Parents are role models. 

These words echoed through Ambrose's head, even as splitting pains roared through his skull. 

Parents always have their children's best interests at heart. 

Even when his mother's twisted smile chased him into his nightmares. 

Parents care about their children.

The constant reminders he held close, to remind himself that she was doing what was best for him. Everyone in his life saw his mother as something akin to a goddess. She looked like a saint with brilliant curled locks, tiny thunderstorms framing her face. Truly, the picturesque image of perfection. She was lying through her teeth. 

Behind closed doors she was a monster. Not always the monster storybooks depict, no horns of brimstone, no ashen wings. Just a sinister grin to scar her porcelain face. Ever the ice queen, looking down on her son from her throne of lies and manipulation. 

'With great power comes great responsibility,' six words that decorated every textbook in the prestigious mage academy. As such, Solanine Astrophel, Ambrose's mother and great mage of the mind, carried the weight of the world on her shoulders. If only they knew. 

If only they knew that she tested her magic on her son. If only they knew how truly horrendous their golden queen could be. If only they knew the heart of stone buried underneath her gleaming breastplate. If only they knew who she sacrificed to keep her title. If only they knew. 

But they would never know. She was their everything. Every day she stood at that altar, robed in delicate fabrics, reciting lines she'd spoken a thousand times over. Those days gave them life. By them, Ambrose refers to the hoards of fanatics that kneel before her. He means the army of apprentices that follow her like loyal hounds, ready to bite anyone who disagrees with her. 

And still, Ambrose loved her. If anything, he wanted to be one of them. One of her favorites. He wanted to stand by her side, adorned with that beautiful bronze breastplate that signified an apprentice mage. Oh what he would give to be praised, even a single time. 

Perhaps he was asking for too much. Solanine did praise him. She said words like, 'your eyes are wonderfully tragic,'. That counted as a praise. Whenever she ruffled his hair he felt as if this reality wasn't so terrible. But other times, when she delved into his head, poking into every nook and cranny, he would doubt himself. Solanine would say, "all great mages need practice,". Ambrose thought it was a pitiful excuse that allowed her to torture her only child under the guise of honing her craft. 

But he could never hate her. Whether because she raised him, or because she saw every thought that passed through even his subconscious mind, he would never know. Maybe he just wanted to be loved, to feel a sense of belonging. 

These thoughts filled his head as he walked through the empty halls of the Astrophel Manor. Smooth tiles met his feet with each delicate step. Though it was built mainly of stone and fossilized tree bark, the walls had been polished so many times they shone like crystal. His home felt as cold as his mother's hollow embrace. It was so empty, in fact, that the echo of his subtle breathing sounded like distant thunder throughout the halls. It was an ever-constant reminder that no secrets can be kept here. Any presence is made known to all. Everyone reveals their truths to the gilded goddess. To the Mindflayer. That was what they called her. Well, it was what Ambrose called her, a name she enjoyed. To outsiders, the people of Ostlanar, she was Mindweaver. And to her followers, well, they simply called her The Herald. The Herald of change, the Herald of new beginnings, every name under the sun that highlighted achievements she never accomplished. It was laughable. But no one laughed. 

Any poor soul bold, or stupid, enough to make fun of her, to insult her, suffered a fate worse than death. At least, that was assumed. They didn't simply disappear one day, or were found dead in the streets, laying in a pool of their own blood. No. They endured agony slowly, day by day breaking down until there was nothing left in their mind but pain. They would withdraw from society, their friends and family abandoning them. Anything they had would be taken, or given. The difference with offending Solanine was that she would make you do anything willingly. You would dance to her tune, one more toy for the puppeteer to play with. The only thing she left them with was their riches. The only thing the world would see was a broken soul, suffering from their tragedies. No one would know the true reason, which made it all the more revolting for the victim. They would succumb to their gluttony and greed, waste away with nothing to do with their pitifully long elven lives. They would wish to go to their friends, to cry, "I never abandoned you, I never cut you off, I've been forced to," but their body never listens to them.

"Now, now," Solanine would murmur, tightening her control on their minds. Like doomed men, they crawl to her, moths to a flame. Another fanatic to decorate the pews of her cathedral. Another elf  to worship her. 

One would think that Ambrose, her son and only heir, would be the crown prince to inherit her precarious empire. The people would see him as a second saint, but a saint nonetheless. In truth, it was far from it. Even now, as he passes a line of Solanine's followers, they barely glance at him. To them, he was invisible.

As he rounded the corner of the hallway, he heard a sound that set off a hoard of mental alarms. His mother's voice. Sweet like honey, warm and smooth. Soft like butter. By all means, it was wonderful. Something for the fanatics to get drunk on. But it sounded wrong. Too sweet, too soft, too smooth. Everything was too sugar-coated. The closer he got, the more he could make out her words. She was chanting.

In Ostlanar, magic is used with the mind, speaking through a catalyst. A ball of light with rings is the typical mages' tool. All magics can be used non-verbally. Solanine, on the other hand, prefers using her words. To her fanatics, truth-seekers, as they call themselves, it sounds all the more mystical. She speaks in song, her chants transforming into lyrical melodies. Her sweet sound is broken by a roaring applause, so loud it's deafening. 

Ambrose pauses before two massive doors, the sole barrier between him and his mother. A sigh escapes him and he allows himself to take a moment to settle his nerves. Slender fingers reach towards the door handle, hesitant. Another deep breath calms him as he squares his shoulders, a look of determination adorning his soft features. The door creaks open.

As usual, not a soul pays him any mind as he steps through the giantesque arch. Before him stretches a hall of immeasurable size. A sea of faces stares expectantly at Ambrose's mother, who stands upon a raised platform. Her catalyst hovers in front of her, A core of lightstone smoothed into a perfect sphere. Four engraved rings glide along its surface, accompanied by three smaller rings, rotating on a separate axis. 

Solanine's head is thrown back, eyes closed, facing the ceiling. Her outstretched arms reach for the heavens as she speaks to the great elven goddess, Ostlan. Her primary six apprentices, known as The Omens, surround her in a tight circle, loyally protecting their herald. They too, carry their catalysts, although far more simple. The rings are roughly crafted, although still well made, clearly not a masterpiece. They are casting simple spells, ones even Ambrose could if he put his mind to it, filling the hall with light. Though Ambrose looks deadpan, the truth-seekers react as if witnessing a miracle, despite having seen it a thousand times. 

"The lady Ostlan speaks through her!" They cry, racing to catch the darting particles of light. Hearing this, Solanine, The Great Herald, as it were, grins from ear to ear. She laughs, a beautiful noise that reminds Ambrose of the chandelier of glass he once saw at the Royal Palace. Her bell-like voice perfectly mirrors the sound of glass shards clinking together.

Taking a deep breath, Solanine begins to sing. Her Omens join her, forming a mystical choir as their voices knit together, weaving a tapestry of song. Their melody grows ever louder, until it drowns out all else. They close their eyes, moving as one. Each grasps their catalyst, twisting the rings into a formation Ambrose recognizes. Mind magic. Seven golden orbs dim, power bleeding into the air in the form of illusions. 

Fantastical stories unfold before him, illustrated legends of Ostlan's accomplishments. A figure meets Ambrose's gaze. A famous king of old, if he remembers correctly. He reaches out to touch his hand, but the apparition darts away. He sternly reminds himself that the figure is a mirage. A lie. Everything is. Long-dead heroes dance among the fanatics, alive for a fleeting moment through blatant trickery. This was the true reason why Solanine was so powerful, even as the daughter of a dying noble family. She showed the people what they wanted to see, watched them succumb to their greed. Most knew the illusions were only present in their mind, but they humored themselves regardless. They tricked themselves into believing what they saw before them was reality, if only to allow themselves a moment of solace. 

Ambrose scours the crowd, searching for familiar faces. There, he sees the woman who sells the freshest bread at the market every friday. She twirls in the arms of her widow, smiling for the first time in three weeks. It's rare to see her like this, usually she appears hollow. Her husband had died a hundred twelve years prior, and she keeps count of each day since she lost him. Beside her is the local priest, Elius. He sits on his heels, hands clasped together in prayer. Tears stream down his cheeks, staining his brilliant blue eyes red. Before him is the wispy silhouette of Ain, Bilanian goddess of travelers. Ambrose knows that he fled his home country of Bilain and misses it dearly. Although it makes Ambrose happy to see that smile so rarely brimming with joy, knowing that they trap themselves in their own delusions makes his stomach churn. 

The booming chant of Solanine and her Omens reaches its peak and the illusions glow brightly. Like stars reaching the end of their lifetimes, they explode in a burst of blinding light. Tiny sparks flit through the air, dimming slowly until all that's left are soft particles of dust. The breadwoman begins to weep quietly, lost once more without the presence of her second half. She would be sure to return for the next sermon. Solanine's magic was like a drug. It offered the desperate fleeting moments of happiness, just enough to get them addicted. In this way she forges an army of broken people who would do anything for these moments to last just a second longer. 

The Omens finish their melody, slowly lowering their arms. They bow their heads, showing their respect to Solanine. She is the last to drop her arms to her side, signaling the end of the sermon. As she opens her eyes, she notices Ambrose standing hesitantly in front of the open doorway. She smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. Her hand reaches towards him, a single finger flicks towards her, beckoning him. Obediently, he walks towards her, face trained in a neutral expression. The Omens part, letting him pass. As he reaches Solanine, she places her hand on his shoulder. Her grip is tight. 

She takes his chin in her spare hand and forces him to face the Truth-seekers. Looking out across the hoard of fanatics, he is met with thousands of glassy-eyed stares. Their gazes are fixed– almost as if they're statues. Even though they are all looking at him, he feels like not a soul truly sees him; he's invisible. 

"Look at them," Solanine's eyes gleam. "This is your empire". She leaves out the most crucial part, 'if you can prove you deserve it'. The unspoken words whistle through his ears, embedding themselves in his mind. But no, she was wrong. This would never be his, They would never be his. She wouldn't let them. Just as she does to her fanatics, she offers him false promises, coddling him with lies. She would only allow them to worship him once she had sculpted him into her perfect little puppet. But she would never truly give him power, only use him as a figurehead to rake in more believers. 

"Friends!" she cries, her voice echoing through the Cathedral. Immediately, the Truth-seekers snap to attention. They wait, expectantly. The room was quite enough that the drop of a pin would sound like a thunderous roar. "The otherside greets us with open arms, but now they must return to their homes," a pause. "They wish to thank you for your diligence, for living good lives. They are proud". A tear forms on the bread woman's cheek. She clutches a brass hairpin to her chest, a gift from her husband. Solanine sweeps her gaze over the crowd, as if waiting for something. "I have been toiling for many months, and I have finally found a hidden truth!" A thousand sets of eyes widen. "I have prepared a gift for you all, my loyal followers. The next Day of Beginnings, everything will be brought into the light!". She says the last line with a particular gusto, and the Truth-seekers burst into applause. They bow their heads down low. Solanine turns on her heel. Hand still grasping Ambrose's shoulder, she strides towards the exit. The Third and Fourth Omens rush to hold the door open for her. She signals her Omens with a flick of her wrist; First and Second border her on both sides, following like guard dogs. Third and Fourth let the door slam shut once Solanine's entourage has passed. They take their places on either side of the entryway. Ambrose couldn't see their eyes, shadowed under their helmet-like headdresses, but he knows their faces are trained into a stern expression. 

He walks in line with Solanine, as she leaves Fourth and Fifth to end the sermon. As he moves, the fabric of his mother's sash brushes against his own. She is dressed elegantly, a wide panel of silk crosses her body, from shoulder to waist, tied into a knot on her hip. Excess fabric billows behind her, alluding to the image of wings. Where most wrap their arms in bandages to protect against the poisonous spores that inhabit this particular zone of Ostlanar, Solanine one wears a thin layer of translucent chiffon. A headdress of gold and sunstone sits on her brow, strings of glass beads fall around her pointed ears. She carries herself with an air of self-assurance, knowing that none would stand against her. 

The fingers on Ambrose's shoulder feel like thorns, cutting into his soft skin. He feels trapped; boxed in on either side by Solanine and Second Omen. Ahead of them stretches a vast hallway, leading to a single door. It exudes a threatening aura, as if it would devour him. Twisted branches weave together, forming thick walls as hard as stone. Ambrose's heartbeat pounds through his head, drowning out all other thoughts. The door beckons to him. His legs move against his will, one foot in front of the other. Hinges creak. First grabs the silver handle, which shines as if greeting First's matching silver breastplate. The gaping maw of the entrance swallows them whole as their little group marches forward. 

The lighting inside his mother's study is dim. A single core of sunstone illuminates the dark room from its perch atop a central circular table. Solanine lowers herself into the sole chair the room provides. An assortment of pillows surround a burning hearth, arranged in a horseshoe formation. Ambrose settles into a particularly plush cushion, the soft fibers settling his nerves. This was his favorite place in Solanine's study. It granted him a full view of the room, allowing him to fully observe his mother's every move. The dusty blue color called to his matching hair, and Ambrose liked to entertain the idea that it was crafted in his honor. 

Second Omen drops a block of wood into the hearth, watching as embers twirl through the air. The fire crackles, gratefully gorging itself on the gifted kindling. Shadows dance on Solanine's face. Light darts playfully across her features. She seems pleased, her eyes crinkle ever so slightly at the corners. Ambrose can tell that the sermon went well. 

Solanine leans back in her chair. She grasps her headpiece delicately, coddling it like a baby, something she never did with Ambrose. A pang of jealousy rushes through him, followed by shame. His cheeks flush, and he scolds himself. Of course his mother values her work more than her son, he was holding her back from her greatness. Clink, her headdress settles onto the table. Curly locks fall around Solanine's shoulders, finally set free from their gilded prison. Her hair is a wonderful shade of dusty purple. It bunches around her face, twisting around her arms to finally land on the table surface, brushing against the sunstone, The setting sun amidst a sky at dusk. 

"Ambrose dearest," Solanine drapes herself comfortably over her chair. "Come here, mother needs some company". As sad as he is to leave his favorite spot on the floor, he buries himself in his mother's expecting embrace. Solanine tilts her head to the side, observing him. She sighs. "You're too old to be acting so childish Ambrose. What are you now, two hundred something?". 

"A hundred fourteen," he mumbles. He would be sad that he forgot how old he was, and by such a big amount, but she'd done this so many times that he'd be more surprised if she remembered. 

Solanine frowns in response. Just as she did in the cathedral, she holds his chin between her thumb and forefinger, tilting it up so that he would meet her gaze. Their eyes lock. The pleasant look she wore moments before was gone now, vanished without a trace. She squints. "Have I not told you over and over again to stop talking back". It wasn't a question. It was a threat. A threat of what she would do if he defied her. 

"What's the surprise you promised the Truth-seekers?" Ambrose spoke meekly, attempting to change the subject. 

This seemed to work as Solanine's smile returned, although not reaching her eyes. She ruffled his hair, digging her fingers into his curls. "You'll see, you'll see," she whispers. She refused to meet his gaze, her stare fixated on the back wall of her study. Her expression seemed almost… nostalgic.

"A surprise for everyone?"

Solanine appeared startled, looking directly at him once more. Her face softened. "Yes, a surprise for everyone". The corner of her right eye crinkled just slightly. 

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