Trinity of Magic

The droplet hung in the air like a captured ruby.

Zeke sat cross-legged in the heart of his underground workshop, the faint scent of oil and cold metal lingering in the air. The space was vast, carved directly into the bedrock beneath his mansion.

Shelves packed with enchantment components, crystal-threaded instruments, and intricate mechanical sketches lined the walls. Several half-finished blueprints rested on raised platforms, their sleek hulls catching the glow of suspended light fixtures.

But Zeke’s attention was fixed elsewhere.

The drop of blood hovered a finger’s breadth above his outstretched palm. It pulsed softly—alive, yet perfectly still.

He wasn’t moving it with a spell.

At least, not in the usual way.

“Return,” he whispered, almost pleadingly.

The droplet shimmered. For a moment, nothing happened. Then it began to move, drifting downward in a slow arc before touching his skin. Zeke watched with anticipation, only for it to slide down his forearm, failing once again to fulfill its purpose.

He exhaled.

Still too slow. Still inefficient. But progress.

“Again,” he murmured.

Akasha remained silent beside him, her silver-haired illusion standing motionless. She seemed intent on providing at least the appearance of company, though he wouldn’t forget that she was watching even without her projected form being present.

Another drop lifted from the shallow wound on his forearm. This one resisted, wobbling in the air like a child unsure of its footing.

He narrowed his eyes.

Blood Magic had always demanded sacrifice, a cost in limited resources. With this, he aimed to rewrite that rule. A drop sent forth, fulfilling its task, and then returning.

A servant, not an offering.

The blood stilled.

His eyes focused on the crimson dot.

The air quivered.

Then the droplet darted back into his skin like a startled fish vanishing into water.

Zeke allowed himself a small, satisfied smile.

It wasn’t mastery. Far from it. But the foundation was solid.

He rubbed at his temples, noting the crust of dried blood under his nails. When had he last slept? A full night felt like a memory from another life. The days bled together in the underground stillness of his workshop—timeless, unchanging.

Akasha had mentioned it, once. Something about disorientation in environments without sun or moon. He’d waved her off then, brushing past it with a joke. But now, even the hours slipped through his fingers.

“David is approaching,” Akasha’s voice spoke in his mind.

Zeke didn’t look up. “Let him in.”

A faint shimmer passed through the barrier at the chamber’s edge. A moment later, the steady click of boots on stone echoed across the workshop.

David stepped into view, dressed in his usual contradiction of formal elegance and practical disregard: a tailored jacket, reinforced boots, and the faint scent of dust and parchment. He carried a leather satchel under one arm.

His eyes flicked briefly to the healing wound on Zeke’s arm but made no comment.

“Am I interrupting?”

Zeke rose to his feet, brushing dry flakes from his palms. “…Just teaching my blood new tricks.”

“Ahh,” David said, his tone thoughtful. “Practicing the concept of Will, I assume?”

Zeke nodded. He wasn’t surprised by David’s precise guess. There were only so many things a newly minted Grand Mage would focus on, and mastering Will was at the top of that list for nearly everyone.

“I remember my first attempts quite clearly,” David said, raising his hands to cast a large shadow across part of the chamber. He flexed his fingers, and the shadow shifted into the shape of a man on the wall.

Zeke’s eyes widened. David was incredibly skilled at this peculiar form of magic.

“I wanted to infuse my spells with true sentience,” he said, clearly amused by the memory. As he spoke, the shadow puppet began to move—no longer bound to the motion of David’s hand, which had already dropped. It glided across the wall, swaying like a seasoned dancer.

“I figured I should aim high,” he continued. “Choose a concept that I could grow into.”

Zeke understood that impulse well. It was tempting to chase something grand. Each aspect of Will took years to refine, and investing that time into a concept that turned out to be useless was a bitter fate, especially for someone fresh from a breakthrough.

“How did that work out?”

David grinned. “I gave up, after years of bitter struggle. True sentience is still beyond me, even now as an Archmage. It was a fool’s dream from the start.”

Zeke grimaced. Even if David spoke lightly of it now, abandoning such a lofty goal must have been a brutal disappointment.

“…What concept did you ultimately settle on?” he asked after the silence had stretched a little too long.

David silently pointed at the wall, where the shadow puppet still moved with eerie grace.

“Dancing?”

David shook his head. “It’s mimicking human behaviour. That was the closest I could get to my original idea.”

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Zeke nodded, understanding dawning. “That could have a lot of uses.” His mind was already spinning with tactical applications of such a skill.

David smiled, and with a wave of his hand, the shadow on the wall vanished. “I’m glad.”

The abrupt shift in tone pulled Zeke from his thoughts. “Glad about what?”

“I was worried you’d fall into the same trap: trying to master some grand, impossible concept that would overturn the entire world of magic if it worked.”

Zeke grimaced. “It’s not like I didn’t think about it...” His thoughts drifted to the wilder ideas he’d entertained before choosing his current path. One of them had even been the same: true sentience, applied to his Mind affinity.

Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, reason had won out.

“I would have loved to chase one of those ideas,” he admitted, his voice heavy. “But the truth is, I can’t afford to waste time like that.”

David gave him a look Zeke couldn’t quite interpret, somewhere between pride and pity. “It means you’ve grown up. For better or worse.”

The strange shift in tone made Zeke a bit uneasy. In truth, he didn’t feel like he’d made some great sacrifice. Setting more realistic goals didn’t seem all that tragic, even if it lacked the dramatic flair his accomplishments usually carried.

“Want to see?” he asked.

“…Are you sure?” David replied. “This is a personal matter. Something most would guard carefully—especially before full mastery.”

Zeke shot him a flat look. “You’re hardly a stranger,.”

“…But—”

“Do you want to see it, or not?”

“I do,” David said at last, abandoning his objection.

Zeke gave a nod, satisfied. The entire exchange felt unnecessary. If he couldn’t trust David with something like this, then who could he? Besides, it wasn’t as if the concept he was working on was some closely guarded secret. Even if it got out, he wouldn’t lose sleep over it.

Zeke focused his mind, attempting to replicate his earlier success.

Once more, a droplet of blood rose into the air, hovering unsteadily for a heartbeat. Then it began to sink, touched his arm, and vanished beneath the skin.

“Preservation of blood?” David asked after a moment.

Zeke nodded. “My goal is to master the concept to the point where all my blood spells return to me before their energy runs dry.”

“Interesting,” David murmured, eyes fixed on the spot where the droplet had disappeared. “But wouldn’t it be easier to simply master a spell to replenish blood? That sort of spell is rather basic, from what I understand.”

Zeke paused.

Not because he lacked an answer, but because the truth touched on one of his deeper secrets. The main reason he guarded every drop of blood so fiercely was the Draconic essence produced by his heart.

It nourished his blood and strengthened both body and spellwork. That essence couldn’t be replicated by conjuring fresh blood; it built up slowly, over time. That fact wasn’t something he intended to share, however.

Still, he wouldn’t lie outright.

“My blood is somewhat special,” he said. “To a degree that wasting it would be… well, a waste.”

David nodded slowly. He no doubt recognized how much had been left unsaid, but he was wise enough not to press further.

“…Then your concept is an excellent choice. And it seems you’re making good progress. I’m impressed.”

Zeke nodded. “Blood comes easily to me, as usual. Just don’t ask to see my Mind Magic attempts. Not exactly a pretty sight.”

David grinned. “I truly don’t envy you for having multiple affinities. The thought of repeating my struggles twice over would be enough to keep me up at night.”

Zeke chuckled. “I like the challenge.”

They sat in a moment of easy silence. Then Zeke remembered that David surely hadn’t come just to talk. His eyes flicked to the pouch still tucked under the other man’s arm.

“A present?” he asked with a smirk, pointing at it.

“In a sense, yes,” David replied, gripping the pouch. “News from Undercity.”

He pulled out a detailed map, followed by a thick stack of blueprints bound together.

For a moment, Zeke struggled to place what he was looking at. The layout didn’t match any city he recognized—until his eyes landed on a building marked at the center of the map: ‘Black Tower’.

“This is Undercity?”

David nodded, clearly proud. “Not bad, right? Those dwarves really know how to build, let me tell you.”

He tapped a section in the east. “Third forge-pit is complete. Two weeks ahead of schedule.”

Zeke folded his arms, listening closely to the report. This was his biggest investment, the foundation of his future, and hearing that things were not only progressing but exceeding expectations filled him with quiet satisfaction.

“They say they’ll beat that again next month. There might be only a few Dwarfs in Undercity right now. But give them endless labor and they become force multipliers.”

Zeke studied the map illustrating the new force rising beneath the sands of Korrovan. His force. “…And the Chimeroi?”

“Trained. Mostly. The dwarves didn’t just teach them how to use the tools, they gave them something far more important: pride. The city’s not just rebuilding. It’s reawakening.”

Zeke said nothing.

He didn’t need to. The fire behind his eyes said enough.

“The Verma contract?” he asked at last.

David gave a crisp nod. “Signed, sealed, and inspected. Cloth production begins next week. They’re calling it the cornerstone deal.”

Zeke let that sink in. The cornerstone.

The first in a series of contracts that would cement Undercity’s place as more than a grave for the discarded.

“Good,” he said softly.

David, ever the realist, added, “The war is helping. Everyone is stockpiling. Demand’s surging across the continent. Many eyes are on Undercity now, their greed making them cast caution to the wind.”

Zeke’s gaze drifted toward a continental map on the wall, something Akasha kept up to date for him. The map showed active distribution lanes. He could already see the patterns forming—where goods bottlenecked, where prices spiked, where merchants pressed for new routes.

“….We ride the wave,” Zeke said. “Secure resources from the dwarves and elves and fill our stores.”

David smiled faintly. “You’re starting to sound like them.”

“I am one of them,” Zeke replied dryly. “Merchant Lord, remember?”

David shrugged. “Far as I can tell, you’ve always been a schemer, young lord, long before the title.”

Zeke smiled but remained quiet.

His fingers brushed across the detailed plans of the new city. A new Undercity. A new economic powerhouse, firmly under his control. If he played his cards right, it could become a source of strength—one of many he would need to stand on equal footing with the likes of King Midas or the Emperor.

Zeke looked up from the map and met David’s eyes. He finally understood the true purpose of this visit. It wasn’t just to deliver an update. It was a farewell.

“You’re going?”

David nodded. “There’s much to be done over there. I’ll be far more useful on-site. Also... I’m ashamed to admit it, but the kids have grown on me.”

Zeke knew exactly what he meant. The Chimeroi, despite their strength and outward maturity, often seemed like little more than lost children, trapped in the bodies of adults.

If even he felt that way, then for someone as composed and seasoned as David, leaving them must have felt like abandoning a house full of toddlers.

“When?”

“I’ll be leaving right after the ceremony tomorrow,” David said. “Feels like it came out of nowhere, doesn’t it?”

“…Does it?” Zeke replied distantly, already scanning the distribution map again. “Time’s been strange lately.”

Zeke’s body stiffened a moment later, realising what David had just said.

Ceremony. Tomorrow.

A cold wave slid down his spine.

When had so much time passed?

“You didn’t forget, did you?” David asked, his eyes narrowing just slightly.

Zeke forced a chuckle. “Of course not. It’s all she’s been talking about since my return.”

David held his gaze a moment longer than necessary, then nodded. “That’s all, young lord. I’ll see you in the morning?”

Zeke nodded, but David had already turned, his footsteps fading into the background hum of the workshop.

The silence returned, heavy and mechanical, metal ticking, runes humming.

Zeke stood unmoving in the center of it all.

Then, slowly, his eyes drifted to a small desk in the corner. Unused. Dust gathered in the creases of the parchment she’d left behind. A sketch. A flower. Something Maya had drawn during one of her visits down here.

The same color as her hair. Dirty blonde, just like their Mother’s.

He sank into his chair, breathing out through his nose, steady and shallow.

Fourteen already.

The time where every child would attempt to awaken their Core.

He wasn’t ready.

Not for this. Not for the possibility that she’d awaken. Or wouldn’t. That she’d rise as something brilliant, or remain behind, staring at him from across a gap he could never close.

His hand reached out, brushing the edge of the page. It was absurd, he’d fought monsters, buried enemies, struck deals with dragons and worse. And yet…

His fingers trembled.

Maya.

She was supposed to be safe. She wasn’t supposed to change.

He let the drawing fall, returning to the flickering blueprints without seeing them.

The quiet hum of the machines filled the void, uncaring.

Tomorrow.