Trinity of Magic

The morning rush at the Magic Association had just begun to ebb when Elias straightened his black-and-white uniform for the third time. His colleague, Marina, watched him fidget with barely concealed amusement from behind the reception desk.

"You're going to wear a hole through that collar if you keep tugging," she said, not looking up from the ledger she was updating.

Elias forced his hands down. "How are you so calm? A Merchant Lord requested a personal audience with the President herself. When was the last time that happened?"

"Three months ago," Marina replied dryly. "Lord Veldren wanted to dispute his grandson's placement on the rankings."

"That's completely different." Elias moved to the window, peering down at the bustling streets of Tradespire. "That pompous prick Veldren didn't give advance notice; he just barged in as if he owned the place. Lord von Hohenheim sent word yesterday specifically requesting this meeting."

Marina's quill paused mid-stroke. The name hung in the air between them, heavy with recent history. She set down her writing instrument and joined him at the window.

"…Von Hohenheim," she murmured. The name carried weight—both admiration and something else. "Hard to believe it's only been months since he shattered those records."

Elias nodded slowly. That day remained vivid in his memory—the way the entire hall had fallen silent when the advancement board updated, the whispers that had erupted like wildfire. Ezekiel von Hohenheim had claimed the top spot at seventeen, beating the previous record by four full years. Then, as if that hadn't been enough, he'd proceeded to dominate the simultaneous spellcasting category with a display that still had senior mages shaking their heads in disbelief.

"His Gondolas used to fill the morning sky," Marina observed, her gaze tracking the empty air lanes. "Remember how they'd catch the light? Like jeweled beetles floating between the spires."

"The Skyline Parade, they called it." Elias's fingers drummed against the windowsill. "Every merchant house that could afford one made sure their gondola was out during peak hours. A show of wealth and taste."

"Things have certainly changed since then…" Marina gestured at the vacant sky. "Even House Valdris keeps their fleet grounded. They own six of them. Six! and not one has flown in the past month."

The implications were clear without being spoken. The von Hohenheim ships had been the pinnacle of magical engineering. But fashion in Tradespire was as fickle as it was cruel. When Azra von Hohenheim had arrived—bearing the Empire's official recognition as heir to the family name—the social calculus had shifted overnight. What had once been a symbol of prestige became a mark of poor judgment, of aligning oneself with a house in decline.

Elias had seen it before, this particular brand of cruelty. But rarely had the fall been so swift or so complete.

"Have you heard? He supposedly released something new…" Marina asked, returning to her desk. Her tone carried the careful neutrality of someone sharing gossip while pretending not to gossip.

"Everyone's heard something." Elias followed her, grateful for the shift in topic. "Though the stories vary. Master Aldric claims it's a new type of defensive ward. The junior enchanters are convinced it's some sort of communication device."

Marina's lips quirked. "And neither group has actually seen it?"

"Nobody here has. But that hasn't stopped the speculation." He paused, considering. "What's interesting is that supposedly it's not aimed at merchants at all. Whatever it is, it's for a different market entirely."

"Military?"

"Perhaps. Or academic." Elias shrugged. "Though I doubt it's something ordinary, given who it comes from..."

They both fell silent, remembering. The casual way he'd floated forty-one marbles simultaneously, arranging them mid-air to spell out a message that had sent ripples through the magical community.

These weren't the actions of a typical seventeen-year-old prodigy. They spoke of something else—a drive that bordered on obsession, a work ethic that had compressed decades of practice into mere months.

The main doors opened with a soft chime, and both receptionists looked up automatically. But it was just a junior mage arriving for his shift, nodding apologetically as he hurried past.

Marina returned to her ledger, but Elias noticed how her eyes kept drifting to the timepiece on the wall. The appointment was for the third hour past dawn. They had perhaps twenty minutes.

"The President cleared her entire morning," Marina said quietly. "Whatever von Hohenheim wants to discuss, she's taking it seriously."

Isolde Veyr didn't clear her schedule lightly. As both Branch Manager of Tradespire and President of the entire Magic Association, her time was more valuable than gold. She was an Archmage of considerable power and influence, her Mind affinity making her one of the sharpest political operators on the continent. If she'd agreed to this meeting, she saw value in it.

"Or she's curious," Elias suggested. "The President was close with Maximilian, wasn't she?"

"Professional respect, from what I heard." Marina's voice dropped even lower. "They collaborated on several projects in their younger years. Before..."

Before Maximilian von Hohenheim became the controversial figure whose death still sparked heated debates in academic circles. Before his adopted son had been forced to forge his own path in a city that had already chosen sides.

The doors chimed again.

This time, both receptionists knew immediately who had arrived. There was something about the way the ambient mana shifted, a subtle displacement that marked the presence of a powerful mage exerting his control. Elias had felt it months ago during that first visit, but what struck him now was how much more refined it had become.

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The young man who entered looked older than his seventeen years. Not in any single dramatic way—his crimson hair still caught the light like spilled wine, his golden eyes still held that penetrating quality that seemed to see through everything they touched. But the lines of his face had sharpened, as if excess softness had been carved away by an unforgiving sculptor. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, faint but present, speaking of long nights and early mornings.

His clothes were well-tailored but simple—dark wool and leather, functional rather than ostentatious. The only concession to his status was a silver pin at his collar, the empire's von Hohenheim crest rendered in miniature. A small defiance, perhaps, or simply habit.

But it was his presence that truly marked the change. Months ago, Ezekiel had been like a barely controlled torrent, power leaking from him in subtle waves despite his best efforts. Now, nothing escaped unless he willed it. The Mana around him bent to his presence without disturbing it, like water flowing around a stone. It was a level of control that most mages needed a decade to achieve after reaching Grand Mage status.

Some claimed prodigies advanced faster because of natural talent. Looking at the exhaustion barely hidden in those golden eyes, Elias suspected the truth was far simpler and far harsher. Ezekiel von Hohenheim had compressed those years into months through sheer, relentless effort.

"Lord von Hohenheim," Elias said, rising smoothly from his chair. "The President is expecting you."

A faint smile touched his lips, there and gone in an instant. "Ezekiel is fine. The lordship is more burden than blessing these days."

The casual dismissal of his title might have seemed like self-deprecation from anyone else. But there was something in the way he said it, a matter-of-fact acknowledgment of reality, that made it feel more like stating the weather.

"Of course, sir," Elias replied, gathering a fresh ledger and inkwell. "If you'll follow me?"

As they walked through the Association's halls, Elias noticed how Ezekiel's gaze tracked everything: the defensive wards woven into the walls, the subtle reinforcement spells on the load-bearing pillars, the extra layers of protection on certain doors. Those golden eyes missed nothing, cataloging and analyzing with an intensity that was almost unsettling.

At times, Elias even suspected that Ezekiel could see through walls, his gaze following the locations of important nodes hidden behind layers of stone. Then again, perhaps that was just his imagination.

They climbed the central staircase in silence, their footsteps muffled by thick carpeting. Other Association members passed them, some offering polite nods, others pretending not to notice. Still, Elias saw how their eyes lingered after Ezekiel had gone by, curiosity and calculation mingling in equal measure.

The President's office occupied the entire top floor of the eastern tower. The doors alone were works of art—carved ironwood inlaid with silver runes that shifted and moved like living things. They opened silently at their approach, recognizing Elias's magical signature.

The office beyond was simultaneously grand and practical. Towering bookshelves lined three walls, filled with texts that represented centuries of magical knowledge. The fourth wall was entirely glass, offering a commanding view of Tradespire. But the furniture was simple and functional. A large desk of dark wood, several comfortable chairs, a low table for less formal discussions.

Isolde Veyr stood with her back to them, gazing out at the city below. She was a woman who had aged gracefully into her station, silver-streaked hair pulled back in an elaborate braid, her robes a deep blue that seemed to shift between shades as she moved. When she turned, her eyes, a pale gray that seemed almost colorless, fixed immediately on Ezekiel.

"Lord von Hohenheim," she said, her voice carrying the kind of authority that came from decades of being obeyed without question. "Or do you prefer Lord Ezekiel? The protocols become confused when the Empire and the Association disagree on titles."

"Just Ezekiel is fine, President." He inclined his head precisely enough to show respect but not enough to show submission. "Thank you for agreeing to see me."

She studied him for a long moment, those pale eyes revealing nothing of her thoughts. Then she moved to her desk, gesturing for him to take the chair across from her. Elias positioned himself near the door, ledger ready—present but unobtrusive, as a good assistant should be.

"I knew your mentor," Isolde said without preamble. "Maximilian was brilliant, stubborn, and occasionally infuriating. I see you've inherited at least two of those qualities."

"All three, according to some," Ezekiel replied.

The ghost of a smile touched Isolde's lips. "He would have been proud of what you accomplished here. Breaking the advancement record was impressive enough, but the spellcasting display..." She shook her head slightly. "For the first time, I'm glad I was forbidden from attempting the record. It saved me the shame of being beaten by a kid a fraction of my age."

"I appreciate the kind words."

"Well then," Isolde said, leaning back in her chair. "You requested this meeting. I assume it wasn't simply to reminisce about Maximilian or for another record attempt."

"No." Ezekiel reached into his jacket and withdrew a slim leather portfolio. "I need to register a patent—"

Isolde's expression cooled in an instant.

Something as simple as a patent did not require the president's oversight. She had likely been excited at the prospect of hearing Maximilian's heir, but this proved rather underwhelming. Even Elias found himself disappointed.

"Patents are handled by the Enchantment Registry," she said mechanically. "Third floor, west wing. I'm certain my staff could have directed you—"

"—for new spellforms," Ezekiel continued as if she hadn't spoken.

The air in the room seemed to still. Elias's quill stopped moving entirely. Even the ambient mana in the air grew heavy, as if the very magic itself was holding its breath.

Isolde's fingers, which had been drumming a casual rhythm on her desk, froze mid-tap. Her pale eyes sharpened to points of steel. "Spellforms. Plural?"

"Yes."

The President of the Magic Association sat forward slowly, each movement deliberate and controlled. When she spoke, her voice carried none of its earlier warmth. "The last mage to register multiple original spellforms in a single year was an Archmage of great renown, and that was sixty years ago. It nearly killed her."

"Really? I was unaware of that."

"The verification process alone—" She stopped herself, studying him with an intensity that made Elias want to shrink into the wall. "How many?"

Ezekiel opened the portfolio and withdrew a single sheet of parchment, covered edge to edge with tiny, precise script. He placed it on the desk with the same care one might handle ancient glass.

Isolde didn't touch it immediately. Her eyes scanned the visible text, and Elias watched something he'd never seen before happen to the President's face. The color drained from it, slowly, like wine being poured from a glass.

"This is..." Her voice cracked. Isolde Veyr, who had faced down hordes of monsters and negotiated with kings and tyrants alike, whose voice had never wavered in forty years of leadership, cleared her throat and tried again. "This is a summary."

"Yes."

"...A summary," she repeated, touching the parchment. Her fingers trembled just enough that only a careful observer would notice. "Of original spellforms. That you claim to have developed."

"That I have developed."

The silence stretched between them like a bowstring ready to snap. Elias held his breath, the ledger forgotten in his lap. What could have shaken the usually unflappable president of the Magic Association so deeply?

"...The number," Isolde whispered, barely audible. "Tell me the number."

Ezekiel's golden eyes never left hers. A spark flickered within. Pride, perhaps? Elias wasn't sure what to make of it, but all else faded when he spoke his next words.

"I have come to register a total of..." The room seemed to hold its breath. "One hundred spells."