Trinity of Magic

The path to the Tower of Scholars was unlike anything Zeke had seen in the dwarven capital. Instead of the bustling forges and hammering of metal that filled the lower districts, here the air was crisp, undisturbed by the constant roar of industry.

The streets wound ever upward, the stone paths expertly carved to ensure steady footing despite the steep incline. Enchantments, faintly glowing in the artificial light, were embedded into the very roads, subtly reinforcing the stability of the ancient city.

Despite the night of drinking, Zeke walked with a steady stride. The effects of ale had long since been burned away by his formidable constitution, his blood pumping strong and clear, his mind refreshed by a quick burst of Mana. He barely felt the strain of the climb, though he noted how some of the dwarves he passed looked winded after ascending to these heights.

For once, there were no mechanical gadgets to aid them. The absence of technology was likely a deliberate choice—to preserve the solemn quiet of the scholars. For all the wonders dwarven machinery could achieve, silence was not one of them. However, this came at a cost, as the burden fell heavily on the workers who had to manually deliver food and supplies to these reclusive sages.

As he approached the tower, its design immediately stood out. Unlike the dense, fortress-like structures that made up the majority of the city, the Tower of Scholars was built with an open, almost airy feel. The stone was smoother, polished to perfection, and massive windows allowed a panoramic view over the entire capital city, the heart of dwarfen culture. It lacked the heavy, soot-stained appearance of the forges below, almost as if it belonged to an entirely different civilization.

The entrance was guarded not by the usual heavily armored sentries, but by dwarves clad in flowing robes. Their beards, unlike those of the smiths and warriors, were neatly trimmed, some even woven with delicate silver runes that pulsed faintly with magic. One of them, an older dwarf with piercing gray eyes, stepped forward as Zeke approached.

“State yer business,” the guardian said, his voice gruff but not unwelcoming. His gaze lingered on Zeke’s human features, though there was no hostility in it—only curiosity.

Zeke reached into his robes and withdrew the note Erlin had given him, holding it out with a measured movement. The dwarf took it carefully, his thick fingers surprisingly dexterous as he unfolded the parchment. His eyes scanned the contents, and his bushy brows lifted slightly. Without a word, he turned and gestured for Zeke to follow.

The heavy doors creaked open, revealing a vast antechamber lined with towering bookshelves—far taller than seemed reasonable, even for a dwarven hall. Yet, instead of books, the shelves were filled with stone and metal tablets. Some bore only a single word, while others contained brief sentences, but none held more than that.

Zeke stepped inside, his gaze sweeping across the room. He was no stranger to grand libraries, but there was something different about this place. It wasn’t just a repository of knowledge—it was a fortress of wisdom, built not to dazzle, but to endure.

The dwarf who had taken his note handed it off to another robed figure, who examined it briefly before nodding. “Follow me,” the second scholar said, turning without further explanation.

Zeke obeyed, his footsteps barely making a sound against the smooth stone floor. They ascended a winding staircase before weaving left and right through the labyrinthine corridors, the path seeming almost random. Yet, his guide never hesitated—his stride remained steady and sure, betraying an intimate familiarity with the layout.

To anyone else, the sheer complexity of the structure might have been overwhelming, but to Zeke, it was merely an intriguing puzzle. His fortified mind ensured he could retrace his steps effortlessly, though it wouldn’t even come to that. Akasha had seized the opportunity to gather information, logging not just the layout but also the names and functions of the rooms they passed. With each step, the map occupying a portion of his vision updated in real time.

It was a new application of her power, and Zeke got the feeling that she was showing off to him for some reason.

“This is impressive,” he remarked casually.

[Notice]

It is the least a scholar should be able to do.

Zeke smirked, finally grasping the reason for her eagerness. Clearly, the Spirit felt challenged by the Scholars of Lore, whose entire purpose revolved around the preservation of history.

Once upon a time, Zeke had entrusted Akasha with a similar mission—to safeguard all knowledge known to mankind. Now, it seemed she had developed a sort of professional rivalry with these ancient dwarves. The fact that they possessed secrets Zeke desperately needed—secrets Akasha herself could not provide—had no doubt irked her.

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Before long, they arrived at a large chamber. The dwarf gestured for Zeke to wait before stepping inside alone. Muffled voices drifted through the heavy doors, but some form of magic prevented him from making out any words. In fact, nearly every room they had passed was reinforced with protective wards, making it all the more impressive that Akasha had managed to map the layout.

Moments later, the guide reemerged. His expression was unreadable as he said, “Th’ Scholar’ll see ye now. I’ll be waitin’ right here ’til yer done.”

Zeke nodded in thanks and strode past. Though the guide hadn’t said as much, his posture carried an unspoken expectation—that this meeting would be brief. Zeke intended to disappoint him.

Inside, he found not one, but two ancient-looking dwarves, their bent backs hunched over a section of stone wall that had been excavated and brought into the Tower of Scholars.

For a moment, Zeke wondered what had captured their attention so intently. Then he noticed the nearly faded etchings on the stone—pictures, letters, and symbols, their meanings eroded by time and the slow decay of the material.

Zeke came to a halt, maintaining a respectful distance, careful not to disrupt the scholars’ concentration. Despite several minutes passing, neither of the two made any move to acknowledge his presence. Unbothered by their neglect, Zeke used the time to examine the screens that had materialized next to each of their heads.

The man to the left was Thoren Ironhide, the scholar he had come to meet. The screen displayed his estimated age, past achievements, and known connections—an impressive amount of intel, especially considering the brief duration of their stay and the reclusive nature of the scholars.

The other man was named Balin Stoneheart. The name didn’t immediately ring a bell, but Zeke knew exactly what the last name Stoneheart implied. This man was a relative of the king. Akasha’s information confirmed this, even speculating that the elderly dwarf was likely one of the king’s cousins.

After Zeke had finished studying the screens, the room, and even attempting to examine the section of wall that had so thoroughly captured their attention, the two Scholars still made no move to acknowledge his presence. This struck Zeke as odd. After all, his guide had clearly announced his arrival.

Growing tired of wasting any more time, he cleared his throat loudly.

He saw the two men twitch slightly at the sudden noise, but neither of them turned nor spoke. His brows furrowed. There was no doubt now—they were ignoring him on purpose. The question was why. Had he unknowingly offended them?

Well, that made things easy. If they already disliked him, there was little point tiptoeing around.

”I have come to seek your guidance, Scholar Ironhide,” Zeke announced, his voice steady.

Thoren barely acknowledged him, tilting his head slightly and glancing at Zeke from the corner of his eye while keeping his focus on the wall. “I know, brat. Ye somehow managed t’ talk me daft nephew int’ sendin’ ye an invite. But that don’t mean a damn thing t’ me. Gimme one good reason why I should lift a finger fer ye.”

The tone, the expression, even the dismissive air—Zeke recognized it instantly. It was a familiarity he had encountered countless times before. The professors at Elementium, the Merchants of Tradespire, and the Slave Masters of Korrovan all shared this same arrogance. It was blatant, unmasked, and unashamed.

Zeke sighed inwardly. He had methods for dealing with such people, but it was never pleasant.

“This is not a one-sided request, valued Scholar,” he said, keeping his tone even. “The text I need your assistance with is estimated to predate all recorded knowledge, yet it is perfectly preserved. My appraiser could not even determine the material it was carved into.”

Thoren’s expression shifted slightly, though he continued to feign indifference. “Aye, fine then,” he grunted, shrugging like it didn’t matter. “Leave th’ script. If it catches me eye, I’ll give it a look when I’ve got th’ time.”

Zeke stood firm, unmoving. “I’m afraid that will be impossible.”

Thoren’s eyes narrowed in annoyance. “Why?”

“The ancient text is engraved on an artifact. I do not wish to part with it,” Zeke explained.

Thoren scoffed. “Whot, ye worried we’d be eyein’ yer trinkets?”

Zeke remained silent, but his silence conveyed more than enough. While he didn’t fully understand the true purpose of the relic, he knew one thing for certain: if he left it with the scholars and they uncovered its secrets, he might never see it again. Once it was out of his reach, it would be far too easy for them to deny ever having received it.

Zeke knew well the allure of exceptional treasures. Once in the hands of those who understood their worth, they became tools of power and influence—and all too easily lost.

Thoren snorted, his focus returning to the wall. “Then take yer trinket an’ be off, brat. Ye’ve wasted enough o’ me time already.”

Zeke’s frown deepened, but he nodded. It was better to leave empty-handed than risk losing the treasure. Now, his only hope rested on Akasha having gathered enough information during this short visit to make some progress.

Just as he turned to leave, a voice stopped him.

”Wait.”

Zeke turned to find Balin Stoneheart finally looking in his direction. The second scholar had evidently decided to make his presence known.

“Lemme have a look at that relic,” Balin said, extending his hand as if Zeke owed him a debt. Though the man’s words suggested willingness, Zeke didn’t for a moment believe he was any more benevolent than Thoren. His actions, at least, didn’t seem driven by a desire to help.

Despite his suspicions, Zeke didn’t hesitate. He retrieved the cube from his pocket and placed it in Balin’s outstretched hand. To his surprise, Thoren’s attention also shifted to the cube. Though likely motivated by rivalry toward Balin, Zeke appreciated the added scrutiny. After all, having two scholars examine the artifact was better than one.

““This… is bleedin’ impossible,” Balin muttered, his voice tinged with disbelief. He rotated the cube in his hand, inspecting each side with growing wonder. With each passing moment, his eyes widened further, as though the object before him defied all logic.

Thoren, too, was transfixed. His eyes bulged, and he stared unblinkingly at the ancient script, as if it were something both alien and familiar, impossible to ignore.

Zeke couldn’t help but feel a sense of vindication as he watched their reactions. Yet, his brief satisfaction was short-lived. The moment was shattered when both scholars fixed their predatory gazes on him.

“Where’d ye get this, eh?” Balin demanded, his voice sharp as a pickaxe. “Spill it, lad! Tell me everythin’ ye know!”