The hotel was enormous.

Not enormous in the way that rich people's houses were enormous, where they had more rooms than they knew what to do with. Enormous in the way that entire city blocks were enormous. The kind of enormous that made you crane your neck back and wonder if the architect had been personally offended by the concept of reasonable proportions.

"That's not a hotel," Sam said, staring up at the building that stretched away in both directions like a particularly ambitious wall. "That's a small city that someone decided to put a roof on."

The Celestial Gardens Resort—according to the brass plaque embedded in what appeared to be a decorative fountain but was probably just the lobby's waiting area—rose twelve stories into the Olden night sky and sprawled across enough ground to house a medium-sized town. Balconies jutted out at irregular intervals, connected by bridges and walkways that suggested the designers had given up on traditional concepts like "structural logic" somewhere around the third floor.

"How many people do you think this place holds?" Sam asked.

Adom was trying to count windows and getting distracted by the sheer impossibility of the engineering. "Few thousand, maybe?"

"And they built this for what, the two weeks every few years when tournaments happen?"

"Eternal summer," Adom said. "People probably vacation here year-round. But yeah, this is definitely tournament infrastructure."

The crowd streaming in and out of the main entrance supported that theory. These weren't the usual mix of wealthy tourists and business travelers you'd expect at a resort. These were people wearing team colors, carrying banners, shouting at each other in languages Adom didn't recognize, and generally behaving like they'd traveled halfway across the world to watch other people play a sport.

Which, apparently, they had.

A group of what appeared to be Northhaven supporters brushed past them, all wearing identical blue and silver scarves despite the warm evening air. One of them was carrying a banner that read "STORM RIDERS OR DIE" in letters large enough to be seen from orbit.

"Bit intense," Sam observed.

"Wait until you see what happens when they actually play," Adom said.

They'd barely made it twenty feet toward the entrance when a commotion broke out near the fountain. Two groups had apparently decided that this particular patch of decorative stonework was the ideal location to settle some sort of philosophical disagreement about team rankings.

"—completely delusional if you think Silvermere has any chance against Drakmoor in the quarterfinals!"

"Are you kidding me? Did you see what happened in the regionals? Drakmoor couldn't score against a team of sleeping children!"

The argument was being conducted in Sundarian Common, but with accents thick enough to cut with a knife. One group wore green and gold, the other wore black and red, and both groups seemed convinced that volume was the key to persuasive debate.

A centaur in a staff uniform trotted over to break up the discussion before it escalated into anything involving actual violence. That was interesting—in most places, you'd see a centaur maybe once a month, usually working as a courier or guard. Here, they seemed to be part of the regular hospitality staff.

"Tournament brings everyone out," Adom said.

Sam was staring at a family of what appeared to be dwarves arguing with a human desk clerk about room assignments. The conversation involved a lot of gesturing and what sounded like three different languages, none of which seemed to be helping anyone understand anything.

"Is it always like this?"

"I think this is what happens when you get people from everywhere coming to the same place for the same reason," Adom said. "Usually these groups never meet each other."

They picked their way through the crowd toward the main desk. The lobby was designed to handle large numbers of people, but it still felt chaotic. Groups clustered around posting boards, presumably checking match schedules. A traveling merchant had set up an impromptu stall near one of the pillars and was selling what appeared to be team pennants to anyone willing to pay. Someone was playing a stringed instrument near the far wall, probably hoping for tips.

"Excuse me!" called a voice behind them.

They turned to see a young woman jogging to catch up. She was human, probably mid-twenties, with the kind of aggressively cheerful expression that suggested she worked in hospitality and hadn't been beaten down by it yet.

"Are you here for the tournament?" she asked breathlessly.

"We're looking for the competitor housing," Adom said showing his papers.

"Oh, perfect! You're Team Xerkes, right?" She consulted a list on a wooden clipboard. "Adom Sylla and Samme..." she squinted. "Samue-no, sorry, sa–"

"Sam works," Sam said.

"Wonderful! I'm Mira, I'll be your liaison during your stay." She gestured toward a different entrance, one that wasn't quite as mobbed with arguing sports fans. "Competitor accommodations are through here. Much quieter, I promise."

As they followed her toward the side entrance, Adom caught sight of more groups arriving. A family of halflings, all wearing matching yellow shirts and looking slightly overwhelmed by the noise. A lone elf in traveling robes, carrying what appeared to be a very expensive-looking scrying crystal. Three humans in identical black uniforms who might have been from the eastern kingdoms, based on the style of their clothing.

And everywhere, the colors. Team banners, scarves, painted faces, elaborate hats. It was like someone had taken every kingdom in the known world, shaken them up, and dumped the contents into one hotel lobby.

"First time at an international tournament?" Mira asked, noticing their expressions.

"Yeah," Sam said. "This is..."

"Overwhelming?" she suggested cheerfully. "Most people say that. Don't worry, you get used to it. Well, sort of. Actually, no, you don't really get used to it. But you stop being quite so shocked by it."

Through the competitor entrance, the atmosphere changed immediately. Still busy, but busy in a more organized way. Athletes from various teams moved through hallways with purpose instead of wandering around looking for someone to argue with about rankings. Staff members wore different colored badges—competitor services, apparently.

"Your rooms are on the seventh floor," Mira explained as they walked. "Standard competitor double, meal service included, practice facility access, the usual."

"Practice facilities?" Sam asked.

"Three full Krozball pitches, plus training equipment. Indoor, so weather isn't a factor. Not that weather is ever really a factor here, but still." She consulted her clipboard again. "You're scheduled for pitch time tomorrow afternoon. Team Xerkes, right? Your other members aren't here yet?"

"They're arriving separately," Adom said.

"No problem, happens all the time. Different travel arrangements, family obligations, that sort of thing." She led them to what appeared to be a service lift operated by a pulley system. "Up we go."

As the lift rose through the building, Adom caught glimpses of other floors through the brass grating. More competitors, more staff, more organized chaos. It was remarkable how they'd managed to turn what was essentially a small city into something that functioned as a hotel.

"Question," Sam said to Mira. "How many people are staying here right now?"

"During tournament season? About four thousand. Maybe four and a half." She said this like it was completely normal. "Most of the competitor teams, plus family members, plus support staff, plus media coverage, plus the really dedicated fans who can afford the room rates."

"Media coverage?"

"Oh yes, this is huge. Scribes from every major kingdom, plus travelling birds for the people back home. Krozball is..." She paused, apparently trying to find the right words. "Well, it's the only thing everyone cares about equally."

What a shame, Adom thought.

He had wanted more for this tournament—so much more. The idea had struck him weeks ago: a new kind of comm crystal, not just for private links, but something that could carry a speaker’s voice across entire nations. A crystal attuned to a central broadcasting array, where commentators could speak, and anyone tuned in—anywhere—could listen. Like a public story-stone, but alive, immediate.

And beyond that... a different kind of scrying crystal altogether. Flat. Square. Like a window set in stone or wood. One that could show the match in motion—sight and sound, together. As though the viewer were there, watching it unfold with their own eyes.

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He had remembered things. Ideas from his past life, fragments he didn’t talk about. The concepts were clear in his mind, but the craft here wasn’t ready. Not yet.

But Wangara wasn’t ready. Cass had told him as much, gently but firmly. They were still stabilizing operations after expanding to two new provinces, and already juggling too many projects. “Another time,” she had said.

Another time, then, he thought to himself now, jaw tight. Still, it stung.

He hadn’t even wanted it for the money. Not really. It was the joy of it—the idea of someone in a quiet village miles from here, eyes wide with wonder as they watched the Krozball finals with the same clarity and excitement as those in the stands. The technology had been primarly used for warfare in his previous life, and so, perhaps it could have served a different purpose in this one.

The lift stopped at the seventh floor with a soft bump.

"Here we are," Mira said, opening the gate. "Your rooms should be down this hallway, numbers 734 and 735. Connected, so you can visit back and forth without going into the hall."

The hallway was quieter than the lobby, but you could still hear the distant sounds of the tournament crowd filtering up from below. Voices, music, the occasional cheer or groan that suggested someone was following match updates from previous rounds.

"One more thing," Mira said as they reached their doors. "Meals are served in the competitor dining hall—that's down on the second floor, through the main corridor and left at the banner that says 'Team Services.' Breakfast starts at dawn, runs until mid-morning. Lunch and dinner are more flexible, but the kitchens close at midnight."

She handed them each a room key—actual metal keys, not the magical locks some of the fancier places used.

"Any questions?"

"Yeah," Adom said. "What time do the arguing crowds usually go to sleep?"

Mira laughed. "Oh, they don't really. Someone's always arriving, someone's always leaving, someone's always got an opinion about team rankings that needs to be shared immediately. You'll get used to it."

"Or we'll go insane," Sam muttered.

"That happens too," Mira said cheerfully. "Sleep well!"

As she headed back toward the lift, Adom and Sam stood in the hallway for a moment, listening to the distant sounds of four thousand people who'd traveled from across the world to watch their teams play Krozball.

"You know what's weird?" Sam said, fitting his key into the lock.

"What?"

"Back home, people argue about everything. Politics, trade policies, who's supposed to fix the roads, whether the local lord is an idiot." He paused. "But down there, they're all just arguing about sports."

Adom nodded. It was true. In the lobby, he'd seen people from kingdoms that were probably on the verge of war with each other, and they'd been debating match predictions instead of border disputes.

"Makes you wonder what the world would be like if this happened more often," Sam said.

Through their doors, they could hear the muffled sounds of the tournament crowd below, already settling in for what was probably going to be a very long night of enthusiastic sports discussion.

Adom smiled. Despite everything—despite Thessarian, despite the timeline changes, despite all the things that could go wrong—this felt right. Like maybe, just maybe, some things were worth preserving exactly as they were.

"Come on," he said, opening his door. "Let's see what four-thousand-person hotel rooms look like."

*****

Adom stepped into his room and only then noticed the silence on his shoulder.

He looked down to find Zuni curled into a tiny ball of blue-tinted quills, fast asleep against his neck. The little quillick was breathing in soft, barely audible puffs, completely oblivious to their arrival.

"Been a long day, hasn't it?" Adom murmured, carefully avoiding any sudden movements that might wake his sleeping passenger.

The room itself was surprisingly dark—just enough light from the hallway to make out basic shapes. Somber, even. Which seemed odd for a place that was supposed to be luxurious competitor accommodations.

Then he spotted the glowing rune embedded in the wall near the door.

It was about the size of his palm, carved into what looked like polished stone and giving off a soft, inviting light. Adom pressed his hand against it, not channeling any mana, just making contact.

The room exploded into warm, golden illumination.

"Whoa."

This wasn't a hotel room. This was what happened when someone decided that hotel rooms were insufficiently impressive and needed to be completely reimagined by people with more money than sense.

The space was enormous—easily three times the size of his dorm room back at Xerkes, and his dorm room wasn't small. The bed looked like it could comfortably sleep four people, with posts carved from some kind of dark wood and curtains that probably cost more than most people made in a year. The floor was covered in rugs that were so thick his boots sank into them like he was walking on clouds.

There was a sitting area with chairs that looked hand-crafted by artisans who took their work very seriously. A writing desk made from wood so polished it reflected the light runes embedded in the ceiling. Windows that stretched nearly floor to ceiling, currently showing the night sky over Olden and the lights of the tournament crowd below.

And was that... yes, that was a private washroom. With what appeared to be a bathing tub large enough to swim in.

The Coach had mentioned that Xerkes would treat the team like VIPs if they managed to qualify for the tournament. Something about the academy wanting to make a good impression after thirteen years of qualification failures.

They weren't joking.

Adom carefully lifted Zuni from his shoulder and placed him on one of the pillows, where the quillick immediately burrowed deeper into sleep without even opening his eyes.

"Sleep well," Adom said quietly.

He made his way to the washroom, which turned out to be even more ridiculous than it had appeared from the main room. The bathing tub was carved from a single piece of what looked like marble, with runes embedded along the rim that probably controlled water temperature. There were soaps and oils arranged on shelves like someone had raided an expensive apothecary. Towels so thick and soft they felt like fabric clouds.

The mirror above the washing basin was larger than some windows, and when Adom caught sight of his reflection, he realized he looked exactly like someone who'd spent three days on a ship followed by several hours wandering through crowded port districts. His hair was doing something that could generously be called "creative," and there was salt residue on his clothes from the sea air.

Twenty minutes later, he emerged from the washroom feeling considerably more human and significantly cleaner. His hair was back under control, his face no longer felt like it was covered in a thin layer of maritime grime, and he'd discovered that the academy had apparently packed him soap that smelled like pine forests instead of the usual harsh stuff they used in the dorm washrooms.

Zuni was still sleeping peacefully, now sprawled across two pillows like he owned the place.

Adom was heading toward his travel pack to find something to wear to bed when he noticed a compartment built into the wall near the sitting area. It was marked with a small rune that looked like a snowflake, and when he opened it, cool air wafted out.

Inside was what appeared to be a carefully curated selection of snacks and drinks, all kept perfectly chilled by the frost rune embedded in the back wall.

There were chocolate squares wrapped in elegant paper. Small bottles of fruit juice in flavors he didn't recognize but that sounded exotic and expensive. Nuts that had been candied with something that made them glisten (He looked back to make sure Zuni did not see that).

Even the water had been infused with something that made it taste like mountain springs.

Adom selected a piece of chocolate and one of the fruit juices—something that claimed to be "essence of tropical sunset".

The chocolate was incredible. Rich and complex. The juice was cold and sweet to perfection.

He settled into one of the impossibly comfortable chairs and

something crinkled under his elbow. A folded newspaper had been placed on the side table, probably part of the room's amenities.

The masthead read "Continental Daily" in bold letters, with today's date printed underneath. Adom unfolded it, curious to see what counted as news in a tournament city.

The headline made him sit up straighter.

VETHIA AUTHORITIES CONTINUE SEARCH FOR CHAOS PERPETRATORS

Woman, Fallen Star, and Two Brothers Still At Large - Reward Increased to 10,000 Gold

Adom scanned the article quickly. Descriptions of a "dangerous masked woman with unknown magical abilities," the "gladiator known as the Fallen Star," and "two brothers, both suspected of conspiracy against the state." The authorities were calling them "extremely dangerous" and "enemies of public order."

The descriptions were vague enough to be useless, but specific enough to suggest the authorities actually knew who they were looking for.

Adom frowned.

Cass had mentioned expanding trade routes into Vethia, which meant there were probably Wangara merchants and employees in the city when whatever this "chaos" was had happened. The newspaper made it sound like a significant incident, the kind that would have disrupted normal business operations.

He made a mental note to ask about it in his next communication with home.

The rest of the newspaper was the usual mix of tournament coverage, trade reports, and political maneuvering between kingdoms. Nothing that seemed immediately relevant to his situation.

Since he wasn't particularly tired—the excitement of arriving somewhere new had apparently overridden his body's suggestions about sleep—Adom reached into his inventory and pulled out the grimoire of Law.

The pages were still blank. Empty parchment staring back at him, as if waiting for something he couldn't provide.

What had Law wanted him to know? And what was this magic?

The inconsistency that had been bothering him for months felt even more pronounced now that he had time to think about it properly. No matter how he turned it over in his head, no matter what Orynth and the other mages had told him in the cave, there were too many things that simply didn't make sense.

The magic found in the cave was quite simply too advanced. Far too advanced to have been created by ancient mages, no matter how skilled they'd been. And none of it had leaked. Not even once. Not a single historical record mentioned techniques that sophisticated, despite the fact that magical knowledge had a way of spreading whether people wanted it to or not.

The golems were still there, and Adom had spent hours studying them after his initial discovery. The runes carved into their frames were definitely ancient—he could tell that much from the style and the way the magical energy flowed through them. But they were also cleverly done in ways that wouldn't be developed for another twenty to thirty years, based on his knowledge of magical advancement.

There were no historical records of the golden era of magic—around Orynth's time—being anywhere near that advanced. And if Orynth's era couldn't have produced magic that sophisticated, then Law was completely out of the question. Law had lived a thousand years before Orynth, who had been two thousand years before Adom's time.

The timeline didn't work. The progression of magical knowledge didn't work. The complete absence of any record or remnant of such advanced techniques didn't work.

This was exactly why he'd decided to go to the Giant Highlands, regardless of the other reasons. No matter what else happened, he needed to see those ruins for himself, to ask giants and try to fill in the gaps. Even if it was just for scientific curiosity at this point.

Someone, somewhere, had developed magical techniques that were centuries ahead of their time, and somehow managed to keep them completely secret for three thousand years. That shouldn't have been possible.

But the evidence was sitting right there in his hands, in the form of a grimoire that contained knowledge he couldn't access and magic he couldn't understand.

Adom stared at the blank pages for a while longer, hoping something would suddenly appear or that he'd have some kind of breakthrough insight.

Nothing happened. The pages remained stubbornly empty.

He was still holding the grimoire, still puzzling over the inconsistencies in magical history, when his eyes began to feel heavy. The comfortable chair, the warm room, the gentle sounds of the tournament crowd filtering up from below—it all combined to create the kind of atmosphere that made staying awake feel like more effort than it was worth.

The last thing he remembered was thinking that he should probably move to the bed before he fell asleep in the chair.

Then the grimoire slipped from his hands, and consciousness slipped away with it.