The hall falls silent after Claudius’s words. Moravice has fallen.
The horns fade, the crowd’s murmur dims, and you stand alone beneath the weight of history. The sword in your hand feels colder now — a symbol not of honor, but of responsibility sharpened into a blade.
Claudius’s gaze rests upon you like a shadow. The Magus, motionless at his side, watches with eyes that seem to pierce through thought itself.
You draw a slow breath. The image of burning banners, your parents’ voices swallowed by silence, presses against your chest like a second heartbeat.
Then you speak.
“I will not march on Moravice.”
A ripple of surprise runs through the hall. Even Claudius’s expression shifts — just slightly, a flicker of interest behind the iron calm.
“I will send an emissary,” you continue. “To demand a parley with Lord Ignacjusz. Blood has already been spilled. If Moravice can be reclaimed without more slaughter, then that is the path I will choose.”
Claudius inclines his head, slowly. “A cautious mind,” he says, voice measured. “Perhaps even a wise one.”
The Magus says nothing, but you think — or imagine — that his silver eyes gleam brighter for an instant, like light glancing off water in deep shadow.
Claudius raises his hand. “Then so it shall be. Send your emissary. Let words travel where swords need not.”
You bow, the formal gesture concealing the turmoil beneath your calm.
The following days pass like shifting sand. Messengers come and go through Zalenice’s gates, bearing letters sealed with your new crest. You choose your emissary carefully — a man of quiet loyalty and reasoned speech, once a scholar at your father’s court before war turned wisdom into survival.
“Tell Lord Ignacjusz,” you say, “that I seek peace, not vengeance. I want to hear his reasons, his aims, his truth. If Moravice can be restored without fire, let it be.”
The emissary bows. “And if he refuses, my lord?”
You pause. “Then we will know what kind of man he truly is.”
He rides out that night beneath a moon of dull copper, his small retinue vanishing into the dark horizon.
Days stretch into a week. The palace grows quieter with waiting.
You wander the courtyards, where winter roses still bloom among the frost, their fragrance faint and cold. You dine alone, thinking of the desert, of the cell, of the Magus’s silent gaze.
Then, one evening, the gates open. The emissary returns — alone. His face is pale, his cloak stained by dust and rain.
“My lord,” he says, voice trembling, “Ignacjusz is dead.”
The words strike harder than steel. “Dead? When? How?”
“Three nights past. Assassinated by a dissident within his own court. They say it was a servant—someone disillusioned by his rule. He was stabbed during supper. By the time they found him, he was already gone.”
You sit in silence. The news feels both impossible and inevitable, like a prophecy fulfilled too soon.
“So,” you whisper, “Moravice is without a ruler.”
The emissary nods. “The city is in chaos. The nobles argue among themselves. But many speak your name already. They say the rightful heir must return.”
You close your eyes. For a moment, you imagine Claudius’s faint smile, the quiet precision of his words. You are free to go. Free to act in my name. Free to shape the fate of Zalenice.
Freedom. A word with too many meanings.
The next morning, you ride for Moravice.
The journey is swift; the soldiers who once defended Ignacjusz’s banners now lower them at your approach. The gates open before you, not in resistance but in weary relief.
The streets are filled with faces both familiar and strange. Some bow, some weep, some simply stare as you pass. The air smells of ash and rain.
You enter your family’s citadel — your citadel now — the seat of Moravice and Zalenice alike.
In the great hall, your parents’ portraits still hang, smoke-stained but unbroken. For a moment, you allow yourself to feel the weight of what has been reclaimed.
A steward kneels. “My lord, the people await your word.”
You look around the hall — the same hall Ignacjusz once defiled with ambition, now silent again. “Tell them,” you say, “that the Duke of Moravice has returned. And that peace will rule where fire once did.”
Cheers rise outside. Bells ring across the city.
Yet inside, beneath the roar of triumph, doubt settles in your chest like a shadow refusing to leave.
Two nights later, the rumors begin.
They come quietly, whispered by servants in corridors, passed between guards around low fires.
That Ignacjusz’s assassin was no dissident.
That the blade was paid for with imperial coin.
That Claudius himself had ordered the death.
You dismiss the first whisper. Then the second. But by the third, unease has become impossible to ignore.
You call for Varek, your captain.
“Find out what you can,” you tell him. “Discreetly.”
He nods but hesitates. “My lord… if it was the Emperor’s doing, what would you have me do with that truth?”
You don’t answer.
When he’s gone, you sit alone in the hall. The firelight flickers over the carved pillars, over the sword Claudius gave you — still gleaming, still perfect.
He has solved every obstacle before you.
He has restored your title, your land, your power.
And now, your greatest rival lies conveniently dead.
You should feel gratitude. You should feel loyalty.
Instead, you feel watched.
That night, you dream again.
You stand in the cell beneath the citadel, the same walls that once surrounded you in silence. But this time, the lantern burns brighter, and in its glow you see shapes forming in the stone — faces, reflections, whispering in unison.
“All mirrors are broken,” they murmur.
“Reflected on the sand.”
“On every grain of sand.”
You reach out to touch the wall, but your hand meets not stone — only water. Beneath its surface, a crown gleams faintly, half-buried, half-alive.
You wake before dawn, breath sharp, sweat cold on your skin.
By midday, you stand at the window of your father’s study, looking down at the city that now bears your banners once more.
Two paths stretch before you like twin shadows.
You could write to Claudius — a letter direct and formal, asking the questions that gnaw at you: Did you order the death of Ignacjusz? Why did you want me restored? What do you seek from me now?
Such a letter might reveal truth… or it might mark you as a threat.
Or you could act silently. Send a spy into the Emperor’s court — someone clever enough to move unseen, to listen, to uncover the rot beneath the throne without drawing Claudius’s gaze.
But if you are discovered, the consequences will be ruin.
You stand at the threshold of both futures, the candlelight dancing on the edge of the signet you now wear — the ring once given to your ancestors, now gleaming beside Claudius’s seal.
Outside, the bells of Moravice toll the hour. The city waits.
You pick up a quill. For a long time, it hovers above parchment, poised between confession and silence.
Then, slowly, you set it down.
Your eyes drift to the window — to the banners fluttering above the towers, to the horizon where Zalenice lies beyond the mist. Somewhere in that distance, the Emperor watches.
“Claudius,” you murmur, “what game are you playing?”
The question hangs unanswered in the air.
And as twilight falls over Moravice, you make your decision — though whether it is the path of honesty or of shadows, only the dawn will know.
…..
You take up the quill at last, your doubts laid bare in ink, and write to Emperor Claudius himself—demanding truth, not favor, asking whether Ignacjusz’s death was his doing and what purpose he truly sees in your reign.
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