"Old Mazor? I've never heard you mention him before. Who is he?"
Adom had simply smiled. "I cannot wait for you to meet him."
"That's cryptic, even for you," Cass had muttered, but didn't press further.
Before leaving, he'd made sure the cats had enough fish to last three months—an entire barrel of preserved herring that the felines had inspected with cautious approval. His spy network in Arkhos had solidified remarkably over the past days.
What had begun as a few paid informants had grown into a web of contacts spanning every district. These days, nothing of significance happened in the city without Adom learning of it within hours.
The atmosphere in the city had changed dramatically as well.
Where there had been merchants hawking wares and citizens going about their daily business, now there were recruitment stations on every major street corner. Young men and women lined up to enlist, their faces full of excitement and trepidation. Imperial officers in polished armor called out names and directed new recruits toward processing tents.
Adom passed a group of boys who couldn't have been older than sixteen, jostling each other and boasting about the enemies they would face.
"I'll take down ten Farmusians myself!" one declared, miming a sword thrust.
"You can barely lift a practice sword," his friend laughed, shoving him.
An older woman watched them from her doorway, her face lined with the knowledge that came from having seen war before. She caught Adom's eye and shook her head slightly, the gesture speaking volumes about what these eager children didn't understand.
The city walls were being reinforced, masons and laborers working alongside mages who inscribed protective runes into the stone. Supply wagons crowded the streets, loaded with everything from arrows to preserved rations to medical supplies.
Before heading to the docks, Adom took a detour to visit Law's farm where the dryads had made their home. The farm had transformed under their care—the trees stood taller, their branches heavy with fruit despite it not being the proper season.
Cyrel, the witch's daughter, had adapted surprisingly well to farm life. No longer the silent, cold girl he'd first met, she now moved confidently among the trees, calling each dryad by name, helping tend the medicinal herb garden they'd established in what had once been a fallow field.
"I never thought I'd say this," she told him as they walked between rows of impossibly perfect apple trees, "but I think I belong here more than I ever did in the city. Mother would hardly recognize me now."
Ben waved to Adom from where he sat on the porch, pipe in hand.
"Hiring that child was the best decision I ever made," he called out. "Harvest is triple what it was, and I haven't had so much as a cold since she arrived."
As Adom made his way toward the docks, he passed through the newly named 'Victory Square', where a military band played rousing marches while recruitment officers delivered impassioned speeches. Families said tearful goodbyes to sons and daughters in new uniforms, pressing small tokens into their hands—a father's knife, a mother's pendant, keepsakes to carry into battle.
A young boy darted through the crowd, waving a stack of papers.
"Journal! Latest edition of the Imperial Journal! New decree from the Emperor! Traitor prince condemned!"
Adom flagged the boy down and purchased a copy, tucking it into his bag without reading it. There would be plenty of time for that on the journey.
The ship that would carry him to Kati was considerably more impressive than the one he'd taken on his first journey to the Academy. The "Golden Horizon" was one of the newest vessels in the Imperial Fleet, equipped with the latest in spatial expansion enchantments.
What appeared from the outside to be a moderately-sized merchant vessel opened into cavernous spaces within—dining halls with vaulted ceilings, private cabins that rivaled noble apartments in size, and common areas decorated with marble fountains and exotic plants.
His own cabin was at least four times larger than the cramped room he'd used on his initial journey. The bed alone was big enough for three people, with silken sheets and pillows stuffed with phoenix down (a detail that made him slightly uncomfortable, considering the egg he'd just left with Biggins). A writing desk sat beneath a window that somehow showed a perfect view of the ocean despite being on the inner side of the ship—an illusion spell, he supposed, but an impressive one.
Adom's meeting with the Archmage before departing had been unexpectedly productive. The old man had listened intently as he carefully explained his knowledge and theories about the coming magical disruptions. What Adom had expected to be a hard sell turned into an eager discussion of countermeasures and preparations.
"You've done remarkable work," the Archmage had said, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "If what you've discovered proves true—and I suspect it will—then we will need leadership that understands these challenges." He'd fixed Adom with an appraising stare. "I will support your candidacy for Archmagehood when the time comes. There will be opposition, of course. Many people share the same ambition. But you have my backing."
Now, settled in his cabin as the ship pulled away from the harbor, Adom ordered tea from the cabin steward and unfolded the journal he'd purchased.
Through the window, he watched Arkhos recede—the gleaming spires of the Academy, the imperial banners fluttering from watchtowers, the smoke rising from forges working day and night to arm the coming war. There was a strange beauty to it, and a sadness too. The city was transforming, hardening like metal in a smith's fire, preparing for whatever lay ahead.
If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
His thoughts drifted to home, to Kati, and to his mother who would soon give birth to his sister. What a time to enter the world—at the dawn of a major war, with the very foundations of the magical world in flux.
He felt a strange mixture of joy and apprehension at the thought of meeting his new sibling. Would she grow up knowing only war? Would the world be fundamentally changed by the time she was old enough to understand it?
The front page featured a bold headline: "IMPERIAL FAMILY UNDER SCRUTINY: LEGACY OF BETRAYAL?"
Adom frowned, skimming the article. The imperial propagandists had been busy. Not content with declaring Prince Kalyoon a traitor, they were now suggesting that the Emperor's late brother—dead for over a decade—had also harbored treasonous ambitions and was probably connected to the current events. The article raised "troubling questions" about the imperial bloodline itself, with carefully worded insinuations that perhaps the current dynasty had run its course.
He turned the page, finding a large illustration—a formal portrait of the imperial family from several years ago, before Prince Kalyon's fall from grace.
The Emperor stood center, stern and unyielding, his wife beside him looking appropriately regal. The various princes and princesses were arranged around them in order of succession, with court nobles and advisors filling the background.
Adom was taking a sip of tea when his eyes fell on one of the figures in the back row. He choked, tea burning down the wrong pipe as he stared in disbelief.
There, partially obscured behind a portly duke, stood a little girl he recognized instantly despite never having seen her in such formal attire and with such youthful face. Her hair was styled differently, her expression carefully neutral, but there was no mistaking those eyes.
"Morgana?"
Adom stared at the portrait for a long moment, tea dripping from his chin. His mind raced through a series of calculations, connections forming between scattered observations that had previously seemed unrelated.
The girl in the portrait. The eyes. That particular shade of blue that seemed to shift in different lights. The way she held herself—spine straight, chin slightly elevated, hands positioned just so. Even as a child, Morgana had the bearing of someone born to power.
And then Adom did something entirely unexpected. He laughed.
It wasn't a particularly loud laugh, nor was it especially long. Just a short, sharp bark of amusement that filled the cabin and then vanished, like a stone tossed into a pond.
"Well," he said to the empty room, "that explains a few things."
He wiped tea from his chin with the back of his hand, his eyes never leaving the portrait.
"Why didn't you just tell me?" he asked the image, as if it might answer. "Was that really such a difficult conversation to have? 'Hello, Adom, nice to meet you. By the way, I'm actually royal, supposedly dead, and in hiding. Pass the tea, would you?'"
The portrait, unsurprisingly, offered no response.
Adom leaned back in his chair, balancing it on two legs as he considered the implications. Morgana was supposed to be dead. Had been for years, if the official records were to be believed. Yet here she was—or had been—hiding in Arkhos, moving freely through the world probably under a different identity.
He found himself strangely looking forward to her next letter, whenever it might arrive. She always managed to time them perfectly—just when he'd begun to wonder if she'd forgotten about him and Sam entirely.
But this revelation added a new layer of anxiety. If Morgana was the Emperor's niece in hiding, what exactly was she hiding from? Or who?
Thessarian had warned him about the Imperial Chancellor. "Watch that one," she'd said during one of their conversations. "I believe he's the one influencing Prince Kalyon, though I lack concrete proof. There's something... wrong about him."
Was Morgana's curse connected to all this? Had she fled the palace to escape the same influence that had corrupted her cousin?
Adom sighed, letting his chair thump back onto all four legs. The prospect of potentially fighting the Emperor himself—if he was indeed corrupted—or the Chancellor if Thessarian's theories proved correct, was not exactly how he'd planned to spend the next years of his life.
"Future Adom's problems," he muttered, picking up his tea again. "Let him deal with it."
He knew, of course, that Future Adom would absolutely curse Present Adom for this attitude. Would probably have choice words about responsibility and foresight. But Present Adom just wanted to drink his tea and read in peace.
Mepthilem moved closer. Each step measured. He'd done this before—shifting a ruler's perspective, nudging them toward self-destruction. It required patience. Control. The willingness to debase himself by playing servant to insects.
But it worked.
"Your Majesty, if I may speak freely?"
"When have you not?"
Never, actually. But you think you're granting permission, and that's what matters.
"Prince Kalyon was wrong about many things. His methods were barbaric. His alliance with Farmus, treasonous." Mepthilem paused. "But his assessment of the empire's military situation... was not entirely inaccurate."
Rayhan drained his glass. "Go on."
"The Tirajin Federation has battle mages embedded in every regiment. The Elven Consortium uses their mages to devastating effect in warfare. Even the Dwarven Holds, who claim to disdain magic, employ earth-shapers in their defenses." Facts. Simple facts. Let him draw his own conclusions. "Only Sundar restrains its magical power."
"The Magisterium maintains neutrality," Rayhan said. "It's been that way for centuries."
"Yes. Neutrality." Mepthilem let the word sit. "While your soldiers die. While your territories fall. While your empress was murdered by common raiders."
Rayhan flinched.
Good. The wound was still fresh. Mepthilem had made sure of that—ensuring no mages were available, buying the centaurs, timing it perfectly. Not because he cared about the Empress one way or another, but because grief made people stupid.
"Forgive me, Your Majesty. I don't mean to open old wounds." Liar. "But consider: you requested additional mages for the northern campaign. How did Archmage Gaius respond?"
"He said the Magisterium's resources were already stretched thin."
"Stretched thin." Mepthilem nodded. "Yet somehow, today, he had enough mages to hide throughout the Hall of Justice. Enough to monitor the entire city. Enough to disarm your son's conspiracy without breaking a sweat."
Rayhan said nothing, but his knuckles whitened around his glass.
There. The seed. Watch it grow.
"The Magisterium answers to you in name only, Your Majesty. In practice, they answer to themselves. They decide where their power is deployed, when, and for what purpose. You are the Emperor of Sundar, ruler of the greatest empire in the known world, and yet you must ask permission to use your own mages."
"They have their reasons—"
"Do they?" Mepthilem kept his voice soft. Inside, he felt nothing. No satisfaction, no excitement, no anger. Just the cold calculation of watching pieces move on a board. "Or do they simply prefer their comfortable towers to the mud and blood of actual warfare? They speak of restraint, of civilization, of the greater good. Meanwhile, your empire contracts. Your enemies grow bolder. Your own son felt so desperate he turned traitor."
"Kalyon was always ambitious. Always angry."
Because you're weak, and he knew it. Even in his madness, he knew it.
"Because he saw what you see, Your Majesty. What any honest man can see. The empire is bleeding, and those who could stop the bleeding refuse to lift a finger."
Mepthilem turned slightly, meeting the Emperor's gaze. Eye contact. Make him feel understood.
"Every other nation uses its mages efficiently. They don't let ancient tradition hamstring their military. They don't pretend neutrality while their rulers struggle. They understand that magic is power, and power must serve the state."
"The Magisterium has served the empire for—"
"Has it?" Push now. "Or has it served itself, using your protection, your resources, your legitimacy, while giving back only what it deems appropriate? When was the last time Archmage Gaius asked your permission before making a decision?"
Rayhan's expression darkened.
"They are your subjects, Your Majesty. Yet they act as equals. Partners, at best. Sometimes..." Mepthilem paused. The hesitation wasn't calculated—it was the brief struggle to maintain his composure while playing this degrading role. "Sometimes it seems they view themselves as your betters."
"Careful, Mepthilem."
Careful. This weak-willed lesser baboon warning him to be careful. The absurdity almost made him laugh.
"I speak only out of concern for your reign. For the empire." The words came easily. They always did. "I watched your brother fall into similar frustrations. He too saw the Magisterium's pride, their refusal to fully commit to the empire's defense. It ate at him."
Rayhan went very still.
Soren. Another righteous fool who'd discovered the nobles' slave trafficking and refused to look away. Mepthilem had barely needed to do anything—just whisper in Rayhan's ear about civil war, about rebellion, about what would happen if the great houses turned against the throne. "Your brother wants to expose them, Your Majesty. He'll tear the empire apart over principle. Is that what you want? A civil war? Or one difficult choice?"
And Rayhan had made it. Killed his own brother rather than face the nobles.
"I... I didn't want to kill him. He was my little brother. My own flesh and blood."
Mephtilem almost rolled his eyes. Catering to this... thing's feelings was beneath him.
"I know, Your Majesty. That decision tore at you. But it was necessary. He left you no choice." Mepthilem's voice was warm. Easy. "Just as this situation with Prince Kalyon leaves you no choice now."
"What situation?"
"The Magisterium just demonstrated that it has been holding back. Deliberately. They had the power to protect your convoy when the Empress was killed—don't tell me they couldn't spare a few mages for her safety. They had the power to crush the centaur raiders, to fortify the northern provinces, to end these wars decisively." Each word precise. Each word true enough to sting. "They chose not to. And your son saw that. It drove him to madness, yes, but he saw it clearly."
Rayhan returned to his desk, sinking into his chair. "You're saying this is the Magisterium's fault."
Finally.
"I'm saying they share responsibility. They refused you the tools you needed to protect your people. They hoarded their power while your empire weakened. And when your son—desperate, misguided, but driven by genuine concern for Sundar—sought to create a weapon that might change the strategic balance..." Mepthilem spread his hands. "They stopped him. Publicly. Humiliatingly."
"Because he was going to kill thousands!"
"Was he? Or was he going to demonstrate power so overwhelming that our enemies would never dare attack again?" Mepthilem shook his head. "We'll never know now. What we do know is that the Magisterium has shown its hand today. It has resources it claimed not to have. Power it pretended was unavailable. All this time, while you struggled, they were merely choosing not to help."
Rayhan stared at his desk, saying nothing.
Mepthilem waited. The silence didn't bother him. The Emperor's presence did—the man's sheer existence an affront—but the silence itself was fine.
"Your Majesty, I know these are difficult days. I won't burden you further with these concerns." He moved toward the door, then paused. "But consider this: the Magisterium was created to serve the empire. Not to guide it. Not to judge it. To serve it. Perhaps it's time they remembered that."
"You want me to take control of the Magisterium."
"I want you to take back what was always yours, Your Majesty. They are your mages. Your subjects. Your power. The other nations understand this. Perhaps it's time Sundar did as well."
Rayhan looked up, his eyes haunted. "Gaius would never allow it."
Gaius. That would be more complicated. The old mage wasn't stupid like Rayhan. But even he could be maneuvered.
"Archmage Gaius is one man, Your Majesty. Powerful, yes. Respected, certainly. But he is still your subject. If he refuses to serve the empire's interests... well." Mepthilem's smile was sad. Sympathetic. Empty. "You've dealt with beloved subjects who put their pride before the empire's good before."
The implication hung between them.
"Think on it," Mepthilem said softly. "We'll speak more later, when emotions aren't so raw. For now, rest. Grieve. You've earned that much."
"Mepthilem."
He paused at the door, turning slightly.
Rayhan stood, moving around the desk. His expression had softened, vulnerability replacing the earlier hardness. "I... I wanted to thank you. For being here. For these past years. Through everything, my wife's death, Soren, now Kalyon. The wars. The losses." His voice caught. "You've been the one constant. The one person I could trust when everyone else..."
He trailed off, then met Mepthilem's eyes. "Thank you, old friend."
Friend.
FRIEND?
The temperature in the room dropped. Not metaphorically—actually dropped. Frost began forming on the inside of the windows, creeping across the glass in crystalline patterns. The fire in the hearth guttered, flames shrinking as if recoiling.
Mepthilem stood perfectly still. Every fiber of his being screamed to move, to cross the distance, to wrap his hands around this insect's throat and squeeze until the bones shattered. Friend. This creature—this weak, pathetic, murderous coward who'd killed his own brother on Mepthilem's whispered advice—thought they were equals. Thought he could claim friendship with something that had walked the earth before his ancestors learned to make fire.
He. HE. Had to serve this thing. Had to bow. Had to scrape. Had to pretend deference to a man who couldn't even rule his own household without guidance.
The rage was primal. The kind that had leveled cities in ages past.
Rayhan shivered, rubbing his arms. "Is there a window open?" He moved toward the nearest one, checking the latch. "Could have sworn I closed them all..."
It would be so easy. One movement. The man's back was turned. Snap his neck, replace him with a homunculus, or even just a more compliant puppet. Nobody would question it. Nobody would know.
Nobody...
...No.
Mepthilem forced himself to breathe. It was unnecessary, but the motion helped. The Hand's plans required patience. Rayhan alive and compromised was more useful than Rayhan dead and replaced. For now.
The temperature slowly normalized. The frost began to melt.
"Cattle," Mepthilem muttered under his breath, the word bitter as ash.
Rayhan turned from the window. "Hmm? What did you say?"
Mepthilem's face transformed. The cold rage vanished behind a warm smile, the kind that reached his eyes, crinkled the corners, looked like decades of shared hardship and mutual respect.
"I said, 'I'm grateful.'" His voice was soft. "That you consider me such, Your Majesty. These years have been... difficult for us both. But we've weathered them together, haven't we? And we'll weather what comes next the same way."
He placed a hand over his heart, bowing slightly. "Your friendship honors me more than you know."
Rayhan's expression softened further, relief visible in his features. "We'll speak more tomorrow then. After I've had time to think."
"Of course, Your Majesty. Rest well."
Mepthilem left, closing the door gently behind him.
The thoughts he had placed there remained with the Emperor.
Along with the word "friend."
The corridors outside the chambers were chaos.
Nobles clustered in small groups, whispering urgently. Servants rushed past with messages and documents. Guards stood at triple their normal posts, hands on weapons, eyes scanning for threats that might no longer exist or might be everywhere.
Mepthilem moved through it all with unhurried grace, nodding politely to those who noticed him, deflecting attempts at conversation with apologetic gestures toward his chambers.
"My Lord Chancellor, if I might have a word about—"
"Tomorrow, Lord Darren. I'm afraid today has left me quite exhausted."
"Chancellor, the prisoner interrogations require—"
"Delegate to your second. I trust your judgment."
"Sir, about the Farmusian fleet—"
"The fleet is at the bottom of the ocean. It can wait until morning."
He reached his chambers finally, pausing at the door as an attendant rushed forward.
"My lord, there are several matters that—"
"Not tonight." Mepthilem's voice was gentle but firm. "I am not to be disturbed. For any reason. Is that clear?"
"But my lord, the war council—"
"Will manage without me for one evening." He smiled kindly. "I'm an old man. Today has been... taxing. I need rest."
The attendant bowed, uncertain. "Yes, my lord. I'll inform the others."
"Thank you."
Mepthilem entered his chambers and closed the door, turning the lock with a soft click.
The orange flames turned blue, cold and flickering, casting shadows that moved wrong. And within the flames, something stirred.
Voices.
Multiple. Overlapping. Speaking in languages that hadn't been heard by many, in tones that ranged from whispers to snarls. The fire crackled and hissed, and the voices grew clearer, more distinct, each one competing for attention.
"—failure of this magnitude—"
"—risks everything we've built—"
"—should have been simple—"
Then one voice cut through the rest. Louder. Authority in every syllable.
"Meph'qalar."
Mepthilem turned fully toward the fire, his expression unreadable. "I'm here."
Another voice, sharp and accusatory: "Why did the plan fail?"
"There was a dragon."
Silence.
Complete, total silence. Even the crackling of the flames seemed to stop. The blue fire froze mid-flicker.
Then the voices erupted all at once.
"A dragon?!"
"Impossible!"
"How—"
"Silence!" The first voice again, commanding. The others cut off immediately. A pause, then more controlled: "Explain."
Mepthilem's claws tapped against the arm of the chair. "A dragon was protecting this place. I confirmed it through the memories of the prisoners, the survivors from the Farmusian fleet. It destroyed the ships. All of them. In seconds."
"Dragons are extinct," another voice hissed. "We made certain of that. We—"
"Apparently not certain enough." Mepthilem's tone was flat.
"This is unacceptable!" A third voice, younger-sounding, filled with barely controlled rage. "You were supposed to research the defenses! You were supposed to know what we were facing! If a dragon has made a lair here, if it's claimed this territory as its own—"
"I worked with the information available!" Mepthilem snapped back, his own anger rising. "Every source, every contact, every spy—none of them mentioned a dragon. Because nobody knew."
"Then your sources are worthless!"
"Your operatives were weak!" Mepthilem leaned forward, addressing the flames directly. "I gave them safe passage. I arranged everything. Routes into Sundar that haven't been discovered in decades. And they were caught anyway. The people you sent—"
"The people I sent?" The younger voice was incredulous. "You're blaming me for—"
"Enough!" The commanding voice again. The fire pulsed, blue becoming almost white. "Enough. Fighting amongst ourselves serves nothing."
The other voices fell silent, though the flames still flickered with agitation.
A pause. Then, carefully: "What about the boy? Adom Sylla. Was he involved in this?"
Mepthilem settled back in his chair. "I suspect so."
"Suspicion isn't certainty." A fourth voice, calmer than the others, almost thoughtful. "There are many candidates. Across multiple nations. We cannot afford to focus on one without proof."
"The dragon only dealt with the fleet," Mepthilem said. "Something—no– someone else killed the homunculus. It wasn't the Archmage. I confirmed that. And there were no other mages present at the time who could have handled a transformed homunculus of that caliber. No wards were triggered. No spells detected." His claws scraped against the chair. "The era of the Architect is here. He's awakened. And he's in Arkhos. Just as the Order's information suggested. We may not know who it is exactly, but that boy... everything makes sense if it is him."
Silence again. This one longer. More thoughtful.
"If you're right..." the commanding voice began slowly.
"Then we need to change our approach," the calmer voice finished. "The original plan assumed we had more time. That we could weaken the empire first, fracture the Magisterium, create chaos. But if the Architect is already active..."
"We accelerate," the younger voice said. "We move now, before he realizes what he is."
"Risky," the fourth voice cautioned.
"Everything is risky!" the younger one snapped. "But if Meph'qalar is right, if the boy truly is the Architect, then waiting is suicide. We need to act while he's still vulnerable and ignorant."
"What about the Order?" the calmer voice asked. " Do we not have agents there? Does the Arkhos bureau suspect anything?"
"There is no bureau in Arkhos," the commanding voice said firmly. "If a dragon has claimed this territory as its lair, we stay clear. The last thing we need is to draw its attention further."
"But the boy—"
"The boy has a quillick for a companion," the second voice cut in, dismissive. "A quillick. Not a phoenix. If he were truly the Architect awakened, the signs would be clearer."
"Coincidence, then?" Mepthilem asked, though doubt crept into his tone.
"Possibly. Or he's simply talented." A pause. "Leave him alone for now. Focus on what we can control. The Magisterium. The Emperor. Arkhos is too dangerous to probe further with a dragon in residence. We investigate elsewhere. Other candidates in other cities."
"The dragon changes everything," the fourth voice added. "If it's territorial, if it's claimed Arkhos, then any aggressive move could provoke it. We can't risk that. Not yet."
"Agreed," the commanding voice said. "Meph'qalar, you continue your work with the Emperor. Bring the Magisterium to heel. That remains the priority. But avoid drawing the dragon's attention. No more Farmusian fleets. No more grand schemes. Subtlety."
"Understood."
"The rest of us will pursue other leads. Other potential Architects. We spread our attention, minimize risk." The fire pulsed again. "The Hand moves forward. Whatever it takes."
The voices began to fade, overlapping again, becoming indistinct murmurs that mixed with the crackling flames.
"We reconvene in three days."
"Avoid Arkhos. Let the dragon keep its lair."
"If the Architect lives in this era, he's not there. He can't be."
The blue fire flickered once more, then returned to normal orange. The voices were gone.
Mepthilem sat in his chair, staring into the flames. His true face was expressionless, but his claws drummed against the armrest, a gesture unconsciously borrowed from the Emperor he despised.
A quillick. They were right, of course. If the boy were truly the Architect, the signs would be unmistakable. And yet...
After a long moment, he stood. There was work to do. Pieces to move. The Magisterium to undermine. The Emperor to manipulate.
And a dragon to avoid.
The game had just become far more complicated.