"Which Household do you belong to?"
The question hung in the air, polished and sharp as a dueling blade.
The nobleman stood with the practiced stance of a man who expected his lineage to do the fighting for him.
His eyes, dark and assessing, flicked between the vibrating Prism and my face, waiting for a name he could categorize, rank, and dismiss.
To answer directly was to submit to his framework. To refuse was to admit weakness.
I chose neither.
I leaned back against the display case, resting my weight on the cane with a casual disregard for the priceless artifact behind me.
"A pedigree," I said, my voice dry. "How... domestic."
I looked him up and down, letting my gaze linger on the expensive silk of his suit like a scientist examining a particularly boring specimen of mold.
"You stand before a Prism containing a soul that screamed for four thousand years, and your first instinct is to ask for my breeding papers. It reveals a certain... smallness of spirit."
Man's jaw tightened. The insult landed, but his skepticism held firm.
"You deflect," he said, his tone cooling. "You command an artifact that has been inert for centuries. That is not a parlor trick. That requires Authority. And in the White City, Authority has a name."
He took a step closer, lowering his voice.
"I am Eugan Aldwulf. My family manages the entire city's Magic-Spire. If you are an unregistered mage interfering with historical assets, I can have the Inquisitors here in three minutes."
Malakor shifted nervously behind me. I could hear the rustle of his new robes. He knew we were imposters. He knew that one call to the Church would turn us into ash.
I didn't blink. I reached into the depths of the vessel's stolen memories—the fragmented, dusty archives of the real Father Mollian.
I found a title. Buried deep. A clearance level so high and so archaic that most modern clergy believed it to be a myth.
"I am the Master of the Divine Archives," I lied.
The words carried a specific resonance. Not magic, but the weight of bureaucracy.
Eugan paused. His brow furrowed. "The Divine Archives? That section of the Cathedral was sealed hundreds of years ago. It's a tomb for heretical texts."
"And who do you think guards the tomb, boy?"
I pushed off the case, stepping into his personal space, using the height of my vessel to look down at him.
"I deal with truths that would liquefy your sanity. While you play politics in the light, I categorize the dark."
Eugan wavered. The lie was precise enough to be plausible, yet obscure enough to be unverifiable in the moment.
But the arrogance of youth is a stubborn thing.
He sneered, gesturing to the Prism.
"A fancy title," he scoffed. "But titles don't make stones sing. You claim to guard 'Divine Truths'? Then prove it. Make it do something other than shake. Or is this just a cheap 'Resonance' spell of 10th Name of Creator?"
Perfect, I thought.
He had offered himself as the variable.
"You doubt the mechanism?" I whispered. "Then let us test its function on you."
I turned to the artifact.
The soul inside was still humming, desperate for instruction. It felt my will focus upon it again, and it throbbed with anticipation.
"Prism," I commanded, my voice resonating with the First Name.
"Reflect the true nature of the Observer."
The command hit the crystal like a hammer strike.
The Prism spined and convulsed. The light trapped within its lattice fractured, screaming as it was forced to bend at impossible angles.
A beam of light shot out.
It hit Eugan square in the chest.
He gasped, raising his hands to shield his face, but the light didn't burn. It reflected.
The glass surface of the display case suddenly darkened, becoming a perfect mirror. But it didn't show Eugan as he stood—tall, wealthy, and sneering.
It showed the nature of his soul.
In the reflection, Eugan was small. His posture was hunched, his hands grasping at nothing. Shadows coiled around his neck—the choking fear of mediocrity.
His eyes in the glass were wide and terrified, looking for approval that wasn't there.
It was a caricature of insecurity, painted in light.
"Look," I commanded, pointing the cane at the glass.
"This is 'Vertex'. The point of fracture."
Eugan stared at his own distorted reflection, his face draining of color. He took a stumbling step back.
"What... what is this trick?" he stammered.
"It is not a trick. It is divine syntax," I lectured, my voice rising so the Universe could hear me. "Light travels in a straight line until it hits a surface. But the truth... the truth bends depending on the observer."
I slammed the cane down.
"You look at me and see a stranger. The Prism looks at you and sees a child afraid of being forgotten."
Eugan looked from the glass to me, his composure shattering. He felt naked. Dismantled.
"Stop it!" he hissed, shielding his eyes. "Turn it off!"
Click.
I felt it.
Deep in the base of my skull, where the migraine had been drilling for the last twenty hours, something snapped into place.
The Law of Probability, having witnessed the successful manipulation of light, reflection, and the domination of a high-value variable, finally accepted the premise.
The sensation was immediate and euphoric.
The pressure in my ears vanished and a surge of power rushed through my limbs.
My bones felt heavier, denser, as if the marrow had been replaced with lead. The vessel's structural integrity had just been upgraded.
I closed my eyes, savoring the influx of knowledge.
The Second Name of Creation was Vertex.
It wasn't just about reflection. The knowledge of Name's true form, which was sealed in my mind until now, unlocked.
Concept of breaking a 1D object. The Absolute Corner of existence.
I understood it now. Linear was the spear, but Vertex was the ricochet. I could now add angles to my vectors. I could change the direction of force without losing momentum. I could fracture reality at a precise point.
"Beautiful," I whispered.
If mortals understood this—if they truly visualized the math—they would be gods. But their magic was sloppy. They threw energy; I directed physics.
I opened my eyes. The migraine had faded a little, but it was still barely manageable.
Not good enough, I thought
Eugan had recovered slightly. The light had faded as prism withdrew its will, but his humiliation remained.
"You..." he breathed, his face red with anger and shame. "You dare humiliate a scion of House Aldwulf? The Divine Archives have no jurisdiction here! I will have you arrested for-"
"Make way!"
The shout cut through the hall like a thunderclap.
The heavy double doors at the far end of the wing swung open. A phalanx of Royal Guards in white and gold armor marched in, their boots striking the floor in perfect unison.
"Clear the Hall!" the captain bellowed. "His Highness, the Third Prince, approaches!"
The air in the museum changed instantly. The casual chatter of tourists died. The arrogance of the nobles evaporated.
Even Eugan forgot his anger. He paled, straightening his jacket and stepping back into the line of bowing subjects.
"The Prince..." Malakor whispered, grabbing my sleeve. "My Lord, we must bow. It is Valerian Eontire. The 'Scholar Prince'."
I swatted his hand away.
"I do not bow to mortals," I said.
The procession entered.
At the center, flanked by mages and advisors, walked a young man.
He was no older than twenty. He moved with a fluidity that suggested he wasn't walking on the ground so much as gliding over it.
His hair was dark, voluminous, and spiked upward in a tousled style that looked effortless but had likely taken hours to perfect. He wore a floor-length crimson robe with a high collar, intricately embroidered with golden dragons that wound down the front.
But it was his eyes that caught me. Striking, light green. Calm. Intelligent.
He didn't look like a ruler; he looked like a predator who had already eaten and was merely observing the herd.
The entire hall dropped. Malakor hit the floor, his forehead touching the cold tiles. Eugan bowed deeply, one hand over his heart.
Only two figures remained vertical in the sea of bent spines.
Me. And Kael.
The Prince stopped.
He waved a hand at the bowing crowd, a gesture of bored benevolence, but his gaze snagged on us.
He didn't look offended. He looked... delighted.
He broke formation, walking toward us. The guards tensed, but he waved them off.
He stopped three paces away. He was taller than I expected almost reaching my vessel's height.
He looked at my face, at the cane and at the Prism behind me, which gave a faint, traitorous throb.
Then, a subtle smile touched his lips.
"Father Mollian...!"
His voice was warm, welcoming, as if greeting an old friend at a dinner party.
"What caused Your Reverence to come out of the Archives...?"
I froze internally. He knew the name and the title. And he spoke it not with suspicion, but with familiarity.
That's my Law of Probability, I thought.
The Prince's green eyes slid to my left. He looked at Kael, who stood rigid, his hand hovering near his hidden blade.
Valerian's smile widened.
"Oh... Unit K-L," he said, nodding politely to the assassin. "Are you here to guard His Reverence...?"
He looked back at me, his expression gentle yet confident.
"We have missed your lectures at the Palace, Father. It has been... what…? Three years…?"