Malakor waited on the threshold, a perfect picture of patient, peasant humility. He kept his energy suppressed, his posture non-threatening, his thoughts shielded. He knew he was being observed, not just by the deadly woman who had gone upstairs, but likely by the Master himself. Every moment was a test.
He heard the soft whisper of returning footsteps. The silver-haired assassin, the 'Shield,' stood before him once again. Her expression had changed. It was no longer just cold suspicion. It was a sharp, predatory smile. A wolf baring its teeth, not in aggression, but in a terrifying display of superior confidence.
"The Master has heard your... 'plea,'" Seraphina said, her voice a silken purr. "He has decreed that you shall be granted respite. He is... exceptionally generous."
She stepped aside, gesturing him in with a theatrical sweep of her arm. "Welcome," she said, "to the antechamber of his Serenity."
Malakor entered the bookstore. As the door clicked shut behind him, the atmosphere instantly changed. The faint sounds of the town outside vanished, replaced by a heavy, profound silence. It felt like stepping from the world into a pocket dimension. The very air was thick with purpose.
I have passed the first trial, he thought, his senses on high alert. Now the interrogation begins.
"Please," Seraphina gestured towards a simple wooden chair near the front counter. It was positioned in the single pool of light cast by the afternoon sun, turning it into a makeshift interrogation spotlight. "Rest your 'weary feet.'"
Malakor sat. Seraphina did not. She prowled the shadows at the edge of the light, her movements a constant, circling threat. A predator studying its prey.
"The Master believes in hospitality," she continued, her voice echoing slightly in the quiet room. "A guest in his sanctum is to be treated with all due courtesy. A drink, perhaps? To quench the 'thirst of your long journey'?"
Another test. Accepting the drink would mean ingesting a substance prepared by them. It could be poisoned, laced with truth serum, or worse, be a magical conduit that would allow them to probe his very soul. But refusing would be an insult, a sign of distrust.
His mission was to introduce a flaw, not to start a war. He had to show faith.
"You are too kind, miss," Malakor said, his baker persona firmly in place. "A simple cup of water would be a blessing."
"Water is for the mundane," Seraphina said with a sharp smile. "A... 'baker'... such as yourself, who understands the alchemy of transformation, deserves something more refined. We will have tea."
She glided behind the counter. She did not use a cheap tin kettle. She produced a single, exquisite cup carved from what looked like glacier ice and a kettle that shimmered with contained starlight—the vessels Valerius had procured. She moved with the unnerving grace of a ritualist, her every action precise and meaningful.
She placed the cup before him. It was empty.
"The Master taught me that a cup is not merely a vessel," she began, her voice a low, instructive monologue. She was testing his understanding of their philosophy. "It is a microcosm. A defined space of emptiness, into which potential is poured. Tell me, baker... what do you hope to fill your cup with today?"
It was a direct question about his motives, phrased as a philosophical koan. Malakor's mind raced. He had to answer correctly.
"An empty cup," he replied humbly, "can only hope to be filled with whatever the host deigns to pour. Its own hope is irrelevant." It was the perfect, submissive answer.
Seraphina's smile widened. He was good. Very good.
From the top of the stairs, a new voice echoed down. "An excellent answer. The humility of the vessel is the beginning of its enlightenment."
Valerius Zathra descended, Princess Aurelia a few steps behind him. They were the panel of judges, arriving to observe the interrogation.
The old sage peered at Malakor with an intensity that could curdle steel. "You speak of broken wheels and the weariness of the road. Great powers are in motion in the world. Old empires, ancient feuds. Which 'wheel' do you serve, baker? And from which 'road' have you strayed?"
They were hammering him, tag-teaming the allegorical interrogation. He was outnumbered.
Upstairs, Lyno was getting curious. The baker had been in his store for a while now. They were probably having a nice, normal conversation. Maybe things were finally calming down. He crept to the door of his room and peered down through the banisters of the staircase.
He could see the scene below. The plump baker sitting in a chair. Seraphina, Valerius, and Aurelia standing around him in a loose semi-circle. It looked... intense. Like a tribunal.
[Oh no,] Lyno thought. [They're bullying him. They're being weird and scary and they're going to frighten off the nice, normal baker. I have to do something.]
He had to show them how to be normal hosts.
Downstairs, Malakor was struggling. "The only wheel I serve is that of my own cart, old father," he said, trying to maintain his cover. "And the only road is the King's Highway."
"The King's Highway?" Valerius pounced on the phrase. "Which King do you refer to? The mortal man who sits the Onyx Throne? Or one of the older, darker kings who slumber in the earth?"
The pressure was immense. Malakor felt his facade begin to crack. These were not mere fanatics; they were enlightened zealots, their intellects honed to a razor's edge by their mysterious Master.
Just then, there was a creak from the staircase.
Everyone, including Malakor, looked up.
Lyno was coming down the stairs. He moved with a shuffling, hesitant gait, clutching his favorite chipped earthenware mug in his hand.
The atmosphere in the room changed instantly. The tension didn't lessen; it became something else entirely. Something heavier. The three interrogators stepped back, bowing their heads in reverence as he passed.
The Master had descended from his throne. The judge himself had entered the courtroom.
Lyno shuffled past his terrifying followers and approached the guest. The poor baker looked scared out of his wits. Lyno offered him a small, awkward, reassuring smile.
He then walked behind the counter. He ignored the fantastical tea set and grabbed his own cheap, tin kettle, filling it with water from a simple jug. He put it on a small, magically-heated plate to warm. It began to whistle almost immediately.
Malakor watched this, utterly mesmerized. The ritual has begun, he thought. The Master himself is performing the tea ceremony. It is the highest of honors, and the most severe of trials.
Lyno took two cheap tea bags out of a box. Not the divine 'Serene Mountain Leaf,' but a common, bitter 'Stout Highland Root' blend he used when he was on a budget. He put one in his own mug and then, remembering his manners, walked over and placed the other one directly into Malakor's empty, priceless ice-crystal cup.
He said nothing. He just performed the simple, mundane act.
Then he went back to the counter, poured the hot water into his own mug, and began to wait for it to steep.
The four beings in the room watched this silent performance, and each of their minds exploded with interpretation.
Seraphina: He uses his own simple vessel, while placing the crude 'Highland Root' into the sanctified cup for the visitor. A lesson! He is demonstrating that the quality of the vessel is irrelevant if the substance placed within it is common! He is rebuking the guest's subtle nature, calling him base!
Valerius: Stout Highland Root! The cheapest tea! Grown in common, unconsecrated earth! And he offers it to this celestial envoy? It is an act of supreme symbolic warfare! He is telling this rival power, "Your essence, your divine nature, is, to me, as common as dirt. You hold no mystery for me." The sheer audacity!
Aurelia: It's a political statement! By serving this 'baker' himself, using the tea of the common man, he is demonstrating his connection to the masses! He is showing this foreign power that his strength comes not from artifacts and ancient bloodlines, but from the simple, earthy foundations of the world itself!
Malakor, the Infiltration Demon, felt a terror unlike anything he had ever known. He was a being of subtlety and deception, and the Master had seen right through him instantly. This was no interrogation. This was a judgment.
The silent, unassuming man had offered him the tea of a commoner. He had looked at a Demon Lord's most subtle agent and, without a single word, had declared him to be... nothing. He had not been met with swords or magic, but with the ultimate, soul-crushing insult of sheer, divine pity. His cover, his mission, his very being had been utterly and completely dismissed.
The subtle apocalypse had failed before he had even begun.
Lyno took a sip of his tea and let out a small sigh of satisfaction. He looked over at the baker. The poor man looked like he had just seen a ghost.
[I knew it,] Lyno thought miserably. [Even my normal is weird to them.]