You breathe in the thick air of the audience chamber, letting Claudius’s words sink into the heavy silence. You had intended to decline the throne, to leave Zalenice behind, and yet the weight of the city’s fate presses against your chest like a stone. The Magus stands impassive, eyes fixed on you, and for a moment, you almost wish you could retreat into the shadows of the hall, away from the gaze of both the emperor and destiny.
Claudius inclines his head, his expression unreadable. “I understand your hesitation,” he says slowly, “and I respect your wish to return to Moravice. But you must understand: Zalenice cannot wait for indecision. Your uncle’s line still threatens your people. Lord Ignacjusz will move swiftly if left unchallenged.”
You bow your head, tightening your hands into fists at your sides. “I have no desire to rule here, Your Majesty. My purpose was only to learn the truth of my uncle’s fate, and I have that. I intend to return to Moravice, to my father, and ensure the news of his flight is delivered.”
Claudius steps closer, the echo of his boots filling the still hall. “Your choice would be understandable, were it not for the peril that follows your uncle’s betrayal. You cannot simply return home and hope the house of Ignacjusz remains docile. Zalenice needs a Duke. You, as his rightful kin, bear the claim. It is not merely an honor—it is a necessity. And I will not allow you to leave unprepared.”
He gestures sharply, and two attendants bring forth a ceremonial scroll and a sword inlaid with silver filigree. “Swear fealty to me, and I will grant you the title of Duke of Zalenice. You will leave this hall not as a mere messenger of truth, but as a ruler with a retinue, with soldiers loyal to you, and with command of an army sufficient to challenge your uncle’s usurper.”
Your stomach twists. You had wanted to avoid this. To return to the familiar, to the safety of Moravice, unentangled in a city torn by betrayal. Yet here you are, standing before the emperor, and the opportunity to reclaim what is yours—not just the throne, but justice for your family—presses inescapably.
“I do not seek power,” you whisper, more to yourself than to Claudius. “I am a guest in your court. I cannot accept this freely.”
Claudius’s gaze is steady, piercing, yet not unkind. “You are correct. You do not seek power, but the circumstances demand action. Consider this: I will provide counsel, resources, and support—but only to the extent that Zalenice’s people are protected. I will not interfere in your war at Moravice. That is yours to fight. My hand will not linger where it is not welcome.”
You nod slowly, understanding that you have little choice. To leave without accepting the emperor’s aid would be folly. Your retinue and this army are your only path to reclaim your home. With a quiet resolve, you step forward. “Very well. I accept, Your Majesty. I will take the title of Duke of Zalenice and lead the forces to restore order. I will not fail.”
Claudius inclines his head, and the Magus watches you with an intensity that burns through the tension in your chest. “So be it. Let the ceremony be brief, but solemn. You will swear before the city and the people, and your banner will rise in Zalenice as a sign of hope. May your hand be steady and your judgment true.”
The ceremony is simple yet awe-inspiring. You kneel before Claudius, the scroll of fealty before you. He places a hand upon your shoulder, and the sword of Zalenice rests in your grip. The words are formal, almost musical, as you pledge to serve the city and the emperor’s name. Your voice trembles slightly, but the meaning is ironclad. When the ritual concludes, the hall resonates with the subtle clang of armor and the hush of the city’s watchmen bowing to their new Duke.
Outside, your retinue gathers. Soldiers stand at attention, banners snapping in the wind, the desert sun glinting off polished armor. Claudius steps aside, offering a faint nod. “Go with my blessing. May fortune follow you. I wish I could do more, but the affairs of Moravice must be your own. Lead with wisdom, and do not fail your people.”
You bow, taking the command of your army with a mixture of gratitude and apprehension. The desert stretches behind you as you ride from the city gates, the sands shimmering under the noon sun. You are no longer a mere traveler. You are Duke, with men and resources, bound by duty to a city that now looks to you as its shield.
For days, your contingent moves swiftly but cautiously toward Moravice. The roads are harsh, winds whipping sand into your eyes, the heat relentless, yet your mind cannot rest. Every decision, every step, carries the weight of the people you are to protect, and of the home you aim to reclaim.
On the fifth day, a mounted courtier arrives from Moravice, breathless and urgent. He carries a sealed letter, marked with the crest of Velhradus. Your heart skips a beat before you even break the seal. The parchment is delicate, the ink familiar. You recognize the hand instantly—Margaret.
You read her words with mounting disbelief, each line like a lightning bolt through your chest:
“I thought you were dead. I thought I’d never forgive myself. It was Hiacynt. It was all his doing. I begged him not to. I swore to him—They dragged me away when I tried to go back. His father’s guards had surrounded us. I had no power.”
You pause, letting her candor sink in. You remember the shock, the fear, the raw honesty of her face in that moment of your near-death. You believe her.
She continues, and your pulse quickens:
“I love you. I have loved you from the first moment I saw your courage, your heart. I implore you, do not seek revenge. I’m really sorry to transmit the news in such an inappropriate way, but your parents are both gone. I’m really sorry, but please don’t choose the path of vengeance, because it will consume you. Though it is unconventional, I propose to you—we elope. Meet me where only we know, where we always met in such penurious hours. I will be waiting. Together, we can unite our houses and from abroad, perhaps one day, overthrow Ignacjusz and reclaim Moravice. I ask you—choose me, and life, and love.”
The words weigh heavy in your mind. Your parents are dead. There’s no reason to go back home. Your retinue looks to you for orders, unaware of the storm in your chest. The army marches under your banner, yet your heart and mind are pulled in a direction separate from the path you’ve sworn to follow. You must choose: continue toward Moravice to reclaim your rightful home and challenge Lord Ignacjusz, or abandon the army, taking only your retinue, and meet Margaret at the hidden place you both alone know, trusting her and the promise of future vengeance from afar.
You clutch the letter tightly, reading her words again. The thought of her near death, of her courage and honesty, tugs at a part of you you thought had long been buried in dust and sand. You see her face clearly: the wide eyes, the trembling hands, the unspoken plea that had been there even before the desert had tried to claim you both.
The desert stretches endlessly before you, shimmering under the sun. The army waits, their banners fluttering, the soldiers’ eyes fixed upon you with unwavering loyalty. You feel the full weight of your oath to Claudius, to the people of Zalenice. Yet the pull toward Margaret, toward love, toward the life you might build together beyond the confines of duty and war, is irresistible.
Your mind races. If you leave, you risk abandoning Zalenice to its uncertain fate, though Claudius warned you that your army is bound by duty, not by fate. If you march with your full force, you honor your oath but may lose the one person who has proven her truth and loyalty at the cost of her freedom.
You close your eyes and imagine the scene she described—the hidden place known only to you, where no soldier’s eyes would watch, where you could meet in secret and plan a future together. You imagine her waiting, eyes wide and filled with relief, heart pounding to see you alive. And then you imagine the streets of Moravice, the banners of Ignacjusz, the faces of your people who will look to you to reclaim their home.
You weigh duty against desire, the echoes of Claudius’s blessing against the pulse of Margaret’s words. Your hand brushes the hilt of your sword. You glance at your officers, their expressions patient, trusting, unwavering. You glance at the letter again, the ink slightly smudged from hurried writing, the scent of parchment mingling with faint traces of jasmine and desert dust.
Finally, your lips press together, decision hardening in your chest. You cannot abandon Moravice now, not when your army waits, not when the path of vengeance and justice stretches before you like the desert road itself. But you cannot ignore Margaret, either.
You fold the letter carefully, tucking it close to your heart. “Ready the army,” you say, voice firm, echoing across the sands. “We continue our march to Moravice. We will reclaim what is ours. And…” You hesitate only a moment before continuing, to yourself “… “and I will find Margaret of Velhradus.” She will not be forsaken, no matter the trials ahead.”
The retinue nods, the soldiers straighten, and the banners snap sharply in the wind. You mount your horse, feeling the weight of command settle on your shoulders, the desert wind tangling your hair, carrying both the scent of battle and the memory of Margaret’s plea.
The road stretches endlessly, but you ride forward, resolute. The echoes of Claudius’s words linger in your mind: lead with wisdom, do not fail your people. And now, more than ever, you understand the burden of choice, the knife-edge of duty and desire.
As the sun begins its descent, the distant spires of Moravice appear, hazy against the horizon. You tighten your grip on the reins, the army following in steady formation, your heart racing with the twin fires of vengeance and love. The path ahead is uncertain, the forces arrayed against you formidable, but your resolve is clear.
And somewhere beyond the dunes and rivers, Margaret waits. But your army is already approaching Moravice. You camp. Tomorrow will bring a new day.
…
You decide to go tell Margaret in person that you decline her proposition and will lead the way to Moravice.
…
You summon your army’s general and ask him to speak on your behalf. If Ignacjusz doesn’t surrender, he is to lead an attack against his forces. You take your retinue and ride towards the secret place where Margaret awaits.
One Comment