There are situations in which there is no good decision.
Strange things happen after three in the morning. Demons, ghosts, and supernatural beings are said to slip into the world when the clock strikes three—the hour of darkness and dread. This time of night is often referred to as the devil's hour, when the veil between the living and the dead is at its thinnest. At least, that's what humans believe.
In truth, it's often a time when the world's hidden forces stir. Seers awaken with visions of the future, mages choose this hour to perform their most complex spells, and creatures of the night move in the shadows, hungry for their prey.
Mazen, like a true predator, had also chosen this time to hunt. The ancient clock struck three, its chimes echoing through the mansion with a sound both eerie and commanding. As the last chime faded, silence settled, broken only by the steady ticking of the clock and the frantic, uneven footsteps of an old man.
The door to the hallway burst open, and the old man flung himself across the threshold as if fleeing death itself. He slammed the ornate wooden door behind him with desperate force, hurriedly locking the seven bolts that adorned it—runes carved deep into the wood for protection. He didn't pause. He knew the door wouldn't stop his pursuer for long.
Panting, gasping for breath, he forced himself forward, the air in his lungs feeling thin, as if there wasn't enough of it to settle the panic that gripped him. His body trembled with exhaustion, but he didn't stop. He couldn't. He had already passed too many doors, too many dimly lit hallways to count.
Next was the hall—the antique room, adorned with priceless vases and paintings, where Mr. Priskin often entertained his guests. The room, once bright with elegant light, now felt like a tomb. Its atmosphere was oppressive, the shadows thick with menace. His heart raced, a primal sense of danger urging him to leave at once.
The glass ceiling above, once a marvel of design, now seemed like a trap—an open sky he couldn't trust. He glanced up at the starless expanse, unable to even make out the shape of the moon. It felt like the very world was closing in on him. He had to leave. He had to get out—faster than before.
He bolted for the door on the far side of the room, fingers trembling as they grasped the cold handle. He twisted it, but nothing happened. He tried again, and again, but the lock remained stubbornly in place, refusing to yield.
"How captivating," came a voice, cold and smooth.
Mr. Priskin froze, a shiver running down his spine. The voice was unmistakable—melodic, pleasant, and yet dripping with cruelty. He knew it all too well, even though they had never once exchanged words. It was the voice of death itself, the voice that had haunted him for twenty years. And now it was here.
Reluctantly, Mr. Priskin turned, knowing exactly what he would find.
Mazen stood before him, his presence as chilling as it was commanding. His lips curved into a smile that was anything but kind. With a slow, deliberate movement, he traced his finger across one of the room's precious paintings. As his fingers brushed the canvas, the colors seemed to drain away, leaving only faint, unreadable symbols behind. The symbols twisted and burned as Mazen's touch set the painting ablaze.
The room erupted into chaos. Wild magic surged through the air, mingling with the dark mage's own power, creating a tempest of energy that rattled the glass windows. Shards of glass exploded outward, scattering across the room like deadly confetti.
Mr. Priskin dropped to his knees, instinctively shielding his face with his hands, but it did little to protect him. Glass shards embedded themselves in his skin, cutting his face and lodging deep into his shoulder. He could feel the warmth of blood trickling down, a grim reminder that his protective spells had been shattered. It was over. He had nothing left to fight with. His last hope had been dispelled.
"You have something I need."
Mazen's voice was now dangerously close, a whisper in his ear that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Mr. Priskin didn't have to look to know that the dark mage stood over him. His body, still trembling, pressed into the cold wall, helpless against the power that towered over him.
The mage repeated his words, but the old man merely shook his head, his breath hitching in quiet sobs.
"Would you rather take your secret to the grave?" the voice asked absently, its icy edge brushing against the words.
Andor Priskin felt the room shrink around him, the oppressive presence of the mage tightening its hold like an invisible noose. He gasped for air, the weight of the power pressing down on him, suffocating, agonizing. With what little strength remained, he shook his head, his voice breaking in desperate terror.
"No! No… Please, please…!"
The pressure lifted, and he drew a ragged breath, his lungs seizing greedily at the air. Mazen raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the old man's response.
Andor Priskin had never been a traitor. He had served the "greater good" with unwavering loyalty, standing by the Guardians and the Seer Mother until this day, the day that would end in his ruin.
For years, he had known this moment would come. When Ilke had prophesied his fate, he had sworn that the secret would die with him—vowing, too, that fear would never break him. But as the years passed, that resolve frayed like old rope, until the terror of it all threatened to swallow him whole. How can one comprehend the finality of death when one still breathes?
For Mr. Priskin, death had always been lurking just behind him. And now, at the cusp of his seventy-third year, it had come. The shadow had caught up to him, and he had no illusions left. Not about what awaited him, not about the inevitability of his fate. Fear, in its most brutal form, had gnawed at his spirit for decades. In the face of that fear, the smallest flicker of hope was a cruel, fleeting thing.
With trembling hands, he fumbled to loosen his collar, yanking at his tie with clumsy urgency. Beneath the white fabric of his shirt, he produced a simple gold medallion, his fingers shaking as he opened it. Inside, tucked carefully away, was a folded, yellowed piece of paper. The paper, so ancient it might have disintegrated under the slightest touch, was his final offering. With as much dignity as he could muster, he handed it to the dark mage.
Mazen unfolded the brittle sheet, which seemed like a scrap torn from an old photograph. A single dark drop of blood marred its surface, a stain from a long-forgotten wound. The paper was alive with magic. It moved in his hand, as though drawn by an unseen force, slipping across his palm with a faint hum of power. Mazen's lips curled into a smile, his satisfaction palpable as he tucked the paper away, out of sight.
For a moment, a flicker of hope bloomed in Priskin's chest. Could this be enough? But the cold, unfeeling gaze of the dark mage fell on him, and the brief flicker of hope vanished. There was no mercy in that gaze. No reprieve. In that moment, Andor Priskin knew with undeniable certainty: his death had been sealed long ago.
Resignation coursed through him. Along with it, a sharp pang of guilt—an unbearable weight in his chest. His sins had come home to roost, all of them, but none more bitter than the one that now strangled his heart.
Mazen withdrew a dagger from his cloak. His magic could kill the old man in an instant, but that wouldn't be enough. No, Priskin deserved more than that—a slow, agonizing end, a moment to suffer as punishment for his betrayal. Mazen's grin widened, his eyes gleaming with cruel anticipation, as if thirsting for this final act.
The full moon climbed into the sky, its pale light casting an eerie glow across the room. The blade in Mazen's hand gleamed with silver radiance, cold and sharp, a harbinger of pain.
Mr. Priskin thought of Ilke.
He remembered the moment she showed him his death, the dangerous gleam of the dagger's edge drawing closer, the sharp, biting sting as it sank into his chest. He felt it all over again, and for the briefest moment, he was paralyzed by the weight of inevitability. His hands trembled as he dropped the locket, its metal clinking hollowly on the polished stone floor.
Pain blossomed in his chest as he clutched at the wound, the warmth of his own blood seeping through his fingers. He tried to speak, but only a low, guttural noise escaped his lips. The metallic taste of blood flooded his mouth, and a trickle ran down his chin, staining the white fabric of his shirt.
Mazen watched him the entire time, his eyes gleaming with dark amusement. The dark mage relished the sight, the old man's suffering feeding some twisted hunger.
Priskin collapsed to the ground, his vision blurring. Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a glint of gold. With the last of his strength, he turned toward it, his gaze falling upon the pendant. Inside it was a photograph, an old picture of a young girl with tousled hair and a wide, innocent smile. Her eyes, so full of joy and life, met his in the final moments of his fading consciousness.
Ilke. She had known. She had seen this coming, and yet, she had forgiven him. In that moment, Andor Priskin realized the depth of her understanding. She had known his betrayal, and yet, she had chosen to forgive him anyway.
As the darkness closed in, the light of life flickered out of Priskin's eyes. A single tear, silver as the moonlight, traced the creases of his aged face. It was his last.
(...)
When Mazen arrived at his lair, he summoned his henchmen, his voice laced with a quiet, commanding authority. He took his seat on the obsidian throne, his posture calm and composed as thirty-three of his servants knelt before him in complete submission. Their heads were bowed in reverence, and none dared to move closer without being invited.
"Virgil," Mazen murmured, his voice barely a breath, yet it carried the weight of a thousand orders. "Report."
A hooded figure sprang to attention, stumbling forward before collapsing to his knees before the dark mage, his voice betraying his fear.
"My lord," Virgil began, his words shaking as he fought to maintain his composure. "My deepest apologies... Derel's observation has failed."
Mazen's fingers drummed absently on the armrest, his gaze cold and calculating as he studied the trembling figure before him. He allowed the silence to stretch, savoring the tension.
"I told you to choose two companions," Mazen said, his voice cool as ever. Virgil nodded vigorously.
"Step forward," Mazen commanded, and two more figures stumbled forward to kneel beside Virgil.
"Raul and Kamea," Mazen observed with a glance, though his gaze never wavered. He didn't need to see their faces. Their magic alone was enough to identify them.
"You three are responsible for this failure," Mazen continued, his tone soft, almost too soft, as if he were pondering the most delicate of matters. "Explain."
The three mages knew Mazen well enough to sense his mood. He was in a rare good mood, having secured something valuable. If he hadn't, they'd already be writhing under the weight of curses and pain.
Virgil, desperate to buy himself some mercy, gathered his thoughts and spoke quickly. "As you instructed, my lord, we kept watch from the shadows. Our magic was concealed, and our cloaks hid our presence. It should have been impossible for him to detect us. However, after tracking him using port magic, the trail vanished. We followed him through ten different locations, yet each time, he seemed to disappear as though he had never been there at all."
Mazen's fingers continued their rhythmic tapping on the throne's armrest. Derel was no fool; his paranoia was not without reason. Mazen's sigh echoed through the room, the sound of disappointment more chilling than anger.
"Do you think this failure can be excused?" he asked, his voice laced with ice.
"No, my lord," Virgil answered, his voice cracking. "There is no excuse for our failure."
The rope of tension tightened around their necks, and Mazen's smile twisted into something darker.
"You are right," he said, his voice now devoid of amusement.
In an instant, the three mages screamed in agony as Mazen's curse sank into them, sending waves of unimaginable pain coursing through their bodies. The curse was a favorite of his: a spell that amplified every nerve's sensation, turning even the slightest touch into torture. A minute passed before Mazen grew bored and lifted the spell. The mages gasped for air, trembling violently as they fought to regain their composure.
"I am disappointed in you," Mazen stated coldly. "Scram."
With a flick of his hand, he dismissed them, summoning a new set of mages to take over the task. Unlike the previous group, these mages managed to gather some information, though none of it was particularly useful. Mazen's mood, once light, was slowly draining into frustration.
"Felicián," Mazen whispered the name like a dark prophecy, his tone now ominous.
Felicián knelt before him, his posture perfect, unwavering in the presence of the dark mage.
"Report," Mazen growled. "And you'd better give me good news."
"My lord," Felicián began, his voice steady, "I have succeeded in my investigation. I have uncovered valuable information regarding the relic."
"Speak," Mazen commanded, his eyes gleaming with sharp interest.
"The swords have been forged and are now in the possession of Paladin Number Thirteen," the hooded figure announced, his voice steady but betraying a hint of nervousness.
"Hm, interesting," Mazen mused, his lips curling into a thin smile.
He was pleased with the progress of his servant. This might ease his torment tonight.
"There is one more thing, my lord," the servant added, his words hanging in the air like a promise.
"Indeed?" Mazen's eyes flickered with renewed curiosity.
Felicián nodded. "I have discovered that this thirteenth paladin is the brother of the mixed-blood who led the battle against the rising Fifth King."
Mazen's lips twitched into a smirk, his mind racing. He now understood: he had an inevitable rival for the throne. Worse, that rival wielded the cursed swords, albeit indirectly.
"Rise, my loyal follower," Mazen commanded, and the mage sprang to his feet in an instant, gratitude radiating from his bowed head.
Mazen's gaze swept over the room, and he addressed his remaining henchmen. "Take heed of Felicián's example. I reward those who serve me well. Witness his gift!"
He strode over to Felicián, his attention now fully on the boy.
"I sense you are injured," Mazen observed, his tone a mix of indifference and curiosity.
The servant froze, instinctively clutching his side.
"Show me your wound," Mazen ordered, his voice carrying an undertone of command that brooked no refusal.
Felicián hesitated for only a moment before pulling aside his cloak, revealing a bloodstained shirt.
Mazen grunted in mild disapproval. "Remove the cloak and shirt. It will be difficult to heal otherwise."
The room held its breath. Never before had Mazen shown interest in any of his underlings' injuries—unless, of course, he had inflicted them himself. His discontent with their performance was legendary.
Felicián, however, obeyed without question. He shrugged off his cloak and, with a quick motion, unbuttoned his blood-soaked shirt to reveal the deep gash on his side. It was a grim wound, jagged and raw, but his face betrayed no pain. The boy was skilled at masking his weaknesses, an ability Mazen greatly appreciated.
As Mazen stepped closer, he reached out and placed his hand on Felicián's temple. He brushed aside the boy's thoughts with the ease of a practiced thief, extracting the memories with an almost casual air. Felicián didn't resist. He knew better than to fight the darkness that pressed down on him. His mind opened willingly.
Mazen saw flashes of the battle: a group of hunters charging at Felicián, but the boy held his ground. He fought fiercely. The only reason he had been injured was that his glasses were knocked off during the fray, a vulnerability Mazen had noted.
The dark mage let go of the boy's mind with a soft exhale.
"It's unfortunate," Mazen muttered. He spoke a quick incantation, and the wound on Felicián's side disappeared as if it had never been.
Felicián started to kneel again, but Mazen halted him with a raised hand.
"Wait," Mazen said. "You shall receive my gift first."
The room went still, the air thick with anticipation. Wasn't healing already his gift?
Mazen murmured a melodic incantation, his voice low and rhythmic, like a hum threading through the air. As the spell took hold, Felicián gasped, clutching his face in agony. It felt as though a thousand hot needles were piercing his eyes, each second of pain sharper than the last. Nearing the end of the spell, he faltered, his knees giving way, and he collapsed to the floor.
But then, as suddenly as it had started, the pain stopped. Felicián gasped, disoriented, his hands flying to his face. The world around him was a dizzying blur. He couldn't place it at first.
Mazen's voice broke through the confusion. "Take off your glasses."
Felicián did as he was told, his trembling fingers fumbling with the frames. He dropped them. And then, as his gaze sharpened, his breath caught in his throat. He could see—clearly, perfectly. Better than he had ever seen with his glasses.
He looked up at his master, his eyes wide with disbelief and admiration. Mazen's lips curled upward into a smug, satisfied smile.
"This is my gift," Mazen said, his voice laced with pride. "Your sight is now perfect. Though I'm no master of healing magic, so the spell may have caused you some discomfort."
Some discomfort? The henchmen exchanged silent glances, the words echoing in their minds.
"Thank you, my lord," Felicián whispered, bowing his head in profound gratitude. "Your gift is more than I could have ever wished for."
Mazen gave a slight nod, acknowledging his follower's devotion.
Soon, the dark mage sank into the luxurious depths of a large tub, the water laced with a blend of spices he had crafted himself. It was a concoction designed to purge his body of the corrosive effects of black magic. Mages were always aware that those who delved into such forbidden arts paid a steep price.
The relentless torment had left him feeling weak and burdened. If he focused his gaze, he could just make out a dark, viscous substance swirling through the water—something akin to black mercury. Only the most skilled mages could detect its presence.
For lack of a better term, they called it 'black matter.' A toxic by-product of black magic, it was the physical manifestation of corruption, negative energy, and pure malice. Mazen had long made it a nightly ritual to expel this residue from his body. If left unchecked, it could rot the core of his magic or, even worse, lead to illness and slow destruction. Mazen could never afford to let that happen. His magic was too precious to lose.
He relished these baths, and it was evident in the room around him. The bath chamber was the most opulent in the mansion, a testament to Mazen's wealth and power. Gleaming marble floors, intricate silver faucets, and a massive tub that seemed to swallow the room. It was in this bath that Mazen had hatched his plans for world domination.
With a spell to keep the water warm, Mazen would lose himself in hours of thought, letting his mind twist and weave through the possibilities of his future rule. Tonight, though, he kept the vision simple. He would seize the throne first, then take the nation piece by piece. There was no need to rush; everything would fall into place once the country was his.
He stepped out of the bath, dried himself, then put on blue striped pajamas and returned to the quiet calm of his room. The window opened at a casual wave of his hand. His gaze found the paper trapped in a bottle, desperately struggling against the confines of its container, as if urging him to take the next step.
But before he could begin the final phase of his plan, there was a task that still needed to be done. Something important, something that would wait until tomorrow. He smiled softly, already exhausted by the day's challenges. As usual, he checked the protective charms in the room. He'd had a rough day, and the hours of torture had taken a lot out of him. Within moments, he drifted into sleep, his mind still humming with the promise of what was to come.