Zorko’s Arcane Appraisals
The Last Sip of Self
“Welcome,” Zorko breathed, as though afraid even his own voice might spill something ancient.
“To the Orrery Terrace, where the constellations tick louder than time, and the floor knows how long you've stood in place.”
He stood alone at the center of the patio, wind tugging at the shredded hem of his scarlet robes. Around him, the sky bent in perfect arcs, rings of starlight orbiting unseen mechanisms. Beneath his boots, the stone tiles pulsed softly, counting down to an appointment not yet met.
Zorko raised his phoenix feather like a conductor on the edge of a great orchestral disaster.
“The Celestial Teapot,” he said, with a weight that suggested the universe had been slightly off-balance ever since it was made, “was forged before the invention of thirst, by a society that worshipped decisions so much they boiled water only once per century. This is no kettle. This is a gravitational regret steeped in porcelain.”
He moved to a small pedestal at the terrace’s edge, where a perfectly mundane cup and saucer sat waiting. The cup was empty, but its steam twisted upward anyway, smoke from a fire that had not yet occurred.
Zorko sniffed.
“No aroma. Of course. Too perfect to be smelled. Too sacred for scent. This is tea that refuses to introduce itself.”
He crouched low to the cup.
“I have read that it pours backward on Thursdays. That it curdles secrets. That each drop remembers a different version of who you almost were.”
The orb hummed once, just once, like a forgotten alarm.
Zorko’s voice fell to a whisper.
“And today… we shall taste a timeline.”
The ticking stopped.
Not all at once. Not like a clock breaking, but like a breath drawn and forgotten to be let out. The air on the Orrery Terrace halted, and for a moment, the stars above Zorko held their positions too long.
Then Chronomancer Eden of the Cosmos stepped forward, as if the universe had made room for him by accident.
He looked very tired.
The velvet satchel in his hands was midnight blue and shimmered in places where light should not shimmer. From it, he drew the Celestial Teapot with the care of someone removing a baby from an extradimensional lawsuit. It made no sound, but Zorko’s robes immediately frayed another half-inch, as if in protest.
“You’re early,” Zorko gasped. “Or late. I feel both. That’s perfect.”
Eden shrugged, setting the teapot on the pedestal beside the empty cup.
“I arrived precisely when the tea told me to.”
The teapot did not steam. Instead, the air around it grew warm.
Zorko’s orb clicked twice without prompt, then went very still, like it was pretending not to be there.
Zorko leaned in, eyes glowing.
“Is that a slice of Saturn in the glaze? No... no, I see now. It’s a full eclipse, viewed simultaneously from three timelines. Splendid.”
He reached to lift the lid.
Eden stopped him with a single finger raised. Not stern, not dramatic, just preventative.
“One cup,” he said. “Only one. It knows.”
“It knows?” Zorko whispered, already composing an epic.
Eden pulled a second teacup from his coat and crushed it quietly in one hand.
“It remembers.”
The orb flickered, not brightly, but as if trying to recalibrate a mood.
Zorko adjusted his robes, drew his phoenix feather from the scroll-slit at his hip, and tapped the rim of the cup with theatrical gravity.
“Observe now, dear orb, a vessel shaped not by potter’s hands but by probability’s regret.”
Eden blinked.
“It’s ceramic.”
Zorko ignored him and raised the feather like a conductor before a symphony.
“Crafted in a quantum kiln. Infused with leaves from a garden that never grew, only yearned. This teapot does not brew tea, no, it remembers it. Past, present, and perhaps.”
He sniffed the cup.
“Is that... plum blossom from the final spring of the Forgotten Empire?”
Eden leaned against the sundial.
“It’s actually...”
“Don’t tell me,” Zorko said, eyes wide. “Let the cup whisper its memoirs.”
The tea did not steam. Instead, the surface rippled in concentric ovals, as though bouncing against different moments in time. A bubble formed, rotated counterclockwise, and burst with the faint sound of a door closing in a distant house.
Zorko placed both hands reverently around the cup.
“Oh yes. This is prophecy steeped in metaphor, steeped in more prophecy. The rarest flavor of all: recursive truth.”
“You shouldn’t drink it,” Eden said, not unkindly. “You’ll see something you weren’t meant to see.”
Zorko smiled the way a child smiles before poking a dangerous-looking mushroom.
“I was born to missee the world.”
He sipped.
Nothing exploded. No light poured from the heavens. No ancient runes activated.
Instead, Zorko’s face went perfectly blank. Then his left eye turned sideways. Not just the pupil, the entire eye rotated ninety degrees.
“Oh,” Zorko said calmly. “I’ve brewed myself backward.”
Eden sighed.
“That’s lucky.”
The orb pulsed once, then shrank slightly, as if attempting to fold itself out of responsibility.
There was no flash, no fanfare, just a polite thip, like a page turning itself.
Uvlius was standing in the corner now, where there had not been a corner a moment ago. His robes were the color of overdue parchment. A map scrolled itself shut behind his shoulder.
“Chronomancer Eden,” he said, nodding once. “Zorko. Orb.”
“Uvlius,” Zorko replied, voice flattened by his recent cranial inversion. His eye had rotated back, but his nose now appeared to be suspiciously older than the rest of his face. I may have oversteeped.”
“The Teapot is not for vision,” Uvlius said plainly. “It’s for anchoring.”
Eden did not move. He stared straight ahead, hands clasped.
Uvlius continued.
“Every time traveler drifts. Entropy eats memory. You think you remember your home, your body, your name. But time’s undercurrent scrapes these clean.”
He gestured toward the teacup, still warm, still impossibly quiet.
“The Celestial Teapot brews a cup for one memory only. The most important one. You sip. It stays. All else can wash away.”
Zorko blinked slowly.
“Oh. Then... I just drank someone else’s?”
Eden exhaled through his nose.
Uvlius nodded.
“That tea was meant for his return journey. It held the memory of who he was.”
Zorko went still.
“I thought it tasted like regret,” he whispered. “With plum.”
The orb flickered dimly, unsure whether to be sorry or impressed.
“It will fade,” Uvlius said. “Not all at once. He will remember to return the teapot. But eventually, he will forget why he needed it.”
Zorko turned to Eden.
“I...”
Eden waved it off gently.
“We all forget eventually. This just makes it... cleaner.”
He reached into a fold of his coat and pulled out a small notebook.
“If I start asking what day it is more than twice, please hand me this.”
Zorko stood, steadied himself, and raised the phoenix feather.
“Final appraisal,” he intoned, as if delivering a eulogy at a wedding. “Five thousand gold in temporal symmetry. Seven copper in resale, far too prone to existential accidents. And one eternal sip of self in a world that forgets everything else.”
The orb hummed once, low and respectful.
Eden nodded, then adjusted the strap on his satchel. The Teapot floated quietly into his hand, obedient now, like a story that knew its final line. He gave Zorko a small bow and turned toward the nowhere that led everywhere.
“I hope the tea was worth it,” Zorko called softly.
Eden paused at the threshold of time.
“It was,” he said, then smiled faintly. “I just don’t remember why.”
He stepped out.
The orb pulsed, a tiny flicker, like a sigh.
Zorko remained still for a long beat, staring at the empty space where Eden had stood. Then he turned, absently brushing the edge of the table with his sleeve.
The teacup wobbled once.
And brewed itself.
Zorko raised a brow.
“No,” he whispered. “Not again.”
The orb winked.
Entered by: 0x6424…79B4
Zorko’s Arcane Appraisals
The Page That Won’t Read
"Welcome," Zorko whispered as he eased open a crooked iron gate covered in ivy and stepped inside, entering the chamber like someone walking back into a half-finished memory. The room was low-ceilinged and round, its walls made of stacked drawers, cabinets, and crooked shelves. Light came from floating orbs suspended in jars of mist, and the air hummed faintly at a frequency just shy of sound.
Zorko raised his phoenix feather, which sparked softly in recognition of the space. It cast a red flicker over his robes as he moved toward the central platform: a wooden lectern polished by time that held a single yellowed page.
It pulsed faintly. Its script shimmered and slithered like a language caught mid-dream.
"This," Zorko said reverently, "is today’s artifact. A page that does not want to be read."
He turned to the orb, which floated nearby like a silent, judging witness. "They say it can only be read in the presence of its siblings. But none know how many there are, or if any still exist."
He stepped closer. The script curled away from his gaze.
Behind him came a loud rustle of paper, a clatter, and the sound of something tipping and rolling.
"I thought we were going to wait until I had it ready before you started the intro!" a voice called out.
From the far shelves, an imp emerged, stumbling forward and clutching the page to his chest. His jacket bristled with charms, corks, and several pens leaking different colors. A snake trailed after him, coiled loosely around his neck like a scarf with opinions.
"Impy," Zorko said, not turning.
"And Aspy," they said together, as the snake lifted its head in cool acknowledgement.
The page flared briefly in Impy’s grip, recognizing its own importance. The appraisal had begun.
Impy placed the page carefully onto the podium, smoothing its corners with the back of his hand. His fingers left tiny smudges of ink and sandwich grease, but the page pulsed as if in recognition, not protest.
"Sorry, sorry," Impy muttered, brushing crumbs from the edge. "Had it filed under 'P' for 'Page of Maddening Enigma.' Should’ve guessed it’d wander."
Zorko, unfazed, pivoted gracefully to face him. "And this, dear viewers, is our esteemed guest. Impy of the Toadstools, and his... editorial assistant."
The serpent lifted his head from Impy’s shoulder, eyes half-lidded. "Aspy," he said flatly. "And I do all the proofreading."
Impy clicked his tongue. "And all the pessimism."
The page shimmered faintly, script undulating like kelp in a dream tide.
Zorko lowered his feather. "You claim this came from beneath the Cabinet?"
"Second drawer," Impy said. "False bottom. Very suspiciously enchanted. And covered in frog stamps."
Aspy added, "Also cursed. Mildly. Possibly alphabetically."
Zorko leaned in, inspecting the page. "And you believe it to be incomplete?"
"Not incomplete," said Impy. "Just shy. We think it’s waiting for its siblings."
Aspy flicked his tongue. "Assuming those haven’t been eaten, burned, or turned into wallpaper."
Zorko turned to the orb. "Today’s artifact: not a relic, but a reclusive chorus. Each page a note. This, the silence between."
The page pulsed once in agreement.
Aspy narrowed his eyes. "Did it just approve of your metaphor?"
Zorko beamed. "It has taste."
Impy grinned. "Well. Let’s not keep it waiting."
The lights dimmed.
Zorko raised his feather. The appraisal continued.
He began circling the lectern, the feather brushing his shoulder like a quiet coach urging him forward. His boots padded on the moss-rimmed tile, each step deliberate, each movement steeped in theatrical gravity.
"This," he said, eyeing the page, "is not merely forgotten scripture. This is a record sealed by the will of the object itself. A text that vetoed comprehension. A memory that blinked."
Impy perched on a nearby stool, gnawing absently on a piece of licorice with no clear origin. "Or, it’s just waiting for a reader with... better handwriting."
"It’s not a test," Zorko insisted. "It’s a safeguard. The letters shift not out of mischief, but protection. This page contains something we are not meant to know."
Aspy uncoiled slightly. "You say that like it’s a good thing."
Zorko spun on his heel. "A great many truths are dangerous, serpent."
"I’m a snake," Aspy said flatly. "Everything’s dangerous if you don’t look where you step."
Zorko leaned over the page, eyes narrowing beneath his hood. "The ink dances. It’s responding to presence. Perhaps it craves a witness. Or a sacrifice."
"That escalated quickly," Impy muttered.
Zorko continued, undeterred. "See how the script trembles? It is longing. Desperate. This page remembers being whole. And what does it mean, to remember being whole?"
"Trauma," said Aspy. "Or indigestion."
Zorko raised his feather high, letting its red flare light the margins. "This page is a shard. A sliver of a greater tome, lost across dimensions. A book so potent, it scattered itself out of fear of being read."
He drew a breath, as though preparing to name its true purpose—
The feather sparked. The page pulsed.
Then a voice, dry and patient, spoke from the upper shelf. "No. It scattered because someone spilled soup on chapter three."
Zorko stiffened. Impy dropped his licorice. Aspy exhaled. The room tilted.
And Uvlius arrived.
From a high shelf behind the lectern, a sliding panel eased open without a sound. Uvlius stepped down like a man exiting a particularly disappointing attic.
"Stop speculating," he said.
Zorko froze mid-pose, feather raised, expression halfway between revelation and indigestion.
Uvlius crossed the room. His robes smelled faintly of chalk dust and overdue warnings. He looked once at the page. Tapped it. It stopped pulsing.
"This is not cursed. Not encrypted. Not afraid. It’s a placeholder."
Zorko opened his mouth. "Its unreadability is compression. The glyphs shift to remain inert until the others are near. Not magical resistance. Practical formatting."
Impy scratched his head. "So... like a zip file?"
Uvlius blinked once. "I will pretend I didn’t hear that."
He turned back to the page. "It remembers every page lost to fire, mold, neglect. But it will not speak until enough of itself is restored."
Aspy flicked his tongue. "How many more?"
"Six, maybe seven. One’s inside a dreamcoat. Another was turned into soup. One is tattooed on a horse."
Zorko gasped. "A horse?"
"Yes."
He stepped to the curtain, paused. "Do not chant near it. It can confuse sound for context."
Then he was gone.
The room exhaled. The page waited.
Silence returned to the Cabinet, not out of reverence, but like a curtain falling after an unplanned performance.
Zorko stepped slowly back toward the podium. His feather drooped at his side, flickering softly, as though it, too, had been corrected.
He looked down at the page. "I have seen scrolls that screamed," he said quietly, "mirrors that mocked, and one spoon that held a grudge for twelve years. But never a page that mourned its context."
Impy leaned in and whispered, "It does that sometimes. Usually after someone reads a haiku near it."
Zorko ignored him. His gaze softened. "This is not a trap. Not a weapon. Not even a story. It is a placeholder, aching to be whole. A fragment so burdened by purpose it refuses to misstep."
He circled the podium once, slower now, as if the air had grown heavier around the script. "It holds not knowledge, but tension. A silence stretched across centuries, waiting for its sisters to return."
Aspy blinked once. "You’re waxing poetic again."
Zorko didn’t respond. He raised his feather and held it still above the page. "Final appraisal," he intoned. "The Page That Won’t Read. A memory in exile. A promise in compression. A truth so wide it folded itself into one impossible line."
The page shimmered. Zorko tapped the lectern. The shimmer stopped.
Impy carefully lifted the page and slid it back into a long black envelope. Aspy curled protectively around it, as if daring the air to breathe too loudly.
Zorko turned to the orb. "This has been Zorko’s Arcane Appraisals," he said, softer now. "Today’s artifact: unfinished. Unspoken. But undoubtedly real."
The lights in the Cabinet shifted back to a gentle amber. Zorko gave a short, solemn bow and stepped behind the moss curtain.
The page pulsed once inside its envelope. The envelope was still faintly warm. Then it waited.
Entered by: 0x6424…79B4
