The docks of Aldebryn greeted you with the smell of salt, fish, and smoke. After weeks at sea, the city rose before you like a promise carved in stone and wind. Gray towers and red-tiled roofs leaned toward the water, gulls wheeling above the masts that bristled along the harbor. The sun broke through the clouds as you disembarked, and Margaret’s hand slipped into yours.
“Aldebryn,” she whispered. “Home, for now.”
Her kin met you at the pier — men in green and silver livery, bearing the crest of House Velhradus. Their captain bowed deeply, though you caught the flicker of curiosity in his eyes. You were, after all, a foreign noble arriving without a crown, without an army, with only a ship’s worth of luggage and the woman who had chosen you over her lineage’s favor.
The estate overlooking the bay became your refuge. From its terraces you could see the sea stretch to the horizon, its color ever-changing — gray in dawn, indigo by noon, molten gold at sunset. Margaret filled the halls with music, laughter, and plans for a quieter life. She spoke of vineyards she would plant, trade routes to expand, a future that would not depend on kings or empires.
But for you, peace sat uneasily.
At night, you wrote letters to Moravice — messages to courtiers, old retainers, friends of your father — seeking word of what had become of your family. None returned. Some ships never came back at all, swallowed by storms or silence. Others docked with nothing but rumors: that Lord Ignacjusz ruled from the citadel, that resistance was crushed, that no heir remained.
Margaret tried to comfort you. “They may be alive, somewhere in hiding,” she would say. “Or in exile. You will know soon enough.” But her eyes betrayed the truth she would not speak.
Weeks turned to months. Your wealth, smuggled piece by piece through loyal vassals, reached Aldebryn — jewels, coin, relics of your house. It felt hollow. What use were gold and seals when the bloodline they marked might already be gone?
You walked the cliffs above the city often, alone. Below, the harbor thrummed with life — sailors shouting, ropes creaking, the clang of hammers against hulls — but it all seemed distant, a play you no longer belonged to.
One morning, as fog rolled off the sea, the servants announced a visitor.
She was old — impossibly old. Her cloak was of faded violet wool, hem heavy with sand and seaweed. Her eyes were sharp and gray, like the steel of a blade that has seen too much battle. She carried a small wooden bowl.
Margaret frowned at her appearance but allowed her in. “You’ve come a long way, Mother,” she said politely, though the edge in her tone was clear.
The woman bowed, then turned her gaze to you. “You are the Duke of Zalenice,” she said. “The one who lived when he should have died.”
Her voice was steady, low, with an accent you could not place.
“I am,” you replied. “Who are you?”
“Once,” she said, “I was Magus to your father.”
The room went still. Margaret’s breath caught.
“That’s not possible,” you said. “My father’s Magus died years ago, before my exile.”
Her lips curved faintly. “We die in one way, live in another. He sent me before the fall — to carry something for you.”
She lifted the bowl. Within it lay a single mushroom — pale, almost translucent, its stem long and curved like a question mark. It gave off a faint, silvery light.
Margaret stepped back. “What is this?”
The old woman’s eyes did not leave yours. “A key,” she said. “Eat it, and the truth will be revealed to you.”
“What truth?” you asked.
“The truth of your parents. Of their fate. Of your destiny.”
Margaret’s hand tightened around your arm. “Don’t listen to her. This is sorcery. Trickery. You’re safe here. You don’t need her riddles.”
But the word parents hung in the air like a tolling bell.
The Magus waited, calm, unblinking. “You wonder every night whether they live or die. Whether your path to Aldebryn was mercy or mistake. You ask the sea for answers. The sea does not speak. But the old world does — if you listen.”
She extended the bowl closer. The mushroom’s glow pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat.
Margaret stepped between you. “No,” she said sharply. “He’s done with blood and fate. Whatever you offer, it’s poison.”
The old woman regarded her coolly. “You love him. That is clear. But love cannot silence the truth.”
Your heart thudded painfully.
“What will I see?” you asked.
“Everything,” said the Magus. “The night your parents vanished. The bond that ties you still to Zalenice and to what lies beneath it. The shadow that follows you — the crow. You will understand why it does not leave.”
Her words sank deep, coiling in your mind like smoke. The crow. You had dreamed of it since the desert — its eyes, patient and endless.
Margaret looked at you, pale. “You don’t need this. You have me. You have peace.”
Peace. Yes, the word that had begun to taste like ash.
“I don’t know if I can live without knowing,” you said quietly.
The Magus nodded once. “Then you are ready.”
She set the bowl on the table and stepped back. The mushroom seemed to hum softly, its glow reflected in the silver goblets nearby.
You stared at it, your throat dry. Was it madness to believe this woman? To trust in magic when kingdoms fell to steel and deceit? Yet the pull was undeniable — the same hunger that had driven you across deserts, into wars, into loss.
Margaret’s voice broke the silence, trembling: “If you take it, you may never come back. Whatever she shows you, it will change you.”
You turned to her, your eyes meeting hers. “Maybe I’ve already changed,” you said.
She reached for your hand, desperate. “Don’t do this.”
You hesitated. The sea murmured beyond the window, waves slapping against the stone pier. Somewhere in the distance, gulls screamed.
You thought of your parents — your mother’s soft voice, your father’s steady hand on your shoulder, the last words before your exile. You thought of Claudius, of the Magus in Zalenice, of the prophecy whispered in your dreams.
What if this was the key to it all? What if the truth had been chasing you, waiting for this moment?
Your hand hovered above the bowl.
The mushroom pulsed once, like a living thing.
Margaret turned away, covering her mouth. “Please,” she whispered. “Don’t.”
The Magus only watched, her eyes cold as moonlight.
The world seemed to narrow to the curve of the bowl, the faint light, the choice.
To eat, and know.
Or refuse, and live blind.
The air thickened, heavy with salt and silence. You could hear your heartbeat, the echo of your father’s voice, the distant cry of the crow.
You reached forward.
And then — you stopped.
The Magus’s expression did not change, but her voice was softer now, almost kind. “There is no shame in fear. But truth waits for no one.”
Your fingers trembled above the glow.
Margaret wept silently beside you, her tears falling like rain against the stone floor.
The sea roared outside, relentless and eternal, as if calling you back to the path you had tried so hard to leave behind.
You drew a breath — one that could change everything.
And the mushroom’s light flickered once more, inviting.
…..
You take the mushroom, its taste of earth and iron filling your mouth as the world folds inward, drowning you in visions older than memory.
…..
You push the bowl away, your voice cold as steel as you order the sorcerer from your hall — some truths, you decide, were buried for a reason.
