You hold the mushroom in your hand and breathe in its faint, metallic scent. It feels alive beneath your palm, pulsing as though the stream itself has poured into it. You swallow, and almost immediately, the world shifts.
The stream shimmers, bending light into prisms that stretch into infinity. The hills ripple like water, the frost dissolves into clouds of color, and the Magus’s figure multiplies into a thousand shapes. Your chest tightens, and you feel as though your heartbeat has expanded to fill the hills, the city, the Empire itself.
Then, images arrive.
You see Claudius—not as a distant emperor, not as the smiling benefactor of your people, but as a force, neither wholly good nor wholly evil. In some visions, he tends a garden, pruning branches, teaching children to read, shaking the hands of merchants with care. In others, he walks among burned villages, his smile cold, his hand heavy. You realize that your judgment of him as “good” comes only from alignment: your goals, your city, your life, currently match his will. But alignment is fragile. A spark outside the hearth becomes fire, and fire is indifferent to whether it warms or consumes.
You see yourself walking the streets of Moravice, reorganizing schools, restoring bridges, planting crops. And in every vision, Claudius hovers nearby like a wind: unseen but present, sometimes aiding, sometimes threatening, always observing. The truth crystallizes: you can trust him only so long as your paths align. His favor is not virtue; it is circumstance. You must act wisely, cultivating what is dear to you—your city, your people, your heritage—while always watching, always wary.
The visions change. You see councils in Zalenice, letters sealed with imperial wax, secret plans whispered in midnight corridors. You see wars prevented and others provoked. Claudius is a master of subtle currents, bending loyalty and law alike. He could be a shield, or a flood. His ambition does not pause, and your position is a tool he wields with quiet precision.
You wake—or what you feel is waking—with the first light of dawn in Moravice. Your mind thrums with knowledge you cannot fully explain. Every decision feels heavier, but also clearer. You understand that power is never neutral; it is a mirror, and all mirrors are broken.
For a year, you act. The city thrives. Markets flourish, schools multiply, the people’s loyalty deepens. You plant olive trees along the river, remembering Margaret, and tend them as carefully as you do your soldiers and advisors. You expand aqueducts, repair walls, teach magistrates to balance justice with mercy. And always, in the back of your mind, the image of Claudius flickers like fire in the hearth—necessary, but potentially dangerous. You align your actions so that the hearth burns warmly, never consuming what you love.
Then the letter comes. Its wax is deep crimson, stamped with the imperial seal. You open it with trepidation.
“Duke of Moravice,
Your efforts have strengthened the Empire and your city. You have proven loyalty and vision. Yet the time has come to further unify the realm under my guidance. I request your presence in Zalenice as my minister, my right hand. Your title as Duke may remain, but your obligations will require presence beyond Moravice. Dissidence will not be tolerated, and any hesitancy may reflect poorly on our shared authority.
—Claudius, Emperor of the Slavs”
Your stomach tightens. You read it twice, thrice, and the implications settle like stones. To accept means leaving the city physically, even if your name remains over the gates. The people may misinterpret your absence. Your ideals—the careful balance, the attention to local life, the personal guidance—may suffer. To refuse is to defy the Emperor, risking his wrath and perhaps more than your life.
You walk the citadel balcony, winter wind biting your cheeks. You close your eyes, remembering the mantra:
—All mirrors are broken.
—I’m looking at myself,
—Reflected on the sand.
—On every grain of sand.
—Reflected on people.
—On every pair of eyes looking at me.
—I am with others and in others.
—And there I remain eternal.
—Alone I’m not, and I never was.
Then, more Mazda flows from your mouth, bright and trembling like breath turned to light.
—For every shard of glass holds a face not my own,
—And every face carries a fragment of me.
—The truth is scattered, yet it remembers its shape.
—When I see them, I see myself — endlessly undone, endlessly reborn.
You remember the mushroom’s taste, the visions it unleashed, the knowledge it granted. You realize that no one can choose your truth for you. Only you can weigh the fire of Claudius’s will against the hearth of your city and the seeds you have planted.
The stars burn overhead. You feel the pulse of Moravice beneath your feet, the hearts of its people in your hands. And you understand: if you accept, you must do so with eyes wide open, a servant of the Empire but a guardian of your city, always balancing, always watching. If you refuse, you must accept the danger of separation, the risk of Claudius’s ire, the uncertainty of survival.
You do not decide immediately. You walk the ramparts, letting the wind strip away pretense. You think of Margaret, of Ignacjusz, of all the paths that have led here. And finally, you realize that your choice is not about Claudius. It is about yourself, about courage, about which truth you are willing to hold in your hand and carry into the world.
You sit before your desk, take up the pen, and begin to write a letter to the Emperor.
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