The night air is crisp, carrying the scent of the river and the distant forest, but your thoughts are elsewhere. The path north is long, winding through mountains, forests, and snow-mottled plains. Each mile brings memories to the surface: the desert’s merciless heat, the treachery of Hyacint, and the echo of Margaret’s absence, a shadow across your heart.
Your guards accompany you briefly, but as the journey stretches, you send them back to Moravice. This is a path you must travel alone. The wind whips against your face, biting, carrying the distant cry of seabirds from the northern fjords.
Nights are bitter, firelight flickering across your face as you recall the candlelit evenings with Margaret, the whispered promises, the laughter lost to betrayal.
Then you sail through the Baltic sea until, at last, Aldebryn emerges from the morning mist—a port city framed by jagged cliffs and dark, icy waters. The harbor bustles with ships, sails snapping in the wind. You dismount, letting the reins fall slack in your hands, and stride toward the quay. And there she is. Margaret, waiting, her presence both a balm and a wound. Her eyes, familiar and wide, glimmer with fear, relief, and longing all at once.
“My lord,” she begins, voice trembling. “I did not know if you were alive, but I hoped—oh, I hoped that somehow you survived…I’ve always had strong feelings for you. I believe you’ve always known, though I’ve never dared to confirm it…” Her words trail off, replaced by silence, as if the weight of years could not find the strength to speak.
You study her carefully. She has changed, yes, weathered by years apart and the consequences of her choices. But her beauty and bearing, the tilt of her chin, the careful way she meets your gaze, are unmistakable. You step closer, allowing the cold northern air to mingle with the heat of your anger and curiosity. You’d felt she had feelings for you, but you’d never dared to confirm it either. Now it’s too late for feelings.
“I have come for the truth,” you say, voice steady. “Tell me, Margaret—why did you leave? Did you know… did you know my parents were dead when you vanished?” The questions hang in the air, sharp and unyielding, like ice against skin.
Her eyes dart downward, refusing to meet yours. Silence stretches between you like a canyon carved by years of unspoken words. She shakes her head slightly, but no explanation comes. She cannot—or will not—answer.
Instead, she takes a tentative step closer. “Can we just forget the past?” she asks softly, “And forge a future together? I—” Her voice falters, but her eyes burn with a fragile hope. “I was weak. I still am. But I know I love you, Vania, and love makes us brave. At least I hope so.” She smiles coyly.
You take a deep breath, the northern wind whipping your cloak about your shoulders. You think of Moravice, the city you have rebuilt from ashes and deceit, the people who rely on your strength, your judgment, your vigilance. You think of the crow in your chest, wings stirring, whispering of caution and remembrance. And then you speak:
“Margaret,” you say, the weight of your words pressing upon her, “past and future are intertwined. Every choice, every betrayal, every act of absence shapes what comes next. Your words may be full of love, but they cannot erase what has been done. Your actions are irreconcilable with the life I have rebuilt, with the path I must follow.”
Her face crumples in quiet pain, and she sways slightly as if the words themselves might crush her. You place a hand on the hilt of your sword, not in threat, but as a reminder of the separation between what was and what must be.
“I cannot,” you continue, voice low but unwavering, “forget. I cannot step into a future that demands I trust where trust has been broken. I came seeking truth, Margaret, and I have found it. But the truth is that some wounds cannot heal, not even for love.”
She does not speak. She simply nods, tears brimming but unshed, and reaches out a hand, only to draw it back slowly. “I understand,” she whispers, barely audible.
You turn, the northern winds buffeting your cloak as you mount your horse once more. She watches, frozen by the quay, the harbor stretching behind her like a frozen sea of possibilities lost. You do not glance back. The ride south begins, the miles unfolding like dark threads toward Moravice, toward the city that is yours and only yours.
The journey home is quiet, each hour heavy with reflection. The northern forests pass, the mountains recede, and the familiar plains of your homeland welcome you with the muted scent of spring thaw. Moravice rises before you once again, the towers gleaming under afternoon sun, streets alive with movement and life. And yet, a shadow trails your heart: the memory of Margaret, the unspoken apologies, the love that could not survive the chasm of past betrayals.
You dismount at the citadel gates, Varek waiting, eyes steady and unwavering. You hand him the reins, silent, the weight of your sorrow pressing upon your shoulders. The crow stirs faintly, wings brushing against your ribs, a reminder that life and duty must go on. Moravice awaits your hand, your vigilance, your command. And though your heart carries the ache of lost possibility, you step forward, ready once more to shape your city, even as you carry the bitter lesson of the past.
The city breathes around you, vibrant and alive, but the memory of Margaret remains—a ghost at the edge of your vision, a reminder that some truths, once revealed, cannot be untold.
Days pass. You attend council as usual. You wander the streets at dusk, unseen beneath your cloak. Children run past. Merchants argue. Soldiers boast. All this is yours, yet it is not. These people, these streets, this city—are they yours? Or Claudius’s, shaped by his law, molded by his vision?
You feel trapped in the clogs of power, bound by invisible chains. You think of the mantra from the desert:
—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.
You cry. You do not understand. You cannot see how it fits into this world of coins, banners, and endless loyalty.
Then a magus appears. Or a witch or just an old wench whose face carries too many stories.
A bent figure in a ragged cloak stands at the edge of the marketplace. Her hair is gray, her back stooped, her steps slow. Yet something in her presence makes your pulse catch—a memory, a certainty in the pit of your stomach.
She moves toward the road northward out of the city. Something inside you insists that you follow. You leave the guards behind. The streets are silent, and even the wind seems to wait.
She walks beyond the vineyards, where the stream threads through the hills like silver silk. At last, she stops.
“You’ve been following something you cannot reach,” she says.
“What is it I follow?” you ask.
“The truth,” she says simply.
“Truth?” you laugh, bitterly. “Is there any in this world? I am surrounded by Claudius’s empire, by advisors, by vassals, by coins and banners. What does truth even mean here?”
Her head tilts, faintly amused. “There is truth. But it is not given—it is chosen…. by you.”
“How can truth depend on me?”
“You either forge your destiny or are melted by life and cast in its shape. That is the truth that matters.”
You slump onto a stone by the stream. “Then I am melted,” you whisper. “I am untrue to myself. I do not know who I am anymore.”
“Be brave,” she says, stepping closer. “Choose truth over fear.”
From her pouch she produces a mushroom, earthly, faintly luminescent at times. She places it in your palm.
“You can sometimes hold truth in your hand,” she says. “And waste it. Toss it away. But truth always comes down to bravery.”
Before you can ask more, she disappears into the mist rising from the stream, leaving only the sound of the water and the wind through the reeds.
You stare at the mushroom. Its glow is faint but steady.
The stream reflects your hand. Your reflection trembles. The world seems to hold its breath.
Truth or fear.
You think of Margaret, walking into another life without you. Of Claudius, with his careful, golden hand shaping empires. Of Ignacjusz dying, whispering of old blood and destiny.
You think of yourself—the man who has rebuilt a city, commanded an army, won a kingdom, yet cannot name his own desire.
You close your fingers around the mushroom.
The wind rises suddenly, scattering frost along the hills. Leaves brush against your face like unseen hands.
“All mirrors are broken,” you whisper.
The mushroom’s glow deepens in your hand. You lift it to your lips. Your heart beats fast. The stream ripples, and the reflection shimmers—one real, one inverted, both trembling.
And you step forward, leaving the stream, leaving the hill, leaving the doubt behind.
The world is vast. Your choices are yours. And at last, you feel the weight of destiny balanced in your own hands.
….
…..
One Comment