Chapter 134. Future Adom's Problems (End of Book 2)

Adom stood at the doorstep of the Weird Stuff store, his breath forming small clouds in the frigid air.

Winter had finally arrived in Arkhos, though "arrived" wasn't quite the right word. In a city hosting the floating academy of Xerkes, seasons never simply arrived—they negotiated, compromised, and occasionally staged surprise attacks.

Today was definitely a surprise attack. Yesterday had been mild enough for students to lounge in the academy courtyards. Today, frost etched delicate patterns on every windowpane in the merchant district.

Adom watched a group of academy students hurry past, luggage trailing behind them, eager to catch the last boats before the academic year officially ended. Most looked miserable in the cold, bundled in layers of wool and fur. A few manipulated small heat runes to warm their gloves.

Strangely, Adom himself felt perfectly comfortable despite wearing only a light cloak. The cold registered, but didn't bother him. Another quirk of his unusual physiology.

Adom advanced toward the door, hand outstretched for the brass knob. Before he could touch it, the door swung open on its own with a musical chime.

What greeted him wasn't the old dragon, but a floating mug of hot cocoa.

The ceramic mug—painted with miniature dragons breathing cocoa-colored flames—hovered at precisely chest height. Steam rose from its contents in lazy spirals. Marshmallows bobbed in the rich brown liquid, and a perfect swirl of cream topped it all, dusted with cinnamon and chocolate sprinkles.

Adom smiled and plucked the mug from the air. "Thank you," he said to the apparently empty shop.

He took a careful sip.

The cocoa was perfect—rich and velvety, neither too sweet nor too bitter, with just a hint of something spicy that he couldn't quite identify.

"You know," Adom said, stepping fully inside as the door closed behind him, "despite it not being quite legal, that mind-reading spell of yours is quite neat, Mr. Biggins."

A chuckle emerged from behind a towering display of glass jars containing what appeared to be preserved mythical creatures (but were actually clever confections).

"Who said anything about mind-related spells? Perhaps I simply know what people like on cold days." The shopkeeper emerged, straightening a bow tie that seemed to be made of shimmering dragonfly wings.

"Though I should probably mention," Biggins continued, "that anyone who doesn't like hot cocoa receives a cup of tea instead. And the truly grumpy get nothing but an empty mug and a disapproving stare." He demonstrated the stare, which somehow involved raising both eyebrows while simultaneously lowering them.

"I'm not sure which magical law that breaks," Adom replied, "but I'm fairly certain it's at least three."

"Laws, like winter in Arkhos, are subject to interpretation." Biggins swept behind his counter, which was cluttered with magical devices in various states of assembly. "Speaking of which, terrible timing this year, isn't it? Frost before the Yule festival. The weathermancers at Xerkes must be absolutely livid."

Adom took another sip of cocoa. "The city feels different."

"End of semester always does. Half the population vanishing overnight tends to have that effect. Shops closing early, taverns strangely quiet." Biggins gestured toward the window, where the streets were already growing empty as dusk approached. "Longer nights, shorter days, and everyone gets a bit... moody."

"I hate winter," Adom said flatly. "Always have."

"Do you now?" Biggins leaned forward. "Interesting, for someone with your particular affinity."

"My affinity?"

"Fire, my boy. Strong fire affinity, clear as day to anyone with the eyes to see it." Biggins tapped the side of his nose. "You'll bond with a phoenix one day, after all. Has to mean something, doesn't it?"

"Speaking of phoenixes," Adom said, setting his mug down on a nearby shelf, "I was hoping I could keep the egg here while I'm away. I'm heading back to Kati for the break, and it would be hard taking it everywhere with me. Too risky having people see it." He paused. "A phoenix egg isn't exactly an ordinary thing."

"Of course you can leave it here," Biggins replied, straightening a row of glass vials containing different colors of smoke.

"Thanks. I appreciate it." Adom hesitated. "By the way, how's Thessarian doing?"

Biggins's movements became more deliberate, his fingers lingering on a vial of red smoke. "She's... adjusting. Spends most of her time in the guest room I provided."

"Guest room," Adom repeated, his tone carefully neutral.

"It's quite luxurious," Biggins said defensively. "Feather bed, private bath, shelves of books. She particularly enjoys the sweets I leave her. Has quite the appetite for caramel tarts."

"What do you make of her?"

Biggins pursed his lips, considering. "Quite frankly, I'm not sure. She's certainly talented. Self-taught in magic, if I had to guess, which makes her abilities all the more impressive."

"Would you like to see her?" Biggins asked. "She might appreciate the company."

"No need," Adom said, shaking his head. "I'll be back in three months anyway. Plenty of time to talk to her afterward." He reached into his inventory and produced a thick, leather-bound book.

The Book of Primordial Runes.

"As you know, I've made some progress with this," Adom said, placing it on the counter between them. "Found a way to read the runes, but..." He flipped it open to reveal the blank pages. "It's too ancient to really understand. The runes predates modern magical theory entirely. It's going to take a lot of time to fully translate."

Biggins leaned over the book, not touching it but studying the symbols intently. He used the monocle Adom provided. "Fascinating. The conceptual framework they're using is completely different from ours."

"Exactly. And I'll be busy with other things anyway. The journey to Kati isn't short, and my family will expect me to actually spend time with them."

"Didn't you task a djinn to find something on this book?" Biggins asked, looking up from the pages.

Adom went still, his hand frozen mid-gesture. "I..." His eyes widened slightly. "Ah!"

He reached back into his inventory and withdrew a small ceramic bowl, painted with intricate runes around its rim.

"I can't believe I forgot about that," Adom muttered, placing the bowl on the counter.

"The legendary memory of youth," Biggins said dryly.

Adom shot him a look. "I've had a lot on my mind."

"Clearly."

Rolling his eyes, Adom channeled mana into the runes.

A wisp of smoke emerged, growing into a towering figure of blue smoke with storm-like features.

The temperature in the room plummeted.

The djinn materialized fully, then immediately noticed Biggins. Its vast form shuddered and condensed, pulling inward like a star collapsing. What had been a towering, majestic being was now crouched, almost cowering.

"Master Dragon," it said, its voice now a harsh whisper rather than the expected thunderous boom. "Your presence... was not anticipated."

Biggins merely glanced up, unimpressed. "How unfortunate for you."

The djinn's smoky form trembled visibly. Though it towered over them both, something in its posture suggested it would prefer to be much smaller, perhaps even invisible.

"Three months," Adom said, drawing the djinn's attention. "It's been three months since I gave you that task."

The djinn's gaze darted nervously between Adom and Biggins. "Time flows differently across realms. What seems an eternity to you is but a moment to—"

"Yes, yes, you said that last time," Adom interrupted. "Have you found anything about the book or not?"

The djinn's smoky features arranged themselves into what might have been a smile, though there was nothing reassuring about it. "As a matter of fact, I have."

The air shimmered around the djinn's hands as it made a complex gesture. A large, flat obsidian slab materialized in its grasp, approximately two feet wide and covered in meticulous carvings. The stone was glossy black but seemed to absorb rather than reflect the light around it.

"I did not find a way to read the blank pages of the book itself," the djinn said, its voice steadier now that it had something to offer. "But I did discover something about Primordial Runes that may prove... useful."

It placed the stone tablet on the counter with surprising gentleness. The obsidian made no sound as it touched the wooden surface.

"This," the djinn continued, gesturing to the tablet, "is the Rune Concordance of Thal-Kai."

Adom leaned forward, studying the stone. Its surface was divided into three distinct columns, each filled with different writing systems. The first column contained the angular, shifting symbols he recognized from his book. The second featured flowing, organic characters that seemed to move slightly when not directly observed. The third held more structured glyphs that, while still ancient, appeared more decipherable.

"Where did you find this?" Biggins asked sharply, his interest clearly piqued.

The djinn's form rippled. "Deep beneath the Abyssal Trench, entombed in the ruins of a city that has not seen sunlight in twelve thousand years. A place where even the water feels... wrong."

Adom ran his fingers just above the surface of the tablet, not quite touching it. "What exactly is it?"

"A bridging tool," the djinn explained. "The primordial runes are the oldest, the source from which all magical writing systems eventually derived. The Old Fae and High Sylvan runes evolved from them, each preserving certain aspects of the originals."

"High Sylvan?" Adom looked up. "The ancestral elven tongue?"

"Yes. These are among the oldest descendant systems that scholars can still partially comprehend. They're not equivalent to the primordial runes, but they're the closest evolutionary branches you can still understand."

Biggins was studying the tablet intently, his earlier wariness of the djinn temporarily forgotten. "Fantastic. These intermediate forms could help bridge the conceptual gap between modern magical understanding and these primordial symbols."

The djinn seemed to stand slightly taller, pleased by their reactions. "The concordance doesn't provide direct translations—nothing could. But it shows how the primordial concepts evolved and simplified into forms that later magical traditions could grasp. By working backward through this evolution, one might better comprehend the original intent."

Adom could hardly believe what he was seeing.

"With this," the djinn continued, "you could potentially decipher the conceptual framework of the runes in your book. The process would still require significant interpretation, but you'd have reference points to work from."

Adom carefully picked up the tablet. It was surprisingly light for its size, as if it were hollow rather than solid stone.

"This is... perfect," he said, turning it over to examine the back, which was blank save for a single symbol in the center. "This is exactly what I needed."

The djinn inclined its head slightly. "Then our arrangement is complete."

"Wait," Biggins said, holding up a hand. "Is the tablet safe to handle? No curses, no bindings, no... surprises?"

The djinn's form flickered with what might have been indignation. "It is merely a record, O dragon. A stepping stone to understanding. Nothing more."

Biggins held the djinn's gaze for a long moment before nodding slightly. "Very well."

Adom carefully placed the tablet into his inventory, where it vanished with a soft ripple. "Thank you," he said to the djinn. "This will be immensely helpful."

"Your wish has been fulfilled," the djinn replied formally, already beginning to fade. "Our contract is complete."

"Wait," Adom said quickly. "Are there any specific approaches to working with these evolutionary branches—"

But the djinn had already dissolved. The temperature in the room gradually returned to normal.

"Well," Biggins said after a moment, "that was surprisingly straightforward."

Adom smiled, feeling a weight lift from his shoulders. "Either way, I got what I needed. A good start, at least."

"Indeed," Biggins agreed, turning back to the book on the counter. "A very good start."

*****

With the Rune Concordance safely stored in his inventory, Adom bid goodbye to Mr. Biggins. The old dragon had promised to take good care of the phoenix egg while he was away, and somehow Adom didn't doubt it. After all, if you couldn't trust a fifteen-thousand-year-old dragon with an egg, who could you trust?

Most of the others had already departed Arkhos.

Sam had left for Kati that morning with Zuni, the quillick eager to be introduced to the Syllas. Eren had taken a vacation with his mother Tara—their first real trip together. "He's always wanted to see the Crystal Falls of Azuremist," she had told Adom. "I never had the chance to take him before." The rune on Eren's back intrigued Adom more than ever, but he wanted to learn about primordial runes first, to understand why the boy had been born with such a mark.

Naia had returned to her homeland weeks ago. The Tirajin nation had formally announced their alliance with Sundar in the coming conflict. What had begun as regional tensions was rapidly becoming a global war.

Adom had stayed behind to tie up loose ends, primarily to coordinate with Cass about moving the cave's golems to the Giant Highlands.

"How exactly do you plan to move all these constructs across the continent without causing a panic?" Cass had asked, eyeing the seven-foot sentinel that stood motionless in the corner.

"I have a friend called Old Mazor who will take them," Adom replied, checking off items on his list.

"Old Mazor? I've never heard you mention him before. Who is he?"

Adom had simply smiled. "I cannot wait for you to meet him."

"That's cryptic, even for you," Cass had muttered, but didn't press further.

Before leaving, he'd made sure the cats had enough fish to last three months—an entire barrel of preserved herring that the felines had inspected with cautious approval. His spy network in Arkhos had solidified remarkably over the past days.

What had begun as a few paid informants had grown into a web of contacts spanning every district. These days, nothing of significance happened in the city without Adom learning of it within hours.

The atmosphere in the city had changed dramatically as well.

Where there had been merchants hawking wares and citizens going about their daily business, now there were recruitment stations on every major street corner. Young men and women lined up to enlist, their faces full of excitement and trepidation. Imperial officers in polished armor called out names and directed new recruits toward processing tents.

Adom passed a group of boys who couldn't have been older than sixteen, jostling each other and boasting about the enemies they would face.

"I'll take down ten Farmusians myself!" one declared, miming a sword thrust.

"You can barely lift a practice sword," his friend laughed, shoving him.

An older woman watched them from her doorway, her face lined with the knowledge that came from having seen war before. She caught Adom's eye and shook her head slightly, the gesture speaking volumes about what these eager children didn't understand.

The city walls were being reinforced, masons and laborers working alongside mages who inscribed protective runes into the stone. Supply wagons crowded the streets, loaded with everything from arrows to preserved rations to medical supplies.

Before heading to the docks, Adom took a detour to visit Law's farm where the dryads had made their home. The farm had transformed under their care—the trees stood taller, their branches heavy with fruit despite it not being the proper season.

Cyrel, the witch's daughter, had adapted surprisingly well to farm life. No longer the silent, cold girl he'd first met, she now moved confidently among the trees, calling each dryad by name, helping tend the medicinal herb garden they'd established in what had once been a fallow field.

"I never thought I'd say this," she told him as they walked between rows of impossibly perfect apple trees, "but I think I belong here more than I ever did in the city. Mother would hardly recognize me now."

Ben waved to Adom from where he sat on the porch, pipe in hand.

"Hiring that child was the best decision I ever made," he called out. "Harvest is triple what it was, and I haven't had so much as a cold since she arrived."

As Adom made his way toward the docks, he passed through the newly named 'Victory Square', where a military band played rousing marches while recruitment officers delivered impassioned speeches. Families said tearful goodbyes to sons and daughters in new uniforms, pressing small tokens into their hands—a father's knife, a mother's pendant, keepsakes to carry into battle.

A young boy darted through the crowd, waving a stack of papers.

"Journal! Latest edition of the Imperial Journal! New decree from the Emperor! Traitor prince condemned!"

Adom flagged the boy down and purchased a copy, tucking it into his bag without reading it. There would be plenty of time for that on the journey.

The ship that would carry him to Kati was considerably more impressive than the one he'd taken on his first journey to the Academy. The "Golden Horizon" was one of the newest vessels in the Imperial Fleet, equipped with the latest in spatial expansion enchantments.

What appeared from the outside to be a moderately-sized merchant vessel opened into cavernous spaces within—dining halls with vaulted ceilings, private cabins that rivaled noble apartments in size, and common areas decorated with marble fountains and exotic plants.

His own cabin was at least four times larger than the cramped room he'd used on his initial journey. The bed alone was big enough for three people, with silken sheets and pillows stuffed with phoenix down (a detail that made him slightly uncomfortable, considering the egg he'd just left with Biggins). A writing desk sat beneath a window that somehow showed a perfect view of the ocean despite being on the inner side of the ship—an illusion spell, he supposed, but an impressive one.

Adom's meeting with the Archmage before departing had been unexpectedly productive. The old man had listened intently as he carefully explained his knowledge and theories about the coming magical disruptions. What Adom had expected to be a hard sell turned into an eager discussion of countermeasures and preparations.

"You've done remarkable work," the Archmage had said, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "If what you've discovered proves true—and I suspect it will—then we will need leadership that understands these challenges." He'd fixed Adom with an appraising stare. "I will support your candidacy for Archmagehood when the time comes. There will be opposition, of course. Many people share the same ambition. But you have my backing."

Now, settled in his cabin as the ship pulled away from the harbor, Adom ordered tea from the cabin steward and unfolded the journal he'd purchased.

Through the window, he watched Arkhos recede—the gleaming spires of the Academy, the imperial banners fluttering from watchtowers, the smoke rising from forges working day and night to arm the coming war. There was a strange beauty to it, and a sadness too. The city was transforming, hardening like metal in a smith's fire, preparing for whatever lay ahead.

His thoughts drifted to home, to Kati, and to his mother who would soon give birth to his sister. What a time to enter the world—at the dawn of a major war, with the very foundations of the magical world in flux.

He felt a strange mixture of joy and apprehension at the thought of meeting his new sibling. Would she grow up knowing only war? Would the world be fundamentally changed by the time she was old enough to understand it?

The front page featured a bold headline: "IMPERIAL FAMILY UNDER SCRUTINY: LEGACY OF BETRAYAL?"

Adom frowned, skimming the article. The imperial propagandists had been busy. Not content with declaring Prince Kalyoon a traitor, they were now suggesting that the Emperor's late brother—dead for over a decade—had also harbored treasonous ambitions and was probably connected to the current events. The article raised "troubling questions" about the imperial bloodline itself, with carefully worded insinuations that perhaps the current dynasty had run its course.

He turned the page, finding a large illustration—a formal portrait of the imperial family from several years ago, before Prince Kalyon's fall from grace.

The Emperor stood center, stern and unyielding, his wife beside him looking appropriately regal. The various princes and princesses were arranged around them in order of succession, with court nobles and advisors filling the background.

Adom was taking a sip of tea when his eyes fell on one of the figures in the back row. He choked, tea burning down the wrong pipe as he stared in disbelief.

There, partially obscured behind a portly duke, stood a little girl he recognized instantly despite never having seen her in such formal attire and with such youthful face. Her hair was styled differently, her expression carefully neutral, but there was no mistaking those eyes.

"Morgana?"

Adom stared at the portrait for a long moment, tea dripping from his chin. His mind raced through a series of calculations, connections forming between scattered observations that had previously seemed unrelated.

The girl in the portrait. The eyes. That particular shade of blue that seemed to shift in different lights. The way she held herself—spine straight, chin slightly elevated, hands positioned just so. Even as a child, Morgana had the bearing of someone born to power.

And then Adom did something entirely unexpected. He laughed.

It wasn't a particularly loud laugh, nor was it especially long. Just a short, sharp bark of amusement that filled the cabin and then vanished, like a stone tossed into a pond.

"Well," he said to the empty room, "that explains a few things."

He wiped tea from his chin with the back of his hand, his eyes never leaving the portrait.

"Why didn't you just tell me?" he asked the image, as if it might answer. "Was that really such a difficult conversation to have? 'Hello, Adom, nice to meet you. By the way, I'm actually royal, supposedly dead, and in hiding. Pass the tea, would you?'"

The portrait, unsurprisingly, offered no response.

Adom leaned back in his chair, balancing it on two legs as he considered the implications. Morgana was supposed to be dead. Had been for years, if the official records were to be believed. Yet here she was—or had been—hiding in Arkhos, moving freely through the world probably under a different identity.

He found himself strangely looking forward to her next letter, whenever it might arrive. She always managed to time them perfectly—just when he'd begun to wonder if she'd forgotten about him and Sam entirely.

But this revelation added a new layer of anxiety. If Morgana was the Emperor's niece in hiding, what exactly was she hiding from? Or who?

Thessarian had warned him about the Imperial Chancellor. "Watch that one," she'd said during one of their conversations. "I believe he's the one influencing Prince Kalyon, though I lack concrete proof. There's something... wrong about him."

Was Morgana's curse connected to all this? Had she fled the palace to escape the same influence that had corrupted her cousin?

Adom sighed, letting his chair thump back onto all four legs. The prospect of potentially fighting the Emperor himself—if he was indeed corrupted—or the Chancellor if Thessarian's theories proved correct, was not exactly how he'd planned to spend the next years of his life.

"Future Adom's problems," he muttered, picking up his tea again. "Let him deal with it."

He knew, of course, that Future Adom would absolutely curse Present Adom for this attitude. Would probably have choice words about responsibility and foresight. But Present Adom just wanted to drink his tea and read in peace.

The ship creaked gently as it cut through the waves, and Adom turned to the next page of the journal, determined to ignore imperial politics for at least the remainder of his cup of tea.

He managed exactly three paragraphs about grain tariffs before setting the journal aside with a sigh.

"Fine," he muttered, reaching into his inventory. "You win."

The Book of Primordial Runes emerged. Next came the obsidian tablet—the Rune Concordance of Thal-Kai—which he placed carefully on the writing desk beside the book. Finally, the monocle, its crystalline lens catching the cabin's light in strange ways, creating tiny rainbows on the polished wood surface.

Adom took a final sip of tea, set the cup aside, and settled more comfortably in his chair. He opened the book to the first page—blank to the naked eye, but not for long.

He raised the monocle to his right eye, closed his left, and watched as the seemingly empty page filled with ancient symbols, the primordial runes shimmering into existence like stars appearing at dusk.

With the Concordance beside him as guide, Adom began to read.

The journey home would be long. The war would wait. The Emperor, the Chancellor, and even Morgana herself would still be there when he finished.

For now, there was only this—the oldest magic in the world, revealing itself one symbol at a time.

It felt like home, really.

Adom smiled and turned the page.