Trinity of Magic

“I’ll be frank: I want you to remain in Tradespire,” Midas said into the silence. “And I am willing to make certain concessions to make that an appealing option for you.”
Zeke’s ears pricked up. At last, Midas had revealed his intentions in concrete terms. The sudden shift ignited his well-honed merchant instincts, and his first thoughts were of how to best leverage his powerful position to wring the most benefits from the old man. After all, Midas had all but admitted he couldn’t touch him.
But it only took a moment for Zeke to discard the thought. Foolish.
If this had been some clumsy fruit vendor in a back alley, Zeke might have believed the vulnerability was genuine. But Midas—the Merchant King of Tradespire? Impossible.
There was only one explanation: this crafty old man had deliberately shown weakness, crafting the appearance of vulnerability for his own purposes.
Perhaps it was meant to tease out Zeke’s true character, or perhaps it was a setup, a prelude to reversing their positions by later revealing that the international pressure from the Alliance was something he could easily navigate.
Either way, assuming he truly held the upper hand against a man of this caliber would be folly.
For all his cunning, Zeke was, in truth, still a child before a seasoned veteran.
Slowly, Zeke reined in his wilder thoughts and returned to reality. What cards did he actually hold? How much were they worth? And what did he truly want from Midas?
That approach proved immediately more fruitful than his fleeting fantasies of treasure, as it allowed him to gauge his real position in this negotiation.
Midas had said he wanted Zeke to remain in the city, but never explained why. Perhaps it was to keep an eye on him? Or for the wealth he brought? His innovations? All were possible, but without knowing Midas’ true intentions, it was difficult to put a price on his presence.
Second: What cards did he actually hold?
Zeke was not a modest man. He knew his worth and had no intention of underselling himself. Yet, in the context of what a king might desire, there weren’t many things only he could provide.
Still, there were a few. First, his technological innovations, which stood at the very forefront of what anyone on the continent could conceive. Second, his work in bringing Magic to the common folk. Whether Midas valued or despised that was still unclear. Third, the von Hohenheim name. With his ideological victory over Azra, Zeke had all but proven himself the rightful heir, no matter what the Empire claimed. That, in itself, was a form of power.
And finally, the question of what
wanted from Midas, should he choose to remain in the city. That answer was clear enough to him. The problem was whether it could realistically be demanded.
His first step, then, had to be measuring how far Midas was willing to go to keep him content.
All these thoughts flashed through Zeke’s mind in an instant, so it was only a beat later that he answered Midas’ declaration.
“Why would you want me to stay?”
The old man didn’t hesitate, as if he had expected the question. His answer, however, was startling. “Because you are safest here.”
Safe? What did Midas care about his safety? Hadn’t he just been tangled in a scheme to see him exiled? Or was that only Zeke’s conjecture? Either way, concern for him seemed out of place.
“And why would it matter to you if I am safe or not?”
“You have become valuable,” Midas replied. Then, a faintly teasing smile curved his lips. “Or perhaps I should say… you have become a valuable piece.”
It seemed Midas had no intention of hiding his intent, choosing instead to speak with disarming candor. Rather than being offended, Zeke appreciated it. Above all else, it meant the king was willing to negotiate openly, without flowery words or hidden bait. Clear intentions. Straightforward statements.
Zeke would answer in kind.
“…What purpose do I serve on your board?”
Midas’ smile deepened, becoming almost genuine. “You are asking the wrong question. The real question is: what game am I playing?”
“Enlighten me.”
“The game is called balance.”
Zeke understood at once. If the game was balance, then every piece served the same purpose: a counterweight to something else, something that threatened to tip the board entirely.
“…The Empire?”
Midas nodded, his smile fading. “They have been allowed to amass their strength for far too long. It may already be too late.”
“The situation is that dire?” Zeke asked, his mind reeling. He had always believed he grasped the danger of the Emperor of Arkanheim, but Midas seemed to see matters in an even darker light.
“I fear,” Midas said softly, “that the board was already overturned the moment that sly fox began to move.”
They sat in silence for a moment, Zeke weighing the meaning of those words. He had always thought of Augustus as a deep schemer—expected of the King of Mind Mages—but Midas was implying something more. If Augustus Geistreich had begun to act, it meant he was already certain of victory.
That left only one question.
“If that is indeed so, then what do you expect me to do?”
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Zeke waited with bated breath. This was the closest he had ever come to glimpsing the true games being played on a grand scale, the way the most influential figures perceived the world.
Midas picked up a sugar cube from beside his tea, weighing it in his palm, tossing it lightly up and down, turning it between his fingers as if studying it from every angle. Finally, he spoke. “The more I know about something, the better I can predict its behavior. This cube, for example. I know its weight, its shape, its resistance to air. By calculating all these factors, I could predict exactly how it will behave when I throw it, right?”
Zeke nodded, his eyes also on the cube.
Midas smiled faintly and flicked it across the table. Zeke’s mind immediately calculated the trajectory. The cube would spin three times, land squarely inside the teacup across the table, bounce once against its rim, and then settle neatly inside.
The cube spun once, then twice—before suddenly bouncing off empty air and landing gracelessly in the middle of the table.
Zeke’s gaze snapped to the most likely culprit. Solon was grinning at him, entirely unashamed of his interference.
Midas’s voice could be heard at that moment. “Prediction… is not precognition, no matter how much Augustus wishes it were so.”
Zeke returned his attention to the old man.
“His domain is Mind, not Time,” Midas said. “Which means that for all his intellect, all his schemes, all his contingencies, Augustus can never predict the future with certainty. One variable unaccounted for, and his entire house of cards could collapse.”
“That is what you want from me? To be that variable?”
Midas shook his head. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, young man. Remarkable as you are, I doubt even a dozen of you could disrupt the Emperor’s designs.”
“Then what?”
“It’s simple. If a dozen is not enough, then I must place hundreds of similar pieces, mustn’t I?”
Finally, the last piece of the puzzle clicked into place.
Midas was sowing seeds. He was backing any force or contingency that might counter the greatest threat to continental balance: the Empire of Arkanheim. Zeke was merely one of those seedlings. Even so, he was oddly relieved to hear it, for it aligned with his own demands quite well. Still, there was something he wanted to know first.
“Why oppose Augustus at all? Is there a reason he shouldn’t win?”
Midas gave a knowing smile. “I fear you may find my answer disappointing.”
“I want to hear them regardless.”
“My reasons are not noble, but rather… personal.”
Zeke caught the old man’s gaze flicker toward the woman at the stove. It was only for an instant, yet it revealed everything. The Emperor wouldn’t tolerate the existence of rogue Exarchs under his rule. If Augustus claimed the continent, he would not permit such a threat to remain.
More likely than not, Midas’s opposition to the Empire was born of concern for his wife.
Ironically, Zeke found that far more relatable than lofty ideals of justice or honor ever could have been.
He found the old man’s gaze fixed on him, expectant. Zeke knew what it meant. Midas had said all he intended; now it was up to Zeke to name his terms.
What should he ask for?
If he were honest with himself, he didn’t want to leave Tradespire. His family had made it their home. The city was untouched by war, free of danger, and nearly devoid of crime. He could hardly imagine a better place for his sister and wards to grow up. Yet that didn’t mean life here was perfect.
He had faced no small amount of opposition, especially in recent months. Enough that he had seriously considered leaving, despite how convenient the city was.
But if Midas was willing to deal with some of those obstacles, then staying would be far easier.
“I want Azra gone,” Zeke said without hesitation, certain Midas wouldn’t refuse. Azra had overstepped beyond reason, and there were ample grounds to demand his removal.
“Consider him gone. What else?”
As expected, Midas didn’t so much as blink.
“…I want your guarantee that my household will no longer be harassed or unfairly targeted.”
“I’ll have your estate and people protected by my own men. What else?”
A slow smile spread across Zeke’s face. Midas wasn’t just agreeable—he was encouraging him to ask for more.
“I want a reliable channel for the most common materials.”
“You’ll be supplied by my personal network. What else?”
Zeke almost laughed. It was hard to believe how easily Midas accepted everything. Now came the real test. The request that mattered most.
“I want the freedom to act against the Empire, even while remaining in Tradespire.”
This time, silence fell. The old man grew contemplative, and the quiet stretched long enough for Zeke to wonder if he had overreached. But then…
“Fine.”
A single word.
“Fine?” Zeke repeated. “What about Tradespire’s neutrality?”
Midas gave him a look as though the question itself were absurd. “Naturally, I expect you to maintain a degree of plausible deniability. But from what I’ve seen, you have no trouble playing jump rope with the letter of the law.”
Zeke flushed faintly. Only now did it strike him that the laws he had skirted so often were the very ones crafted by the man before him.
Still, he steadied himself. This was too important to leave vague. If Midas was granting him this assurance, Zeke needed to know exactly what it meant.
“So, you are allowing me to…” he prompted.
“I will look the other way—or even shield you—while you act against the Empire as you see fit, provided you can offer at least a halfway plausible explanation for how it could be construed as legal.”
Zeke was on his feet before he even knew it, his hand reaching across the table. “Deal!”
The old man seemed faintly amused, yet he still extended his hand. That was all that was required. No parchment or seal could bind the King of Merchants. For Midas, his word was his bond. A man of his stature would never go back on it. After all, three Exarchs served under him, bound by nothing more than that same word.
If it was enough for them, it was enough for Zeke.
As he felt the old man’s slightly chilled hand grip his own, Zeke realized something.
He had already suspected that Midas wasn’t an Exarch. But now it struck him that this man hadn’t reached the rank of Archmage either, nor even Grandmage like himself.
His skin was soft, his muscles weak. Holding his hand was like clutching a withered leaf. The sensation was even more fragile than his mother’s touch. That left only one conclusion.
Midas… was no Mage at all.
But that was impossible. This man had ruled Tradespire for centuries. No ordinary human could have lived so long.
How, then?
Midas seemed to read his thoughts, smiling slyly as he withdrew his hand. One thing was certain: he had allowed Zeke to discover this detail. But for what reason?
To gain his trust? To lower his guard? To make him underestimate him?
Zeke couldn’t be sure. Many of the old man’s actions seemed so random that it was hard to believe there was any deeper intent—if not for that nagging feeling in the back of his mind whispering that he was being played.
The old man’s craftiness was astonishing, enough to run circles around most Mind Mages.
“This concludes our dealings,” Midas said, rising to his feet as well. “Solon will see you home. It will be as if you never disappeared.”
Despite everything that had transpired, Zeke realized he hadn’t been gone long. More likely than not, no one would even notice he had been intercepted. That would help keep his agreement with Midas completely secret.
He nodded, ready to turn away, when a question forced its way to his lips before he could stop it.
“…what if, one day, I were to become a greater threat to your balance than even the Emperor?”
For the first time, Midas looked genuinely surprised. But the expression lasted only a moment before he recovered.
The old man smiled, but without mirth. “What do you think?”
Before Zeke could answer, the world blurred. The cozy kitchen vanished, and he found himself standing in his study—the original destination of his spell.
The ambient Mana, absent within the Exarch’s domain, rushed back to flood his Core.
But Zeke hardly noticed. His thoughts were entirely consumed by all that had happened during his abduction. This unplanned encounter had changed everything.
Beside him, hanging on the wall, was a map of the continent, with Rukia marked at its far western border. Lines traced across it—the known fronts, the resistance’s movements, the advance of the Ehrenlegion.
Akasha kept it updated, drawing from hundreds of reports and rumors.
Until now, it had been little more than a piece of decoration in his study.
Until now…