The applause had faded, but the air still trembled with reverence. Ari Solen stood before the throne of Batangara, the golden crest of the royal house glowing faintly behind him. His cloak—tattered at the edges from the duel—fluttered like a relic whispering of older wars. The King of Batangara, a looming presence even seated, stepped down from his throne.
"Compiler," the king said, his deep voice filling the chamber like distant thunder, "your magic is beyond our recorded libraries. You do not cast… You compose."
Beside the throne, the Royal Magic Advisor, an old man swathed in scroll-draped robes and golden chains of woven Thread, narrowed his eyes. "Not composed—compiled," he muttered, eyes wide with both fear and awe. "That syntax… it predates Reunification. It's Originis."
Silence rippled like a wave through the court.
The King turned to his nobles. "Prepare a banquet. Private. Only my bloodline, my council, and these champions of might may attend."
That night, the Banquet Hall of Emberglass shimmered with goldlight chandeliers and reflective obsidian floors. Pillars were carved with mythbeasts, and the air carried the spice of Batangaran honeymead.
Ari stood against a high window, gazing out at the fire-lit city, when he felt her approach.
Theian.
She walked with elegance even in silence, her black silk dress rippling behind her like a dragon's breath. "You didn't eat," she said.
"I did," Ari replied softly. "Just not from the table."
Her lips twitched. "Still mysterious."
Across the banquet, Keem downed another glass, cheeks flushed, eyes locked on Ari. Gem, seated beside him, sighed. "Keem. No."
But Keem stood, glass in one hand, finger raised dramatically. "Solen. Compiler." He nearly tripped on his own chair but recovered like it was choreographed. "I challenge you to a duel. Now. Here. For my pride."
"Denied," Gem snapped.
"I accept," Ari said calmly, placing his cup down.
The room shifted.
They cleared the center of the banquet hall. The nobles circled, curious and half-amused. Vinny leaned in with interest, armor partly summoned onto her shoulders out of instinct. Hooven crossed his arms, stone-faced but watchful.
Theian said nothing—but her dragons, unseen yet present, stirred in the flickering chandeliers.
Keem raised both hands. Thread-tattoos around his eyes blazed with glowing blue glyphs, forming recursive patterns, fractal geometry, syntax so dense it was like watching equations fold in on themselves.
"Alright," Keem said. "Let's see how fast you are when you can't hide behind mystery."
Ari didn't draw a weapon. He just raised one hand, tracing something in the air—a sigil with angles that didn't conform to normal geometry. It wasn't a rune. It wasn't syntax. It was something… older.
Keem's Threads surged. "No language matches—fine, I'll force recognition—deconstruct base primitives—"
But the moment Ari's glyph locked into place, Keem froze.
His Threads warped.
"It's not that I'm too slow," Keem whispered. "It's that... there's no reference. No compiler. No syntax tree." His knees buckled. "It's not just old—it's incompatible. This... isn't even the same paradigm."
Ari didn't move. The duel hadn't even truly started.
And it was already over.
Keem sat on the polished obsidian floor, hands trembling. "You could cast anything and I'd never understand it. I'm fast... but I'm blind."
Ari stepped forward and offered a hand. "You're not blind. You're just reading the wrong book."
Theian watched silently. Her dragons stirred again, more agitated this time.
In the hush that followed, the royal advisor muttered: "I was right. He doesn't cast magic. He writes laws."
The nobles looked to the king, who simply nodded.
Ari Solen—the Compiler—was now more than a tournament winner.
He was a variable that didn't belong in this era.
And everyone at the banquet had just realized it.