“Come now.
You’ll return to Adom Yekitza.”
As he turned back to Crys and TT, the severity left Soliorbis’s face entirely.
He looked troubled instead—
the expression of a teacher
addressing students who had broken the rules.
With a sweep of his golden mantle,
he strode toward the spiral staircase.
Crys hesitated.
There was so much he wanted to ask Soliorbis.
And just as much, he wanted to ask Arkzen.
He couldn’t let go of what Arkzen had been about to say.
And if Amelia truly had belonged to the council,
then he needed to know
what kind of person she had been
in Emet Echad Olam.
Crys stood there, staring at the door, unmoving.
TT tapped his shoulder, urging him on.
“Let’s go, Ad.”
Crys shook his head, not even looking at him.
“I’m going to talk to Arkzen again.
Even if Tsitsi won’t listen,
Arkzen said he could still send me home.
And I can’t stop thinking about
what he was about to say about my mom.”
He said it as much to convince himself,
then took a step back toward Arkzen’s office—
—and that was when it happened.
“Whoa—wait, wait, wait…!”
Against his will,
his right foot turned toward the spiral staircase,
his left foot swinging around like a compass needle,
carrying him down the corridor.
“No—wrong way!
That’s not where I’m going!”
He tried to force himself to stop,
but his legs kept marching forward.
He flailed his arms,
doing all he could not to fall.
“Ad—grab on!”
Even clinging to TT as he caught up,
Crys couldn’t slow down.
They passed door after door,
moving farther from Arkzen’s office.
Finally, fed up,
Crys shouted so loudly
his voice echoed through the wide corridor.
“Okay, okay!
I get it!
I’ll follow—happy now?!”
If he was going to be dragged anyway,
he might as well go willingly.
He took long strides in the direction his legs seemed to demand,
and at last,
his body obeyed him again.
Half sulking, half defiant,
he stomped down the hall, arms swinging,
and glared up at Soliorbis,
who was waiting by the spiral staircase.
“So—you’re using magic now.”
“You’re getting used to this world,”
Soliorbis replied coolly.
Standing at the open center of the spiral staircase,
a familiar pattern appeared at his feet—
the same blue-tinged cream light from that morning.
TT watched the magic circle with interest,
then seemed to remember himself.
He placed a hand over his chest
and looked up at Soliorbis.
“My apologies for earlier.
I am Bradfield.
It’s an honor to meet you,
Sedel Soliorbis.”
“The honor is mine—
to be known by such a young gentleman.
Is it because of your father?
Have we met at a party,
or perhaps a lecture?”
“I believe those occasions would be premature
for someone like me.
But your speech—
when you were selected for
The Metropolitan Chronicle’s
‘People Who Changed the Future’—
left a strong impression.
I hoped one day to meet you.”
“I didn’t expect to hear about something
from so many years ago.
Was it recorded?”
“I’m not sure.
I watched it live.”
Soliorbis studied TT, impressed,
a hand resting on his light-colored beard.
Then his gaze softened.
He raised both palms,
beckoning them closer.
“Come.
Both of you.”
When Crys and TT stepped onto the glowing pattern,
the magic circle descended—
like an elevator.
They had climbed for what felt like forever.
Minutes—
maybe hours.
And yet,
they reached the first floor
in only a few seconds.
That alone
left Crys with a sour feeling.
When they stepped off the magic circle,
Soliorbis turned back toward Crys and TT.
He traced the outlines of their bodies and drew a finger down from head to toe.
Crys felt as though
a veil of water had passed over him.
He looked at his hands—
nothing seemed different.
“When you pass someone,
do not speak.
Understood.”
TT nodded at once.
Crys did too,
still unsure why.
Satisfied,
Soliorbis glided forward again.
The castle remained utterly silent.
Only the smooth whisper
of his mantle stirring the air
broke the stillness.
The shadows cast by the window frames
across the red carpet
had shifted far from their positions when they entered.
They had been here a long time.
After walking for a while
with no sign of anyone else,
TT leaned in and asked softly.
“What is this building for?
We were told by Rav Valancourt
that it was a palace,
but it feels more like a castle.”
“A matter of function,”
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Soliorbis replied.
“There is no need for defense,
so it is not a castle.
This is Heikhal ha-Shalem—
the Pearl Palace.
It is a palace, yes,
but its purpose is not ceremony.
It serves as a vast receiver.
Light particles from the Great Source
are amplified here,
then dispersed—
from Emet Echad Olam
out into Chuts.”
“Then Tsitsi—
the Grand Order—
where is she usually?”
Crys cut in quietly.
“She does not live
as you imagine,
but this is her base.
If you ask where Sedergador
is most often found
within Emet Echad Olam,
the answer is here.”
“Where, exactly?”
Soliorbis did not answer.
Crys could only see his back,
but he had the sense
that Soliorbis was smiling.
Crys pressed on.
“This morning,
you dodged the question
and wouldn’t send me back.
That’s why I went looking
for the Grand Order.
But Arkzen said it—
that while the Grand Order
won’t grant individual wishes,
he could send me home.
You could too,
couldn’t you?”
“To come here as a Rofeh
has meaning.
It may sound cruel,
but there are times
when something must be valued
above personal will.
You must remain here.”
I didn’t choose to become a Rofeh—
The words never came out.
His lips sealed shut.
All that escaped
was a small, dull pop inside his mouth.
Panic surged.
Crys rubbed at his lips,
pressed, pulled—
nothing moved.
When he tried to force them open,
TT tapped his shoulder
and placed a finger to his own lips.
Crys shook his head,
trying to signal
that he couldn’t speak anyway.
TT pointed toward the wall.
Only then did Crys notice—
voices drifting
from beyond the bend in the corridor.
He snapped his head toward TT.
If they were found,
things could get complicated.
He gestured frantically
toward the spiral staircase.
TT shook his head
and tightened his grip on Crys’s arm.
Crys froze.
They would be seen—
But TT stayed calm.
The voices drew closer.
Then turned the corner.
“Falka.
It’s been a while.”
Soliorbis opened his arms,
genuinely pleased.
“Fancy meeting you here,
Soliorbis.”
“Not so strange.
Today is Yom Reshit, isn’t it?
I don’t live
only in my chambers
or the council hall.”
“Still here at this hour,
after Sedergador’s address?
Planning to stay
all the way to Adom Yekitza?”
Falka glanced around,
as if something had caught her attention.
Crys clamped a hand over his mouth,
pressing hard.
“I’m sensing
an odd Ko’ahf,”
she murmured.
“I was with Flame earlier.
Developing new magic.”
Soliorbis whispered it,
almost conspiratorial.
Falka laughed, satisfied.
“Just don’t blow up
the Pearl Palace.”
“I’ll do my best.”
With a sharp smile,
Falka turned,
heading for the staircase
with three others,
all adorned in yellow accents.
Once they were gone,
Crys blurted out.
“They couldn’t see us!”
Only then did he realize—
his voice was back.
“I told you.
Do not speak.”
“You never said
you’d make us invisible!
Or mute!”
“If I had told you,
would you have agreed?”
Soliorbis walked on,
unbothered.
Crys was too stunned to reply.
He swore he wouldn’t follow Soliorbis anymore—
but TT loosened his grip
and tugged gently,
and Crys sighed
and went after them.
“About earlier,”
TT said quietly.
“Not whether you would—
but whether you could.
Is it possible
to return him to Chuts?”
“You are kind to your friends,”
Soliorbis said.
“Whether you realize
the power of thought or not.”
“Sedel.”
Something firmer
entered TT’s voice.
For some reason,
Soliorbis smiled.
“The answer is yes.
It can be done.
But it would violate
several laws.
Like nullifying
the most binding of contracts.”
“Then when Sedel Arkzen said—”
“He was not lying.”
TT fell silent,
thinking.
They soon reached a corridor
with two great doors.
To the right,
the Great Hall.
To the left,
the exit.
Crys felt a flicker of relief.
They were back somewhere familiar.
He wanted to return to his room.
Risking things like this
was never like him.
Dragging TT into it—
that weighed on him.
Still,
without TT,
Arkzen would have doubted him more.
Without Soliorbis,
Falka’s group would have found them.
As Soliorbis reached out
to open the door outside,
a strange feeling struck Crys.
Why had Soliorbis gone
to Arkzen’s office?
Almost as if
he knew they were there—
“Hey—”
TT covered his mouth again.
“Are you going
all the way to Adom Yekitza?”
A woman’s voice
came from behind them.
Crys shot TT a look—
I’ll stay quiet—
and turned.
He couldn’t remember her Tseva name,
but she was one of the Masters
who had stood near the dais.
She wore a mantle
woven with light,
shifting through many colors,
and looked at Soliorbis calmly.
Soliorbis turned,
still smiling—
but now with a hint
of mischief,
like a child caught hiding something.
“You’ll keep this quiet,
Iver.”
Iver nodded,
understanding.
“Is there anything I can help with?”
“No.
Not yet.”
Soliorbis murmured,
his gaze falling
to the ring on his left index finger.
The stone gleamed
a clear silver,
like moonlight—
oddly striking
among his golden things.
“When an amber shadow
settles over Heikhal ha-Shalem,
Rone will contact you.
Until then,
watch over the Talmid
and Rav.”
“Understood.”
Iver performed
a flawless curtsey.
Soliorbis nodded,
then swept out the door.
As they followed,
Iver—who had not once
looked away from Soliorbis—
turned and smiled
directly at Crys.
He had thought
she couldn’t see him.
Startled,
Crys averted his eyes
and hurried after Soliorbis.
Outside the castle,
warm air brushed his hair—
but he barely felt it.
They walked in silence.
Once the gate was out of sight,
Crys blurted out
the opposite of what he’d said before.
“She could see us!”
“Each Tseva
excels at different forms of Yatsar,”
Soliorbis replied calmly.
“The Tsarubina,
to which Iver belongs,
are skilled at seeing
what is there.
If they choose to look,
invisibility becomes meaningless.”
“What was the Ko’ahf
Falka mentioned?”
TT asked.
Soliorbis clasped his hands
inside his mantle
and slowed his pace.
“Rone has likely explained already,
but events in Emet Echad Olam
appear magical
without being magic itself.
What we use here
is the power of thought.
Not wishing.
Not desiring.
Simply thinking.
That power is called Ko’ahf.
And the act of outputting it
is called Yatsar.
If the terms confuse you,
you may think of it
as mana and magic.”
“So it is magic,”
Crys muttered.
Thought-power sounded suspicious enough,
but better than pure fantasy.
And yet—
back to magic again.
Soliorbis shook his head,
almost indulgently.
“You believe magic
to be non-scientific.
Incantations,
elements bent to will,
circles drawn,
things summoned.
But magic is not something done.
It is what remains
after something has been done.
Compared to your ancestors
living in caves,
you are already a great mage.
With a lighter,
you command fire.
With an airplane,
you cross the world.
With a smartphone,
you send thought
across the planet.
No spells.
No circles.
Magic is
thought made manifest.”
“That’s just science,”
Crys said flatly.
Soliorbis smiled,
the way a teacher does
at a student worth challenging.
“In essence,
magic and science are the same.
Science names laws
and organizes them.
Magic does the same.
Magic is not limitless.
That is why
not every thought
becomes reality at once.
If every thought manifested,
results would not always
be what one hopes for.
That is why you Rofeh
undergo the Milu’im.
To know the world.
And to learn
how to think.”
Somehow, they were already at the end of the long descent from the mountain path, near the foot of the bridge
where the color of the ground subtly changed.
Wind poured through the blue expanse—
now clearly sky—
mingling with sunlight,
setting everything in sight
glimmering, just faintly, as it passed.
Soliorbis tapped Crys’s shoulder twice,
and then TT’s.
The world seemed to brighten all at once.
The sensation of something brushing against him—
like a veil—
was gone.
“All right.
Go on now.
This is as far as I go.”
“Soliorbis—
there’s still something I need to ask.”
Crys grabbed at Soliorbis’s mantle,
as if to hold him there.
This time,
so he wouldn’t vanish in front of him
like some cheap trick.
He stared up without blinking,
eyes wide, unyielding.
At that earnest sight,
Soliorbis smiled gently
and rested a hand on Crys’s head.
Then—
he was gone.
Crys lost his words.
This morning, he might have convinced himself
that Soliorbis had simply disappeared into the dark.
But not now.
Now,
he had to admit it—
whatever he had just seen,
it wasn’t a trick.
He hadn’t blinked.
Not once.
The smooth texture of the mantle was still there beneath his fingers.
Crys stood frozen,
fingers curled as they were,
staring at the empty space
where Soliorbis had been.
When he finally clenched his hand shut,
it burned—
as if he’d grabbed the sun.
Without a word,
TT placed a hand on Crys’s shoulder,
passed by him,
and stepped onto the bridge ahead.
Crys looked up
at the Pearl Palace,
glowing with solemn light.
Arkzen hadn’t lied.
But if Soliorbis was right,
then even the Order
couldn’t easily send someone back
to the real world.
Tsitsi probably could have.
But now that he’d been turned away,
going back would only end the same way.
Then there was only one option left—
some other way,
not sneaking into the Pearl Palace.
The road home had been close enough to touch.
And it had been taken.
Crys cast one last glare
far up at the Pearl Palace,
then turned away,
shaking off the pull of regret,
and followed after TT.
Catching up to TT,
Crys walked beside him for a while
without either of them speaking.
On the long bridge,
only the sound of their shoes striking the stone beneath their feet echoed.
When the far end—
the foot of the bridge at Adom Yekitza—
finally came into view,
TT opened his mouth,
his voice heavy.
“I never imagined
you were Amelia Reed’s son, Ad.”
“I was surprised too.
Is it really true
that your dad is Reginald Bradfield?
I still can’t wrap my head around it.”
The name Reginald Bradfield—
known for corruption and rumors—
refused to connect,
in Crys’s mind,
with the kind, upright TT beside him.
“Unfortunately, it’s true.
Ah… I really didn’t want you to know.”
TT clasped his hands behind his head
and laughed,
as if he’d finally let it go.
“As long as I can remember,
I was drilled to memorize
the faces of people in politics and finance.
Even though none were as rotten as my father,
they were all the kind
where a little digging
sent dust into the air.
The more I learned,
the more I was taught
that I had to be like them—
that without that,
you couldn’t survive in society.
And then I learned about Amelia Reed,
who carried out policies so transparent they felt almost na?ve,
and Cillian Reed,
a passionate humanitarian diplomat
who chased ideals.
They were like light.
I was raised to enter politics,
so I decided
I would work with them someday.
That was my goal.
And my way of defying my father.
When Amelia Reed died,
I thought I’d lost my path.
My rebellion took a different form.
I started playing games—
the ones I wasn’t allowed to touch.
And that’s when I met you.”
TT paused,
then smiled.
“My judgment wasn’t wrong.
The kid who caught my attention at first sight—
the son of a hero—
turned out to be one.”
“I’m glad you see it that way,
but the passionate version of my dad
you’re talking about
has been gone for a long time.
And me?
I can only be a hero in games.
Honestly,
I think you’re stronger.
You stayed true
even after being raised
as a Bradfield.”
“Games still have real people
on the other side of the screen.
They’re happy when they’re helped.
They’re angry when they’re used.
The way you’re kind
to someone you don’t even know—
that reaches beyond the character,
to the player themselves.
That’s why
I can be myself
only when I’m with you.”
Unsure how to answer,
feeling both embarrassed
and struck by the weight of TT’s words,
Crys lifted a hand
to the back of his neck—
his old habit when cornered.
TT, suddenly bright,
changed the subject.
“So, Ad.
Do you still think this is a dream?”
When Crys tilted his head,
TT continued.
“You know—
back at Arkzen’s,
when he said
Amelia Reed was a Sedel.”
“Yeah…”
Crys gave a small, crooked smile.
“I was angry then.
My family never kept secrets.
So I thought—
if Mom had been in Emet Echad Olam,
if she’d been a Rofeh or an Order,
she would’ve told me.
Believing Arkzen was lying,
that I was dreaming—
that was easier.
It protected
the bond I thought I had with her.”
Crys looked toward
the old castle of Adom Yekitza
in the distance,
then lifted his eyes to the sky.
Floating islands,
bright and unreal—
no matter where you looked,
it matched what he’d seen in True World Origins.
Beautiful enough
to hit your chest every time.
He stared upward without blinking,
until a thin film of tears
clouded his vision.
“When I met you,
I thought this wasn’t a dream—
or maybe I chose to believe it wasn’t.
Even when I can’t trust my own senses,
I can trust you.
That’s why I got so confused.
Back then,
I think I was really angry at my mom.”
“And now?”
Crys tugged his lips downward,
creasing his brow
as if joking.
“I don’t think I’m angry anymore.
Instead,
I want to know
the version of my mom I didn’t know—
the one who was here.
I’ll look for a way home while I’m at it.
Sorry, though.
You came all this way—
the castle, the Crystal Palace,
looking for Tsitsi with me—
and all I did was drag you around.”
“So then, Ad—
you’re planning to stay
in Emet Echad Olam a little longer?”
Crys nodded,
as if confirming it to himself.
TT’s sphene-colored eyes
sparkled like a prism,
and before he could stop himself,
he lunged forward
and pulled Crys—
all thin and hidden inside his baggy hoodie—
into a tight hug.
“That’s the best.”
