Trinity of Magic

Though this was far from his first time invading someone's Soul, the experience felt so foreign that it might as well have been. In the past, Zeke had approached with hesitation, flinching at the slightest disturbance, as if walking a tightrope over an abyss.

Now, however, he moved with confidence, weaving through the Soul of the ancient dwarf as effortlessly as if he were strolling through the familiar halls of his own home.

Even the faintest impressions lingering in the surrounding matter were enough for him to discern their contents. He followed the fragmented traces with the precision of a bloodhound, instinctively weaving through the currents of memory. It came naturally, allowing himself to move according to an intuition he didn't fully understand.

His search led him to a memory from Balin's childhood—one only tangentially related to the World Anchor. Zeke caught only a fleeting glimpse, but it was the moment the scholar seemed to have first encountered ancient scripts and discovered his talent for deciphering them. From there, he traced the path of Balin's obsession, immersing himself in memories of relentless study, until he arrived at the dwarf's first discovery of an ancient treasure. That moment sparked a new thread in the tapestry of his memories—vanity.

And Zeke followed it.

From the moment young Balin unearthed the true purpose of a dormant artifact, his life had been irrevocably changed. The accolades, the praise, the funding—everything he had unknowingly craved—came crashing down upon him in one triumphant instant. His once-monotonous life of quiet study had been cast aside, replaced by the intoxicating rush of recognition. And what a rush it was!

Even the great artisans of his race, the mightiest warriors, the wisest scholars—and even his distant relative, the king—had acknowledged him with respect on the day he unveiled his discovery. What glory. What honor.

It was a dividing line in his life. No longer was Balin content to toil away in obscurity. He had tasted greatness, and he would chase that thrill again and again. Projects were discarded the moment they failed to spark brilliance, thrust upon junior researchers while Balin relentlessly pursued his next grand revelation.

Though many had called him ruthless and immoral, Balin paid no heed to the idle chatter of those he had long since surpassed. He had climbed too high, too far, to concern himself with their opinions. The only thing of any real concern was how to make his next discovery.

The discovery of the Compression Forge had elevated his status. The Eternal Hammer had secured him a place as an Elder of the Tower. The refinement of the Manaless Alloy had granted him a seat on the council. Each discovery had propelled him further, yet one pinnacle remained beyond his grasp.

Tower Master.

The highest honor a dwarven scholar could attain. A position of unparalleled prestige. Yet, it had remained vacant for generations, its requirements so steep that none had come close to meeting them. Even Balin, despite his royal bloodline, lacked both the influence and the achievements necessary to gather the votes required to claim it.

Fortunately, no one else met the requirements either—not even his long-time colleague and bitter rival, Thoren Ironhide. In every measure of prestige—whether influence, achievements, or scholarly prowess—the two stood deadlocked, neither able to claim superiority over the other.

The only way to break the stalemate was through a discovery so monumental that it would eclipse all that had come before. But how could such a feat be achieved? They had spent years shadowing one another, pouncing the moment a project showed even the slightest promise. The fear of being outdone was greater than the fear of stagnation.

Yet, in their relentless efforts to keep each other in check, they had squandered time—time that had allowed others to rise. A new generation of scholars had begun to encroach upon their status, their names whispered alongside Balin's and Thoren's. It was maddening. And, in some ways, even worse than seeing his lifelong rival succeed. At least Thoren had earned his respect. These upstarts? They were nothing more than opportunists.

In mere moments, Zeke had unraveled the threads of Balin's life so completely that it felt as if he had known the dwarf for years. His motivations, his relationships, his relentless ambition—all laid bare before him. Yet Zeke felt no interest, no appreciation for the insight. It was all just noise, an obstacle on the path to what he truly sought.

The moment when Balin had finally found the key to his ascension—the events of this very day.

With every twist and turn, the memories pulled him closer. Zeke could sense them now, just beyond reach, lurking at the edge of his awareness as he traced the lines of Balin's obsession. Everything led to this singular moment in time—the instant Zeke had placed the World Anchor before him.

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There it was.

Though the events had only just transpired, they had already woven themselves deep into the fabric of Balin's Soul, entangled with everything that defined him—obsession, ambition, desire, greed, and pride.

There was no telling what losing such a pivotal part of himself would do to the man. But Zeke didn't care. If Balin and his accomplice hadn't conspired to steal from him—hadn't planned to take his life once he was no longer useful—none of this would have been necessary.

Without hesitation, Zeke did as the Devourer would have. He consumed the memories of today's events, along with every thread that connected them.

In an instant, Zeke relived his visit—but this time, through Balin's eyes.

At first, the dwarf had been dismissive, barely sparing him a glance. He had examined the cube on a whim, expecting little of consequence. But the moment he recognized the ancient script etched into its surface, his emotions surged so violently that Zeke nearly recoiled from the force of them.

A World Anchor.

An artifact spoken of only in the oldest dwarven texts—so rare, so elusive, that most scholars dismissed it as mere myth. A gateway to an independent world, a relic said to have been forged by the Monarch of Space himself in an age when godlike beings still walked the earth.

How had the boy gotten his hands on such a tool?

How much did he truly know?

Had the Anchor been bound?

Dozens of questions flared and died in an instant, leaving only a single, undeniable truth—he could not allow this human to leave with the artifact. No matter the cost.

Zeke continued to relive their encounter through Balin's eyes. The dwarf had been prepared to escalate the situation if necessary, but he had never truly expected it to come to that. In his mind, the young human before him was nothing more than a spoiled merchant's brat with a flicker of talent—an insect compared to his own centuries of study and achievement.

All the more shocking was when the boy's face went utterly blank—void of all emotion—and in the blink of an eye, he vanished like a mirage. Balin barely had time to register the shift before the impossible happened.

The human ripped the World Anchor from his grasp as effortlessly as one might snatch a trinket from a child. The sheer audacity, the raw power behind the act, left him so stunned that he barely registered the brutal kick that followed—shattering his ribs and sending him hurtling across the chamber.

But one thing remained seared into his memory.

Those slitted, golden eyes. Cold. Unfeeling. Watching him without an ounce of concern as he was tossed through the air like a discarded sack of grain.

The rest of the confrontation played out in fragmented flashes. Balin, lingering at the edges, reinforcing the space around them in secret, ensuring the human could not use his magic. He relished the moment Thoren's metal constructs tore into the boy's flesh, the satisfaction of seeing him beaten, the sheer triumph as he kicked him down, pressing their advantage.

His ultimatum…

And then—

The sudden, horrifying reversal.3

Zeke awoke with a sharp inhale. Though only a moment had passed in reality, the replay of events had stretched on for what felt like hours. He had not only relived everything that had transpired since setting foot in this room but had also glimpsed countless fragments of related discoveries buried within the dwarf's mind.

His gaze dropped to Balin's unconscious form. The dwarf's already pale complexion had turned ashen, thin rivulets of blood now seeping from his nose, ears, and the corners of his eyes. The removal of such a crucial memory had clearly exacted a heavy toll—both spiritually and physically. Yet, despite his deteriorated state, it didn't seem life-threatening.

Zeke's eyes shifted to Thoren next. It was unlikely the other scholar possessed more insight into the World Anchor than Balin, but stopping now was not an option. This wasn't just about uncovering its purpose—it was about erasing all traces of what had transpired here today.

He had already gone too far.

Now, more than ever, it was imperative that neither of them remembered a thing.

With a deep breath, Zeke steadied himself and turned his focus to Thoren, repeating the same meticulous process. He retraced the dwarf's memories, weaving through the threads of his past until he reached the present day. The process unfolded just as smoothly as before, and once again, Zeke showed no hesitation in devouring the memories, unconcerned with whatever damage it might cause.

As expected, Thoren possessed no additional insight into the World Anchor. Both scholars had only ever encountered mentions of it in ancient texts—myths and legends passed down through the ages. The few inscriptions they had managed to decipher on the cube had merely confirmed its authenticity but offered no concrete understanding of its functions.

For a fleeting moment, Zeke entertained the idea of imprisoning them—forcing them to work on deciphering the artifact until every secret was laid bare. But that was wishful thinking. It would already be a miracle if he managed to leave this place without his actions being discovered. Pushing his luck any further would be reckless.

A sharp tingling ran through Zeke's nerves, a stark reminder that he, too, had not emerged from this ordeal unscathed. Though his mind had briefly merged with that of the Devourer, he was under no illusion—he was not that creature. As a human, he could not consume memories freely, nor without consequence. There was always a price to pay, especially with his crude and imperfect methods.

His fingers curled into fists as he fought to still the tremors in his hands. With slow, steady breaths, he endured the discomfort. The sensation of misalignment between body and soul was never pleasant, but thankfully, this time, the effect was minor. Within minutes, he managed to stabilize himself, regaining his equilibrium.

Opening his eyes, Zeke allowed himself a moment of satisfaction—only for it to vanish in an instant.

Standing just steps away was the last person he wanted to see.

The dwarf who had guided him to this chamber was watching him with a hard, unreadable gaze.

Zeke barely had time to react before the air around him grew heavy, pressing down on him like an avalanche. The dwarf's hand rested on the hilt of his axe, his Mana filling the room with a suffocating pressure.

The weight of an Archmage.

"What in the name o' the stone is goin' on here?!"