Adom had been in the library for four hours already, and the nerd in him still wasn't tired of it. The smell of old books, the quiet rustle of turning pages, the occasional whispered consultation—it felt like home. More home than his actual dorm did, if he was being honest.

He glanced at the timepiece in his pocket. Nine minutes left.

On the fourth level of the Academy's grand library, hidden behind the section on pre-empire farming techniques, there was a narrow passage. So narrow you had to turn sideways and squeeze through, which made it hilariously impractical as an entrance to anything. But Adom knew what lay beyond.

He gathered his notes and the three books he hadn't finished yet, carefully marking his place in each. He returned the other nine to the re-shelving cart, then made his way back to the passage.

"Excuse me," he muttered as he squeezed past a tall shelf that seemed determined to make the already tight space even more claustrophobic.

And then, like stepping through a curtain, he was out.

Blue sky stretched overhead. Not the dark stone ceiling of the library, but actual sky with wispy clouds and birds circling lazily above. Green grass carpeted the ground, dotted with wildflowers in purples and whites. Butterflies drifted between the blooms, and the air smelled of spring.

This wasn't a room at all. It was a portal to another part of the Academy—the private gardens of former headmistress Athena Ravenshadow.

Well, "private" was a bit of a misnomer. Anyone could access it with a reservation. Four hours max per reservation, strictly enforced by the garden's enchantments. Which meant in approximately eight minutes, Adom would be unceremoniously ejected back through that narrow passage, probably right into some poor confused first-year student.

The garden had been designed to replicate the environment of Elhar, an elven land where Headmistress Ravenshadow had been born. She was a founding member of the Academy along with Law, as they had been comrades. Some even said they were lovers, but there was never any proof of that. Suffice to say, she was an elf—the only one who had ever served as headmistress of Xerkes Academy.

Adom settled back down on the bench he'd claimed hours ago. The garden's soothing effect was something he'd come to rely on—the ambient mana in the air made it easier to focus while simultaneously refreshing the mind. You could study for hours here and feel like you'd just had a nap.

And study he had. Twelve books on mythical creatures, all searched specifically for information on sphinxes. And what had he found? Almost nothing.

"Sphinxes are guardians of ancient knowledge," he read aloud from one text. "They are known for their riddles and their merciless treatment of those who answer incorrectly." He snapped the book shut. "Yes, thank you. I discovered that firsthand."

What he needed was information on sphinx physiology. What their body parts could be used for in alchemy. How to process the golden blood he'd collected, or what properties the claws might have.

He'd even asked Professor Mirwen but she'd just blinked at him in surprise.

"Sphinx parts? For alchemy?" she'd said, adjusting her spectacles. "My dear boy, no one has successfully harvested sphinx parts in over three centuries. They're nearly extinct. Maybe are, already. Where would you even get such materials to study?"

Adom had mumbled something about theoretical research and made a hasty exit.

A soft chime sounded throughout the garden. Five-minute warning. Soon he'd be forced out to make room for the next student with a reservation.

He looked down at his mostly empty notebook. Four hours of research, and all he had to show for it were three lines of actual information and several doodles of sphinx anatomy based on his memory of the one he'd killed.

His four hours hadn't been entirely in vain, though. He'd at least confirmed that sphinx studies were an academic dead end. Which meant he was on his own with his experiments.

The golden blood and claws sitting in his inventory just became a lot more valuable. And a lot more mysterious.

The final chime sounded, and Adom felt the garden's magic take hold. It wasn't exactly a push, more like the entire space became suddenly inhospitable to his presence.

"Alright, alright, I'm going," he muttered, gathering his remaining books.

He squeezed back through the narrow passage and into the library proper, nearly colliding with a wide-eyed first-year student who was clearly headed for the garden.

"Sorry," Adom said, stepping aside.

"Is it really true there's a whole garden in there?" the student whispered, peering nervously at the passage.

"Complete with birds and butterflies," Adom confirmed. "Just don't be late coming out. The ejection's not pleasant."

Miss Grimclaw looked up from her desk as Adom passed. The goblin librarian adjusted her spectacles with one gnarled finger, her expression as stern and stoic as ever.

"Productive session, Mr. Sylla?"

"Not particularly," Adom admitted, placing the books on her desk. "But thank you for the reservation."

She nodded curtly and returned to her cataloging, the matter clearly closed as far as she was concerned.

Adom stepped out of the library, blinking in the afternoon sunlight. His stomach growled, reminding him he'd skipped lunch. Maybe he could grab Zuni with Sam before heading to the Weird Stuff Store. A quick meal, then on to see if anything new had come in that might help with his current merchant war.

Twenty minutes later, with a barely-digested sandwich in his stomach, Adom pushed open the door to the Weird Stuff Store. The bell above the door jingled cheerfully.

"Welcome to the Weird Stuff Store, how can I—oh hey, Adom!" Emma looked up from behind the counter where she was sorting a pile of what looked like glowing feathers.

"Hey Emma," Adom said, stepping inside. Today, there was a smell of incense and old books in the store. "How's it going?"

Before Emma could answer, a figure emerged from the back room. Blue skin, elegant curved horns, and a smile that could either sell you your heart's desire or trick you out of your last copper.

"If it isn't the Architect," the tiefling said, leaning against the doorframe with casual grace.

"Zara!" Adom couldn't help his wide grin. It had been months since he'd seen her.

"Six months, four days, and now..." Zara pulled out an ornate pocket watch, checking it. "Five minutes."

"Did you actually keep track?" Emma asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Of course." Zara snapped the watch closed with a flick of her wrist and returned it to her pocket. "How could I possibly forget how long it's been since I've seen my favorite mage?"

Adom laughed, careful not to ask anything about where she'd been in front of Emma.

"When did you come back to Arkhos?" Adom asked.

"Yesterday," Zara replied, moving from the doorway to perch on the edge of the counter. "Mr. Biggins needed an extra pair of hands, and Emma here can't be expected to manage everything alone."

Emma nodded seriously. "She's going to help with the new shipment that came in yesterday. There's some weird stuff even by our standards."

"It's just a temporary arrangement," Zara added, her eyes meeting Adom's meaningfully. "While I figure out my next... step."

She hopped off the counter and approached Adom, linking her arm through his. "How about you come with me and we catch up properly? I've missed you dearly."

"Sure," Adom agreed, letting her lead him toward the back room.

"Don't break anything expensive!" Emma called after them. "And don't touch the blue jar on the second shelf, Mr. Biggins says it might be containing a sort of entity!"

"We'll be careful," Zara promised with a wink, guiding Adom into the back room and closing the door behind them.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Zara's professional demeanor melted away. She smiled widely at Adom and ruffled his hair.

"Look at you! You've grown at least two inches since I saw you last," she said, measuring with her hand.

Adom ducked away from her touch with a half-hearted protest. "Cut it out. I'm not that much taller."

"Maybe not, but something's different." She studied him with a critical eye.

"A lot has happened," Adom said simply.

The back room of the Weird Stuff Store was exactly as chaotic as the front. Crates stamped with warnings in various languages were stacked haphazardly. Shelves lined every wall, filled with objects that defied easy categorization.

Adom leaned against a relatively empty table. "How were the operations? Did you manage to rally other members of the Order?"

Zara's playful expression faded. She sighed and dropped into a rickety chair that creaked under her weight.

"It's been hard," she admitted. "We've lost a major part of the Order throughout the years. Not many currently believe in the Architect anymore."

The Architect. That was what Zara called Adom. Apparently, it was also the name Law had used when he talked about him 3,000 years ago. That was what the members of the Order knew him by. Nothing else—no description of how he'd look or talk, no details about his past or personality. Just "the Architect."

Adom still found it bizarre. Zara and her whole family were... fans, sort of. She had grown up being prepared to welcome and help Adom whenever he might appear. There was apparently a sort of cult around the Architect persona, though most of its members had drifted away over the centuries.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Adom had no idea why Law called him that either. He'd asked Biggins, who'd actually known Law when he was alive, but the old dragon had just chuckled and said the man was extremely cryptic about Adom.

Zara had once explained that the title just meant he was expected to design things—systems, plans, solutions. A better future, in practical terms.

"Most of the Order has forgotten their purpose," Zara continued, pulling Adom from his thoughts. "They've become more concerned with maintaining their own positions and wealth than with preparing for your arrival." She scowled. "Some branches have even started worshiping Law as a deity, which would have horrified him."

"But you found some who are still trustworthy?" Adom asked hopefully.

"A few." Zara leaned forward, lowering her voice despite the privacy of the room. "Mostly the older families who kept better records. The ones who remember that the Order wasn't created to accumulate power, but to aid you in your mission."

"Is that why you came back early?" Adom asked.

"Partly." Zara stood up and began pacing between the crates. "But also because I received a message from Ale. He said you were accelerating your plans, and I might be needed sooner than we thought."

Adom frowned. "I didn't tell Biggins anything about accelerating plans."

"No?" Zara stopped pacing and gave him a knowing look. "Then perhaps you'd like to explain why you've been establishing a merchant guild? Or why you've been developing new magical devices and getting into conflicts with the major guilds?"

"Ah."

Zara chuckled. "I understand, you know. The Order, in its current state, is quite useless to you. So I guess it would make sense to take your own actions instead of waiting for us." She gave him an approving nod. "I'd expect nothing less from the Architect."

"So, you came back because of the thing with the guilds?" Adom replied. Resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

"Yes," Zara confirmed, moving some peculiar artifacts off a crate so she could sit. "I wasn't making much progress with the Order anyway, and Ale summoned me back to assist you."

Adom frowned slightly. What exactly would she do? The guild politics were already complicated enough without adding someone new to the mix—especially someone with connections to a secret organization. Still, if she had resources or contacts he didn't...

Zara seemed to read his hesitation. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "Why don't you tell me where things are at right now, first?"

"Alright." Adom collected his thoughts. "A week ago, we started mass producing the product we'll soon be introducing to the market—communication crystals. They're more reliable than message birds, faster than couriers, and don't require the specialized training of telepathic mages."

"Smart," Zara nodded. "High demand, virtually untapped market."

"The next step is securing an imperial contract. That would give us credibility, steady revenue, and most importantly—leverage. Once the imperial messengers are using our crystals, other merchants will follow."

"And the seat in the House of Merchants?"

Adom's eyes narrowed. "Biggins told you everything, didn't he?"

"Enough," Zara admitted. "I know you're targeting the Crimson Scale's seat."

"They tried to kill me," Adom said flatly.

"Hmm hmm. And you only have about a month before the new seats are announced," Zara added. "Not much time to establish market dominance over a guild that's held a seat for decades."

Adom smiled thinly. "That's why I'm not trying to outperform them—I'm trying to make them self-destruct."

He stood up and began pacing, the action helping him better structure his ideas. "The Crimson Scale specializes in luxury fabrics and dyes. Their main income is from the crimson dye they import from the Southern Isles. It's difficult to transport, sensitive to light and moisture, and extremely expensive."

"So?"

"So I'm going to crash their market."

He expected Zara to have a sort of reaction. And she did. But he was expecting surprise, or shock. Not the wide, vicious smile she was currently sporting while waiting for him to continue.

"I've already started importing a synthetic dye from the Eastern territories." Adom resumed, after clearing his throat. "It's more vibrant, more stable, and costs a third of what they charge. I'm selling it at half their price, which still nets me a profit while undercutting them severely."

"My spies did their research," he added. "The Crimson Scale never adopted synthetic dyes because they built their entire reputation on 'authentic' Southern Isles crimson. Plus, they've spent years establishing their supply routes and bribing the right officials. They're too invested in their current model to pivot, even though the technology exists."

Zara whistled. "They won't take that lying down."

"I'm counting on it," Adom replied. "My goal isn't to compete with them—it's to provoke them into making more mistakes. The attack on me was their first, but the House of Merchants doesn't know about that yet. I need more evidence, more incidents that prove they're unworthy of holding a seat."

"Because simply having a better product won't be enough in just a month," Zara concluded.

"Right. The House is conservative. They don't care if I can make better fabric dye—they care about stability, connections, and legacy. The Crimson Scale has all three."

"So what kind of mistakes are you hoping they'll make?"

Adom leaned against a shelf. "Public ones. The kind that violate the Merchant's Code. Price fixing, sabotage, threats, anything that would get them banned from the House."

"And what's your next move to provoke them?"

"I've arranged for several major fashion houses to receive free samples of our dye," Adom explained. "Including the Imperial Seamstress. The ember festival is coming up, and if the nobles start wearing our crimson instead of theirs..."

"Their quarterly profits will tank," Zara finished.

"Exactly. I need them to panic and make a public move against me—something witnessed by neutral parties that can't be denied."

Zara tapped her fingers thoughtfully against the crate. "What if we don't wait for them to make a mistake? What if we create a situation where they have no choice but to reveal themselves?"

"I'm listening."

"You've been focusing on their product, but what about their shipping? The dye has to travel by sea, right? What if there was a major disruption at the ports? Something that forced them to take desperate measures to protect their incoming shipments?"

Adom's eyes lit up. "If they thought their next shipment was threatened..."

"They might resort to hiring mercenaries, bribing officials, or worse," Zara continued. "All violations of the Merchant's Code if done publicly."

"And I happen to know they have a major shipment arriving next week thanks to my spies," Adom added. "The largest of the season, because of the festival demand."

"So," Zara said, straightening her posture. "Shall we plan a little port disruption?"

*****

The meeting chamber of the Crimson Scale headquarters felt stifling as Tresh Mavarin paced before the assembled guild officers. Her normally composed demeanor had given way to barely contained fury.

"Incompetent fools," she snapped, glaring at Deroq who had coordinated the "warning" operation. "We wanted to send a message, not create a blood feud. Those idiots were supposed to damage an empty warehouse, not attack people inside it!"

Captain Elrik of the City Guard sat uncomfortably in the seat reserved for guests, his weathered face impassive beneath his silver-trimmed helmet.

"My men released your two... associates... this morning," Elrik said, his tone professionally neutral. "As you requested, there was no official record linking them to the Crimson Scale."

"How fortunate," Tresh replied icily.

"However," Elrik continued, unperturbed, "the other two told us there was a third man involved. A young man."

Velth, the security advisor, leaned forward. "Rennik. Where is he?"

Elrik's expression remained carefully blank. "Missing. The two we apprehended were quite... vocal about what happened. They claim they were subdued by the young man at the warehouse—the Sylla boy himself."

A tense silence fell over the room.

"Subdued how?" Joren asked nervously, adjusting his spectacles.

"They were somewhat incoherent on that point," Elrik admitted. "One claimed the boy moved 'faster than sight.' The other mentioned some kind of blue light and being thrown without being touched." He shrugged slightly. "They also said Rennik was injured—bleeding—when they last saw him."

Tresh exchanged a glance with Velth. "And there's been no sign of him since?"

"None," Elrik confirmed. "Though we did find blood at the scene that matched neither the two we apprehended nor the warehouse occupants."

"I see." Tresh resumed her pacing. "Thank you, Captain. Your assistance is, as always, appreciated."

Elrik stood, adjusting his uniform. "Guildmaster Mavarin, a word of caution. There are limits to what even I can overlook. The House of Merchant's Code—"

"—is very clear about inter-guild conflicts, yes," Tresh finished for him. "Rest assured, this unfortunate incident was the result of overzealous contractors misinterpreting instructions. It won't happen again."

After Elrik departed, the tension in the room only increased.

"Five days," Maela said, breaking the silence. "Five days without retaliation. Without even a complaint filed with the House of Merchant's Commission. What are they waiting for?"

"They're planning something," Velth replied grimly. "The Wangara might be new, but they have powerful connections."

Deroq cleared his throat nervously. "Perhaps we should take more direct action. Secure the Sylla boy. Use him as leverage to—"

"Are you completely out of your mind?" Tresh whirled on him, eyes flashing. "Have you not seen what Commander Sylla did to the last people who threatened his son? Do you want us all dead?"

Deroq paled. "I merely suggested—"

"You suggested suicide," Tresh cut him off. "No. We need to think clearly. Put ourselves in their position. What would they do if they were us?"

She moved to the map of the city hanging on the wall, fingers tracing the trade routes that had built their fortune.

"If I were them, what would my next move be?" she mused aloud. "New guild. Powerful connections. Just suffered an unprovoked attack." Her finger stopped at the harbor. "I'd strike where it hurts most."

"The shipment," Velth said immediately.

"Exactly." Tresh nodded. "Our quarterly delivery from the Southern Isles arrives in three days. Without that crimson dye, we cannot fulfill our contracts. Our entire operation would grind to a halt."

"We've already doubled security at the docks," Joren pointed out.

"Triple it," Tresh ordered. "And spread gold among the harbor officials. I want to know if anyone connected to the Wangara so much as approaches those docks."

"You really think they have resources for that kind of operation? The shipment should not even be publicly known." Maela asked skeptically. "They're newly established. How many agents could they possibly—"

A soft knock at the door interrupted her. One of the guards entered, looking uncomfortable.

"Guildmaster, he's here again," the guard said, his voice low.

Tresh's expression soured. "Send him in."

The man who shuffled into the room bore little resemblance to the once-proud right hand of Cisco, the information broker. Marco's clothes were clean but worn, his once-sharp features now gaunt, his eyes darting nervously around the room as if expecting an attack from any corner.

"You summoned me, Guildmaster?" he asked.

Several of the guild officers didn't bother to hide their contempt. Marco was now little more than a fugitive living on borrowed time.

"What news do you have of the Wangara?" Tresh asked directly.

Marco's eyes flickered to the others in the room before settling back on Tresh. "There's been no movement from them as of yet. The Sylla boy seems to be staying at the academy, attending classes as normal. Nothing outwardly suspicious."

"Nothing?" Velth asked, clearly skeptical. "After what happened at their warehouse?"

Marco shook his head. "That's what makes it concerning. This boy—he doesn't think like you expect."

"And you know him so well?" Joren asked derisively.

Marco's face darkened momentarily. "I underestimated him once. I watched Cisco side with this... this child, at the risk of everything we had built. I thought Cisco had lost his mind. I was wrong."

The room fell silent at this admission. Marco rarely spoke of his betrayal of Cisco—a move that had left him hunted by both the authorities and the underworld alike.

"What do you mean, he doesn't think like we expect?" Tresh pressed.

"He sees patterns where others see only chaos," Marco explained. "Don't make the mistake of seeing him as just a boy hiding behind his father's name."

"His father is Commander Arthur Sylla," Deroq said, as if explaining something obvious. "That alone—"

"His father's name opens doors," Marco interrupted, "but it's not what makes him dangerous. The Commander isn't behind this guild—the boy is. Everything about the Wangara bears his mark, not his father's. Believe me."

Tresh studied Marco thoughtfully. She had offered him sanctuary, not out of kindness but practicality. A man with his knowledge of the underworld was useful, especially one desperate enough to serve loyally in exchange for protection.

"What would you suggest then?" she asked.

Marco moved closer to the map, his finger tracing the route from the academy to the merchant district. "Don't think like merchants. Think like him. He won't just target your shipment—he'll want to undermine your entire operation. Your reputation. Your standing."

"Our seat in the House," Tresh concluded.

"Exactly." Marco nodded. "The dye shipment is important, yes. But it's just one piece of a larger strategy. Protect it, certainly, but don't focus all your attention there."

"Where else would you suggest?" Velth asked skeptically.

Marco hesitated. "Your clients. Your distributors. Every point in your supply chain is vulnerable. And the boy knows it."

"You seem certain of his capabilities," Joren observed. "Yet last time you faced him, you failed rather spectacularly."

Marco's face hardened. "Mock me if you wish. But remember this—I'm still alive, while many who stood against the Sylla boy are not. Dismiss my warnings at your peril."

Tresh raised a hand to silence the growing murmurs. "Enough. Marco, continue monitoring the Wangara Guild. I want daily reports. And find out what happened to Rennik."

After Marco had been dismissed—with visible relief on his part—Tresh turned back to her officers.

"I don't trust him," Velth said immediately.

"Nor should you," Tresh agreed. "But we'd be fools to ignore his warnings completely. The Sylla boy may indeed be more than he appears."

She moved back to the head of the table, her decision made. "Secure the warehouse. Triple the guards on the shipment. And spread word among our distributors to be vigilant. If the Wangara want war, we'll be ready."

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