The whetstone, smooth and cool, sat on the small, rough-hewn table in my rented room above a sleepy bakery – not Borin's, I preferred a little anonymity between my lodgings and my preferred bread supplier. Its very mundanity was a counterpoint to the increasingly less-mundane ripples I seemed to be causing in Aethelburg's stagnant pond. My collection of blades, acquired from various blacksmiths and markets purely for the tactile experience of their crafting, lay neatly arranged. None truly needed sharpening in any practical sense for me, but the ritual was… grounding.
However, even the simple act of existing was proving to be a catalyst. The subtle thrum of fear and speculation in the city's collective consciousness was like a persistent, off-key note in an otherwise tolerable symphony. Captain Vayne's thinly veiled interrogation, Hemlock's terrified generosity, and most notably, the piercing, analytical gaze of Magister Valerius Thorne – these were new threads in the tapestry of my current experience.
Today, I decided, would be a day for knowledge. Or rather, for observing how mortals curated and interpreted their own limited understanding of the sliver of reality they inhabited. The Whisperwind Archives, a venerable stone edifice tucked away in the quieter Scholars' Quarter, seemed an appropriate destination. It was said to house records dating back to Aethelburg's founding, along with a modest collection of arcane treatises deemed "safe" for general academic perusal. I had no need for the knowledge itself – I was the source code from which all knowledge, mundane or arcane, ultimately derived. But the presentation, the human biases, the errors passed down as truth… those could be amusing.
The Archives were cool and hushed, smelling of aged parchment, dried ink, and the faint, metallic tang of old preservation spells. Sunlight, filtered through tall, stained-glass windows depicting stylized representations of historical events (mostly inaccurate, I noted with detached amusement), cast shifting patterns of color on the stone floor. Rows upon rows of towering shelves, laden with scrolls and leather-bound tomes, stretched into shadowy depths. It was an atmosphere designed to inspire studious contemplation.
A few scholars and students were scattered amongst the reading tables, their heads bowed in concentration, the rustle of turning pages the loudest sound. At a large, ornately carved central desk sat the Head Archivist, or so I presumed. She was younger than I'd expected, perhaps in her early twenties. Her hair was the color of spun moonlight, cascading in gentle waves around a face that was both intelligent and possessed of a serene, almost ethereal beauty. Her eyes, the color of amethyst, were currently scanning a heavy, open ledger, a delicate silver stylus dancing across its pages. She wore simple but elegant robes of deep indigo, and a single, intricately wrought silver chain gleamed at her throat, from which hung a small, polished obsidian pendant shaped like a teardrop.
As I approached, her head lifted, and those amethyst eyes met mine. There was no surprise, no immediate suspicion, just a calm, appraising look. A faint, almost imperceptible ripple in the aether around her suggested a keen mind, possibly with a touch of innate magical sensitivity, though not actively trained as a weaver.
"Welcome to the Whisperwind Archives," she said, her voice soft but clear, like the chime of distant bells. "Are you seeking specific knowledge, or simply browsing our collection?"
"Browsing, for now," I replied, my voice neutral. "I am… Zero. New to Aethelburg."
A flicker of something – recognition? intrigue? – passed through her eyes at my name. The marketplace incident was clearly the talk of the town. "Zero," she repeated, the name tasting unfamiliar on her tongue. "I am Lyra Seraphine, custodian of this repository. Feel free to explore. The public sections are clearly marked. If you require assistance, do not hesitate to ask."
Her demeanor was polite, professional, yet there was an undercurrent of curiosity in her gaze as it lingered on me for a moment longer than strictly necessary before returning to her ledger. Interesting. Most reactions I'd elicited so far were tinged with fear. Hers was… different. More open.
I gave a slight nod and moved towards a section labeled "Local Histories and Antiquities." The sheer volume of human effort here – the painstaking scribing, the binding, the cataloging, all to preserve fleeting memories and biased interpretations – was rather endearing in its futility, given the cosmic scales I usually dealt with.
I'd been perusing a rather fanciful account of Aethelburg's founding (attributing it to a hero blessed by a sun deity, conveniently forgetting the rather brutal territorial skirmishes with the indigenous hill tribes I vaguely recalled setting the stage for) for perhaps twenty minutes when a familiar, chilling presence made itself known. Not through sound or sight initially, but through that distinct, cold pressure in the ambient magical field, the subtle sharpening of intellectual focus that I now associated with Magister Valerius Thorne.
He materialized from behind a towering shelf of geological surveys, as silent as a wraith. His dark robes seemed to drink the light, and his pale, hawkish face was unreadable. The thin, leather-bound book was still in his hand, though his finger no longer marked a page. His eyes, like chips of obsidian, were fixed on me with an unnerving intensity.
"Master Zero," he said, his voice a dry rustle, like autumn leaves skittering across flagstones. The "Master" again. It seemed to be catching on. "Fancy meeting you in such a… contemplative environment. A far cry from the chaos of the market square, wouldn't you agree?"
Lyra Seraphine looked up from her desk, her gaze shifting between me and Thorne. A slight frown touched her lips. She clearly knew the Magister, and perhaps his reputation.
"Magister Thorne," I acknowledged, my expression placid. "Indeed. One seeks balance in life. A little chaos, a little contemplation. It prevents stagnation." I gestured to the tome in my hand. "I was just acquainting myself with the local folklore. Quite… imaginative."
Thorne's lips curved into what might have been a smile on a creature capable of more conventional expressions. On him, it looked like a rictus. "Imagination is the bedrock of discovery, Master Zero. And sometimes, what is dismissed as folklore contains kernels of forgotten truth." He took a step closer, his eyes never leaving mine. "Speaking of forgotten truths, the incident in the market… The energies involved, or rather, the lack of residual energies where one would expect a cataclysmic discharge, are… unique in the annals of arcane phenomena."
He wasn't asking a question, more stating a profoundly troubling observation. He was fishing, trying to see if I would react, offer an explanation, perhaps even betray myself.
"Unique events do happen, Magister," I replied calmly, closing the book and placing it back on the shelf with deliberate care. "The universe is a tapestry of infinite possibilities. To expect it to always conform to known patterns is, perhaps, a limitation of the observer, not the observed."
"A philosophical stance," Thorne mused, his gaze unwavering. "Yet, when a phenomenon defies not just known patterns but the very foundational laws of thaumaturgy as we understand them… one is compelled to investigate further. For instance, the complete cessation of a being's existence, leaving no trace, not even on the ethereal planes… Such a thing is theoretically impossible. It would require a power that could unwrite causality itself."
Lyra was now listening intently, her work forgotten. Her amethyst eyes darted between us, a dawning understanding – and perhaps a touch of alarm – in their depths.
"Theoretical impossibilities," I said, turning to face him fully, "are often just theories waiting to be revised by new data. Perhaps your understanding of these 'foundational laws' is… incomplete."
A spark of something – frustration? excitement? – glinted in Thorne's dark eyes. "Precisely! And you, Master Zero, appear to be the source of this… new data. A most compelling source." He paused, then added, his voice dropping to a near whisper, yet carrying an intense weight, "What force allows one to casually flick a cobblestone with such impossible precision as to seal a nexus of residual necrotic energy without disturbing a single mote of dust around it, when a team of my best geomancers would have required hours of ritual preparation to achieve a similar, albeit cruder, result?"
So, he had been observing me very closely yesterday. His intellect was indeed formidable. He wasn't just looking at the grand displays; he was analyzing the minute, the seemingly insignificant.
Before I could offer another infuriatingly vague platitude, the relative quiet of the Archives was shattered. A loud crash echoed from the direction of the main entrance, followed by a woman's scream and the distinct, unpleasant sound of splintering wood and shattering glass.
Lyra gasped, rising to her feet. "What in the First Scribe's name was that?"
Thorne, despite his intense focus on me, reacted instantly. His head snapped towards the sound, his expression hardening into one of professional alertness. "Trouble."
Heavy, rhythmic thuds began to shake the floor, growing closer. Then, one of the towering bookshelves at the end of the aisle swayed precariously and crashed inwards with a deafening roar of splintering wood and cascading books, sending up a cloud of ancient dust.
Standing in the newly created gap, framed by shattered shelving, were three figures. Or rather, constructs. They were roughly humanoid, about seven feet tall, fashioned from what looked like discarded pieces of masonry, rusty metal plates, and tangled bundles of copper wiring, all crudely bolted and welded together. Their single, cyclopean eyes glowed with a malevolent orange light, and their movements were jerky but powerful. Sparks flew from exposed joints as they lumbered forward, their heavy footfalls making the very stone tremble.
"Magisterium work-automatons," Thorne bit out, his voice tight with anger. "Mark IV Utility Frames. Or what's left of them. They've gone rogue. And they're armed with demolition claws."
Indeed, each construct brandished a set of oversized, pincer-like appendages where hands should be, clearly designed for heavy lifting or, in this case, destructive dismantling.
A young, terrified-looking apprentice mage stumbled back from the wreckage, his robes torn, a bleeding gash on his forehead. "Magister Thorne! They… they just went haywire in the workshops! We couldn't stop them! They're tearing through everything!"
Lyra let out a small cry of dismay. "My Archives! The irreplaceable texts!"
One of the constructs turned its glowing orange eye towards her, its head swiveling with a grinding screech. It raised a demolition claw, clearly intent on bringing down another section of irreplaceable knowledge.
Thorne swore under his breath. "Evacuate! I'll try to disable them!" He thrust his leather-bound book into the apprentice's hands. "Get the others out!" His own hands began to glow with a faint silver light as he prepared a spell.
The scholars and students who hadn't already fled were scrambling for the exits, their faces pale with terror. The constructs, however, were blocking the most direct route.
This was… untidy. And destructive. My attempts at a quiet day were consistently being thwarted by the universe's apparent love for localized mayhem.
Thorne unleashed a bolt of crackling silver energy at the nearest construct. It struck the automaton square in the chest, causing it to stagger back a step, sparks flying wildly from the impact point. But it was far from disabled. Its orange eye flickered, then refocused with renewed aggression.
"Their core shielding is too strong for simple disruption spells!" Thorne grunted, already preparing another, more complex incantation. He was skilled, no doubt, but these things were built to withstand significant arcane interference. He was buying time, but not much.
The construct advancing on Lyra was almost upon her. She stood frozen, her face a mask of fear, clutching her obsidian pendant.
Enough of this.
I stepped forward, moving not with any particular haste, but with a smooth, unhurried gait that seemed to place me directly between Lyra and the advancing automaton.
"Zero! Get back! It's too dangerous!" Lyra cried out, her voice trembling.
Thorne, mid-chant, shot me a look of grim warning.
The construct, its programming clearly not accounting for unarmed, unarmored commoners deliberately placing themselves in its path, paused for a microsecond, its single eye focusing on me. Then, it raised its demolition claw, ready to swat me aside like an insect.
I didn't summon lightning. I didn't unmake it from existence. That would be… excessive for malfunctioning clockwork. And far too revealing.
Instead, as the massive, rusty claw descended, I simply raised my right hand, palm open.
My movements were not fast by mortal standards. They were… precise. Economical. As the claw, easily capable of crushing stone, neared my hand, I shifted my weight almost imperceptibly. My fingers, those of a supposed commoner, moved with a speed and dexterity that defied observation.
There was no clash of metal on flesh. No sound of impact.
My fingers found the minute seams in the construct's wrist joint, the almost invisible stress points in its crude assemblage. With a series of pressures so subtle they would have been undetectable, I applied targeted kinetic force, not through brute strength, but through a perfect understanding of its flawed structure, its internal mechanics, its points of critical failure. I was, after all, the one who had defined the laws of physics that governed its very cohesion.
A faint click-snick-thunk sound, barely audible over the grinding of the other constructs and Thorne's ongoing spellcasting.
The descending demolition claw froze inches from my face. Then, with a protesting groan of tortured metal, it detached cleanly from the construct's arm and clattered heavily to the floor.
The construct stood motionless for a beat, its orange eye blinking erratically. It tried to raise its other arm, but I was already there. Another series of infinitesimal, targeted pressures at its shoulder joint. Click-whirr-clunk. The second arm, demolition claw and all, dropped to the floor beside the first.
Disarmed. Literally.
The construct, now little more than a torso on legs, jittered, its internal mechanisms grinding in confusion. Its orange eye swiveled wildly.
I then placed my hand gently on its "head" – the casing that housed its optical sensor. I didn't push. I didn't strike. I simply… focused. For a fraction of a second, I mapped its internal circuitry, the flawed magical matrix that powered it, the corrupted command runes causing its rampage.
And then, with a mental nudge equivalent to flipping a perfectly placed switch in its core programming, I introduced a single, dominant command: Cease all function. Enter dormant state.
The orange light in its eye faded to a dull, lifeless grey. The whirring and grinding from within its chassis died down. The construct slumped, becoming an inert pile of metal and stone. Deactivated.
All of this had taken perhaps three seconds.
The second construct, which had been advancing on Thorne, paused its assault, its optical sensor swiveling towards the now-inert form of its companion, then to me. Thorne, his spell still nascent on his lips, stared, his jaw agape, the silver light around his hands flickering out.
Lyra Seraphine, who had braced for impact, slowly lowered her hands from her face, her amethyst eyes wide with utter astonishment, fixed on me. The fear was still there, but it was now mingled with a profound, disbelieving awe.
The remaining two constructs, their primitive logic circuits perhaps registering an anomaly they couldn't process, hesitated.
I turned my calm gaze to them. I didn't need to touch them. The first one was merely for… demonstration. For subtlety.
I looked at the second construct. And as I did, I subtly altered the localized gravitational field immediately beneath its left foot. Just for a microsecond. Just enough.
Its heavy tread, expecting solid stone, instead found a patch of momentarily frictionless, hyper-slick surface. Its leg skidded out from under it. With its already clumsy balance, it windmilled its remaining arm for a moment before crashing to the floor with a deafening clang, landing heavily on its optical sensor, which shattered with a pop and a shower of sparks. It twitched once, then lay still.
One to go.
The third construct, witnessing the improbable and swift dispatch of its brethren, seemed to almost… hesitate. Its orange eye fixed on me, and for an entity of pure programming, it exuded an almost palpable sense of confusion, perhaps even a primitive form of mechanical fear.
I merely raised an eyebrow.
Then, from the main entrance, Captain Elara Vayne burst in, flanked by a squad of heavily armed City Guards and two robed Magisterium Battle-Mages. They skidded to a halt, taking in the scene: two disabled constructs, a third looking uncertain, Thorne standing frozen mid-spell, Lyra looking shell-shocked, and me, standing calmly amidst the debris, brushing a speck of dust from my sleeve.
"What in the Void's icy pits happened here?" Elara demanded, her gaze sweeping the room, finally settling on me with a look of profound exasperation. "Zero… don't tell me…"
Before she could finish, the last remaining construct, perhaps spurred by the arrival of more potential threats, let out a metallic screech and charged, not at me, but at the nearest bookshelf, claws raised.
This time, I sighed. Audibly.
I extended a hand, palm up. From the debris of the first fallen bookshelf, a single, slender iron rod, perhaps a bracing strut, rose into the air. It hovered for a moment, then, with a flick of my wrist, it shot forward like a javelin, not with explosive force, but with impossible, unerring accuracy.
It didn't aim for the construct's eye or its core. That would be too… direct.
Instead, it threaded itself with surgical precision through a tiny gap in the construct's leg joint, entered a specific looping conduit of its primary motive power system, and then, with another subtle mental nudge from me, bent at a perfect ninety-degree angle, severing the conduit and simultaneously locking the joint solid.
The construct's charge ended mid-stride. Its leg seized. It pitched forward, unbalanced, and crashed face-first into the floor, skidding to a halt at Elara Vayne's feet. Its orange eye flickered and died.
Silence. Again.
The newly arrived guards and mages stared at the three inert constructs, then at me, then back at the constructs. Elara Vayne pinched the bridge of her nose, her eyes closed, as if warding off a migraine.
Magister Valerius Thorne slowly lowered his hands, his earlier analytical intensity replaced by an expression I could only describe as stunned, horrified enlightenment. The kind of look a mathematician might get after stumbling upon a proof that reality itself was a deliberate, elegant, and terrifyingly simple equation, and the author of that equation was standing right in front of him, looking mildly bored.
"The… the control rod access conduit…" Thorne whispered, his voice barely audible, staring at the third construct. "The schematics for the Mark IV frames are classified… even most of the Artificers Guild don't know that specific vulnerability… To hit it, from that angle, with a loose piece of debris, while it was moving…" He looked at me, and true, unadulterated fear, the fear of the incomprehensible, was stark in his obsidian eyes. "That wasn't skill. That wasn't luck. That was… preternatural."
Lyra Seraphine finally found her voice, a shaky whisper. "You… you saved the Archives. You saved… me." Her amethyst eyes, wide and luminous, were fixed on me, a complex mix of gratitude, awe, and an almost worshipful terror.
I offered a small, noncommittal shrug. "They were making a mess. And damaging valuable books. A pity about the shelves, though." I gestured to the destruction. "Someone in the Magisterium's automaton division is going to have some explaining to do. Poor quality control, it seems."
Elara Vayne finally opened her eyes. "Zero," she said, her voice dangerously calm. "We need to talk. Again. And this time, 'I'm just a commoner trying to enjoy my bread' is not going to cut it."
I suppressed an internal sigh. My quiet life was becoming a veritable carnival of interruptions. The chromatic aberrations in the otherwise monochrome routine of Aethelburg were certainly multiplying. And Magister Thorne… his gaze was no longer just analytical. It was the gaze of a man who had peeked behind the curtain of reality and was now desperately, terrifyingly trying to comprehend the nature of the puppeteer.
This sabbatical was definitely not going according to plan. Which, I was beginning to suspect, might be the entire point. The universe, my grand, sprawling creation, still had ways to surprise its architect. And that, I had to admit, was not entirely unwelcome. The spice of existence, indeed.