The King disappeared without fanfare.
One heartbeat, he stood above them, a looming presence over the council. The next, he was gone, vanished as if he had never been there at all. Even to Zeke's senses, there wasn't the faintest fluctuation, not the slightest hint that magic had been used.
It was a display of power only fellow Space Mages could appreciate.
Zeke lowered his gaze from the empty throne.
So that was it.
In the end, King Midas chose to retreat. It was decisive, as expected from the King of Merchants. The moment Sheol's letter had appeared, Midas had not hesitated to cut his losses and sever all ties to this ordeal.
Yet Zeke was certain that all of this had been orchestrated by none other than the King himself.
The subtle manipulation of the rules. The sudden advancement of the hearing date. The meticulously crafted obstacles—all of it had been his doing. A noose set around Zeke's neck, waiting to tighten the moment he stumbled.
And now, Midas had fled.
Not retreated. Fled.
It was outright surrender.
The realization should have brought satisfaction.
It didn't.
Instead, a hollow unease bloomed in his chest, like a chord struck without resolution, hanging in the air, vibrating just beyond his grasp. His brow furrowed, the weight of it pressing harder with each passing second.
There had been something else hidden in the King's voice. A note buried beneath the iron decree, beneath the mantle of authority he had worn so flawlessly.
Relief.
Zeke's mind had caught it like a barb snagging on frayed cloth.
Relief.
It made no sense.
Midas, relieved that his own trap had failed? That the hammer he had crafted so carefully had not found its mark?
Or perhaps... relieved that it had?
The thought twisted through Zeke's mind like smoke, impossible to grasp fully. He had the distinct feeling there was more to all of this, a play unfolding on a stage he could not see.
It was an infuriating feeling.
But now was not the time to chase shadows.
He smothered the question beneath cold discipline, pushing it down, burying it where it could not distract him. There would be time to exhume it later, when the council's eyes were no longer upon him.
The present demanded his attention.
Zeke swept his gaze across the council chamber.
The Lords sat rooted in place, their bodies rigid, their faces drained of color. Fear hung heavy in the room, thick enough to choke on. The Speaker, clinging to the ancient parchment like a drowning man to a scrap of wood, seemed smaller now, as if the weight of what had transpired pressed physically upon him.
It reminded Zeke once more that these merchants, though shrewd, were not as familiar with the concept of death as warriors. To see one of their own fall to Sheol's magic must have rattled them.
It was almost amusing.
These movers and shakers, who dictated the economy of the entire continent, so afraid of death. Meanwhile, every one of their pen strokes decided the lives and deaths of thousands. It was a paradox, to see them so far removed from the consequences of their actions that a single corpse could unsettle them.
He swept his gaze over them, seeing the fear and uncertainty in many of their eyes. A feeling of contempt rose from deep within him.
It was pathetic.
And then, as if summoned by the iron pull of ritual, the Speaker stirred.
Slowly, he turned toward Zeke.
When the man spoke, his voice was strained, each word scraped from a throat grown dry with fear, but it held. Because in this city, law endured even when courage faltered.
"Ezekiel of Tradespire, having satisfied all three requirements of the charter, is hereby recognized as a Merchant Lord of Tradespire."
The words echoed hollowly through the chamber, but Zeke barely listened. His mind had already raced ahead, calculating his next move.
The Speaker continued, reciting from memory, clearly very familiar with the laws of the city, probably second only to Zeke himself:
"As a Merchant Lord, you are entitled to all rights and privileges afforded by the Council. These include: unrestricted, priority access to the teleportation network for all members of your House; the right to maintain residence within the Second Circle; the right to attend, speak, and vote at all sessions of the Council; and the right, if you so choose, to claim a formal House name under the laws of Tradespire."
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It was that last right that drew Zeke's full attention.
The right to form a House.
The very moment he had come across this section in the laws, he had known exactly what he would do. What his first act as a Lord would be.
It was time to reclaim what belonged to him—by right, by tradition, and now, also by law.
He stepped forward, the click of his boots against the marble floor the only sound in the chamber.
"I would like to exercise my right to establish a House," he said, his voice calm, threading through the brittle air.
The Speaker clutched onto the familiar words like a lifeline, slowly regaining his poise. "You are entitled to petition for a House name, provided it passes the verification of the Knowledge Keeper and—"
"No need for that," Zeke interrupted gently, a faint smile brushing across his lips. "I have already chosen."
He could feel the Lords tense, the air thickening with the unspoken knowledge that whatever came next would not pass quietly. They were right. This would not go over well, but whatever protests these paper-pushers had, he would see this matter through.
Right here. Right now.
He stood tall, shoulders squared, heart steady.
The words left his mouth like a blade drawn across the still air.
"I declare my House to bear the name von Hohenheim," he said, each syllable deliberate. "From this day forth, I shall be known as Ezekiel von Hohenheim."
"…Once more," he added quietly in his mind.
The silence that followed was profound and absolute.
Zeke watched their faces shift—surprise, outrage, disbelief—as the name tore through their carefully built illusions of control.
The Empire's stolen narrative, the lies they had wrapped around Maximilian's legacy like chains of shame, shattered here and now with a single statement.
Maximilian's name would live again.
Not in the Empire's twisted version.
But in truth.
And in blood.
And he would be the one to carry it forward.
Then, the silence shattered.
"You cannot!" a Lord roared, slamming his palm against the table hard enough to send a silver goblet clattering across the marble floor.
Another voice rose, sharp and frantic.
"We won't stand for this!"
"The House of von Hohenheim already stands under Arkanheim's banner!"
"The audacity!"
"To claim it here is a provocation!"
"You endanger the very neutrality of Tradespire!"
The chamber erupted into chaos. Dozens of voices overlapped, accusations flying thick as arrows.
Zeke remained motionless, letting their outrage wash over him like a storm over stone.
The Speaker's staff cracked thrice against the floor, each strike like a gunshot through the hall.
"Enough!" the Speaker commanded, his voice cutting through the uproar like a blade. "Silence!"
The shouting dwindled to a resentful, simmering hush. But the tension remained, a living thing thrumming under every breath.
The Speaker turned toward Zeke, his face etched with the weight of a man balancing on the edge of a knife.
"Lord Ezekiel," he said carefully, "while it is not unheard of for Houses sharing the same name to exist independently across sovereign states, it is rare. Particularly when the name in question carries such... heavy history."
He hesitated, a flicker of something behind his eyes.
"You have fulfilled the letter of the law," the Speaker continued, "but I urge you: let the past lie. Choose another name. Forge something new. Something untouched by bitterness and blood."
Zeke's lips twitched—not in amusement, but in contempt barely masked.
These men.
These Lords.
They spoke of peace. They spoke of neutrality, but their every word reeked of something else.
Fear.
Fear of offending the powerful. Fear of consequences. Fear of disturbing the status quo.
Their world had been built on compromise and cowardice for so long that even the scent of defiance sent them scrambling.
Zeke stepped forward, his boots clicking sharply against the stone.
"You lot," he said, his voice quiet, almost conversational. "You were so eager to question my loyalty. Dwarves. Elves. Beasts." He let the words hang like a noose. "And now look at you. No masks left. No shame left. Barking at the first tug of your master's chains."
Several lords stiffened, but none dared respond.
"So what if Arkanheim claims my name?" Zeke continued, his voice sharpening. "You are not here to defend the Empire. You are Lords of Tradespire. Try to act like it. At least while you're at court."
There was no response.
Their outburst had stripped their masks away. Something like this would never have happened had Lord Fies still been alive. But with their leader gone, the faction was like a boat without a rudder, everyone acting according to their whims.
The result was predictable: the more hot-headed members had shown their true colors at the worst possible moment. Such a display was hard to defend, even by the more moderate voices.
Zeke turned next to the so-called neutrals—those who prided themselves on floating above conflict.
"If this council trembles at the thought of tension," Zeke said, voice darkening, "then it is not neutrality you uphold. It is servitude."
Some shifted in their seats, faces flushing or paling under the weight of his words.
"You speak of preserving peace," he pressed on, "but peace born of fear is no peace at all. Neutrality means strength. Independence. Not cowardice disguised as wisdom."
Finally, his gaze returned to the Speaker, and when he spoke next, it was with the searing conviction of something carved into bedrock.
"…As for the name I have chosen," he said, his voice sharpening like a drawn blade, "it was mine before it was ever stolen by Arkanheim's puppet courts. It was stripped away not by justice, but by political convenience."
The council stared, pinned by the cold flame burning in his golden eyes.
"I am not the pretender," he said, each word ringing like a death knell. "I am the rightful heir."
And nothing in this world would ever change that.
"Let me be very clear," he said, voice hard. "This is not up for debate, and I do not ask for your permission, endorsement, or even support. I am merely informing you of my decision. My House will be named Von Hohenheim."
The chamber fell utterly still.
No one spoke.
"If you do this," the Speaker said after a moment of silence, his tone resigned, apparently realizing he could not dissuade Zeke no matter what, "the Empire will not take this lying down."
Zeke nodded. "I expect nothing else."
The Speaker stared at him for a long moment before letting out a defeated sigh.
"The laws of Tradespire protect you, to an extent. But beyond that, you will be on your own to bear the weight of the fallout. I cannot imagine that the newly designated heir will be pleased."
"…Azra von Hohenheim, was it?" Zeke said, his expression hardening. "A former pupil of Maximilian."
The Speaker nodded. "Your declaration could be seen as an indirect challenge to his legitimacy."
Zeke grinned. "I would certainly hope so, because that is very much what I intended. But if I have not been clear enough, I might as well make sure there are no misunderstandings. This man, Azra, is a fraud, a fake successor, and a disgrace to my mentor's legacy."
A murmur rippled through the rows of Lords. Clearly, they were unaccustomed to such bluntness, to hearing a position stated so directly that no room for interpretation remained.
Well, they had better get used to it.
"I, Ezekiel von Hohenheim, direct and only appointed heir to Maximilian Bombastus von Hohenheim, openly challenge the legitimacy of the pretender Azra. If he takes offense at my words, then he knows where to find me."
Zeke's expression turned as cold as ice when he spoke his next words. "If that bastard wants my title, he better take it from my cold, dead hands, because that is the only way I will ever give it up."