You found her at dusk, where the caravan road narrowed into a fold of dunes. Margaret stood with the letter clenched in one hand, the other to her breast. For a moment you wanted only to ride on, but the look on her face stopped you — not pleading, only steady.
You stand before her, the wind tugging at your cloak, stirring the dust between you like ghosts of what once was. She looks smaller than you remember, though perhaps it is only the weight of guilt pressing her down. For a heartbeat, neither of you speaks. Then—
“You left me in the desert.” Your voice is low, iron-scraped.
Color drains from her face. She glances at the guards, who hesitate, recognizing something in your stance—a predator’s edge. She lifts her free hand, not to strike, but as if to ward off your accusation. “No. Listen to me.”
“Why should I?” You pull her closer, not enough to harm but enough that she can feel your tremor. Her eyes flood with tears, bright and unhidden. She does not struggle. “It was Hiacynt,” she says, voice breaking. “It was all his doing. I swear.”
You hold her gaze, searching for falsehood—and find none. Only ruin. Only regret. The fury that had driven you across the desert softens, not into forgiveness, but into understanding.
“I believed you,” you say finally, releasing her wrist. “And believing you almost cost me my life. But still…” You exhale, weariness creeping into your bones. “Still, I wanted to see you again.”
She wipes her tears, straightening. “Then come with me. We can start anew—Sweden, Aldebryn. It’s far from here, far from blood and crowns. You don’t have to fight anymore.”
You shake your head slowly. “I do.”
Her breath catches. “You’d choose revenge over love?”
“I choose duty,” you reply. “If I turn my back now, the dead stay unavenged, and everything my father built turns to ash. You ask me to leave, but there is nowhere I could go and still live with myself.”
Margaret’s lips tremble. “Then what am I to you?”
You step closer, touching her cheek with a gauntleted hand. “The one I will come back to—if I survive.”
She closes her eyes. “Then I’ll wait in Aldebryn,” she whispers. “My heart is yours.”
“And mine is yours,” you answer softly. “But I must go.”
“I will go where you tell me,” she said. “If you will have me, I will wait in Aldebryn — in Sweden. My heart is yours, always.”
Aldebryn felt like a map drawn to a better world. You had never spoken of Sweden; the name became a fragile promise between two people who had known only deserts and courtrooms. She smiled, and despite the cooling air you felt warmth.
“You will go alone?” you asked.
“Yes,” she replied. “I will take passage on merchant ships. Aldebryn is far, but it is a place such as this cannot reach. I will be safe. I will keep our secret.”
You stepped forward and took her hand, warm and trembling. “If I survive this,” you said, keeping your voice level, “if I live to ride beneath a banner of my own making, I will come to Aldebryn. I will find you.”
Her thumb brushed the scar at the corner of your mouth and then she pressed her forehead to yours. “Find me,” she whispered. “Make sure your heart remembers the way.”
Promises in war are brittle; you would not gild what might break. Instead you offered what you could truthfully give: a vow of return, conditional on survival. “If I die, it will be with your name on my lips. If I live, I will come for you.”
She let out a small, relieved laugh. “Then go,” she said. “Bot bring me back a future, not a ghost.”
You wrapped the letter in oilcloth and slid it into your breastplate. The soldiers shifted in the distance, impatient with the private life of command. Duty pulled at you with a gravity you could not resist; love clenched your ribs like a softer, persistent gravity.
You bowed to her — not the formal bow to a throne, but a gesture between two people who had made a bargain no treaty could hold. “Wait in Aldebryn,” you said. “I will come when I can. Keep faith with me.”
She lifted her chin, wind teasing the loose strands of hair around her face. “I will wait,” she said. “Always.”
You turned, spurs biting into your mount. The retinue fell into formation and the road to Moravice opened before you like a sworn duty. Behind, in the dimming light, Margaret stood resolute, a promise folded into the shape of a woman. Ahead lay battle, justice, and the work of reclaiming a home.
You rode toward it, the vow tucked close to your heart, and the desert closed behind you on the hush of the dunes. The scent of jasmine lingered in your coat — a quiet compass you would follow, should fate allow.
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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