You do not eat the rest of the mushroom. Youtoss it aside, still glowing faintly in the night light. For months, you let it sit, untouched. You hope, in some quiet way, that truth might arrive another way.
Then, one morning in the great hall of Moravice, she comes. The same Magus—or an echo of her—you recognize the moment she steps inside the council chambers. Cloaked and plain, her eyes hold the same strange light you saw by the stream. The advisors pause; soldiers glance nervously; you bow slightly, unsure if this is threat or blessing.
She moves directly toward you. “I have waited,” she says, voice low and calm. “You sought truth in a hand, but it is only given through presence and observation. You do not need any mushroom to see what you must. You only need presence of mind.”
You invite her to speak. She does not need encouragement. She lays bare the Emperor’s nature, revealing what visions that no mushroom could have shown you. Claudius is neither wholly good nor wholly evil. He is a force, a master of circumstance, bending loyalty, law, and life to his will. You see the alignment that made him appear benign to you: your goals, your city, your life—all currently match his vision. But alignment is fragile. His ambition is fire; your city, your people, your heritage, the seeds you have planted—these are the hearth. Misstep and the fire spreads.
She tells you how he observes constantly, how favor is only circumstance, how power is never neutral. She warns you: grow that which is dear to you. Protect your city. Guard your people. Remember that the Emperor is as dangerous to you as he is beneficial. Always be mindful.
For a year, you follow her guidance. The city thrives, the people prosper, and you act with wisdom tempered by caution. Markets flourish, schools expand, soldiers defend without cruelty, olive trees take root along the river. The balance between Claudius’s empire and your city feels fragile, yet possible. You are vigilant, but not paralyzed.
Then the letter comes. Its wax is deep crimson, stamped with Claudius’s seal.
“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”
You read it, stomach tightening. To accept means leaving your city physically, even if your name remains on its gates. The people may misinterpret your absence. The careful balance you have nurtured—the attention to local life, your personal guidance—may suffer. To refuse is to defy the Emperor, risking his wrath, perhaps more than your life.
You walk the citadel balcony, wind biting at your cheeks. You recall the Magus’s words: power is a mirror, always broken; favor is circumstance; alignment is temporary. The choice is yours alone.
—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 understand that whether the mushroom was eaten or not, the lesson is the same. Courage and choice define truth. Claudius is fire; Moravice is the hearth. You must decide which you protect, how you walk in alignment without losing yourself.
You feel the weight of destiny, the pulse of the city beneath your feet, the hearts of the people in your hands. And you realize: if you accept, you do so with eyes open, balancing the demands of an empire with the needs of your city. If you refuse, you risk separation, wrath, and uncertainty.
The choice is yours, and yours alone.
You sit before your desk, take up the pen, and begin to write a letter to the Emperor.
…….
Your Majesty, I accept your request with gratitude and resolve, pledging my counsel and service as your minister, that the unity and strength of the Empire may endure under your vision.
……
Your Majesty, I remain ever loyal to the Empire, yet I must humbly decline this honor, for my duty binds me to Moravice and to the people whose faith I cannot forsake without wounding the very foundation of your realm.
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