Northern Audience Hall, Noon
The air in the Northern Audience Hall felt heavy, as though the ancient runes carved into the stone walls were drinking every breath that dared enter. Sunlight filtered through stained glass, falling upon marble floors lined with glowing sigils. Arthur strode forward at a steady pace, his black cloak sweeping silently behind him. At his back, Marcel followed, clutching a rolled parchment to his chest with rigid fingers.
Before them stood the highest authorities of Valoria's Mage Tower.
High Magus Alaric—silver-haired, eyes sharp and calculating—watched without expression. At his side, Archmage Merek stood stiff, lips twisted into a mocking smile. Behind them, two young magi tried in vain to hide the curiosity shining in their eyes.
"Your Majesty," Merek's voice cut through the silence, cold and sharp. "Valoria once had kings who wielded both sword and spell. You… wield neither. Why should the Tower heed you? We kneel to knowledge, not crowns."
Marcel stirred, but Arthur raised his hand, halting him.
"I did not come to force," Arthur said evenly. "I came to offer."
Whispers rippled across the chamber. Offer? From a king?
Alaric tapped his staff against the marble. The sound carried like thunder. "Show His Majesty the basic amplification circle," he ordered. "Let him see the foundation a crown cannot buy."
One of the apprentices stepped forward, chalk in hand. With practiced precision, he drew the Basic Amplification Circle: a main ring, eight nodes, three balancing lines. The runes lit in steady blue, mana pulsing like a heartbeat. The boy cast Fire Orb. A sphere of flame blossomed, neat and controlled, floating serenely above the circle.
"Perfect," Merek said smugly.
Arthur's eyes narrowed. Through his Qi Sense, the mana lines became a map—currents and streams. Two weak points leaked energy in thin spirals, like cracks in a dam. He murmured under his breath: "…A program with a memory leak."
"What?" Merek barked.
Arthur stepped closer. "The pen."
The air tightened. A king—a non-mage—asking for a mage's pen? Yet Alaric gave a faint nod. The pen was handed over. Arthur knelt and drew.
First came three auxiliary nodes, forming an equilateral triangle outside the main ring.
Second, thin lines etched into runic bridges, linking each auxiliary node to its nearest primary node.
Finally, at the very center, he inscribed a spiral matrix, a layered coil ending in a single simple rune—a dot and a short line.
"You'll ruin the structure!" Merek snapped.
Arthur looked up, voice calm but unyielding. "No. This balances it. The auxiliary nodes act as buffers. The runic bridges normalize impedance, smoothing turbulence at nodes three and seven. The spiral matrix compresses stray mana, recycling it back into the system. In programming terms: no memory leaks. No wasted energy."
He stepped back. "Try it."
The apprentice obeyed, hands trembling. He cast Fire Orb again. The result burst forth—twice as large, conjured in half the time, its edges sharper, its glow steadier.
One of the young magi checked his measuring crystal. His jaw dropped. "Efficiency… increased by thirty-seven percent!"
The chamber erupted in gasps and murmurs.
Merek stormed forward, face red with rage. "Impossible! A fluke! A trick of light! How could an—"
"Enough, Merek." Alaric's voice cracked like a whip. He studied Arthur, then the modified circle, then Arthur again. At last, the faintest smile touched his lips. "He does not see with the eyes of a mage," Alaric said softly. "He sees with the eyes of an engineer."
Arthur stood tall. "I have no intention of seizing the Tower," he said. "I want partnership. Imagine this applied not only on battlefields—but in clinics, irrigations, forges. With your research and my kingdom's reach, Valoria can be built anew. I need the Tower as an ally, not an enemy."
Merek sneered. "Pretty words. But let's speak plainly. This formula is worth gold. Who profits? The Crown? The Tower? Or the rabble?"
Arthur's lips curved into a faint smile. "Neither Crown nor Tower. Valoria profits."
Alaric's gaze sharpened. "Define it."
Marcel stepped forward, unrolling the parchment. Arthur read the clauses aloud, his tone as precise as a judge's gavel.
"Joint stewardship. The Tower retains research and certification. The Crown oversees implementation and distribution. Every registered auxiliary node will be installed by joint teams, audited quarterly. **Net profit division: sixty percent to the Tower, forty percent to the Crown. Transparent. Accounted. Public."
Merek slammed his heel on the floor. "Unfair! The Tower has guarded knowledge for centuries! You scratch a few lines and claim ownership?"
Arthur's eyes hardened. His voice dropped an octave. "And in those centuries, our people still bled under tyrants. One 'scratch,' as you call it, turns wasted mana into usable power. Without the Crown, your theories rot in archives. Without the Tower, the Crown is blind. Together—knowledge becomes bread, light, and healing."
Alaric tapped his staff gently. "Fifty-five to the Tower. Forty-five to the Crown. A one-year trial. We measure, we audit. If results hold… then we expand."
Arthur considered, then nodded. "Agreed. On one condition: public applications—healing, irrigation, education—must take priority over military use. Defense may follow, but never first."
Silence.
The apprentices exchanged looks—half disbelief, half admiration. Merek paled, grinding his teeth. Alaric exhaled softly, not in weariness but in something closer to relief.
"Bold," he said at last. "And different from the kings I've known."
Arthur extended his hand. Alaric hesitated only a moment before clasping it. The handshake was brief, but the ripple it sent was deeper than any flame conjured in the chamber.
"The Tower will establish an Implementation Council—three from the Tower, three from the Crown, one independent auditor from the City University," Alaric declared. "The formula will be sealed in our archives, licensed for Valorian use only, barred from foreign sale without mutual consent."
Arthur nodded. "And the Crown will set up Pilot Sites in the capital—clinics, forges, irrigation projects. Small-scale, fast, measurable. Quarterly reports, open records."
Merek hissed, but said nothing. The young apprentice still stared at his crystal, as though the world's axis had shifted.
Marcel inked down the articles, his script steady. His eyes glimmered—not with triumph, but with pride at a vision now charted: knowledge pulled from ivory towers down to the streets where people lived and starved.
"Then it is agreed," Alaric concluded. He traced a quick seal in the air—triangle, line, dot. The rune flared, then vanished.
Arthur bowed his head slightly. "Thank you, High Magus."
"And thank you, Your Majesty," Alaric replied. "You've set in motion something history will either honor… or condemn. Both are equally heavy."
Arthur turned. His boots rang against marble, echoes rising to the vaulted ceiling. Marcel followed, clutching the parchment of fresh accords.
At the doorway, Arthur cast one last glance back. The magi's eyes met his—fear, doubt, awe, respect, all tangled together.
He said nothing. He didn't need to.
Outside, daylight was blinding. The air beyond the hall felt lighter than before.
And for the first time since wearing the crown, Arthur realized: true power was not always forged by the sword. Sometimes, it was sealed in understanding, and safeguarded by cooperation.
That day, Valoria signed a new pact.
And the old circle—the old ways—began to crack from within.