Lyno's "home" was not a sanctum.
It was not a nexus.
And it most certainly was not a "Throne of Serenity," unless one considered a lumpy, second-hand armchair with a pronounced and treacherous wobble a throne.
It was a small, cramped room above the "Tome and Trinket," the musty bookstore where he worked. He got a small discount on the rent for helping the elderly owner, Master Elias, with stacking shelves. The room contained a bed, the aforementioned wobbly armchair, a small table, and a concerningly large population of dust bunnies.
Lyno lived in perpetual fear that his landlady, a terrifyingly stout woman named Mrs. Gable, would discover the state of his housekeeping and evict him via defenestration.
As he led his newfound, self-appointed butler through the less-devastated side streets of the town, Lyno's mind was a frantic cacophony.
[Okay. Okay, just act normal. Lead him home. He'll see my pathetic little room, realize I'm a complete nobody, and then he'll leave me alone. Yes. That has to be it. No legendary cosmic being lives above a dusty bookstore. This is foolproof.]
He was so wrapped up in his own plan, he failed to notice that Valerius wasn't just following him. He was studying his every step.
Magnificent, Valerius observed internally, watching as Lyno nervously sidestepped a puddle. He avoids the nexus of water energy. A novice would command it to part, a vulgar display. The Master simply chooses a path that requires no interference. He moves with the world, not against it. What sublime efficiency!
Lyno then tripped on his own feet for the second time that day, catching himself on a wall just before face-planting again.
Incredible! Valerius's mind roared. He stumbled, a feint of weakness, but in doing so, his hand brushed against that specific brick on the wall! A pressure-point activation! I can feel it from here—a subtle tremor running through the city's magical grid, rerouting a minor mana surge that could have caused a sewer grate to explode two blocks from now! He prevents disasters so small no one would have ever known they were averted! His greatness is in the unseen!
They finally arrived at the "Tome and Trinket." The storefront was blessedly intact, though the windows rattled nervously every time a piece of rubble shifted in the distant town square.
Lyno fumbled with his key. His hands were shaking so much it took three tries to get it into the lock.
A three-phase sigil lock, Valerius analyzed, misinterpreting the rattling keys. A casual observer sees a simple key. I see the minute rotations, the precisely applied torque... he is disabling layers of passive conceptual wards that would reduce a lesser being's mind to jelly. And he does it all with the appearance of simple clumsiness. Sasuga, Master Lyno!
"It's, uh... not much," Lyno said, pushing the door open. A small bell tinkled overhead.
The smell of old paper and leather polish filled the air. Rows upon rows of books, stacked high to the ceiling, created narrow, winding canyons. It was quiet. It was peaceful. It was Lyno's sanctuary.
Valerius stepped inside and drew a sharp, reverent breath.
He ignored the fantasy novels and the dusty history tomes. His gaze, able to perceive the flows of aether, saw something far more profound.
This isn't a bookstore! his soul screamed. This is a library of latent realities! Every book is a potential universe, a narrative waiting to be given life. And he… he is the Librarian. He lives here, at the very heart of all potential stories, all possible timelines! By the All-Knowing Scribners, it is more brilliant than I could have ever imagined!
Lyno gestured awkwardly towards a creaky staircase in the back. "My room is just up here."
"The Athenaeum of Origin," Valerius breathed. "Of course. One must ascend to reach the Master's inner sanctum."
The stairs groaned in protest under their feet.
CRREEEAAAAAK.
The steps groan with the weight of my ignorance, Valerius thought, humbled.
Lyno pushed open the door to his room and stood aside, bracing himself for the sage's inevitable disappointment and departure. "Here we are."
Valerius Zathra stepped into the room.
He saw the lumpy bed. He saw the wobbly armchair. He saw the dust bunnies skittering in the corner like timid spirits.
He saw it all. And his mind provided the brilliant, fanatical interpretation.
"So this is it..." he whispered, his eyes wide with a manic, intellectual ecstasy. "The Chamber of Stillness. The Focal Point."
He pointed a trembling finger at the messy bed. "The Altar of Dreams, where you shape the unconscious realities of all mortal beings."
He gestured to the simple wooden table. "The Dais of Creation, where simple thoughts are forged into divine will."
His gaze finally fell upon the lumpy, pathetic, wobbly armchair. A piece of furniture so devoid of dignity that even the mice avoided it.
Valerius stared at it. His breath caught in his throat. He saw the worn fabric, the slightly listing angle. He saw how the weak afternoon light from the single window seemed to avoid it, as if afraid.
"And this..." he breathed, taking a hesitant step closer. "This must be the Throne."
Lyno just blinked. "It's a chair. It wobbles."
It wobbles, Valerius repeated in his mind. The phrase struck him like a physical blow. Of course it did! It wasn't fixed in a single reality! It existed in a state of constant quantum flux!
"Its 'wobble'," Valerius said aloud, the reverence in his voice absolute, "is its attunement to the vibrations of the multiverse. It is not unstable. It is merely unbound. To sit on such a seat would require a being who is a nexus unto themselves... a being whose very center of gravity is the center of the universe."
Valerius turned to Lyno, his face a mask of awe.
"Master," he whispered, "I... I never dreamed I would be allowed to witness it with my own eyes."
Before Lyno could respond, Valerius was in motion. He was a whirlwind of sudden, unexpected housekeeping. He produced another cloth from nowhere and began wiping down the small table with frantic energy.
"Unacceptable!" he muttered. "The Dais of Creation is covered in a layer of particulate matter! A speck of dust could refract the Master's divine intent, causing a star to go nova prematurely! The risk is too great!"
WHOOSH! SWISH!
In moments, the table was gleaming. Then he turned to the floor.
"And these... these meta-physical dust sprites! They must be placated!"
Lyno just stood in his doorway, watching a legendary grand sage—a man emperors once paid fortunes to consult—furiously battling dust bunnies with a silk handkerchief.
He looked at his lumpy bed. The Altar of Dreams.
He looked at his messy table. The Dais of Creation.
He looked at his wobbly armchair. The Throne of the Multiverse.
The hope he'd harbored that Valerius would see his hovel and leave died a quiet, painful death.
The sage wasn't going to leave. He was redecorating.
"Oh," Valerius suddenly said, pausing his cleaning spree. He turned to Lyno, a look of profound realization on his face. "My apologies, Master. I was so caught up in the divine architecture that I forgot your first instruction. Your primary edict."
Lyno's brow furrowed. His first instruction? He hadn't instructed anyone to do anything.
"You requested tea," Valerius stated, his eyes glowing. "The ceremonial libation. The alchemical process of infusing a simple leaf with the cosmic intent of tranquility. It is a profound ritual."
He spotted the bag of Serene Mountain Leaf that Lyno had placed on the table. He approached it as if it were a holy relic.
"May I, Master?" he asked, not waiting for an answer as he reverently picked up the bag. He read the label.
"Serene Mountain Leaf..." he mused. "Of course. Not from any physical mountain known to cartographers, I assume, but from the conceptual peaks of reality itself. A fitting ingredient for you."
He bowed deeply. "I will begin the preparations at once. The ritual must be perfect."
With that, Valerius turned and bustled out of the room and down the stairs, presumably in search of a kettle and water pure enough for the ceremony.
Lyno was left standing alone in the doorway of his shockingly clean room.
He stumbled over to his armchair—his "Throne"—and collapsed into it.
WOBBLE.
He let out a long, weary sigh. A small cloud of dust poofed out from the cushion.
Outside the bookstore, an stray cat, which had been about to get into a fight with a rival tomcat, suddenly stopped. It blinked, looked at its rival, and then decided to take a nap instead. A tiny, insignificant conflict had been completely and utterly averted.
Lyno was miserable. But across town, unknowingly, a small pocket of absolute serenity had just been created.
And far above, in the celestial realms, a bored god of fate looked down, noticed the infinitesimal shift in the weave of destiny, and raised an eyebrow in curiosity.