The flames crackle, swallowing the delicate script of her apologies and hopes. The wax seal bubbles and darkens, turning to ash, a tangible severing of the ties that had once bound your heart. You watch, calm but resolute, as the fire devours the past. Margaret’s presence, her pleas, her love, are now memories no longer capable of influence. You will not allow sentiment to sway your purpose.
The crow in your chest stirs but finds no solace in this decision. It flaps, black wings ruffling against your ribs, yet its whispers are quieter now, resigned to observation rather than urging. The past is dead. What remains is Moravice, a city bruised but breathing, in need of guidance, repair, and vigilance.
You step from the study into the streets, the air sharp and carrying the scent of baking bread, smoke, and river water. There are fires to light, markets to regulate, roads to repair, disputes to settle. The empire’s gaze remains distant but watchful, a reminder that Claudius’s power is not idle. You have no time for matters of the heart, no space for the weaknesses that love can introduce.
The advisors continue their work, a constant presence, yet they must bend to your judgment. You revise trade agreements, dispatch inspectors to ensure taxes are collected fairly, meet with merchants whose ships dock from distant lands. The city hums, alive with the energy of commerce and renewal, yet the crow reminds you of vigilance: power is never secure, loyalty never guaranteed.
Weeks pass. You oversee the construction of new bridges, the expansion of the eastern market, and the careful rebuilding of houses damaged by storms in recent years. Soldiers are disciplined, patrols organized, and new recruits trained. Moravice thrives, yet you remain ever aware of the delicate balance between growth and overreach.
One morning, a messenger arrives, breathless, with reports of brigands in the southern forests, raiding villages and caravans. You dispatch riders and reinforcements immediately, reviewing maps and plotting responses. No emotion touches your hand—only focus, only strategy. Love and desire are luxuries the city cannot afford.
Varek stands at your side as you meet with guild representatives, negotiating trade tariffs and security levies. He observes silently, knowing that your resolve has hardened further since the desert, since the betrayals, since the loss of your parents. The crow within you is no longer a whisper but a sentinel, guiding your vigilance, sharpening your foresight, protecting Moravice from impulses that could imperil it.
Months roll forward, each day filled with governance, inspection, and strategy. Reports arrive of diplomatic tensions in neighboring regions; you correspond with Claudius’s advisors, responding firmly, balancing diplomacy and authority. Each letter is weighed carefully, each decision deliberate. The city cannot waver, and neither can you.
One evening, as twilight descends over the citadel, you walk the newly repaired battlements alone. The lanterns flicker along the streets, children playing quietly in courtyards, merchants closing shops, smoke rising from ovens. You breathe deeply, the wind carrying the scent of earth and stone and water. Moravice thrives, a city in your hands, shaped by your strength and clarity.
And yet, the crow flaps once more, reminding you that vigilance is eternal. Margaret is gone, her words consumed by fire; love is a relic, a distraction too dangerous to entertain. Your parents’ deaths, the betrayals, the desert—they are lessons etched into the marrow of your bones. You have no desire for tenderness, no inclination to open your heart to risk. Only duty remains.
Weeks become months, months turn to years. Moravice grows stronger, the markets flourish, roads endure, and the people trust their Duke. Your advisors, once distant and watchful, come to rely on your judgment, acknowledging the authority and presence that have shaped the city. The empire notices, and even Claudius’s agents approach with respect, recognizing that you are no mere puppet of distant power.
The crow in your chest remains, silent at times, restless at others, but always present. It is a reminder that your survival and the city’s stability demand clarity of thought and action, not sentiment. You continue to walk your streets, speak with your people, and guide Moravice into a future forged by vigilance, not trust in fragile hearts.
Love, romance, forgiveness—these are luxuries that the city does not allow. The past, Margaret, the deserts, the betrayals—they remain, but only as lessons in endurance and caution. Your focus is absolute, your purpose unyielding: Moravice rises again, stronger than ever, and its ruler will not falter.
And so, life continues. The city hums with commerce, with laughter tempered by vigilance, with the unspoken knowledge that every stone laid, every decision made, carries weight beyond the fleeting human heart. You do not look back. You do not allow longing to interfere. You have closed the chapter. Moravice stands, unshaken, and you—heir, survivor, ruler—stand with it.
The past is fire and ash. The future, yours to command.
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.
….
…..
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