You shake your head, heart tightening as the woman urges you to flee.
—No.— Your voice is firmer than you feel. —Stay. Leave me here. I need to see this through. Alone.—
Her eyes flash with concern, but she doesn’t argue.
—Your choice.— And then she vanishes into the night like a whisper.
You linger in the shadow of the emperor’s men, uncertain if it shields you—or blinds you to a darker truth. The desert’s silence swallows your thoughts, the weight of your choice heavy in the still air. You are prisoner, yet not yet defeated.
The next morning, you are mounted on a mule, wrapped in heavy cloaks, and escorted by a small contingent of soldiers. The journey is slow, each day a grueling passage through the vast expanse of sand and sky. You watch the sun rise and fall, the desert’s fierce beauty both a balm and a curse.
At last, you arrive at Zalenice. The city is a fragile ghost of its former glory—cracked stone walls and crumbling towers touched by the soft light of dawn. But it is alive. And waiting.
You are brought before Emperor Claudius in the throne hall—the same place where your dream unfolded. He sits tall, regal and composed, his black and garnet robes as imposing as the stories you heard. Beside him stands the Magus, the silver-eyed man who haunted your dreams and whispered truths.
The Magus fixes you with a steady gaze. Claudius speaks:
—I have spoken to you through the wise man you saw in your visions, he says. The truth you seek lies not only in the waking world but in the threads of fate woven by magic and will.
You meet the Emperor’s eyes, searching for answers or deceit. The Magus’s stern expression reveals nothing but unwavering resolve.
—You may stay here in Zalenice. As a direct relative of your uncle, you have claim to the throne. Swear fealty to me, the Emperor, and I will entrust you with this city. I have other rebellions to quench, and stability here is paramount.
Your worst fears surface.
—Why did you dethrone my uncle?— you ask, voice tight.
He repeats the words from your dream, cold and measured, then adds:
—There are people who are not meant to rule. Your uncle, though of pure blood, was not of pure heart. He did not prioritize the good of his people. I intervene only to bring stability—to save your people, the Slavs, from his cruelty.
You narrow your eyes.
—So, he is alive?—
Claudius nods.
—I let him flee. Martyrs inspire rebellions. If he ever returns, you will have to face him—whether you take the throne or give it back. But once you understand the state of affairs here, I am confident you will banish your uncle forever.
You hesitate, searching for something deeper.
—What do you mean, you have the good of the Slavs at heart? Are you one of us?—
He offers a faint, knowing smile.
—Almost. My mother was Slav. My father, the king, was very fond of her. I will let you sleep on it.
Claudius stands and gestures toward the door.
—Tomorrow I need your decision. You can either stay and govern Zalenice—or decline and return home bearing news of your uncle’s defeat.
The throne waits. The city breathes its fragile hope. And you stand at the crossroads, caught between legacy and choice, shadow and light.
*
You are led from the throne hall in silence, still reeling from the weight of Claudius’s words. Guards flank you, though their posture is relaxed—not the stance of jailers, but of escorts. As you pass through the halls of Zalenice’s citadel, you glimpse remnants of its former grandeur. Painted tiles and faded banners. Gold leaf flaking from frescoes. A place caught between ruin and resurrection.
They open a heavy wooden door, and you step into a bedroom unlike any you’ve known. The bed is wide and soft, dressed in crimson silk. Moonlight spills through a tall, arched window, casting silver onto a basin of steaming water already drawn for your bath. The scent of jasmine and desert herbs clings to the air.
Attendants enter quietly. They do not speak, only bow. They help you disrobe and sink into the bath. The heat of the water relaxes your aching limbs, and for a few moments, your mind forgets the Magus, the woman in the night, your uncle’s face, the taste of dust and fear. You are scrubbed clean. Oils are rubbed into your skin. Fine linen robes are offered.
In the adjoining chamber, a table has been laid with food—breads filled with dates and nuts, roasted lamb scented with mint and cloves, olives, honeyed figs, a silver pitcher of cool wine. You eat cautiously at first, then hungrily. The fire in your chest subsides just enough for you to feel human again. Still, the weight of decision presses behind your eyes like sleep that will not come.
You lie in the great bed, surrounded by softness, but sleep is fitful. You dream again—of fire, of shadows at the edges of ruined stone, of your uncle’s voice calling from a distant tower. The Magus watches from above, silent. The woman from the inn appears, screaming without sound, reaching for you as the dream dissolves.
Morning comes with the call of horns from the eastern wall.
You are dressed in court robes—dark blue and embroidered with silver thread—and escorted through quiet halls to the audience chamber. The throne hall is unchanged, but its air feels sharper, more final. Emperor Claudius stands by a tall window, gazing over the city. He turns as you enter. The Magus stands at his side, hands folded, unreadable.
Claudius gestures toward the center of the room, where the throne lies.
—The throne of Zalenice,— he says. —It awaits your choice.
You say nothing.
He steps closer, voice low.
—I ask nothing of loyalty to me beyond what is owed a sovereign who has spared your life, offered you sanctuary, and entrusted you with power not as a reward, but as a burden. If you accept, you will rule here, in my name, but with your own hands. You can rebuild Zalenice. You can ensure peace for your people. You can rise.
He pauses. The Magus watches you with an intensity that burns through silence.
Claudius continues:
—Or you may walk away. Return to your homeland. I will not stop you. You may bear news of your uncle’s fall and tell your kin that Zalenice endures. But if you choose to leave, the city will fall to another. Perhaps one who cares less for the Slavs. I do not have time for further grooming. I need rulers, not wanderers.
He takes a breath.
—So I ask you, once only.
—Will you remain here, and rule in Zalenice, swearing fealty to me?
—Or do you decline, and leave this city behind forever?
The room is still.
The wind from the desert stirs the curtains.
The Magus lowers his gaze to you.
The weight of a kingdom rests in your answer.
You answer:
I’ll stay and I’ll swear allegiance to you.
I’ll leave. I don’t seek power, and there are pressing matters that need my attention in Moravice. I only came here to learn about my uncle—and I’ve done that. I’ll relay this information to my father.
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