The docks of Aldebryn greeted you with the smell of salt, fish, and smoke. After weeks at sea, the city rose before you like a promise carved in stone and wind. Gray towers and red-tiled roofs leaned toward the water, gulls wheeling above the masts that bristled along the harbor. The sun broke through the clouds as you disembarked, and Margaret’s hand slipped into yours.
“Aldebryn,” she whispered. “Home, for now.”
Her kin met you at the pier — men in green and silver livery, bearing the crest of House Velhradus. Their captain bowed deeply, though you caught the flicker of curiosity in his eyes. You were, after all, a foreign noble arriving without a crown, without an army, with only a ship’s worth of luggage and the woman who had chosen you over her lineage’s favor.
The estate overlooking the bay became your refuge. From its terraces you could see the sea stretch to the horizon, its color ever-changing — gray in dawn, indigo by noon, molten gold at sunset. Margaret filled the halls with music, laughter, and plans for a quieter life. She spoke of vineyards she would plant, trade routes to expand, a future that would not depend on kings or empires.
But for you, peace sat uneasily.
At night, you wrote letters to Moravice — messages to courtiers, old retainers, friends of your father — seeking word of what had become of your family. None returned. Some ships never came back at all, swallowed by storms or silence. Others docked with nothing but rumors: that Lord Ignacjusz ruled from the citadel, that resistance was crushed, that no heir remained.
Margaret tried to comfort you. “They may be alive, somewhere in hiding,” she would say. “Or in exile. You will know soon enough.” But her eyes betrayed the truth she would not speak.
Weeks turned to months. Your wealth, smuggled piece by piece through loyal vassals, reached Aldebryn — jewels, coin, relics of your house. It felt hollow. What use were gold and seals when the bloodline they marked might already be gone?
You walked the cliffs above the city often, alone. Below, the harbor thrummed with life — sailors shouting, ropes creaking, the clang of hammers against hulls — but it all seemed distant, a play you no longer belonged to.
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One morning, as fog rolled off the sea, the servants announce a visitor.
Dawn seeps over the sea as the servants announce a visitor.
She is old — impossibly old. Her cloak is faded violet wool, hem heavy with sand and seaweed. Her eyes are sharp and gray, like steel that has seen too much battle. She carries a small wooden bowl.
Margaret frowns at her appearance but allows her in. “You’ve come a long way, Mother,” she says politely, though the edge in her tone is clear.
The woman bows, then turns her gaze to you. “You are the Duke of Zalenice,” she says. “The one who lived when he should have died.”
Her voice is steady, low, with an accent you cannot place.
“I am,” you reply. “Who are you?”
“Once,” she says, “I am Magus to your father.”
The room goes still. Margaret’s breath catches.
“That’s not possible,” you say. “My father’s Magus died years ago, before my exile.”
Her lips curve faintly. “We die in one way, live in another. He sends me before the fall — to carry something for you.”
She extends her hand toward you. Within it lies a single mushroom — pale, almost translucent, its stem long and curved like a question mark. It gives off a faint, silvery light.
Margaret steps back. “What is this?”
The old woman’s eyes do not leave yours. “A key,” she says. “Eat it, and the truth will be revealed to you.”
“What truth?” you ask.
“The truth of your parents. Of their fate. Of your destiny.”
Margaret’s hand tightens around your arm. “Don’t listen to her. This is sorcery. Trickery. You’re safe here. You don’t need her riddles.”
But the word parents hangs in the air like a tolling bell.
The Magus waits, calm, unblinking. “You wonder every night whether they live or die. Whether your path to Aldebryn was mercy or mistake. You ask the sea for answers. The sea does not speak. But the old world does — if you listen.”
She moves closer. The mushroom’s glow pulses faintly, like a heartbeat.
Margaret steps between you. “No,” she says sharply. “He’s done with blood and fate. Whatever you offer, it’s poison.”
The old woman regards her coolly. “You love him. That is clear. But love cannot silence the truth.”
Your heart thuds painfully.
“What will I see?” you ask.
“Everything,” says the Magus. “The night your parents vanish. The bond that ties you still to Zalenice and to what lies beneath it. The shadow that follows you — the crow. You will understand why it does not leave.”
Her words sink deep, coiling in your mind like smoke. The crow. You have dreamed of it since the desert — its eyes, patient and endless.
Margaret looks at you, pale. “You don’t need this. You have me. You have peace.”
Peace. Yes, the word begins to taste like ash.
“I don’t know if I can live without knowing,” you say quietly.
The Magus nods once. “Then you are ready.”
She sets the bowl on the table and steps back. The mushroom seems to hum softly, its glow reflecting in the silver goblets nearby.
You stare at it, throat dry. Is it madness to believe this woman? To trust in magic when kingdoms fall to steel and deceit? Yet the pull is undeniable — the same hunger that drives you across deserts, into wars, into loss.
Margaret’s voice breaks the silence, trembling: “If you take it, you may never come back. Whatever she shows you, it will change you.”
You turn to her, eyes meeting hers. “Maybe I’ve already changed,” you say.
She reaches for your hand, desperate. “Don’t do this.”
You hesitate. The sea murmurs beyond the window, waves slapping against the stone pier. Somewhere in the distance, gulls scream.
You think of your parents — your mother’s soft voice, your father’s steady hand on your shoulder, the last words before your exile. You think of Claudius, of the Magus in Zalenice, of the prophecy whispered in your dreams.
What if this is the key to it all? What if the truth has been chasing you, waiting for this moment?
Your hand hovers above the bowl.
The mushroom pulses once, like a living thing.
Margaret turns away, covering her mouth. “Please,” she whispers. “Don’t.”
The Magus only watches, eyes cold as moonlight.
The world narrows to the curve of the bowl, the faint light, the choice.
To eat, and know.
Or refuse, and live blind.
The air thickens, heavy with salt and silence. You hear your heartbeat, the echo of your father’s voice, the distant cry of the crow.
You reach forward.
And then — you stop.
The Magus’s expression does not change, but her voice softens now, almost kind. “There is no shame in fear. But truth waits for no one.”
Your fingers tremble above the glow.
Margaret weeps silently beside you, tears falling like rain against the stone floor.
The sea roars outside, relentless and eternal, as if calling you back to the path you have tried so hard to leave behind.
You draw a breath — one that can change everything.
And the mushroom’s light flickers once more, inviting.
…..
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