"…You dare call yourself a Merchant Lord?" Azra hissed. "You are spitting on the famed neutrality of this great city!"
Zeke didn't immediately respond. Instead, he walked with measured steps to the contract Azra had hurled to the floor in his fury. With deliberate care, Zeke retrieved the document and placed it on the side table. His fingers moved slowly, methodically, smoothing out each wrinkle as if the paper were precious silk.
Only then did he face the other man, who was still glaring at him.
"All my actions have been in line with Tradespire's laws," Zeke stated, his tone carrying the same weight he might use to discuss the weather.
Azra's finger stabbed toward the contract with enough force to disturb the air. "Then how do you explain this?" The volume climbed toward a shout. "None of the Alliance states had to satisfy such a ludicrous requirement."
Zeke followed the accusing finger with his gaze, taking his time to read the simple line written there, though he knew it by heart:
No Wraith may be purchased without proof of an official vetting process by the Elven Matriarchy.
The words sat there in deliberately clumsy script, as if penned by a child still learning their letters. Or perhaps by someone who wanted to give exactly that impression.
"You are correct," Zeke said with a slight nod, watching Azra's eyes narrow at the easy admission.
"Are you really that foolish?" The ambassador's voice carried genuine bewilderment now, caught between his prepared rage and unexpected confusion. "Or do you honestly believe that taking sides in this war will not see you ousted from the city?"
Zeke shifted his weight, settling into a more comfortable stance. "I am not taking sides."
"Then what do you call it when you blatantly favor one party over the other?"
"I am not, though?" The slight upturn at the end, that hint of a question, was calculated to infuriate. It worked beautifully.
Azra's jaw clenched hard enough that Zeke could hear teeth grinding. "Take this seriously, or I will have this matter taken up by the committee before the day's end."
Zeke let his gaze drift toward the tall windows that dominated the eastern wall. Night had fallen, transforming the glass into dark mirrors that reflected the room's lamplight. The city beyond had settled into its evening rhythms, the commercial districts quiet while the entertainment quarters came alive.
"That might prove difficult," he observed mildly. "To the best of my knowledge, the committee does not convene at this hour."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop even further.
"Mockery?" Azra's voice had gone dangerously quiet. "Do you not understand the seriousness of your current situation?"
Zeke allowed himself a smile, lazy and predatory in equal measure. He'd been saving this moment, nurturing it through hours of Azra's mounting frustration. "Serious? For the Empire, perhaps. For you, certainly." He paused, savoring the next words. "But for me? Not so much."
Something shifted in Azra's posture. The rage remained, but calculation crept back into his eyes. He was too experienced a player to completely lose control, even now. Instead of the explosion Zeke had been goading him toward, the ambassador chose a different path.
"Explain." The word came out clipped, precise. "Why must the Empire comply when others do not?"
Perfect. Zeke's smile bloomed into something that might have been genuine joy if not for the sharp edges. "Oh, it's quite the coincidence, if I may say so myself. I'm certain you'll enjoy this."
He began to pace, a casual stroll that took him past the Mind Mages. Neither flinched, but he felt their Mana reserves spike in defensive preparation. As if they could manage even a basic defense in their current state.
"You see, due to some slanderous rumor circulating about me, I could no longer fully rely on the local merchants." The words dripped with false regret.
To his credit, Azra's expression remained neutral. No acknowledgment of his role in spreading those very rumors, though they both knew the truth.
"I found this disruption to my supply chain quite irritating," Zeke continued, his circuit bringing him back toward his seat. "So I cut them off entirely. That left me with no choice but to order in bulk from my remaining allies—"
He stopped directly in front of Azra, close enough to see the other man's pupils dilate. Close enough to smell the wine on his breath and the bitter tang of exhaustion-sweat from his companions.
"—The Elves and Dwarves."
There it was—the first crack in Azra's mask. Just a flicker, a tightening around the eyes, but Zeke caught it.
"You see, in my new contracts, there is a clause that forbids me from selling anything made with their materials to nations that have committed acts of war against them."
Each word landed like a precisely placed dagger. Zeke gestured toward the parchment with a theatrical flourish, his movements deliberately expansive.
"So, unless you bring me a signed document from the Matriarchy voiding that restriction, I remain unable to sell to the Empire…"
Azra's glare was so menacing that it could have silenced a crying child.
Zeke smiled in response, his grin stretching wide enough to show teeth. "In a sense, one could say that the Empire has you to thank for this, doesn't it?"
The Mana in the room stirred.
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Zeke didn't miss the change, recognizing it as Azra's last shred of reason warring with the urge to vent his fury. "…I truly hope they won't hold this against you when considering your future career. After all, you had no way of knowing how badly this would turn out."
It began as a subtle shift, like the air before a thunderstorm. Then it grew, pulled toward Azra with invisible hands as he gathered power to himself. The amount was staggering. Enough to level a building, enough to turn everything in the room to ash. The Mind Mages, despite their exhaustion, stumbled away from their leader as raw energy crackled through the space.
Zeke didn't move.
He stood perfectly still, hands clasped behind his back, that infuriating smile never wavering. Every instinct screamed at him to raise his defenses, to call upon his own considerable power. He ignored them all.
Invisible to the naked eye, a targeting matrix had locked onto Azra's chest the moment Zeke had entered. Three Grandmages stood ready in the tower, their combined might focused through crystalline amplifiers that could punch through any shield. One twitch of hostile intent, one spell beginning to form, and a beam of concentrated light would turn the Imperial ambassador into a corpse.
The tension stretched taut as a bowstring. Zeke found himself almost hoping Azra would follow through. It would be so simple, so clean. Self-defense in his own home against an unprovoked magical assault. Even Tradespire's strict neutrality laws couldn't fault him for that.
The Mind Mages seemed to sense the danger. One of them made an attempt to reach out telepathically, thought it turned out more like a whimper than a proper warning.
Azra held the power for three more heartbeats. The Mana roiled through him, begging for release, for shape and purpose and destruction. A lesser man might have lost control, might have let it slip free in an uncontrolled burst.
But Azra had been trained by Maximilian, just as Zeke had.
With a breath that reeked of sulfur and scorched earth, he let the power wash through him without shaping it into a spell. The energy dispersed back into the environment, leaving only the acrid taste of what might have been. His emotions settled like sediment in still water, the mask of control sliding back into place with practiced ease.
"No need to worry about me," Azra said, his voice now drained of all feeling. "The Empire knows my worth."
Zeke met that dead gaze with interest. So, the spider had more self-control than expected. Disappointing, but not entirely surprising. He shifted tactics, probing for a different weakness.
"Your worth..." The words rolled off his tongue slowly, tasting each syllable. "What is that, exactly? From where I stand, the only thing remarkable about you is that you once studied under Maximilian. That, and your knack for gossiping like a fishmonger's wife."
Azra's left eye twitched—barely perceptible, but Zeke had been watching for it.
"But how long can that image last?" he pressed on, circling now like a predator that had scented blood. "At this point, even a blind man can see who the real heir to Maximilian is, wouldn't you say? Your Empire doesn't have enough mouths to drown out a truth known to all."
Azra began to move. Slowly, deliberately, he drew himself up to his full height. The gesture forced Zeke to look up while seated, a petty power play, but one that revealed how deeply the words had cut.
"You think yourself so clever, don't you?" Azra's tone had changed, carrying something darker now. "You think your little invention will save you? Or do you honestly believe that teaching those peasants a few tricks will give you an edge?"
This time, it was Zeke who listened in silence.
"Laughable..." Azra's sneer could have curdled milk. "You truly are that old man's student. I was a fool to think you might understand. But you turned out to be just as delusional as he was."
"And what is it you think I don't understand?" Zeke asked softly.
"Who holds true power in this world!" The words burst forth with unexpected passion. "Haven't you realized it? Not even an army of commoners could touch the hem of the truly powerful. And yet you waste your time raising these sheep as if it means anything."
"I am well aware," Zeke said simply. "Not even united could the common folk ever pose a threat to the established powers."
Azra blinked, clearly wrong-footed by the agreement. He'd expected defense, justification, idealistic protests about human potential.
"…But I fear that is a very limited view of the world," Zeke continued.
"Limited?!" Azra's voice climbed again. "You dare say that, knowing the Emperor himself shares this belief? Do you honestly think yourself wiser than the Exarch of Mind?"
"In my opinion," Zeke said with a casual shrug that he knew would infuriate, "the worth of a person extends beyond the purity of their Core."
"Then you are an even bigger fool than I thought." Something shifted in Azra's eyes. Was it pity? "But you will learn soon enough. When the wolves come for you, nobody will stand beside you. Not the elves, not the dwarves, and certainly not your precious commoners."
His eyes gleamed with anticipation now, the fury transmuting into something colder and more certain. "No. You will face us just as you are. Alone. Weak. And cut off from all who hold power."
Zeke rose from his casual lean, straightening to his full height as well. They stood eye to eye now, two heirs to the same legacy, shaped by the same teacher into opposite forms.
"I am shaking," he said flatly.
"The fact that you refuse to take this seriously isn't bravery." Azra shook his head with what seemed like genuine regret. "Do you think the reason I haven't crushed you until now was your strength? No. I simply chose not to act because you were already in my grasp. But now that you dare to bite, it is time to put you down."
The metaphor was telling. The casual dehumanization revealed more about the Empire's representative than hours of further conversation might have.
"And how would you manage that?" Zeke let mockery creep into his voice. "More rumors? Hired actors? Petty gossip? How am I to take you seriously when all your favourite weapons are those of cowards and weaklings?"
The words hit like a physical blow. Azra's face flushed dark red, his hands clenching into fists. For a moment, Zeke thought he might actually resort to physical violence—not magic, just simple, honest fury expressed through fists.
But again, the ambassador pulled himself back from the edge.
"One last chance," Azra said, his voice dropping to an eerily calm monotone. "Provide us with a model of your ship, along with all the blueprints and schematics, and I can let today's events go."
So that was it. The Empire's true goal, laid bare at last. The new ship design that had set tongues wagging, the revolutionary engineering that had replaced his Gondola fleet. They wanted it all, every secret, every innovation, every advantage it might provide.
Zeke's expression hardened, all pretense of casual mockery falling away. The game was over; it was time for clarity.
"Ever since you came to this city, I've been waiting for you to come at me in earnest." The words emerged steady and certain. "No, dear 'brother'. I don't want you to let things go. I want you to give me your best shot."
Azra held his gaze for a long moment, something unreadable passing through his eyes. Then he nodded, sharp and decisive.
"Then let us put an end to this feud. Let us find out who is right and who lives in delusion."
Zeke gave a slow, deliberate nod in return. The terms were set, the challenge issued and accepted. Whatever came next would be decisive.
Azra spoke no further word as he turned toward the door. The two Mind Mages peeled themselves from the wall with visible effort, stumbling after their leader like drunks leaving a tavern.
Zeke watched from the window as they departed his estate. The carriage pulled away with unusual speed, as if Azra couldn't put distance between them fast enough. Or perhaps he was simply eager to begin whatever plan he'd been holding in reserve.
Standing alone in the audience chamber, Zeke let his thoughts drift. Their conflict had been a prolonged dance rather than a decisive clash: feints and counters, moves and countermoves, neither landing a killing blow. Both had claimed victories. Both had suffered losses.
But now the board was set for the endgame. Whatever Azra had planned, it would be decisive. Something designed to establish a clear winner, to end their dispute once and for all.
The spider hadn't been idle.
Just like Zeke, he'd been sharpening his weapons in secret, preparing for this moment. The battle for the von Hohenheim name—for the right to carry Maximilian's legacy—was about to reach its conclusion.