The advisors arrived in Moravice under the cover of a brisk spring morning. Their ships glided into the harbor, banners fluttering in the wind with the imperial crest of Claudius gleaming in gilt and silver. Each of them wore the quiet authority of education and bureaucracy; they bore neither arms nor armor, only the tools of counsel, ink, and parchment.
You received them in the great hall of your restored citadel, the banners of your house newly hung beside those of Moravice itself. Varek stood at your side, ever a solid presence, while the Magus’s shard of black glass rested carefully atop a polished oak table. The advisors bowed, their voices unified and courteous.
“My lord,” one of them said, a tall man with pale hair and hawkish eyes, “we are here to ensure your rule is strengthened, to advise in matters of law, commerce, and diplomacy, and to maintain proper communication with the Emperor. Your wisdom, of course, shall guide all decisions.”
You inclined your head once, silent, observing each of them as if weighing their souls rather than their words. The crow in your chest, ever vigilant, stirred faintly. They were gifts, yes, but also chains, subtle and deliberate. Claudius’s hand reached far, and you would need to navigate carefully.
The first months passed in careful governance. You walked through your city, speaking with merchants, artisans, and soldiers alike, listening to grievances and redressing injustices. Roads were repaired, markets flourished, and the river trade resumed, lifting Moravice from the shadow of conquest. The advisors offered guidance, but you tempered their influence, ensuring the city remained yours in spirit, even if Claudius’s seal lay upon the letters of appointment.
Years rolled forward with a steady rhythm. You found satisfaction in small victories: a bridge completed ahead of schedule, a new school opening in the eastern district, a plague averted through careful planning and diplomacy. Moravice’s banners flew over a city that breathed again, and while the empire’s eyes watched, your hand shaped the streets, the courts, and the people’s trust.
Even in the quiet victories, the crow in your chest did not rest. It whispered in dreams: black wings over sunlit fields, a desert that swallowed you whole, the shape of betrayal standing at the edge of dunes. You woke in sweat, heart hammering, and for a moment, you wondered if Moravice itself carried the weight of the desert, of Hyacint’s treachery, in its bones.
Then the letter arrived. Its seal was unmistakable: delicate, familiar, and yet agonizingly personal. Lady Margaret.
You did not open it immediately. You turned it over in your hands for hours, the paper cool and unforgiving, the wax hardened like a seal upon your memory. When at last you broke it, the script within was delicate, deliberate, but unmistakably hers:
“To the rightful heir of Moravice, the one who survived the desert where shadows swallowed hope: I write to you now, with trembling hand and heavy heart. I was deceived as much as you were, bound in a plan orchestrated by Lord Hyacint. My silence was cowardice, fear, and shame — I did not know if you yet lived, or if my words would bring vengeance instead of solace. Yet for the sake of what acquaintance we once shared, for the memory of trust between us, I must tell you this: I am not the traitor you imagine. I pray for your forgiveness, though I know it may never come. I’m currently living in Aldebryn, Sweden, the home of my family, if you deign forgive me and come visit me.”
The words cut into you like ice. Years of absence, years of grief and triumph and rule, and now this: a voice from the past, trembling but alive, extending a hand into a river of your carefully constructed control. She was alive. She had survived. And she had suffered, or so she claimed.
You paced the study of your chambers, the letter clutched in one hand, the other brushing along the edge of the desk where Ignacjusz’s signet rested. The crow stirred faintly, black wings brushing against your ribs, whispering of caution and remembrance, of fire and ashes.
To go to her — to Aldebryn, to the northern reaches of Sweden, to the port city she had fled to — would be to reopen a wound you had thought long healed. And yet, there was curiosity, perhaps even a faint ache, that compelled you. Could the woman who left you for dead, who vanished amidst the desert sands and political intrigue, truly have been as trapped as she claimed? Could she be redeemed? Could you, finally, face the shadow of betrayal and lay it to rest?
And yet, the alternatives pressed equally upon you. To go would be to risk another disappointment, another manipulation, perhaps even danger. Hyacint’s shadow lingered still; Claudius’s advisors might see this as folly, a distraction, a weakness. And you, the Duke of Zalenice, the ruler of Moravice, could not afford weakness. Could not afford the doubt that might unseat the careful restoration you had spent years building.
The crow flapped within you again, dark wings slicing through your thoughts. It whispered of trust betrayed, of blood shed, of loyalty questioned. It whispered of vengeance, of power, of the necessity of survival over reconciliation.
You stared out from the citadel balcony, where the city below shimmered in the afternoon sun. Children played along the newly repaired streets; merchants cried their wares across the market square. The smell of bread and smoke rose from ovens and chimneys. Moravice breathed again.
And yet, in the midst of life, the letter burned in your palm.
You remembered the desert — the scorching wind, the black sands, the ache of abandonment. You remembered the evenings in your garden, Margaret’s face framed by candlelight as you built a life together, only for betrayal and circumstance to drive a wedge between you both. And now, the past called again, offering either reconciliation or ruin.
Hours passed. The candle burned low. The advisors, distant and polite, waited for instructions. Varek, silent and watchful, leaned against the wall. The shard of black glass from the Magus rested nearby, a faint reminder that every reflection could deceive, every truth could be twisted.
You could go. You could ride north, past the icy fjords and rocky coastlines, sail into the harbor of Aldebryn, and face her. You could confront Margaret, hear her explanation, witness her remorse. You could test the sincerity of her claims, measure the truth of her fear, and, if possible, reclaim what semblance of trust or friendship had survived the desert.
Or you could close the chapter. Fold the letter away, allow its words to dissolve into dust alongside your memories of betrayal, and focus instead on the realm you had rebuilt. Moravice had risen from fire and treachery once; it could do so again, under your hand. Margaret’s presence was a call to old wounds, a temptation to falter, a reminder of everything you had suffered. Perhaps some histories are best left buried.
The choice crystallized in the quiet of your chambers. Two paths stretched out like rivers of shadow and light:
You could ride north, to Aldebryn, and face Margaret — renewing an acquaintance that had once been love and betrayal.
You could remain in Moravice, guarding against threats, ruling your city with vigilance, and close that chapter forever.
The crow stirred in your chest, wings beating with impatient insistence. It offered no guidance, only presence: a dark companion, a reminder that every action carried weight, every inaction risked ruin.
Outside, Moravice slept beneath lantern light and rising smoke from evening hearths. The city you had rebuilt, the people who had trusted you with their homes and lives, waited silently for your decision. The shards of past and present collided in your mind, each thought a spark, each memory a shadow.
You took a deep breath, letting the weight of your choices settle like ash upon your shoulders. The letter burned faintly in your hand; the signet of Ignacjusz gleamed cold on the desk. Varek’s eyes, steady and unyielding, met yours, asking no questions, offering no counsel. The black wings of the crow beat once more, restless.
And you, heir of Moravice, survivor of deserts and betrayal, ruler by conquest and inheritance, understood that the next step would define not only your life but the soul of your city.
Outside, the wind carried the scent of sea and fire and the faint smoke of bread baking in distant ovens. Within, the choice waited, as patient and unyielding as the black glass of the Magus.
Two paths. One choice. And the echo of a woman who had once been your world, or never would be again.
…..
You fold the letter carefully, tuck it into your coat, and mount your horse—northward to Aldebryn, to face Margaret and uncover the truth of her words.
….
With a steady hand, you toss the letter into the hearth, watching the flames consume her apologies, and vow to close that chapter of your past forever.
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