The Immortal's Guide to Accidental Courtship

Chapter 5: Imperial Complications

The golden carriage of the Everdawn House didn’t just roll; it soared through the clouds, towed by winged stallions that looked far too expensive to be real. Aetherion, however, was currently more interested in the silk curtains than the majestic view of the Empire’s sprawling heartland.

“Put the grape down, Aetherion. We’re going to practice.”

Aetherion sighed, his hand hovering inches from a bowl of chilled emerald fruits. “Zinnia, it’s a six-hour flight. Why can’t we just enjoy the altitude? Look at that mountain over there. It looks like a sleeping cat. That’s quality entertainment.”

“That is the Peak of Eternal Vigilance,” Zinnia said, her voice dropping into her ‘Saint’ tone. She reached over and snatched the grape bowl away, replacing it with a wooden practice sword she’d pulled from a hidden compartment. “And the Emperor is going to expect a hero, not a professional glutton. If you can’t even hold a blade correctly, they’ll think I’m playing a prank on the throne.”

“But I am a prank on the throne,” Aetherion muttered, reluctantly taking the wooden stick. It felt horribly light in his hands—a toothpick compared to the cosmic weight he was used to. “Can’t I just tell them I’m a pacifist? Or that I have a very specific sword-fighting style that looks like I’m running away?”

“Stand up,” Zinnia commanded. The interior of the carriage was magically expanded, offering enough room for a small sparring circle. “Show me a basic thrust. Use your internal energy—if you have any.”

Aetherion stood, wobbling intentionally as the carriage hit a minor pocket of turbulence. He held the wooden sword like it was a piece of rotten driftwood. “Okay, okay. A thrust. Like this?”

He lunged. It was a masterpiece of incompetence—a slow, staggering movement that ended with him nearly tripping over his own feet.

Zinnia groaned, rubbing her temples. “No. Your center of gravity is all over the place. You’re leaning forward like you’re trying to smell the floor. Try it again. Keep your back straight.”

“My back is straight! It’s just… ergonomically curved for maximum relaxation,” Aetherion argued. He tried again, this time adding a little whistle for flair. “Whoosh. See? Deadly.”

“Aetherion, a toddler with a stick would be more threatening than you right now,” Zinnia said, stepping into his space to adjust his shoulders. Her touch was firm, but her expression was more confused than angry. “I saw you stand in front of a Chimera. I saw what happened to Marius. Why is it that when I ask you to do something simple, you look like you’ve never had limbs before?”

“It’s the pressure, Zinnia! You’re very intimidating,” he lied smoothly. “How can I focus on swordplay when the Sword-Saint is staring at me like I’m a particularly disappointing vegetable?”

“Just… try to look like you aren't a total fraud,” she sighed, letting go of him. “The capital isn't like the peaks. People there fight with smiles and whispers before they ever draw steel. If the Court Mage, Alistair, gets a look at you, he’ll try to peel back your soul just to see what’s inside.”

“Alistair?” Aetherion’s ears perked up. “Sounds like a guy who spends too much time around dusty scrolls. I’m sure we’ll get along great. I’m very dusty.”

*

The Jade Palace was an architectural nightmare of gold leaf, floating gardens, and guards who looked like they hadn't blinked since the previous century. As the carriage touched down on the main landing, a small army of servants converged on them.

“Remember,” Zinnia whispered as the door opened. “Don’t talk about ribs. Don’t talk about caves. And for the love of the Heavens, don't sneeze.”

“No promises on the sneezing,” Aetherion whispered back, stepping out into the blinding sunlight.

Waiting for them at the top of the stairs was a man who looked like he was made entirely of parchment and sharp angles. His robes were a deep, brooding violet, and his eyes—hidden behind thin, silver-rimmed spectacles—seemed to be calculating the molecular weight of everything they touched.

“Lady Zinnia,” the man said, bowing with clinical precision. “The Emperor is currently finishing a session with the War Council. He will receive you shortly.”

“Master Alistair,” Zinnia replied, her posture becoming rigid. “Thank you for meeting us.”

Alistair’s gaze shifted to Aetherion. It wasn't a look of greeting; it was a dissection. “And this is the… phenomenon? The one who claims the Chimera died of a broken heart?”

“I think it was more of a ‘sudden existential crisis,’” Aetherion said, offering a casual wave. “But ‘broken heart’ is more poetic. You must be the Mage. I like the glasses. Very scholarly.”

Alistair didn't smile. He stepped closer, his aura rippling outward in a subtle, invisible wave. Aetherion felt the probe—a sharp, searching needle of psychic energy designed to bypass physical defenses. Aetherion didn't block it; he simply let it slide into the ‘Vast Void’ technique he’d perfected five millennia ago. To Alistair, Aetherion would feel like a shallow, muddy puddle of absolutely nothing.

The Mage’s brow furrowed. “Fascinating. Your resonance is… non-existent. It’s as if the universe forgot to give you a soul, Master Aetherion.”

“I get that a lot,” Aetherion chirped. “My mother used to say I was a very empty child. Mostly because I was always hungry.”

“Is that so?” Alistair murmured, his eyes Narrowing. “I have spent eighty years studying the flow of essence. Even a rock has a signature. You? You have the signature of a very convincing shadow. It’s almost… too perfect.”

“Master Alistair,” Zinnia interrupted, sensing the tension. “Aetherion is tired from the journey. Is there somewhere he can rest while I prepare for the audience?”

“Of course,” Alistair said, though he didn't take his eyes off Aetherion. “The West Wing library is quiet. I believe our guest would find the silence… familiar.”

“Library? Does it have snacks?” Aetherion asked.

“It has knowledge,” Alistair replied coldly. “Which is often more filling, if one knows how to digest it.”

*

The library was massive, with shelves that reached so high they were lost in the ceiling mists. Aetherion wandered through the aisles, running a finger along the spines of ancient leather-bound tomes.

“Lies, lies, slightly more colorful lies,” he muttered to himself, squinting at a title. “‘The Great Victory of the Iron King.’ Victory? He tripped over a rug and surrendered his crown for a sandwich. I was there. I bought the sandwich.”

He pulled a book from the shelf: A Complete History of the Primordial Era. He flipped through a few pages and groaned.

“Oh, come on! They say the Sage of the Seven Stars died fighting a demon? He died of a walnut allergy! I told him not to eat the fruitcake, but no, he was the ‘Sage,’ he knew everything.”

“You seem to have some very strong opinions on our historical records.”

Aetherion didn't jump, but he did freeze. He slowly turned to find Alistair standing at the end of the aisle, holding a heavy, iron-bound folder. The Mage’s expression was no longer clinical; it was predatory.

“Oh, you know me,” Aetherion said, leaning against the shelf. “I’m a critic. Everyone’s a critic these days. Why are you following me, Al? Can I call you Al? You look like an Al.”

“You may call me whatever you wish, if you can explain one thing,” Alistair said, stepping into the dim light of the aisle. “I’ve been cross-referencing your ‘signatures.’ Or rather, the lack thereof. There is only one type of being that can truly hide from a Tier-10 Mage’s perception.”

“A ghost?” Aetherion guessed. “A very clever hamster?”

“An Ancient,” Alistair said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous hiss. “A being whose foundation is so deep that the surface appears still. But that’s not what caught my attention.”

Alistair opened the folder. He pulled out a piece of parchment that looked so old it was practically held together by magic. He laid it on a reading table between them.

“This was recovered from the ruins of the First City,” Alistair said. “It’s a portrait of the Founding Emperor’s personal advisor. A man who supposedly vanished five thousand years ago.”

Aetherion looked down at the parchment. The ink was faded, but the likeness was unmistakable. It was a man with silver-blue hair, a slightly crooked nose, and a look of profound boredom. He was wearing the exact same expression Aetherion currently had.

“Wow,” Aetherion said, his heart skipping a beat while his face remained a mask of casual interest. “He’s handsome. A bit dusty, though. Whoever he is, he looks like he needs a nap.”

“He was known as the Eternal Architect,” Alistair whispered, his eyes burning with a feverish intensity. “The man who taught the first cultivators how to breathe. The man who supposedly created the Soul-Binding Lily.”

“Common mistake,” Aetherion said, picking his teeth with a fingernail. “I’m sure it’s just a coincidence. People have faces, right? There are only so many combinations. I just have one of those classic, timeless faces.”

“Is that so?” Alistair reached out, his fingers hovering over the portrait. “Then why is it that when I look at you, and I look at this… I feel like I’m looking at a man who is tired of living?”

“Maybe I just haven't had my coffee yet,” Aetherion retorted. “Look, Al, it’s a nice drawing. Very retro. But I’m just a guy from a cave. Ask Timmy the tourist, he saw my laundry.”

Alistair slammed his hand down on the table, the magical force of the impact making the nearby books rattle. “Enough games! I have spent my life chasing the shadows of the past! You walk into this palace, you claim the Saint, you kill a Divine Beast with a look, and you expect me to believe you’re a nobody?”

Aetherion straightened his back. The lazy, slouching posture didn't disappear, but the air in the library suddenly grew very, very heavy. The mists in the ceiling began to swirl, and for a split second, the light in Aetherion’s eyes wasn't blue—it was the color of a dying sun.

“Alistair,” Aetherion said, his voice no longer gravelly, but resonant, like a bell tolling in a deep canyon. “You’re a smart man. Smart men usually know when to stop digging.”

Alistair stepped back, his face turning pale. He felt it—a pressure so immense it felt like the entire sky was resting on his shoulders. “It… it is you.”

“I’m just a guy who wants a grape,” Aetherion said, the pressure vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. He went back to slouching, the lazy glint returning to his eyes. “Now, are we going to see the Emperor, or are you going to keep showing me fan art from my awkward teenage years?”

Alistair stared at him, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He looked at the portrait, then at the man picking a piece of lint off his robe.

“The Emperor… he has no idea,” Alistair whispered.

“Let’s keep it that way,” Aetherion said, heading for the exit. “I’d hate to have to correct his history books in person. It would take forever, and I’m really hoping for a short meeting. I heard the palace lunch menu has lobster.”

He stopped at the door, looking back over his shoulder.

“And Alistair? Next time you show someone that portrait? Tell them the artist got the chin wrong. I’m much more rugged than that.”