[Location: Manor Terrace, North Face][Time: 1 hour, 37 minutes after Declaration][Security Status: ELEVATED][Threat Detection: ACTIVE]
The doors sighed behind him—the Manor's breathing rhythm adjusting to potential combat—and the terrace breathed cold. Rain ticked in the laurels, each drop a tiny percussion note on leaves that were themselves magical sensors.
The knife arrived first.
Silent, moon-thin, a line of murder aimed between his heterochromatic eyes. Solomon's [Prescient Recognition] had seen it 0.7 seconds before it arrived, but he didn't move. He didn't need to.
Morrígan's hand blurred.
[Skill Activated: Phantom Intercept][Speed: 947 (exceeds projectile velocity by 340%)][Precision: Perfect][Cost: 15 MP]
Steel met two fingers and stopped, quivering, caught like a wasp in jade chopsticks. She didn't smile. Her face was perfectly neutral, the expression of someone who'd done this ten thousand times and found it routine.
"Rude," she said simply.
Solomon didn't blink. He was already analyzing.
[Weapon Analysis Complete][Item: Writ-Knife][Type: Conceptual Weapon (targets contracts/souls rather than flesh)][Material: Null-Silver (bypasses 94% of magical defenses)][Enchantment Level: Mythic][Threat Assessment: Would kill most gods][Wielder: Unknown (trace signature detected - foreign)]
His curiosity flared. Null-Silver was exceptionally rare—only seven mines in the world produced it, and all were controlled by entities that didn't sell to assassins. Where had the Marches gotten this? What had they traded? What did that tell him about their desperation?
Later. Focus now.
"Holy Object," Solomon said, his voice low enough that the air itself seemed to lean in to listen. "Seal of Solomon: Form One—Conscription."
He closed his hands.
[Unique Skill Activated: King's Seal][Form: Conscription - Commandeers written contracts/oaths/laws within territory][Range: Entire Manor + 100 meters][Duration: Until manually dismissed][Cost: 200 MP][Effect: All written magic becomes temporary servant of user]
The terrace answered like a soldier snapping to attention.
Ink lifted from the carved oath-stones that lined the terrace's edge—contracts written directly into the Manor's structure, promises made in stone that couldn't be broken. The ink rose as ribbons of liquid shadow, each one containing the binding force of the vows it represented.
The seams between flagstones became neat black stitches—as if the ground itself was a garment being sewn together with thread made of obligation.
Every letter etched into the Manor—vows carved in stone, dates inscribed in wood, names written in metal—stood up and took shape. They became spectral bailiffs: hooded figures eight feet tall, faceless except for the suggestions of mouths and eyes made from punctuation marks. Each one carried quill-blades and ledger-shields, weapons forged from the concept of Law itself.
[Summoned Entities: 47 Letter-Bailiffs][Type: Conceptual Constructs][Level: 200-250 (variable based on source text)][Armament: Quill-Blade (ignores physical armor), Ledger-Shield (blocks concept-based attacks)][Loyalty: Absolute (summoned by Conscription)][Combat Rating: A- each][Special: Cannot be killed, only dismissed by caster]
Chains of punctuation coiled from the eaves. Commas hooked ankles. Periods hammered into stone like nailheads. A paragraph mark unfolded into a halberd, its three prongs representing beginning, middle, and end—the structure of narrative made weapon.
Solomon stepped forward, his boots clicking on stone that was now listening.
"Who dares," he said, and the question cost the world a breath.
[Area Effect: Absolute Demand][All entities within range compelled to acknowledge question][Resistance: Difficult (requires Will save DC 45)][Cost: 50 MP]
Something flickered at the far balustrade: a figure in rain-grey wrappings, humanoid but wrong somehow, proportions slightly off in ways that hurt to perceive. Its mask was chalk-white and featureless except for a single vertical slit where eyes should be.
No footfalls. It had walked here like a sentence carried by wind, like an idea that travels without motion.
[Entity Detected][Type: Writ-Killer (Contracted Construct)][Origin: Curia of Knots (Assassin's Guild)][Level: 380][Classification: Conceptual Assassin - kills contracts/agreements rather than people][Threat Level: Extreme][Weakness: Vulnerable to Contract Magic (ironic but exploitable)]
Eve materialized at Solomon's shoulder, her arrival silent because she'd stepped through one of her own sigils. Three glyphs burned pale in her palm—offensive spells held ready, each one capable of obliterating a city block.
[Eve - Combat Ready][Spells Prepared:
[Mana Lance]: Single-target, 8,000 damage [Binding Circle]: Area control, immobilization [Reality Anchor]: Prevents dimensional escape]** [MP Reserves: 11,240/12,400][Status: Awaiting orders]
"A Writ-Killer," she murmured, her analytical mind already cataloging information. "Contract made flesh. The Marches learned new tricks."
Lilith appeared on the stair like she'd been painted there by shadows. Her eyes caught the light like a cat's in candlelight. "Not new," she corrected, descending one step with the deliberate slowness of someone who wanted to be watched. "Borrowed. The Curia of Knots lends out executioners to debtors who can't stomach their own work."
Solomon's curiosity engaged despite the danger. The Curia of Knots was one of the world's mysteries—an assassin's guild that operated on rules no one understood, hiring themselves out to kill not people but ideas. They murdered treaties. They assassinated alliances. They executed contracts.
How did they do it? What was the mechanism? What kind of magic let you kill an abstract concept?
He wanted to know. But first, he needed to survive.
Morrígan turned the caught knife and blew across its edge. Black prayer-smoke skittered away from the blade like ants fleeing fire.
[Skill Used: Divine Breath][Effect: Reveals blessed/cursed enchantments][Result: 47 micro-curses detected on weapon, all targeting contractual bonds]
"Null-silver," Morrígan confirmed. "This would have cut most gods."
"Not today," Solomon said simply.
The Writ-Killer tilted its head, listening to words no one else could hear. Probably receiving instructions from its employer through the spiritual link that bound construct to contractor.
Then it canted its empty face toward Solomon and spoke in a voice like parchment tearing: "Solomon of the Moving Manor. You have abrogated standing agreements with the Western Marches. Per clause unspoken, debt collects."
Clause unspoken. An interesting phrase. It suggested hidden terms in the original contracts, obligations Solomon hadn't agreed to but that the Marches claimed existed.
"Per law invoked," Solomon replied, each syllable locking into the terrace like dovetails in fine carpentry, "conscription binds all writs crossing my threshold."
[Legal Declaration: Acknowledged][Precedent: Manor Law supersedes external contracts within territory][Binding Force: Absolute][Result: Writ-Killer is now subject to Conscription]
He opened his right hand. One of the letter-bailiffs stepped forward—this one formed from the text of the Manor's founding charter—and stamped a seal into the air.
[Spell: Contract Seal][Type: Binding Magic (Mythic-tier)][Effect: Marks target as subject to caster's contract authority][Duration: Permanent until removed][Cost: 100 MP]
The stamp bloomed into a circle of archive-red, lines within lines spiraling into a geometry of obedience. It was beautiful in the way that mathematics could be beautiful—perfect, elegant, inevitable.
The Writ-Killer took one step forward, aggressive, then found a comma around its ankle. It looked down as if the idea of a pause was offensive to its nature.
Sophia emerged from the doorway, ledger in hand, her expression carved from ice. "Clause unspoken?" Her voice was dangerous in its calmness. "There is no such thing."
[Sophia - Contract Analysis Active][Scanning: All agreements with Western Marches (347 documents)][Search Parameter: Hidden clauses, implicit terms, unwritten obligations][Result: NONE FOUND][Conclusion: Writ-Killer is operating on fraudulent premise]
"There is when fear signs," Lilith said, descending another step. Her bare feet were perfectly clean despite the rain, because water respected her too much to dirty her. "Show us the hand holding your leash."
The Writ-Killer twitched. Its knife-slit widened like a wound opening. From within the wrappings, a second blade slid free—this one thin as a breath, so sharp it cut light as it moved.
[Weapon 2 Detected][Type: Concept-Cutter][Material: Unknown (not registering on standard analysis)][Threat Assessment: Can sever metaphysical bonds][Danger Level: EXTREME]
Morrígan's wings shivered with anticipation. "Try it," she invited, her voice low and hungry.
Solomon's analytical mind was racing. Two weapons. The first was for killing him specifically—Null-Silver targeting his person. The second was for killing the Manor's bond to Alexandria. If that blade struck the right target, it could sever the contract he'd just signed, unmake the declaration, leave him vulnerable to the Marches' political reprisal.
Clever. Desperate, but clever.
Solomon didn't raise his voice. He never needed to. "Conscripts—present."
Every etched oath along the terrace chimed in response—a chorus of forty-seven different tones, each one representing a different contract carved into the Manor's structure.
The bailiffs drew their quill-blades in perfect, papery unison. The sound was like books opening, pages turning, knowledge arming itself.
Chains of punctuation tightened with little metal prayers—literal prayers, because some of the contracts were to divine entities, and those prayers had weight.
[Combat Formation: Legal Encirclement][Bailiffs: 47, all armed and ready][Punctuation Chains: 23 active bindings][Tactical Assessment: Target cannot escape without severing 70+ contractual obligations simultaneously][Probability of success: 0.003%]
"Last chance," Solomon said, his eyes like deep water over stone—calm surface, dangerous depths. "Name your patron and yield the writ. Or your contract becomes mine."
That was the threat. If the Writ-Killer didn't surrender, Solomon would use his [King's Seal] to commandeer the contract that created it. He'd learn who sent it, yes, but more than that—he'd own the assassin. Turn it against its creators.
For the first time, the Writ-Killer hesitated. Rain beaded on its mask, ran down like tears it hadn't earned.
Hesitation meant self-preservation instinct. Which meant it was more than just a construct—it had some fragment of consciousness, some survival drive.
Solomon filed that information away. Curiosity for later.
"Tithekeeper," it hissed at last, the word dragged out like a confession under torture. "The Tithekeeper of the Marches sent me."
Eve's sigils flared brilliant white.
[Skill Activated: Thread Trace][Target: Contract binding Writ-Killer to employer][Depth: Maximum][Following connection through: 3 shell-chanceries, 7 false fronts, 2 demonic intermediaries][Destination: Found - Tithekeeper's Chamber, Western Marches Capital]
"Found them," Eve said, her voice carrying satisfaction. Her eyes had gone completely silver—she was seeing through magical senses now, following the thread of obligation across 1,847 kilometers. "Thread traced through three shell-chanceries. I can pull."
"Pull," Solomon said. "Gently."
Eve tugged reality like a stitch in fabric. Far away—so far away her perception could barely reach—something yelped in the language of vaults being opened against their will.
[Remote Effect: Successful][Target: Tithekeeper of Western Marches][Effect: Contract Link forcibly activated, causing backlash][Damage to Target: Moderate (psychological)][Message Sent: "We know who you are"]
The Writ-Killer spasmed like a puppet whose strings were being yanked. Its knives thinned to paper edges and fluttered away as harmless confetti—the weapons losing cohesion as the contract sustaining them came under external stress.
The chains of commas tightened with inexorable grammar. The paragraph halberd rested coolly against its chest, three prongs touching fabric that was more concept than cloth.
Solomon stepped closer, close enough to see the details of the mask—hand-carved, he noted, from bone that had never been alive. Interesting craftsmanship. He wanted to know more about how it was made, what techniques—
Focus.
"You shouldn't have come here," Solomon said quietly.
"I—am—a—writ," the thing rattled, voice fraying like old paper. "I—exist—to—be—executed."
"And now," Solomon said, touching two fingers to the red seal hanging in the air, "you are a witness."
[Status Change: Writ-Killer][Previous: Assassin (hostile)][Current: Witness (compelled)][New Function: Will testify truthfully when summoned][Cannot be dismissed by original contractor][Cannot self-terminate][Ownership: Solomon Estate]
He turned to the rain and the waiting house, his mind already three steps ahead. "Tiamat," he called softly.
She arrived in a curl of violet smoke, already bowing before her feet touched stone. Her efficiency was remarkable—she'd anticipated the summons and positioned herself in the nearest Shadow Gate. "Yes, my lord?"
"Fetch the Ink Table. Summon the Alexandrian Regent and the Tithekeeper of the Marches to conference by compulsion. Morrígan—unmake any other knives that think themselves clever. Lilith, prepare the questions we never get to ask. Eve, hold our grip on that thread."
Each woman nodded. They'd worked together for decades; they knew their roles like musicians knew their instruments.
Solomon looked once more at the faceless thing bound in grammar and oath. Up close, he could see it was trembling. Fear or damage, he wasn't sure. Both, probably.
"You came as a debt," he said, his voice soft as rain under eaves but carrying absolute certainty. "You will stay as a witness. When the Regent and the Tithekeeper sit, you will recite who put the knife in your hand. Then you will watch what law looks like with a spine."
The thing shuddered, whatever passed for its teeth chattering—a sound like paper rustling in wind.
Solomon lifted his palm and the chains tightened until they sang. "Oath-form: Alexandrian Descent," he declared formally. "Seal of Solomon—acknowledge."
[Declaration Registered][Witness Count: 847 (sufficient)][Binding: Active][Next Phase: Preparing for Manor relocation]
Thunder rolled like a slow seal on a scroll, and somewhere deep in the Manor's bones, something massive shifted its weight.
Chapter Three: The Thirteen Assemble
The rain stopped.
Not gradually—instantly, as if someone had closed a faucet. The clouds remained, but the rain simply ceased, droplets hanging in the air for a moment before evaporating into mist.
Solomon snapped his fingers once.
[Skill Activated: King's Summons][Target: The Thirteen (all members)][Priority: Maximum][Response Time: Immediate][Cost: 130 MP]
Thirteen girls bloomed into the terrace like constellations finding their places. Not teleportation—manifestation. They'd been waiting in their assigned positions throughout the Manor, and when he called, reality simply agreed they should be here instead.
Each one materialized with knees to stone, heads bowed, their shadows stitching together into a thirteen-point star around him. The geometry was perfect—a summoning circle created by presence alone.
"Rise, Thirteen," Solomon commanded.
They lifted as one, a synchronization born from centuries of practice.
Eve took her position at the forward-left, sigils already humming at her wrists like caged birds. Her silver hair caught the mist-light. She wore combat robes—Enchanted Silk (Rare), defensive rating 340, with mobility enchantments that let her move at three times normal speed when casting.
[Eve - Full Status]Level: 367Class: Arcane Architect / Information WeaverUnique Skill: [Infinite Inscription]Combat Role: Long-range control, information warfareCurrent MP: 11,140/12,400Status Effects: [Combat Ready], [Analytical Focus], [Protective Stance]Loyalty: AbsoluteTime Served: 89 years, 2 months, 18 daysPersonality: Playful, cryptic, sees five steps ahead in every situation
[Bellona - War's Edge]Level: 383Class: War Saint / Combat InstructorHer knuckles were wrapped in ritual linen—blessed cloth that had absorbed the blood of 1,000 warriors she'd defeated in honorable combat. She wore armor that looked ceremonial but was actually Mythic-tier battle gear (Divine Steel Plate, defensive rating 890). Her hair was cut military-short, black as night, and her eyes were steel-gray. Scars covered her arms like medals.Unique Skill: [Eternal Warrior] - Cannot be defeated in single combat, grows stronger the longer a fight continuesCombat Role: Frontline combat, training, moraleKill Count: 8,234 (all in fair combat)Specialty: Has mastered 847 different weapon stylesLoyalty: Absolute (sworn through combat oath)Time Served: 112 years, 7 months, 3 daysPersonality: Blunt, honorable, respects strength, despises cowardice
[Seshat - The Record]Level: 364Class: Cosmic Scribe / Knowledge KeeperInk stained her nails like midnight crescent moons—permanent marks from her Unique Skill that let her write with her own essence. She wore robes covered in script that constantly rewrote itself, documenting everything happening around her in real-time. Her hair was black with streaks of gold, styled in elaborate braids. Her eyes were dark brown, but when she used her power, they turned into pools of liquid ink.Unique Skill: [Eternal Record] - Everything she witnesses is perfectly documented and can never be altered or forgottenCombat Role: Intelligence gathering, contract enforcement, historical analysisSpecial: Her records are admissible as evidence in any court, mortal or divineLoyalty: AbsoluteTime Served: 98 years, 5 months, 22 daysPersonality: Quiet, observant, has perfect memory of every conversation
[Mnemosyne - Memory's Keeper]Level: 377Class: Temporal Archivist / Memory MageHer eyes reflected rooms that no longer existed—places destroyed, forgotten, or erased from time. She could see the past overlaid on the present, walking through memories as if they were physical spaces. She wore robes of Temporal Silk (Mythic-tier), which existed in multiple time periods simultaneously. Her hair was silver-blue, and her presence felt like nostalgia made manifest.Unique Skill: [Perfect Recall] - Can access any memory from any location she's visited, even if that location has been destroyedCombat Role: Historical intelligence, temporal magic, memory manipulationSpecial: Can extract memories from objects, places, even corpsesLoyalty: AbsoluteTime Served: 124 years, 9 months, 11 daysPersonality: Melancholic, speaks of past events as if they're happening now, kind but distant
[Brigid - Hearthkeeper]Level: 358Class: Sacred Smith / Home GuardianA warm forge-breath followed her everywhere—the scent of metal and fire and safety. She wore a blacksmith's apron over elegant robes, both enchanted to Legendary-tier. Her hair was flame-red, literally—it moved like fire but didn't burn. Her eyes were amber, warm as hearthlight. She carried a hammer that had forged some of Solomon's most powerful artifacts.Unique Skill: [Eternal Forge] - Can create or repair anything given time and materials, her creations never break unless she wills itCombat Role: Equipment maintenance, enchantment, defensive barriersSpecial: Any home she tends becomes a sanctuary—cannot be breached by hostile forcesLoyalty: AbsoluteTime Served: 107 years, 4 months, 16 daysPersonality: Maternal, warm, but has a temper like molten steel when her people are threatened
[Nyx - The First Night]Level: 392Class: Primordial Shadow / Night HeraldShe wore the first second of night like a shawl—literal darkness from the moment day became night, harvested from the edge of sunset. Her skin was dark as void, her hair was darker still, and her eyes were pinpricks of starlight. When she moved, shadows deepened around her. Light bent to avoid her presence.Unique Skill: [Primordial Darkness] - Controls all shadows, can merge with darkness to become intangible, sees perfectly in any darknessCombat Role: Stealth operations, shadow manipulation, fear tacticsSpecial: In complete darkness, she is effectively invincibleLoyalty: AbsoluteTime Served: 131 years, 8 months, 27 daysPersonality: Silent, speaks rarely, communicates through gestures, unexpectedly gentle
[Tiamat - The Majordomo]Level: 412 (highest overall, counting non-combat abilities)Class: Majordomo of Calamity / Greater DemonAlready present, she stood with tray in hand, bow low, her uniform black-gold-purple aflame with residual rain that evaporated as it touched her. Her horns curved like a crown, her tail moved with serpentine grace, and her wings were folded but present—four of them, massive and terrible when unfurled.Unique Skill: [Perfect Service] - Can anticipate needs before they're spoken, summon items from nowhere, and be in multiple places at onceCombat Role: Support, logistics, emergency combat (extremely dangerous)Special: Has never failed a task Solomon has given herLoyalty: Absolute (Blood Oath, cannot be broken even by death)Time Served: 140 years, 1 month, 7 days (tied with Sophia for longest)Personality: Professional, efficient, proud of her service, genuinely cares for Solomon
Solomon's gaze passed over each face, a silent inventory of oaths and capabilities. His [Absolute Analysis] ran automatically, checking their status, their readiness, their emotional states. All optimal. All prepared.
"Form," he commanded.
The Thirteen shifted—no footsteps, only intent—into a wide circle around him. Their movements were perfectly synchronized, each one taking exactly seven steps to reach their position. Palms extended forward, fingers precisely angled.
[Formation Activated: Thirteen-Point Seal][Type: Mythic-tier binding circle][Power Source: Combined mana of all thirteen members][Total MP Available: 167,340][Effect: Creates absolute authority zone, amplifies Solomon's skills by 1,300%][Range: 500 meters][Duration: Until dismissed]
Lines braided between them: Eve's sigils connected to Hecate's thresholds, which connected to Ariadne's threads, which connected to Seshat's records, which connected to Mnemosyne's memories, and so on around the circle. Ink to wire, wire to light, light to law, law to shadow, shadow to flame, flame to steel, steel to justice, justice to fate, fate to death, death to desire, desire to knowledge, knowledge back to ink.
The circle locked—thirteen to thirteen, a crown laid flat upon the world.
[Thirteen-Point Seal: COMPLETE][Status: All members connected][Amplification: Active][Solomon's effective level: 847 (temporary boost)]
The air pressure changed. The temperature dropped three more degrees. Every magical sensor in a kilometer radius registered the surge of power.
"Atrium migration proceeds at moonrise," Solomon stated, his voice carrying the weight of absolute command. "Our banner: Alexandria. Our posture: ally, not ornament. Our temper…" He let his eyes rest on Lilith, then Morrígan. "…measured."
Lilith's smile sharpened. Morrígan's wings rustled with barely suppressed violence.
The bound Writ-Killer strained against the comma chains, making the sound of paper losing an argument with reality.
Solomon's curious nature wanted to study the thing properly—dissect its construction, understand the magic that let concepts become assassins. But there would be time for that later. Right now, he had a manor to move and enemies to educate.
"Assignments," he continued, his tone crisp as a ledger stroke. Each word clicked into place like pieces on a game board. "Eve—maintain pull on the Tithekeeper's line. I want to know every time they breathe wrong."
Eve nodded once. Her sigils brightened, and Solomon could see—with his analytical eye—the thread of connection extending from her fingertips, through three shell companies, across 1,847 kilometers, directly into the Tithekeeper's personal chambers. The poor bastard was probably feeling a headache right now, not knowing why.
"Lilith—questions they won't want to answer."
"A pleasure," Lilith purred, her eyes lighting up like someone had just promised her a favorite toy. She specialized in interrogation—not through torture, but through desire. She found what people wanted and weaponized it. Solomon had seen her break trained spies in minutes by simply offering them what they secretly craved.
"Sophia—protocol with the Regent. If they forget their courtesy, loan them some of ours."
Sophia's lips twitched—her version of a predatory smile. "With interest," she added quietly. Her [Perfect Ledger] meant she'd remember every slight, every misstep, every obligation the Regent might try to overlook. And she'd collect. Oh, she'd collect.
"Morrígan—disarm the knives they haven't thrown yet."
"A pleasure," Morrígan murmured, echoing Lilith's words but with entirely different inflection. Where Lilith found pleasure in breaking minds, Morrígan found it in preventing violence before it happened. She'd identify every assassin, every trap, every hidden weapon before they could be deployed. And if she found them after deployment? Well. That would be unpleasant for someone.
Solomon continued, moving through the Thirteen with the efficiency of a general deploying troops:
"Hecate—unlock nothing and close everything. I want thresholds obedient."
Hecate's three keys chimed on their ring. She smiled mysteriously. "The paths will remember their manners, my lord." Her [Crossroads Authority] would seal every entrance to the Manor except the ones Solomon explicitly permitted. No more uninvited guests.
"Astraea—hold judgment in abeyance. Weigh every word that crosses this stone."
Astraea's scales glowed with soft golden light. "Truth will be measured," she intoned, her voice carrying divine resonance. Her [Absolute Judgment] would analyze every statement made in the upcoming negotiations, marking lies, half-truths, and deliberate misdirections. No one would deceive Solomon while she listened.
"Ariadne—run a second map beneath the first. Keep me three exits ahead."
Ariadne's threads spooled faster, connecting to invisible points in space. "The paths are already woven, my lord. I see seven routes from here, twelve from there, infinite from everywhere." Her [Infinite Thread] would map escape routes, tactical positions, and optimal paths faster than enemies could think to block them.
"Bellona—drill the wardens. Short swords, long corridors."
Bellona's fist clenched, ritual linen tightening. "They'll be ready to paint the halls if needed." Her [Eternal Warrior] skill made her the perfect combat instructor. The Manor's guards would be trained to lethal efficiency within hours.
"Seshat—record all statements by compulsion. Seal them with their own breath."
Seshat's fingers already dripped ink that wasn't quite liquid, wasn't quite light. "Every word will become evidence," she confirmed. Her [Eternal Record] would document everything said in the upcoming conference. The records would be legally binding, admissible in any court, unalterable even by gods.
"Mnemosyne—wake the house's old roads. Let it remember how it walked when it was young."
Mnemosyne's eyes glazed over, seeing past overlaying present. "The Manor remembers when it crossed the Burning Wastes in a single night. I'll remind it how its legs worked." Her [Perfect Recall] would access the Manor's oldest memories, optimizing its movement patterns.
"Brigid—bank the hearths. A moving home is a jealous god."
Brigid's forge-breath warmed the cold air. "The fires will sleep safely, my lord. No spark will stray." Her [Eternal Forge] controlled all heat sources in the Manor. During movement, fires had to be carefully managed or they'd spread. Brigid would ensure every flame knew its place.
"Nyx—draw the Atrium's shadow thin and lay it over Alexandria before we arrive. I want our silhouette there first."
Nyx bowed without speaking, darkness pooling at her feet. Her [Primordial Darkness] would project the Manor's shadow across 1,847 kilometers, announcing their arrival hours before they physically arrived. Psychological warfare at its finest.
"Done," they answered—not together but perfectly, a chorus of affirmation that felt like reality agreeing with itself.
Solomon turned his head a fraction toward the bound assassin. The Writ-Killer had stopped struggling, realizing perhaps that resistance was futile. Or perhaps it had simply calculated that survival required compliance.
"And you."
The quill-bailiffs angled their points inward. The chains punctuated a warning—literally, as periods and exclamation marks materialized along their lengths.
"You came as a debt," Solomon said, his voice soft as rain under eaves but carrying the weight of absolute certainty. "You will stay as a witness. When the Regent and the Tithekeeper sit, you will recite who put the knife in your hand. Then you will watch what law looks like with a spine."
The thing shuddered, its paper-teeth chattering—a sound like ancient documents being fed through a shredder.
Solomon lifted his palm and the circle brightened. Thirteen lines of power tightened until they sang—a harmonic frequency that resonated with the fundamental laws of magic itself.
[Formation Status: Peak Resonance][Power Output: 234% of baseline][Solomon's Authority: Absolute within range][Effect: All magic within 500 meters subject to his will]
"Oath-form: Alexandrian Descent," he declared formally, his voice carrying the weight of binding declaration. "Seal of Solomon—acknowledge."
[Declaration Magic: Activated][Type: Territorial Oath][Witnesses: 847 (minimum required: 100)][Binding Force: Mythic-tier][Status: PERMANENT (until formally dissolved)][Effect: Manor officially recognizes Alexandria as new allegiance]
Thirteen auras bowed in response—not the women themselves, but the magical presences they projected, the manifestations of their power acknowledging the oath.
A low bell tolled somewhere in the wood of the Manor itself—the building's way of acknowledging a major change in its status. The sound resonated through walls, floors, foundations, rippling out to every room, every corridor, every hidden space.
And somewhere deep in the Manor's bones—far below the visible foundations, in the dimensional spaces where its true mechanisms resided—something massive shifted its weight.
Solomon felt it through his bond with the building. The Manor was preparing to move. Its legs—vast constructs of compressed space and solidified concept—were unfolding from their storage dimensions. Its feet—each one the size of a cathedral—were testing their grip on reality.
[Moving Manor - Movement Preparation][Status: 47% complete][Estimated time to movement capability: 6 hours, 23 minutes][Destination locked: Alexandria][Path calculated: Optimal route (avoids populated areas)][Weather conditions: Checking...][Political clearances: Being arranged...][Manor excitement level: High]
That last one made Solomon's curious nature flare. The Manor had emotions—crude ones, more like instincts than thoughts, but present. It was excited about moving. It had been stationary for forty-seven years, and buildings like this were meant to walk.
He made a mental note to observe the movement process more carefully this time. Last time he'd been too busy with political ramifications to study the actual mechanics. This time, he'd set up recording equipment, take measurements, understand it properly.
"Thirteen," he said, lowering his hand slowly. The circle dimmed but didn't disappear—they'd maintain it at standby power. "Bow to no one but the work."
They inclined their heads—not to him, not to crowns or thrones or gods, but to the shape of what must be done. It was an old oath between them, a reminder that they served the cause, not the man. Solomon had insisted on it when he'd first gathered them. He'd seen too many rulers demand personal loyalty and become tyrants.
"Make ready."
The Thirteen dispersed, each vanishing to their assigned tasks with the efficiency of a well-oiled machine. Eve through a sigil-gate. Lilith through shadow. Sophia through a door that appeared for her convenience. Morrígan as a scatter of ravens. The others through their various methods, each one perfectly suited to their nature.
Only Tiamat remained, still holding her tray, still bowing slightly.
Solomon glanced at her. "Status report. How are the household preparations?"
She straightened, her professionalism absolute. "Kitchens are secured for transport, my lord. All perishables stored in stasis. Servants briefed on movement protocols. Guest quarters prepared for Alexandrian dignitaries. The wine cellar has been reinforced—we lost seventeen bottles last time due to vibration."
Solomon winced slightly. Those had been good bottles. "Excellent. And the library?"
"Master Tobias has personally secured all volumes rated Rare or above. The traveling bookcases are loaded and locked. He asks that you not visit during the move, as the organizational system is 'temporarily chaotic' in his words."
Solomon almost smiled. Tobias, the head librarian, was even more obsessive than Sophia about perfect order. The old man probably considered "temporarily chaotic" to be a personal crisis.
"Noted. And our guests?" He gestured to where the Western Marches delegation was being quietly escorted to waiting rooms by very polite guards with very sharp swords.
"Confined to the diplomatic wing, my lord. Fed, watered, comfortable but monitored. They cannot leave, cannot send messages, cannot access anything beyond their assigned rooms. They are, in essence, very comfortable prisoners."
"Perfect." Solomon turned his attention to the Writ-Killer, still bound by grammar and law. "This one goes to the Evidence Vault. Full containment protocols. I'll want to study it later."
"Of course, my lord." Tiamat gestured, and two of the letter-bailiffs stepped forward to escort the bound assassin away. It made no protest—it was compelled to cooperate now, its contract subverted and commandeered.
As they dragged it away, Solomon's analytical mind was already cataloging questions:
What was the base material used for construction? How was consciousness bound to contract? Could the technique be replicated? What were the theoretical limits? Could it be improved?
His curiosity was both his greatest strength and his occasional weakness. He wanted to understand everything, and sometimes that desire led him down rabbit holes that consumed days.
But not today. Today he had a manor to move, a kingdom to ally with, and enemies to educate about the consequences of sending assassins to his door.
Tiamat cleared her throat delicately. "My lord, if I may—the Regent of Alexandria sent a preliminary message while you were occupied. They're... excited about your arrival. They've prepared the Scholar's Quarter for your use. Seventeen research facilities, full library access, and a 'conversation' with their top theoreticians."
Solomon's heterochromatic eyes lit up. "Theoreticians?"
"According to the message, they've made breakthroughs in dimensional magic and wanted your consultation. Something about..." she consulted the tray, where a small note had appeared, "...folding space more efficiently than current standard methods allow."
His curiosity surged like a tidal wave. Dimensional magic was his specialty. He'd invented six different space-folding techniques himself. The idea that someone else had found a new method was intellectually intoxicating.
"When do they want to meet?"
"Three days after our arrival. They're suggesting informal discussion over dinner, followed by laboratory demonstration."
"Accept. Enthusiastically." Solomon's mind was already racing ahead, thinking about theoretical frameworks, testing methodologies, possible applications. This was why he'd allied with Alexandria. Not just safety, not just political advantage, but knowledge.
"Done, my lord." Tiamat bowed and vanished in her signature violet flame.
Solomon stood alone on the terrace now, rain gone, mist clearing, the first hints of moonlight breaking through clouds.
He walked to the balustrade and looked out over his domain. The Moving Manor stretched below him—thirteen visible floors, forty hidden ones, 1,247 rooms currently configured, countless more possible. Gardens that defied seasons, towers that touched clouds, basements that went deeper than should be physically possible.
His home. His fortress. His laboratory. His legacy.
And in six hours, it would walk.
[Solomon - Personal Status Check]Level: 542Class: Arcane Sovereign / Contract KingUnique Skills: 37 (including [Absolute Analysis], [King's Seal], [Strategic Dominion])MP: 8,240/10,000 (recovering)Status Effects: [Sovereign's Presence], [Analytical Focus], [Curiosity (very high)]Current Concerns: 23Current Excitement: SignificantPlans: 847 (concurrent)
He smiled—a rare expression for him, genuine and unguarded because no one was watching.
The map was moving in their favor.
And Solomon was going to a kingdom that valued knowledge above conquest.
It had been a good day.
Interlude: The Manor Remembers
Deep beneath the visible floors, in spaces that existed sideways to normal reality, the Moving Manor thought.
It wasn't consciousness as humans understood it. More like... architectural instinct. Structural desire. The building knew things without knowing how it knew them.
It knew Solomon. Master. Bond-holder. The one who'd found it abandoned 140 years ago and coaxed it back to life. Before Solomon, it had been dying—unable to walk, forgotten, its magic guttering like a candle in wind.
Solomon had asked—asked, not commanded—if it wanted to live. If it wanted to walk again. If it wanted purpose beyond merely existing.
The Manor had said yes in the only way it could: by opening every door simultaneously and offering itself completely.
Now, 140 years later, it was preparing to walk again. To carry its master to new horizons.
It extended its legs carefully—twelve of them, each one a marvel of compressed space and solidified concept. They unfolded from dimensional pockets, massive beyond imagining, strong enough to carry a castle because they were a castle.
[Moving Manor - Self-Assessment]Age: 2,847 yearsCore Health: 98.3% (excellent for age)Legs: All functionalFeet: Firm and stablePurpose: RenewedMaster: Beloved
It tested each foot against reality, feeling the world beneath it acknowledge its weight. Good. The ground would hold.
It checked its internal systems—water circulation, air flow, mana distribution, defensive wards, emergency protocols. All nominal.
It verified its inhabitants—847 permanent residents, all accounted for, all safe. Good. The Manor protected its people.
It calculated the path to Alexandria—1,847 kilometers, twelve dimensional steps required, optimal route avoiding cities to prevent civilian panic. Good. The Manor was considerate.
It prepared to walk.
And deep in its structural memory, buried in foundation stones older than most kingdoms, it remembered the first time it walked—2,847 years ago, when it was newly built and filled with wonder at the world it could see.
It had walked across continents. Through deserts and forests and mountains and seas. It had seen civilizations rise and fall. It had carried scholars and warriors and dreamers and fools.
And now it would walk again.