In the study of Simon's manor, the Archmage convened with the head butler and, of course, Simon himself
"So, Lord Mogan, what have you gathered for us in this time?" Simon asked the Archmage.
"I've yet to uncover any leads on Clonmachnoise's whereabouts. However, rumors speak of an elderly fae deeply tied to your founding ancestor. Some legends claim she hails from another continent—the realms of the fae—or at least a distant kingdom. Others whisper she was forged from the Mirror of Truth in the old palace. If anyone knows where Clonmachnoise lies, it is her. There may be truth in these tales, for she has outlived every other fae."
"And how, Mogan, do you propose we reach the fae realms? Spacetime magic is forbidden these days."
"No need, my lord. That very fae was captured by a slaver two months ago."
"Do you know who holds her?"
"Lord Athkalis… scion of one of the Seven Houses."
Simon smirked and rose from his desk chair—but before he could speak, Morgan interjected, "He demands an exorbitant sum for her."
"How much?" Simon frowned.
"A billion gold pieces."
"Is that all? Prepare the carriage. We leave for his estate at once."
Butler turned to Simon. "Are you certain? Spatial quakes have surged lately. And with the growing claims of a strange entity sighted… Perhaps we should go in your stead?"
"My presence is necessary. He'd never sell to a mere servant. Besides, if that fae truly knows Clonmachnoise's location, we'll depart straight for it. As for this so-called 'entity'—it's baseless rumor. I don't believe it exists. Even if it did, the Mage Order would've captured it by now. It's harmed no one… thus far."
A quarter-hour later, the carriage was readied, and they set off toward the estate of Lord Athkalis.
Simon stared through glassy eyes at a rain-laden cloud.
"Does it not strike you as… fluid? That fae—the one who dissolved into time like an oil droplet on water's surface, in love with absence, flitting through the years as if fleeing sight—now suddenly appears. No, not appears." She's delivered, "gifted, on a golden platter, as though the world chose, for once, to be generous. Do the sparrows not whisper warnings of deceit to you?"
Butler sipped slowly from an empty cup, puffing air into it first.
"Perhaps… we're merely crumbs fallen from Fortune's table, now glinting like gold. Don't overthink it, Simon. Reality has long ceased to care for logic."
Simon glanced at Mogan, lost in thought, then asked:
"How, then, did you visit your family while spacetime magic was sealed?"
Mogan tensed. "I didn't, in truth."
"That's tragic. I know how you cherish them. This separation must weigh heavily," Simon replied.
Mogan smiled faintly.
"Thank you, Simon… but I'm not truly separated from them. A silent thread binds our souls—I speak to them not with words, but through presence, from within."
He looked away, eyes distant.
"And as for time… in my dimension, it bends. I can travel its axis freely. If I spend months here, I may return to mere minutes after I left. To them, I was barely gone."
Simon didn't respond—the carriage halted before their destination.
The trio approached the entrance, where a guard in burnished armor stood sentinel.
"I've come to see your master," Simon declared.
"My lord expects no visitors today. Kindly schedule an appointment," the guard replied flatly.
The aged butler stepped forward, spine rigid, his voice a subterranean rumble:
"We're here because your master possesses a certain fae for sale. Inform him we bring gold and the will to purchase."
The guard stood motionless for seconds, then turned wordlessly and vanished into the palace, the door thudding shut behind him.
Two minutes later, a man in his thirties emerged—muscled, with long black hair—holding a shy, green-eyed blonde child in pink, who hid behind him. A woman near-identical to the girl -her mother, evident from their matching attire- followed, bowing with uncharacteristic grace to the strangers.
Athkalis handed the child to her mother, then gestured the men inside. No words were needed; his silence was an open door.
In the vaulted hall, a darkwood table anchored the room. Bodies sat, but spirits hovered, reading each other through glances.
Athkalis showed no recognition toward Simon—as if memory had lapsed, or willfully been discarded. His corded muscles betrayed hidden tension as he spoke, honeyed with cunning:
"I've heard you seek the fae… but gentlemen, the path to catching her was paved with sweat. And now, with spacetime magic sealed, supply lines are severed. Obtaining such creatures is near impossible—"
Simon cut through the theatrics with velvet sharpness:
"Name the price."
Athkalis faltered. "A billion and a half gold pieces."
Simon's smile was colorless neither approval nor scorn.
"Higher than quoted, but acceptable. If you have the fae, we'll sign now."
Athkalis stiffened. No haggling? No outrage? Dread seeped into him like ink in water had he undervalued her? Yet to raise the price now would brand him a swindler.
He nodded to a slave, who returned bearing a small cage of shimmering silver wire. Inside lay a tiny, black-haired fae clad in leafy green, like a fragment of forest uprooted and imprisoned.
Simon twisted a dimensional ring on his finger. Gold cascaded onto the floor in a metallic symphony—more than the sum demanded.
"Count it yourself," Simon said, tone stripped of artifice. "Then bring the contract."
Athkalis's emerald-lit eyes verified the amount. He swallowed. "This exceeds—"
"The contract," Simon hissed, thunder in a whisper. "Now."
The trio left with the fae—docile. At the carriage, Simon turned back to the palace and spoke, calm as a death sentence:
*"Burn it. The hospitality… lacked."*
Mogan raised a hand. Hellfire erupted. The palace became a pyre, its smoke a curse hurled skyward.
As the carriage rolled away, the fae finally spoke—not with words, but a vision:
The gold they'd paid? Now charcoal.
The cage? Unopened.
And Athkalis's screams?
Just the wind.
They boarded the carriage, leaving behind gold turned to ashes... and as was the way of Simon's world, neither had ever been real