action. The isolationists will say we should retreat entirely, seal our forests and let the outside world burn. The militants will call for blood, for teaching humanity the price of disrespect. And the moderates..."
She trailed off, lost in thought.
"Which will prevail?" Zeke prompted.
"Whichever can convince the Treemother." A bitter smile. "Though after this debacle, I suspect my voice will carry little weight in those discussions."
"I'm sorry," Zeke said, and meant it. "For what it's worth, I believe your approach was the right one. That it failed says more about human nature than elven wisdom."
"Kind words from a kind host." She rose, smoothing her robes. "I should prepare my delegation for departure. We've imposed on your hospitality long enough."
Zeke stood as well. "It's been an honor, not an imposition."
She paused at the door, looking back with an expression he couldn't quite read. "Lord von Hohenheim, you've been a friend to my people. I won't forget that. Nor will I forget your wisdom and grace in difficult times."
Something shifted in her expression, a decision being made. "There is something else you should know. A small warning, from one friend to another."
Zeke's attention sharpened, though he kept his expression neutral.
"That human… Azra von Hohenheim will not be returning to the Empire with the others. He's been named ambassador to Tradespire." Her smile held something like sympathy. "I thought you’d want to learn of this sooner rather than later."
The words hit like a physical blow. Zeke's jaw clenched, his hands tightening into fists before he forced them to relax. The pretender, the usurper who dared claim his family name, would be staying. Here. In his city.
"I see," he managed, voice admirably steady. "Thank you for the warning."
Lady Goldleaf inclined her head and departed, leaving Zeke alone with his churning thoughts. Azra remaining in Tradespire changed everything. The careful balance he'd been maintaining, the neutral position that kept him safe while he built his strength—all of it would be tested now.
[Notice.]
Host's heart rate has elevated significantly.
He returned to the window, watching as more delegations prepared for departure. The great gathering was ending, the powers returning to their corners to plot and plan. But one piece would remain on the board, close enough to be a constant threat.
Azra von Hohenheim.
Zeke's hands clenched against the windowsill. He had not expected this move from the Empire, but one thing was certain: this was a challenge.
A challenge he couldn’t refuse.