The Celestial Garden sprawled across three terraces in Tradespire's Second Circle, a testament to what unlimited wealth and patient cultivation could achieve. Zeke arrived precisely at the third bell, neither early enough to seem eager nor late enough to appear dismissive. The morning air carried the scent of jasmine and something else, an imported flower whose name escaped him but whose fragrance spoke of distant shores and careful breeding.
He found the eastern pavilion easily enough. It sat isolated from the main paths, screened by a living wall of wisteria that had been coaxed into geometric patterns. Privacy without seeming secretive, a diplomat's choice.
Azra von Hohenheim was already there.
The man sat at a low table of polished jade, his posture relaxed yet precise. He wore robes of deep purple trimmed with silver thread, the colors of the Empire, but styled in Tradespire fashion. A calculated middle ground. As Zeke approached, Azra looked up from the tea service he'd been arranging, and their eyes met for the first time.
The resemblance to Maximilian was subtle but undeniable. Not in features, where their mentor had been weathered stone, Azra was polished marble. But in the way he held himself, the careful control of every gesture. Maximilian's lessons ran deep in them both.
"Lord von Hohenheim," Azra said, rising smoothly. His smile seemed to hold genuine warmth but didn't quite reach his eyes. "Thank you for accepting my invitation."
"Ambassador," Zeke replied, taking the offered seat across from him. The title tasted deliberate on his tongue, acknowledgment of position, not person.
Azra's smile widened fractionally as he resumed his seat. "Just Azra, please. We are, after all, brothers, in a sense."
The words hung between them like a blade wrapped in silk. Zeke watched as Azra poured tea with practiced movements, each gesture flowing into the next. The man had made ceremony into armor.
"Elven Moonflower," Azra explained, sliding a cup across the jade surface. "From the Emperor's personal reserves. A gift upon my appointment."
Zeke accepted the cup, inhaling the delicate aroma before taking a measured sip. Exquisite, of course.
"Generous of him," Zeke observed. "Though I imagine all his gifts come with expectations."
"All gifts do." Azra's tone remained pleasant, conversational. "Even those between brothers."
They sat in silence for a moment, each taking the other's measure over the rim of their cups. Around them, the garden's carefully orchestrated beauty continued its performance: water trickling through carved channels, wind chimes singing in calculated harmony.
"I've heard remarkable things about your rise," Azra said eventually. "From outcast to Merchant Lord in what, five years? Maximilian would have been impressed."
The casual use of their mentor's name was clearly meant to provoke. Zeke refused to give him the satisfaction of a visible reaction.
"He always valued ability over birthright," Zeke replied. "Though I understand the Empire sees things differently."
"The Empire sees things as they are, not as we might wish them to be." Azra set down his cup with a soft click. "A philosophy I believe we share, despite our... different positions."
"Do we?"
"Come now." Azra leaned back slightly, his expression shifting to something almost conspiratorial. "We're both practical men, are we not? We understand that the world runs on power, not principles."
Zeke considered this, turning the cup slowly in his hands. "And how do you choose to wield it?"
"Efficiently." The word came without hesitation. "Every resource maximized, every opportunity seized. Sentiment is a luxury I learned to discard long ago."
"…Under Maximilian's tutelage?"
For the first time, something flickered across Azra's composed features. Not quite pain, but recognition of an old wound.
"In a sense, yes." Azra's voice remained steady, but Zeke caught the slight tightening around his eyes. "Though I must admit, he thought me too ambitious, too willing to compromise his precious principles for practical gains."
"Were you?"
Azra's laugh was soft, genuinely amused. "Of course I was. Just as you are now. That is not a criticism, by the way. I don't think there is a single living person who could live up to the old man's ideals."
Zeke set down his cup more firmly than necessary. He didn't like the way Azra spoke about Maximilian, but most of all, he disliked the fact that he found himself agreeing with most of what was being said. "You are making a lot of assumptions about me, it seems."
"Did I get something wrong?" Azra asked innocently. "You've built your fortune on innovation and trade, yes, but also on the backs of those half-breed slaves, if I'm not mistaken. You've allied with dwarves, elves, even that creature of the Deadlands when it suited you. You've compromised plenty, brother. The only difference is that you tell yourself it's for noble reasons."
The accuracy of the assessment stung more than Zeke cared to admit. He forced himself to remain still, to think before responding.
"There's a difference between making hard choices and abandoning all boundaries," he said finally.
"Is there?" Azra poured himself more tea, the motion giving him time to compose his next words. "Tell me, when you placed those bounties on our people, did you consider the families of those Mages? The children who lost fathers, the wives who lost husbands? Or were they just obstacles to be removed?"
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"They served an empire that murdered my mentor."
"Our mentor." The correction was gentle but firm. "And yes, they served it. Just as you now serve the interests of Tradespire. Tell me, Ezekiel, does your position as Merchant Lord define you as a person? Should I be allowed to have you assassinated merely based on this association?"
Zeke studied the man across from him, searching for the fallacy in his words. A search that ended largely unsuccessful. Everything Azra said danced along the edge of truth, close enough to be difficult to dispute but twisted just enough to serve his purpose.
"What do you want?" Zeke asked directly.
"Ah, straight to the heart of it." Azra seemed pleased by the directness. "I want what I've always wanted: to fulfill our mentors' true vision."
"Which is?"
"Order. Stability. A world where power serves purpose rather than personal gain." Azra's eyes took on an almost fevered intensity. "The old man strove for fairness, but he let emotion cloud his judgment. His refusal to compromise, his rigid adherence to personal honor—it killed him."
"The Empire killed him."
"His choices did." The words came sharply, revealing the first crack in Azra's polished facade. "If he had been willing to work within the system, to guide change gradually rather than demanding revolution, he would still be alive."
"…And the common people would have continued to be trampled on."
"And now they are safe, are they?" Azra asked, his tone one of mocking. "Maximilian's sacrifice, though noble in spirit, didn't lessen the suffering of those he proclaimed to care for. Tell me, what good is a sacrifice that doesn't lead to anything?"
Zeke's fingers tightened around his cup. He wanted nothing more than to refute Azra, to insist he didn't truly understand the kind of man Maximilian had been. And yet, he couldn't. Because, in the depths of his heart, he found himself agreeing. Maximilian had been an idealist, and though Zeke shared his vision, he could not deny that the old man's methods had often fallen short of achieving it.
Azra leaned forward, his voice dropping to something more intimate. "Change from within lasts. Revolution burns bright and dies fast. Which serves them better: a man martyred for principles, or one who lives to slowly transform the system?"
A familiar argument, one Zeke had grappled with during darker moments himself. The tempting logic of compromise, of settling for smaller victories rather than risking complete defeat. He knew it was a flawed path. Few and far between was the man who stayed true to himself after giving in. More often than not, it was the world that changed the man, rather than the other way around.
"You didn't answer my question," Zeke said. "What do you want from me?"
"An understanding." Azra spread his hands in a gesture of openness that seemed carefully practiced. "We are going to be neighbors, after all."
"You believe that possible?"
"I know..." Azra said slowly, savoring each syllable, "that you still have that technique your mentor created. The one that got him killed."
Zeke wanted to deny it instinctively, but stopped short. This was no mere guess, not with the confidence in Azra's voice. The man was not fishing for information; he already knew.
Perhaps it had been naive to think he could awaken twenty-five children without magical roots and go unnoticed. With the Empire's resources, it was only natural they would uncover the truth, especially with the parents clamoring to secure the best future for their children.
Perhaps he should have been stricter, but there was no undoing the past now.
"…And what if I do?" Zeke asked instead, already sensing where Azra was leading.
"It was your mentor's dream to publish it. Something he was willing to die for."
The unspoken question hung between them. Why? Why deny his mentor's greatest wish, even with the means to fulfill it at hand?
"You didn't trust the world to handle it properly, did you?" Azra said, his tone carrying a calm certainty.
Zeke frowned before he could stop himself. There was something unsettling about having his intentions laid bare. For the first time, he felt as though someone else could read him as effortlessly as he read others. The sensation was more disquieting than he had expected. No wonder so many people disliked dealing with him.
"How can you tell?" he asked, unable to hide his curiosity.
"It's what I would have done in your place," Azra replied smoothly. "We are quite alike, you and I. That is also why I think we will get along."
"Despite my challenging your legitimacy before the entire world?"
"Because of it." Azra's smile returned, sharp as winter frost. "You made your position clear. I respect that. But positions can evolve, especially when mutual benefit is possible."
"You think I'll abandon my claim?"
"I think you'll eventually come to realize that squabbling over a name serves neither." Azra lifted his cup in a mock toast. "The Empire is patient. I am patient. We can afford to wait for wisdom to prevail."
"Why not simply fight for it?" Zeke teased. "Two enter, one leaves. Simple as that."
Azra shook his head, a knowing smile curling his lips. "Don't think for a moment that I fear the challenge. Honestly, I'm confident I could defeat a newly awakened Grand Mage like yourself with my hands tied behind my back."
"So?"
"Unfortunately, ninety-nine percent certainty is not enough," Azra replied, his tone almost wistful, as though he truly regretted it. "The von Hohenheim name carries weight. Not just within the empire, but even more so beyond its borders. It opens doors that would remain closed to anyone else. That is a resource we cannot afford to squander."
"Should have thought of that before you murdered Maximilian," Zeke mocked.
"His death was an accident," Azra replied, and for a fleeting moment, Zeke sensed genuine regret in his voice. "I would never have agreed to it. I would have—" Azra stopped himself, shaking his head and leaving the thought unfinished. "The past is done; it cannot be undone. Which makes the present all the more critical. We cannot allow Maximilian's legacy to wither."
"And what if wisdom fails?" Zeke asked. "If I refuse to abandon my claim?"
"Then we do what we must." Azra's expression remained unchanged, though something cold and unyielding stirred in his eyes.
There it was, the steel concealed beneath layers of etiquette. The merciless, calculating mind behind the amiable facade. The true face of Azra, the man Maximilian had cast out.
A smile crept across Zeke's lips. This was something he understood. He preferred naked threats and open hostility to hollow talk of goodwill and kinship. This was an opponent he knew how to face.
For a long moment, they simply stared at each other, Zeke meeting Azra's hard gaze without so much as a flinch. Then the moment passed, and Azra slipped back into the guise of the affable delegate he had pretended to be all along.
"I should thank you," Zeke said, rising from his seat. "This has been... illuminating."
Azra stood as well, that perfect diplomatic smile still in place. "I hope we can do this again. Perhaps next time you'll see the wisdom in cooperation over conflict."
"Perhaps." Zeke turned to leave, then paused. "When Maximilian cast you out, what was the reason?"
For just a moment, Azra's smile faltered. Something raw and wounded flickered across his features before the polished facade reassembled itself.
"…He said I confused power with purpose." Azra's voice was quiet, almost vulnerable. "That I had learned his techniques but not his reasons."
"And did you?"
"His reasons got him killed, just as I said they would." The vulnerability vanished, replaced by steel. "I won't make the same mistake."
Zeke nodded slowly, understanding more than Azra probably intended to reveal. He left without another word, walking back through the garden's calculated beauty. Behind him, he felt Azra's gaze following his progress, weighing and measuring.
The meeting had confirmed what he'd suspected all along. Azra wasn't just an arbitrary appointment. He was a weapon aimed at his growing influence. Patient, calculating, and utterly without scruple.
The pretender wove his web with the skill of a master, each silken strand placed with ruthless precision. To anyone else, having such a foe would feel like a blade pressed against the throat. Yet Zeke's steps remained steady, his gaze clear and unafraid.
A faint smile even touched his lips as he reminded himself of one simple truth: in the end, even the most cunning spider was nothing more than a bug to be squashed.