Zeke didn't know what he had expected. A grand audience chamber, perhaps? A hidden shrine devoted to some secret deity? Or a vault overflowing with gold, where Midas bathed in rivers of coin?
But what was this?
Beyond the door lay a simple, modest, and surprisingly cozy room. Not poor, exactly, but nothing like the ostentatious displays of wealth that defined Tradespire—and certainly not what he had imagined of King Midas.
There was no better word for it: the place felt humble.
Everything was compact. A dining area and a small kitchen stood together without dividing walls, the sort of practical layout commoners favored to save space. A home designed so that a mother could watch her children while preparing supper.
Zeke stepped farther inside. A soft humming reached his ears, coming from the woman at the stove. Her back was turned, but her silhouette revealed a tall, willowy frame, and the long, curved ears left no doubt.
An elf.
His gaze shifted to the man at the dining table. He looked to be in the later years of middle age. Deep furrows lined his face, yet the most prominent ones etched themselves at the corners of his eyes and lips—marks of a man who had laughed often and easily. But the heavy creases across his brow told another story, one of long years weighted by worry.
His hair must once have been vibrant gold, but now it had faded to dull gray, a shadow of its former splendor.
Who were they?
Servants?
Zeke dismissed the thought almost immediately. There was no outward sign, neither in their attire nor their bearing, but something told him these two were far from ordinary.
The man at the table looked up then, his eyes meeting Zeke's.
They were bluish-gray, clouded slightly with age, yet still sharp and piercing.
"Oh, come in," the older man said pleasantly. "Have a seat."
Seeing no reason to refuse, Zeke accepted and sat at the far end of the table, directly across from him.
But his host gave a look of disapproval and patted the chair beside him. "Come now. I'm not so young anymore. How am I supposed to see you way over there?"
There was a twinkle in those eyes, and Zeke had no doubt the man's vision was perfectly fine. Even to untrained eyes, the man looked remarkably hearty.
Still, Zeke obeyed, taking the seat next to him. It was uncomfortably close for strangers, especially with every other chair empty.
A moment later, the scrape of wood echoed through the room as the Exarch who had brought him here pulled out a chair. He did not take the opposite head of the table, nor the seat at the old man's right, but instead one seat removed to the side.
It was a curious choice, and Zeke understood well enough what it implied. His gaze drifted to the woman at the stove, who had yet to turn and acknowledge him. The air carried an easy calm, and Zeke began piecing the details together.
His eyes returned to the old man, sharper now. "You are Midas?"
The old man smiled, the lines on his face deepening.
"What makes you think that?"
Zeke shrugged. "Just a hunch."
The older man's eyes narrowed. "I don't think so. You don't strike me as someone who acts on hunches."
This time, Zeke was caught off guard. Few ever pressed him when he gave a vague answer, especially upon a first meeting. Yet this old man had seen through him instantly.
And it was true. More than a hunch, Zeke had weighed several factors before making such a bold assumption. For example...
He pointed toward the man with the flowing black hair, who had just shot a mocking smile at the man Zeke suspected to be Midas.
"He gave it away."
The old man glanced at the Exarch before turning back to Zeke. "He told you that?"
Zeke shook his head. "He didn't reveal anything intentionally. But some things cannot be hidden."
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"Ho!" the old man exclaimed.
"Annoying, isn't it?" the Exarch of Space said, speaking for the first time since they had entered the room.
"I find it amusing," the old man countered. "Tell me, boy, how did he give it away?"
"Simple." Zeke looked at the Exarch, who watched him with thinly veiled anticipation despite his words. "He treats you as an equal."
"That doesn't prove anything," the old man replied. "There are at least three Exarchs living here. I could be one of them."
"Possible," Zeke admitted. "But I don't think so."
The old man and the Exarch exchanged a glance. The Exarch shrugged, and the old man's gaze returned to Zeke. "Why not?"
Zeke raised a finger. "Your age." A second finger. "Your attire." A third. "Your cutlery." A fourth. "Your breathing." A fifth. "Your seat at the table." He stopped, meeting the old man's eyes. "Shall I continue?"
The old man studied him for a long moment before slowly turning to the Exarch of Space. "You were right. This is annoying."
"Told you."
Zeke watched their exchange with faint amusement. It was rare for him to be around people who didn't hesitate to offend him. He couldn't even recall the last time someone had openly called him annoying, though he was certain many thought it.
His habit of methodically analyzing every detail had to be infuriating, especially for those trying to keep secrets. Add Akasha's input on top of that, and he must have seemed almost clairvoyant.
"Answer me this," the old man said after a pause. "Why mention my age? As far as I know, there's no reason an Exarch couldn't be old."
Technically, he was right. There was no known barrier preventing Exarchs of advanced age. But then why wasn't it the case? Zeke and Akasha had uncovered it as a statistical anomaly. Most would have dismissed such musings as tedious, yet Zeke sensed the old man's curiosity was genuine.
"I actually have a theory about that."
"Enlighten me," the old man prompted.
Encouraged, Zeke didn't hold back. "It's common knowledge that aging slows with each Advancement. Cells strengthen under constant mana exposure."
The old man nodded, listening closely.
"At the level of Exarch, cellular deterioration becomes negligible, making them nearly ageless."
The old man raised a brow. "But that only holds true if they reached the rank at a young age. Mana cannot reverse deterioration, only prevent further damage."
"Exactly," Zeke said. "And yet, all known Exarchs appear young regardless."
The old man smiled faintly. "Tell me your thoughts."
Zeke held up two fingers. "Two possibilities. One, there is some natural law that prevents Advancement beyond a certain age. Or two—and I find this far more likely—the few who have the ability to reach that level all manage to do so while still young. Those without that capability never reach it."
"Interesting," the man mused, stroking his chin in a habitual gesture. "I've not heard that thesis before. Is it your own?"
Zeke shrugged. "I wouldn't call it a thesis. More of a simple observation and a guess."
The old man gave him a knowing smile. "You seem to have a talent for such things. Then tell me, would you like to impress me again and guess why you've been summoned here today?"
Zeke hesitated. This he didn't know. He lacked the information to make any meaningful calculation. The King of Tradespire was a mystery—little was known of his person, and even less of his true goals.
He drew a steady breath, forcing himself to sift through every shred of detail he had. His gaze lingered on the old man across from him. He was about ninety percent certain this was Midas. Assuming that, he could gain some extra clues. Zeke studied the wrinkles on his face, his clothing, his demeanor, every word spoken since his arrival.
Still, it wasn't enough.
His thoughts shifted toward Tradespire's position in the world. Their alliances, their rivalries, and his own precarious place within that larger machine. Was this about the trial? About his stance toward the Empire? Did it involve Azra? Had the Emperor's hand reached this far and swayed Midas himself?
Was this his execution?
Zeke's gaze sharpened. He knew there would be no escape before an Exarch of Space. No trick, no insight could save him here. If Midas wished it, Zeke would never leave this place alive.
That in itself was a clue, wasn't it?
If Midas wanted him dead—or worse—there would be no need for this conversation. Unless he took some perverse pleasure in toying with his prey. But Zeke doubted that. It wasn't the impression this old man gave. The setting didn't match such a scenario either.
Which meant Midas wanted something from him.
What could it be? A promise? A treasure? The blueprints of the Wraith were his most valuable possession at present. But would Midas really go so far for something like that?
Unlikely. Still, there had to be something.
A man of such stature, arranging a secret meeting and abducting one of his own lords—it couldn't be for a trivial matter.
Zeke's face hardened.
He would have to be ready to lose a pound of flesh today. The priority was to leave alive. Otherwise, his family, his friends, and everyone who relied on him would be in peril.
"Midas must want something from me," Zeke said aloud.
The old man's expression didn't shift. Whatever else he was, his poker face was among the best Zeke had ever seen. "Why do you think so?"
"There's simply no other reason why someone as powerful as King Midas would summon me here."
A twitch.
It was brief, but Zeke caught it. At that last remark, the old man's mask slipped, just enough to reveal surprise.
There it was again, a tiny quirk of the lips—
And again.
Until finally, the old man sighed deeply, leaned back in his chair, and rubbed his eyes with both hands. His stoic front had collapsed completely.
"Someone as powerful as Midas, huh?"
He echoed the words in a strange tone. Not mocking, exactly—more like weariness that ran bone-deep. Yet he only allowed himself that moment of vulnerability before his composure settled back into place.
He leaned forward again, meeting Zeke's eyes with his steely gaze.
"You were right: I am indeed Midas, ruler of the independent city-state of Tradespire. And you also guessed correctly that you were brought here at my request."
Zeke's gaze sharpened, bracing himself for the other shoe to drop.
"As to why I have summoned you here..."
Midas paused, picked up his tea, and took a languid sip.
"It was to appease you."
Silence.
Zeke looked from the teacup to the man, to the other figures in the room. The quiet hung heavy, broken only by the muted clatter of cooking utensils in the background.
For a long moment, nobody spoke.
Zeke's mind, ever sharp and calculating, spun its metaphorical wheels. Yet no matter how he tried, he could not make sense of this situation.