The silence had weight.
Kael felt it pressing against the crystalline walls of his tower, where light refracted through countless patterns into colors that existed outside normal perception. He'd spent the last two centuries perfecting this silence—learning to appreciate its constancy, then learning that appreciation felt like drowning in empty air. The tower rose above cloud-cover, above the forests he'd shaped from bare stone, above the rivers he'd carved with thought alone. Everything below thrived without him. Everything always had.
He turned back to the specimen table.
The geode sat where he'd positioned it three hours ago, split perfectly down its center axis to reveal concentric layers of crystalline growth. Amethyst gradients shifted from pale violet at the outer edge to deep purple at the core, and the formation pattern suggested volcanic origin—except the volcanic systems in this region had been dormant for four thousand years. He'd created them that way. The geode shouldn't exist according to any geological model he understood, which made it fascinating.
He moved it two inches left.
Behind him, reality fractured.
Kael didn't turn. The spatial tear announced itself through pressure changes and the distinct ozone smell of interdimensional travel, and only three beings had permanent permission to breach his tower's wards. Two of them wouldn't bother with courtesy warnings. The third always did.
"Father."
Theron's voice carried around, a loud yet deep voice. Kael recognized that tone—he'd heard it before, usually preceding requests he had no interest in fulfilling. He adjusted the geode another fraction of an inch and said nothing.
"Father, the mortal kingdoms are hosting a summit next month. They've requested—"
"No."
"You haven't heard the request."
"Irrelevant." Kael traced the geode's inner structure with one finger, not quite touching the crystal surface. "Mortal politics don't concern me."
"They speak of you often. They call you. The Forsaken Creator." Theron moved closer, his footsteps deliberate against the polished stone floor. "Legends say you saved their realms from the Abyss itself, then vanished before they could offer gratitude."
"They offered pyres, not gratitude."
The words came out flat, absent of the rage that had defined him eight hundred years ago. Time had a way of reducing even justified fury to something closer to mild annoyance, like discovering mold on bread. Disappointing, but hardly surprising. Humans feared what they couldn't control, and he'd never pretended to be controllable.
Theron stopped beside the table. In the periphery of Kael's vision, his son cut an impressive figure—six and a half feet of consecrated armor, the holy sword he had personally created strapped across his back, the bearing of someone who'd earned the title "Heaven's will" . Mortal realms told stories about Theron's legendary campaigns against demonic incursions. They had no idea he'd been created by his will alone, conjured from concept and power by a father who'd wanted company and made children instead.
"That was centuries ago," Theron said. "The current generations weren't even born during the exile. They're curious, not hostile. Some genuinely want to meet you."
"Why?"
"Because you're a myth that walks! Because your children are heroes across a dozen realms" Theron paused. "Because you haven't left this realm in two hundred years, and some of us are concerned."
Kael finally looked up. His son's face showed worry beneath the composure—creased brow, tightness around the eyes, that specific tension in the jaw that meant Theron had been arguing with his siblings again. They did that lately. Argued about him. About whether he was fine or broken or something in between.
"I'm fine," Kael said.
"You've numbered the grass."
"Only in the eastern meadow. The pattern distribution was chaotic."
"Father." Theron's voice gentled. "When was your last conversation? With anyone besides uncle or his friends?"
Kael considered. The question seemed straightforward but felt like a trap. "You're speaking to me now."
"Before today."
"Last month. You asked about the weather."
"That was three words. 'Currently acceptable conditions.' That's not a conversation, that's a status report." Theron pulled out a chair and sat without asking permission, this wasn't a quick visit huh? "Nyx says you've been rearranging the western library. Alphabetically."
"The previous organization was inefficient."
"It was already alphabetical. By author name. You reorganized it by title instead."
"Titles are more relevant to content than authorship."
"Then you reorganized them by publication date."
Kael returned his attention to the geode. This conversation was heading toward conclusions he didn't want to reach, circling some point Theron thought was important but Kael had successfully avoided examining for several decades. Better to let it dissipate through lack of engagement.
Theron didn't dissipate.
"Ariel says you've started cataloging individual stones in the northern quarry," his son continued. "Marking them with numbers. Sixteen thousand stones, Father. You've cataloged sixteen thousand individual rocks for your sake!"
"I was simply making a geological survey that required thorough documentation."
"What survey? You created this realm. You know its exact composition down to the molecular level."
A fair point. Kael had no rebuttal that wouldn't sound like evasion, so he said nothing. The geode sat in its optimal position, light refracting through the crystal in predictable patterns. Beautiful, in its way. Orderly. Requiring nothing from him except observation.
Theron leaned forward, his armor creaking. "When did you last feel anything?"
"I feel things constantly. The temperature variations, air pressure changes, the structural integrity of—"
"You know what I mean."
Kael did know. He'd been expertly avoiding knowing for approximately two centuries, he knew quite well. Feeling things—emotional responses beyond mild annoyance or moderate interest—required exposure to situations that provoked those responses. Situations involving people, typically. People who expected reactions and reciprocation and all the complex social machinery that Kael had never understood even when he'd tried.
Trying had resulted in exile and attempted murder by the very people he'd saved. Not trying resulted in this: perfect silence in a perfect realm he'd built for a population that didn't exist yet.
"The realm is stable," Kael said. "Resources are abundant. Infrastructure is complete. Everything functions according to design parameters."
"And you're alone."
"I have company. My friends visit. You visit."
"We're your children, Father. We don't count as social interaction—we're obligated to tolerate you." Theron smiled slightly, taking the edge off the words. "And your 'friends' are dragons! they are barely more social than you are. Uncle Tatsuya spends his days sleeping on a gold piles and complaining about the taste of modern livestock."
"He has valid complaints about livestock quality."
"He ate a merchant's entire cattle herd last month because one cow looked at him wrong."
"The cow was disrespectful."
Theron laughed—a brief and surprised chuckle, had he cracked a joke? The sound filled the tower's upper chamber for three seconds before fading back into silence, and in its wake Kael felt something shift. Not much. Just enough to notice the absence when quiet returned.
His son's expression sobered. "Come with me to the market district. Just for an afternoon. The capital has excellent….. geological surveys in their academic archives! You'd enjoy examining them."
Kael's immediate instinct was refusal. Markets meant crowds, and crowds meant people, and people meant the exhausting performance of pretending he understood how normal social interaction functioned. But Theron had mentioned a geological survey, which was clear manipulation but also genuinely tempting. He could use a new setting for the far northern plain.
"What market district?" he asked.
"Astral Crossing! Its a neutral city with a multi-species population. Built around a massive academy complex—their archives rival anything from the old world." Theron stood, sensing victory. "Just a visit. Browse the archives, maybe walk through the market. No pressure to interact with anyone."
"Visiting the archives?" Kael tested the phrase. It sounded official, purposeful.
"Exactly. In and out, then you can return to your geodes."
The geode on the table caught light at a new angle, the crystal refracting into a spectrum of fragments that painted the wall in organized color bands. Kael had already examined every measurable aspect of its structure. He'd document his findings later, file the report in his personal archives where no one would ever read it, and then find another specimen to obsess over.
"Fine," Kael said. "One afternoon"
Theron's smile suggested this had been easier than anticipated, which meant Kael had missed something. But his son was already moving toward the spatial tear that would return him to whatever realm he currently called home, and the conversation was clearly finished.
"Next week," Theron called back. "I'll arrange everything. Just show up at these coordinates—" He rattled off some words "—and try not to teleport away the moment someone speaks to you."
Then he was gone, reality sealing behind him with a soft vacuum pop.
Kael stood in renewed silence, studying the geode.
Terrible decision, clearly. He should retract the agreement, send Theron a message explaining that the pain wasn't worth the cost.
Instead he adjusted the geode one final time and descended the tower stairs toward the libraries.
Elsewhere, in a pocket dimension accessible only to those with Kael's bloodline:
Seven figures materialized around a circular table made of condensed starlight. Some wore armor, others robes, one appeared to be covered in shadows that moved independently of ambient light and one well…. Rather be unsaid. All shared certain features—the same impossible eye color that shifted between silver and violet, the same sharp bone structure, and underlying presence.
They were Kael's children, created across eight centuries of lonely experimentation with life, and they were staging an intervention.
"Report," said Nyx, the shadow-wrapped one. She'd been a legendary assassin in three different realms under four different names, and she ran meetings just as efficiently.
Theron materialized into an empty chair. "He agreed to visit Astral Crossing."
Collective surprise rippled through the assembly.
"That easily?" asked Ariel, who'd built a reputation as the Iron Saint of the Northern Reaches through her brilliance and a complete inability to lose battles. "He usually requires at least three requests before considering movement."
"I mentioned the archives."
"Clever." Nyx tapped the table with one shadow-wrapped finger. "Estimated time before he realizes it's a trap?"
"He won't realize. Father doesn't think in terms of manipulation—he took my explanation at face value."
"Because he trusts you," said another. "Which makes this feel somewhat unethical."
"Letting him sort rocks alone for another century is unethical," Nyx countered. "He's the most powerful being in all the twelve realms, and he spends his time numbering grass. That's not healthy."
"Father doesn't do 'healthy,' he does 'functional,'" Theron said. "And his functionality is degrading. When I arrived today, he'd been staring at a geode for three hours. Just... staring. Not studying, not analyzing. Staring."
Silence greeted this pronouncement.
"How bad is it?" asked Ariel quietly.
"He didn't notice I'd entered until I spoke. His wards are specifically designed to announce visitors—he gets sensory alerts the moment someone crosses the boundary. He was so lost in his own head he missed the alarm entirely."
"Damn." Yuan leaned back, his expression troubled. "That's worse than I thought."
"Which is why we're proceeding with the operation." Nyx waved one hand, and illusory images appeared above the table—dossiers on various individuals, charts, probability matrices. "Phase One: Get Father into a social situations. Phase Two: Position the eligible partners where he'll encounter them naturally. Phase Three: Observe and adapt based on his complete inability"
"You make it sound military," Theron said.
"It is military. We're staging a coordinated campaign against Father's eight-hundred-year isolation streak and his catastrophic social skills. This requires planning." Nyx pulled up a three-dimensional map of Astral Crossing, highlighting specific locations. "The market district has optimal traffic flow for chance encounters. We'll position the candidates near areas matching Father's interests"
"Candidates." Piplio sounded dubious. "You mean women."
"Obviously women. Father is heterosexual and functionally immortal—we need partners who can match his lifespan and won't be intimidated by his power." Nyx cycled through several profiles. "I've identified four strong possibilities across three species. All accomplished in their fields, all emotionally stable, all capable of handling Father's unique personality deficits."
"You're matchmaking," Ariel said. "This feels like matchmaking."
"This is a survival intervention.There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Yes. Matchmaking is optional. Father will die alone in a tower surrounded by numbered rocks if we don't intervene, which makes this mandatory."
Theron studied the profiles floating above the table. "These are real people, not tools. What if they're not interested?"
"Then we move to the next candidate. But I've done my research—all four have expressed curiosity about the legendary Exiled God. They'd at least be willing to meet him."
"And when Father inevitably says something catastrophically awkward and drives them away?"
"Then we position the next candidate and try again." Nyx dismissed the illusory displays with a sharp gesture. "We're immortal, and Father has infinite time to fail. Eventually, probability favors success."
"That's depressing," Marcus observed.
"That's realistic.This will take time."
"What's Phase Four?" asked Seraphine.
"Phase Four is getting Father to actually recognize he's attracted to someone, which might take decades. We're not planning that far ahead."
"Comforting."
Nyx smiled, though shadows obscured whether the expression held genuine humor. "We've successfully prevented apocalypses, overthrown kingdoms and governments, and defended realms against demonic incursions. How hard can one awkward father be?"
The assembled children exchanged glances,
"Next week," Theron said. "He'll be at Astral Crossing. I'll guide him to the archives, make sure he actually enters the market district, and we'll proceed from there."
"Agreed." Nyx stood, shadows pooling around her feet. "Try to prevent him from teleporting away the moment someone makes eye contact."
"I'll do my best."
"Your best resulted in Father reorganizing that damn library again for three months after you suggested he needed hobbies."
"That was different. I didn't specify which hobbies."
"Perhaps specify this time." Ariel rose as well "And for the love of all powers—don't let him bring documentation. He'll try to hand out surveys instead of having conversations."
"Noted."
One by one, the children departed through various portals and spatial tears, returning to their respective realms and responsibilities. Within minutes, the pocket dimension stood empty except for the slowly dissipating starlight table and the lingering sense that something significant had been set in motion.
Operation Get Father Laid had officially begun.
No one had high expectations for immediate success.