Absolute Being: I Am Nothing-Chapter 92: Moore

The Academy of Magicka had grown beyond anything Morgana had initially envisioned. Five years of peace, five years of rebuilding, five years of students flowing through its halls and returning to their homes as skilled mages ready to serve their communities. The blue robes of the academy had become a common sight across the continent, a symbol of hope and progress.

Among the faculty, one tutor stood out for his quiet competence and unassuming nature. He taught introductory magical theory to first-year students, never drawing attention to himself, never seeking recognition. His name, he told everyone, was Moore. He was from a small village in the eastern territories that had been destroyed during the Dark Lord’s reign. No one questioned it. No one had reason to.

Mor’vyre had been waiting five years.

He sat in his small quarters in the faculty wing, reviewing student assignments by lamplight. The work was tedious, deliberately so—it gave him time to think, to observe, to wait. Outside his window, the city of New Kandor hummed with evening activity. Students laughed in the courtyards. Merchants packed up their stalls. Guards made their rounds with the easy confidence of people who hadn’t seen real conflict in half a decade.

Five years, and Dagon had made no move.

Mor’vyre had felt the god’s awakening. Everyone with any sensitivity to such things had felt it. But since that initial surge of power, since that world-shaking roar that had sent tremors across continents, Dagon had been... quiet. Present, certainly. His presence lurked beneath the surface of reality like a shark beneath still water. But he hadn’t acted. Hadn’t attacked. Hadn’t done anything.

That worried Mor’vyre more than open aggression would have.

He’d also noticed the others. Seven of them, moving with purpose, tracking Dagon’s every fluctuation. They were old—ancient, really—and powerful in ways that most beings couldn’t comprehend. Mor’vyre had watched them from a distance, cataloging their abilities, their patterns, their purpose.

The Brotherhood of the Seven. He’d found references to them in the oldest texts, the ones hidden in libraries that no longer existed. They’d been preparing for this moment for five thousand years. Their entire existence was dedicated to killing Dagon.

Mor’vyre hadn’t approached them. They didn’t know he existed. He preferred it that way.

A soft knock at his door interrupted his thoughts.

"Come in."

The door opened to reveal Morgana, wrapped in a simple cloak that marked her as just another citizen rather than the ruler of a unified continent. She did this sometimes—wandered the academy at night, talked to tutors and students alike, reminded herself of the world she was building.

"Moore," she said, stepping inside. "I hope I’m not disturbing you."

"Never, my lady." Mor’vyre rose, gesturing to the room’s only other chair. "Please, sit. Can I offer you tea?"

Morgana smiled faintly. "You’re the only person in this entire city who still offers me tea like I’m a guest rather than a ruler."

"That’s because you’re always a guest in my quarters, my lady. Rank has nothing to do with hospitality."

She sat, accepting the cup he poured. They’d developed this routine over the years—quiet conversations in the evenings, away from advisors and protocol and the endless demands of leadership. Morgana valued Moore’s counsel. He was calm, measured, never rushed to judgment. He listened more than he spoke, and when he did speak, his words carried weight.

"The council met today," Morgana said. "There’s concern about the northern clans again. They’re still refusing to send representatives to the capital."

Mor’vyre nodded slowly. "Their isolationism is deeply ingrained. Centuries of protecting themselves from outsiders will not be undone in five years."

"I know. But we need them. Magicka can’t be truly unified without the north."

"It will happen in time. Patience, my lady."

Morgana sipped her tea, her eyes distant. "And what of the other matter? The one we discussed last month?"

Mor’vyre’s expression didn’t change, but inwardly he noted the shift. She was asking about Dagon.

"I’ve felt nothing new," he said carefully. "The presence remains, but it’s... still. Waiting."

"Waiting for what?"

"That, I cannot say. Perhaps for something specific. Perhaps simply for the right moment."

Morgana set down her cup. "He’s a god, Moore. A real god, not like the Dark Lord who merely styled himself one. Dagon was worshipped for millennia before his fall. His power is beyond anything we’ve faced."

"I know."

"And you still believe we shouldn’t be worried?"

Mor’vyre met her eyes. "I believe we should be prepared, not panicked. There’s a difference."

She studied him for a long moment. "You speak as someone who has faced gods before."

He smiled slightly. "I speak as someone who has seen enough of the universe to know that power alone doesn’t determine outcomes. Strategy matters. Patience matters. And sometimes, the most powerful beings are also the most predictable."

"You think Dagon is predictable?"

"I think Dagon is angry. Has been angry for five thousand years. Anger that old becomes a kind of prison—it narrows vision, limits options, creates patterns that can be anticipated." He shrugged. "But I’m just a tutor. What do I know of gods?"

Morgana laughed softly. "You’re the least ’just a tutor’ tutor I’ve ever met, Moore. But I appreciate your counsel." She stood, moving toward the door. "Keep watching. Keep listening. If anything changes—"

"You’ll be the first to know."

She paused at the door, looking back. "You really think we can handle this? If Dagon wakes fully, if he comes for us?"

Mor’vyre considered his answer carefully. He couldn’t tell her about Adam, about the Absolutes, about the beings who could unmake Dagon with a thought. That wasn’t his secret to share. But he could give her something.

"I think," he said slowly, "that we have resources you don’t fully appreciate. Connections you don’t fully understand. And I think that when the time comes—if it comes—help will arrive."

"Help from where?"

He smiled. "From beyond. The boy who saved us once hasn’t forgotten us. I’m certain of that."

Morgana’s hand went to her pocket, where the communication stone rested. She nodded slowly.

"Faith," she murmured. "That’s what you’re selling."

"That’s what I’m selling."

She left, closing the door softly behind her.

Mor’vyre stood alone in his small room, staring at the closed door. Five years of waiting. Five years of watching. Five years of playing tutor while ancient powers stirred beneath the surface.

Dagon would move eventually. The Brotherhood of the Seven would act. And when they did, Mor’vyre would be there—not to fight, not to interfere, but to observe. To report. To ensure that when the Absolutes finally returned, they would understand exactly what they were walking into.

He sat back down and returned to his student assignments.

The night was quiet. The city was peaceful.

The waiting continued.