He was reporting the day’s business to his father. It wasn’t strictly necessary, but the novelty of real-time communication had quickly become a preference—and Petros, once given better tools, saw no reason not to use them.
His father’s voice carried through the device, steady and precise. “A good choice. The Consortium prefers predictability.”
Orestis allowed himself a small smile. “That matches my experience.”
“If Orthessa releases on schedule, we can maintain buffer margins without revising the Nomyra contracts. I’ll want confirmation by the fourth.”
From somewhere in the background, a voice intruded.
“Petros.”
It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.
His father sighed. “Avra, I’m on a call.”
“I know,” she said. “You’ve been on that call.”
“There are details—”
“There are always details,” she interrupted. “You said five minutes.”
Orestis heard the faint sound of papers shifting, as if his father were hoping one of them might intervene on his behalf.
“We’re discussing delivery verification,” his father said.
“Yes,” his mother replied calmly. “And I’m discussing the fact that I haven’t spoken to our son yet.”
A brief silence followed.
Orestis cleared his throat. “Mother. I’m here.”
“I know,” she said immediately. “I can hear you breathing. I was waiting.”
His father’s voice returned, faintly aggrieved. “I wasn’t hogging the call.”
“You always do,” his mother said. “You treat conversation like a shared resource that needs to be allocated efficiently.”
“It is a resource.”
“Not this one.” She paused, then added, with finality, “Hand it over.”
There was a moment of resistance—purely symbolic—before the sound shifted as she took the device.
“Orestis,” she said. “Are you eating properly?”
“Yes,” he replied, a small smile tugging at his mouth.
“Sleeping?”
“Enough.”
“You sound thin.”
He frowned, glancing down at himself. If anything, he’d put on weight—training would do that.
“I’m fine,” he said instead of explaining. Experience had taught him that attempting to justify himself only invited follow-up questions with no acceptable answers.
“That’s what you said last time.”
“That was also true.”
She huffed softly. “You always say that.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—just occupied.
“Did you receive the parcel?” Orestis asked.
“Yes!” His mother brightened immediately. “It’s lovely. Practical, discreet, and far sturdier than anything I would have chosen myself.” A beat. “Which is to say, perfect.”
His father’s voice cut in from behind her. “The workmanship is sound. No unnecessary redundancies.”
“Petros.”
“Yes?”
“Stop talking.”
Another pause.
“I worry,” his mother said more quietly. “You’re away on your own. No one to remind you when to stop working, or to eat something that isn’t whatever happens to be nearby.”
“I manage,” Orestis said.
“I know you do. Just… remember that managing isn’t the same as resting.”
She wasn’t not wrong. But telling her that would only encourage further mothering, and he was already well past sustainable levels.
Fortunately, the device warmed in his hand—a gentle signal that the stored charge was nearly depleted. She would be feeling the same. The devices would need time to replenish themselves, either by drawing slowly from ambient mana or by deliberate reinforcement.
Before the connection faded, his father’s voice returned, faint but undeterred.
“We should revisit the Nomyra buffer margins—”
“Petros,” his mother said sharply.
“Yes?”
“You’ve had him for twenty minutes.”
A pause.
“… five more?”
“No.”
“Orestis,” his mother continued, already smiling again. “Be careful. And make sure to write to Eirene.”
“I will.”
The connection dissolved.
He had been writing to Eirene. Not with answers, but with continuity—small, ordinary updates that suggested nothing had changed, because nothing visible could afford to.
Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.
She would notice if he vanished. He intended not to.
***
He had finished half his drink when someone stopped beside him.
The pause was not subtle. It was the awkward kind—a half-second too long, as if the person had rehearsed this and then lost confidence at the last step.
“You—uh. You made a comment. The other night.” The voice clearly did not belong to someone who talked much.
Orestis turned his head.
The mage stood close enough to avoid shouting over the tavern, but far enough to avoid presumption. His robes were plain, marked only by the small Consortium sigil at the collar—the kind worn by people who needed to be identifiable, not memorable. He looked tired in the specific way of someone who had slept and still felt behind.
“I did,” Orestis said.
The mage nodded quickly, then stopped himself, as if worried that counted as agreement.
“I tried it,” he said. Then, after a beat, “What you said. About the binding.”
Orestis waited.
“It worked,” the mage went on, the words coming faster now. “Not just a little—the stabilization held under load, mana draw dropped by almost twelve percent, and the feedback variance flattened out entirely.”
He frowned at the table, as if it had personally betrayed him.
“That shouldn’t have happened,” he added. “Not according to the models. We checked that orientation three times.”
Orestis took another sip. “Models are aspirational.”
The mage let out a short, humourless breath that might have been a laugh.
“I’ve been on that system for six months. Three of us have. We added buffers, rerouted flow, increased supply. Nobody even suggested flipping the binding.” He looked up again, more directly this time. “That’s not… normal, is it?”
Orestis shrugged—small, economical. “It’s common.”
Well. By my standards, anyway.
“That’s worse,” the mage replied.
He studied Orestis now. Not suspicious, but clearly recalibrating.
“How did you know?” he asked. “I mean—you didn’t even look at the schematics. You just said it.”
“I’ve seen similar frameworks,” Orestis replied. “Different implementations. Same failure patterns.”
The mage blinked. “You’re not Consortium.”
“No.”
“And you’re not academy-trained.”
“No.”
The mage waited. Nothing followed. The silence stretched just long enough to become uncomfortable—not tense, just uneven.
“You’re in Orthessa on business,” the mage said at last, sounding more certain of that than anything else so far.
“Yes.”
“Logistics.”
“Yes.”
Clearly, someone had done the bare minimum.
Another pause, shorter this time.
“There are people who’d want to hear how you noticed that,” the mage said. “Not formally. Not—” He waved a hand. “Not officially.”
Orestis inclined his head. Acknowledgment, not agreement. “What would that involve?”
“Review,” the mage said quickly. “Discussion. No demonstrations. No attribution. Mostly just… explaining things that don’t make sense.”
That could describe my entire existence.
Orestis pretended to consider the offer. “How long?”
The mage hesitated. “A few days. To start.”
“And after that?”
“That… depends on whether you keep being right. I guess.”
“That seems reasonable,” Orestis said.
The mage exhaled, tension draining from his shoulders. “I’ll—uh. I’ll pass your description along. Someone will reach out.”
“I expect they will,” Orestis replied.
The mage lingered, clearly wanting to say something else, then thought better of it and stepped back. He didn’t offer his name. Orestis didn’t ask.
When the mage was gone, Orestis finished his drink.
The tavern hadn’t changed. No one paid him any particular attention. But somewhere in Orthessa, a junior mage would be filing a report he didn’t fully understand.
And that, was the more important development.
***
The contact didn’t arrive immediately. That, too, was reassuring.
Orestis spent the next day moving through scheduled obligations—another warehouse visit, a review of amended delivery windows, a discussion that resolved itself once everyone agreed that no one wished to be responsible for changing anything.
On the second morning, a note was waiting for him at the inn. No seal. No insignia. Just his name, written clearly and without flourish.
The proprietor handed it over with the same expression she used for receipts. “Delivered earlier. They asked for a reply at your earliest convenience.”
No who. No why.
Orestis thanked her and unfolded the note. It was brief.
If convenient, a representative of the Orthessa Mage Consortium would appreciate a short meeting to discuss a technical matter.
Today, if possible.
— A.
No address or time. Instead, there was a simple magic circle inscribed beneath the text—a test.
Orestis recognized the structure immediately: elegant, restrictive by design. The sort of thing that failed quietly if approached incorrectly.
He injected a controlled thread of mana into the circle. The lines glowed, then shifted—ink rearranging itself into an address and a time. The glow lingered a fraction longer than necessary, as if noting something before letting go.
Measuring my mana.
Orestis smirked; he expected that.
He finished his meal, returned the key, and stepped back into the street.
***
The building was not impressive. It sat between two older structures whose facades carried the marks of repeated renovation. The Consortium mark was present but modest, carved into stone that had been cleaned recently and nothing more.
Inside, the air was cool and dry. The waiting area contained chairs chosen for durability, and a desk that held exactly the number of documents it needed to.
A woman looked up as Orestis entered. She smiled—not broadly or professionally; just enough to suggest that his arrival had been anticipated.
“Master Orestis,” she said, standing. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”
Her robes were simple and impeccably maintained. No visible rank markers beyond a narrow band at the cuff, denoting administrative authority rather than magical seniority. She carried no staff or focus—only a folder.
“I’m Alke. I handle coordination for technical reviews and external consultations.” She gestured toward a side room. “May we?”
Orestis inclined his head and followed.
The room contained a table, four chairs, and a window overlooking a courtyard where nothing of interest was happening. A carafe of water sat at the centre, already poured.
Alke took the seat opposite, set the folder down, and folded her hands atop it.
“I’ll be brief,” she said pleasantly. “Your time is valuable, and we prefer to respect that.”
Orestis said nothing. She smiled, as if that had been the correct response.
“A junior systems mage mentioned a comment you made several evenings ago. An observation that appears to have resolved a persistent stability issue.”
“I’m glad it helped,” Orestis said.
“So are we,” Alke replied. “The reduction in mana overhead alone was… appreciated.”
She paused, tilting her head slightly. Not in suspicion. In consideration. “We’re not interested in how you knew. At least, not at this stage.”
‘At this stage’. Of course.
“What we are interested in,” she continued, “is whether similar observations might be made again, under controlled conditions.”
“And what would that involve?”
“A limited technical review. Time-bound. Non-attributable. You would not be listed as staff, nor would your involvement be publicized. Any recommendations would be documented as internal adjustments.” She smiled faintly. “We dislike unnecessary attention, and you’ve given no indication that you seek it.”
I like her already.
“For how long?” Orestis asked.
“Initially, five days,” Alke replied without hesitation. “After that, we reassess. Either party may decline to continue.”
“And expectations?”
She opened the folder—not to read, but to reveal it contained a single sheet of paper.
“Professional discretion. No demonstrations. No use of divine frameworks.” She met his eyes. “Not because we object to them, but because they complicate filing.”
Makes me wonder who made filing difficult enough for that clause to exist in the first place.
“And compensation?” he asked.
Alke smiled with genuine warmth. “Appropriate. And prompt.”
Orestis considered the offer: limited scope, fixed duration, no attribution, no public association. Most importantly, it offered a reason to remain in Orthessa that would be logged, justified, and inconvenient to interrupt.
“That would be acceptable,” he said. “With one condition.”
Alke’s expression did not change. “Of course.”
“I don’t participate in public forums or demonstrations. Reviews are conducted privately, or through documentation. I’m not available for committee work.”
“Entirely reasonable,” Alke replied immediately. “I’ll note that.”
She slid the paper across the table. Already prepared. “All we require is confirmation. For our records.”
Orestis signed.
Alke gathered the document, stood, and offered her hand. “We’re pleased to have your assistance. Truly.”
He shook her hand. Her grip was firm, warm, and entirely unthreatening.
Outside, the street looked exactly as it had before. Somewhere, a clerk would be filing a form that moved his name from pending inconvenience to temporarily useful. Orestis considered that a starting position.
He had bought time. Enough to plan properly. Enough to think. Enough to dismantle a temple without being interrupted by people asking whether he had considered alternative approaches.
Which I have, obviously. And all of them are much less satisfying.
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