The magus inclines her head, almost imperceptibly, as if conceding—but her eyes never leave yours. Carefully, deliberately, she lifts the mushroom from the table. Its pale glow dims, swallowed by her cloak as she tucks it away. Then, with an almost imperceptible flourish, she draws a small pouch from her robes, shaking a cloud of fine, silver dust into the air.
Before you can react, the particles swirl around you. They catch the light, shimmer like a thousand stars, and then… your body no longer obeys. Muscles lock, joints stiffen. You are upright, yet not really moving, as if you are a marionette with invisible strings. Your eyes see, but your mind lingers somewhere between consciousness and dream.
Margaret’s gasp reaches you faintly. The witch’s smiles, and you sense the amusement in the tilt of her head. Her next motion is sudden — swift and precise. She pulls a flask from her robes and hurls it at Margaret. Time seems to stretch. The delicate crystal strikes Margaret’s shoulder, shattering instantly. A sizzling, corrosive mist hisses as it touches her robes.
“Margaret!” you scream in your mind, powerless.
The liquid effervesces, rising in smoke and steam. Margaret’s hands flutter to her chest, her strength abandoning her as the acid eats through fabric and skin alike. She drops to her knees, then to the floor, shuddering violently. The Magus steps back, voice resonating over the hiss of burning cloth.
“This is revenge,” she says, her tone cruelly melodic. “For Ignacjusz’s son… Hiacynt. You killed him. And now… it is doomsday.”
Her eyes meet yours one last time. The wind seems to lift her, and she fades into the night, leaving behind only the acrid smell of metal and burning silk.
The trance breaks. Your body collapses forward, hands reaching instinctively for Margaret. She lies beneath you, trembling, agonized, smoke curling from her torn robes. Her eyes meet yours, wide with fear and disbelief.
“Help me!” you shout. Your voice cracks, raw with panic. You run through the halls, screaming, calling for servants, for guards, for anyone — but as they rush in, it becomes horrifyingly clear: nothing can stop the damage. Her skin sizzles where the acid touched, the pain unimaginable.
Hours stretch like centuries. You hold her in your arms as she grows weaker. Her breathing comes in shallow, ragged gasps. You speak to her, softly, trying to keep her tethered to the world: “Stay with me… please… Margaret…”
Her lips twitch, trying to form words, but nothing comes. Her eyes, once sharp and calculating, now look only at you, pleading, searching. And then, slowly, inexorably, the light leaves her.
You cradle her still-warm body, sobbing, whispering apologies that will never be heard.
When at last the city’s servants arrive to assist, you allow them to take her gently. The entire estate is heavy with smoke and sorrow, the air thick with the sting of chemicals and the metallic tang of blood. You insist on a burial befitting her status. The procession moves through the cliffs above the harbor, rain beginning to fall in cold, relentless sheets. The gray waves below seem to echo your grief, tossing and foaming as if mourning alongside you.
The grave is solemn, to make up for the darkness and wetness of the soil that’s taking her from you. You lower her with trembling hands, arranging the folds of her robes as if you could shield her one last time. The wind whips across the cliffs, tugging at your hair, biting at your cheeks. You dig, place, and cover. Each handful of soil is a nail into the tomb in your chest.
The ceremony concludes in silence. Servants bow, her relatives cry quietly at the edge of the grave, and the sky darkens, as though the world itself grieves. You remain last, staring at the mound of earth, empty yet weighted with memory.
Hours pass. You wander along the cliffs, looking down at the harbor below. Once, this place held life, laughter, hope, and trade. Now it is hollow. The estate, the city, the sea itself — all seem to mock your impotence, whispering of loss and betrayal. You weigh your options.
To leave Aldebryn is tempting. Nothing binds you here anymore. The city, the harbor, the cliffs — all that remains is the memory of her, the echo of her voice, the ghost of her touch. A new life waits elsewhere, perhaps, beyond seas you have yet to chart, beyond lands untouched by your history and blood. You could leave the estate to Margaret’s relatives, sail far, and try to forget, as impossible as that might be.
But another path stirs within you. Perhaps, in the company of those who survived alongside her — her kin, her loyal retainers — there is something left to salvage. A purpose, however small, in helping them, supporting them, offering the remnants of your strength to honor the woman you lost. Their grief is raw, their anger palpable, and yet they are tethered to this city, as are you.
The sun sets slowly, molten gold bleeding into indigo, and you realize the horizon offers no easy answers. No path forward is clean, no choice free of shadow. You feel the weight of your failure, of your rage, and of the unrelenting truth the witch offered you — that revenge, once begun, never leaves the hand that wields it.
You return to the estate, the halls now silent, Margaret’s music extinguished forever. You walk through the rooms, touching the surfaces she once polished, inhaling the scent of her perfumes still lingering faintly in the air. Every step is a reminder of what is gone, every echo of your boots a hollow reverberation of the life that should have been.
The Magus’s warning returns to you, ghost-like, chilling: Truth waits for no one. And now you understand it fully — not just the truth about your parents, your lineage, or Claudius, but the truth of human frailty, of choices made in fury, of love, betrayal, and the finality of death.
You sit by the hearth as night fully falls, staring into the dying flames. The city sleeps beneath you, unaware of the darkness that has passed through the halls of the estate, of the tragedy that unfolded behind closed doors. Somewhere, far beyond the cliffs, the wind carries the witch’s laughter, faint and distant, mingling with the waves.
A single candle flickers on the mantle. You reach out, letting the light wash over your hands, over the dagger still lying where you discarded it, over the memory of her. There is no redemption here, no absolution, only the cold weight of consequence. You wonder if Claudius would understand, if history would remember, if anyone would believe the twisted truth.
But the night is long, and you remain. The city waits. Margaret’s relatives wait. And somewhere in the dark, the crow watches, patient and endless.
You rise, resolve hardening like stone. Perhaps you will stay, and bear what remains — honor her memory by service, by quiet vigilance, by presence. Perhaps one day, the city will forget the agony of this day, or perhaps it will carry it forever, a warning carved into memory.
You walk to her grave once more, rain falling steadily, drenching your cloak. Fingers brush the damp soil, and you whisper:
“I am here. I will remain. And though nothing returns, I will not leave you entirely alone.”
The cliffs hold their silence. The waves crash beneath, relentless, eternal. And you know, as you stand in mourning and fury, that Aldebryn is no longer merely a refuge. It is the place where your grief was forged — where the consequence of revenge, the price of truth, and the shadow of fate meet in full force.
You turn from the grave, casting one last glance at the horizon. Revenge is gone, the anger vanished with the witch, but her lesson lingers. There is no peace, only choices, and only the path that you will walk, step by painful step.
And somewhere beyond the harbor, the wind carries a whisper, almost like a curse:
“This is doomsday… and it begins anew.”
You pull your cloak tighter and descend toward the estate, toward those who remain, determined to endure, to watch, to serve — to let no shadow claim more than it already has.
You spend the night sleepless, haunted by loss and the echo of the Magus’s words.
At dawn, one choice comes sharply into focus:
….
to leave the city behind, chasing a life unbound by grief.
….
to remain, to honor Margaret by rebuilding what little remains of her legacy.
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