He had managed perhaps four hours of actual rest, but his enhanced Vitality made that sufficient. The exhaustion that would have plagued his old self simply didn't materialize. One of many small benefits of transcending mortal limitations.
After a quick cleanup in the modest bathroom attached to his quarters, he noted with approval that someone had stocked it with actual soap and proper towels rather than the rough substitutes that had been common in Bastion's early days. Moyo emerged to find a neatly folded set of robes outside his door.
The garments were clearly custom made, sized for his transformed frame rather than his previous dimensions. A smile tugged at his lips as he admired the thoughtful gesture. Someone, probably Martha or one of her many agents, had measured him during his hibernation and arranged for appropriate clothing.
The robe was primarily black, practical and understated, but featured purple trimmings that caught the light when he moved. The color choice was deliberate, matching the purple-black of Ida and marking him as the Titan Blade even without explicit insignia.
Standing guard outside his door were two large, imposing ascenders who snapped to rigid attention the moment he appeared. They were clearly cut from the same cloth as Josh—warriors who favored overwhelming strength and endurance over speed or finesse. Their steel hammers strapped across their backs confirmed the connection.
"Who might you two be?" Moyo asked, raising an eyebrow at their rigid postures. He kept his tone light, not wanting to make them more nervous than they already appeared.
"Sentinels sent by Lord Sentinel Joshua, sir!" one of them replied, their tone flat but respectful, clearly rehearsed. "We've been assigned to your personal guard detail!"
Moyo's eyes drifted to the steel hammers strapped across their backs, weapons that looked like they weighed more than some full-grown men. The craftsmanship was excellent, suggesting Boyle's hand in their creation.
"Right," he drawled, still trying to process their presence and what it meant. "And your job is to...?"
"To protect you, my lord," the other sentinel answered carefully, as though unsure how their response would be received. They were both peak Acolytes if his assessment was correct, strong by any normal standard, but nowhere near his own capabilities.
The absurdity of the situation struck him. Two warriors assigned to protect a man who had just pushed two attributes past 1,000, who had defeated a pre-ascended dragon, who was functionally immune to attacks from anyone below level 150. What exactly were they supposed to protect him from?
But he recognized the gesture for what it was—Josh's way of showing respect and ensuring proper protocol was observed. Leaders of Moyo's stature were supposed to have guards, regardless of whether they actually needed protection. It was about appearances and the chain of command as much as security.
"Fine," Moyo said with a sigh, not wanting to make an issue of it. "Thank you for your service. As you were."
The sentinels beamed with pride at the acknowledgment, their postures somehow becoming even more rigidly perfect. Moyo closed the door behind him before they could offer to escort him wherever he was going.
He donned the black robe with its purple trimmings, pairing it with surprisingly well-made thick jeans that someone had thoughtfully provided. The combination of traditional and modern clothing felt appropriate somehow, acknowledging both where he came from and what he had become.
As he stood at his window staring out at the vast expanse of Bastion spreading in all directions, the city waking up as its citizens began their daily routines, he made a decision. He needed space, needed to move, needed to feel the world beneath his feet rather than trapped in rooms, no matter how well appointed.
With one fluid motion, trusting his enhanced body's capabilities, he vaulted off the balcony. The fall was easily a hundred feet, a height that would have killed his old self instantly. He landed lightly on the ground far below, his reinforced body absorbing the impact without strain, barely making a sound despite his increased weight.
A second later, he activated Titan Walk, willing himself past the capital and the inner sanctum's walls. Space collapsed around him, distance becoming meaningless as the skill responded to his intent. Another step brought him to the towering walls that marked Bastion's fortified perimeter, and a third placed him at the edge of the green zone, overlooking the chaotic yellow zone where monsters roamed freely, and dungeons spawned with dangerous regularity.
Ida materialized in his hand without conscious thought, responding to his will as naturally as flexing a muscle. The blade gleamed in the twin suns' light as he surveyed the zone before him, its surface teeming with dungeon gates that pulsed with ominous energy.
From this vantage point, he could see why the yellow zones remained largely unchallenged. The sheer density of threats was staggering, aberrants moving in packs large enough to overwhelm all but the most powerful or numerous parties.
"Scary, isn't it?" a voice came from behind him, familiar and amused.
Moyo turned without surprise to see Martha standing there, clad in thick furs appropriate for the morning chill and holding a steaming cup of what looked and smelled like tea. Her appearance was perfectly timed, suggesting she had been tracking his movements through her web.
"Not to me," he replied with a shrug, prompting a soft chuckle from Martha.
"Of course not. To you, it probably looks like a challenging training ground rather than a death sentence." She sipped her tea, studying him with those ancient eyes that saw too much. "And who are the ascenders behind you, thinking they're invisible?"
The question made Moyo pause. He extended his enhanced senses, combining Aether Sight with simple spatial awareness. There—two presences approximately thirty feet behind him, concealed by some form of stealth technique that would have been invisible to his old perception. But his transformed senses could detect the subtle distortions they created, the way aether flowed around them rather than through the empty space they pretended to occupy.
"Impressive," Martha said with genuine approval. "I wanted to see if you'd notice them. Most advocates would have walked right past without sensing anything amiss."
With a snap of her fingers that carried more theatrical flair than actual necessity, the shroud concealing the two figures dissolved like morning mist. They knelt immediately, heads bowed in respect, their forms clad in dark clothing that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it.
Their faces were hidden by blank masks, smooth surfaces broken only by narrow slits for eyes. The masks were unsettling in their featurelessness, removing all trace of individual identity and leaving only perfect anonymity.
"My lord," Martha began, her tone formal in ways she rarely employed, "meet the first and second fingers of the Hands of Anansi, or as those in the know call them, the Spiders."
Moyo examined the duo more carefully, using Aether Sight to analyze their capabilities. Both were peak Initiates, level 50 at best estimate, their power focused heavily in stealth and precision rather than raw strength. They carried no visible weapons, but he could sense concealed blades and tools distributed across their bodies.
He turned back to Martha, his expression demanding an explanation for why she had covert operatives and why he was only learning about them now.
"Following your victory against the necromancer and that other entity," Martha explained, reading his look accurately, "the leaders of Bastion, including myself, received rewards as your loyal subordinates. The system acknowledged our contributions to your success and granted us various boons."
Moyo accepted the cup she offered him, the tea warm against his palms despite morning air that should have made it cool quickly. Martha's webs probably included temperature maintenance among their many properties.
"Our paths have been elevated to titles," she continued, watching his face for reactions. "Sobriquets, if you will, that we can bestow upon those loyal to us. These individuals, by extension, become loyal to you. They gain some benefits of our respective paths while retaining their original abilities and autonomy."
"So they're Webweavers like you?" Moyo asked, trying to understand the mechanics of this new system. He sipped the tea, finding it excellent despite his general indifference to such things.
Martha shook her head. "Not exactly. They don't possess the core of my abilities, the true depth of web manipulation and fate sense that define my path. But they can remain undetected by most conventional and even many advanced sensing methods, and they can utilize webs that can cut through steel like silk if they choose to weaponize them."
The implications settled over Moyo like a cold blanket.
"Assassins," he said grimly, his tone betraying distaste for the entire concept. His path had always been direct confrontation, meeting enemies face to face rather than striking from the shadows.
Martha inclined her head, acknowledging the characterization without shame. She paused before responding, letting him process. "Do you know how many rebellions and coup plots I've had to put down since Bastion evolved from a simple town into this sprawling city-state?"
Moyo frowned, the question catching him off guard. "Why would anyone rebel? We're giving them protection, resources, and freedom to grow and build lives. What more could they want?"
"Power," Martha said simply. "Influence. Control over their own destinies without having to answer to you or me or any other authority. To your kind and protective mind, it makes no sense. You see Bastion as a shelter, a community working together for mutual survival. Others see it as an opportunity for advancement, a structure they could control if they eliminated the current leadership."
She gestured broadly at the city behind them. "Twelve rebellions to be exact, not including attempts by spies from other factions to gather intelligence or sabotage our infrastructure. Some were ideological, people who genuinely believed they could lead better. Others were purely mercenary, hired by external powers to destabilize us from within. Each one needed to be identified, neutralized, and resolved before they could do significant damage."
"It's been a full-time job," Martha continued, her expression tired in ways he rarely saw from her. "And a necessary one, though I take no joy in it. I've had to make decisions that keep me awake at night, choices about who lives and who dies based on threat assessment and probability calculations. It's the work you built Bastion to avoid, but someone has to do it."
"I don't like the idea of spying on our people," Moyo said, his expression dark with genuine anger.
The thought of watching citizens who had come to Bastion for refuge, monitoring them for signs of disloyalty, went against everything he believed about trust and community.
"Nor do I," Martha replied softly, meeting his gaze directly. "I hate it, if you want the truth. Every surveillance web I weave feels like a violation. Every report of suspicious activity makes me question whether we're becoming the oppressive force we fought against. But if we are to protect what Bastion has become, we need precautions."
She reached out, placing one weathered hand on his arm. "I understand your fears, Moyo. I share them. And I promise you this: I will not become the thing you fear most. I will not transform Bastion into a surveillance state where everyone lives in terror of invisible watchers. My Spiders exist to identify external threats and genuine conspiracies, not to enforce thought crime or punish dissent. You have my word, and you know how seriously I take oaths."
Moyo nodded, still uneasy but trusting Martha's judgment and character. She had proven herself too many times for him to doubt her now. If she said the Spiders were necessary, he would accept that assessment even if he didn't like it.
"What's this about a sample?" he asked, changing the subject before his discomfort could fester into argument.
At Martha's signal, delivered through a subtle hand gesture, the Spiders moved with eerie synchronization. They produced a bound man from concealment. Moyo hadn't noticed—space warping slightly as they pulled him from whatever pocket dimension they had stored him in.
The prisoner was thoroughly restrained, his body encased in thick webs that resembled steel cable more than silk. The bindings appeared uncomfortable but not actively harmful, designed to immobilize without damaging. His mouth was gagged, preventing speech but allowing breathing.
"This is Mr. Assad," Martha began, her tone calm and clinical as she regarded the prisoner. "A self-styled merchant dealing in spices and fabrics, someone who slowly became successful in Bastion's markets over the past several months."
Assad stared at Moyo with eyes that showed terror so profound it had moved past panic into numb acceptance. He recognized the Titan Blade, understood that his fate was likely already sealed.
"But we've discovered through careful investigation," Martha continued, "that he's been communicating with the Union through coded messages hidden in his business correspondence. Paid handsomely in Syndicate credits to smuggle infiltrators into Bastion and sow chaos within our borders. He's been operating as their agent for at least three months before we identified him."
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
She produced a scroll, evidence presumably, and offered it to Moyo. "We have documentation of at least seven infiltrators he helped enter the city, plus communications about planned sabotage of our water supply and food stores. He's not just a spy, he's actively working to undermine Bastion's stability."
Moyo crouched before the trembling man, studying him with eyes that could now perceive far more than simple physical appearance. He could see Assad's aether core, weak and underdeveloped despite months in Bastion. The man was barely Fledgling rank, relying on cunning rather than power.
"Can you contact your people?" Moyo asked, his voice level and devoid of anger. Simple question requiring a simple answer.
Assad nodded frantically, eager to demonstrate usefulness that might save his life.
"Good," Moyo said, standing to his full height and letting Assad feel the weight of his presence. The prisoner shrank back, suddenly understanding exactly how outmatched he was. "And the infiltrators he smuggled in?"
"Rounded up and in custody," Martha answered promptly. "My Spiders identified them within hours of discovering Assad's communications. They're being held in secure facilities, awaiting your judgment."
"Send them back," Moyo said firmly, the decision coming easily despite its unexpected nature. "All of them, including Mr. Assad, once a meeting has been arranged. I want to speak directly to whoever runs this Union, and the other powers, if possible. Face to face, no intermediaries."
"You'd really set them free?" Martha asked, surprise evident in her tone despite her usual control. She had clearly expected harsher judgment.
"They get one chance," Moyo replied, meeting her eyes so she understood this was considered policy, not momentary mercy.
"One opportunity to understand that Bastion is not their enemy and that attempts to undermine us will be met with overwhelming response if they persist. Send them back with the message that I'm willing to talk, willing to find common ground, but completely unwilling to tolerate further sabotage."
He turned back to Assad, whose terror had morphed into confused hope.
"You will deliver my message exactly as instructed. You will arrange a meeting between myself and Union leadership. And then you will leave Bastion and never return. If I see you again, if I hear you've tried anything similar against us, there will be no mercy. Do you understand?"
Assad nodded so vigorously it looked painful, tears streaming down his face in relief at unexpected clemency.
"If they try this again," Moyo continued, now addressing Martha, "if they send more spies or attempt more sabotage after this warning, I'll deal with them personally. They need to understand that Bastion's strength isn't just our walls and our warriors. It's our willingness to respond with appropriate force when threatened."
Martha nodded, a faint smile playing on her lips that suggested approval of his handling. "I'll arrange the prisoner exchange and message delivery. The Union will receive your invitation by week's end."
"Now," Moyo said, dismissing the matter from his mind with practiced ease, "where's the Syndicate's base? I have an appointment to keep."
Martha pointed southwest, toward Bastion's commercial district, where the skyline was dominated by unusual architecture.
"Near the capital gates. You can't miss it; it looks like someone dropped a piece of another world into our city. Fair warning though—the Trade Master has a reputation for being difficult to read and even harder to negotiate with."
"I'm not planning to negotiate," Moyo replied. "I'm planning to listen and assess. Let them make their pitch before I decide what, if anything, we need from them."
"Wise approach." Martha gestured to the Spiders, who took custody of Assad and melted back into invisibility with their prisoner. "I should return to coordinate the arrangements. Will you want company to the Syndicate?"
Moyo shook his head. "No. I'll bring Josh if he insists on shadowing me, but I think this should be a relatively simple meet and greet. Besides, I want to get a feel for the Syndicate without a full diplomatic entourage announcing my arrival."
"As you wish, Lord Moyo." Martha's formality suggested the conversation was concluded. She began dissolving into her web, threads of her being unraveling. "Do try not to accidentally destroy their building. Those constructs are expensive to replace."
"No promises," Moyo called after her vanishing form, earning a laugh that echoed from everywhere and nowhere as she disappeared completely.
****
The silver and gold structure of the Syndicate's building dominated its section of the commercial district, a striking presence that seemed to belong to another world entirely. Its architecture followed no style Moyo recognized, combining flowing curves with sharp angles in ways that should have clashed but somehow achieved aesthetic harmony.
The building seemed to shimmer slightly in the twin suns' light, its surface inscribed with runes that glowed faintly with power. Even from a distance, Moyo could sense the aetheric density around it, space itself compressed in ways that suggested the interior was far larger than external dimensions should permit.
He moved purposefully through the bustling districts leading to it, drawing curious glances from citizens going about their morning routines. Market stalls were opening, merchants calling out their wares, ascenders heading to training grounds or dungeon delving groups. Bastion in the morning was alive with energy and purpose.
Moyo did his best to remain inconspicuous, even stooping slightly to diminish his towering height and pulling his hood up to shadow his transformed features. The last thing he wanted was a crowd forming, people recognizing him, and demanding attention when he had business to conduct.
However, he could sense Josh's presence trailing him from a safe distance of perhaps fifty feet, the Sentinel making no effort to hide from Moyo even if normal citizens couldn't detect him. There were also sentinels stationed discreetly throughout the district—Bastion's guards doing a poor job of hiding their stares whenever he passed.
A chuckle escaped Moyo as he thought about the two sentinels he'd left behind in the inner sanctum. They were probably still standing rigidly at attention outside his empty quarters, unaware he had left hours ago through the window. He would apologize later.
The thought faded as he approached the Syndicate's base, his attention focusing on the subtle changes in his environment. The air seemed subtly altered as he got closer, less humid somehow, more refined. The crowds grew sparse despite this being prime commercial territory, creating a near-empty bubble of space surrounding the building as though people were being subconsciously warded off.
His enhanced perception immediately identified the cause—an extremely subtle compulsion field radiating from the building itself, nothing obvious or forceful, just enough suggestion that people found reasons to conduct their business elsewhere. It was elegant work, the kind of effect that required both power and precision.
Two mechanical constructs flanked the building's entrance, and they made the field seem subtle by comparison. These were hulking entities that stood at least ten feet tall, their polished forms constructed from silver and gold alloys that gleamed in the sunlight. They were beautiful in their way, works of art as much as guardian constructs.
But they were also clearly powerful. Moyo's Aether Sight activated almost instinctively, analyzing the constructs' capabilities, and information flooded his vision.
[Level 200: Guard Silver Men]
The designation made him pause. Level 200, same as his own, which meant these constructs were Advocate rank equivalents. Their cores pulsed with compressed aether, and he could see weapons systems integrated throughout their frames—energy projectors in the palms, blade emitters in the forearms, shield generators in the chest.
Moyo stepped between the constructs, deliberately entering their threat range to test their response. Their heads turned in perfect synchronization, glowing eyes focusing on him with unsettling intensity. He reached out and gripped their arms tightly, one construct in each hand, feeling the resistance of their alloyed bodies.
His enhanced Strength made itself apparent as he applied pressure. The constructs' arms began to deform under his grip, metal groaning in protest. Warning lights activated across their frames, energy beginning to gather within them as they prepared to defend themselves against what they perceived as attack.
"That won't be necessary, Lord Titan Blade," a cultured voice called out from the building's entrance, stopping the confrontation before it could escalate.
The milling crowd, which had been maintaining their distance, stilled at the words. Silence spread like a wave as people processed what they had just heard. Moyo could feel dozens of eyes suddenly focusing on him with new intensity, recognition dawning.
He turned to see a figure dressed in flowing brown robes adorned with a golden brooch at the shoulder that marked him as someone of importance within the Syndicate. His hair was stark white despite a face that appeared middle-aged, and his eyes were a piercing yellow that seemed to glow with inner light. His skin possessed a faintly cream tone that suggested mixed heritage or perhaps something not entirely human.
The man bowed with a flourish that was somehow both respectful and slightly mocking.
"Greetings, I am Atreus, Trade Master of the Golden Syndicate for this planet, and I welcome you to my humble abode."
Moyo released the constructs, which immediately returned to their guard positions as though nothing had happened. He stepped forward, his hood falling back naturally to reveal his face fully. The murmurs in the crowd turned to reverent silence as his transformed features became visible—those purple eyes with their golden veins, the silver scars tracing his dark skin, the aura of power that radiated from him like heat from fire.
He inclined his head to Atreus in acknowledgment, neither bowing nor offering excessive deference. He was the Titan Blade, leader of Bastion, and would treat this Trade Master as an equal rather than a superior.
Atreus seemed pleased by the measured response, his smile widening slightly. He gestured toward the building's entrance with theatrical grace. "Please, come in. We have much to discuss, and I believe you'll find our facilities far more comfortable than standing in the street."
Moyo followed past the gleaming gates, through the shimmering barrier that marked the building's entrance. He felt a subtle pressure as he passed through it, aether swirling around him in complex patterns that analyzed and catalogued his presence. Then a notification chimed in his HUD, formal text appearing in his vision.
[Notice: You are in the sanctuary of a Syndicate trade hub. The following rules are enforced:]
- You cannot attack a member of the Syndicate. Severe penalties will apply.
- You cannot seize the Syndicate hub through force or coercion.
- The words of the Trade Master are law within these walls.
- Weapons and skills are restricted within the building proper.
A sudden constriction gripped Moyo's aether core, like invisible chains wrapping around his power. His skills became inaccessible, grayed out in his HUD as the building's restrictions took hold. He grimaced at the sensation, testing his capabilities and finding his raw attributes intact, though his techniques were inert.
He could still throw a punch with 1,000 Strength behind it, still withstand damage with 1,000 Vitality backing his flesh. But Titan's Edge? Titan Walk? All his hard-earned skills were locked away as long as he remained within these walls.
It was a reminder of how much power the Syndicate commanded, that they could enforce such absolute restrictions even on someone of his strength. The system itself backed their authority, making resistance not just difficult but impossible.
"It must be strange," Atreus remarked as they walked through an entry hall decorated with art from worlds Moyo had never seen, "to witness your city in such a transformed state. Six months of change compressed into a single awakening. I imagine it feels disorienting."
"For the better," Moyo replied, keeping his voice neutral and noncommittal.
He wasn't here to discuss his feelings with a Syndicate operative.
"Indeed," Atreus agreed. "You've adapted well to the system, Lord Moyo. Many worlds struggle for decades to reach the level of organization Bastion achieved in months. Your leadership has been exemplary."
"The system brought pain and trouble to my people," Moyo said, allowing some of his resentment to color his tone. "I merely did what I had to do to ensure our survival. There's nothing exemplary about fighting for your life."
"Adapt, grow, or die," Atreus said with a soft chuckle, as though quoting scripture he found amusing. "Classic system rhetoric, reducing existence to those simple imperatives. But do not mistake my presence here, Lord Moyo. I am not here as an emissary of the system or the Archive."
"Are you not?" Moyo asked, arching a brow skeptically. "The Syndicate operates under system authority, trades in system currency, and enforces system rules. How exactly are you separate from it?"
"Oh no," Atreus said, his tone becoming more serious, "the Syndicate operates independently from the system's administrative structure. We exist to bring order to the chaos the system so often leaves in its wake, to provide services and structure where the Archive cannot or will not. Nothing more, nothing less."
They passed through a garden that defied all reason, blooming with exotic yellow plants that Moyo had never seen before and which probably came from offworld. The space was open to the sky above, natural sunlight streaming down despite being inside a building, suggesting more spatial manipulation.
"Are these...?" Moyo began, gesturing to flowers that glowed faintly with bioluminescence.
"From a tier 7 world called Solara," Atreus supplied helpfully. "They bloom in perpetual daylight and have minor medicinal properties. Beautiful, aren't they? I collect specimens from my travels."
They entered the building proper, passing from the garden into a corridor, and Moyo was struck by the cavernous interior. The space within was impossibly large, far exceeding the dimensions suggested by the exterior he had seen from the street. The ceiling soared hundreds of feet above, supported by pillars carved with runes that pulsed with power.
"Spatial rune techniques," Atreus said with a grin, noting Moyo's reaction with satisfaction.
"Magic, as the people of your world call it. A charming term, don't you think? I might suggest it be added to the Archailect's official terminology. Has a certain romance that 'spatial manipulation through compressed aetheric matrices' lacks."
Moyo narrowed his eyes, his patience for small talk wearing thin. "Why have you summoned me here, Trade Master? Your message suggested urgency."
Atreus waved a hand dismissively. "All in due time. For now, I believe you'll find my other guest... intriguing. His presence here is not coincidental."
He led Moyo deeper into the complex, through corridors that seemed to shift subtly when not directly observed, past chambers filled with goods from a thousand worlds. Moyo caught glimpses of weapons that hummed with power, armor that seemed alive, and artifacts whose purpose he couldn't begin to guess at.
Finally, they reached a grand chamber that dwarfed everything they had passed. It was circular, perhaps two hundred feet in diameter, with a domed ceiling that displayed what looked like star charts from multiple systems. In the chamber's center, a lone figure sat waiting.
The figure was clad in robes of deep red and gold that resembled a military uniform more than civilian garb. The fabric was pristine, without wrinkle or stain, suggesting either obsessive maintenance or self-cleaning enchantments. But it was the aura around the figure that made Moyo's instincts scream warnings.
This was power on a scale he had never encountered in person. The air felt thicker near this being, denser somehow, as though reality itself compressed around him in acknowledgment of his authority. Aether swirled in visible patterns that suggested control so refined it became effortless.
Moyo's enhanced perception could barely process what he was sensing. This being's aether core was vast, so compressed and potent it resembled a star contained within mortal flesh. The difference between them was the difference between a candle and a furnace, between a stream and an ocean.
He could feel his body wanting to take a defensive stance purely from proximity to such overwhelming force, instincts screaming that he was in the presence of a predator so far above his weight class that conflict would be suicide.
"Lord Titan Blade," Atreus said, his voice formal now, all traces of levity gone, "may I introduce the High Arbiter of your solar system, Zaren of the Vanguards."
Zaren's piercing gaze locked onto Moyo, and the pressure in the room intensified until it felt like standing at the bottom of an ocean. Those eyes held depths that spoke of centuries of experience, of battles fought across countless worlds, of authority backed by power sufficient to end civilizations.
This was one of the beings who enforced the system's will, who brought judgment to those who violated Archive mandate. This was someone who could kill Moyo as easily as thinking about it, whose casual gesture could erase Bastion from existence if he deemed it necessary.
The tension in the room became suffocating, weight of expectation and assessment pressing down on Moyo from all sides. He was being evaluated, judged, measured against standards he didn't fully understand by someone whose opinion could determine his city's fate.
Moyo inclined his head in respectful acknowledgment, keeping his expression neutral despite the fear and awe warring within him. "High Arbiter. I'm honored by your presence, though I confess surprise at finding you here."
His mind raced as he studied the High Arbiter, trying to understand what this meeting meant. Why was someone of Zaren's rank personally visiting Bastion? What did his presence portend for their future?
And most importantly, was this an opportunity or a threat?
The silence stretched as Zaren continued his assessment, neither welcoming nor hostile, simply observing with intensity that made Moyo feel transparent.
Whatever came next would shape Bastion's trajectory for years to come.