The words leave your lips like a decree carved into stone. The hall stirs. Horns sound, louder this time, echoing through marble and gold. Claudius smiles faintly — not with joy, but with the quiet satisfaction of a man who has seen his plan unfold exactly as he desired.
“So be it,” he says. “At dawn, the banners of Zalenice will ride for Moravice.”
The Magus inclines his head slightly, though his silver eyes never leave yours. For a heartbeat, you imagine you see the faintest flicker of sorrow there — or perhaps warning. Then it’s gone, replaced by the same calm, unreadable mask.
The drums thunder. The nobles bow. You turn and walk from the hall beneath the weight of a hundred gazes, the ceremonial sword still heavy in your grasp.
Dawn burns red over the plains.
The army of Zalenice stretches before you — rows upon rows of spears, shields glinting like scales beneath the rising sun. Banners ripple in the wind, bearing your sigil now, though the ink of Claudius’s decree is barely dry.
“Duke,” says your captain — a hard-faced veteran named Varek. “The scouts report that Lord Ignacjusz holds Moravice’s inner walls, but his outer defenses are in disarray. The people turned against him when the news of your coming spread.”
Your heart beats faster. The city of your birth — your parents’ city — lies just beyond the river bend, veiled in morning mist.
“Then we strike before he regains his footing,” you say.
Varek nods. “Your word, my lord.”
You raise the sword Claudius gave you. “Advance.”
The horns cry out.
The army surges forward.
By noon, the siege begins. The gates of Moravice, blackened by fire, shudder beneath the assault. Catapults fling stones that crash against the towers like thunder. Arrows rain from above, but your soldiers press on, their voices echoing your name.
At last, with a sound like the breaking of chains, the gates burst open.
You are the first to ride through.
The streets are chaos — smoke, blood, cries of loyalty and vengeance intermingled. You see the old square where you once played as a child, now littered with the fallen. You see your family’s banners trampled in the mud, your ancestral hall turned into a fortress for traitors.
Through the haze, you spot him.
Lord Ignacjusz stands atop the steps of the citadel, his armor black and gilded, his eyes burning like coals.
He sees you too.
“You bring destruction to your own city,” he calls, voice carrying through the din. “Then let this end as it must — between rulers, not armies.”
You dismount.
The world narrows. Around you, the battle rages, but the noise fades until there is only your heartbeat and the hiss of steel leaving its scabbard.
Ignacjusz meets you halfway. Your blades clash, sparks flying in the twilight. He is older, heavier, but his strength is iron-hard. You parry, strike, duck — the rhythm of war returning to your body like an old song.
“You fight well for Claudius’s hound,” he snarls.
“And you die poorly for a traitor,” you answer.
He laughs, low and bitter. “Traitor? I served something greater than a throne of lies. I saw what could be. The Slavs united under one banner — not Claudius’s. Not his false empire built on ashes.”
He feints left, then drives his sword at your chest. You twist aside, feel the blade graze your ribs. Pain sears through you.
“He fears you,” Ignacjusz breathes. “You have his army now. His trust. But you are only a pet, made to bite where he commands.”
You catch his wrist, wrench his sword away, and drive your blade through his chest.
For a moment, neither of you moves. His breath catches — not from fear, but from revelation.
“Good,” he whispers. “Better it be you. You have the spark… I saw it even when you were a child. The fire of kings.”
He grips your arm, blood slick on his gauntlet. “Listen. Claudius rules by stolen right. The true seal — the signet of the forefathers — was hidden from him, passed down through generations of Slavic kings. It marks the one chosen by the old blood.”
He fumbles at his belt, pressing something into your hand — a small, ancient ring wrought of tarnished gold, its face engraved with a sigil older than any crown.
“With this, you could unite them all,” he rasps. “Bring back the old glory. Restore what was lost before Claudius twisted it into empire.”
His eyes meet yours, fierce even in death’s shadow. “Be more than his pawn. Elevate Moravice to more than a vassal city.”
Then his body goes still.
You pull the blade free. The light fades from his eyes. Around you, the fighting stops — first in the square, then through the streets, as word spreads that Ignacjusz has fallen.
Moravice is yours.
That night, the fires of victory burn high. The people of Moravice kneel as you walk through the gates of your family’s citadel, reclaimed at last. You pass beneath the charred remnants of the old banners and hang new ones in their place — the colors of your house, the mark of Zalenice beside them.
But the signet burns cold in your palm.
You retire to your chambers — the same your parents once ruled from. The next morning brings solace to the chaos in your mind. On the desk lies a sealed parchment, its wax marked by the imperial crest. You break it open and read.
“To the Duke of Zalenice and rightful ruler of Moravice,
You have done well. The Empire commends your valor and loyalty.
To ease your burden in governance, I shall send my most trusted advisors to your court — learned men who will serve as a bridge between our thrones, ensuring unity and swift communication. Their counsel will strengthen your rule and, through you, the Empire itself.
— Claudius, Emperor and Sovereign Protector of the Slavs.”
The words are gilded in courtesy, but their meaning cuts like a hidden knife.
“Advisors,” you murmur. “Or watchers.”
You set the letter aside, staring into the candle flame until it warps and doubles. The light flickers over the signet in your hand — the symbol of a lineage Claudius thought buried.
“All mirrors are broken,” you whisper.
Your reflection shimmers faintly in the wine on your table — the same face you saw in the bronze mirror days ago, but different now. Harder. Older.
A choice forms like a shadow in your mind: accept the Emperor’s hand and remain his obedient Duke… or grasp the signet and become something far greater — and far more dangerous.
You step to the window. Outside, the city glows under the moon, the people chanting your name. Their torches are like stars reborn from ruin.
In the courtyard below, your soldiers drink and sing, their loyalty freshly sworn. But for how long, you wonder, before Claudius’s “advisors” whisper their poison among them?
You turn the signet over once more. Its ancient engraving catches the light — a sun and a serpent entwined.
“The mark of kings,” you recall Ignacjusz saying. “The seal of the Slavic forefathers.”
A knock sounds at your door. Varek enters, bowing slightly.
“My lord,” he says, “a messenger from Zalenice arrived ahead of the Emperor’s envoys. He bears no seal, but he asked that this be placed in your hands only.”
He offers a small pouch. You open it — and find inside a shard of black glass, smooth as a mirror’s surface. On it, faint words glimmer, as though etched by moonlight itself:
The Magus watches. The Emperor listens. Choose what you will reflect.
The shard grows cold in your grasp. You feel the weight of your choices gathering — Claudius’s empire, Ignacjusz’s dream, your own fractured reflection caught between them.
Outside, dawn begins to creep over Moravice’s towers once more.
And as the first light touches the signet in your hand, you whisper,
“All mirrors are broken… but some truths still shine through.”
……
You decide to accept the Emperor’s advisors, bowing to Claudius’s will with measured gratitude—after all, he gave you an army, restored your birthright, and lifted you from exile to power; it would be folly to betray the hand that rebuilt you.
…..
You take up your pen instead, and with each stroke declare yourself the true heir of the Slavic forefathers—an open letter to Claudius and to every realm, a challenge wrapped in ink and fire, calling all who still remember the old glory to choose where their allegiance lies.
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