Trinity of Magic

"To... appease me?"
Even as he spoke the words, they felt foreign on his tongue.
Since when had he become someone who needed to be appeased by the likes of King Midas? Even now, an Exarch sat at the table with them, and if Zeke wasn't mistaken, another stood only a few steps away, preparing food.
That was a level of power that could not be overstated.
An Exarch was the very epitome of might, a being beyond reach. They were the backbone of nations, the cornerstones upon which legitimacy itself was built. And yet here was a King, who somehow had three such figures under his command, speaking of appeasing him?
The silence stretched between them while the woman continued her work at the stove. The soft sizzle of oil and the rhythmic chop of her knife against the cutting board provided the only sounds in the room. The Exarch of Space lounged in his chair, watching the exchange with what might have been amusement.
Midas took another sip of his tea, unhurried. When he set the cup down, the soft clink against the saucer rang through the room.
"You seem confused," the old king observed.
Zeke's mind raced through possibilities, each more unlikely than the last. His gaze swept the room, searching for hidden threats, concealed listeners, anything that might explain this bizarre turn of events. Nothing. Just the four of them in this humble space that looked more suited to a retired merchant than the ruler of Tradespire.
Midas's weathered fingers drummed against the table—a slow, deliberate rhythm.
"Tell me, young man, what constitutes power in your definition?"
"Strength," Zeke answered after a pause. "Resources. Influence. The ability to shape events according to one's will."
King Midas considered his words for a moment before nodding slowly. "Not a bad answer, but it still misses the most crucial part."
Zeke's brows furrowed. Missing the most crucial part? Could that be possible? He had never been someone to speak carelessly, and this time had been no exception. He had answered with the full weight of his knowledge, yet still, it was deemed insufficient.
In any other situation, he might have suspected his counterpart of dismissing his answer out of spite. But this was Midas. The man had no need for petty maneuvers or tedious games.
Zeke went over his own words again. What was power, if not the ability to bend reality to one's will? To make others obey? To dictate the flow of events?
"You're not going to figure it out," Midas said at last, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "I'd wager it's something you've never even considered..."
Zeke's frown deepened. Could that really be the case? Was there truly something beyond his grasp, something his mind couldn't unravel no matter how he tried?
No. That was impossible. He refused to believe it.
"Don't feel too bad. It's not a matter of intelligence," Midas said with an almost fatherly smile.
Zeke sighed, letting the tension drain from his shoulders. Right. This wasn't a puzzle he needed to solve, nor was anything at stake. If he didn't know something, there was always a simple solution.
"What am I missing?" he asked directly.
Midas's smile warmed for an instant, and the steady drumming of his fingers paused.
"Will."
"Will?" Zeke repeated, not yet understanding what that had to do with power.
"Will," Midas repeated. "The will to exert force to achieve your way."
Zeke fell into thought. Was that truly the missing piece? Naturally, power was useless if left unused. But who in their right mind would hold power and not wield it? What would be the point of possessing it at all?
"Confusing, isn't it?" Midas said with a knowing look. "I wager you never even considered this to be a possible obstacle."
Zeke remained silent.
"For someone like you, with ambitions far beyond your standing, I imagine you view power as a tool to accomplish your aims."
Zeke said nothing, though his silence was answer enough. He could not refute the claim, not even in the slightest.
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"The qualities of a leader are many: strength, wisdom, confidence. But all of them pale before the most crucial requirement: the willingness to impose one's designs on others—to make them bend, to make them obey, to remove obstacles..."
As Zeke listened, a strange feeling twisted in his gut. He knew Midas wasn't speaking with malice, nor was he leveling an accusation, but the words carried an edge that made it sound as if he were calling him a tyrant simply for following his convictions.
"...One cannot live without imposing one's will on the world," Zeke said in his defense. "Even a simple farmer shapes his world. He plows his fields, slaughters his livestock, drives away vermin."
Midas nodded, fully in agreement. "That is precisely it. All of us are comfortable with a certain level of influence. It is an invisible line, drawn in the hearts of all people."
He traced a line on the table with his finger, then gestured to the left side. "That farmer would have no qualms about destroying a colony of rodents if they settled on his land." Then he pointed to the right side. "But would he decide the life and death of his entire village with the same ease?"
"...Unlikely," Zeke admitted.
"And yet, rulers must make such choices every single day. Ten thousand elves perished not long ago with a single command. Rukia is burning, and thousands more die each week in that conflict. Tell me—would an ordinary man be able to make such choices? And more importantly... would he want to?"
Zeke fell silent, weighing Midas's words and their implications.
"Is that why you must appease me?" he asked. "Because I am willing to burn the world, and you are not?"
Midas's smile didn't waver. "You could put it that way if you wished. But that is not the full picture. The real reason I must appease you is because you have maneuvered yourself into a position where doing so is simply my best option."
Zeke crossed his arms, no longer bothering to guess at the answer himself. "How so?"
"You must have feared I would get rid of you the moment you arrived here, didn't you?"
The casualness of the question jarred him, but Zeke still nodded.
"Truth is, I couldn't do that even if I wanted to," Midas said.
Zeke's brows rose, and he glanced at the Exarch of Space seated nearby. "No?"
Midas shook his head. "It's not about who would win in a fight. If I killed you, I would have to live with the consequences."
"What consequences could there possibly be—"
"—for a man of my standing?" Midas finished smoothly.
He smiled at Zeke's expression before continuing. "Quite a few, in fact. Do you think the Alliance would sit quietly if I prevented them from receiving the ships you promised?"
"I don't see what they could do about it," Zeke countered. "After all, you have three—" He stopped himself before finishing. That was it again. The will to use power. His gaze flicked to the Exarch of Space, who had conjured a drink at some point, then to the elven woman calmly cooking at the stove.
Slowly, his thoughts began to shift.
Midas had three Exarchs under him. But what did that truly mean if he was unwilling to risk conflict? The concept felt foreign yet strangely sensible at the same time. He even found himself questioning why he had always been so comfortable in his own willingness to offend others.
If Midas waged war with the Alliance, it would mean the deaths of thousands—tens of thousands, perhaps even millions. Three Exarchs working together could wipe out entire nations if they put their minds to it.
The question was... who in their right mind could stomach committing such deeds?
Zeke looked at the man sitting not too far from him with new eyes.
In his thoughts, he had only ever referred to him as the Exarch of Space since their meeting. He hadn't even bothered to ask the man's name. All he had considered was the sheer level of power that title carried.
But...
Humans were not weapons.
Just because this person had the ability to slaughter an army with a thought didn't mean he had the will to do it. For all Zeke knew, the man could be squeamish at the sight of blood.
"May... I have your name?" Zeke asked after a moment. Now that the question left his lips, it occurred to him how unnatural it had been not to ask in the first place.
The man looked surprised for a moment before slowly extending his hand. "Solon..."
Zeke shook it and introduced himself in kind. "I am Ezekiel."
Solon nodded briefly before returning to his beverage, though Zeke felt as if his demeanor had become a little friendlier.
Midas observed the interaction with a slight smile. When Zeke's attention returned to him, he pointed at the elven woman working in the kitchen. "That is Lysandra, my wife."
Zeke's gaze shifted to the woman. She acknowledged the introduction with the slightest tilt of her head, her hands never pausing in their work. The knife continued its steady rhythm against the cutting board.
Exarchs they might have been, but that didn’t mean they weren’t people as well. Why had he always assumed that reaching such heights automatically meant aspiring to be a king or queen?
For some reason, it had always felt like a natural assumption. But… was it truly the case? Perhaps some pursued advancement simply for the love of Magic itself, not out of any desire to gather power.
It was perfectly reasonable not to want the burdens of rule. Leadership was not for everyone. If anything, the strange ones were not them, but himself… and Midas.
"I apologize if this sounds rude, but..." He paused, weighing his words carefully. "Why crown yourself king if you lack the will?"
Midas didn’t appear offended. Instead, he cast a quick glance toward his wife. “Sometimes... life offers nothing but poor choices, and all you can do is pick the one you find easiest to live with.”
Zeke’s gaze shifted back and forth between the elven woman and the old king. There had to be a story there—one that explained how a pacifist like Midas had managed to secure the loyalty of three Exarchs. But Zeke doubted the man would share it, even if pressed.
Knowledge was power, after all, and in the wrong hands it could be sharpened into a blade. And as they had already established, Zeke was exactly the kind of man who would wield it.
That... likely struck at the very heart of why Midas had called him here.
Slowly, Zeke began to understand the situation. It was rather simple. Midas wanted to make peace with him, to ensure no grudge took root. The man wanted to appease him before negative sentiments had time to fester.
Once again, Zeke noticed the deep furrows on the old man's forehead. This time, he understood how they had come to be...
Tradespire wasn't the shining beacon of neutrality everyone believed it to be. It was merely a refuge for those with great means but little desire to wield them. The king had gathered those who wanted no part in the endless games of power and built a sanctuary for himself and his people.
That alone, if nothing else, was worthy of respect.
Zeke could hardly imagine the difficulty of keeping such a place alive through centuries of storms, all while holding true to those ideals.
And now, a new threat to their peaceful lives had appeared. A threat called Ezekiel von Hohenheim.